maniac, I submitted the photos to a Web site that collected such things. I was fully dressed and demure by the time he got back.
A week went by and somehow I had forgotten about the incident. I was mired in a case. Anything else other than Matt and eating and sleeping and sex was not on my mental agenda. I came home late, exhausted, and dragged my way up to the bedroom. There I found Matt, lying on the bed. His hands were laced behind his head and he had the strangest look in his eyes.
'Something you want to tell me?' he asked.
I stopped, puzzled. Trying to think of anything. 'Not that I know of. Why?'
'Follow me.' He got out of bed and walked past me, heading toward our home office. I followed, mystified. He sat down at the desk where we had our computer. Jiggled the mouse to make the screen saver disappear. What I saw made me blush so hard, I thought my face was going to catch on fire. It was a page on the Web, and there, for the world to see, were the photos I had taken. Matt swiveled around. He had a small smile on his face.
'They e-mailed back. Apparently they
I stammered. Blushed some more. Blushed harder as I realized that I was getting turned on.
'I don't think you should do that again, Smoky--neck down or not, it's probably not real smart. In fact, it's pretty stupid. If anyone found out, you'd be fired in a heartbeat.'
I stared at him, my face still hot, nodded. 'Yeah. I mean, you're right. I won't. But . . .'
He arched his eyebrows in that way I'd always thought was sexy as hell. 'But . . . ?'
'But for now--let's fuck.'
And I was tearing off my clothes, and he was tearing off his, and we ended up howling at the moon. The last thing he said to me before we both fell asleep that night was so funny at the time, so Matt, that it stabs me in the heart to remember now. He'd grinned, eyes half lidded.
'What?' I asked.
'Not my daddy's FBI anymore, now, is it?'
I started giggling, and he started laughing, and we made love again and fell asleep spooned against each other.
I am not judgmental of the harmless excursions adults make, whatever the Bureau's public stance may be. I see the ending of life. It's hard to get excited about someone showing their boobs. But that's a far cry from running a Web site and charging people to watch me stuff things between my legs. I wonder if Annie got more from it than just money, or if it was only about the money. Remembering my friend, it was probably about more than just money. She was always a free-range runner, a female Icarus flying just a little too close to the sun. I shake myself from this reverie. I wonder for a moment if I have lost time, if I'm going to become one of those shell-shocked people who stop talking mid-sentence to stare off into the distance. I see James studying me. For some reason, the image of him--of all people--finding out about those pictures that got posted flies into my mind, sparking an irrational bit of paranoia. God, I really would have to kill myself then.
'You sound like you know your stuff, Leo. We're going to need you on the computer angle, so I hope you are a supergeek.'
'The superest.' He grins.
'Let's hear about the note.'
Callie reaches over to her satchel, opens it, pulls a printout from a folder. She hands it over to me.
'Did you read this?' I ask James.
'Yes.' He hesitates. 'It's . . . interesting.'
I nod, meeting his eyes, and I feel the connection. Oil and ball bearings. This is where we meet, and he wants to know what I think of it, whatever else he might feel or say.
I focus my attention on the words as I read them. I need to get into this killer's mind, and these are words he gave a lot of thought to. To us this document is priceless. It can tell us a lot about this monster, if we can unravel it.
To Special Agent Smoky J. Barrett. I wish this was 'eyes only,' but I know how little your FBI respects privacy when it comes to a chase. Every door is thrown open, the shades are rolled up, the shadows chased away.
I'd like to apologize first for the lapse between
killing your friend and alerting the police to her death. It couldn't be helped. I needed time to get certain things into motion. I will strive to be honest with you, Agent Barrett, and I will be honest here. While the needed time was the primary factor, I'll admit that thinking about little Bonnie, face-to-face with her mother's corpse for those three days, staring into her dead eyes, smelling the stink as it began, held a curious thrill for me. Do you think she'll ever recover from that? Or do you think she'll be haunted by it until the day she dies? Will that day come sooner, perhaps by her own hand, as she tries to chase away the nightmares with a sharp razor or some sleeping pills? Only time will tell, but thinking about it is interesting.
Further honesty: I didn't touch the child. I enjoy the pain of people, I am that serial cliche. I am not morally against the sexual rape of youth, but it holds no particular allure for me. She remains chaste, at least physically. Raping her mind was far more fulfilling. As you are one of those people who cannot turn away from death, I'll tell you about the death of your friend, Annie King. She did not die quickly. She was in much pain. She begged for her life. I found this both amusing and arousing. What, I wonder, does that make you tick off on your checklist about me, Agent Barrett?
Let me help you along.
I was not the victim of sexual or physical abuse as a child. I was not a bedwetter, and I did not torture small animals. I am something far purer. I am a legacy. I do what I do because I come from a bloodline, from the FIRST.
It is truly what I was born to do. Are you ready for this next, Agent Barrett? You will scoff, but here it is: I am a direct descendant of Jack the Ripper.
There. It's said. You are, no doubt, shaking your head as you read this. You've consigned me to the status of another nut, an unfortunate soul who hears voices and gets his orders from God.
We'll clear up that misconception, and soon. For now, let's leave it at this: Your friend Annie King, she was a whore. A modern-day whore of the information superhighway. She deserved to die screaming. Whores are a cancer on the face of this world; she was no exception.
She was the first. She will not be the last.
I am carrying on in the footsteps of my ancestor. Like him, I will not be caught, and like him, what I do will become history. Will you play the Inspector Abberline to my Jack?
I hope so, I truly do.
Let's begin the chase in such a way: Be at your office on the 20th. A package for you will be delivered, and it will authenticate my statements. Though I know you won't listen, I give you my word that the package I send will contain no traps or bombs.
Go and visit little Bonnie. Perhaps you can wake each other up screaming at night, now that you're her new mommy.
And remember--there are no voices, no commands from God. All I have to listen to, to know who I am, is the beating of my own heart.
From Hell, Jack Jr.
I finish reading and am silent and still for a moment. 'That's some letter,' I say.
'Just another wacko,' Callie says in a voice that's brimming with scorn.
I purse my lips. 'I don't think so. I think this one's more than that.'
I shake my head to clear it, look at James. 'We'll talk about this later. I need to think about it for a little while.'
He nods. 'Yes. I also want to see the scene before I draw any real conclusions.'
That connection again. I feel the same way. We need to be there where it happened. To stand on the killing ground. We need to smell him.
'Speaking of that,' I say, 'who caught this at SFPD?'
'Your old friend Jennifer Chang,' Alan rumbles from the front of the plane, surprising me. 'I talked to her last night. She doesn't know you're coming up with us.'
'Chang, that's good. She's one of the best.' I met Detective Jennifer Chang on a case nearly six years ago.
