Total Immersion, page 30
Sam had gone this far, and inside that adult candy store where anything imaginable was possible, lay the answer to the riddle.
He was so close he could taste it. So close to Kim. So close to the little old lady with the big green floppy hat. With his first step toward the shop, he made the fateful decision: this would all end here and now.
Twenty-four steps later, the double doors automatically opened and welcomed him in.
He remembered the store from his first visit: the sexually explicit holographic and 3-D posters, the digital standees of famous movie stars—legendary human beings who had indeed achieved a kind of sick immortality. Yet another new medium to exploit their image. Everything old was new again in this wicked place, Sam thought, and approached the front counter.
“Keith,” Sam whispered to himself, remembering the name of the odd little freak he had spoken to about poor Carl Tyler.
“Oh my God,” a woman’s voice called out.
Sam turned toward the voice. A young woman stood outside the bathroom. Her nametag read: LILY. Her platinum-blonde hair with the black roots streaked with purple highlights stood out most prominently.
She approached Sam, staring at the bloodied wreck before her.
“You want me to call an ambulance?” she asked, nervously making her way back around the counter.
“No, I want to speak with Keith.”
Lily pushed in her earpiece. “My friend, you look like a school bus just ran over you. Trust me, you need medical assistance.”
Sam walked over to the counter, reached into his pocket, and flashed his badge.
The color drained from Lily’s face at the sight of the Chicago P.D. insignia.
“Don’t think I don’t appreciate your kind thoughts, Lily,” Sam said. “But right now, all I want are answers to my simple questions. Do you understand me?”
Lily shook her head yes and pasted on a friendly, cooperative smile.
“Where’s Keith?”
“At a wedding.”
“Where?”
“Sterling Heights. In Michigan. I only work here part-time, just a few nights a week. I’m on probation, and if I get hauled in, they’re going to lock me back up.”
“If I wanted to rent a program starring a blonde woman named Kim, would you know who I’m talking about?” Sam asked, a wince of pain washing over his face.
Lily’s hands trembled as she turned to the computer and called out the name, “Kim.”
Reading the screen, she nervously asked, “Kim Bassinger or Kim Novak, maybe?”
The idea of Keith being the mastermind behind all this took center stage.
“Do you know who Travis Taylor is?” Sam asked.
She started to call out Travis’ name to the AI when Sam stopped her. “No, he’s a customer. A regular.”
“I don’t know the name. Gwen would know.”
At the mention of Gwen, Sam got a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He had run a check on the store two days after his visit, and Keith’s story had checked out. The name Gwen never appeared in any of the store’s public records.
“Who’s Gwen?” Sam asked, feeling a searing sting at the base of his burnt neck.
“She runs the place. She would know for sure about this Travis guy.”
Visions of his little old lady in the big green floppy hat danced in his mind.
“Where is she?”
“She stays upstairs, but she stepped out ’bout an hour ago. Gwen rarely comes down to the floor. At least, not when I’m here. She’s not a real, you know, people person.”
Sam was about to say something when Lily added, “She lives in the apartment above the shop. She might be home. You could check there.”
“How old is Gwen? Is she an old woman?” Sam asked.
Lily paused, thinking about the question. “I don’t know how old she is. It’s sort of impossible to tell with Gwen.”
“Why’s that?”
“Something terrible happened to her. We’re not supposed to talk about it. There’s something wrong with her face. I think she might have been in a fire or something.”
Sam felt his pulse accelerate. “Does Gwen build the custom programs herself?”
“I think she does some of ’em,” Lily said. “She’s brilliant. Keith says she’s a genius.”
Sam had heard enough. “What’s the best way up to her apartment?”
“There’s stairs ’round back. An old, wooden staircase. You can’t miss it.”
The burning in Sam’s neck intensified, but he wanted to see this through alone. Sam instructed Lily to leave the store and go straight home. He took her information and told her to wait for his phone call. He asked about her probation officer and was relieved to hear the name Kerby Beckett. Sam had gone to the academy with Beckett, and knew Beckett kept a close eye on his parolees. He proceeded to instill the fear of God into the frightened woman, threatening her with everything under the sun if she made any attempt to waver from his specific orders.
He felt confident she would behave.
They both left the shop, and without so much as a final word between them, Lily broke into a panicked run. Sam watched as she made her way down the street and disappeared around the corner.
Sam glanced up to the apartment, which occupied the second floor of the building. The windows had been tinted, but he could vaguely make out black drapes. Whoever Gwen was, she clearly valued her privacy.
Sam walked into a narrow passageway, quietly ascended the stairs, and stood at an unmarked, weather-beaten door. He peeked into the living room window, but the dark tint and black shades made it impossible to see inside.
He opened his jacket and felt for his bloody, mud-encrusted gun. It had come to rest a foot away from Travis’ right hand after he blew his brains out. He pulled it out of the holster, dismissed the memory of Travis pointing it straight at his skull, and placed it firmly in his left hand. He reached out and knocked on the door. There was no response, so he tried again . . . nothing. He pulled out his wallet and extracted his picks. A cat burglar he busted fifteen years earlier had taught him the tricks of the trade, and the little two-inch picks had come in handy many times before.
It took more than ten minutes before he heard the tumbler click on the last of the three deadbolts. Grabbing onto the doorknob, Sam lifted himself off his knee. Without hesitation or even a cautious glance around, he entered Gwen’s dark domain.
The delicate scent of potpourri was the first hint the cold exterior was not an indication of what would be found inside. Sam walked a few feet into the living area and was reminded of his own home.
Jenny would have been impressed.
Antiques dominated the room, giving it a warm, homey feel. The walls were lined with elegantly framed posters and playbills of Broadway shows. He was familiar with some of them, like Cabaret, Hamilton, and The Phantom of the Opera. A large auburn sofa, fashionably cluttered with an assortment of decorative pillows, along with a matching loveseat, rested in the far right-hand corner of the spacious room. Two brass lamps provided just the right amount of illumination.
From his position, Sam could see into the dining room, where a long, thin oak table, surrounded by six handcrafted oak chairs and formal place settings, waited patiently for guests.
With his gun lifted to waist height, Sam cautiously approached a long hallway leading to the bedrooms.
The hallway walls were covered with framed photographs. Sam stopped at the first photo and felt his knees go weak as he stared intently at the still image.
Four teenage girls stood outside a brick building. Two wore backpacks and the other two carried school books that were pressed tightly up against their chests. A sign above them read: JOHN BURROUGHS SENIOR HIGH SCHOOL - BLOOMINGTON, ILLINOIS.
The girls were waving and smiling at the camera. They were all pretty, but the girl standing second to the left was stunning. Her long, blonde hair and piercing blue eyes led the viewer of the photo right to her.
She was mesmerizing.
She was perfect.
She was Kim.
Sam moved to the next photo. This one showed Kim posing in a cheerleader’s outfit, holding bright red-and-white pom-poms over her head, that intoxicating smile etched on her face.
Photo after photo revealed Kim in real life settings. Several showed her standing with her mother, and one standing in a graduation cap and gown with someone whom Sam assumed was her grandmother. As Sam examined each photo, he couldn’t help but conjure up the warped images of Kim standing naked on that emerald bed, holding that long, black riding crop. He couldn’t help but think of her sweet, sexy voice as she ordered, and then detailed, the specifics of his own assassination.
The last photo was a framed page from the Burroughs yearbook, with “THE CLASS OF 1998” printed in the top right-hand corner.
Sam quickly ran the numbers in his head. He guessed Kim to be seventeen, at most, in all the pictures. That would make her forty-nine years old and decrease the possibility that she could be the old bag lady in the big green floppy hat, who looked to be at least seventy, maybe even older.
At the bottom of Kim’s photo was the following inscription:
I WANT TO BE MORE THAN JUST A PRETTY FACE. MY DREAM IS TO MAKE MY MARK IN THE THEATER, WIN A TONY AWARD, MARRY MY SOULMATE, AND RAISE THE PERFECT FAMILY.
Sam found it odd none of the photos showed Kim older than seventeen.
Maybe Kim had been murdered. Maybe all this madness, death, and manipulation would boil down to a mother’s revenge, Sam thought, and cautiously entered the first bedroom.
The room was empty, except for a tall, thin lamp positioned close to the closet doors. He approached the lamp and flipped on the switch. Light poured up toward the ceiling and lit the room in a hazy glow. He took two steps toward the closed closet door and extended his left hand, grabbing onto the metal knob. Giving it a half-turn, he swung the door open. As the light filtered in, Sam holstered his gun.
He was momentarily dazed, like he had been hit with a solid uppercut by a three-hundred-pound prizefighter. He felt lightheaded and confused.
He looked like he had seen a ghost.
His wife’s smiling face was the first thing his eyes focused on. Jenny Knight was staring at him from some closet in an old apartment that sat on top of a strange Total Immersion shop, owned by some odd woman named Gwen.
Just above Jenny’s picture was the headline: CELEBRATED CHICAGO DETECTIVE’S WIFE FOUND BRUTALLY MURDERED.
Sam knew the newspaper article all too well. He could recite every word from memory. Next to that article was the article detailing the capture of Dopey and Hans, along with their photos. The entire closet was a miniature shrine, a history of Chicago homicide detective Sam Knight. Every story, every photo ever printed of him, was carefully glued into an artful mosaic that filled every bit of wall space in the walk-in closet.
Several color photos of Jenny and their baby daughter’s gravesite were clearly not taken from the papers.
Articles regarding The Revenger case took up most of the right side.
Sam was completely baffled, yet utterly entranced.
The Revenger case continued its rapid descent into the bizarre—a mystery growing stranger, and more personal, by the second.
Who was Kim?
Who was Gwen?
Who was the little old lady in the big green floppy hat?
Questions flooded Sam’s mind, creating a curious high like he had never felt before; his eyes were drawn back to the photo of Jenny. All the papers had printed the same stock shot taken at some ceremony honoring him for a long-forgotten case.
A soft smile lit up his face as he reached out and gently touched the still image. Staring at the photo, his mind momentarily cleared, and he heard her voice, crisp and clear.
“I’m pregnant,” she had said with that intoxicating smile.
Sam remembered with perfect clarity that wonderful, bright sunny day sitting in the diner, eating cherry pie.
The smile slowly faded. He would die a thousand savage deaths for one more minute with her. Just to see her one more time.
“Don’t turn around, Sam,” a gravelly, yet strangely feminine, voice instructed.
Sam never heard her approach.
“Lift your arms over your head, please,” she quietly demanded. “You’ll have to assume I’m holding a gun.”
“Who’s Kim?” Sam asked, lifting his hands high over his head.
“Where’s Travis?” she asked.
“He’s dead. He killed himself.”
Sam desperately wanted to spin around. He wanted to come face to face with the woman behind the killer.
Silence filled the room, and Sam finally asked, “Why me, Gwen?”
There was no response.
Sam didn’t even know if she was still in the room.
“Gwen?”
Again, no response, then Sam heard the click of a hammer being cocked into firing position. The soft noise rang through his ears like a dozen sticks of dynamite exploding deep inside his head. He instinctively dropped his right hand and made a desperate grab for his gun as he simultaneously spun toward her.
He never got a firm grip around the bloodstained handle of his Beretta before the single shot rang out.
He didn’t feel the bullet enter his body, but he knew he had been hit. He lost all feeling from the waist down and watched as the floor rose and smashed into his face.
He felt a pair of hands roll him onto his back, but the image standing over him was a blur of flesh.
Sam softly called out, “Jenny.” And then whispered, “Kim.”
fifty—one
“911 . . . what’s your emergency?” the monotone voice asked.
Gwen’s gravelly voice followed, “There’s an officer down at 1216 Foster Ave. It’s the first apartment on the second floor. Please hurry. I think he’s dying.”
[][][]
Sam sat upright in his hospital bed. His upper chest was concealed in a lightweight cast, his neck bandaged in white gauze. Two intravenous needles, stuck into his right and left forearms, were the conduit for nutrients and medicine that dripped, dripped, dripped from a series of machines and computers whose AI carefully monitored the patient twenty-four hours a day.
Sam glanced to Kathy and said, “One more time.”
Kathy bit into a corn dog and commanded her tablet to play it again. “911 . . . what’s your emergency?”
“There’s an officer down at 1216 Foster Ave. It’s the first apartment on the second floor. Please hurry. I think he’s dying.”
Luck was on Sam’s side when the bullet missed his heart by less than an inch. As it exited his chest, it managed to inflict some serious internal bleeding, collapsed a lung, and cracked two ribs.
Ruth entered the room, carrying a bouquet of flowers.
“Who’s that from?” Kathy asked.
“Google News. Your story’s a hot item, Sam.”
It had been eight days since police kicked down the door of 1216 Foster Avenue and found Sam lying unconscious in a pool of blood. He awoke to the friendly smiles of Kathy and several doctors, who spent hours in surgery to bring him back from the hands of death.
The last thing he remembered was the deafening sound of the gun being cocked.
He spent the next five days recovering in intensive care. His doctors allowed only thirty minutes a day for Sam to mumble through the details of that fateful marathon night so that Gannon and several detectives could take copious notes.
On a cold Monday morning, from a room in the hospital, Gannon held a press conference and announced the identity of The Revenger. “Regrettably,” Gannon said to the packed room, “Mr. Taylor took his own life before he could be questioned regarding his motives or possible accomplices in the murders of five men. He also may have been involved in the death of three others.”
He proceeded to update Detective Sam Knight’s condition, which was now “stable,” and announced a reward for any information leading to the arrest of Gwen Thompson. A grainy photo of the old lady with the big green floppy hat was handed out to the press. Gwen’s apartment was searched, but detectives working with Kenny and his team found nothing that would link her to Travis. Everything had been left as-is, except for the photographs of Kim. The frames were still hanging, but the pictures once contained inside had been hastily stripped away.
The A.I.F. shop, along with Gwen’s dark lair on the second floor, was also meticulously searched. Again, there was no sign of Kim or a Kim program, and the bank of security monitors had never been hooked to any kind of recording device. Travis’ name had been meticulously deleted from any computer files found inside the store.
Gwen knew what she was doing.
What they did find was a complex AI operating system certainly capable of producing the extremely realistic programs.
A subsequent search of Travis’ home came up empty. All the discs, including the “Wizard of Oz in Hell” program, as Sam referred to it, had mysteriously disappeared.
Even her name offered no clues. The social security number had been taken from a woman named Gwen Thompson, who died of cervical cancer twenty years earlier.
Gwen had been thorough.
“Ms. Thompson is wanted for questioning in The Revenger case, and the death of Keith McManus, an employee of Ms. Thompson’s,” Gannon continued. “She’s also been charged with the attempted murder of Detective Sam Knight. She should be considered armed and dangerous.”
Keith’s body had been found in the bushes behind the First Saint Paul’s Evangelical Church on La Salle Drive. Ruth performed the autopsy and reported his death as a massive overdose of Apple X-215. Fresh needle marks were found along the underside of his penis. It was unclear whether Keith McManus was the victim of foul play, suicide, or accidental overdose.
