Total Immersion, page 13
Travis nodded. “Crystal.”
A series of holographic notes and surveillance footage lit up from the tablet as Kim made her case. “Six months ago, a twenty-year-old African American girl made the unfortunate mistake of getting into a stranger’s car after her driverless broke down a mile outside of Skokie. One Joseph Conrad Billings, Joe Billings, a construction worker who lived with his wife and two kids, agreed to take her back to her parents’ house, which was less than two miles away.”
Travis broke in and asked, “What was her name?”
“Michelle.”
“Michelle,” he quietly repeated.
“Instead of taking her to her parents, he took her to a motel and forced her into the room at knifepoint. Once inside, she was drugged, beaten, and raped. He penetrated her with a Coke bottle, and the handle of the knife, which caused internal bleeding, permanently damaging her uterus.”
The stories were always repulsive, and Travis couldn’t understand why he felt pity for the men who did such ghastly things.
Kim is right; they’re monsters. They’re beasts who have no right to continue living among decent people.
“The next morning,” Kim continued in a dry voice, as if reading off a police report, “she’s rushed to a local hospital after a maid found her lying in a pool of blood at the base of the bed.”
Travis pictured little Michelle completely naked, unconscious. The sheets on the bed smeared in blood.
“That evening, she gives a detailed description, and this slimy fuck is arrested two days later at a construction site in Oak Park.”
“I already know where this is going.”
“They get him into court, and some hotshot, scumbag defense attorney builds a false alibi, which is mysteriously backed up by two jerks who claimed to see him in a bar during the time of the rape. To make a long story short, a jury of seven white men, two Latino women, one white woman, and two Black men deadlocked, and a mistrial was called. The fucking District Attorney decides not to retry due to so-called budget concerns.”
“Budget concerns my ass,” Travis added. “So, little Michelle is left with a lifetime of nightmares, anguish, and pain, and this asshole walks free. Now that’s pathetic.”
“The American legal system strikes again. What are your thoughts, Mr. Taylor?”
“I think I should pay Mr. Joseph Conrad Billings a little visit. Let him know how we feel.”
Kim smiled and continued to the next phase: the holographic slideshow adding mugshot photos of Billings, which Travis stared at intently.
“Billings works between eight a.m. and five p.m. for Hawley Steel, whose main offices are located on Chicago’s southside. He’s moved out of his house and is living ten miles away at 71446 Orlando Street. His apartment is number 205, which is located on the second floor. He’s five foot nine, two hundred and seventy pounds. Dark brown, wavy hair, a beard, and hazel eyes with bushy eyebrows. There’s a back door to his apartment that can be accessed from the north side of the building.”
The breeze rolling off the lake strengthened into a brisk gust as dark clouds hid the full moon. Kim handed Travis the tablet. “That’s him. Remember the face,” she instructed.
Travis stared at several photos of Joseph Billings and concentrated hard on the information. He couldn’t afford to forget a single detail.
“Is it a secured building?” he asked.
“Yes, but the outside gate is no problem. And bring your picks. The front and back doors have double Master Craft deadbolts.”
“I’ve gotten good with those.”
“There are a number of security cameras on the street, and several traffic cameras on both corners. There’s a sewer opening just beside his building.”
“Perfect. I can come up through there.”
“And don’t forget: new clothes every time. New underwear, new socks, everything. Burn the old ones right after you finish, and file down the soles of your new tennis shoes.”
“I do that every time . . . One bedroom or two?” Travis asked.
A 3-D blueprint of the apartment lit up the tablet; Travis carefully studied it.
“Okay. Got it. One bedroom, one bath,” Travis said. “A long hallway, but few closets.”
Travis tried his best to commit all the information to memory. “I like the houses better. More closets, no shared walls. Anything else I need to know?” Travis asked.
“Only that he’s a sick, demented freak who deserves a slow and painful death.”
Travis took one last look at Billings as Kim closed the tablet, and the show-and-tell came to an end.
Travis stood and offered his hand. Kim took it, and he lifted her into his arms.
“Now, no doubt, my friend and I,” she whispered into his ear.
Travis continued the deadly poem. “Will proceed to lie and lie, till we begin to act the truth and call it sin.”
Kim rolled her tongue around the outside of his lips and said in a sexy whisper, “When hands are tightly clasped, ’mid struggling sighs . . .”
“And streaming tears, those whispered accents rise . . .”
Kim’s finger traced the outside of his ear. “Leaving to God the objects of our care. In that short, simple prayer . . .”
“Adieu,” Travis said, lifting Kim off her feet and spinning her around.
“You turn me on somethin’ fierce, Travis Taylor,” Kim exclaimed as they made their way, arm in arm, out of the park.
“I love you, Kim,” Travis said. Another perfectly timed breeze blew a colorful assortment of leaves across their path, and the dark clouds parted on cue, revealing an extraordinary full moon.
“I love you, too,” Kim said as they made their way back to the glowing, water-slicked street, and headed for home.
[][][]
The bright red laser beams withdrew back into their dark abyss.
Travis’ dry eyes blinked rapidly. The leg and wrist cuffs disengaged.
The sounds of computer motors winding down were drowned out by loud rap music emanating from somewhere down the street. Travis lifted his arms and removed the headgear. His confident, handsome features were gone, his hair and face soaked in sweat. He moved his tongue around his parched mouth, squinting from the sour taste. His eyes were heavily dilated, and for the first few minutes, he was blind.
Slowly, bits and pieces of the small room took depressing shape. He reached over and grabbed his thick eyeglasses off a nightstand. He slid them on and lay back against the Total Immersion chair, wincing. A terrible sense of confusion and disorientation always followed each session. He felt nauseous and took several deep breaths through his nose, hoping that would help settle his distraught system.
After nearly half an hour, he painfully rolled off the chair and made his way out of the room and down the hallway. He groggily entered the small, dirty bathroom and wiped down his perspired body. Still naked, he reentered his bedroom and approached the cluttered, child-sized desk. He sat on the cold, wood chair, and pulled out a pen and a yellow legal pad. He flipped through the pages, searching for an empty one, and began writing:
Joseph Conrad Billings “joe??” 71446 Olrando. Nmber 205. 2nd flor. Backdor off north side. 5’9, hevy set with bushy eybrows. Hawley Steel. Works hours 8 to 6. 1+1. Handal same as Gracy and K. Fields. Master Duble bolt.
Chek for stairs. posibal exits.
For Michelle and Kim and Nicole - Please God forgive me.
He felt weak, and beyond drained. His twin bed was only a few feet away, but that seemed too far. He dropped the pen and folded his arms across the desk, then glanced up to a perfect picture of Kim and managed a faint smile before his eyelids gave up. His head lowered onto his arms. Within minutes, he was sound asleep.
He dreamt of Kim and their two perfect children: a handsome boy and a beautiful little girl. They were vacationing on some gorgeous island somewhere far, far away. Travis watched from the beach as Kim, his son, and his daughter played in the crystal-clear water. They all turned and motioned for him to join them, his loving, perfect children calling out, “Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!”
nineteen
Sam’s morning started early as he played host to a formal department briefing. Kathy prepared a digital presentation that featured the severed heads of Daniel Gracy, Kevin Fields, and Bernard Meyers in all their gory glory.
Sam broke down the case in exacting detail and presented all the information he had collected to date. Then, in a round table discussion, each department went over the evidence, which, sadly, didn’t amount to much.
Gannon looked bored and chomped away at a splintered toothpick.
Between Ruth and Kenny, who brought along his entire team as well as members of hair and fiber, three weapons experts, and three sound experts, there was nothing much to report beyond a sense of confusion, wonderment, and admiration for their sly serial killer’s baffling M.O.
All concluded the weapon of choice must be homemade and utilized a laser as its primary heating source. Exactly how to track down this effective killing machine was another matter entirely.
“The crime scenes are clean,” Sam was told by nearly every member of the forensic unit.
“Whoever he or she is,” Kenny said, "they’re brilliant, and they’re patient.”
A bad combination, Sam thought.
Ruth gave a brief report on the bodies and added that further tests revealed microscopic cuts in the folds of the skin, indicating a spinning blade was used as the main source of the laceration. She still maintained the theory that a laser was responsible for the extensive yet bloodless damage. Everybody agreed that it could be a combination of both.
Sam found the department’s criminal psychologist, Sidney Welles, to be the most interesting of the bunch. He spent years working for the FBI, and his insights were consistently amusing, if not always right on target. He spouted off for a good fifteen minutes regarding their killer’s upbringing, and concluded his father or stepfather was an abuser who terrorized his family, possibly even murdering the mother or a sister, and theorized the killer’s first victim to be his old man. From there, he shifted into a sermon on what he dubbed the “Vigilante Syndrome.”
“A state of mind where a normally peaceful, law-abiding citizen is thrust into acts of unspeakable violence. Perceptions become distorted as the individual begins to make up his own rules of justice and punishment that he believes society will accept, therefore justifying the horrible acts for the good of all. The Granger case comes to mind.”
“Albert and Netty Granger,” Sam responded, remembering his father talking about the case years ago.
“Very good, Sam,” Sidney said. “Their only daughter was murdered during a bank robbery. The suspected shooter was caught, but the trial was badly botched by the D.A.’s office. Two weeks after his release, he disappeared, and his body was found by a couple of surfers floating off the Jersey coast. There was evidence of torture, and he had been shot once, execution style. Right through the head.”
As Sid spoke, the room went silent.
“They couldn’t pin anything on Albert and Netty, and similarly to this case, I don’t think anybody really wanted to. Anyway, Albert and Netty didn’t stop there. Over a fourteen-month period, two ex-cons who had testified for the defense and two members of the original defense team were found murdered. On three of the four corpses, a bullet to the brain was the cause of death, and the fourth was cut into pieces. They had all been tortured.”
Gannon pulled the toothpick out of his mouth. “I read Netty Granger died a few years ago on death row.”
“Two years ago,” Sid confirmed. “And Albert committed suicide during his trial.”
Death had not been kind to Albert and Netty Granger, Sam thought. After Sid completed his part, Sam instructed his sound experts to deliver digital recordings of everything they had tested to date. He planned on playing them for Dennis Carver, Bernard Meyers’ old neighbor, as well as for Kate Thompson, Kevin Fields’ gum-chewing prostitute neighbor, in the hopes that something, anything might ring a bell.
The media had latched onto Chicago’s newest serial killer with a force. A writer at the Chicago Sun-Times dubbed him THE REVENGER, a dark knight who prowled the city seeking justice and revenge on the monsters who had so effectively escaped it.
The briefing ended as Gannon gave a half-baked speech about the department’s commitment to bring the killer to justice, but he offered Sam nothing in the way of additional help.
The meeting was over by 11:00 a.m., and Sam grabbed a quick lunch with Kathy at a local Greek restaurant. They made plans to catch dinner and a movie over the weekend. He was looking forward to it.
A little after 1:00 p.m., he made his way up to the Buzzard’s Nest. Tommy was already there, leaning on the back wall, finishing off his third can of Pepsi.
“Hey, Sam. How’d the meeting go?” Tommy asked.
Sam pulled over a chair and plopped down next to Buzz. “You didn’t miss much.”
Sam wanted Tommy to stay on top of Buzz, who tended to drift into his own world if he wasn’t carefully supervised.
Sam glanced up to the giant 3-D screen in front of them. Data scrolled in random patterns as Buzz’s hands typed away on the worn keyboard.
“What do we got, Buzzer?” Sam asked.
“Mostly dick,” Buzz said through his blue surgeon’s mask. “So far we’ve come up with nada on your infamous, vaguely described sound, but I think we might finally be getting somewhere on your list of possible fresh victims.”
It sounds odd to call rapists and child molesters victims, Sam thought as Buzz continued to work his magic.
“Okay . . .” Buzz said, never taking his eyes off the screen. “How do you want it?”
“Alphabetical,” Sam instructed. “Will this represent the entire state?”
Buzz slammed a few keys and hit enter. He pushed away from his desk and cranked his neck toward the screen. “The whole state, dating back fifteen years. Based on the backgrounds of Myers, Fields, and Gracy, I adapted an AI program that searched multiple databases and basically spewed out a rough prediction on who might be lucky contestant number four.”
The following lit up the screen:
FOR BZ. REQUEST DIS. 1/KNIGHT. BY ALPHA: CONVICTIONS RE: SEX RELAT. CRIMES - EARLY RELEASE PROG./MISTRIALS/HUNG/APPEALS
A list of nine hundred names, starting with WILLIAM ANDERSON and ending with JONATHAN WOOD, scrolled across the screen. Listed next to each name was the offense, date of conviction, sentence, parole date, and reason for early release.
“Holy shit,” Tommy called out, watching the litany of names pass by.
“That’s one way of summing it up,” Sam added, shaking his head at the impossible task of staking out nearly a thousand men.
“That’s nothing,” Buzz said, leaning back in his chair. “These are just inmates who were released for reasons other than meeting their parole date. A list of convicted sex offenders over the last fifteen years would number in the tens of thousands. Lot of sick weirdos out there.”
Buzz reached out and hit ENTER again. The 3-D screen cleared and the following scrolled:
BY ALPHA: RAPE, SEX BATTERY CHARGE BROUGHT BY STATE ENDING IN MISTRIAL/ACQUITTAL
A list of one hundred names beginning with JOSEPH BILLINGS and ending with CONSTANTINE “GUS” GOUGAS filled the screen.
“That’s a little better,” Sam said, carefully studying the names.
“Where do we start?” Tommy asked.
“Any suggestions, Buzz?”
“Thought you’d never ask,” Buzz said, pulling himself back to the keyboard and entering the query.
BASED ON MEYERS #112456, FIELDS #194789, GRACY 200043 -- SUGG. TOP 3 POSSIBLE VICTIMS REGARDING DIS.1/KNIGHT CASE #1984B
A second later, the AI spit out the following names:
BYRON STORMS - MISTRI 4-10-2028
STEVEN MUNDT - ACQUIT 10-24-2028
JOSEPH BILLINGS - MISTRI 1-10-2030
Sam stared closely at the names. “Send me their current addresses, Buzz.”
“Your wish is my command, sire,” Buzz said, and let his fingers do the walking. Sam pulled out his tablet and called up the information. All three men lived in the Chicago area, with Mundt and Storms only a few blocks from one another.
“What’s next, Sam?” Buzz asked, poised for another round.
“That’ll do for now,” Sam said, yawning. “And send me everything you and Tommy did this morning.”
“Consider it done. God, I’m good at this shit. I’m a fuckin’ genius,” Buzz concluded.
Sam smiled. “What do you like to do when you leave this box?”
“To be perfectly honest, Sam, I’m either on a computer, playing video games, or masturbating.”
Tommy let out a loud guffaw and took a step towards the door.
“Well,” Sam continued. “I can’t help you there, but why don’t we do dinner one night?”
“I don’t eat meals prepared by others. The conditions in restaurants are deplorable.”
“Then maybe a Cubs game?”
“I don’t care much for football, but thanks anyhow.” Buzz reached into his drawer and pulled out another Total Immersion disc.
“For you, my good man.” Buzz said, handing over the disc to Sam. “It’s brutal without all the pretty stuff, just like you asked for.”
Sam’s eyes lit up. “You’re a lifesaver.”
“Call me when you finish it. I want to hear what you think.”
“You got it, and I am working on that raise for you. Give me another week or so.”
“You the man!”
“Thanks for letting me hang out,” Tommy said with a wave goodbye.
