Splintered (10 page)

D
EAR
M
R
.
Jensen,

How are you today? My name is Noah, I’m sixteen, and in the tenth grade. I’m doing a research paper on the conditions of the prison system and hope you can tell me what it’s like. I’ve never been to a prison, but I hear it really sucks. I hope you can answer my questions. I really need an A on this stupid paper, or I’m going to get kicked off the swim team. I hope I hear from you soon.

Sincerely,

Noah

Noah folded the letter and slipped it into an envelope. It was utter and complete bullshit, except for his name. Charles Jensen was a death-row inmate who had been convicted of killing seven teenage boys. The authorities suspected more but couldn’t prove it, and Jensen wasn’t talking. All of Jensen’s victims were lean and athletic. What Noah hoped to get out of the deception was an honest view into the killer’s mind.

By setting himself up as a potential victim, he hoped to do what numerous officers, attorneys, and various others had tried to do but failed: get Jensen to talk. He wanted to get a better understanding of Jensen based on how he seduced and manipulated his prey. How he was able to go undetected for so long, how he learned from his mistakes, how he evolved from disorganized to organized. Jensen’s ability to elude the police for ten years was awe-inspiring. Noah also hoped to find the answers to the unanswerable. Why he killed. Was it genetics? Nurture? Both? What made a boy from a small Midwestern town—the only child of two loving and involved parents—become a sadistic killer? There had to be a reason. Something. People didn’t just wake up one day and start raping and killing people.

Noah addressed the letter to Jensen care of the Texas Department of Corrections and added his own name and P.O. Box in the upper left corner. He blew a wayward curl out of his eyes, placed a stamp on the envelope, and stuffed it into his backpack. He’d mail it in the morning.

He’d set up the postal box years ago when he’d first started corresponding with killers while he was in junior high. Mr. Jensen would be his twenty-third murderer, his fifteenth serial killer. Sometimes he pretended to be a disciple, as he had with Richard Ramirez, also known as the Night Stalker. Noah had claimed he was a member of the Church of Satan and wished to sit next to Ramirez in his chair next to Satan. He’d also assumed roles as an admirer or lawyer, but the guise that seemed to garner the most honest knowledge was when he portrayed himself as the perfect victim.

The information he’d gather would be valuable in his chosen field of study: a doctorate in psychology. Not that he could technically use the information he obtained using deceptive tactics, at least not officially. There was a whole set of rules and regulations he had to abide by if he wanted to use Jensen as an official case study. Lying his ass off was not an acceptable means of data collection. Go figure. Didn’t matter, his knowledge-seeking, while important academically, was really to satisfy his far greater personal need to know.

Noah slid out of his chair and stretched his arms up over his head, yawning. He’d been too worked up to sleep the night before, and it was starting to catch up with him. He’d have to rely on coffee and sugary snacks to get him through his presentation today. He grabbed the news article he’d clipped from yesterday’s paper and a push pin. He studied the walls of his small apartment. There wasn’t a single spot that wasn’t covered with a news article, photo, map, or report.

“Going to need more wall space,” Noah surmised and attached the article next to one he’d put up the day before.

He hadn’t yet covered the walls of his bedroom, had worried it would somehow disrupt his sleep or bring back the nightmares of his youth. Considering he didn’t sleep long enough to dream, and most of the time passed out at his desk, he supposed the point was moot.

Anyone who entered his apartment would be shocked. Not because he’d turned his living room into an office, the only furniture a desk, office chair and several bookcases. But he was sure anyone seeing the death and mayhem that covered the walls would think he was nuts, obsessed even. Perhaps he was. At twenty-six, he had twelve years of obsession on his walls, stacked on bookshelves, and, if that wasn’t enough, in boxes in his storage locker in the basement.

Noah checked his watch. He had thirty minutes before he had to be at the lecture hall. He grabbed a Pop-Tart—breakfast of champions—on the way to the bathroom, scarfing it down as he pulled off his clothes. A hot shower and a quick stop for coffee and hopefully he’d be coherent enough to make it through the lecture and answer the umpteen zillion questions that always came after one of his lectures. Today, given his topic, he expected even more.

A
COOL
autumn breeze rustled through the trees as Noah sipped his coffee while he made his way past the gothic buildings. He zipped his jacket up as he hurried along the sidewalk. It had been a typical Chicago fall—one day blazing hot, the next, freeze-your-balls-off cold. Today was in between, cold but at least bearable.

The University of Chicago was one of the world’s premier academic and research institutions. It was at the nexus of ideas that challenged and changed the world. It was part of the reason Noah had chosen to attend. That and the abundance of other attractive incentives such as student-run cafes, a unique museum, local festivals, and architectural masterpieces by famous architects such as Frank Lloyd Wright. Since he’d first arrived in Chicago six years ago, however, Noah still hadn’t taken advantage of what the city or the campus had to offer. He’d hoped with all the sights, sounds, and eats Chicago had to offer he’d get out more, meet people, and make a friend. His fascination with death hadn’t waned, though—in fact had only continued to grow, which kept him too busy to socialize.

Noah entered the auditorium and shrugged out of his jacket. Fifty to sixty people were already sitting in the stands, and he felt a tingling of nervousness skitter down his spine. It wasn’t the first time he’d stood before a class, but no matter how many times he had to stand at the front and address a room full of people, he had to fight nausea and shaking limbs. He was much more comfortable in his little apartment with his books and laptop. He could even handle one-on-one conversation, but he would never get used to, or like, being the center of attention.

He hung his jacket on a hook near the door, shouldered his backpack, and made his way to the podium. His honors seminar professor, Dr. Fritzwald, nodded in greeting from where he sat at a small table off to the side. Noah responded in kind. He laid out his notes on the podium, then nervously shifted from foot to foot and adjusted his tie as he waited for the signal to begin. The crowd talked among themselves, but Noah could only make out bits and pieces of their conversations. “Noah…. Gonna be good…. Freak…. Death….” Their collective voices combined with the echo reverberating off the walls sounded more like a buzz rather than actual words.

At precisely 10:00 a.m., Fritzwald stood. He didn’t say a word, simply clasped his hands behind his back, looking out toward the students in the auditorium over the rim of the glasses that sat perched on his nose. It only took a few seconds for the class to realize Dr. Fritzwald was standing at attention before them.

He commanded the utmost respect, and it only took one student to notice him and say, “Shh! He’s starting,” for the room to fall silent. Dr. Fritzwald looked to Noah, gave a curt nod, and returned to his seat.

“In this presentation,” Noah started, his voice cracking with nervousness. He swallowed hard and started again. “Today I will be talking about becoming the perfect victim.”

There was a collective gasp and then complete silence as if they were all holding their breaths.

“Although much is known about the patterns of serial killers’ behavior,” Noah continued, “even the nature of their childhoods, their motives, and fantasies, we really know very little about how they manage to overpower people, manipulate, and degrade them. To get them to do things they wouldn’t otherwise consider.”

Noah then went on to relate how, while only a student in junior and senior high school, he’d figured out a way to lure a half dozen of the most notorious serial killers into communication with him, eventually forging full-blown relationships with several. In each case, he had meticulously researched what would interest them the most and then cast himself in the role of disciple, admirer, businessman, surrogate, or potential victim. He spoke about how, in a few instances, he actually interviewed the killers in prison, winning their trust and uncovering their secrets. Noah was able to keep his audience rapt, hanging on every word he spoke, and he completely captivated them by showing samples of the killers’ perverted writings on the overhead and playing eerie recordings of their voices. As he’d suspected, he was flooded with questions once the presentation was concluded, a few asking about particular cases or killers, but most asking why? Why he would undertake a project such as that, one that would not only jeopardize his sanity but his physical safety. That was the one question Noah couldn’t answer with honesty, choosing to give vague answers rather than admitting to the truth of it.

When the clock showed his time was up, relief rushed through Noah, and he gathered up his notes and backpack and rushed from the room before he was surrounded by the mob of people. It had happened to him in the past, and he’d learned from that two-hour mistake. He’d follow up with Dr. Fritzwald later in private. At the moment, the only thing he could think of was getting home, showering, and getting a little shut-eye. These presentations always left him drained.

“N
OAH
W
ALKER
?”

The young man spun around, nearly dropping the stack of books he held in his hand. “Yes?” The moment he met Hutch’s gaze, his eyes went wide in obvious recognition and the books made a heavy thud as they hit the ground.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you,” Hutch said in apology.

Noah stood stock-still for a few heartbeats. Hutch noticed the way sweat bloomed across Noah’s brow, how he swallowed repeatedly, and the slight tremble in his limbs. Noah was definitely nervous, and Hutch would have to tread lightly to get Noah to speak to him without lawyering up.

“This is Special Agent Green and I’m—”

“I know who you are,” Noah interrupted and bent to retrieve his books.

Hutch moved, picked one up, and handed it to Noah. He heard a harsh intake of breath from the younger man when their fingers inadvertently touched, and Noah jerked back, fumbling with his books as he stood.

“Um… thanks,” Noah muttered. He clutched his books to his chest, shifting from foot to foot nervously. “I attended a seminar you gave on autoasphyxiation and the sexual sadist.” Noah averted his eyes, and his cheeks turned a light shade of red. “I’m a huge fan of yours,” he admitted shyly.

Hutch looked at his partner as Granite covered his mouth, but not before a snort of laughter escaped him. Hutch shot him a glare before turning back to Noah. “That’s very flattering,” Hutch responded. “Do you mind if we ask you a few questions?”

“M-m-me?” Noah sputtered. He tilted his head, his expression one of confusion. “But what would you want to ask me about?”

“Do you mind if we come in?” Granite asked.

“This isn’t a good time. I….” Noah glanced back at his door and then back and forth between Hutch and Granite. “I have just enough time to drop these off,” he said, shrugging the books in his arms, “and get to my next class. Can we do this later?”

Noah was hiding something, Hutch was sure of it. He really wanted to get inside Noah’s place and have a look around, get a feel for the young man. “It will only take a moment,” Hutch assured him as he watched him carefully.

“I’d really like to talk with you, Agent Hutchinson, honest, but umm… yeah, not right this moment. Can you come back later? Or better yet, I can meet you somewhere after class?”

As badly as Hutch wanted to get inside Noah’s apartment and get a chance to pick the guy’s mind, he knew not to push and he didn’t have the right to force the issue. “Okay,” he agreed reluctantly. “What time?”

Noah’s shoulders slumped in obvious relief.
Interesting
.

“There’s a coffee shop right across from the McKinley building. We could meet there, say, at four?”

“We’ll be there,” Hutch assured him.

“What did you think?” Hutch asked Granite as they strolled from the building.

“Guy is definitely nervous, but I can’t decide if it’s because he’s hiding something or in love.”

“What?” Hutch asked, incredulous.

“Oh, don’t play dumb,” Granite grunted. “You saw the way the guy was making goo-goo eyes at you. He was complete in awe of being in your presence. I think you’re his hero.”

Hutch had noticed the color in Noah’s cheeks when he admitted being a fan and the way he’d run his eyes up and down Hutch’s body. That didn’t change the fact that Noah was a suspect in a gruesome series of murders. The guy was definitely big enough to overpower someone and to carry a small male body quite some distance to a dump site. Hutch knew from both research and personal experience that sometimes killers could become fixated on the investigator, not necessarily in a sexual way, but instead sizing up their competition. It became part of their game, to outfox the police. Narcissism was a common thread among serial killers.

Hutch met Granite’s gaze with complete seriousness. “And sometimes it’s the hero they wish most to take down.”

Chapter 10