The Watcher in the Wall, page 14
Stevens had reached for the phone, ready to call Tallahassee, the local law enforcement, get this kid on their radar. Happened to scroll down the page as he was dialing, realized the guy had already gone and done it. Too late.
He’d stopped reading the forums pretty quick after that. Figured, there were thirty-five thousand suicide victims in the country every year; he’d drive himself crazy trying to save them all. Figured this was triage, and at that moment, saving Ashley Frey was about the only thing that mattered.
Of course, that was when Ashley Frey was a person of interest, another potential suicide victim. Not a predator.
Stevens fired up the Death Wish forums again. He wasn’t looking for victims this time, or hobbyists. He was looking for a third brand of user he’d discovered in his reading, the creeps who filled the comment boxes underneath the sad stories, urging the miserable to go ahead and kill themselves already. They were the fetishists who lurked around the forums in hopes that they could witness death like spectators, and it was here, Stevens hoped, that he would pick up the trail to Randall Gruber.
• • •
The breakthrough came in an older post, dated a few months previous. A middle-aged man, a drug addict. Lonely and tired of failing at life, he wrote. The fetishists jumped all over him.
Stevens followed the thread, read thirty or forty responses, from fetishists and sympathizers alike. Felt his Spidey sense start to tingle as he kept reading, knew he was on the right path, even if he didn’t know yet what he was aiming to find.
Just go ahead and do it, one of the fetishists had written. Head on the train tracks. Don’t forget to bring a GoPro.
That malignant brand of human was nicknamed DeathAngel, and seemed to be a fixture on the site. Stevens made a note of his profile and kept reading down the thread.
The original poster—a man named N33dlep0int—had stayed tuned in to the thread for about a week. Then, abruptly, and in the middle of an argument about technique by a couple of spectators, he’d cut in:
I’m going to do it. Enough bullshit. Chicagoland, watch the news tonight. And sorry about your commute.
There was a slew of replies underneath, either words of encouragement or pleas to reconsider. But N33dlep0int hadn’t replied, not to anyone. On page four of the thread, DeathAngel posted a link.
I think this was our boy, he wrote. Click through. Some news footage, but nothing juicy.
It was a link to a news article, some Chicago-area site. “Commuters Delayed by Suicide on the BNSF Line.” Details were sketchy, just a video clip of a reporter in front of a Metra train.
“Witnesses say the man threw himself in front of the five forty-five out of Union Station,” the reporter said. “Commuter trains were halted as much as an hour, causing no shortage of headaches to those trying to get home.”
Trying to find something better, DeathAngel wrote. Hoping for amateur footage or, if not, a security camera.
Keep us posted, someone else replied. Would love to see a better angle of this.
But the thread petered out about a month after the original post, three weeks after N33dlep0int’s real-life identity, one Roger Graham, had jumped in front of the train.
No luck, DeathAngel wrote. I’ve contacted all my sources, and nobody has anything. Guess we’re going to have to make do with our imaginations, kiddos.
Thank God, Stevens thought. He clicked through to DeathAngel’s profile, found a history of all the posts he’d made on the site. At the top of the page, he found what he was looking for. Another thread with a tragic end: TEEN SUICIDE IN MINNESOTA.
Got the hookup on some sweet webcam footage, DeathAngel wrote. Subscription required, but well worth the price.
He’d attached a link. Stevens clicked it, waited as his browser loaded up the page, feeling his stomach start to churn, knowing this was Adrian Miller, knowing he couldn’t unsee what he was about to watch.
But the link only brought Stevens to a password-protect screen. No decoration, no website name, just a black background and a couple of white boxes, USERNAME and PASSWORD.
Stevens stared at the screen. Felt his cop instincts humming like a live wire, knew this was the right track. Someone was selling footage of Adrian Miller’s death. Somewhere through this portal, Stevens knew, there was a way to find Randall Gruber.
All he needed was to know how to crack it.
< 61 >
Madison’s phone buzzed just as first period ended. A text message from Brandon. Hey. You around?
Just got out of class, she wrote back, dodging people in the hall as she typed. What’s up?
She was almost at her locker when her phone buzzed again. Only, this time it kept buzzing. Was he actually calling her?
She ducked into an alcove. Composed herself as the phone kept vibrating in her hand, tried to calm down, get a grip. She accepted the call. “Hello?”
A pause that seemed to stretch forever. Then: “Madison?”
It was him. Madison felt an electric current jolt through her body. “Hey,” she said. “Hi. You actually called. Is it as bad as you thought it would be?”
Brandon laughed, a fast, nervous laugh. “It’s pretty bad,” he said. “I’m kind of freaking out right now. I told you I speak pretty funny.”
“You don’t have to be scared,” she told him. “I don’t care. It’s just nice to hear that you’re, like, a real person.”
His voice was kind of funny. A little hint of a lisp, just something a bit off. Of course he didn’t want to call her. People probably gave him all kinds of shit every time he opened his mouth.
“I just wanted to hear your voice,” he said. “I feel like we really have a connection. Like we’re really ready to do something huge together.”
Madison held the phone to her ear, surveyed the hallway. Kids at their lockers, laughing, texting, shooting mean looks her way. Nudging each other and whispering, giggling.
That’s the girl. That’s Rudolph. What a loser.
Screw you, she thought. Screw all of you. I’m talking to my boyfriend and he’s a real person and he’s cute and awesome, and we’re going to leave you all in this shithole and do amazing things together, just watch.
“So let’s do it,” she said. “Let’s run away, just the two of us, Thelma and Louise, or whatever.”
She waited for Brandon to reply. He didn’t. “We could move to California or something,” she said. “Or, hell, Canada. Or Europe, or Thailand, or wherever you want. We can leave our shitty lives and be together forever, just the two of us.”
There was another pause, long enough that Madison wondered if the call had dropped. Realized, no, that Brandon just wasn’t answering.
“Or, you know, whatever,” she said, hating how desperate and lonely and lame she sounded. “It was just a suggestion, you know? What were you thinking?”
She heard him inhale. “I was thinking about the plan,” he told her. “What we always talk about doing. I’m thinking that now is the time.”
“I thought we talked about being together,” she said. “I just feel like everything would be okay if we could just hang out together.”
“We will be together,” Brandon told her. “After we’re dead, we’ll be immortal. They’ll never say my name without saying yours, too.”
“Well, yeah,” Madison said. “But who says we have to be dead? I just want to get out of here. And don’t you want to see what it’s like to be face-to-face? To, like, actually have a conversation together?
“Come on,” she said. “What do you say? Who cares about suicide? Let’s just freaking bail.”
Another agonizing silence. Then: “I can’t do it,” Brandon said. “I can’t see you. I’m sorry.”
“Why not?”
“I’m just . . . I’m afraid I’ll lose my nerve,” he said, and the lisp was back, a stutter. “I’m afraid I’ll see you and I won’t want to go through with it anymore.”
Madison felt a little thrill. The hint of a smile. “And what’s so bad about that?”
“I don’t want to live,” Brandon said. “I just want to die, Madison. I thought you were coming with me. I thought we were in this together.”
The smile faded, fast. “We are,” Madison told him. “You and me, together, nobody else. I just . . . thought it would be nice to spend some time with you first, is all.”
“We’ll have all the time in the world,” Brandon said. “Once we’re both dead, Madison, we’ll have nothing but time.”
Kids were dispersing from the hall headed for second period. Madison stood in the alcove and watched them go, imagined Brandon’s face in the pictures he’d sent her, those sad, lonely eyes. Wondered why he couldn’t just want to live with her, just run away together.
Wondered why she wasn’t good enough to convince him life didn’t have to be so bad.
“I need you, Madison,” he said. “I can’t do this much longer. Are you with me, or not?”
The bell rang. She was officially late, but who cared? This call was more important. And if she answered wrong, Madison knew that Brandon would hang up the phone and disappear from her life and probably go off and do something awful. She couldn’t have that.
So she lied. “I’m with you,” she told him. “You and me, forever.”
< 62 >
Gruber turned off the voice distorter and put down the phone, satisfied with himself. Madison was invested, her escape fantasies deflected. She would follow him to the grave and believe it was romance. All things considered, Gruber figured he’d done pretty well, especially when he factored in the sketched-out kid with a Dirty Harry revolver listening in to the whole spiel from the couch.
“You have to develop a rapport with them,” Gruber told the kid. “It’s a fine line. They have to get to know you, trust you, but there’s gotta be a reason they can’t be with you, you know? Otherwise . . .” He laughed, gestured to himself. “Well, I mean, the gig would be up pretty quickly, right?”
The kid looked at the burger he was holding. Grimaced, and put it back in the bag. “Yeah,” he said. “I get it, man.”
The kid’s name was Donovan. Whether that was a first name or a last, Gruber couldn’t be sure, but he’d listened in on the guy’s phone call last night, to his boss or whoever. Made sure he was explaining the situation properly, the two prospects. Gruber figured he would have to put the screws to SevenBot a little bit, hold out for more money up front, but he knew the Dylan Price footage would be worth the investment. And DarlingMadison would be even better.
Heck, a part of Gruber wished he really could see the girl in the flesh. She looked so much like Sarah; it would be a treat to meet her in person, cook up something special for her, for the both of them.
But, alas, Gruber figured this Donovan character wouldn’t go along with that kind of excursion. The kid was disgusted enough by the whole procedure as it was.
He was sitting on Gruber’s little couch, the big revolver in one hand, a sack of White Castle sliders in the other. He’d been watching Gruber, listening in, his face all screwed up, as if Gruber were performing a home birth on the dirty carpet.
“It’s an art form, what I’m doing,” Gruber told him. “Not everyone could do what I do.”
“Yeah, I guess you got that right.”
Gruber studied the pictures of the victims he’d taped to the wall. R. J. Ramirez. Shelley Clark. All the rest. Felt a little rush of adrenaline just seeing their faces.
“I would say I’m pretty well an angel of death,” he said. “Shepherding people across to the other side, right? It’s a hell of a rush, if you want to know the truth.”
“I don’t.” Donovan pushed the sack away. Wiped off his hands on a napkin, then picked up the revolver. “Do me a favor, though?”
Gruber met his eyes. “Yeah?”
“Stop talking,” Donovan told him. “That fucked-up shit you’re saying, it’s making me lose my appetite.”
Gruber stared at him, momentarily deflated. Then he shrugged. “Not everyone can do what I’m doing,” he said again. “Not everyone has what it takes.”
< 63 >
“It’s an underground website,” the agent told Stevens and Windermere. “Kind of a clearinghouse for snuff films. Password-protected, access by referral, the whole bit. As you can imagine, the people who watch this stuff are pretty careful about their privacy.”
The cyber crimes agent was a guy named Spinarski, probably around Stevens’s age, sensible shoes and a mustache going to gray. Agent Wheeler had brought him up from the basement to see if he couldn’t help.
Turned out he could.
“There’s footage on this site that could impact an investigation we’re working,” Stevens told him. “So how do we get in?”
Spinarski smiled. “Easy.” He reached for the keyboard, typed in a username and password, pressed enter. Stepped back in triumph as the page loaded.
“We’ve known about this site for a while,” he said. “They don’t know it yet, but we managed to finagle a referral. It’s been mighty helpful when it comes to tracking these guys down.”
As if to punctuate his remarks, the screen came to life behind him, a video player, a black background, none of the theatrics that came with the suicide sites.
“Just be careful while you’re on here,” Spinarski told them. “My agents worked long and hard for this referral. Anyone figures out who you are, you’re blowing months of hard work, get it?”
“Look, but don’t touch,” Windermere said. “We got it.”
Spinarski lingered, an anxious parent handing over the car keys. “Okay,” he said at last. “Happy hunting.” With one more look at the computer screen, he made his exit. Left Stevens and Windermere to their work.
“So what are we doing here?” Windermere said. “Take me through your thought process, Stevens. Why the snuff films?”
Stevens outlined his theory. Rico Jordan and the snuff films in Cleveland. Gruber’s webcam fascination. “I figured there might be a connection,” he told Windermere. “Found a guy who peddled snuff on the Death Wish site, followed a hunch.”
“And?” Windermere said.
“And—” Stevens reached for the keyboard, “I think I’m on to something.”
• • •
The file had been uploaded a few days after Adrian Miller’s suicide. It had accrued a couple hundred views, lodged in the snuff site’s archives between footage of executions and brutal car accidents.
TEENAGE BOY SUICIDE BY HANGING, the file description read, and when Windermere clicked through and the video began to play, she recognized Adrian Miller’s face instantly.
The image was haunting. Adrian stared at his computer, fiddled with the webcam a bit, his eyes sunken and distant, his jaw set in an expression of resolve. Windermere watched him, her stomach knotting and unknotting, every one of her muscles drawn taut. Adrian was a slender kid, his features delicate. It was not hard to imagine the crueler kids at Andrea Stevens’s high school finding ways to make his life hell.
Satisfied with the webcam, Adrian stood up, walked away. Crossed his bedroom to the closet. Windermere could see the yellow rope on the floor behind him, the noose already fashioned, crooked and amateurish but instantly recognizable. As Windermere watched, Adrian picked up the rope. Fastened it to the crossbar in his closet. Took the other end and—
Windermere reached for the stop button. Stevens stayed her hand. She looked at him, sharp, ready to cuss him out, but he pointed at the screen.
The image of Adrian had paused. Faded dark behind bright white lettering. PURCHASE REQUIRED FOR FULL VIDEO, the title card read.
“He’s selling these things,” Windermere said. “He’s not just a voyeur, he’s a freaking marketplace.”
“Sure,” Stevens said. “So how does one make a purchase?”
“I’m guessing you get in touch with the guy who uploaded this file,” Windermere said. She was studying the screen again. “Which means we’re about to get really friendly with . . .” She clicked on a link, the uploader’s name. “Someone who calls himself SevenBot.”
• • •
SevenBot’s real name was Frank Abrams.
“Scottsdale, Arizona,” Spinarski said, reading from his screen. “Address is 3875 North Pueblo Way.”
“We fell for this before,” Windermere said. “Guy’s using an anonymizer or something, sending us off on a goose chase. No way he leaves a trail this obvious.”
Spinarski smirked. “Oh, he thinks he’s hiding his identity,” he said. “Has his IP address blocked, probably thinks that’s enough. Only thing is, he’s using a fairly simple program to do it, and we”—he waved his hand at the computer like a magician’s assistant—“can bypass it quite easily. Don’t forget to tip your tech guy.”
“Frank Abrams.” Windermere studied the screen. “You sure this address is legit?”
Spinarski tugged on his mustache. “Guarantee it,” he said. “You hit this guy’s house, you’ll find that machine. Or your money back.”
“Good enough for me,” Windermere said, straightening. “Come on, Stevens. Either this Abrams cat is Gruber’s new alias, or he’s close enough to our boy to know how to find him. Whichever is true, I want to talk to him.” She was halfway to the door already. “Don’t you?”
< 64 >
Stevens and Windermere landed in Phoenix just as darkness fell. They were met in the terminal by a local FBI agent named Schwartz. Windermere had talked to him on the phone before boarding the flight.
“We have eyes on Abrams’s house as we speak,” Schwartz told them, leading them through the crowded maze of baggage carousels to the parking garage. “Your man’s at home, we suspect alone. Last report I got, he was watching TV.” Schwartz grinned. “The Food Network, in case you were wondering.”
