him in eluding law enforcement. He’s also a polyglot — he speaks multiple languages, which has allowed him live abroad and blend in without arousing suspicion.’
‘You’ve called him — and I quote — a rare combination of sociopath and psychopath.’
Borgia nodded. ‘Because of his background and training in psychology, he managed to evade detection by our screening process. That gives you an indication of just how highly intelligent he is. People who knew him described him as a loner — and emotionally impenetrable.
‘While he worked as a profiler, he was suspected of murdering mass murderers and serial killers — cases he was working on. When the Bureau discovered what he was doing, we sent three agents to his home to question him.’
‘And what happened?’
‘Fletcher attacked them. One agent is still on life-support.’
‘And the other two agents?’
‘We don’t know what happened to them,’ Borgia said. ‘They disappeared.’
‘And during all these years as a fugitive, what has he been up to, do you know?’
‘Fletcher has become, in his own right, a very dangerous serial killer. As long as he’s out there, no one is safe. We need the public’s help to find him. The federal government is offering a three-million-dollar reward to the person offering information leading to Fletcher’s capture and arrest.’
‘This picture we’re about to show, is it a recent picture?’
‘This is the last picture we have of him. Before Fletcher disappeared, he had taken the extraordinary steps of erasing all information about himself from the Bureau — this happened before computers and databases were as prevalent as they are today. Everything existed on paper.
‘Malcolm Fletcher has one distinguishing characteristic, as you’re about to see,’ Borgia said. ‘One that’s impossible to disguise.’
63
Malcolm Fletcher’s face appeared on the LED screens overlooking Times Square. The picture showed him with short black hair and a face composed of chiselled-granite angles. He wasn’t wearing contact lenses. His strange, black eyes stared down at the surrounding streets.
Many people stopped to watch. Others shivered and turned away, quickening their pace.
Dan Harris’s voice spoke over Malcolm Fletcher’s photograph: ‘Explain the man’s eyes, what happened?’
‘We honestly don’t know,’ Borgia said. ‘Unfortunately, there’s nothing on file in Bureau records as to the nature of this medical condition. The specialists we spoke with are divided. Some believe it’s either ocular melanocytosis or pigment-dispersion syndrome, both congenital diseases which cause an unusual dispersion of dark pigmentation in the eyes. There’s also ocular siderosis, caused by iron toxicity. The lack of colour in the eyes could simply be an aberrant genetic mutation.’
‘A birth defect, in other words.’
‘A rare, one-of-a-kind birth defect.’ Borgia paused for emphasis, then continued. ‘This defect will allow us to find him.’
‘What about contact lenses?’
‘It’s a possibility. However, when he worked for the Bureau, he made no effort to disguise his condition. Another former profiler told us that Fletcher said he was allergic to contacts. If Fletcher is, in fact, wearing contacts they’ll be specially made ones that cover the entire eye. We’ve seen some created by Hollywood prop makers, and even the best ones can’t mimic the human eye — the tiny blood vessels, etcetera. If you get close enough, you can see that they’re fake.’
‘Let’s read off that toll-free number.’
A small crowd of scrawny Goth teenagers dressed in black leather jackets and hoodies had gathered across the street from ABC’s massive LED screens. Heavily tattooed and pierced, they pounded cans of Red Bull in between chain-smoking cigarettes to counter the downing effects of alcohol and ecstasy. T. J., a reedy man with a blue Mohawk and pierced lips, was the first to speak: ‘Jesus, that dude’s a freak.’
The man standing near by glanced in his direction. T. J. couldn’t see the eyes. Dude was wearing sunglasses.
T. J. looked away, feeling his scrotum tightening. He had noticed the guy coming out of the coffee shop. Something about the dude gave off this, like, primal reaction that made T. J. want to turn and start walking in the opposite direction — quickly.
Maybe it was the guy’s size. Dude was built like a brick shithouse — tall and ferociously solid underneath that stylish John Varvatos look he was rocking: scuffed black boots with a grey tie worn against a chambray shirt; a black scarf wrapped loosely around his neck. He wore black leather gloves and a fedora that gave him that cool and edgy New York artist look.
The only woman in the group stared at the picture of Malcolm Fletcher on the TV screens and said, ‘I think he’s kind of hot.’
‘Hold up,’ another man said. ‘You think this guy’s good looking?’
‘He’s got a sexy face,’ she said. ‘Strong jaw and nice cheekbones. I’m just saying.’
T. J. saw the big dude with the sunglasses dump his coffee into a bin and start to walk towards them. T. J. waved a hand to shut up his friends.
The stranger stepped up next to them. ‘Excuse me,’ he said with some sort of accent — British, maybe. ‘I was wondering if I might take a quick look at that.’ He pointed to the New York Times tucked underneath the girl’s arm.
‘You can have it,’ she said. ‘I just buy it for the Books section.’
The man thanked her and wished them all a good day. T. J. breathed a sigh of relief when the dude walked away.
Malcolm Fletcher didn’t have to hunt for the story. The New York Times had printed his headshot above the fold so the news of his escape wouldn’t be missed. His picture covered nearly a quarter of the paper. The title read ‘American Nightmare’.
The story was long on speculation and short of facts; it reeked of bureaucratic rote. The Bureau’s PR executives were working overtime to spin the botched raid.
The last paragraph encapsulated the same lies Alexander Borgia had spouted on that morning’s TV programme: ‘Malcolm Fletcher defies characterization, at least in any textbook sense. On one hand, he’s a very clever and highly intelligent sociopath who lacks any sense of moral responsibility or social conscience. He’s also an extremely cunning and manipulative psychopath. He’s unable to feel normal human emotions such as love and empathy.’
Fletcher made his way up Seventh Avenue, heading for Central Park. On his way into the city, he had changed into clothing more suited to walking around New York during daylight. The old clothing went inside a department- store bag, which he had tossed into a dumpster. The tactical belt went inside the new backpack. After ditching the white BMW by the side of a busy street, he had wandered for the good part of an hour before finding a suitable vehicle to take him to New York. He had ditched that one inside a parking lot a few blocks away.
Fletcher checked his watch. He had plenty of time.
He found a department store and quickly purchased the clothing he needed. He declined the shopping bag; instead, he neatly folded the clothing inside his backpack.
Inside a drugstore he purchased two disposable, pre-charged cell phones with sixty minutes of talk time, a mail folder, a marker pen and a copy of Newsweek. He found a diner, sat in a quiet corner and activated both phones. He wrote his number on M’s phone and sealed it inside the mailer.
After breakfast, Fletcher continued up Seventh Avenue. He turned right on to Central Park South and entered the busy lobby of the New York Athletic Club. The older gentleman standing behind the reception smiled pleasantly, eager to help.
‘One of your members, Emma White, asked me to deliver this to the front desk,’ Fletcher said, and placed the sealed mailer on the countertop. ‘She asked that you place it inside her mail box.’
