I believe I've laid the groundwork for your full understanding. Now let's jump to the photos, shall we? You've probably already glanced at them. Give them a good once-over.
I do. There are five women in total. I take a closer look. "What do you think?" I ask Alan. "Do the bed and chair look the same in each picture?"
Alan takes the pages, scans them. "Yeah." He squints, then puts the pages down on my desk, next to each other. He points to the carpet in one. "Look at that."
I do. I see a stain.
"Then here," he says, pointing to another one of the pictures. Same stain.
"Shit," Leo says. "Different women, same guy."
"But it's not Jack, is it?" James says, breaking his silence. "Jack's not the guy. Maybe Jack's current companion."
Silence at this. I go back to the letter.
You are a sharp one, Agent Barrett. I'm sure you've realized by now, after poring over these photos, that these young lasses all appear in the same location. The reason is simple: All five were killed by the same man!
I curse. Part of me knew it, but he had confirmed it. These women were already dead.
Perhaps you, or one of your compatriots, have already deduced the rest as well. That the man who killed these women is not me. If so, then let me be the first to give applause.
I found the talented young man who took these pictures in that vast, dark environment, those wild plains that make up the World Wide Web. I recognized his hungers and his hatreds, and it did not take long at all for him to take his leap. To relinquish his last, silly hold on the light and embrace the dark.
Of course, this could be a hoax on my part, yes? Take a look at the CD
I have enclosed, and when you are done, feel free to call Agent Jenkins in the New York office of your FBI. Ask him about Ronnie Barnes. Oh, and if some hope is leaping in your breast that Barnes will pro- vide you with that lead you yearn for, I'm sorry to be the one to tell you, but Mr. Barnes isn't with us anymore. Watch the CD. You'll under- stand.
Down to the point of it all, as I end this for now. The point remains the same: Hunt me. Hunt me well, and remember this: Ronnie Barnes was just one of so many with those special hungers. And I am always looking for those meetings of the minds.
From Hell,
Jack Jr.
"Jesus Christ," Alan says in disgust.
"Interesting," James muses. "He's like a living computer virus. That's what he's showing us. That he can replicate in others."
"Yeah," Leo replies. "And he's still upping the ante. Letting us know he ain't gonna stop escalating until we get him."
I'm too tired and disturbed to reply. I hand Leo the CD. "Put it in."
We move over to stand behind him as he places the CD in the tray and opens it up. We see what is now becoming all too familiar--a video file. Leo looks up at me.
"Go ahead."
He double-clicks it. Video and sound start. We see a woman bound to a chair. This time, she's fully nude, and her face isn't hooded. She's a brunette, I note. A pretty girl in her early twenties. And she's terrified to the point of insanity.
A man steps in next to her. He's grinning, naked. I swallow in disgust as I notice he's also fully erect. Turned on by the terror. I assume this is Ronnie Barnes.
"Geeky-looking guy," Oldfield notes.
Unkind, but he's right. Ronnie Barnes is a pimply-faced, only-justpostadolescent, with a scrawny chest and thick-lensed glasses. The kind who draws jeers from shallow women. He'll masturbate thinking about them even though he hates them for the things they say. He'll despise them even more for being desirable, despise himself for desiring them. I know all of this not because he's scrawny and pimply, but because he holds a knife in his hands, and it's giving him a hard-on. He looks toward something we can't see, off camera. "You want me to do it now?" he asks. I don't hear a response, but he nods and licks his lower lip, excited. "Cool."
"Who is he talking to?" Alan wonders.
"Two guesses," I say.
Barnes bends over, seems to gather himself. What he proceeds to do next is so decisive, so brutal, that we all recoil in shock.
"Fucking cunt!" he screams. He raises the hunting knife and brings it down point-first, with all the brutality he can muster. It almost seems to disappear into her. He doesn't just pull the knife out, he yanks it, savage and furious. He raises it high above his head, again, and brings it down, again.
He is putting his entire body into it, all his muscles; his neck is corded with the effort.
Again.
This is not the methodical method of Jack Jr. This is the out-ofcontrol mindlessness of a madman. Again.
"Cunt!" Barnes screams. Then he just keeps screaming.
"Mother fucker!" Leo says. He jumps and runs for a trash can, vomiting into it. None of us begrudges him this.
As soon as it has started, it's over. The woman has ended up on her back. She's barely recognizable as human. Barnes is on his knees, leaning backward, arms out, eyes closed, covered in blood and sweat. Hyperventilating in his bliss. His erection is gone. He looks off again. His expression is worshipful. "Can I say it now?"
He turns to face the camera, looking right into it. He smiles, nothing human or sane evident. "This one's for you, Smoky."
"Oh, man . . ." Leo moans.
I say nothing. Some part of me has shut down. I keep watching. Barnes looks off again. "Did I do good? The way you wanted?" I see his expression change. First puzzlement. Then fear. "What are you doing?"
When the gunshot comes, blowing his brains out, I jump up without meaning to, my chair falling behind me.
"Fuck!" Alan yells, just as startled.
I lean forward, gripping the sides of the desk, arms trembling. I know what's coming. It has to be. He wouldn't miss the opportunity. He doesn't disappoint. That hooded face is in front of the camera, eyes crinkling because of the grin we can't see. He gives us a big thumbs-up. The video ends.
Everyone is shocked and silent. Leo wipes his mouth. Sergeant Oldfield's hand has strayed to his weapon, an unconscious reflex. My mind feels like an empty, hollow place. Tumbleweeds blowing through it, pushed by the wind.
Getting a grip on myself is almost a literal thing. My voice is full of heat when I speak. Tight and smoking. "Back to work," I say.
They all look at me like I'm nuts.
"Come on!" I snap. "Pull it together, guys. This is just one more fucking distraction. He's messing with us. Get a grip, and get back to work. I'm going to call this Agent Jenkins." My voice sounds firm, but I'm still trembling.
It takes them a minute, then my words get through. They start moving. I pick up the phone, call the switchboard, and get them to dial me into the New York FBI headquarters, all on automatic. My head is spinning. When reception answers, I ask for Agent Jenkins. Surprise, surprise, he's in NCAVC Coord too. The phone rings, is picked up. "Special Agent Bob Jenkins."
"Hi, Bob. This is Smoky Barrett, from NCAVC Coord Los Angeles."
The normal tone of my voice surprises me. Hi, how are you, just watched a woman get eviscerated, what's new with you?
"Hi, Agent Barrett. I know who you are." His voice is curious. I would be too, if our roles were reversed. "What's up?"
I sit down. Take a breath. My heartbeat feels like it's coming back down to normal. "What can you tell me about Ronnie Barnes?"
"Barnes?" He sounds surprised. "Wow, that's an old one. About six months or so. Killed and mutilated five women. And I mean mutilated. To be honest, it was a grounder for us. Someone noticed a smell and reported it. Cops went into his apartment, found one of the dead women, and him with a self-inflicted hole in the head. Case closed."