Stolen (20 page)

T
he news people faced an incredibly busy day of reporting, and it was all because of me. They had three major stories to cover, but the two fires in Southie, and the mystery woman who was rescued by the mystery man, were not the lead items. Not even close.

But let’s start with those fires in Southie, both of which were labeled as arson by Boston’s FIU, Fire Investigation Unit. As it turned out, Officer Christopher Walsh—the guy who took down my police report at the scene—was right about the press. I’m sure they would have loved to interview me, and if I hadn’t been the one who started the blaze in the first place, I would have granted that request. I would have said things like, “I’m not a hero. . . . I was just in the right place at the right time. . . . I just wanted to help. Yada. Yada. Yada.” But in truth, I wasn’t a hero, was I? I was an arsonist. Fortunately, my name (okay, the Elliot Uretsky name) was not made available to the press via the police report, because I hadn’t been arrested for any crime—at least, not yet.

Having the media all over the first fire in Southie helped me stay an enigma. By the time Ruby and I were leaving the scene of the second fire, the news trucks were just rolling in. We slipped away in the gathering crowd before anybody could point the newsies in our direction.

The reports about Winnie were pretty vague. They knew that she was a woman, but they didn’t have a picture to show the public or any identification to go on. I had no idea what Uretsky did with her purse and wallet. Maybe it burned in the fire. They could have filmed her inert body splayed out on a stretcher as it got loaded into the back of an ambulance, but I guess that’s considered poor form—even for the local news. According to the Channel Seven reporter, this Jane Doe had been taken to Mass General Hospital, where her condition was reported as critical.

We knew a little bit more than the reporter did, but that was because we had gone to see her.

After the fire, Ruby and I returned to the apartment. We both showered, and I turned the bathroom black with soot. I still couldn’t get a decent breath, but with every cough and everything I expunged from my aching lungs, I was clearing a pathway for some actual respiration. Once we’d cleaned up, we drove Ziggy to Mass General, parked in the garage, and ten minutes later identified ourselves to the staff working the ICU as the people who pulled the Jane Doe out of the Southie fire. We asked if we could see her for just a moment, if that would be all right with them.

“It’s important for closure,” I said.

If any of the staffers found it odd that Ruby got emotional in this woman’s presence, they didn’t say. Tears in the ICU are a common occurrence, but I bet the staff didn’t often witness one stranger sobbing over the medical plight of another. Of course, they didn’t know this was a daughter holding her mother’s hand.

Winnie was on a ventilator, her arms an octopus of IV drips. All sorts of other machines were attached to her, all humming and beeping away, but I didn’t know their purpose and didn’t think it wise to ask. It might seem odd to take such an interest in Jane Doe’s medical condition. Thanks to HIPAA, we didn’t glean all that much about her prognosis, either. She was suffering from severe smoke inhalation; that much we were told, though it was unclear when—or even if—she would regain consciousness.

I overheard two nurses talking about the toxicology report they were expecting from the lab at any moment. I’m sure when the police read through that report, they’d have some questions for Elliot Uretsky—aka me. How did I manage to hear this woman calling out for help if she had enough drugs swimming in her system to knock out an elephant? Those questions might come up, and if they did, either I’d BS my way through them or I’d make a call to Clegg and ask for a lifeline. Right now I needed to be a rock for Ruby, who sat silent by her mother’s bedside, swallowing down tears as sour to her as the smoke lingering in my lungs.

But of all the stories to make the evening news, Winnie and the two fires in Southie were merely footnotes. We got back to our place a little before five o’clock in the afternoon and parked Ziggy in the reserved spot out back. We entered the apartment building through the back door, which meant we didn’t see any of the action going on out front. I immediately turned on the TV, curious what the reports would have to say about the fire.

That’s when we heard the lead story—the really big news item of the day. It hadn’t been confirmed yet by the police, but there was growing speculation about a possible serial killer on the loose in Boston. According to the somber-sounding newscaster, the body of a mutilated woman had been found inside her Winthrop apartment. Authorities were not releasing the woman’s name pending notification of her family, but they did have some disturbing information about the crime to share with the viewing public.

The woman’s fingers had been severed and placed ritualistically on her body. And some bright reporter with a nose for the news managed to link the gruesome details of the murder victim to a similar act performed on Rhonda Jennings. Somebody read the police reports and matched the modus operandi of the two crimes. Somebody didn’t need a lot more information to connect those terrible dots. Now the race was on between the people trying to control the flow of information and those who wanted to expose the truth. We sat riveted to the news, watching the reporters trying to make sense of it all.

The news people had all their bases covered. One television crew was out in Winthrop, at Jenna’s apartment, one was at the Boston police headquarters, and another was stationed right outside the apartment on Harvard Avenue where Rhonda Jennings once lived. Ruby went over to the window and confirmed at least four news trucks from different television stations parked right outside. Thank goodness we’d come in through the back door, or we would have been accosted like our other neighbors, who were just trying to come home for the night. On the TV, the Channel Seven news anchor was asking the same questions anybody would ask.

Was this the work of a single killer?

How many other killings had there been?

What did the placement of the fingers mean?

Was it part of a demonic ritual?

In addition to rampant speculation, the media had given this killer a name. In a mere couple of hours from the discovery of the bodies to the linking of the two murders, the SHS Killer had been born: see, hear, and speak no evil. SHS. Maybe twenty years ago it would have taken a day or two for the name of the SHS Killer to become part of the cultural lexicon. But with the advent of instant communication networked to just about everybody, fear could travel at supersonic speed and a name could catch quicker than a fire in Southie. One minute, people were watching the end of
Ellen
and the next they were tweeting and updating their Facebook profiles with warnings to stay vigilant, walk in groups, and avoid going out at night unless absolutely necessary.

We watched the five o’clock news blend into the six and were witness to the police battling a swelling tide of panic. They urged caution while warning against jumping to conclusions.

“At this point, we cannot confirm or deny reports of a serial killer,” the police commissioner said on camera. “We do have two murders with strikingly similar characteristics, and we’re asking anybody with information to come forward to help us solve these terrible crimes.”

The words tumbled about in my head.
Anybody with information
—well, that would be me. I had all the information, but yet I felt powerless to do anything about it. I could give up Uretsky’s name, along with my role in the fire, Jenna’s death, the robbery of Giovanni’s Liquors, Rhonda Jennings’s murder, and our medical fraud in the process, but would that stop the killings? Uretsky and his wife, Tanya, were both MIA. What realistic hope did the police have of tracking them down?

Ruby must have been thinking along the same lines. “We’ve got to tell them what we know,” she said.

“The police, you mean?”

“Yes, John, the police. We’ve got to tell them about Elliot Uretsky.”

I nodded, because I agreed with her. We needed help. We needed the police. And yet the consequences of a confession were immense.

“I just need to think about it,” I said.

“What’s there to think about?” Ruby asked, her voice a burst of hostility. “Make the call, or I will.”

“We need to make arrangements. For you . . . for us,” I said, stammering to get out the words. “I’m going to jail for what I’ve done. You don’t have to.”

Ruby’s eyes turned downcast as she ruminated on what I had said. “We could run,” she suggested. “We’ll vanish. We’ll figure it out.”

“Or we wait until we hear from Uretsky,” I said. “Keep playing his game.”

“Who knows what he’ll ask us to do next?”

“Let’s not rush,” I said. “We can’t go far from your medication right now. We need time to figure out what’s best. Okay?”

Ruby nodded and looked out the window. “There’s more news trucks out there,” she said. “A lot more.”

We watched those trucks for a while, kneeling on the futon with our arms wrapped around each other. I shivered even though my body still felt like it was on fire. For some reason, I didn’t mind looking down this time. Normally, I get the shakes glancing out a second-story window. I guess a deeper and far more profound horror had sequestered my acrophobia in some sort of mental lockbox. Hell of a way to find me a cure.

Twenty minutes later, our apartment phone rang. I knew who’d be waiting for me on the other end of the line.

Despite every voice inside my head screaming not to do it, I answered the phone.

“Q
uite the scene we’re causing,” Uretsky said as soon as I picked up the phone.

“What you did to Winnie . . . to us . . . Please, this needs to stop.” I needed the kitchen island countertop to keep myself upright. “You win. You win everything,” I said, pleading with him. “Please just let us go.”

It was odd to hear myself beg, but beg I did. Desperation seeped from my pores as rivers of sweat. Hopelessness stifled my breathing. I had so much rage welling up inside me, so much hatred, that I was amazed I could put together a coherent thought. All I could do was to plead for some sort of mercy and pray that he might tire of toying with us.

“You’ve watched the news reports, I trust,” Uretsky said. “Crazy stuff, John. Crazy.”

“You need to stop this,” I said. “This needs to stop.”

“You don’t control me,” Uretsky said. “I control me. You can just react to what I do.”

“You’re going to keep killing,” I said. I meant it as a question, but it came out as a statement of fact.

“I am,” Uretsky said. “Unless you stop me.”

“How do I stop you?”

I hated how weak I sounded. My voice came out pleading, shaken, and defeated.

Uretsky just laughed. “By winning, of course,” he said.

“You want me to commit another crime?” I asked. The anger in my voice encouraged me. “What do you want me to do now? Mugging? Carjacking? Drug smuggling? I guess there’s a lot to choose from.”

“You sound excited, John,” Uretsky said, chuckling. “Are you actually looking forward to what’s next?”

“How many more?” I asked.

“Crimes, you mean? Not for you to know. It’s a game, remember?”

I looked over at Ruby, still kneeling on the futon. If her ashen complexion were any indication, the end of this game was very near at hand. We couldn’t take much more.

“I’m thinking about turning myself in to the police,” I said. “That means you won’t have me to play with anymore. You’ll be all on your own, and they’ll come looking for you. They’ll come after you with everything they’ve got.”

“It won’t help,” Uretsky said. “I’m as hidden as hidden can be. They can’t trace any of my communications to you. These calls, the texts, they’re all done through a bunch of anonymous proxy servers and so many Internet hops it’s like the Easter Bunny traveled around the world. I’m untraceable. I can’t be found. But I can be stopped. Are you ready to stop me?”

I let my apprehension pass through me like a shiver.

“I’m ready,” I said.

Did I mean it? I didn’t know. But it was what came out of me, because now I wanted to stop him. I wanted to beat him. To be honest, at the most primal level, inside a place I cringed to acknowledge, I wanted to win.

“Have you ever heard of the Machiavellian Scale?” Uretsky asked.

“I’ve heard of Machiavelli,” I said.

“Well, the Machiavellian Scale is an assessment of the lengths one would travel to gain an advantage in interpersonal encounters.”

“And your point is?”

“My point is that a prince should imitate the fox in cunning as well as the lion in strength. A wise prince should never keep his word when it would go against his interest, because he can expect others to do the same. Those aren’t my words, by the way. That’s from Machiavelli’s
The Prince
. It’s poetry.”

“Like I said, your point?”

Ruby was watching me intently, so she probably saw my jaw tightening.

“My point is that I’ve always had the advantage in our burgeoning little relationship, and you the disadvantage, and I think it’s high time I tipped the scales a bit more in your favor.”

“Why?” I said.

“Because I want you to succeed,” Uretsky said. “I want this to be a fair fight. I mean, I think you’ve done your dandiest to thwart me, but it seems I’m always one step ahead. No arguing there. So are you ready to take the advantage? Are you ready for that big, bold step toward ending the game?”

“And if I’m not?”

My phone buzzed. I glanced and saw that I had received a picture text message. The sender’s name was just a series of numbers, but I knew where it came from. I went quiet, thinking about what to do next.

“Look at it,” Uretsky said in a hushed tone, that breathy whisper of his.

I did as requested and saw a picture of a playground and an attractive black woman pushing her young son on a swing.

“There’s no geolocation information embedded in this image,” Uretsky said. “Nothing to help the police identify my whereabouts. You don’t even know what city I’m in, or what state for that matter. But I’m going to tell you about the woman in this picture, because it’s very important. Her name is Tinesha, and she’s a single mother of three, and if you don’t do exactly as I say, she’s going to be reported missing. You can go to the police. Go right now, but I’ll know if you do, and I promise you, she’ll go missing. I picked her because you know her, John. Is she familiar to you?”

I studied the picture intently but couldn’t place the face. “No,” I said.

“I’m not surprised. We interact with so many people on a daily basis, we can’t possibly keep track of them all. But I assure you, the connection to you is there. Now, you can quit playing my game. But I’ll know if you do, and she’ll go missing. The only way for her not to go missing is for you to succeed. Is that understood?”

“I thought you were tipping the scales in my advantage,” I said.

“I am,” Uretsky replied. “I just want you to know there are consequences for failure.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“I want you to figure out what my next clue means. No crime this time, just your smarts. That should make it easier for you to play along. Do you have a pen and paper ready, John? Get those items now.”

I found a scratch piece of paper and a pen nearby. My throat had gone dry as I looked at the picture of Tinesha at the park, knowing that I held her life in my hands, and not just her life, but all lives tethered to her.

“I’m ready,” I said.

“Good. Write this down exactly as I say it. I won’t repeat myself. Forty-two, twenty-six, twelve, seventy-one, six, fifty-seven. Do you have it? If so, repeat those numbers back to me now.”

I was still scratching down numbers, but I was able to repeat the sequence without error. “What does this mean?” I asked.

“That’s for me to know and for you to figure out,” Uretsky said. “Now remember, for Tinesha’s sake, every minute and every second counts. Text me when you have the answer. Once again, John, best of luck to you. Game on.”