Agent Scarborough sat across from Fine in the detective’s office, a stack of file folders between them. Each folder contained a victim of the 3-Monkey Killer. The pictures from the crime scene, the autopsy photos, the coroner’s report, a list of the victim’s family and associates, and all background information of the victim. Both men went from file to file, bringing up points found about the victims, comparing the notes they made in their spiral pads, and generally bitching about the lack of evidence found at each scene. Frank Costa delivered a folder that contained the true identities of the Killer’s victims and Fine placed it next to the towering stack of files.
When the afternoon turned to evening, Fine called out for subs from an Italian take-out place.
“We need a whiteboard,” muttered Scarborough scratching his head, his eyes on the tablet in his lap.
“Huh?” said Fine, not looking up, but chewing on his sandwich and scribbling notes in his own pad.
“A whiteboard,” repeated the agent. “We’re never going to make any headway by jotting notes in pads. We need to spread this out.”
Fine swallowed and took a sip from a can of soda. “There’s the conference room two floors down,” he suggested.
“Does the room have computer access?’ asked Scarborough.
Fine nodded. He stood and gathered the stacks of folders. One slid from the top, but he caught it before its contents could spill out.
“Better idea,” said Scarborough and piled his folders on the chair he was sitting in, then grabbed Fine’s stack and added it to the top. He opened the office door and with one hand placed firmly on the stack of folders, pushed the chair into the hallway. Fine walked around him and led the way; first to the elevator, then to the conference room. He took out his ring of keys and unlocked the door, opened it and flipped on the overhead florescent lights. Taking up most of the far wall was a large whiteboard.
Scarborough pushed the chair in behind Fine and transferred the folders to the long table. He then walked over to the whiteboard and stared at it. He reached to a small wire bin and removed a black erasable marker and tossed it up and down in his hand. Fine perched a hip on the edge of the table and watched Scarborough intently. “What are you thinking?’ he asked.
Scarborough turned to Fine.
“A spreadsheet,” he replied.
Fine frowned. “Excuse me?”
“A spreadsheet,” the agent repeated. He went to the board and used the marker to make several columns, then made vertical lines to create rows of cells for each. “Call out the names of the victims and their aliases,” he said holding the marker inches from the board.
Fine picked up each folder and read off the names of the 3-Monkey victims and their real names. Scarborough wrote the name of each victim in one column, then wrote their true identities in the ‘cell’ next to it. This went on for a short while; Fine correcting Scarborough’s spelling, and Scarborough repeatedly asking if the ‘victim’ had used another name. If so, the agent put an X next to the name and went to the far side of the board to repeat the symbol and the person’s pseudonym. When Fine placed the final folder on the top of the stack, Scarborough turned to him, using the marker to point at the computer.
“Now using the victim’s real name, check the database and see if you can find a list of their victims,” he said.
Fine went to a desk in the corner of the conference room and turned on the computer. He typed in the first name on the board in the search field and after a few minutes accessed the perpetrator’s arrest records. “Got the first one,” said Fine.
“Good,” muttered Scarborough. He stepped back from the white board and looked into it. He nodded to himself silently as his eyes stared at the names in the first two columns. He stepped forward and made a bold line, then created columns and cells that went almost to the end of the board.
“What are you up to?” the detective muttered, joining the agent at the board. There was a tone of pride and amazement in his voice.
“Connecting,” replied agent, holding up a yellow marker. “What’s the name of the victim?” he asked.
“Marla Hensen,” Fine said.
Scarborough quickly wrote the name at the top of the column and using the yellow marker, made a dot in the cell that connected abuser and victim. “Now there should be only one dot per column of victim’s names."
“That’s right,” said Fine.
“Theory,” smiled Scarborough. “Suppose there is a second dot?”
“A ... second ... “ The detective’s eyes turned inward for a moment, and his thoughtful expression was turned to one of shock and disgust. “You’re not saying that two of the victims could’ve been abused by the same scumbag, are you?” he asked.
Scarborough nodded. “It’s a possibility,” he replied.
Fine thought for a moment. “Here’s another,” he said. “What if the 3-Monkey Killer has an accomplice?”
“Two serial killers working together using a single M.O.?” Scarborough asked.
Fine nodded. “Hear me out,” he said. “A family member or friend of one of the vics takes out one of these fucks, but it’s not enough. She; the vic, still has nightmares of the abuse even after they murdered her abuser. So they work together to find and kill anyone to keep her demons in check.”
Scarborough tapped the marker against his lower lip as he scanned the names on the board.
“Do we have any evidence that supports the possibility of two killers?” he asked.
“No,” sighed Fine. “It was just an idea.” He turned to the computer, then turned back to face the agent. “I just had a nasty thought,” he said.
“Such as?” asked Scarborough.
“Suppose 3-Monkey isn’t a counselor?” asked Fine. “Suppose she’s one of the vics?”
The agent’s eyes widened. “A female serial killer?” he asked.
“It’s rare, but worth considering,” Fine said.
The variables in Book’s mental spreadsheet multiplied and he felt his mind protest at the overload.
“How about we table all sub-theories for now and concentrate on seeing if there is a connection between the victims?” he asked.
The detective blinked and turned back to the computer.
“Yeah,” he said. “That works for me.”
“After Hensen,” the agent asked, “Is there anyone else?”
“No,” replied the detective. “She was the only one.”
“Okay,” replied Scarborough, his marker waiting at the board, “Next.”
By the time the light of dawn peeked through the blinds of the conference room the board was filled with the names of each abuser’s victims and yellow dots. Most of the columns had one name, while a few had a list of victims, making the agent add more columns to the ‘spreadsheet’.
* * *
The conference room table was littered with empty wax paper coffee cups, cardboard trays and a near-empty box of donuts, all supplied by Desmond Fine who had made a midnight run to an all-night coffee shop.
Both Fine and Scarborough had their ties off and their sleeves rolled up to the elbow. The agent had spots of ink on his shirt, since he was the one to monitor the whiteboard entries. Both men sat at the table, their feet up on the edge, sipping cold coffee, their faces drawn and exhausted.
“Maybe it’s me,” said Fine tiredly. “But unless I’m reading this wrong, there’s only one dot per perp.”
“That would be correct,” said Scarborough in a monotone.
“Which means that none of the victims are connected. Am I right on that?” he asked.
“That would be correct,” repeated Scarborough.
“That Parnell, having no known aliases or history of abusing anyone but himself, is as far outside of the 3-Monkey’s purview as you can get, and that his murder could be the work of a copycat.”
“Affirmative,” sighed Scarborough.
“And you’re still considering Magic an anomaly?”
The agent looked to the ceiling for a reply. Having found none in the tiled squares, he simply nodded.
“Which means that we did all that for nothing,” said Fine, his eyes darkening.
“That would be correct,” repeated Scarborough.
Fine fell back weakly in the chair, closed his eyes and groaned.
“Okay,” said Scarborough. “That’s step one.”
Fine, who had leaned as far back as the chair allowed, opened one of his eyes and stared at the man who sat across from him. His other eye followed a second or two later. “Fuck you, the horse, and the carriage! ‘Step one’, my ass!” Fine groused.
Scarborough smiled.
“Now we have to see where these people went for counseling,” said Scarborough.
Fine brought his feet to the floor and propped himself on his knees. “You’re not talking now, are you?” he asked. He pointed at the sun coming through the windows. “You must be joking, because if you’re in any way serious, I am going to shove that whiteboard and its markers up your Federal Bureau of Investigation ass!”
“Well,” said Scarborough behind a smile, “we are on a roll.”
“This is me, not caring,” Fine said returning to a slumped position in his chair. “My pillow; she calls me.”
“We can use the database ... “
“The siren call of my pillow is getting louder,” Fine muttered.
“You’re not tired, are you?” the agent asked, trying to hide a smile.
Fine parted his slit eyes and smiled, raising his middle finger as an answer.
Scarborough stood and pressed his knuckles against the small of his spine, leaned back and released a loud and satisfying crack. He went to the computer and used the cursor to open a data workbook. His fingers flew across the keyboard as he recreated the whiteboard spreadsheet on the computer. He rarely looked back since most of the names and their connected abusers were committed to memory. He entered data, formatted cells and copied and pasted columns at an experienced speed with a cold and distant expression.
Fine had shifted in his chair to watch the agent.
After fifteen minutes of straight typing, the agent got up from the computer chair and went to his jacket that hung on the back of a chair. He dug into a pocket and pulled out a USB flash drive.
“You should save yourself a copy,” he said. “It may be of use later.”
Fine groaned and shuffled to the station and tapped a few keys and saved the spreadsheet to his personal file in the system. Scarborough inserted the flash drive and saved a copy for himself. He pulled out the drive and stuck it in his shirt pocket.
“Since you’re being so uncooperative,” the agent began with a smile, “I’m sending this to the office and let them find out which crisis center the victims went to.”
“For the record,” said Fine, “I am not being uncooperative. I am being worn the fuck out. I haven’t pulled an all-nighter like this without booze in years!” He picked up a wastebasket and began to clear the trash from the table. “We done here?” he asked over his shoulder.
“For now we are,” answered Scarborough. “You going back to your office?”
Fine smiled. “Fuck no,” he said. “I’m going home and going to bed! How about you?”
Scarborough grabbed his jacket from the table and transferred the drive from his shirt pocket to an inside pocket of the jacket.
“I’m going back to my room and take a nap,” the agent replied. He walked to the whiteboard and erased it clean.
Both men walked to the door of the conference room. They stopped and looked at the room behind them.
“Good work, Detective,” said Scarborough.
“Des,” said Fine. “Call me Des.”
The agent grinned. “Call me Eric,” he replied and held out his hand.
Fine grinned back and shook it.
“Oh, Des?” said Scarborough as he opened the door.
“Yeah?’ replied Fine.
“You forgot the files and your chair.”
Fine looked over his shoulder and sighed.
“Fuck you very much,” he answered with a smile.
“Need any help?” the agent asked.
Fine shook his head and walked back to gather the files.
“You’re sure?” asked Scarborough.
He stacked the folders on the chair the way Scarborough had done and pushed it to towards the door.
“Positive,” said Fine. “You get out of here. Let me know what connection your people make.”
“Will do,” the agent said.
Both men walked down the hall to the elevators. Fine pressed the up button while Scarborough pressed down. The car going down came first.
“Goodnight, Des,” Scarborough said with a smile.
“Good morning, Eric,” Fine corrected with a grin.
The agent boarded the car and gave a slight salute to the detective. As the doors closed, Fine shot Scarborough a nod and a wink.
When the doors shut, Fine’s smile widened as a thoughtful look crossed his face.
* * *
Book made a stop at a coffee shop and picked up an extra large coffee. He sipped it as he walked towards his hotel. His hand absently tapped the pocket with the flash drive feeling that he and the detective were close to finding out the identity of 3-Monkey and the killer’s subsequent capture.
He walked up the hotel’s short steps, dropping the empty cup into the trash bin by the hotel’s entrance. He checked to see if there were any messages with the half asleep desk clerk and took the elevator up to his room.
He hung his suit on a hanger and sat at the small dining table in his tee-shirt and briefs. He turned on the BlackBerry and sent a quick message to his hacker associate, explaining that the man would receive an email with an attachment; a file with a list of names. He stated that he needed him to check each one’s background (in association with the abuser) and see if anyone was registered to the same crisis center. If so, he needed to know the name of the case worker involved.
Book then went to the hotel’s laptop on the small desk in the corner, plugged in the flash drive and pulled up the spreadsheet. He then re-saved it under a different file name and removed the aliases of the 3-Monkey Killer’s victims, leaving only their real names and the names of their victims. Once done, he sent it to the hacker.
He stared at the BlackBerry, feeling that there was something missing; something he neglected to add to his calculation. He tried to think, but his head was clouded by the long evening and his overindulgence of caffeine and sugared pastries. Despite the coffee he felt he was close to falling asleep.
But there was something ...
Something.
Book rubbed his eyes and realized that he still wore the green contact lenses. He yawned and went to the bathroom, removed the contacts and mustache, then returned to the bed. He fell back, his head touching down on the pillow and tried to clear his mind of whatever it was that was nagging at him.
Lena .
That had to be it. He wanted to speak to Lena. This insanity was almost over and he could return to her without the shadow of the psychopath looming over him. Book felt her warm skin press against his; he saw them cuddled on the couch, watching the television. He pictured them staring at each other over dinner. He reached for the telephone on the nightstand and chuckled when his hand and arm refused to obey.
Tomorrow , he thought. I’ll call her tomorrow.
He pulled the sheets over his torso and turned away from the morning light coming through the curtains.
As Book drifted off into a deep sleep, he saw the information sent by the hacker on the display of his BlackBerry. He watched his hand pick up the telephone and call Fine, giving the detective the true name of the 3-Monkey Killer. As he hung up the telephone, the image changed from his hotel room to a television screen.
He saw Fine on the evening news alerting the media and the public that the 3-Monkey Killer was apprehended. Book watched Fine in front of a cluster of microphones give thanks to FBI Special Agent Eric Scarborough, who had to return to his office and could not be present at the press conference. Book watched the public and media present cheer in triumph and relief, hands reaching out to Detective Desmond Fine in gratitude.
The scene changed to the steps of City Hall where Book watched the mayor give Fine the key to the city. His Honor stepped up to the podium, hands raised to quiet the crowd. The mayor then tapped the microphone, releasing a thump-thump through the speakers. His Honor cleared his throat and leaned forward and said:
“Nanny Cam.”
Book screamed in his mind to wake up; wake up Now and call his buddy Des to ask why he didn’t mention that he had an image of the ‘killer’ on a nanny cam video.
Book sat up in the bed, breathing hard, tangled in sweat-drenched sheets that stuck to his body.
He ran into the bathroom, clipping the edge of his baby toe on the doorframe. Tears of pain ran from his eyes and he stifled several well deserved curses as he splashed cold water on his face, dried it with a hand towel and put the first of two green contacts in his eyes. The second contact slipped from the tip of his finger and dropped into the sink. As he leaned forward to pick it up, the door to his room burst open with a loud crash. His head snapped around to see several armed men in flak jackets and shielded helmets fill the bathroom doorway, aiming assault rifles and automatic weapons at his head.
Book’s hands immediately went up. The officer in front lowered his weapon, grabbed him by the damp tee-shirt and dragged him into the main room where he was flung to the floor. Book felt the carpet burn on his hip and his briefs slide down revealing his pale white buttocks. As he tried to pull up his underwear, the lead man kicked him in the side. The hot/icy pain made Book inhale sharply and he stupidly wondered if his ribs were cracked or broken, as if that took importance.
The lead man kicked him again and Book curled into a fetal position at the man’s feet. He felt the butts of the rifles strike the back of his head and shoulders as each man took a turn beating him. Blood cascaded from his scalp and down his face and he weakly raised his head to plead, to beg the men to stop.
Book saw, then felt the toe of a hard black boot clip him under the jaw, sending the back of his head into the night stand. The armed men swam in front of his eyes.
Book shut his eyes tight and felt a vibration on the floor under him; coming towards him. Afraid to move, Book parted one eye and saw Detective Desmond Fine push through the crowd of armed men and kneel at his side.
“Des,” Book groaned. “Please. Help me!”
Fine smiled at him sadly and reached into his jacket and took out a handkerchief. He tenderly wiped the mask of blood from Book’s face.
Book felt himself begin to cry and hyperventilate. He looked at Fine, wanting to apologize for the deceit, the lies, the complex fabrications and mostly, to explain.
Fine reached out and gently caressed Book’s cheek, calming the shivering man. He then suddenly pressed Book’s head back and placed the cold barrel of his weapon against ex-FBI Special Agent Eric Scarborough’s eye. “Got you now, mother fucker,” he grinned.
“No!” cried Book. “It wasn’t me! It wasn’t ... “
“Resisting arrest, eh?” Fine asked his smile widening.
“No!” cried Book. “I’m not ... !”
Fine chuckled as he pulled the trigger and fired.
* * *
Book suddenly sat up in bed, a scream caught in his throat. His head spun to the left, to the right, then behind him. The room was dark and he was alone. He gripped the sheets and tried to control his ragged breathing. He pulled himself from the tangle of sheets, staggered to the window and looked out, seeing the bright lights of the city below him. He flipped on the lamp by the laptop and winced when the room illuminated.
It was empty. His suit and shirt hung neatly on its hangers and his polished shoes were under the foot of the bed. The only thing in disarray was the bed and its sheets.
His body trembling, he went into the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face. He gripped the edge of the basin, trying to control the tremors moving through his body.
Nanny cam , his mind recalled.
He looked at his watch and saw it was half past eight. He went to the phone, called room service and requested a pot of very strong coffee be sent up. He told the operator that he was going to take a shower and to leave the coffee on the table.
Book opened the closet and went into his travel bag for a fresh tee-shirt and underwear, then went into the bathroom and ran the water hot. He shut the door and locked it.
Book removed the damp undershirt and dropped it on the tile floor, then his briefs. Steam fogged the shower’s sliding glass panels and the mirror above the sink, encasing the bathroom in a comforting heat. He gasped when he stood under the torrent of water, then relaxed as he felt his muscles loosen. He faced away from the stream and allowed the water to run across his neck and shoulders. Holding himself up against the tile wall with his eyes shut, he stayed in that position for several minutes. Book stepped out of the shower.
He went to the basin, opened the medicine cabinet and took out the complementary shaving gel, disposable razor and plastic bag that contained a toothbrush, shaved and scrubbed the taste of bile from his mouth. He put on the fresh tee-shirt and shorts and exited the bathroom.
The aroma of fresh coffee filled the room. After the shower Book felt refreshed, his nightmare no longer in the forefront of his mind.
He sat at the table and sipped the coffee slowly, savoring its flavor and the warmth. His mind questioned why the detective did not mention the nanny cam video.
Did the forensic tech work his magic on the video? his mind asked. Could they see his face? Book took another swallow of coffee and stood from the table. He began to pace the length of the room.
Lena had called to say that the detective was asking about him. Did that mean that freelance accountant Carlton Book was on Fine’s list of suspects? How could he find that out?
Lena , Book thought. I need to hear her voice.
Book walked over to the telephone on the night stand and put his feet up on the bed and dialed her number. The phone rang four times before her answering machine picked up.
“Hi!” her recording began. “I’m not home right now, but please leave a message and the time you called and I will call you back. Please wait for the beep!”
“Hi, hon,” Book said. “It’s me. Just calling you to say hello and that I missed you. I’ll call back in a little while. Love you.”
He hung up the telephone and glanced at the clock near the phone; at the green LED numerals. Book frowned. It was almost nine-thirty and she wasn’t home.
Even if there was a movie she ached to see, Lena always went to an early show so she would be home in time to get a decent amount of sleep in preparation for the next morning. Maybe she went out with someone at the office, he considered. He shook his head. Again, as was her habit, if it was a ‘girl’s night out’ Lena would plan those evenings for a Friday or Saturday.
Book picked up the telephone again, this time dialing his own number. When his answering machine went on, he dialed the code to access any messages that were left in his absence.
“Hello, sweetheart,” said Lena. “I know you’re not home and probably up to your nose in financial statements, but I figured you’d like hearing my dulcet tones when you pick up your messages. Call me when you can. I love you.”
Book felt a stupid grin fill the lower half of his face as he tapped a button to access the next message.
“Mr. Book?” said a deep voice. “Elliot Day here. I’m with Star Plus Technologies in midtown and would like you to go over my books next week if it fits into your schedule. A friend who works at Delmar Fashions recommended you highly. My number is 555-1238. Please give me a call.”
Book tapped another button that saved the message.
“Hey Carlton! Bobby Felder at Delmar. I wanted to let you know I gave you the big upright thumb to a friend of mine who works for Star Plus Technologies. He’ll probably be calling you to work on his books. I know you said that word-of-mouth is your meat and potatoes. After you did such a bang-up job with us, I figured that I’d do you a righteous. Give me a call if you want. Actually, give me a call and I’ll take you out to lunch. See ya!”
He made a mental note to thank Delmar and to call him when he returned home. He tapped a button that saved the message.
The next sound he heard was deep rapid breathing. Book rolled his eyes and was about to move the phone from his ear to hit a button to delete the message when he heard:
“Carlton! It’s me!” came a harsh whisper.
The sound of Lena’s voice made him sit up straight.
“There’s someone breaking into my apartment! I already called 911, but I ... “
There was a sound of a loud crash on the line and Book felt his hand tighten on the phone.
“OH, GOD! OH, GOD! OH, GO ... !”
Then more crashing.
Then her scream.
Then a dial tone.
Book dropped the phone, put on a pair of slacks and a polo shirt, and then his shoes. He placed a pair of horn-rimmed glasses on his face and slapped a baseball cap, brim turned backwards on his head. He then grabbed a short cloth jacket from the closet and dashed to the front door, then spun back and pocketed the BlackBerry. He tapped the elevator’s call button, then ran down the hall, took the stairs to the lobby and went out the front door.
Book’s right leg nervously went up and down as he took the subway to Lena Truman’s apartment, repeating a prayer for her safety over and over again. Before the double doors could open all the way, Book ran out, up the stairs and to the street.
He ran to her block and stopped a few feet from the corner. There were several police cars parked in front of her building.
Standing in the light of a street lamp, sipping on a cup of coffee, was Desmond Fine. A few feet from where he stood was a dark blue van with the word FORENSIC stenciled on its side panel.
No!
Book backed away and stood near a light pole, fighting the urge to charge forward and find out what had happened to Lena. He turned his back to the scene and closed his eyes as he slowed his breathing and controlled his rapidly beating heart. He shoved his hands in his pockets and felt his BlackBerry in one of them. He considered his options and decided it was safer to wait until the police dispersed to investigate. He knew that every minute would feel like an hour until he knew Lena was unharmed.
Was his waiting a betrayal? Would the seconds that ticked by mean that he was more concerned about keeping his identity a secret than making sure Lena was safe?
He pushed the thoughts away and pulled out the BlackBerry. He turned on the device and saw that he had two new messages.
The first was from the hacker.
Hey man!
I did the research you asked and found that the victims did go to crisis centers, but not the same ones, or in the same state, and they went at different times. As for their counselors, I came up with several names. I checked those guys as well, and each one is legit. I couldn’t connect the dots.
Sorry, bro.
Robin the BW
Okay , thought Book. That blows that theory. What was the connection? And how did 3-Monkey pick his targets if not through the victims?
Book sent a thanks and toggled the next message.
Hello my friend,
Just so we’re clear, Lena is safe with me.
Book stifled a scream.
I apologize that I had to shake her up a bit, but other than that, she is not hurt.
You know I wouldn’t hurt her. I hope you do. I know how you feel about the dear lady.
Call it paranoia on my part, but I wanted a little leverage for when we met.
Tomorrow evening at eight o’clock.
Boone, Fitzsimmons, and Parnell.
Minus one.
LOL.
Your friend.
The BlackBerry in his hand trembled. His eyes darkened when he saw the forensic team led by the chubby CSI exit the building.
For Lena’s sake he had sworn off his other profession.
And for her sake, he knew he could and would make an exception.