Wrong Question, page 12
“Did she also spit in the water?”
“She fell in,” the boy repeated.
The screen went blank as suddenly as it came alive.
“Go write your blog and do it well. Do not serve your subscribers another worthless….” The voice cut off as if someone had pulled a feed.
I sat there and for the longest time I could not find a focus. Words swam through my head without taking roots. I did not leave my laptop on. Obviously my subscriber got hold of my IP address and took control of my laptop, offsite. My laptop had a web camera. Was he watching me too? What was I supposed to do with the chilling show-and-tell?
Dig deeper, I heard a voice. It sounded as if it came from a robot.
I found a bandage in a First Aid Kit and taped it over the web camera dot on top of the frame. Then I went to work, making a list of information that my blog-stalker gave me.
“Whoever you are you have access to some very inaccessible information,” I said when I studied the list. While statistics showed that, at least in US, one in five murders of children are committed by other children, Martin and Bradley were extremely young. Their age alone would have precluded their identification. The literature was full of child-murderers but not six years old. Eight, nine, ten and older—yes, but younger….
I took out my cell phone. This time my father picked up on the third ring.
“I’m fact-checking, Dad,” I said hurriedly before he could get the word in.
“Is that all I am now to you, Bree-Ann? A handy reference library?”
“No, Dad. But I have a deadline. I’m sorry if I’m inconveniencing you…”
“Of course you’re not inconveniencing me. Shoot.”
“Do you know of a murder case where the murderer was a very young child—say, six or seven but no older?”
“Not recently.”
“Okay then, historically speaking.”
“Back in 1929, in Kentucky, a six year old killed his eight-year old friend, shot him with daddy’s gun. The boys fought over a piece of scrap iron. Times were tough back then. The eight year old hit his younger friend in the face. The six-year old ran home and his friend followed him. Then the younger one took out his father’s gun and shot his friend. I think he’s the youngest killer we have on record, and not just in Kentucky.”
“But there was emotion involved. The boys fought over something.”
“Yes. Didn’t I just say that? What are you after, Bree-Ann?”
“A psycho. Deliberate killing. No remorse, no emotions.”
“A six year old—would be hard to establish a moral void. I mean at that age, kids fight and anything that happens like way back in Kentucky, would be pure emotions. No control. As for remorse, I doubt you’d be able to apply that even to a ten year old. At that age, you can establish whether they are able to distinguish between right and wrong, but there is really no type for youthful killer. But murderous children often come from families where they see or experience much violence. I think there was a seven-year old back about thirty years ago or so, who threw a two-year old off the roof. Now, you want to go extremely young age, the Journal of the American Medical Association reported on five Cleveland cases where children of 2 1/2 to 8 years killed infants. The babies all died from head injuries after being dropped on the floor or hit with a blunt instrument. But nothing premeditated. Once again, pure anger and the young killers were victims of violence themselves.”
“Thanks, Dad. I really appreciate it.”
“Bree-Ann, don’t hang up. Why don’t you ask me what you really want to ask me?”
There were fathers out there who barely knew their children. Mine knew me inside out. It was enough to rattle me into telling him what I wanted.
“I’m not avoiding answering, Bree-Ann, I’m just pre-empting your accusation. But how did you come by those names?”
“Are they real, Dad?”
“Yes. How?”
“Do you know the case?”
“I know of it. You should not have seen any reports where those names are featured. There was a media black-out.”
“How do you know of it, Dad?”
“I know some of the medical experts who were brought to consult on the case.”
“Child psychiatrists?”
“And lawyers, Bree-Ann, many high-powered and very expensive lawyers.”
“The young killers came from prominent families?”
“Just one. They were brothers.”
“Bradley and Martin…?” I let the question hang.
“I can’t, Bree-Ann. Let this one go. Turn your back and forget you ever saw or heard—or wherever you came across this case.”
“I’m a journalist, Dad. I can’t just let things go.”
“Some things you will have to. This is one of them.”
“The boys’ parents are either very rich or in politics. Am I close?”
“The boys killed six young girls in a span of three days by luring them to the edge of the property where they discovered a poorly covered water well. It wasn’t deep but it was full of rain water. They pushed them into it then threw in rocks to silence their screams. Four of the victims were children of divorced parents who barely spoke to each other. When one parent came to pick up their daughter, the boys were ready with a story of how the other parent had already picked her up. The last two victims, sisters, had both parents who came to pick them up. That’s how the killers were caught.”
“Six?” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing once he started talking. When he finished I only heard that horrific victim count.
“The first five were practice runs. The last victim was the one they meant to kill. They wanted to do it right, just like their piano teacher kept telling them—practice, practice, practice. Let it go, Bree-Ann.”
“Yeah, sure, I will. Thanks, Dad.” I hung up before he found something else to lecture me about.
I sent my mother an email, telling her I wouldn’t be able to make good on my promise and post the blog on Wednesday, twelve noon their time, but I would do it next week. My cell phone showed it was just after three o’clock. I hadn’t eaten yet but going to Frankie’s made my stomach cramp. I called Ben, half hoping his voicemail would come on. He answered as quickly as my father did.
“Sorry to bother. I should have explored this county the first week I got here. I’ve been here almost a month and I don’t know….”
“What do you need?” He was direct but he didn’t sound brusque.
“Library, pharmacy, and an electronics store. A decent eatery would be good too. Do I have to drive to Boise…?”
“No. Half an hour, tops. Mountain Ridge downtown has everything you want. County Courthouse will have some records that might be of interest to you. Our CostMart here has pharmacy and electronics though.”
I thanked him and to avoid answering as to why I needed to leave the Kinematic paradise, hung up. It wasn’t because I didn’t think CostMart would be able to satisfy me as a customer. I wanted a bit of distance from Kinematic, so I could find a coffee shop or a restaurant with a WiFi and use theirs. The New York head-office contracted the Internet service provider for its satellite office in Kinematic. We just used it; we didn’t get billed so I had no idea who the ISP provider was. My subscriber-turned-stalker hacked me and captured my IP. He obviously knew a heck of a lot more than I did. Regardless of who the ISP provider was for our rural office, my IP was attached to the WiFi that served all five of us. I put a bandage over my camera eye on my laptop. Now I needed to log-on to a different WiFi network that would give my computer a different IP address.
I needed to buy a thumb drive that would hold my laptop’s entire hard drive. Someone who could remotely turn on my laptop could just as well remotely erase its hard disk. The desktop back in the office had the email my subscriber sent me from Jake’s account but all the rest of his communication—his intimidating videos, his messages, indeed his entire relentless campaign to get me to blog his scenarios—were on my laptop. I needed evidence I could take with me when I met with Ben’s buddy, the private investigator from Sacramento. I had serious work to do, and I didn’t want anyone eavesdropping on me.
And last but not least, I needed to replenish my stash of cold medication. I doubt they had the brands that worked for me in CostMart.
“Bree-Ann, twice in one day—what’s wrong and don’t try to con me,” Dad answered as if he had a bluetooth plugged in his ear.
“Dad, I’m just outside a library, doing research for my next blog. It’s harder than I thought. I need your help.”
“Anything. You know I’m always here for you when you need me. Shoot.”
I wondered whether he used to say that to his clients—all of them incarcerated and in mandatory rehab. If he did, then he was the luckiest prison shrink ever because all his clients had a sense of humor.
“There was a case, an accident in Hampden, back about a week or so; an amateur roller-blade player…”
“A pivot,” he broke in. “And a very talented one. It was a shame; her fiancé is suing the helmet manufacturer.” He went on. I let him talk. It was therapeutic for him to be asked for help by his twenty-six year old independent daughter. But my attention got stuck on the fiancé who was suing the helmet manufacturer. When he paused for breath, I said, “Dad, how much is the lawsuit?”
“Oh, several million I think. I could find out.”
“Thank you. That would be helpful. Text me back. I’ll be in the library so my cell phone will be on vibrate.” I added hastily. My father would find the info in record time and call me. Three times in a single day was too much—for both of us.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I came home just before eleven o’clock. I parked the loaner one spot over from where I used to park my dear-departed Sentra, and sat for five minutes, my mouth agape—reflecting. If after a month I was already conditioned to think that returning to the trailer camp was coming home, what would my mindset be after two years? Would I be blogging about a special cut-and-blow dry at the hair salon or two-for-one breakfast at Frankie’s?
My excursion to Mountain Ridge was wholly satisfactory.
I had my murder-in-disguise number four on my thumb drive and my laptop, all ready to be posted tomorrow and I came by it honestly—by chatting up a clerk in the court house. She reminded me a bit of my mother; or rather what my mother might have been forty years ago. She had five kids, a year apart. The oldest was fifteen. I couldn’t imagine what her life must have been with three toddlers and two pre-schoolers around and I didn’t want to know what it was like with three teens and two tweens. She was sensitive enough and spent only a minute or so telling me about her family then she asked about my purpose for getting lost in the courthouse. She let me stay in the ‘reading room’ for two hours and then it was closing time. Fortunately, the library stayed open until nine p.m.
I considered running one of the three maybe-fake scenarios that my vigilante subscriber kept forcing upon me, but I would have to wash them with some powerful soap to scrub all resemblance to real cases, and didn’t feel up to it. It was heading on midnight. I had called Jake on my way to the library and Melina when I left it. They knew I was driving from Mountain Ridge and if I’d not made it before midnight, they were to call the Sheriff’s office. Melina took a selfie with her tongue stuck out and emailed it to me before calling to tell me she’d call Ben before she called any officer of the law.
I made it without any incidents. Ben’s loaner was a very comfortable SUV, with a satellite radio no less. I made good use of it on the way to Mountain Ridge and back. Before turning in, I made sure every appliance that sucked power was turned off and considered taping my laptop shut but that would just leave a sticky residue on its nice matte jacket.
I dreamed I was having a conversation with Cyril.
“You don’t have the slightest notion what it means to be a war correspondent,” I said, blowing bubbles into my beer with a straw.
“You’re drunk” he said and took away my toy. He crushed the straw and pushed the beer mug at the bartender. He tapped the counter twice with his index finger. It was a signal not to serve me anything but water or coffee; except the place didn’t serve coffee and the only water they had was Perrier.
“You can’t get drunk on sipping beer through a straw,” I said.
“Probably not but you were already floating in cough syrup when the beer came.”
“I was not.”
He stuck his cell phone into my face. “App says you were. ShureDrug Mart, last purchase.”
We both had the app that showed us the state of our finances when we made transit of bars and clubs in New York. We got stuck in Jersey one night, with maxed out credit cards and empty bank cards. The next influx of money into my account, he made me get the app. To be fair, he got one too.
“The app’s wrong. It’s a string of code, broken for all I know. You don’t even know how to hold a gun.”
“I won’t be holding a gun. I’ll be holding a camera, or a handycam or just my cell phone. Or maybe I’ll just hold on to my notebook and sketchpad.”
“And who’s going to hold them for you when you get your hands blown off?”
“You dramatize everything, especially when you’re drunk.”
“Oh, so you won’t be corresponding from a war zone, is that it?”
“I want to do something meaningful; sketch and record the best and worst of human nature. You don’t find that at the local crafts fair. I don’t want to waste years kissing ass just to get to write a sports blog or some such shit. I’m heading where every story has a unique human voice and every tear is filled with history of the land where it’s shed.”
“War is about death. It’s very boring. But I suppose that’s what appeals to you—boredom of watching men blow up everything around them.”
“What’s even more appealing is when the dust settles.”
“Then you can see clearly, is that it?” I mocked.
“Then you start re-building. That’s the miracle of life. The human spirit that won’t stay crushed.”
“Oh, it’ll stay crushed and you’ll end up getting crushed with it. I don’t want a boyfriend who looks like a flattened tin can.”
“You don’t want a boyfriend, period.”
“Well, finally we agree on something. I’m getting a taxi and it’s not going to be Uber.”
The dream played on but I wasn’t attuned to it anymore. Half of my senses sprang awake.
I strained my ears. The silence was the same as always—complete. There was no wildlife dropping by for midnight snack. There was no hooting owl or screeching bird. There was just silence…but something woke me up.
I tried to go back to sleep but it proved to be harder than I thought. My mind wasn’t racing with thoughts, but neither was it undulating on a fluffy cloud.
I decided to see who else suffered from insomnia and went into MoonChat. Five members were online but FrostyAir wasn’t one of them. Everything about this newest member of our group felt the same as my vigilante subscriber but I didn’t have a shred of proof that the two were one and the same person. I decided to throw a Hail-Mary.
“Lucinda here, guys. I have a problem that won’t let me sleep,” I typed. The four usernames that were online had registered as male but they could have lied. Sometimes, it was safer to let the others assume you were a man. I picked a female username and didn’t bother hiding the fact that it was gender-appropriate.
“Must be a boyfriend or a job,” KeystoneKop answered me with a smiley emoticon at the end of the sentence.
“Job. I have a story I’d like to tell but first I need to make sure it’s true.”
“Check it out. Web’s frontier is big,” KK wrote back.
“I’ve no references. No timeline. No location. Just names but names are commonplace.”
“Is your event commonplace too?” KK wanted to know.
“No, it’s somewhat unique but I still need a starting point to start checking out facts and figures.”
“Can’t you start with the two names?”
“Commonplace, like I said. Bradley and Martin.”
The cursor remained still for some time then the invitation I hoped would come, arrived. “Go to the private chat-room,” FrostyAir awakened. I felt he’d be lurking somewhere in the depths of the electronic world. People like him would have all kinds of alerts set up that would let them know when a keyword popped up somewhere on the grid.
“What do you need?” FrostyAir typed.
“A starting point.”
“The two names seem to be a good starting point.”
“They would be—if they didn’t belong to minors. Cases where minors are involved must be handled very carefully. Where minors are involved, much of the information is locked by judicial order. My employer would be sued if leaked information was connected to him.”
“Aren’t you a journalist?” FrostyAir knew exactly who I was. Then again, I didn’t keep that part of my chat-group identity secret.
“I would like to remain employed as one. It’s the main reason why I cannot use any stories that feature minors.”
“You can change the names, make up new identities.”
“I will do that but I still need a starting point—location would be nice to have.”
“You just have to ask the right questions and wrong answers will rain from the sky.”
“It’s three a.m. I’m tired. What do you want?” I decided to raise the stakes.
“That’s the last question you should be asking.”
“I’m asking it. Either you tell me or I’m getting out of here.”
“I want you to dig deep.”
“I’m not a well digger. I’m a journalist.”
“You’re a blogger. You have a long way to go before you can call yourself a journalist.”
“You must be one of my subscribers. What do you think of my blog—C-Murder of the Week?”
“Shallow. Dig deeper.”
“My murders are fictional. That’s my only mandate.”
“It shouldn’t be. Break away. Break the leash.”
