Bandoni grunted and folded his arms.
Cohen perched on the edge of the table. “What if the Superior Gentlemen are something darker than pickup artists?”
“Todd told us that Craze had taken over the group,” I said. “Maybe his arrival is what started the men down a darker path.”
Cohen snapped his fingers. “They became Forced Celibates.”
“Which means,” I said, “Donovan is a Chad.”
“Exactly.”
“Ah, Jesus,” Bandoni snarled. “The fuck are you talking about now?”
Cohen ran an absentminded thumb along his jaw. “In the online communities, Forced Celibates are involuntary virgins. Men who believe they are too unattractive or socially awkward to attract women.”
“And Chads—” I began.
“Hold on, rookie. One thing at a time.” Bandoni scraped a hand over the stubble on his scalp. “How does being unable to attract women make these celibates different from the rest of us poor schmucks who can’t get a date?”
“Plenty of people are sexually frustrated,” Cohen said. “But these men feel shame at their failure. And that shame fuels their rage.”
“Worse than pickup artists?”
“Much worse.”
“They start shooting things?”
“Most don’t. But some of them develop a profound hatred of the women they believe are depriving them of sex while simultaneously bestowing their sexual favors on more attractive men.”
“So basically, they think everyone but them is getting a little?”
“Right. They both desire women and revile them. And sometimes, shame over their lack of sexual prowess inspires extreme rage against both the women who reject them—whom they call Stacys—and the men who get in their way. The so-called Chads.”
Bandoni looked at me. “Now tell me what a Chad is.”
“They’re good-looking, charismatic men who can easily get dates.”
“Okay.” Bandoni chewed his lip. “Donovan’s good looking. Athletic. We can see on his social-media accounts that he ain’t hurting for women. If you say that makes him a Chad, I’ll buy it. Could explain why they cut off the poor kid’s dick. But what about Noah?”
Cohen nodded. “Where does he fit in?”
“He got the girl,” I said. “Ami. That might have been all it took.”
“Ami broke up their bromance?” Bandoni grunted. “Maybe. And going back to Donovan. Why’d the killers pick him out of all the other Chads we got walking around? What makes him so special outside of some possible link to Todd Asher? And”—he stabbed a finger at us—“why kill him at Redeemed Life Church?”
“If our killers are the Superior Gentlemen,” I said, “we need to figure out where their lives overlapped Donovan’s. Learn what drew their attention to him.”
“We got a whole damn busload of theories and pretty much nothing that’s concrete.” Bandoni shook back his sleeve and glanced at his watch. “I filled the lieutenant in on Evan’s theory about mass murderers, and she’s asked us to brief her in half an hour. Let’s move.”
As I gathered up the pages of the manifesto, Evan leaned over and read the final words in his sonorous BBC voice.
“What the world took from us, we shall take from the world. We have gone to darkness. So shall the world.”
CHAPTER 21
Sometimes I walk at night, searching in the dark for my memories. I hear all the normal sounds. Leaves rustling with the whisper of paper outside the windows, the whir of the garage door of a late-night neighbor, the bones of the house settling around me in a soft rumble of creaks and groans like an old woman making her way to bed.
I listen more closely and realize these sounds are antechambers to the past.
All I have to do is follow them.
—Sydney Parnell. Personal journal.
“Mass murder,” Lieutenant Lobowitz said from the other side of the desk as Bandoni finished his summary of our case.
Evan nodded. “That is our concern. Based on the killers’ writings.”
She squeezed her eyes shut. Probably hoping we’d go away.
We were gathered in a half circle on the other side of the lieutenant’s desk. Our four plus Detective Ron Gabel, who’d provided us with an update of the crime scene work completed thus far. As always, the wheels of justice, hampered by the limitations of science and manpower, ground slowly.
The lieutenant didn’t seem impressed with our progress.
I half rose from my chair and reached for a Boston cream out of the box Cohen had picked up on our way in. Bandoni beat me to it, forcing me to detour to a maple glaze. As I dropped back in my seat, Clyde stretched his chin across my thigh and gave me his best hungry-dog look.
“Sorry, pal,” I whispered and signaled him down. Clyde’s days of doughnuts and French fries were over. If I was going to ruin anyone’s health, it would be my own.
Lobowitz reopened her eyes.
Her earlier shock had been replaced by narrow-eyed hunger. This was what cops lived for, regardless of rank, department, race, color, creed, or religion: catching bad guys. The more the better. The worse the better.
Evan’s proclamation about mass murderers delivered the promise of both.
She tapped her pen on her desk. “How much time do we have before these guys act?”
“Very little, I think,” Evan said. “When they sent the manifesto to the Denver Post, they knew they were opening themselves up to a broad investigation by law enforcement. Any delay increases their chance of getting caught. They won’t want to risk that.”
She held up the photograph of the Superior Gentlemen. “Let me make sure I understand. You believe that a group of men who call themselves the Superior Gentlemen are behind two murders, with a plan to cause the deaths of God knows how many more.”
We nodded.
“But one of these so-called Superior Gentlemen is a victim. Noah Asher.”
“Our guess is Noah wanted out,” Bandoni said. “The group didn’t like that.”
“And Dashiell Donovan?”
“We’re still looking for a connection.”
She replaced the photo on the desk and gave us a narrow look. “But pickup artists? Aren’t these guys just looking for a good time?”
“There are plenty of fringe elements floating like satellites around the more mainstream groups,” Cohen said. “The factions that advocate violence operate mostly online, part of an echo
