The Killing League (13 page)

Which made the puzzling message before him all the more mysterious.

Goldberg knew about the special firewalls installed on the prison’s computer network. Two years back, inmates had much more freedom, which had been severely abused when an inmate befriended a 12 year old girl on the Internet, lured her to the prison, then killed her in the waiting room.

After that, the prison had taken great pains to install the most formidable firewalls available in the computing world. Additionally, tracking data had been installed so that every prisoner who used the computer could be tracked and monitored in real-time. A series of alarms had been coded into the computer network so that if a prisoner went to any site, or used any emails that the programmers had deemed noteworthy, an alarm would be sounded in the security office.

The problem was, at least for the prison security, the firewalls had been state-of-the-art when installed. But that was two years ago. It only took six months for hackers to post instructions on using back doors and installing “sleeper” bugs in the system to use as loopholes for free and unfettered communication.

Leonard Goldberg had found all of these instructions, posted in innocuous sounding articles, sometimes written in code themselves, and turned them loose on Robertson State Prison’s computer system.

One “window”, solely for his use, had been created.

No one knew of this window because he had never used it. He had simply created it, and left it there, certain that at some point he would need it. It was an escape valve of sorts.

But the message that had just come through his window had been sent directly to him. Which meant that someone, somewhere, knew about his secret passage in the computer system.

The person had to be a hacker, Goldberg thought. Goldberg didn’t consider himself a real hacker. He had simply studied the software he needed to know in order to roam freely on the Internet. Still, he’d done some random hacks to test himself, and he’d broken into a few very low-security computer networks.

Now he had a strong feeling that whoever had found out his hobby, was much, much better than he was. In fact, Goldberg was pretty sure that the person responsible for the direct message was a real hacker.

Still, Goldberg was perplexed.

Most hackers were software geeks, engineers who lived almost exclusively in the cyber world.

The person who had sent him this message was clearly not a cyber resident.

Now, Goldberg read the message again.

Dear Mr. Goldberg,

How is prison treating you? I see you’ve become a bit of a computer specialist in your spare time (you have lots!) Kudos! Other than wanting to tell you how much I admired your work — back during your “spree” shall we call it? — I wanted to let you know about a fun little contest I’ve started. I don’t want to give you any details right now, suffice to say that I know you’ve been in contact with a lot of fellow practitioners of our special little sport. I would like to let you know that you may even get a chance to play a small part in the game. Stay tuned and here’s a link to give you a little taste of what I’m planning.

Sincerely,

The Commissioner

The Killing League

Goldberg’s finger hovered over the mouse. He wanted to click, but wasn’t sure where the link would take him, and if it would leave his protected window.

Finally, curiosity got the best of him.

He clicked.

Immediately, his screen changed to a shot of a Las Vegas odds board. He read with intense interest the names and the respective odds listed.

The screen went blank for a moment and then a series of images flashed by him that gave Goldberg an instant erection: women blindfolded and gagged, tortured, raped, dead bodies, lacerated skin, severed limbs.

Again the screen went black save for two words:

Stay Tuned.

ELIMINATION ROUND ONE

49.

Florence Nightmare

Retired Chicago Police Officer William Dragger was tired of being on surveillance. Back when he was “on the job,” he’d had a much better attitude. But now, he was retired. The long days and long nights felt longer.

To add insult to injury, his pension wasn’t all that great, and the book deals that were discussed back when he’d arrested The South Side Strangler never materialized. Probably because even though he’d made the actual arrest, it was a pretty big task force that was able to eventually take credit.

So here he was.

Working for a private investigator — another former cop — who had given him a freelance assignment to follow a man whose wife thought he might be cheating on her.

The thing was, if this was real work, real on-the-job work, he wouldn’t take a break. But this was freelance stuff. No one was committing any real crime, so Bill Dragger didn’t see the harm in momentarily breaking off surveillance, ducking into the liquor store across the street, and buying a six-pack to keep him company for the last hour of his shift.

He shut off the ignition to the Buick — his trusted surveillance car that fit in anywhere downtown, the suburbs, a strip club. Buicks were ubiquitous.

Dragger got out of the car, walked across the street. The cold beer was along the back wall. Dragger had to turn sideways to fit down the narrow aisles, between the shelves of cheap wine and generic brand margarita mix.

He found the section where the domestic six packs were, and picked some Miller Genuine Draft. He never drank on the job back when he was a real cop. This wasn’t a real job, though. Plus, he was almost done. He’d pass this last hour sucking down the cold beers, then go back to his little house in Joliet, have a few more and re-heat roast beef he’d made in a crock pot yesterday.

Back at the counter, he paid the tall clerk wearing a backward baseball cap and had the man put the beer in a paper bag.

He pushed the door open and stepped out onto the sidewalk, narrowly missing a woman’s hat that had just fluttered to the ground. He turned and saw an older woman with a startled look on her face. Dragger bent down to pick up the hat and the woman collided with Dragger. He felt a sharp, wincing pain in his leg and turned with the hat in his hand. He gave the hat to the woman and touched his leg. It was sore. Jesus, he thought. What the hell just jabbed me?

“Thank you,” the older woman said. “I’m sorry I bonked you with my purse,” she said. She held it up for him to see, but Dragger didn’t see any sharp edges. Maybe it was a muscle twinge.

The woman took her hat and walked on. Dragger waited a moment for the traffic to clear and then he began to cross the street. He was stepping across the yellow line when he realized he was looking directly down at the yellow line as it came closer and closer. Finally, his nose was pressed against the chipped paint and then he couldn’t see anything at all.

50.

Nicole

They stood outside Nicole’s house.

“I’m sure it couldn’t hold a candle to Thicque, but it was still pretty good,” Kurt said. He had a sheepish smile on his face, and Nicole felt something give a little bit inside her. They had finished class, then Kurt offered to pick her up and take her out for a light meal at a seafood restaurant just up the street from her house.

“Yeah, it was good. I enjoyed it,” she said. “Good food, good company.”

They were standing just outside the front door of her house and Nicole could tell Kurt wanted her to invite him in, but it seemed like a hurdle. A very real, physical obstacle that she had trouble facing.

The thing was, it felt too soon. But she wondered even as she felt it, that it might
always
be too soon. Forever. Or it may be that she simply didn’t feel it with Kurt. Would she ever feel it again? The last time was with-

From behind the front door, Salvatore let out a deep bark and a soft growl.

Kurt smiled at Nicole. “Yikes,” he said.

“Oh, don’t worry,” she said. “He’s harmless. Well, he’s harmless to me, you not so much.”

Kurt laughed. “Good to know.”

“I’m kidding, he’s a good guy once you get to know him,” she said. She almost blushed at the insinuation that Kurt would get to know her dog. He must have read it on her face, too.

Kurt smiled and leaned toward Nicole. She knew what was coming, and was surprised at her reaction. She leaned back, away from him. Her body went rigid.

“Did I do something wrong?” he said. His face was neutral, but Nicole wondered if there was a flash of anger in his eyes. Geez, she thought. Dinner hadn’t been
that
expensive, like she owed him something.

“No, not at all,” she said. “My last relationship…let’s just say it wasn’t great.”

“Oh, okay,” he said. The awkward silence hung on for a moment too long.

“I’d like to see you again,” Kurt said.

“I’ll see you again,” Nicole said. “At class. Wednesday, right?”

He looked at her. Nicole saw in his eyes that he got the message.

“Wednesday,” he said. “Sure.”

Nicole went inside the house and locked the door.

Sal stood at attention and watched Kurt get back into his car.

“It’s okay,” Nicole said to him.

But she didn’t feel that way, at all.

51.

Truck Drivin’ Man

They called her The Nailer. Her real name was Deborah Nahler but as the prosecuting attorney on some of the biggest murder cases in San Francisco history, the Nailer seemed more appropriate.

She had left the district attorney’s office several years back for a lucrative position with one of San Francisco’s most respected law firms.

She quickly became an equity partner, and her name went on the letterhead.

Now, she walked out of her law firm’s office and took the elevator to the basement parking garage. The garage itself served other companies besides her law firm. Her SUV was parked in the first space across from the elevator. It was a symbol of her position and her power.

Although she had prosecuted some of the most notorious killers in California history, and had received more than her share of death threats, Deborah Nahler knew no fear.

Despite this, she had never been afraid inside or outside a courtroom.

Her office had state-of-the-art security monitoring systems. Her home, a restored Victorian on Beacon Hill, was its match, maybe even better. Her car, a Cadillac Escalade, had extra thick glass and reinforced body panels as well as run-flat tires.

She had chosen to surround herself with such tight personal security not out of fear. It was merely a product of her preparation strategy. Although she was not motivated by fear for her own safety, she knew that life was like a criminal case. You never knew where it might lead, so the best plan was to plan for every contingency and then play it as it came.

Now, her mind was on the case she was preparing to go to trial within a few weeks. It was the exhibits that were bothering her. She needed more, and she needed things that would make more of an impact with the jury. Yes, juries loved articulate, moving speeches from a good lawyer like herself. But they also loved the concrete evidence that would assuage their guilt over returning a verdict that would essentially end a person’s life—

She heard the soft scrape of a shoe on the concrete behind her and for a brief moment she realized that the sound of the shoe was way too close. And that there had been no one with her on the elevator, nor waiting—

A great pain shot down her spine and her body went limp. She had the thought to reach for her cell phone but she couldn’t feel her arms, or her hands, or anything.

She dropped to the concrete, landed on her side and rolled onto her back.

For the briefest moment she registered a short, squat, ugly looking man with a baseball bat, rearing back for another swing.

He looks like a truck driver
, she thought.

52.

Mack

Mack snatched the papers from his printer, put his feet up on his desk, and read the latest news that had sent a little zip of current down his spine.

It was a toxicology report on a death in Chicago.

According to the police report, a retired cop named William Dragger had left a liquor store and dropped dead moments later. He was fifty-six years old, in relatively good shape with no major health issues.

The autopsy had been inconclusive. There were no witnesses to what happened between the time he bought a six pack of beer and the time he wound up face down in the middle of the street.

What the autopsy did reveal were minute traces of a strange chemical compound.

No one had ever seen the compound before.

But Mack had.

In fact, Mack had noted its presence in several other cases.

But all of those cases were in South Carolina.

At a hospital where three patients had died, and one hospital administrator had perished, as well.

It was the Charleston Municipal Hospital. The very same facility that claimed it had never received Mack’s request for copies of personnel records.

Reznor had applied pressure and been told by a hospital administrator that they felt a chemical was somehow leaking into certain parts of the hospital and affecting a few select individuals.

However, they had agreed to send the files requested by Mack.

And now this.

How the hell did the same chemical compound show up in Chicago? Mack had been convinced it was a homemade remedy. Something concocted by the South Carolina killer. If it showed up in Chicago, it meant one of two things. One, it could be a manufactured poison, available for purchase. Someone in Chicago had ordered it and used it.

Or two, the killer in South Carolina had suddenly changed locations and murdered someone in Illinois.

Mack shook his head.

But why William Dragger? The South Carolina victims had all somehow been associated with the hospital. Patients, mostly children, and one administrator.