Deadly Messengers (23 page)

BOSS17 FLICKED THROUGH THE magazines scattered on the table. He’d scanned the Internet all morning, just as he’d done for hours in the preceding week.

Stories of all the killings were heavily featured after the last mass murders perpetrated by Kate Wilker. Background snippets on all the killers and their history were included together. Everyone now looked for answers as to why they’d suddenly become killers. Just as he’d hoped.

The gun lobby and the anti-gun lobby were at it again, throwing statistics at each other. The president spoke out against gun laws and the need for change; something he’d never done before. Some groups even called for more research into violence in society and the relationship to increased violence and video games.

Boss17 found that laughable, as if there were a formula within humanity to be mined and then manipulated.
Good luck there.
Man was just genetically programed to enjoy killing or he would have died a few million years ago and some other beast would now rule the planet. You can’t blame evolution. It was a beautiful thing, if its results didn’t come after you.

No mention of the correlation between the drugs taken by the killers and their actions had appeared. So far, everyone seemed to have missed the point.

His plan was so beautiful, too. They never saw it coming, so they couldn’t prepare. His little seeds, as he called them, his wind-up toys, were messing with the minds of the experts and the police and their precious statistics. They still hadn’t figured it out, but they needed to up their game and start getting close.

He opened another magazine and flicked through it. Plenty of nothing articles.
Voyeurs Inc.,
he called these rags. Tidbits for the blood thirsty, discussion points for mealtimes, in the comfort of their safe worlds. Worlds, no longer safe.

The door opened behind him. You23 entered and nodded in his direction, before sitting at his computer and immediately commencing to tap keyboard.

Boss17 was happy to see his protégé had understood the urgency required in finding more subjects. He wouldn’t call it looking for a needle in a haystack, but the required criteria were still somewhat limiting.

He’d hoped the woman would be the last, but it wasn’t looking that way. With the news coverage not hitting upon the requisite issues, he’d decided they
must
initiate another mission. Plant another seed.

Boss17 stood and walked over to stand behind the young man, who was currently scratching his scraggy, oil-steeped hair like he had an infestation of nits. He didn’t think the kid had nits, but his hygiene left much to be desired. He did, though, look a whole lot better than when Boss17 had first found him as a filthy, angry, lost young man living in a halfway house.

You23 was a genius, but he was incapable of functioning in the world. Boss17 had done his research. He knew he couldn’t embark on this plan alone. He needed someone with this boy’s skills. Not that You23’s skills were unique. His other attributes made him valuable. He needed someone with the naivety of this boy, someone who would believe in the world he’d created. To appeal to the kid, he’d turned it into a game, of sorts. The names, the subterfuge, and the drugs the boy required to stay focused and on track, turned him into a pliable co-conspirator who didn’t really understand what he was doing. The boy passionately believed Boss17 cared about him and was his friend. Nobody else had shown him any sort of care, so that part was easy.

Ironically, drugs proved to be Boss17’s greatest allies. They brought him You23 and a facility to harness his abilities, and they brought him the solution to his problem. Now he could right a wrong and deliver justice with bittersweet irony. He hoped they would listen. So far, he’d gotten nowhere; the police, the profilers, all the experts who weren’t looking or didn’t care enough to pay attention, had failed.

Years in the planning, the time had now arrived. Like a starving man whose meal was held at arm’s length for too long, his stomach gnawed with the need for it to be done.

And it
was
getting done.
He
was getting it done, because all those years ago the same so-called experts, who’d failed then, were failing now.

He reached out and placed his hand on the boy’s tousled brown hair, unwashed and thick with knots. Gently he patted his unlikely ally’s head. The boy ignored his touch and continued to stare at the screen.

“Anything?”

He’d given You23 an earlier directive. The kid wouldn’t stop until he was finished. That was how it worked with people with his type of mind.

The screen flickered with photo after photo as You23’s program rapidly searched the online files using the particular search words it was given. Instagram made everything so easy. He could have used Twitter or Facebook to hunt them down, but he’d discovered, well, You23 had discovered, that Instagram users’ hash-tagged more thoroughly and explicitly.

Once dispatched, the program searched for #depression #sad #lonely #depressed #depressiontime, and any variations of these. Then the clever boy had written a program that accessed the password-locked Instagram accounts and revealed the account owner’s details.

In its first pass, the software located accounts mentioning any negative emotion more than once. It then ranked them based on the frequency they posted those mentions. This threw up thousands of likely candidates. These numbers were then pruned by a geographic search until they found a likely seed living within the city area. After that, qualifying a subject became a manual process of checking for regular posts, which provided their whereabouts. He’d particularly looked for men. They were harder to find, because they didn’t tend to share as much online as women.

Not everyone posted the minutiae of their lives. Many though invested enormous time, sharing life’s mundanities down to where they ate breakfast or shopped, seemingly more obsessed with living in the public eye than the Kardashians.

“This is me driving over a bridge.”

“Me at The Aviary kicking back with my pals.”

“Here I am alone in a park.”

“Look at my new car, my new shoes … new bike … new, whatever.”

The look-at-me-world now worked for Boss17. He possessed a doorway to them, and their need to share was all he required.

Suddenly, the program stopped shuffling through images. A face appeared on the screen. You23 leaned forward, studying the information below the picture. Then he brought his fingertip to a fraction of an inch above the screen and pointed.

“I think … Yes, I think this one is good.”

You23 continued to scroll through the layers of collated information, muttering. He always struggled to read silently. From what Boss17 could see, it looked as though he was right. Hundreds of pictures layered across the screen, all highlighted with time stamps. The program would now check back through several months of the account’s photos, noting the time stamps and if any location reoccurred regularly. It sought a pattern. The success of their operation relied upon pinpointing where a subject would be at a certain time.

This one did indeed fit the bill. Consistent posting, seemingly happy, but peppered in between his comments were mentions of something else. Something dark. Maybe the FBI and the police didn’t see it, but it was there for anyone, who cared to look, to see.

A ping sounded from the computer. Boss17 leaned into the screen and studied the picture of a young man in his early twenties, with sandy colored, short hair, and a wide, winning smile. A clean-cut professional.

“He seems a fit.” You23 nodded toward the screen. “See here, he talks about feeling ‘a kind of lonesome pills can’t smooth.’ This
Fix
Coffee Shop
seems to be a regular stop. Time stamps put him there at pretty much the same hour several times a week.”

Boss17 gazed at a selfie of a smiling young man holding a coffee cup toward his phone camera.

Boss patted the boy’s shoulder.

“I think you’re right. Well done. Create a report on him for me to look over. Then we’ll make a final decision.”

You23 turned back to the screen, his hands flying across the keyboard.

Boss17 knew this one might not work. They sometimes looked good initially, and then some small thing ruled them out. They’d been lucky to find the three they had. He’d actually thought three was all he would need. He’d been wrong. The world lacked imagination.

An idea suddenly occurred to him. Why didn’t they do something bold? Why not use someone who was already in the public eye? It might be riskier than their previous subjects, but things weren’t going to plan anyway. He needed to shake it up.

As he ran the idea through his mind, the excitement built in his core. It even had a certain poetic justice. He smiled at the thought.

He turned back to You23, and gripped his shoulder. The boy almost purred beneath his touch.

“Change of plans. Check this name as well. I’ll spell it for you.”

Yes, this could be the one.

THE MORE KENDALL READ THROUGH McKinley’s research, the more intrigued she became. The man was thorough, that was for sure, and his theory compelling. He’d even inspired her to do some research of her own.

The death of his son was a sad twist of fate. Now she understood his fighting for some reason to the randomness. There’d even been a book written on the mass killing in which his son died. What surprised her were the news outlets neglecting to mention this first mass killing in relation to these recent murders. Even with Danbridge’s population of one million, surely the odds of this many mass killings occurring here was statistically enormous.

The two nights it took her to read the book had reignited the nightmares that had only just started to dissipate. Written from the perspective of the killer, it had an authenticity that filled Kendall with a sense of claustrophobia and impending doom. She wanted to use some of the details in an article she’d begun to formulate around Doug McKinley’s report. Despite not totally buying his hypothesis, she could still sell the article and help him at the same time. Then it was a win-win.

Kendall decided to reread through a few of the chapters of the book again, this time paying attention for hooks and small quotable lines she could use. She’d then contact the author seeking permission to use partial pulls from her work. Emotionally difficult as the research was, she felt a little thrill. If she wrote this right, it might turn out to be one hell of a story.

Kendall snuggled down in bed, pillows propped behind her, her laptop, note pad and several pencils beside her. She drew in several deep breaths and exhaled slowly to calm her thumping heart. She’d learned that relaxation trick from her therapist.

Looking up to the ceiling, she whispered, “Mom, look how much I’ve grown since—.”

She opened the book and began to read.

THROUGH THE SLATS OF THE dusty window’s partitioned blinds, light swam into Lyall Wright’s eyes. It reached into his brain, winding its way into places already soft and wounded, making him cry out in pain. He couldn’t find the voice to call for help. Instead, he ground his teeth and clenched his jaw until the muscles in his face ached from the effort to stifle the scream.