Total Immersion, page 20
“Joseph Billings’ neighbor. What’s goin’ on?”
“I have something that might interest you.”
“And what would that be?”
“The sounds of that dude being murdered.”
Tommy bit down on his lower lip and glanced at his watch: 11:30 a.m.
“I’ll meet you at your place at noon. Is that good? Is noon all right with you, Mr. Menhoffer?”
“Sure, okay, or I could come and see you?”
“No, no, I’ll come to you. See you in half an hour.” Tommy hung up.
“Good news?” Buzz asked.
“If we had the actual sound of whatever is cuttin’ these guys up, could the AI trace that?”
“We can isolate it and run it through the paces. Why? You got somethin’ like that?”
“Maybe.”
“You better tell Sam. He don’t take kindly to surprises,” Buzz said, his tone implying a strong warning.
“It’s probably nothing. Let me run it down first. If it checks out, I’ll tell Sam. Why waste his time, right?” Tommy answered, hoping Buzz would keep his mouth shut.
“You gotta do what you gotta do, but like I said, Sam don’t take kindly to surprises.”
“Thanks, Buzz.” Tommy grabbed his jacket and quickly left the office.
Seconds after Tommy was gone, Buzz locked the door and fired Carl’s program back up. “God, I’m a fucking degenerate,” he said to himself, unbuckling his belt. He gazed at the 3-D screen as his avatar walked hand in hand with Todd down Lakeshore Drive, a romantic full moon blasting beams of white light all around the happy couple.
thirty—four
Mr. Menhoffer in person did not add up to his deep voice over the phone. A nerdy, balding man with a noticeable lazy eye who looked to be in his late forties. He lived next-door to Billings, and his living room shared the same wall as Billings’ kitchen.
The interior of his apartment was sparse but well-furnished. Tommy took a seat on the sofa as Mr. Menhoffer handed him a cup of organic peppermint tea.
“I drink a lot of tea,” Mr. Menhoffer said in that deep voice. “No caffeine. So much better for you than coffee. You drink a lot of coffee, Tommy? Can I call you Tommy?”
“Sure,” Tommy said, taking a careful sip. “Now about that sound?”
Mr. Menhoffer walked over to the south corner of the room where an electric guitar sat next to a mini in-home recording studio, complete with several microphones that hung off silver stands. He opened the desk drawer and retrieved a high-definition music card. “I was laying down a tune when I heard some commotion coming from next door. The walls in this shithole are paper-thin, and my window was open, but I keep to myself. Don’t want no trouble.”
That’s exactly what he told me and Sam the other night, Tommy thought, but Menhoffer had been unable to give a decent description of exactly what he heard.
“But you never actually witnessed anything?” Tommy asked, referring to his original notes.
“No, nothing. Nothing at all.”
“What kind of music do you play?”
“Acid rock,” Menhoffer said matter-of-factly.
Tommy found it hard to believe this little nebbish of a man could even throw a rock, much less play a kickass rift on that monster guitar.
“It’s making a big comeback,” Menhoffer continued. “Everything old is new again.”
Menhoffer handed the HD card to Tommy. “It’s sorta hard to hear over the music, but I think something is there. Something strange. If you listen real close, you can hear it.”
Tommy held the card in the palm of his hand and hoped this would not lead to another dead end.
“Would you like to hear it now?” Menhoffer asked. “I’ve got a really good sound system.”
“No, thank you. We have people downtown who can analyze this better than me.”
“Experts, hey?” Menhoffer said. He reached for his guitar, swung the strap around his shoulder, and switched on the power to his amplifiers. “Oh, just FYI, I’m, like, totally up on all the copyright laws. If those so-called experts attempt to steal any of my music or lyrics, there’s going to be hell to pay. Legal is on my side.”
“Understood,” Tommy said.
Menhoffer blasted a screeching riff off his guitar as Tommy exited the apartment. If this little piece of digital sound managed to be the key that broke the case wide open, Tommy’s future would be set. He’d be assigned a permanent position within the homicide division, and maybe join Sam as his full-time partner.
He entered the creaky, graffiti-strewn elevator, and Sam’s words rang through his memory: “There’s no magic to this job . . . Just a shitload of luck.”
thirty—five
Sam finally made it back home from his marathon night, and slept like a rock from 4:00 p.m. until a little past 10:00 p.m. His dreams were of Jenny, and what could have been. They were of picnics, and outings at the beach. They were of birthday parties for his daughter. Some progressed from dreams into terrible nightmares, and those always ended in that hospital corridor, and the news that his wife would never grow old. His daughter never born. At exactly 10:04 p.m., he woke up covered in sweat.
He lay still in bed, trying to erase the nightmare with more pleasant memories, but the intense anger mounted like a cancer, slowly eating its way from the inside out.
A solid two hours of Total Immersion therapy followed as Sam hunted down and tortured Hans and Dopey until the pain passed, and that temporary sense of digital redemption filled his heart and eased his troubled mind.
Bored stiff by 2:00 a.m., he reached out for a bottle of Jack Daniels, which further eased the pain. By 3:30 a.m., he was passed out cold on his sofa, his feline companions poised precariously on his neck and chest.
At 8:34 a.m., his phone rang.
The bright morning sun warmed the den as Sam’s eyes opened, then closed. The second ring popped them open again, but focusing was another matter entirely. Straining and squinting, his vision slowly adjusted as he came face to face with a wide-awake Hardy, staring intently into his master’s bloodshot eyes.
The third ring bolted Sam straight up and sent Hardy flying into the air. He reached out, grabbed his earpiece from the coffee table, and pushed it into his right ear.
“This is Sam,” he mumbled.
The news coming from the other end knocked him out of his haze, and whatever hangover he may have been suffering from only moments ago vanished.
Sam made a beeline for his bedroom. “Only the forensic team until I get there,” he said in a clear, collected voice. “I want Kenny and Ruth in person this time. No associates. Give me twenty minutes.”
Within five minutes, he was dressed and out the door.
thirty—six
A small white sheet covered a left arm. A small white sheet covered a right arm. A small white sheet covered a right leg. A small white sheet covered a head.
A bright flash filled the living room as Kathy meticulously photographed every inch of Clarence Franklin Whiteford’s torso.
Eight hours had passed since the dismembered, bloodless body had been discovered, and Kenny and his team diligently went about their jobs as the press went about theirs. Word had quickly spread that The Revenger had struck again, and it took Sam five minutes to make his way from the sidewalk to Clarence Franklin Whiteford’s front door. He must have said, “No comment,” at least twenty times.
A new record, he guessed.
Tommy spent hours interviewing potential witnesses, and as usual, came up with nothing.
Maybe his recording, which he had quietly given to Buzz, would be the key to breaking the case. The mounting concern of not telling Sam was weighing on him as he entered the small kitchen that smelled of rancid milk, and found Sam talking on the phone.
“Forget Whiteford for a second, Patrick. What about Carl Tyler?” Sam said. He glanced up to Tommy and acknowledged him with a quick nod of his head. “No. One hundred percent. Tyler was no suicide. Ruth confirmed the burn marks matched the burn marks on all the other victims.”
Sam listened, and then finished the conversation, “I know. That’s what I’m worried about as well. Fuck . . . Okay. I’ll brief you in a couple hours.”
Sam hung up and turned to Tommy. “Let me guess . . . Nobody saw anything?”
“In the immortal words of Buzz, ‘We got dick.’”
As Sam was about to respond, Kathy entered the kitchen. “You know what I think?”
“No, what do you think, inspector?” Sam responded playfully.
“I say Patrick Gannon is your Revenger. Think about it, Sam. Who better to go around killing scumbags than a cop? An insider who knows exactly how to foul up forensics. An expert in breaking and entering. I put ten-to-one if it’s not Gannon, it’s someone we all know.”
With the murder of Whiteford, Sam’s suspicions of someone close to the investigation grew rapidly. He had been working with Internal Affairs since the Joe Billings murder, but so far, nothing had materialized to suggest The Revenger was a cop or a judge or someone within the department.
“Could even be me, for that matter.” Sam replied casually.
“Don’t think that hasn’t crossed my mind either,” Kathy said with a smile.
“Me too, Sam,” Tommy said. “Not that I think you did it, but you certainly fit the profile.”
Sam laughed. “There’s no doubt about that.”
“But I know it’s not you. Couldn’t be,” Tommy concluded.
“What makes you so sure?”
“Carl Tyler.”
Sam walked back into the living room just as Kenny lifted Whiteford’s hairy leg towards Ruth for a closer inspection.
“Sam, tell Buzz,” Ruth said, staring closely at the burn mark, “that whatever is doing this damage has an adjustable collar.” Ruth’s glasses edged down her nose, and she pushed them back into place. “It’s gotta be some sort of sophisticated laser. Something portable, and rechargeable. Maybe military hardware?"
“We checked that a few weeks ago. Came up empty. Could a laser beam adjust depending on the size of the cut?” Sam asked.
“Absolutely,” Ruth replied. “Surgical laser beams adjust to any kind of incision needed.”
“I think he has some kind of medical background,” Kenny proposed.
Tommy jumped in. “Gannon ends the surveillance on a Monday, and he strikes three days later. I mean, come on; it’s gotta be somebody in the know.”
“I’m tellin’ you guys,” Kathy said, pointing her camera at Sam. “The killer is right under our noses, closer than any of us wants to admit.” Kathy snapped off a few shots and made her way back toward the bedroom.
Sam walked to the living room window and glanced out at the crowd of curious onlookers who stood just outside the yellow tape. His eyes came to rest on an old woman standing off to one side. Her face was covered in a thick, wool scarf, and only her eyes, nose, and part of her forehead were visible. An oversized, big green floppy hat sat crooked on her head. “I don’t want to paint myself into a corner on this one,” he said, turning away from the window. “I need something more concrete than a bunch of second guesses.”
“We’re workin’ on it, Sam,” Kenny said defensively, and carefully labeled samples from the hairy left leg. “But let’s face it . . . A very smart serial killer with luck on their side is one bad combination.”
Sam nodded in agreement, fearing The Revenger certainly possessed the skill, and luck, to continue his crusade for a very long time.
thirty—seven
“When hands are tightly clasped, ’mid struggling sighs . . .”
That was about all Tommy could make out as he sat transfixed in Buzz’s dark parlor.
“Play it one more time,” Tommy ordered.
Buzz hit a few keys. On the 3-D screen, a sound graph came to life as a static voice said in a haunting echo, “When hands are tightly clasped, ’mid struggling sighs . . .”
It had taken Buzz over a week of work to get even this far, and convincing him not to tell Sam was a full-time job within itself. Tommy knew he was taking a huge risk, and if Sam got wind of what was going on behind closed doors, he would surely catch hell.
Tommy wanted to take it as far as he could on his own, and present Sam with the keys that would unlock their mystery. He was getting close with this breakthrough.
“What about the rest?” Tommy asked, the hairs on the back of his neck standing straight up.
Buzz shook his head. “That horrendous noise he calls music obliterates most of it, but check this out.”
Another graph came up on the screen, followed by the audio portion. “Please, it burns.”
Even though it was barely audible, Tommy knew exactly who was talking, and the horror of what Joe Billings must have been experiencing broke him out in a cold sweat.
“Jesus,” he said, scratching under his armpit.
“Pretty freaky, ain’t it?” Buzz responded, proud and excited.
“It’s unbelievable.”
“You nailed it, buddy,” Buzz said. “This is the golden ticket that’s gonna break this case wide open.”
“I got lucky. Call came to me.”
“Who gives a shit? They’re gonna crown you king, and don’t forget who stuck his neck out to get that crown placed upon His Majesty’s tiny head.”
“What about the weapon?” Tommy asked. “The voices are great, but that won’t mean jack shit to anybody. I want to bring Sam something that could really make a difference.”
Buzz lifted his thick eyebrows, and Tommy knew there was more to come.
“Listen closely,” Buzz said. “First, the recording as I received it.” Buzz played the track, which consisted primarily of Menhoffer’s acid rock, and then a barely audible grinding sound that lasted for less than two seconds.
“Did you hear that?” Buzz asked, working away on his keyboard and mouse. “After much brilliant work by yours truly, I was able to isolate just that sound.” Buzz hit the enter key and the sound, isolated on its own track, played back over and over.
One of the witnesses had described the sound like lug nuts being tightened on a car’s tires, and Tommy thought the same.
“That’s the end sound, which lasts for exactly two and a half seconds, and it plays twice,” Buzz said.
“A leg and a head,” Tommy whispered, remembering back to poor Joe Billings’ corpse being shoved into a black body bag.
That night seemed like two lifetimes ago, Tommy thought as Buzz played another section.
This second isolated piece sounded like a whirling noise—like a fan starting off on low, and gradually building up speed.
“What the hell is that?” Tommy asked, straining to hear the barely discernible sound.
“It’s the build-up to the grand finale. Whatever machine he’s using needs time to warm up. That’s probably why he does his speech.”
“Maybe it’s not as sophisticated as everybody thinks.” Tommy stood and stretched his legs. “What’s the AI say?”
Buzz turned off the recording, spun his chair away from the screen, and faced Tommy. “Metal based, extremely high RPMs, low density, high tensile strength . . . probably titanium.”
“It’s not a laser?” Tommy asked, biting away at his left thumbnail.
“Yes, and no. It’s a blade of some kind, and it definitely jives with the electron blowups of the neck wounds. I think we’re very close.”
Tommy got butterflies in his stomach and started pacing the small room. “Would you have to plug it in? Where does the power source come from?” he asked.
“Good question, and that’s what was buggin’ me. So, being the undeniable genius that I am, I put a call into my asswipe of a brother-in-law.”
“He’s a cop?” Tommy asked, a bit of anxiety in his voice.
“No, a city contractor, and he occasionally works for the Boston Water and Sewer Commission. Late last night, I sent the samples to him.”
“What’s he think?”
“Pipe cutter with an adjustable laser collar. They’re fairly uncommon, and pretty hard to find, and it’s completely portable. We never came across it during any of our searches. My brother-in-law thinks they’re manufactured in, like, Turkey or something, and are ordered direct, and shipped to the buyer here in the U.S.”
“How does it work?” Tommy asked and sat back down.
“As he explained it to me, it goes something like this . . . The laser beam doesn’t actually do the cutting, but thermally scores the pipe; that’s where the heat comes from. So, let’s say you’re a pipe cutter. You wrap the collar of the machine around the section of the pipe you want to cut. It instantly tightens around the circumference of the pipe. The laser beam, working through the collar, slowly begins to make microscopic cracks in the metal. Once the pipe softens, this mean, nasty titanium blade, which is sharper than a motherfucker—and has been spending its free time building up tremendous speed—is suddenly let loose. By this point, the blade is just lookin’ to sink those millions of tiny little teeth into something sweet, and BAM, it finds its target and cuts through the metal super clean. Next thing you know, WHAMMO, the deed is done, and your pipe—or, in our case, your head—hits the floor a second later. Simple, but effective. He said the sewer rats use ’em. We’ve been looking in all the wrong places.”
Tommy’s face glistened in flop sweat. “Listen, Buzz, I need a shot at breaking this myself.”
Buzz bit down on his tongue as he contemplated the possible repercussions of not going directly to Sam. “I don’t know . . .” he said, shaking his head. Tommy had taken it this far and wanted to hand Sam more than some lucky information.
“At least let me run down the lead. Give me twenty-four hours to check it out, and then we’ll go to Sam together.”
“I have something that might interest you.”
“And what would that be?”
“The sounds of that dude being murdered.”
Tommy bit down on his lower lip and glanced at his watch: 11:30 a.m.
“I’ll meet you at your place at noon. Is that good? Is noon all right with you, Mr. Menhoffer?”
“Sure, okay, or I could come and see you?”
“No, no, I’ll come to you. See you in half an hour.” Tommy hung up.
“Good news?” Buzz asked.
“If we had the actual sound of whatever is cuttin’ these guys up, could the AI trace that?”
“We can isolate it and run it through the paces. Why? You got somethin’ like that?”
“Maybe.”
“You better tell Sam. He don’t take kindly to surprises,” Buzz said, his tone implying a strong warning.
“It’s probably nothing. Let me run it down first. If it checks out, I’ll tell Sam. Why waste his time, right?” Tommy answered, hoping Buzz would keep his mouth shut.
“You gotta do what you gotta do, but like I said, Sam don’t take kindly to surprises.”
“Thanks, Buzz.” Tommy grabbed his jacket and quickly left the office.
Seconds after Tommy was gone, Buzz locked the door and fired Carl’s program back up. “God, I’m a fucking degenerate,” he said to himself, unbuckling his belt. He gazed at the 3-D screen as his avatar walked hand in hand with Todd down Lakeshore Drive, a romantic full moon blasting beams of white light all around the happy couple.
thirty—four
Mr. Menhoffer in person did not add up to his deep voice over the phone. A nerdy, balding man with a noticeable lazy eye who looked to be in his late forties. He lived next-door to Billings, and his living room shared the same wall as Billings’ kitchen.
The interior of his apartment was sparse but well-furnished. Tommy took a seat on the sofa as Mr. Menhoffer handed him a cup of organic peppermint tea.
“I drink a lot of tea,” Mr. Menhoffer said in that deep voice. “No caffeine. So much better for you than coffee. You drink a lot of coffee, Tommy? Can I call you Tommy?”
“Sure,” Tommy said, taking a careful sip. “Now about that sound?”
Mr. Menhoffer walked over to the south corner of the room where an electric guitar sat next to a mini in-home recording studio, complete with several microphones that hung off silver stands. He opened the desk drawer and retrieved a high-definition music card. “I was laying down a tune when I heard some commotion coming from next door. The walls in this shithole are paper-thin, and my window was open, but I keep to myself. Don’t want no trouble.”
That’s exactly what he told me and Sam the other night, Tommy thought, but Menhoffer had been unable to give a decent description of exactly what he heard.
“But you never actually witnessed anything?” Tommy asked, referring to his original notes.
“No, nothing. Nothing at all.”
“What kind of music do you play?”
“Acid rock,” Menhoffer said matter-of-factly.
Tommy found it hard to believe this little nebbish of a man could even throw a rock, much less play a kickass rift on that monster guitar.
“It’s making a big comeback,” Menhoffer continued. “Everything old is new again.”
Menhoffer handed the HD card to Tommy. “It’s sorta hard to hear over the music, but I think something is there. Something strange. If you listen real close, you can hear it.”
Tommy held the card in the palm of his hand and hoped this would not lead to another dead end.
“Would you like to hear it now?” Menhoffer asked. “I’ve got a really good sound system.”
“No, thank you. We have people downtown who can analyze this better than me.”
“Experts, hey?” Menhoffer said. He reached for his guitar, swung the strap around his shoulder, and switched on the power to his amplifiers. “Oh, just FYI, I’m, like, totally up on all the copyright laws. If those so-called experts attempt to steal any of my music or lyrics, there’s going to be hell to pay. Legal is on my side.”
“Understood,” Tommy said.
Menhoffer blasted a screeching riff off his guitar as Tommy exited the apartment. If this little piece of digital sound managed to be the key that broke the case wide open, Tommy’s future would be set. He’d be assigned a permanent position within the homicide division, and maybe join Sam as his full-time partner.
He entered the creaky, graffiti-strewn elevator, and Sam’s words rang through his memory: “There’s no magic to this job . . . Just a shitload of luck.”
thirty—five
Sam finally made it back home from his marathon night, and slept like a rock from 4:00 p.m. until a little past 10:00 p.m. His dreams were of Jenny, and what could have been. They were of picnics, and outings at the beach. They were of birthday parties for his daughter. Some progressed from dreams into terrible nightmares, and those always ended in that hospital corridor, and the news that his wife would never grow old. His daughter never born. At exactly 10:04 p.m., he woke up covered in sweat.
He lay still in bed, trying to erase the nightmare with more pleasant memories, but the intense anger mounted like a cancer, slowly eating its way from the inside out.
A solid two hours of Total Immersion therapy followed as Sam hunted down and tortured Hans and Dopey until the pain passed, and that temporary sense of digital redemption filled his heart and eased his troubled mind.
Bored stiff by 2:00 a.m., he reached out for a bottle of Jack Daniels, which further eased the pain. By 3:30 a.m., he was passed out cold on his sofa, his feline companions poised precariously on his neck and chest.
At 8:34 a.m., his phone rang.
The bright morning sun warmed the den as Sam’s eyes opened, then closed. The second ring popped them open again, but focusing was another matter entirely. Straining and squinting, his vision slowly adjusted as he came face to face with a wide-awake Hardy, staring intently into his master’s bloodshot eyes.
The third ring bolted Sam straight up and sent Hardy flying into the air. He reached out, grabbed his earpiece from the coffee table, and pushed it into his right ear.
“This is Sam,” he mumbled.
The news coming from the other end knocked him out of his haze, and whatever hangover he may have been suffering from only moments ago vanished.
Sam made a beeline for his bedroom. “Only the forensic team until I get there,” he said in a clear, collected voice. “I want Kenny and Ruth in person this time. No associates. Give me twenty minutes.”
Within five minutes, he was dressed and out the door.
thirty—six
A small white sheet covered a left arm. A small white sheet covered a right arm. A small white sheet covered a right leg. A small white sheet covered a head.
A bright flash filled the living room as Kathy meticulously photographed every inch of Clarence Franklin Whiteford’s torso.
Eight hours had passed since the dismembered, bloodless body had been discovered, and Kenny and his team diligently went about their jobs as the press went about theirs. Word had quickly spread that The Revenger had struck again, and it took Sam five minutes to make his way from the sidewalk to Clarence Franklin Whiteford’s front door. He must have said, “No comment,” at least twenty times.
A new record, he guessed.
Tommy spent hours interviewing potential witnesses, and as usual, came up with nothing.
Maybe his recording, which he had quietly given to Buzz, would be the key to breaking the case. The mounting concern of not telling Sam was weighing on him as he entered the small kitchen that smelled of rancid milk, and found Sam talking on the phone.
“Forget Whiteford for a second, Patrick. What about Carl Tyler?” Sam said. He glanced up to Tommy and acknowledged him with a quick nod of his head. “No. One hundred percent. Tyler was no suicide. Ruth confirmed the burn marks matched the burn marks on all the other victims.”
Sam listened, and then finished the conversation, “I know. That’s what I’m worried about as well. Fuck . . . Okay. I’ll brief you in a couple hours.”
Sam hung up and turned to Tommy. “Let me guess . . . Nobody saw anything?”
“In the immortal words of Buzz, ‘We got dick.’”
As Sam was about to respond, Kathy entered the kitchen. “You know what I think?”
“No, what do you think, inspector?” Sam responded playfully.
“I say Patrick Gannon is your Revenger. Think about it, Sam. Who better to go around killing scumbags than a cop? An insider who knows exactly how to foul up forensics. An expert in breaking and entering. I put ten-to-one if it’s not Gannon, it’s someone we all know.”
With the murder of Whiteford, Sam’s suspicions of someone close to the investigation grew rapidly. He had been working with Internal Affairs since the Joe Billings murder, but so far, nothing had materialized to suggest The Revenger was a cop or a judge or someone within the department.
“Could even be me, for that matter.” Sam replied casually.
“Don’t think that hasn’t crossed my mind either,” Kathy said with a smile.
“Me too, Sam,” Tommy said. “Not that I think you did it, but you certainly fit the profile.”
Sam laughed. “There’s no doubt about that.”
“But I know it’s not you. Couldn’t be,” Tommy concluded.
“What makes you so sure?”
“Carl Tyler.”
Sam walked back into the living room just as Kenny lifted Whiteford’s hairy leg towards Ruth for a closer inspection.
“Sam, tell Buzz,” Ruth said, staring closely at the burn mark, “that whatever is doing this damage has an adjustable collar.” Ruth’s glasses edged down her nose, and she pushed them back into place. “It’s gotta be some sort of sophisticated laser. Something portable, and rechargeable. Maybe military hardware?"
“We checked that a few weeks ago. Came up empty. Could a laser beam adjust depending on the size of the cut?” Sam asked.
“Absolutely,” Ruth replied. “Surgical laser beams adjust to any kind of incision needed.”
“I think he has some kind of medical background,” Kenny proposed.
Tommy jumped in. “Gannon ends the surveillance on a Monday, and he strikes three days later. I mean, come on; it’s gotta be somebody in the know.”
“I’m tellin’ you guys,” Kathy said, pointing her camera at Sam. “The killer is right under our noses, closer than any of us wants to admit.” Kathy snapped off a few shots and made her way back toward the bedroom.
Sam walked to the living room window and glanced out at the crowd of curious onlookers who stood just outside the yellow tape. His eyes came to rest on an old woman standing off to one side. Her face was covered in a thick, wool scarf, and only her eyes, nose, and part of her forehead were visible. An oversized, big green floppy hat sat crooked on her head. “I don’t want to paint myself into a corner on this one,” he said, turning away from the window. “I need something more concrete than a bunch of second guesses.”
“We’re workin’ on it, Sam,” Kenny said defensively, and carefully labeled samples from the hairy left leg. “But let’s face it . . . A very smart serial killer with luck on their side is one bad combination.”
Sam nodded in agreement, fearing The Revenger certainly possessed the skill, and luck, to continue his crusade for a very long time.
thirty—seven
“When hands are tightly clasped, ’mid struggling sighs . . .”
That was about all Tommy could make out as he sat transfixed in Buzz’s dark parlor.
“Play it one more time,” Tommy ordered.
Buzz hit a few keys. On the 3-D screen, a sound graph came to life as a static voice said in a haunting echo, “When hands are tightly clasped, ’mid struggling sighs . . .”
It had taken Buzz over a week of work to get even this far, and convincing him not to tell Sam was a full-time job within itself. Tommy knew he was taking a huge risk, and if Sam got wind of what was going on behind closed doors, he would surely catch hell.
Tommy wanted to take it as far as he could on his own, and present Sam with the keys that would unlock their mystery. He was getting close with this breakthrough.
“What about the rest?” Tommy asked, the hairs on the back of his neck standing straight up.
Buzz shook his head. “That horrendous noise he calls music obliterates most of it, but check this out.”
Another graph came up on the screen, followed by the audio portion. “Please, it burns.”
Even though it was barely audible, Tommy knew exactly who was talking, and the horror of what Joe Billings must have been experiencing broke him out in a cold sweat.
“Jesus,” he said, scratching under his armpit.
“Pretty freaky, ain’t it?” Buzz responded, proud and excited.
“It’s unbelievable.”
“You nailed it, buddy,” Buzz said. “This is the golden ticket that’s gonna break this case wide open.”
“I got lucky. Call came to me.”
“Who gives a shit? They’re gonna crown you king, and don’t forget who stuck his neck out to get that crown placed upon His Majesty’s tiny head.”
“What about the weapon?” Tommy asked. “The voices are great, but that won’t mean jack shit to anybody. I want to bring Sam something that could really make a difference.”
Buzz lifted his thick eyebrows, and Tommy knew there was more to come.
“Listen closely,” Buzz said. “First, the recording as I received it.” Buzz played the track, which consisted primarily of Menhoffer’s acid rock, and then a barely audible grinding sound that lasted for less than two seconds.
“Did you hear that?” Buzz asked, working away on his keyboard and mouse. “After much brilliant work by yours truly, I was able to isolate just that sound.” Buzz hit the enter key and the sound, isolated on its own track, played back over and over.
One of the witnesses had described the sound like lug nuts being tightened on a car’s tires, and Tommy thought the same.
“That’s the end sound, which lasts for exactly two and a half seconds, and it plays twice,” Buzz said.
“A leg and a head,” Tommy whispered, remembering back to poor Joe Billings’ corpse being shoved into a black body bag.
That night seemed like two lifetimes ago, Tommy thought as Buzz played another section.
This second isolated piece sounded like a whirling noise—like a fan starting off on low, and gradually building up speed.
“What the hell is that?” Tommy asked, straining to hear the barely discernible sound.
“It’s the build-up to the grand finale. Whatever machine he’s using needs time to warm up. That’s probably why he does his speech.”
“Maybe it’s not as sophisticated as everybody thinks.” Tommy stood and stretched his legs. “What’s the AI say?”
Buzz turned off the recording, spun his chair away from the screen, and faced Tommy. “Metal based, extremely high RPMs, low density, high tensile strength . . . probably titanium.”
“It’s not a laser?” Tommy asked, biting away at his left thumbnail.
“Yes, and no. It’s a blade of some kind, and it definitely jives with the electron blowups of the neck wounds. I think we’re very close.”
Tommy got butterflies in his stomach and started pacing the small room. “Would you have to plug it in? Where does the power source come from?” he asked.
“Good question, and that’s what was buggin’ me. So, being the undeniable genius that I am, I put a call into my asswipe of a brother-in-law.”
“He’s a cop?” Tommy asked, a bit of anxiety in his voice.
“No, a city contractor, and he occasionally works for the Boston Water and Sewer Commission. Late last night, I sent the samples to him.”
“What’s he think?”
“Pipe cutter with an adjustable laser collar. They’re fairly uncommon, and pretty hard to find, and it’s completely portable. We never came across it during any of our searches. My brother-in-law thinks they’re manufactured in, like, Turkey or something, and are ordered direct, and shipped to the buyer here in the U.S.”
“How does it work?” Tommy asked and sat back down.
“As he explained it to me, it goes something like this . . . The laser beam doesn’t actually do the cutting, but thermally scores the pipe; that’s where the heat comes from. So, let’s say you’re a pipe cutter. You wrap the collar of the machine around the section of the pipe you want to cut. It instantly tightens around the circumference of the pipe. The laser beam, working through the collar, slowly begins to make microscopic cracks in the metal. Once the pipe softens, this mean, nasty titanium blade, which is sharper than a motherfucker—and has been spending its free time building up tremendous speed—is suddenly let loose. By this point, the blade is just lookin’ to sink those millions of tiny little teeth into something sweet, and BAM, it finds its target and cuts through the metal super clean. Next thing you know, WHAMMO, the deed is done, and your pipe—or, in our case, your head—hits the floor a second later. Simple, but effective. He said the sewer rats use ’em. We’ve been looking in all the wrong places.”
Tommy’s face glistened in flop sweat. “Listen, Buzz, I need a shot at breaking this myself.”
Buzz bit down on his tongue as he contemplated the possible repercussions of not going directly to Sam. “I don’t know . . .” he said, shaking his head. Tommy had taken it this far and wanted to hand Sam more than some lucky information.
“At least let me run down the lead. Give me twenty-four hours to check it out, and then we’ll go to Sam together.”
