Game of Death (29 page)

‘Where is she?’ Yvette demands.

‘Third floor,’ Killkenny says. ‘I’ll take you up.’

We walk across the entryway and get into an elevator that creaks as it closes. The lights are dim, and even with just the three of us it’s cramped. The pulleys grind and groan as we make
the three-story climb. The buzzer sounds, letting us know we are at our floor, and the doors labor to open.

We step out, and it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust. The light in the elevator is dim, but at least there is some. The hallway lights on the third floor are out, and the hallway is crowded
with cops. They bustle back and forth, some serious, others cracking macabre jokes. They quieten down when they see Killkenny. He leads us down the hallway toward the doorway that seems to be the
focal point of the activity. He pauses ten feet from the apartment. ‘It’s not pleasant in there,’ he says. He looks at Yvette. ‘You don’t have to do this.’

She gives him a hard look. ‘Yes, I do.’

He nods, and leads us to the door. There are two cops in the doorway, just staring at the scene, blocking our way. Killkenny taps them on the shoulder and they part, clearing the way for us.

The vision is awful to behold. Taylor is undressed, hanging from the ceiling, a chain running from the back of her neck to a metal bolt above her. Her head is slumped forward, her tangled
thicket of red hair hiding her face, her neck stretched, taking her weight. There are leather straps around her wrists, and they are secured to hooks in the ceiling so that her arms hang loosely
out to her sides, like a marionette awaiting the puppet show. Her ankles are tied with straps that run to hooks in the floor, her legs spread.

I stand there, unable to move, unable to speak. Yvette described the scene from her GhostWalk, so I knew roughly what I was likely to see when I walked through the door, and I’ve had my
own experience GhostWalking
De Sade
’s LifeScenes myself, but nothing prepared me for this. As perfect as we like to view the technology at NextLife to be – as close to real
life as it is – it cannot capture the brutality of a scene like this. NextLife is pristine, a sanitized version of reality that leaves out the sting of the real world. The walls of the tiny
apartment are streaked with water stains from past years, and the place carries the stench of desperation and fear. In short, there is nothing erotic about the scene before us. It is raw and dirty
and obscene.

There is a crime-scene investigator who is working the body inch by inch, taking photographs with a large camera with an oversized flash that illuminates Taylor Westerbrooke’s flesh like
lightning in a horror film. As he moves up, he comes to her head and he takes several shots before he reaches up and grabs her by the hair, tilting her head back so that we can see her face.

Her cheeks are streaked with mascara, her lipstick smeared. For the first time, now, I can see the metal collar, a spiked monstrosity two inches thick, the joints digging into her skin far
enough to draw tiny rivulets of blood down like a spider web toward her breasts. The worst, though, are her eyes. They are open, and they stare out at us with a profound agony, begging for the
release that has already come.

Yvette takes a step forward, her expression set, tears running down her face. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she whispers to the corpse suspended before her. ‘I should have stopped
this.’ She stands there for just a moment, and then turns and walks out without another word.

‘I talked to her mother,’ Killkenny says out in the hallway. We’ve moved away from the apartment doorway and stand toward the end of the hallway. A swarm of
cops clot the dark, narrow passageway, like flies around meat that’s been left out for too long. I can feel them looking over at us, no doubt wondering who we are. ‘Apparently, she
didn’t take our advice. She went out with the cute boy she met at the bar a week ago. The coroner says she’s been dead less than four hours, and Gunta’s been locked up at the
station house. Besides, no one’s gonna mistake Gunta for a matinee idol, so that clears him. At least for this one. You said you think you know who did this?’

‘We think we do,’ I say.

‘We know we do,’ Yvette corrects me. There is venom in her voice.

‘You waiting for my birthday to surprise me?’

‘It’s Michael François,’ I say. ‘He’s one of Gunta’s chief assistant programmers.’

‘Okay,’ Killkenny says. ‘You wanna tell me how you know this for sure?’

‘He’s got the same last name as the Marquis de Sade,’ Yvette says.

‘That it?’ Killkenny demands. ‘’Cause that won’t even get me a warrant, much less a conviction.’

‘No, that’s not it,’ I say. ‘He was part of Gunta’s experiments with prisoners using the NextLife platform. Gunta cleared him as a non-risk, and he was released in
part on that basis.’

‘He was a convict?’

‘Yeah.’

‘What was he in for?’

‘Multiple arrests and two convictions for sexual assault. He’s also a programming genius, so he has the skill to create the intricate LifeScenes
De Sade
used to practice the
murders.’

‘Okay, I’m sold,’ Killkenny says. ‘That’ll get me the warrant, at least. The coroner says there’s semen still in the girl, so if we find this guy, it’s
a simple test to prove whether or not he did this. God bless DNA.’

‘How long will it take to get the warrant?’ I ask.

‘I’m phoning it in now. I need you two to come down to the station house to look over the affidavit before I sign it, but there’s a Superior Court judge on call. We should be
able to have it within an hour or so.’ He pauses for a moment, thinking. ‘So, you think this guy is actually a descendant of the Marquis de Sade?’

‘Maybe,’ Yvette says. ‘Who knows? It’s clear that he feels a bond with him. Maybe he just has the same last name, or maybe he changed his name at some point because he
wanted to be like him. In the end it doesn’t really matter, does it? All that matters is making sure he doesn’t do anything like this to another girl.’

‘Speaking of the other girls, should we warn them again? Be clearer this time?’ I ask. I can feel Yvette’s eyes on me, bearing down.

‘I was pretty fuckin’ clear the first time,’ Killkenny says defensively.

‘Taylor Westerbrooke didn’t get the message,’ Yvette points out.

‘I’m guessing that girl wouldn’t have taken my advice no matter what I said to her.’ Killkenny sounds sure of himself, but he looks at the wall as he’s talking, and
I think I can see the doubt in his eyes. ‘We’ll call them,’ he says. ‘Not at two-thirty in the morning, though. We’ll wait until the sun is up.’ Yvette and I say
nothing. ‘I don’t want to create panic unnecessarily,’ he adds. ‘The morning should be fine.’

‘If it was your daughter, would you want the cops to wait till morning to tell you this?’ Yvette asks.

He sighs heavily. ‘We can call them from the station house while we’re waiting for the warrant. Happy?’

‘No,’ Yvette says. ‘I’m definitely not happy.’

The detectives’ squad room at the police station is virtually empty. Other than us, there’s one young detective there, clearly the low man on the totem pole, who
drew the graveyard shift. He’s sitting in his chair, feet up on his desk, sound asleep when we walk in. He opens one eye briefly, shifts his position and goes back to sleep.

‘I’ll have the affidavit ready in about ten minutes. I’ll leave some blanks that you can fill in once you’ve looked at it, okay?’ Killkenny says. We nod, and he
picks up the files with the pictures and backgrounds on the models we’ve identified as the subjects of
De Sade
’s LifeScenes. ‘There are phones on the desks. Dial nine to
get an outside line. The phone numbers are in there. Tell them you’re working with me.’

‘What if they ask if we’re police officers?’ Yvette asks.

‘Lie, if necessary,’ Killkenny says. Yvette and I look at each other. ‘What?’ he asks. ‘It’s for their own good, right?’ He walks over to a computer to
start on his affidavit.

‘You take three and I’ll take three,’ I say to Yvette.

‘Deal.’ She pulls off three files and hands them to me. I notice that she’s included Kendra Madison in my pile, and I wonder whether that was intentional.

My first call is to one of the women Killkenny interviewed alone. I’m staring at her picture as I dial, so that I can put a face to the voice. It takes three rings for her to answer, and I
relay the information, including the fact that the police have identified at least two suspects, one of whom has not been arrested and appears to be active. There is little more than sleep and
confusion in the voice coming back at me, but I give a brief description of Michael François, and she assures me that she will call the police if she sees anyone who matches that
description. I tell her to be very careful until she is notified that the second suspect is in custody, and hang up. My second call goes just as smoothly.

My third call is to Kendra. Her image from the file is in front of me on the desk, but I don’t need it to conjure her face. The image is burned into my brain. At times I can’t tell
whether it comes from the LifeScene or from my time meeting her, but I suppose it doesn’t matter; it’s the same image in either case.

I’m expecting several rings before the phone is answered, and the same sleep-confused voice to come over the line. She picks up midway through the second ring, though, and her voice is
clear and alert. ‘Yes?’ she says.

‘Kendra?’

‘Nick.’

‘You’re awake.’

‘It’s early yet.’

I look at my watch and see that it’s two forty-one in the morning. I register her meaning, and a tiny part of my heart dies. ‘I wanted to let you know that it looks like you were
right,’ I say, putting my feelings aside. ‘It may not have been Santar Gunta who committed the murders. Or, if it was him, it looks like he didn’t act alone.’

‘Josh?’

‘No. His assistant programmer.’

‘Michael.’

‘Yes, Michael.’ I feel like there is so much I want to say, but I can’t even bring myself to force the words out of my mouth. ‘That’s what it looks like.’

‘I can see that,’ she says after a moment. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Not one hundred percent, but ninety-nine.’ I look across the room and see that Yvette is looking at me, still on the phone. ‘Kendra, he killed another girl, and the police
don’t have him in custody yet.’

‘Do they know where he is?’

‘No.’ I start to say something and then stop, trying to phrase it right. I realize there is no appropriate way to say it, so I give up on phrasing it perfectly. ‘Kendra,
I’m concerned you could be in danger.’

‘Aren’t you sweet?’ Her voice is hard, but I press on.

‘No, I’m not,’ I say. ‘I mean, with what you do, I’m worried that you’re making yourself vulnerable.’

‘Oh.’ She says nothing for a moment. ‘A girl’s gotta eat,’ she says at last.

‘You said you had some money saved up.’

‘I was being metaphorical, Nick.’

It’s my turn now. ‘Oh. About saving money, or . . . ? Oh.’

‘Listen, you may not think so, but you really are sweet. You don’t have to worry about me, though. I’ve always managed to take care of myself.’

‘This guy’s crazy.’

She laughs and it’s filled with knowledge and understanding and sorrow. ‘All guys are crazy.’ The laugh comes again, and I want to reach through the phone line and take hold of
her hand, tell her that she’s wrong, that she’s had a bad deal so far. ‘I know what he looks like, Nick. I think I’m pretty safe.’

‘Only if you see him coming.’

‘A long time ago I decided that life was going to be what it was going to be. I’m too far along to change my stripes now, Nick. Trust me, I’ll be okay.’

I’m searching my mind desperately for something to say that might convince her otherwise, but nothing comes. I look over, and Killkenny is standing next to Yvette. She has finished her
phone calls and is filling in some of Killkenny’s declaration for the warrant. ‘I’ve gotta go’ is all I can manage.

‘I know.’

‘I’ll call. When all this is over, I’ll call.’

‘I hope so. I really hope so.’ She hangs up without saying goodbye, and it’s like a knife to the gut. I hold the phone for a few seconds before I hang up, trying to catch my
breath. As soon as the handset is on the cradle, I hear Killkenny’s voice. ‘This is done, and I’m faxing it to the judge,’ he says.

‘Will he fax it back?’ Yvette asks.

‘No, we have to go pick it up at his apartment. He’s in Fenway. François lives out by Boston College, so it’s on the way.’

‘Boston College,’ I say. ‘Isn’t that where one of the early victims was?’

Killkenny nods. ‘The first was in Cleveland Circle. He started out hunting near his home. That’s the way it starts a lot of the time.’

‘This happens often?’ Yvette asks.

‘Not exactly like this, necessarily, but are serial killers common? Yeah, it happens more often than anyone would like to think. Some people just get a taste for it, and they can’t
stop.’

‘You think that’s what happened with Michael François? You think he just got a taste for it?’

‘From his record, it looks like he was fairly predisposed. But, yeah, I’m guessing once he started, he found he couldn’t stop.’

‘All the more reason we have to find him,’ I say.

‘True,’ Killkenny says. He walks to a gun cabinet hanging on the wall, takes out a shotgun. He grabs a box of shells and slides five rounds into the chamber, looks at us. ‘Are
you two ready?’ he asks.

I look at Yvette, and she stands. ‘We’re ready,’ she says.

Killkenny is in the judge’s apartment for less than two minutes before he returns with the warrant. ‘That’s it?’ I ask.

‘That’s it,’ he says. ‘It’s a pretty convincing affidavit. Plus, at this time in the morning, judges tend to have fewer questions.’

We drive on to the Boston College section of Brookline. It’s an area off Commonwealth, ten subway stops out from the center of the city, where the residents are split between students,
young professionals and lifetime residents. Michael François’ apartment is in one of the more rundown areas, where the residents appear to be primarily graduate students and
twenty-somethings on the bottom of the employment ladder. It doesn’t have the clear evidence of constant partying that accompanies the college set, but it also lacks the substance and
permanency of more established residential neighborhoods. It looks transient in every respect.