Authors: James Grippando
H
e called himself Merselus. It was the surname of his best friend in high school back in Paterson, New Jersey. Ironically, it was his math teacher—recognizing his tenacity, pegging him as a rare Eastside High success story—who had dubbed the two of them Merselus and Merciless. If she only knew.
Three weeks before the start of the Sydney Bennett trial, he’d used another name entirely to lease a one-bedroom apartment on the Miami River, just minutes away from the courthouse. William Teague was a week-to-week tenant in his third month of occupancy, which practically made him the mayor of a decaying village of drug addicts and prostitutes who came and went from the riverfront like water rats.
Merselus entered with a turn of the key and locked the door—lower deadbolt, upper deadbolt, and then the chain. The venetian blinds were drawn, though it was superfluous; the lone window in the apartment was boarded over from the inside, iron bars on the outside. The only light in the room was the glow from a laptop computer, which he’d left open and running on the desk. The Google satellite image was still on the screen, displaying the result of his last search: Little Havana/Tamiami Trail. His eyes narrowed as he studied it again. The slope from the highway to the brown canal. The knee-high brush along the shoreline. The perfect place to drop a warm body that Merselus wanted the police to find quickly, before his handwritten message fell to decomposition. All of it, as captured in the satellite image, was virtually identical to the actual place he’d visited a little later in the day. He gave a thin smile of appreciation to the technocrats in Silicon Valley who had made it so easy to plan.
He wondered if any of them even remembered him, ever wondered what he was up to these days.
Merselus sat on the edge of the bed, dropped his backpack between his feet on the floor, and opened it. First, he removed the essential tools of his mission—latex gloves, which left no fingerprints; a nylon cord, in case he met with resistance; the serrated diving knife, in case he met with even greater resistance. He laid each of them neatly on the bed, side by side. Deeper inside the pack, in a separate pouch, was his latest acquisition. He unzipped the pouch and carefully, almost lovingly, collected his prize. A “trophy” was what one of those self-proclaimed geniuses in criminal profiling would have called it, like the panties, jewelry, and other keepsakes that serial killers took from their victims in order to relive their fantasy, over and over. Collecting such objects was part of the sociopath’s compulsive personality. So said the experts, whom Merselus had watched repeatedly on BNN and the
Faith Corso Show
, all of whom uniformly overlooked one crucial fact: Their profiles were based on the assholes who got caught. Merselus didn’t consider himself a serial killer, though his work could be measured in more than one victim. He didn’t think of himself as a sociopath, either, though that term was thrown around pretty loosely these days. And he was definitely no trophy hunter.
He just thought Rene Fenning’s necklace was cool.
It was made of polished copper, the kind of necklace that kept its shape and didn’t collapse like a chain when taken off. He put his hand through the necklace, which made the opening seem small. Like Rene’s gentle neck. It almost fit his wrist like a bracelet, a testimony to the size and strength of his hands. He reached over and switched on the lamp to get a better look.
The glass bead on the front of the necklace was most intriguing. It opened with a tiny latch. Inside were three pebbles, each about the size of a BB. It was unlike anything Merselus had ever seen. He laid it on the white bedsheet and took a photograph. He took several more until he got the right lighting, a pristine image. Then he went to his computer and uploaded the image. He wasn’t certain that his image-recognition software would find a match on the Internet, and it wasn’t at all crucial. But he was curious—not just to check out the trinket, but more to test the limits of the software. This kind of search tool wasn’t something the average person on the street could have walked into the Apple Store and purchased. In the private sector, only the most elite security firms could get their hands on it. It was a trade secret still in development. A stolen trade secret.
Merselus hit
SEARCH
.
It took a couple of minutes to populate the results, another minute for him to eliminate the extraneous hits. Then he found a match, though the one pictured on the computer screen appeared to be larger than the one fastened to Rene’s necklace.
“A gris-gris,” he read aloud. “An amulet originating in Africa which is believed to protect the wearer from evil or brings luck.”
That brought a smirk to his face.
Not very lucky for the good doctor.
He closed the software program, impressed by its performance—and pleased, as always, to be one step ahead of the good guys on the technology curve.
With great care, Merselus carried the necklace across the room and opened the closet. Taped to the back of the door, right below a coat hook, was an eight-by-ten photograph. It was the image of Sydney Bennett that the prosecution had shown the jury at trial—the one of Sydney laughing off the effects of tequila, the hands of at least three different men pawing her tight body, her clingy white halter unable to hide her protruding nipples.
Of all his Sydney photographs, this one was Merselus’ favorite.
“For luck,” he said as he hung the necklace on the coat hook above the photograph. “See what good care I take of you?”
He closed the closet door and lay on the bed. Not nearly enough rest last night, with all the preparation. He could have nodded off in a moment and slept through till the next morning, but he forced himself to set an alarm: six thirty
P.M.
Barely time for a catnap.
There was more work to do. Tonight.
R
ene’s death changed everything. Almost everything.
“This won’t change us,” said Jack. He had wanted to sound sure of it, but it probably hadn’t come across that way. “We can’t let it,” he added.
They were in Andie’s car, driving to Jack’s house on Key Biscayne. For five minutes and without a single interruption, Andie had listened to Jack’s full explanation—how Rene had contacted him after Celeste was admitted to Jackson, how she’d been his source for the Laramores’ lawsuit against BNN, how their coffees in Little Havana had had nothing to do with rekindling a romance. Jack was certain that Andie had heard it and understood, but whenever there was work to be done, Andie’s ability to put personal moments on hold was unmatched. At her behest, a couple of FBI agents were already on the way to Jack’s house—a tech guy, a surveillance expert. She was in full-fledged FBI mode, focused on stopping a killer.
“Jack, I don’t have it in my head that you were chasing an old girlfriend two minutes after I said we should take a step back, if that’s what you’re worried about.” She reached across the console and brushed the back of her hand against his face, a proxy for not looking him in the eye while driving. “I know you better than that.”
“Thank you.”
Her attention was on the road, and Jack’s gaze locked onto her profile. It was little more than a silhouette in the dark car, but against the sparkling Miami skyline in the distance, it was like a work of art. The views of downtown Miami and the financial district were killer from the causeway to Key Biscayne, especially at night—the south Florida version of Manhattan as seen from the Brooklyn Bridge.
“I also know the mind-set of Rene’s killer,” said Andie. “He didn’t leave that message because he thought Rene was ‘someone you love.’ He’s like a shark. He draws closer and closer to his prey, tighter and tighter circles. Each one of those circles allows him to live out the perfect fantasy he has created in his head. Eventually, he’ll move in for the ultimate kill, the fulfillment of the fantasy.”
“Someone I love?”
“Not exactly.”
“I’m not sure I follow you.”
“My take is that he probably believes all the BS on BNN that you and Sydney couldn’t wait to rip off each other’s clothes the minute she got out of prison. Yeah, he threatened to hurt someone you love, which could be anyone from me to an old girlfriend. But if you ask my professional opinion, he isn’t taunting you just because he thinks you know where Sydney is hiding. He could threaten her parents, if that’s all he wanted out of this. His anger—his
hatred
for you—is driven by his belief that you’ve actually had your way with Sydney.”
“Someone he loves.”
“Someone he’s obsessed with. Got nothing to do with love.”
That all made sense to Jack. Andie always made sense. “I love you,” he said.
“Of course you do,” she said.
That drew a little smile as they pulled into his driveway behind the “bucar”—FBI lingo for the bureau’s standard-issue sedans. The agents Andie had summoned were already there. Jack invited them inside, and Max greeted them at the door, wagging his tail and jumping up and down as if it had been five hundred years since he’d last seen Andie. Jack let him loose in the backyard, and the humankind gathered in the Florida room to take care of an entirely different kind of business.
Jack took a seat beside Andie on the couch. Special Agents Burns and Waters sat across from them. They were “tech agents,” which meant that Jack was the proverbial old man in the room. As a general rule, not many techies hung around till retirement age. A good one with a few years of law enforcement experience on his résumé could make a fortune in the private sector, and Jack guessed that the bureau would have the services of these two crackerjacks for maybe another six months.
“Truth is, I should have listened to Andie sooner,” said Jack. “I resisted the idea of having the FBI monitoring my phones. Obviously, this changes things.”
Burns spoke for the tech team. “There are ways to make this work and still protect the privacy of your clients.”
“You may be right from a technical standpoint,” said Jack. “But good luck trying to convince my clients of that.”
Burns opened his bag of electronic toys and showed Jack his new cell phone. “Wireless is never the most secure option, but if you have to use a cell phone, this one is encrypted. Use it when you are not in the office and absolutely have to speak to one of your clients. Agent Waters and I will set up encrypted landlines for the calls you make from home and the office, which is of course the most secure option.”
“What about e-mail?”
“Best thing is to tell your clients no e-mail.”
“Can my clients call me on the encrypted lines?”
“If you give them the number, yes. But don’t do that. The basic rule you should live by is, ‘Don’t call me, I’ll call you.’”
“That’s impossible. What if they need to reach me?”
“They should call your existing cell or landline. They should say nothing but ‘call me,’ and then you return the call on the encrypted line. I know that seems cumbersome, but the minute you give the phone number to anyone, you run the risk of compromising the security on the encrypted line.”
“Won’t they see the number when I call them?”
“Your encrypted phone is impervious to caller ID. That’s pretty basic, Mr. Swyteck.”
“It may be basic to you,” said Andie, “but you’re talking to a guy who started practicing law when Post-its were still a technological marvel.”
“Not quite, honey. But almost.”
Burns continued, “The overall objective here is for Rene Fenning’s killer to remain under the impression that your existing cell phone, landlines, and e-mail addresses are still in use, still fully operational. So long as he has that impression, we can intercept, trace, and react to any message he sends you.”
“How do I know the FBI won’t be monitoring the encrypted line?”
“That won’t happen,” said Andie. “I’ll make sure of it.”
Jack wanted to believe her, and he knew it was greater assurance than most people got. He was still skeptical, but again, Rene’s death had changed everything.
“Okay. Let’s go with it.”
“Great. We’ll start here in the house. Where do you want the line?”
“My home office, I guess. Down the hall, right next to the bedroom.”
“You got it.”
The techies got up and went to work. Jack’s gaze drifted toward the window. Max was in the yard, digging the Key Biscayne version of the Grand Canyon.
“I guess I’ll need to send Max away,” said Jack.
“He’s still a puppy,” said Andie. “Digging is what they do.”
“I mean send him away for his own protection. It may be a bit of stereotype to think that all sociopaths like to hurt animals, but I already lost one dog to a pissed-off client.”
“Sometimes stereotypes are true,” said Andie. “Jeffrey Dahmer used to love up the neighborhood dogs, lure them into his kitchen—and then send them yelping home with their testicles sliced open. Just for grins.”
It made Jack cringe. “My neighbors spend their summers in Charleston. Their son RJ loves Max. I’m sure they’d take him.” Jack took another gander out the window. Max was covered in dirt, still digging. “Maybe Max can hook up with the Army Corps of Engineers and widen the harbor while he’s up there.”
“What are you going to do with
Abuela
?”
“She has a brother in Tampa. She’ll feel safe there. Then there’s my dad and stepmother. I guess they should just extend their vacation, stay in Europe.”
Andie looked at him with concern. “These are all just precautions, you understand. Like I said before, I don’t think the targets would be Max,
Abuela
, your father, your stepmother. With Rene, he was acting out a sexual fantasy that will lead him to the big moment with Sydney Bennett.”
“I can’t believe this happened to Rene,” Jack said, but the regrets quickly turned into concern. “What about you?” he said. “Aren’t you at risk?”
“I would say yes. But you don’t need to worry about that.”
“What do you mean I don’t need to worry? You’re my fiancée.”
“Your fiancée is an FBI agent. You don’t have to worry about protecting me.”
It was intended to put him at ease, but it didn’t sit entirely well with Jack. He didn’t fully understand why, though deep down he realized that there was still enough of the caveman gene in every male to make it unpleasant to hear that he didn’t need to protect his woman.
Jack’s cell rang. He didn’t recognize the incoming number.
“Is this a test, or should I answer it?” he asked Andie.
Agent Burns shouted from the next room, “Go ahead and answer it.”
Jack took the call.
“Swyteck, this is Ted Gaines.”
It was the first time Jack had heard from opposing counsel since their meeting in New York, and the last thing Jack felt like talking about at the moment was the lawsuit against BNN. “Not really a good time, Ted.”
“This is not a discussion. We’ve seen the postings on Celeste Laramore’s Facebook page. Remove them immediately.”
“What?”
“I fully expected you to claim ignorance.”
There was a beep on the line, and suddenly there was a third voice. “Good evening, gentlemen. Judge Burrows here.”
Judge?
Jack didn’t know the voice, but he certainly knew the name: Burrows was the judge in
Celeste Laramore v. Breaking News Network.
Gaines took control. “Thank you for agreeing to conduct this emergency hearing telephonically, Your Honor.”
“Mr. Swyteck, it would appear that there has been a violation of my order to keep the allegations of the complaint in this action confidential and under seal.”
“Honestly, I have no idea what this is about,” said Jack.
Gaines said, “It’s about the posting of confidential information on Celeste Laramore’s Facebook page. Judge, if you’re at your computer, I can get you to the proper Web page.”
Jack followed along on his iPhone and pulled up Celeste’s Facebook page.
The judge said, “I’m looking at the page now. What postings are you talking about?”
“Right there on her wall. It’s the only information posted since Celeste Laramore went into a coma.”
Jack scrolled down, knowing that the judge was doing the same. Sure enough, there were a series of status updates from that afternoon, bubbles of information stacked one on top of the other. Jack read the first, the second, the third—then skimmed the rest. Each status update was a few sentences in length. Collectively, the updates—sixty-seven in all—repeated, verbatim, the substantive allegations of the complaint in
Celeste Laramore v. Breaking News Network.
“This is very troubling,” said the judge.
Gaines jumped on the sentiment. “Your Honor, this is a blatant violation of a court order to file the complaint under seal and keep the allegations confidential. We demand that Mr. Swyteck remove the posts immediately.”
“Mr. Swyteck, how soon can you make that happen?”
“I’ll look into it as soon as this call is over.”
“Look into it?” said the judge in a reproving tone. “Counsel, you need to
remove
it.”
“Yes, Your Honor. But I want to be clear that I don’t know how this information even got here. It’s never been my practice to monitor the Facebook pages of my clients, and that’s especially true in this case. Obviously, Celeste didn’t do this.”
“Obviously,” said Gaines. “But it doesn’t take a computer genius to know that these postings could have been made only by someone with account-manager status for Celeste’s Facebook page. Ruling out Celeste doesn’t rule out a single other person in her camp who had access to her username and password.”
“That’s a ridiculous accusation,” said Jack.
The judge intervened. “You’d better hope so, Mr. Swyteck. Because if this violation was willful and done at your direction, the sanctions against you and your client will be severe.”
“Judge, we would like a hearing on the issue of sanctions as quickly as possible,” said Gaines.
“We’ll deal with that in due course,” said the judge. “For now, I’m ordering Mr. Swyteck to remove these postings by midnight tonight. Further, I want a written certification delivered to my chambers no later than nine
A.M.
stating that the plaintiffs and their counsel are in full compliance with the confidentiality order. Is that understood?”
“Yes,” said Jack.
“That’s all for this evening, gentlemen,” the judge said. A beep confirmed that he had dropped from the conference call.
“I’m checking that page at twelve-oh-one
A.M.
,” said Gaines. “It had better be clean.”
Gaines hung up. Jack took a deep breath and tucked his phone away. Andie came to him and massaged his neck.
“That didn’t sound good,” she said.
It would have been easy to unload on the spot and tell Andie what he would have liked to have told the judge—that the five horrendous days between Sydney’s release on Sunday and Rene’s murder on Thursday had been the personal and professional equivalent of a tsunami, and that the last thing any human being in his position should be held accountable for was the Facebook page of a client in a coma.
“Nothing I can’t handle,” said Jack.
“Really? Isn’t there anything I can help with?”
Jack appreciated the sentiment, then actually considered it. “Well, maybe there is.”
“Tell me.”
“What do your tech agents know about Facebook?”