The Black Chronicle (13 page)

              “Is it everyone's first day?” Simon asked looking up at his mother and blinking nervously as she packed her little boy’s first school lunch into a Buck Rogers lunch box.

              “Well everyone in your class, yes. But there are other kids who have already been in Kindergarten.” Becky explained handing him the lunch box then took a moment to straighten out his shirt for him.

              “Am I going to make friends,” he asked, his squeaky voice so hopeful that it broke her heart.

              “Of course you are,” She said, hoping herself that it wasn't a lie. Becky and Jacob had already come to grips with the fact that their boy was different. The other children his age in the neighbourhood would be out playing catch, or tag or whatever it is boys do, and Simon would be indoors, scribbling in his journal. And if they forced him to play outside he would just sit and watch the other boys, or sit and think. Or at least Becky thought he was thinking, but of what, God only knew. 

              So it didn't come as a terrible shock when the bullying began at school, and while they didn't know exactly what was being said or done to him, it did seem to be worse than they imagined it would.  

Some days Simon would come home and go straight to his room and cry for hours, which only seemed to make his father angry.

              “You can't let people hurt you boy,” his father instructed one night as they were going to bed. “People are mean. They will do whatever they want to you if you let them. Do you understand me?”

              “Yes, Papa. I understand.”

              Though they both knew a simple explanation such as that was not going to imbue in him the kind of courage he needed to stand up for himself. And they were right.

              The boys in kindergarten had started taking to calling Simon ‘the worm’. Simon couldn't say why and neither Becky nor Jacob could figure it. Then, on one random night, after Simon had gone to bed, Jacob had a theory. He was sitting by the radio, the always present bottle of beer in his hand, as if holding one for so long caused them to start growing right from his palm.

              “Cuz he's got no spine,” he said to Becky between long thoughtful sips.

              “Sorry what?”

              “They call him the worm cuz he ain't got no spine.”

              Though whether or not that was why he was called the worm they never knew and neither did Simon. What he did know though, was that there really must have been something wrong with him. If one or two kids didn't like him, well that was one thing, but none of them seemed to and he was pretty sure he knew why. He was shy. Painfully so and even when he understood he was being shy and would try to make the effort to be friendly but his words had a way of coming out strangely and awkward. So maybe his father was right. Maybe he did have to be more like them. Loud and mean if need be. So he tried sticking up for himself in the playground and told them to leave him alone, but it never worked. In fact it just made it worst. 

              “What did I tell you?!” His father screamed and stomped into the living room where Simon was watching cartoons, one day after Becky told him about the most recent incident. They were calling him the worm again at recess and Simon tried to stick up for himself. He yelled at them and told them to stop, which the boys took as their cue to hold him down and slap his face until he cried.

              “What did I tell you?” His father bellowed, leaning over top of him like a big angry ogre.

              “I tried papa. I tried to tell them to stop.”

              “Jacob you're drunk! You're scaring him!” His mother said from where she watched at a safe distance.              

              “Oh you told them to stop!? Did I tell you to tell them anything?”

              And Simon was too scared to answer but his father insisted.

              “Well?!”

              “No you told me to hit them back.”

              “So did you do what I told you?!”

              “No papa.”

              “Why?”

              “Because I was scared,” Simon confessed and began to cry. He was just a boy. Why wasn't he allowed to be scared? Why wouldn't his father just go find the boys himself? He was sure they would be way more scared of his did than they ever would be of him.

              “You should be scared of me! Not them! A bully only understands one thing boy. That's violence. You want to live your life being scared all the time? Being a victim?!”

              He had never seen his father this angry before. It was like he wasn't even the same person.

              “Jacob please!” Becky cried from the kitchen doorway.

              “You shut up!” He said glaring back at her from over his heaving shoulder. “This ain't got nothing to do with you. This is what we're gonna go,” he said turning back to Simon and grabbing his t-shirt by the collar. “Every time you get picked on at school and you don't stand up for yourself like I said, I'm going beat on you when you come home. You want that?! Huh? You prefer that?!”

              “No Daddy please!” Simon shrieked and began to weep so bad that snot and tears soaked his face from cheeks to chin.

              “Look at you. No wonder they pick on you. Ain't no boy of mine going to be a victim for no God damn bully.”

              He couldn’t stand it anymore. The panic had filled his whole body and his brain until he couldn't think and the next thing he knew he was running to his mother like a little rabbit scared out of his hole.  He clenched onto her as tightly as he could, knowing that if there was anyone who wouldn't hurt him it was her.

              She held him and stroked his hair and tried to shush him.

              “Okay. It's okay baby,” she said. She stared at Jacob from over their son's trembling little body with the type of expression people used when trying to place a face but can't quite get there. 

              There was a moment of what may have been guilt, or shame in Jacob's dumb drunken eyes but it was just a moment.

              “I ain't kidding boy. I mean it. It's them or me.”

              And then he turned and stomped out of the house.

              Jeremy woke up with a half drunk cappuccino in his hand, driving down the one-ten en-route to the FBI Los Angeles field office. On the radio was some horrible pop dribble he would have changed if he could have heard over his own thoughts. He grabbed a tie off the seat next to him and draped it around his neck. Appearance went a long way with these people.

              He was in a state of – well he wasn’t sure what really. Sad resolve? He felt like Michael Corleone in the God father
. Just when I thought I was out
…  Though if he was honest with himself this might actually have been the best thing for him. If he had to sit through one of Evelyn's shit-a-thons, or any of his clients really, he was going to strangle someone. And if he was left alone with his own thoughts... well look how dire things became at the bluffs. No, this was helpful. It was good for him to feel like someone actually needed his help- was depending on him. He could let himself down, it was letting down other people he had a hard time with.

              This development he was bringing to his contacts in the bureau was certainly going to stir things up. He knew any information was gold to them at this point. If they didn’t collar Mister before he retired, fled to another country or died it would be a major smudge on the FBI for a very long time. Possibly forever. Mister was the Osama Bin Laden of serial killers. Officially now as he had just been placed on the FBI’s most wanted domestic terrorist list, easily capturing the top spot over the subsequent nine rag tag burnt out hippie idealists and religious red neck fuck ups. There was some controversy about placing him on the list at all as his crimes didn’t seem to be politically motivated in any way but he certainly was engaging in his own brand of terrorism. It wasn’t so much the killings. These psychos came and went and some captured the media’s attention more than others. But this guy. This guy was something out of a movie. He uploaded videos taunting the police and the families of his victims on the internet, which predictably went viral despite efforts to block them. He had a sort of sinister charisma. The face paint, the costume, the passionate rants, and of course his seeming ability to operate with immunity. How could the public not be interested as well as terrified by him? He was one of the most popular Halloween costumes the year before for Christ’s sake.

              How terrifying it must be for Mary. Working with Matherport was nerve wracking enough, and he was caught and in chains. Jeremy suspected Victor was a puppy dog compared to the monster called Mister who was toying with the world like some sort of super villain from a comic book. To have someone like that fixated on you, knowing who and where you are, must feel something like a rape of the soul. Yes, he agreed with himself swirling around the off ramp. That would be exactly how it would feel. Like your entire life was being raped right up the metaphorical ass.

              He felt a bit like the prodigal son, as he parked his car and entered the offices of the bureau.  

              “I'm here to see Jim Costa,” Jeremy said to the brick house of a security guard at the check in, and showed him his I.D.  He signed the electronic ledgers emptied his pockets and passed through the metal detectors.

              Costa was the guy responsible for cuffing Matherport, though some part of him perhaps wished he wasn't because it positioned him as the point man on the current Mister case also and after five years the public was getting very vocal about the governments inability to catch this guy. It most certainly was the kind of case that could make or break a career. So while Agent Costa didn’t exactly look as fresh as a daisy he was surprised not to find a twitchy chain smoking mess.

              “Dr. Foster. Come in, please.”

              “Agent Costa.”

              “Has it been that long. You don't call me Jim anymore?”

              “Hey you started with formalities,” Jeremy said and took a seat across from his desk.

              “That I did. I guess I just figured if I had a doctorate I would want everyone to refer to me as Doctor wherever I went.”

              “It was fun at first but people always seemed to be disappointed when they find out I'm just a psychologist. Not as impressive as say, a neurosurgeon, I guess.”

              “So what's on your mind?” Costa said bringing an abrupt end to the small talk which suited Jeremy just fine. Jeremy got up and closed the door and Agent Costa raised an intrigued brow.

              “You should watch this,” Jeremy said handing him the CD.

              “Right now?”

              “Yeah, right now.”

              Costa flipped open his laptop and inserted the disk. Jeremy waited, gripping the arm of his chair tight, staring straight ahead, listening and waiting for it to end.

              “Where did you get this? Who’s Mary?” Costa asked once he found his composure. 

              “That’s the thing. That’s why I am here. You heard him threaten her not to come to you. She’s afraid of talking to anyone about it. Afraid that he’s watching her all the time.”

              Costa’s forehead was now shiny from a thin film of sweat. Even though he kept his composure Jeremy started to understand just want a colossal bone he was throwing them here.              

“So who is this Mary to you? How did you come into this?”

              “I just met her. She came into my office a couple days ago pretending to need therapy. I later learned she was just feeling me out. She had read an article I wrote.”

              “The one in Rolling Stone?”

              “Yes. I think she received this video only a day or two before coming across the article. She is afraid if she goes to the cops Mister will somehow know and so she came to me for help.”

              “Okay. And this girl in the video is her niece?”

              “Yes.”

              “Does the young girl’s family know about this?”

              “Not yet, no.”

              “Who does?”

              “Miss Stien and myself. As far as I know.”

              “Where is she now? Does she know you’ve come to see me?”

              “Yes, she knows. She’s at her home, downtown.”

              “Jesus. She needs to be in protective custody. At least have an officer watching her.”

              “No Jim, listen to what I’m saying. She is petrified, and rightfully so. Not only for her own life but for her niece’s as well. If this fucker is watching her- and he probably is- you and I know he will kill that poor girl without batting an eye.”

              “I hate to say this Jeremy,” Jim sighed, “but the girl is most likely dead by now.”

              Jeremy wanted to be optimistic about it but just couldn’t be that naive.

              “I know.”

              “So why her? Tell me what you know about her.”

              “Who the girl or Mary?”

              “Both”

              “The girl I know nothing about besides the fact that she’s Miss Stien’s niece.”

              “That’s her last name? Stien?” He asked while reaching for a pen and a pad.

              “Yeah. Mary Stien. She’s some sort of actress. I don’t quite understand it to be honest.”

              “Porn?” Costa asked.

              “No I don’t think so. She said slasher films.”

              “Slasher films huh? Like horror movies?”

              “Yeah. Low budget horror films. She also runs a magazine about the same thing.”

              “Interesting. This is the first time she’s been contacted by him?”

              “As far as I know.”

              “She have any idea why?” Costa asked standing up to stretch his legs.

              “She assumes that he has fixated onto her somehow because of her work.”

              “Sounds more than plausible to me. More likely than some sort of personal connection.”

              “Agreed.”

              “You got anything else on her?”

              “Not really no. She’s, uh, well a mess really. She’s barely holding it together.”

              Costa leaned his heavy frame back into his chair and messaged his temples.

              “You ever get the feeling that you’re not awake at all doc? That your life is just a long recurring dream?”

              “No and I suggest you see a psychologist about that.”

              Costa chuckled humourlessly and sighed, “This whole God damned situation is madness.”

              “Well I’m a forensic psychologist and you’re an investigator with the FBI.  It’s not that out of left field.” Jeremy countered.

              “Except you're not a forensic psychologist anymore. You're a therapist or … what is it? High school counsellor our something?”

              “Counselling psychologist...Custodian of the skewed.”

              “Custodian of the skewed. Right. I like that. Okay, okay,” Jim said putting on his game face. “We’re going to need to meet up with the woman somehow. There are ways to get her here,” he said lifting his hand to stifle Jeremy’s objections. “Then we are going to have to inform the parents of the young girl. Where do they think she is? Have they filled out a missing persons report?”

              Jeremy didn’t have the answer, simply shook his head.

              “It's important nobody else learns of this video. This is the most personal video he's made.           He says he’s trying to ‘help’ this Mary. If he is fixated on her then we may have something here. But if he knows we know about it, he will either cut communications with her or worse.”

              “I know.”

              “What do you make of this reference to ‘Maya’?

              “It loosely means ‘illusion.’ It’s a term found in Hindu philosophy and it refers to, if I understand correctly the fact that-” Jeremy sat up a little straighter and tried to find the right articulation. “Think of this world- the places and people and things in it, just a transmission to our senses, from the real source of what is there, but not the thing itself. You follow?”

              “No not at all,” Costa said trying to put his thinking cap on.

              “Okay. Well think of it this way then. Everything we perceive. Taste, smell, sight, touch, is through our senses. It’s a signal interpreted by our senses and translated by the brain but not the thing itself.”

              “Okay,” Costa said. That seemed to make a little more sense. 

              “But it’s more then that. It’s a veil between us and God. Like I said, it means illusion. There is a similar concept in Christianity though as far as I know they have no one word for it. The kingdom of heaven is among you. It’s the concept that there is a deeper truth behind the one we are living. A deeper reality. As in a spiritual, heavenly one. But the difference is in Hinduism it’s not only a deeper truth of what this- the world and life in it is all about- but what life and our experience of it actually
is.
This world, you and me and everything in it, are only just expressions of the truth. Metaphors. You understand?”

              “I think so. I’m trying.”

              Jeremy couldn’t help feeling a certain satisfaction to be working like this again. As horrible as the situation was, it was the only kind of endeavour that ever made him feel like he had a purpose. Well besides being a father of course, but Charlie needed him less and less these days, emotionally and practically. He silently promised himself to start spending more time with him as soon as all this was over.

              “So he has some kind ultimate truth delusion. I’ve been saying all along he’s divine mission oriented.”

              “Maybe yes. This video certainly makes it seem that way.

              “So what's his mission?”

              “Well I guess figuring that out is y
our
mission.”

              “This guy has me up at night Jeremy. I mean every night. I don't sleep...ever. 

              “You'll sleep more soundly than you ever did once you catch this guy.”

              “You mean
if.
”

              “These guys always get caught. You know that. He'll slip up sooner or later. The cooling down period will diminish as his confidence grows and that's when he’ll make a mistake.”

              Costa took a gulp of the cold cup of coffee on his desk.

              “How many more people will he kill before that happens? There is no outcome here which can be categorized as a success.”

              “I'll tell you what though. This guy isn't just going to stop on his own. He's enjoying himself way too much for that. If he dies somehow, unrelated to his crimes, and is never discovered. Well then you have a Black Dhalia on your hands.  The story will live forever, one more American bogeyman. There needs to be closure on this or it's going to be a blemish on the FBI and LAPD forever.