Val refilled her coffee mug for the second time and wiped sleep dust from the corners of her eyes on the slow trudge back to her workstation. Had Sergeant Petroni not come in even earlier than Val’s 7:30 a.m. arrival time—an act she considered criminal on a Saturday—Val might have moved the coffeemaker to her desk to save time.
She’d let Gil sleep in on his day off and sped through her morning routine to arrive at the office early, hoping to have time to herself for a few hours. She hadn’t counted on her boss being an even worse workaholic. Still, Petroni had the good graces to keep the conversation to a bare minimum until she’d finished her first cup of coffee. Anything less would have bordered on rudeness.
A few nuggets from the case file set Val’s mind in motion. First, a few callers referred to the female shooting victims as “Stacys” who “asked to be shot,” and to the injured doctor as “Chad.” None of the names matched the actual victims, but seeing her brother’s nickname in reference to the wounded man gave her chills. She owed him a long-overdue call to catch up.
Val wondered why the callers used those particular nicknames, and opened her browser to search the terms on the internet. Sure enough, both popped up in forums and chat rooms of so-called “Men’s Rights Advocates.” The men in those forums called themselves as “incels,” short for “involuntary celibates.” They adopted derogatory names like “Chad” and “Stacy” to refer to idealized men and women, particularly regarding their looks and their top status in the so-called “sexual hierarchy.”
However, most of the callers didn’t leave names or contact information. Val wondered if the callers knew something, or if they were just sickos, cheering on the violence from the sidelines.
The ballistics report also contained an interesting nugget. Two of the rounds recovered from the victims retained enough structural integrity to reveal an unusual “signature”—an engraved set of initials, faint yet recognizable: “ERM.” She searched the FBI database for names matching those initials. The only matches linked to men already serving time, or who were deceased. Of course, plenty of men without criminal records had the initials ERM, but tracking them down was the proverbial search for a needle in a monster-sized haystack.
Who, she wondered, would be arrogant—or dumb—enough to engrave their initials into ammunition they planned to use in a mass shooting?
On a whim, she fired up her search engine and asked, “What does ERM stand for?” Pages upon pages of results included the most benign of interpretations: Emergency Response Management. Exchange Rate Mechanism. Enterprise Risk Management. Engineering for Reduced Maintenance. On and on. A dead end.
What if it somehow related to the Chad and Stacy references? She modified her search, adding: “Relating to Men’s Rights Advocates.” Her screen again filled with dozens, if not hundreds, of linked articles. Too many to read in a week, much less one morning.
One caught her eye. A link to a biography of a men’s rights advocate and mass shooter named Elliot Rodger. It lacked the “M” initial, but it intrigued her. She clicked it and read to the end. Rodger shot six women in a so-called “act of retribution” who rejected his sexual advances. He also left behind a rambling, nearly incoherent manifesto of sorts, declaring a “War on Women.”
Could he be the hero of the Safe Haven shooter? Could ERM stand for “Elliot Rodger Manifesto?”
She clicked on some related links at the end of the article. One explained the rise of the Incel movement as a result of Rodger’s manifesto. Incels like Rodger blamed their inability to engage in meaningful sexual relationships on factors that made them “unfairly” unattractive to women. Factors include dubious variances in the biological evolution of women versus men, women’s biases toward “idealized” men, and inequities in society.
Everything, she noted, except their own inability to relate to the opposite gender.
Intrigued, she read more articles, finding more calls to action for incels to follow Rodger’s lead. She discovered several mass shootings where gunmen referenced Rodgers or the Incel movement—two in the prior year. One occurred in a yoga studio selected to target female victims.
Not so unlike her Friday the Thirteenth shooter, who’d chosen a women’s health clinic.
Another article contained the “ERM” initials: “Elliot Rodger Maxx.” The term was a clarion call for men who subscribed to Rodger’s beliefs and resolved to “take action in the streets.” A vague term, never defined, but it sent chills down her spine. A promising lead.
An alarm rang on her phone, and she cursed it. She’d set the alert to remind her she needed to work on the VeroniCare case, her primary assignment. Petroni would demand results before she left for the day—and that would be soon. Plus, Val was due at the MMA gym by 1:00 p.m. to “train” for her fight later that afternoon. She gritted her teeth, again regretting having agreed to that. Talk about foolish diversions. Not only would it eat valuable hours, but she was likely to get her ass kicked. And for what? A low-probability chance of finding leads…
On the other hand, the incels represented the same type of toxic masculinity as the MMA fighters did—at least the jerks like Tank Steiger. Maybe too far of a leap…and maybe not. Perhaps she could find something valuable that would help on the shooting case.
First, a quick break. Then VeroniCare.
Val stood, stretched her arms over her head, arched her back, then did a few toe-touches to limber up. Hours at the desk made her stiff and did nothing for her conditioning. She’d need to stretch a lot more before her MMA fight. Val wished she’d taken a lesson or something during the week, but the long hours made that impossible anyway. She tested her reflexes, imagining a combination of kicks and punches coming her way, and in her imagination, she dodged them with ease. Then more stretching. A few torso twists and squats later, her deadlines nagged her back to her desk.
She sat and opened the VeroniCare file. The stolen laptop had gone silent, so the tech folks couldn’t track it down. None of the looted items had turned up in pawn shops or other typical fences. Nobody claimed responsibility, and no DNA or fingerprints turned up, other than those of current employees. The evidence pointed toward an inside job, or at best, a disgruntled employee. That meant hours of interviews and legwork to check alibis—time she should have already spent, if not for the shooting on Friday. Those leads were growing colder by the minute. She’d have to track the employees down, obtain permission from Veronica Carlton, and schedule everything. She couldn’t count on starting them until Monday morning, the earliest.
Val would need help to get through them all. Experienced help. Like Jan Morgenstern.
She looked up to find her boss cutting through the bullpen area, heading toward the exit. “Sergeant,” she called to her, “could I have a minute?”
“One minute, no more,” Petroni said. “I’m late for a meeting.”
“How about when you get back?”
Petroni shrugged. “See you at one.”
Val’s body sagged. “I’ll be at the MMA thing by then.”
Petroni paused. “Then fire away. And, also, you’re down to forty seconds.”
Val swallowed. She’d hoped for more of an opportunity to present her case. “With Grimes out temporarily, and us being short-handed, I wondered if you’d consider filling his spot with an experienced detective looking for a shot?”
“Who?” Petroni edged toward the door.
“Jan Morgenstern. She was in the workshop with me yesterday, and seems pretty sharp.”
Petroni winced. “I know Morgs. She’s…okay.”
Val detected hesitation, as if Petroni had more to say. “But…?”
Petroni winced. “She’s earned a bit of a reputation. Dismissive of other people’s opinions at times, overconfident, talks a better game than she plays.” She shrugged. “Then again, the men in the department put that out there. I take it with a grain of salt.”
“So, why not add her?” Val said.
Petroni frowned. “Not the best time for this. We’re looking at budget cuts as it is, and adding another senior detective, even temporarily…” She shook her head. “Plus, I hate to fill Grimes’s seat if he’s not going to be out long.” She headed toward the exit.
“Is he, though?” Val asked. Petroni’s answer made her feel a little guilty, rushing to replace her partner the moment he’d suffered a setback.
“I won’t know for a few days,” Petroni said, glancing at her phone. “Which gives me time to think about it. What’s the matter, you’re already sick of partnering with me?” She added a quick smile to soften the barb.
Val reddened. “I didn’t mean…it’s just that you have so much on your plate…”
“Yeah, true enough. Anything else?” She typed something into her phone.
“No. Thank you, Sarge.”
Petroni grimaced. “I was hoping you’d have an update for me on VeroniCare.”
Val’s neck warmed. “I was just getting to that. I hope to know something in a few hours.”
“Good. Email me.” Petroni exited without another word.
Val sighed. She felt like she’d blown the opportunity to recruit Jan, making her feel even worse.
She returned to the case file. What other clues stood out?
Not many. One, in fact.
The only thing scene investigators couldn’t explain was finding a handful of red pills on the floor in a room where they’d also stolen a laptop. At first investigators assumed the pills came from a bottle of health supplements sold by the shop, knocked down by the thieves in their haste. However, VeroniCare employees, one and all, insisted that they’d never sold or stocked pills looking anything like the ones investigators found. Not taking their word for it, the forensics team confiscated and checked at least one bottle of every type of pill, capsule, and powder present at the site. None matched the red pills found on the floor of the missing laptop.
Something rang a bell in Val’s mind. Red pill. In the science fiction movie The Matrix, Morpheus offers Neo the choice between a red and blue pill. The red pill would reveal the “real world.” Taking the blue, Neo would continue in the unreality offered by The Matrix. She recalled references to those pills in her reading earlier that morning.
Val returned to her browser and raced through her search history. She found the reference and clicked on it.
Sure enough, the incel community had co-opted the symbology from the movie. Blue pills represented the “woke left” who lived in blissful ignorance. Red pills referred to awareness of the “real world” in which women, not men, ruled society and discriminated against “Betas”—men who were not the ideal “Chad” types. As in the movie, people have to choose which pill—and thus, which path—they preferred. Most chose blue—blissful ignorance—in both the movie and in the incels’ view of the world. Only a select few chose red, and awareness. Only the red deserved respect and a place in the New World Order. The blue…barely deserved to live.
The red pills, Val realized, were not an accidental spill. They’d left the pills behind to send a message, from the incels: we are coming for you.
Incels—perhaps not the same individuals, but people who were in alliance and thought alike—were responsible for both attacks.
The phone rang in Sergeant Petroni’s office, jarring Val out of her focused online research. Four rings, then silent. If the caller left voicemail, Petroni wouldn’t listen to it until Monday.
Two minutes passed, then the phone on Grimes’s desk, adjacent to Val’s, rang four times. Val’s rang seconds later.
Detective Simpson didn’t waste time with Hello. “Dawes, I need you to run some mugshots past that janitor you talked to outside Planned Parenthood. On the off-chance that the two events are connected.”
“Off-chance?”
“Exactly,” Simpson said. “What kind of idiot would pull the same stunt a day after he gets spotted?”
Val shook her head in disbelief, said nothing.
“Anyway, he’s recovered enough to make a positive ID,” Simpson continued.
“Okay,” Val said. “But why me?” Unspoken: Why now? She needed to leave in less than an hour to make it on time for her pre-fight training.
“My crew’s all tied up or off today,” he said. “I need this covered now. Second floor, Room 237. I’ve already ordered a laptop brought up. Go on, he’s been waiting a half hour.”
“Thanks for the advance notice.” Val rolled her eyes. What kind of idiot gave his investigative staff time off a day after a mass shooting?
“I expect a briefing at our nine a.m. team meeting tomorrow.” Simpson hung up.
She found the man, Isaac Goldman, sitting alone in the small interview room minutes later. A fresh bandage on the side of his head matched the white hue of his unkempt hair.
“Mr. Goldman, thank you for coming in.” Val extended a handshake. “I’m glad you’re feeling better.”
He took her hand and offered a crumpled smile. “I didn’t think I had a choice. Your boss, or whatever he is—that detective guy, Simpson—”
“Not my boss,” Val said. “He’s the lead detective on the shooter case from yesterday.”
“He came by my hospital room and told me if I didn’t come in, he’d arrest me for withholding evidence. Can he do that?”
Val sighed. What an asshole. “I doubt it. Regardless, it’s good of you to come. We’d like you to browse through some mugshots, see if you can identify the man who accosted you two days ago.”
“Okay,” he said, “but as I mentioned the other day, I didn’t get a good look at him.”
“Understood. Just do the best you—”
A rap on the door interrupted her.
“Enter,” she called out.
A uniformed officer pushed open the door, a man she knew well. One of her former partners, Rico Lopez. Top brass had pulled him from patrol after a video of a public quarrel between Val and Rico went viral. In the video, Rico had expressed reluctance to risking his own safety in pursuit of criminals. Ever since, he’d gotten mired in low-level, career-killing clerical assignments.
Lopez nodded at Val, noncommittal, and handed her a laptop. “It’s all logged in and ready to go.”
“Good to see you too, Rico.” She set the laptop on the table.
Rico locked eyes with her for a moment, expressionless, then backed out of the room.
“Interesting guy,” Goldman said. “You two used to date or something?”
Val laughed. “We were far more intimate than that. We were on-the-job partners. Never romantically involved, though.”
But Rico’s deadpan stare bothered her. While her career had progressed since they parted ways. He was delivering laptops to people like her on weekends. He claimed he didn’t blame her for the demotion, but she was never sure if he meant it.
She opened the laptop and, as Rico predicted, it was already logged into the mugshot viewer. She clicked on the “Filters” button. “To help narrow this down, what can you tell me about this man? Height, build, hair and skin color, anything.”
“Um…white guy. Not real big…sort of average height and weight?”
“Under six feet?” Val filled in what she’d learned so far.
“Yeah…five-eight to five-ten. Medium build. No beard or mustache. I didn’t see his hair. He had a hat on.”
She nodded and entered the data. “Rough guess on age?”
He frowned. “No idea. Coulda been twenty, coulda been forty. Or anything between.”
Val entered the age range and hit Search. The query returned hundreds of results. She selected the first profile and turned the laptop toward him. “Click here to scroll through, and use the other arrow to go back,” she said. “If you think one could be a match, click on that little heart icon. You can select more than one of those, it’s okay. When you’ve examined them all, we’ll return to the ones you’ve marked.”
Goldman nodded and gazed at the image on the laptop screen for several long moments, rubbing his chin. He seemed to study it in great detail. At any rate, he sat unmoving for fifteen, twenty seconds…more.
“If you think it resembles him—”
“Not really,” Goldman said with a shy smile. “Which button brings up the next one, again?”
Val showed him. Goldman touched the arrow icon with his index finger. Nothing happened.
“It’s not a touchscreen.” Val tried to hide her exasperation. “Use the trackpad to move the pointer…”
“What’s a trackpad?”
She pointed to the square, indented area on the bottom of the keyboard.
“Oh. Sorry.” He scratched at it with his finger, drawing smaller and smaller circles, then stopped. “It’s not doing anything.”
“Tap the left side of the pad.”
He did, and his face lit up in surprise. “That’s cool.” With a shy smile, he added, “I’m not so good with computers.”
For the first time, Val wished they still used the dusty, cumbersome old mugshot photo books. “That’s okay. Take your time.”
She glanced at the clock and instantly regretted that advice. At this rate, it would take weeks to get through them.
Goldman tapped again, stared at the screen, tapped, tapped, tap-tap-tapped. Picking up the pace. Good.
Then a long, uncertain pause. “I’m not sure,” he said. “Maybe this one.”
“May I?” Val turned the laptop toward her. A fortyish white man with a long, previously broken Roman nose stared back at her with bulbous eyes that seemed to pop out of his head. “He’s definitely someone you’d remember. Mark him as a Favorite and we’ll check him again later.”
“How do I do that, again?”
Val showed him how to click on the heart icon, then advanced to the next photo.
Half an hour later, Goldman still hadn’t reached the halfway point of the search results, and he’d Favorited three faces—none of whom looked alike. Val should have left for the training gym five minutes before. At the rate they were going, finishing the file could take hours.
Goldman, for his part, yawned and rubbed his eyes.
“Maybe we should pick this up another time, when you’ve rested a bit,” she suggested.
Goldman shook his head. “Detective Simpson said today. I can do it. Just give me a minute.”
They took a bathroom break and Val called the number on the card Stevie had given her. No one answered. Dammit.
They resumed scrolling through the photos, with Val taking over the keyboard to speed things up a bit. Goldman flagged two others as possible perps by the time they reached the end of the list. Val then brought up the shorter list of the Favorites, displaying all five on the screen.
“Which ones most resemble the man who assaulted you?” she asked.
He scratched his stubbly chin again. “They all sort of look like him.”
None of the five resembled each other in the slightest.
“But none of them really match what I remember,” he said. “It’s so hard to tell. Like I said, I didn’t get a good look at him.”
Val drew in a slow breath, let it out in silence. “Tell you what, then. I’ll run background checks on these guys and find out if any were in the area and lack alibis. If you saw the man in person again, do you think you could positively ID him?”
Goldman glanced at her, his eyes watery and drooping with uncertainty. “I…I don’t know for sure. Maybe.”
Val saved the original query and the shortlist for future reference and closed the laptop. “I’ll walk you out,” she said.
She escorted Goldman to the lobby and shook his hand by the front door. “Thank you again for coming in. If we find a suspect, I’d like you to come back and pick him out of a lineup. Would you be game for that?”
Goldman’s lip quivered, and his gaze dropped to his feet. “If you think it’s best. He won’t be able to see me, would he?”
“Of course not. You’d be behind one-way glass.”
He nodded and shuffled away without another word. A sad, lonely man, afraid of the world.