Total Immersion, page 15
Sam spent his entire Friday night pouring over the case piece by piece, bit by bit, hoping to shed some light on his otherwise dark prospects, but the result was always the same: no solid clues. No suspects. No substantial leads. Just an ever-growing fanbase for his popular vigilante serial killer. The only tangible elements in his favor were the somewhat-accessible and limited possibilities of his killer’s choice of victim, and his unique method for dispatching them. Other than that, it was a cold trail without so much as a blood splatter to go on.
Sam glanced over to a digital clock: 2:25 a.m. He reached down and lifted a near-empty bottle of Jack Daniels whiskey. He popped the cork and managed to extract enough of the golden liquid to fill his mouth. He swallowed it in one gulp.
Laurel and Hardy peeked their heads back into the room and let out simultaneous meows.
Sam stood and stretched as both cats purred up to his legs. He closed his eyes tight and clenched his teeth. The images of Jenny and Dopey, and fucking Hans, were still fresh in his mind. A surveillance camera in the stairwell where they first accosted his wife led to their arrests three weeks after Jenny and Autumn’s funeral. Sam only attended the penalty phase of the trial and watched as both were sentenced to life—whatever the fuck that meant. Life was never truly life, and Sam never understood why they even bothered to call it that.
Sam picked up both cats and flopped back down onto the couch.
“Jenny Knight. Cabo San Lucas video,” he said, and NINA, his ever-awake AI assistant, switched the screen from Tony Soprano to a camera phone video of Jenny standing knee-deep in the crystal-clear water, dressed in a bikini. A stunning sunset bathed the beach in a golden hue. Jenny held up her Dos Equis beer bottle and said with a slight accent, “I am the most interesting woman in the world.”
A smile crept over Sam’s face as he watched the video.
“If I were to pat you on the back, you would list it on your resume,” Jenny said, mimicking the Dos Equis commercials as a wave crashed around her.
Offscreen, holding the camera, Sam responded in a deep voice, “Time waits for no one but her.”
Jenny laughed and approached the camera. “Presidents take my birthday off.”
There was a brief pause as the screen went black and then started a new recording. Inside a hotel room, Jenny slid a bracelet onto her wrist and fiddled with her hair in front of a full-length mirror, getting ready for dinner.
“You know who my mom’s favorite singer is?” Jenny asked.
“Young Thug?” Sam responded, zooming in.
“Close . . . Karen Carpenter. Such a sad story.”
Jenny turned away from the mirror and walked toward the camera, singing, “Why do birds suddenly appear . . . every time . . . you are near. Just like me . . . they long to be . . . close to you . . .”
Both cats’ ears perked up when hearing Jenny sing, and Sam abruptly called out, “Stop the video.”
The image froze.
“Turn it off,” he commanded, and the flatscreen went black.
Silence filled the room. Sam slammed his eyes closed. “I have to stop doing that,” he whispered to himself, and opened his eyes, which landed on an autopsy photo of Kevin Fields. Sam bent over and picked it up off the coffee table. The report of the attack on Nancy Farber came rushing back to him. Kevin had tortured her for over five hours. In the end, this sadistic monster had effectively murdered Nancy, without even killing her. He destroyed a family and left her husband with nothing but a life of what-ifs and what-could-have-beens.
Sam felt a pang of guilt for even attempting to track down the man who slowly tortured and decapitated Kevin Fields. Maybe The Revenger was a hero.
Sam took one last look into Kevin’s lifeless eyes. Some people are better off dead, he thought. He threw the picture back onto the coffee table and leaned into the soft couch, his cats curling up close to him. Within minutes, he was asleep, dreaming of Jenny, and his unborn daughter, and a life of what-ifs and what-could-have-beens.
twenty—two
Patience is the key once you’re inside, Kim had said over and over. Travis silently repeated the mantra to himself as he hid, quiet as a church mouse, inside Joseph Billings’ closet. Numbness set into his right leg. A shock of pain coursed through his back and up to his stiff neck. He shook his left foot, which had fallen asleep. He had broken into the apartment a little over three hours ago and carefully chosen the perfect place to lie in wait: an entry hall closet filled with smelly shirts and extra-large jackets.
Exactly what he’d done with Kevin Fields, which had gone so smoothly.
Billings arrived home right on schedule at exactly 6:30 p.m. He heard Billings make his way into the bathroom, and as the toilet flushed, Travis cautiously cracked the door open. From this vantage point, he could make out part of the living room, and a couple of inches of the kitchen.
Deep in his heart, Travis didn’t want to go through with it. Kim always made it sound so noble, so righteous, but the thought of killing yet another stranger—a man who had done nothing to him personally—weighed heavily on him.
They’re monsters, she had said. He glanced down to his watch as 8:30 p.m. digitally popped to 8:31 p.m. He desperately wanted to go home. Kim specifically instructed that if the right moment to strike didn’t come, he should leave.
Maybe we should start seeing other people, she had threatened.
The thought of losing her made him ill. He heard her voice clear as a bell, her face becoming angry and stern. It takes guts to be a hero.
Travis wet his dry, cracked lips. Billings’ deadbolt had taken time to pick, and his front door was located inside a hallway. It could have easily ended in disaster with the appearance of one neighbor. It would be too dangerous for him to return, and the thought of Kim finding out he failed the mission was too much to endure.
Travis briefly caught a glimpse of Billings’ profile as he stood up from the couch and walked into the kitchen.
It’s now or never, he thought. He tightened his grip around the pipe cutter, took several deep, silent breaths, and gently pushed open the closet door.
He slowly made his way across the carpeted living room, the welder’s mask firmly in place. The thought of walking into the kitchen terrified him, but the layout of the living room made it impossible to exit without being noticed. Maybe he should have waited for Billings to fall asleep and handled the business in the bedroom, just like he had done with Daniel Gracy, but even that was difficult. He needed a clear shot at the neck, and someone lying face-down on a bed made for a tough target.
Stay clear of bedrooms and bathrooms, Kim had said. The former due to the fact most people kept their guns close to their beds; the latter being too tight and confining.
Travis crept along the wall and quickly peeked his head into the kitchen. Billings stood at the sink, cutting up something with his back to Travis.
Everything was perfect. He only needed to take a few steps to be in position to strike at Billings’ oversized neck.
It was risky, but he knew if he panicked and walked out now, he would never return.
Sweat poured off his forehead as he extended the cutter and entered the kitchen.
The images of Michelle, that sweet, young girl lying on that filthy motel room bed, being fucked by this monster, kept the fire burning in his belly as he took his first step onto the white linoleum floor.
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Joe Billings felt a rare sense of happiness spreading the extra-crunchy peanut butter across the slice of white bread. The detective’s warning seemed far-fetched. Probably just another way for those cops to torture him one last time. The smell of roasted peanuts wafted into his nose and made his stomach growl. A late-night snack, combined with a cold glass of milk, and his favorite movie, The Wizard of Oz, felt just right.
As he dipped his knife into the blood-red jelly, he heard a squeaking sound.
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Travis stopped cold as his black tennis shoe squeaked against the linoleum floor. He watched in horror as the fat fuck slowly turned toward the sound.
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For a brief second, Billings thought he was dreaming. There was no feeling of fear or flight as he stared at the odd-looking stranger. The sight of the welder’s mask and the peculiar-looking tool pointed directly at him made him laugh out loud. It was beyond surreal. Far past any kind of dream or nightmare his mind could have possibly conjured up. With a bemused look on his face, he lifted the knife, and licked the jelly.
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After the terrible struggle with Bernard Meyers, Travis promised himself he would never go through that again, but like a recurring nightmare, he found himself in exactly the same predicament: standing in the kitchen of a sadistic madman with everything about to get very brutal. Kim would have been displeased.
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The glint of the titanium blade hiding behind the tentacles of the pipe cutter jolted Billings out of his temporary trance. The cop had told him the killer decapitated his victims, and in some cases, ever-so-neatly dissected other parts of their bodies.
Joseph Billings had lost all hope and wanted to die, but not like this. Not being tortured to death and cut up into bite-sized pieces by some freak.
“I didn’t touch her. I’m innocent,” Billings whispered, trying to remain calm. “It was all a terrible mistake. I swear to God.”
Billings watched as his killer tightened his grip on that strange-looking machine and took a step towards him.
Billings glanced into his sink and spotted a grease-stained butcher knife lying among an assortment of dirty pots and pans. He grabbed for the knife, and took a wide, ungainly swipe.
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For the first time in his short-lived career as a hero, and killer, Travis faced someone with a weapon. Travis scanned Billings’ rotund body, searching for his opening. He quickly decided on the leg, the left leg, just above the knee. With perfect precision, the cutter wrapped itself around Billings’ upper-left thigh.
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Joe Billings thought his leg caught on fire. A scream burst from his mouth as he lunged with the knife, stabbing it into the left arm of his attacker.
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Travis let out a muted yelp as the blade tore through his jacket and cut into his flesh. Pulling down hard on the cutter, he dropped Billings to his knees.
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Billings tried to scream, to call out for help, but nothing except for frightened grunts and sputters slipped through his lips. The knife fell away from his hand, and now all he could think about was removing that steel beast from around his leg.
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Travis watched the LEDs do their dance as Billings struggled to free himself.
As the light turned green, Travis slammed his eyes closed, and pulled the trigger.
Seconds later, Travis opened his eyes and stared blankly at Billings’ amputated left leg. His focus shifted from the leg to the man it came from. There was no color in the fat man’s face, just ghostly pale skin. Billings was trying to crawl along the dirty floor, but was making no progress, his arms flailing about helplessly.
Travis’ guts churned as a cold chill ran through his body. He wanted to turn around, and go home, but he knew better than that. The mission was to kill. Not harm, not wound, but kill, slowly and painfully.
Let those motherfuckers suffer, and then strike them down like dogs, Kim had said.
Like a snake handler attempting to snag the head of a rattler, Travis managed to snap the jaws around Billings’ neck, and watched as they instantly tightened to a snug fit. Joe Billings stared right at him; the weight of his gaze was unbearable.
“Now, no doubt, my friend and I,” Travis said in that quiet, hollow voice. “Will proceed to lie and lie, till we begin to act the truth and call it sin . . .”
Joseph Conrad Billings had nothing more to give; he didn’t even try to remove the jaws from around his neck.
“I’m innocent,” he painfully whispered. “Please, God . . . it burns.”
twenty—three
Travis watched a pack of large rats gnaw away on the remains of a German Shepherd. He was doubled over, one hand holding his weapon, the other braced on his knee, pausing deep within the Chicago sewer system to take a much-needed rest. After a moment, he pulled off his black jacket and glanced at the knife wound on his upper arm, which was still bleeding, but superficial.
Right after removing Joe Billings’ head, he glanced up and saw a man staring at him from the apartment directly across the alley. A paralyzing fear gripped him as he stood there, frozen. The strumming of an electric guitar from the apartment next door snapped him out of his daze, and he made a quick exit out of that awful place.
He exited the apartment building into a back alley and disappeared down a sewer drain. The sound of a police siren roaring above sent him into a panic, and he took off running. He rounded an insect-covered corner and thought, No cop in their right mind would ever follow me into this godless place. He slowed to a jog and came to a stop. He removed the mask and dropped the cutter into a puddle of water, sending the rats scurrying into the darkness.
He attempted to catch his breath, and leaned up against the slimy, stinking wall. Everything had gone terribly wrong, but he had completed the mission. That fat fuck was dead and had suffered greatly for his sins.
He wanted to feel good about what he had done. To feel proud of his accomplishment, but that damn overwhelming sense of guilt poisoned his mind.
Billings was a rapist. A destroyer. He rammed Coke bottles into little girls’ vaginas, and walked free, Travis reminded himself, trying to squash his mounting mental anguish and remorse for the sad, fat man.
Never, ever feel for those animals, Kim had said.
Travis detested staring into their eyes as they wept, prayed, and begged for their pitiful lives, but the image of Billings’ round, plump, frightened face was forever etched into his mind.
He was a rapist. A destroyer. He murdered little girls, and received no punishment for it, Travis thought, exaggerating Billings’ criminal history. He didn’t want to cry, to act like a coward, but there was no stopping the tears as they flowed freely down his reddened cheeks.
“He was a rapist, a destroyer, a murderer,” Travis mumbled, weeping for himself, and for poor Joseph Conrad Billings.
twenty—four
A police drone made a pass over the apartment complex, shining its severe spotlight on the circus below. Red and blue lights from a swarm of police cars outside danced on Sam’s face as he watched the forensic team finally conclude their exhaustive examination of the scene inside the kitchen. Sam snapped on a pair of latex gloves and approached the dismembered mess that was once Joseph Billings. Kathy continued to snap photographs as Sam dropped to one knee and gently lifted the severed left leg. Dark burn marks were evident around the entire circumference of the upper thigh, and the putrid smell of smoldering body hair still lingered.
“Could you lift up the head, Sam?” Kathy asked. Sam set the leg down and gently lifted Billings’ severed head, which had the same dark burn marks around the circumference of the neck. Billings’ face was contorted into a sea of unimaginable pain and anguish. Kathy took her photos, and Sam carefully dropped the head into a small, black bag. A coroner whisked it away.
“You tried to warn him, Sam,” Tommy said.
Sam backed away from the carnage, tearing off the gloves. “Should have put him under surveillance. Jesus. I fucked this up,” Sam admitted, and walked over to the open kitchen window, glancing down to the alley below. A throng of neighbors dressed in robes and pajamas strained their necks to get a better view. Sam’s eyes stopped on an old lady; although it was dark, he could see that the woman was dressed in layers of clothes and a big green floppy hat, her face partially hidden by a brown scarf.
He turned away from the window and watched as two assistant coroners pushed the pieces of Billings into a black body bag, and zipped it up.
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Tommy followed Sam into the hallway, where a group of officers stood by.
“Okay, listen up,” Sam said, angry with himself for the missed opportunity. “I want reports taken from every person who lives within three hundred yards of this joint, and no sloppy bullshit either. I want to know everything these people may have seen in the last week around this neighborhood. Any asshole drops an attitude or refuses to talk, come and get me, and I’ll deal with it.”
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The sky began to lighten with the morning sun, and Sam was grateful for the bit of warmth as he stood in the center of the alley. “Anybody know where Kenny is?” he called out.
“Right here, Sam,” Kenny said, breaking through a group of uniformed officers.
“Where are we at?” Sam asked.
Kenny motioned for an assistant, who handed him a clear plastic bag that contained a kitchen knife, stained with blood.
“This could be what we’ve been waiting for,” Kenny said, muffling a yawn.
Sam took the bag and lifted it into the bright light of the police drone.
“Billings had no visible stab wounds,” Kenny added.
“This is definitely our killer’s blood,” Sam replied, cautiously hopeful, and handed the bag back to Kenny.
“If he’s got a record, we’ll get a match in a heartbeat,” Kenny said as the two men made their way down the alley.
