Authors: Donn Cortez
The Closer (19 page)
“You did
what?”
Nikki said. She and Jack were walking in a park close to their house. It was dark and quiet, no one else around.
“I told the Patron I was the Closer.”
“Why the
fuck
would you do that?”
“Because he already knew,” Jack said patiently. “If I’d kept up the pretense, he’d have lost interest and stopped talking to me. This way, he maintains contact.”
“And he can’t talk to the Gourmet?” Nikki stopped and glared at him.
“Not through the Stalking Ground. But he knows the general area the Gourmet lives in—he might find another way.”
“So now we can’t go after
either
of them? Fucking
Christ,
Jack—”
“The Patron will require more time and planning— but we can get the Gourmet now, if we move quickly.”
“Yeah? How?” She jabbed him accusingly in the chest with a long, red-nailed finger.
“By using our brains,” Jack said. “More specifically, by using Road Rage’s…”
ROAD RAGE: I have something for you.
GOURMET: Go ahead.
ROAD RAGE: Precisely. The head being the
Closer’s—and you being where it should go.
GOURMET: What do you want for it?
ROAD RAGE: Seven body locations.
GOURMET: Normally I would bargain. But the head of the
Closer is worth at least that much—not to mention the risks you took in getting it. Seven bodies is an agreeable price.
What storage method are you using?
ROAD RAGE: Refrigeration, but not freezing. It would be best if I sent it soon, I think.
GOURMET: Indeed. What method did you have in mind?
ROAD RAGE: Courier would be fastest. You would have to arrange a delivery point, of course.
GOURMET: Yes. That shouldn’t be difficult.
DJINN-X: If I might make a suggestion, guys? Use the method I do for the hands. Mail it to a P.O. box, and make sure the mailbox is in the downtown of a major city. Have a bike courier pick it up at rush hour—
nobody
can track those fuckers through heavy downtown traffic. Specify when the package gets picked up and when it has to be delivered, so he’ll be in a hurry. Pick a big office building with underground parking for the drop, and wait for the courier in the lobby. Get on the elevator with him and accept the delivery. Get off the elevator on a different floor, take another down to the parking lot, and leave. Look out for surveillance devices— fucking cameras are everywhere now, including elevators. If you can, change your appearance in a washroom right after the drop.
GOURMET: I’ll consider your ideas and post instructions within six hours. My final precautions will be my own.
ROAD RAGE: Of course.
Methodology of Pursuit and Capture
The most important aspect of hunting intelligent prey is knowledge of your subject. Observe his or her behavior over an extended period of time. Familiarize yourself with their habits, routines, likes, and dislikes. Keeping a journal is extremely helpful, but a code should be used in case of discovery. I recommend the birdwatching technique, substituting ornithology terms for key words: “nest” for apartment, “feeding ground” for restaurant, “mating ritual” for dating behavior, etcetera. This also provides a convenient excuse for the use of binoculars, cameras, and surveillance in general.
Trash and recycling bins are also a gold mine of information on your subject. Credit card, social insurance and even driver’s license numbers can be obtained this way, as well as details like dietary and shopping habits.
To truly understand your subject, two methods are invaluable: firsthand observation of the subject in a social setting, and an analysis of their living space. Both of these are not without risk, but patience, planning, and caution will always produce results.
Beyond these broad strokes, each subject is different. I vary my technique accordingly, and therefore cannot list any generalized “hunting tips.” Instead, I offer a specific case study, that may or may not be useful to the reader.
Case Study 32: Ulysses
“Ulysses” is a fifty-one-year-old university professor. He holds degrees in English Literature and Philosophy. He is married, with two grown children. He is president of his local Mensa chapter, with a listed IQ of 141. He has a fondness for Rocky Road ice cream.
This much was determined by casual observation. More detailed investigation reveals that Ulysses also has a fascination with medieval armor, and in fact owns several authentic pieces.
This suggested a possible approach. After doing some research, I constructed a full-face helmet (or “helm”) from sheet metal, and contacted the professor via email. Posing as an English major and fan of Renaissance fairs, I asked him if he would evaluate my work for its historical accuracy, and offered him a “knighthood” in a historical-recreation organization I claimed to belong to.
Despite the fact that I was a complete stranger, his vanity wouldn’t let him refuse. He agreed to meet me on campus, in a spot I chose for its seclusion.
When we met, it took little encouragement for him to try the helm on. I had lined the headpiece with heavy plastic, with a folded hem around the rim of the opening. Threaded through the hem was a long, industrial-strength band of plastic, sometimes called a “zap-strap.” The tail end of the band is fed through a hole at the head, forming a loop. A one-way set of teeth embedded into the band allows it to be tightened but not loosened. This is essentially the same technology used by the police for their “disposable” handcuffs.
Once he was wearing the helm, it was easy to pull on the band, tightening it around his neck. The helm itself kept him from tearing a hole in the plastic manually. Blinded, and with his air supply cut off, it was a simple matter to subdue him. Death occurred within minutes through lack of oxygen.
I found this method to be particularily satisfying, as it combined aspects of both old and new technology.
Jack and Nikki drove from the courier office straight to the airport. Jack wanted to be on the ground in Nevada and ready by the time the head itself arrived the next day.
He’d embedded a GPS tracking unit inside the skull. The Gourmet’s inclinations meant he’d probably discover the unit almost immediately, so they’d have to move fast.
It was too dangerous to try to bring firearms with them, but Jack thought the stun gun would be all right if they put it in with their regular baggage. He kept the laptop and the GPS tracker with him.
Nikki hardly spoke to him during the flight.
They flew into Reno, rented a car and a motel room. Jack set up the laptop. The equipment that hosted the Stalking Ground was still back in Portland, but he could access it easily from almost anywhere.
He logged on while Nikki went out to pick up some supplies, intending to study the Gourmet’s postings.
The Patron was waiting to talk to him.
PATRON: And how is your plan to bag the Gourmet coming along?
CLOSER: I’m not coming after him. I’m coming after you.
PATRON: I don’t think you are. Would you like to know why?
CLOSER: All right.
PATRON: It doesn’t fit your arc. Serial killers escalate, as I’m sure you’re aware. The Gourmet, while dangerous, isn’t really on my level. You’re going to have to eliminate him first, because you’re saving your greatest challenge for last.
CLOSER: You’re certainly impressed with yourself. Sadly, my opinion of you isn’t nearly as high.
PATRON: Perhaps I can raise it. How’s the weather in Nevada?
Jack stopped. He stared at the screen for a moment.
CLOSER: Sunny, I assume. Why don’t you check the Weather Channel?
PATRON: Do you know how easy it would be for me to alert the Gourmet? You must have realized an epicurean of his tastes would be a regular visitor to other websites. Here are the top candidates:
A list of twenty names scrolled down, with titles ranging from
Le Meilleur Cervelle
to Bizarre Recipes.
PATRON: A properly worded posting on any of these would get his attention. Something like this, perhaps:
FAUX CLOSER BRAINS
A Recipe for Disaster
Take 1 Gullible Gourmet
Add 1 Head of Irresistible Bait
Mix with a dash of Subterfuge
Finish with Murder
Serves the General Public.
PATRON: What do you think?
Jack’s mouth was dry. “Fuck,” he said softly.
CLOSER: I think you haven’t posted that message on any of those sites. If you had, you’d have told me to go look for myself.
PATRON: Which would have wasted your valuable time and mine. Very good. But here’s the far more important question, Closer: why haven’t I?
CLOSER: I don’t know.
PATRON: It’s quite simple.
The Gourmet doesn’t exist.
Jack frowned. “What?” he muttered.
CLOSER: I don’t follow.
PATRON: But you do, Closer. You’re following in my footsteps. Do you think you’re the only killer with more than one online persona?
CLOSER:
You’re the Gourmet?
GOURMET: That’s right, Closer. Come and get me.
It’s not true,
Jack thought.
But it could be.
It made sense. Another persona to deflect blame onto, another voice added to yours on the Stalking Ground. An insurance policy. All it would take is another dead hooker’s hand to establish your credibility.
But why tell him? Arrogance?
I know you’re coming and I don’t care.
Or fear?
I’m ready for you so you better stay away.
Neither made sense. The Patron was too smart to give away such an advantage, and too confident to try scare tactics. More importantly, he
knew
the Closer would never give up.
He checked the websites the Patron had listed—no message to the Gourmet. He did a search for key phrases like
brain recipes
and pulled up a dozen more sites; nothing on them, either.
All he’d done was waste time.
Maybe that was the point. Not to stop him—just to make him hesitate. To make things
harder.
Was the Patron’s claim true? No way to tell. But Jack knew one thing for sure.
It was a challenge.
“Hey,” Nikki said. “I got it.”
She closed the motel room door, then pulled a pistol out of one pocket of her overcoat, two boxes of ammo out of the other. The gun was a blocky automatic, black with a brown grip. “Cost me five hundred and a blow job—old Mob guy I used to do. They may not run this town anymore, but they’re still around.” She tossed it on the bed Jack lay on, his hands behind his head.
He reached over, picked up the weapon. Examined it carefully. “Good. Hand me those bullets.”
She brought over a box, gave it to him. “Yeah, well, I’ve been doing some thinking… Jack, what are you gonna do after we take down the Patron?” Nikki sat down on the edge of the other bed.
Jack didn’t answer.
“Jack?” Nikki said gently. “What are you gonna
do?”
“Keep going.” He opened the box of ammunition.
“Yeah? For how long?”
“Until I can’t,” Jack said. “You know that.”
“I know. We made a pact, right? We keep going as long as we can. But Jack—I’m getting a little worried.”
“About what?” He started loading bullets into the magazine. Clicking them into place one by one, feeling the push of the spring against his fingers.
“About everything you’re not talking about.”
“It’s…” Jack closed his eyes. “It’s not a problem.”
“Look, Jack, I don’t know how to say this, but—I don’t know if you
want
to catch the Patron.”
Jack opened his eyes and turned his head. “What?”
“He’s the reason you’re doing all this, Jack. He’s what made you. What’s gonna happen when you finally take him out?”
“I don’t know,” Jack said quietly.
“Maybe he should be the last, Jack. Maybe after him, it wouldn’t be smart to keep going.”
“This isn’t about revenge, Nikki. You know that.”
“No. It’s about closure. And when we get the Patron, you’ll have yours.”
“And what about you, Nikki? What about all your friends on the street, and their families? What about
their
closure?” He slammed the full magazine into the pistol.
She stood up, walked over to the small table and poured a shot of vodka into a water glass. “We can’t help those people if we’re dead.”
“We have to try.
I
have to try.”
She slammed her drink down on the table and turned. “Goddammit, this isn’t about me quitting.
This is about you looking for a way to kill yourself.”
He met her eyes levelly. “I see.”
She laughed once and picked up her drink. “Sure. You’re the Closer, you’re cool and in control. You’re going to capture and question the fucker who murdered your family and left their corpses for you to find, and it’s not going to affect you a bit.
Are you out
of your fucking mind?”
She was yelling now, waving the glass around—a drop of vodka splashed against Jack’s cheek, making him flinch. “No, of course not! You’re too fucking
focused
for that. Well, maybe it’s time the Closer asked
himself
some questions.”
He got up off the bed. “I don’t have time for this.”
“What’s going to happen when you have the Patron in that chair, Jack?” she demanded. “What’s it going to do to you when he describes exactly what he did to your parents? To your wife? To your
kid?”
Jack went to the closet and took his jacket off a hanger. He slipped the gun into his pocket. “I’m going out. I’ll be back in a few hours.”
She grabbed his arm, forced him to turn and look at her. “I
count
on you, Jack,” she said. “I put my life in your fucking hands every night. I never felt unsafe before, you know that? Never.”