The Watcher in the Wall (17 page)

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 HANGI
NG
, 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.”

“He going to have dinner waiting?” Windermere asked.

Schwartz led them through the parking garage to his ride, a black GMC Yukon. “Doubtful,” he said. “Abrams had KFC tonight, one of those party buckets. I guess you could ask if he has any leftovers.”

He climbed into the truck, and Stevens and Windermere followed. Buckled themselves in as Schwartz drove away from the airport.

“Got a tactical team on standby, as you requested,” Schwartz told them. “This guy Abrams doesn’t appear dangerous, no criminal record, but they’ll be there if you need them.”

“Whether we need them or not,” Windermere said, “this guy’s posting snuff videos online, teenagers killing themselves. He could be an actual, real-life Care Bear. I still want his door busted down and his ass dragged out in cuffs.”

“What my partner is saying,” Stevens told Schwartz, “is that we want to take every precaution on this one.”

Schwartz kept driving, a sly smile on his face. “Well, all right then,” he said, reaching for his radio. “I’ll tell the tactical guys to be ready.”

•   •   •

The visit played out as per Windermere’s instructions. Frank Abrams had a little one-story house, Southwestern style, adobe and red tile and cacti in the front yard, a quiet little street in either direction. Stevens and Windermere hung back in Schwartz’s Yukon as the tactical guys swarmed the place, assault rifles and battering rams and a bullhorn to wake up the neighborhood.

Lights came on up and down the block. Shadows appeared in doorways, living room windows, watching and listening as the tactical guys broke down Abrams’s door. Stevens and Windermere followed them in, found the tactical team in the living room, rifles pointed at the floor, where Frank Abrams lay facedown in handcuffs and boxer shorts, struggling against the boot at his back. On the TV, a guy with frosted spiky hair was eating what looked like deep-fried Jell-O.

Abrams was shouting something about his constitutional rights, how he wanted a lawyer. Windermere hunkered down in front of him, showed him her badge.

“You’ll get your lawyer,” she told him. “Get your trial, too. Judge, jury, the whole bit. And I promise you, that all will go a hell of a lot smoother for you if you decide to cooperate.”

Abrams stopped shouting, panted his breath back. Regarded her from the rug. “What’s this all about?” he asked her. “I never did anything. What are you trying to pull here?”

Windermere nodded. Pursed her lips. “You never did anything,” she said. “Okay. You ever hear of somebody named . . . what was it, partner?”

“SevenBot,” Stevens told her.

“SevenBot,” Windermere repeated. “That name sound familiar?”

Abrams’s eyes went wide. “Never heard it before in my life,” he said. “I don’t know what you guys are talking about, but I want a lawyer right now.”

“Fine,” Windermere said, standing. “Could be you’re right, and this is all just a misunderstanding.” She gestured across the living room to the doorway, where Schwartz was supervising the tactical guys as they carried out a desktop computer, a few external hard drives, some serious computing power. “I guess we’ll find out soon enough.”

Abrams went limp, dropped his head to the rug. Watched as the tactical agents walked out with his gear. “Aw,” he said. “Aw, shoot.”

“‘Aw, shoot’ sounds good,” Windermere said. “So how about you pick yourself up off the floor and we have ourselves a conversation?”

<
65
>

They brought Abrams
to an interview room in the FBI building on the north side of Phoenix. Found him a T-shirt, told him if he played nice, they might be able to dig up some pants.

“We’re not here for you in particular,” Windermere told him, settling down across the table. “I mean, we don’t like you, or your creepy-ass hobby, but we have bigger targets in mind.”

“Basically, help us catch our subject, and we’ll make sure the ADA
who pulls your case knows you were cooperative,” Stevens said. “Might not be enough to keep you out of jail, but you never know, right?”

Abrams stared down at the table, the fight all but gone. He’d stopped screaming for a lawyer about the time the FBI agents had pulled him out of his house in plain view of the neighbors, had spent the ride to the FBI office in silence. He looked defeated now, and scared, and Windermere knew he would tell them whatever he knew if he thought it would save his own ass.

Sure enough, he seemed to gather himself. “So, okay,” he said. “What can I do?”

“Two weeks ago, you posted a video online of a teenage boy hanging himself,” Windermere said. “Do you know the file I’m talking about?”

Abrams looked away. “Yeah, I do.”

“Did you create the footage?”

“No,” Abrams said. “Hell, no. I just, you know, acquired it. I posted it for interested parties. I don’t actually
make
the stuff.”

“Sure,” Stevens said. “Because making it would be sick and twisted. So where did you get it?”

Abrams didn’t answer for a moment. “It’s him, isn’t it?” he said. “That’s your target, the guy who’s making this stuff. That’s who you’re after, right?”

“You know him?” Windermere said. “You give us something workable, it’ll go a long way toward getting you back home to that bucket of extra crispy.”

Abrams sighed. It was not the sigh of someone who’d just been shown a way out of his predicament.

“I
don’t
know him,” he said. “I mean, nobody knows him, not that I can tell. We’re kind of a small community on there, and he—he’s kind
of a ghost.” He shook his head. “If you’re hoping I’ll draw you a map to this guy, believe me, I wish I could, but I got nothing.”

“That’s a lie,” Stevens said. “You have something. You got hold of the video somehow. That’s a start.”

“I only know the guy through a dummy email account,” Abrams said. “Swear to God, that’s it.”

Windermere pulled out a notebook. “The email account,” she said. “Write it down.”

Abrams did as he was told. Slid the notebook back across the table, and seemed to anticipate the next question coming. “The guy just chose me,” he said. “It’s not like I went searching for him. But you guys have been on the forum. You’ve seen my profile. I’m kind of a big deal. Any snuff you’re trying to buy or sell, I’m the guy.”

“Congratulations,” Windermere said. “I bet that looks real good on your résumé.”

“What was I going to do, turn him in? Call the police and tell them a guy on my snuff forum is taping kids killing themselves?” He shook his head again. “Anyway, I looked it up. It’s not illegal, what he’s doing.”

“That’s up for debate,” Stevens said, “but it’s still a shitty thing to do.”

Abrams gave him a look like he’d been out of class the day they were teaching morality. Kind of shrugged, his face blank.

“So he found you,” Windermere said. “And then?”

“And then he asked if I wanted to help him sell a video of a kid killing himself,” Abrams said. “Clear footage, perfect angle—he was pretty proud of his work. And rightfully so, I guess. I mean, you have to realize, this guy’s stuff is golden. It’s top-notch, the way he gets these kids to do it. He’s an artist, for sure. I was happy to buy the first clip, and the ones that came after. They’ve made us both a ton of money.”