Myth Man (26 page)

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

C
OLD CALCULATOR—MATH MAN ADDS Two More
screamed the headline of the
Daily News
.

Math Man?

A finger tap brought up the
New York Post
:
Son of Satan Psycho Strikes Again
. Huh? He looked at the caption below.
Reverend Perkins and Nurse Murdered: Killer Invokes Moth Man Legend
.

What?!

There must be some mistake. Myth Man rubbed his eyes hoping to cleanse his sight, like a sip of mineral water does for the palate. He looked again, but nothing changed.

Myth Man woke on a dry bed, like a boy on Christmas, eager and energized, despite it being a Monday workday. He expected voluminous coverage of his heroics with headlines that would bring him the infamy he so richly deserved. Today was the day he was supposed to be crowned a cultural icon. This was unacceptable.

Testy, he read on. The sexy FBI agent he saw outside Grace Cathedral a week prior briefed reporters, and she was surprisingly forthright. She candidly explained that the killer had murdered Markov and impersonated the nurse to gain entry and ultimately kill Reverend Perkins.

She even told how Perkins had been nailed to the wall, calling the deed heinous and evil. She went on to say that the killer left a message. Investigators were unsure if it was a reference to Perkins or the killer himself. She said the message was written in blood, which ran, but it appeared to be either Math or Moth Man. “We’re not sure what this means,” she added.

Myth Man stopped there.
Impossible
. It had been clear as day. How could a
y
be mistaken for either supplicated vowel? He pulled out his digital camera and connected it to the computer. He found the picture of Perkins in his Jesus Christ pose.

Myth Man didn’t have to magnify the picture to read it clearly. The
y
was perfectly legible. “Myth Man,” he howled, banging the mouse like it was an interloping rodent.

Why would they do this? They knew he had a camera. They had to consider he’d photograph his graphic art. Clearly, they meant to frazzle him. They were wrong. How dare they steal his moment of glory? Wait until the press sees the truth.
I’ll show them,
he stormed.

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

R
EVEREND PERKINS’S MURDER SHOOK Mayor Golden personally. Every occupant of Gracie Mansion over the past twenty years had been well ingratiated with Reverend Perkins, and the mayor was no exception. Neither was the president of the Unites States, who called to say he’d be in the city to attend the funeral. The president’s normal, velvety voice was as coarse as burlap. It pained Mayor Golden to hear his president, a four-star general, choked up. He felt responsible.

He’d shut his door and asked not to be disturbed. He was to meet the press in a few hours and personally wanted to pen his remarks. He also needed peace.

The killer, as his detectives predicted, strove to correct the record. He emailed numerous news outlets, which chose to still cooperate with the investigation and refused to print or yet comment on his first public statement. A short while later, the photos had been uploaded on numerous Web sites.

The killer had his moment of infamy. He summarized his manifest of religion’s blight on society. But, most of all, his chosen name was public: Myth Man.

The mayor looked at the pictures. It pained him to see Perkins crucified in his own bedroom.
At least, for once, no one will blame the Jews,
he thought with a sad laugh. Then he thought,
Since a rabbi had yet to be killed, perhaps the killer was Jewish?
He hoped not.

The mayor empathized with the two cops that guarded the rectory door. Their faces were visible, and the killer conveniently provided their last names, presumably read from their shields.

How many lives had this Myth Man destroyed
?
And now he asked for the public to rally to his messag
e? The mayor understood the premise of his ill-conceived rant. Yes, religion used for miscreant purposes was bad, and things such as genocide and extremism were unfortunate byproducts of the history of religion. His people knew all too well, but it was not the whole story on religion. Absent were the hope, care, shelter, and nourishment that had enriched billions worldwide.

The mayor had witnessed firsthand the intercooperation and deepening of understanding between the main religions. That was what America was about and why his parents had immigrated to this land of freedom, where citizens can worship without fear of persecution.

One nation under God.

How could Myth Man’s message resonate? Not every victim had been a religious leader. There was the optometrist, sushi chef, and homeless man at St. Patrick’s and now Reverend Perkins’s nurse. What about them? Were these unfortunate, but necessary deaths to fertilize the revolution with Machiavellian manure?

Maybe his political career would be the next thing destroyed by this menace. He was tired of Hoole, who blamed the police. Every distraction was time wasted. If Danko’s team was not doing the job, then it was Commissioner Tipton’s job to make that evaluation. Thus far, his self-appointed commissioner had been ineffectual

They had the FBI’s assistance. This morning, the female agent, Ridgewood, he believed, said that her boss was due in town.

Mayor Golden decided to remain defiant in the face of evil. He’d stand by the police department, not offer excuses. They got beat this time, but it was not due to lack of effort or preparation. His talking points had a list of religions institutions they’d guarded, down to man-hours and overtime costs.

Golden liked the idea of needling Math Man. The mayor agreed with the Yoda principle: anger led to loss of focus and error. Hopefully more tangible clues would develop.

The mayor planned to offer not one of Hoole’s valid factoids in his speech. He had a different mindset, and that’s why he wanted to be alone to pen his own words. Some said that was political suicide. Maybe the pundits were right, but he had to go with his gut. New York elected him for being his own man. It was time to differ with the handlers. If he lost an election over a serial killer, then the job wasn’t worth it anyway.

Mayor Golden would first honor the memory of the victims. As for his stance on the investigation, he stood by the police and had a message for the killer with an appeal to the public.

America was founded on religious freedom and tolerance, not a utopian, totalitarian vision that disavows spirituality and faith.

He would issue a challenge. President Ronald Reagan once mused at the United Nations, what would happen if the world were suddenly attacked by an alien race? His message was that a lot of our differences would suddenly evaporate. Golden saw this menace in the same light.

The killer’s original aim had been to create strife and intolerance, and initially, he succeeded. But what if now the opposite occurred? We, the people who do believe in God, might learn a valuable lesson and not one the killer intended.

The mayor phoned prominent religious leaders of various faiths and told them his vision. They agreed to appear as a powerful backdrop to his speech about religious freedom and tolerance.

Myth Man may slay a few more souls, but he was not going to gain the hearts and minds of the people.

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

P
RESTO AND RIDGEWOOD ENTERED a new Madison Avenue high-rise with floor-to-ceiling windows and a lobby fortified with a Starbucks, a newsstand, a swank saloon, and a swankier salon.

The twenty-fifth floor was occupied by Iron Fortress Systems,
a fairly recent startup company that specialized
in safeguarding computers from viruses, Trojan horses, and other computer threats. The founder of the company, Dean Fallow, was next on their Manhattan list.

They used their respective badges to bypass building security. “I hope we hit the jackpot soon,” Ridgewood remarked. “Like we knock on the door, and he opens and confesses with his hands ready for cuffs.” She brought her wrists together and submissively raised them.

Presto sighed. “I bet this one won’t go so easy. Fallow, to me, was one of the more intriguing suspects.”

Dean Fallow once served as the computer technician for an upstate university. He was popular with students and loved by the faculty for revamping the outdated technology and tirelessly assisting the computer illiterate, which at the time was close to 100 percent.

At a faculty party, he got into a heated argument about religion with a theology professor, Jerry Timmons. He was a computer, math, science, guy, Fallow told Timmons. God was an outdated concept, contrived in the age of ignorance. Religion was the con of the millennia. “Where is God today? I don’t see him,” Fallow asked with rhetoric spite. When Timmons tried to reply, Fallow turned his back and left in a pompous breeze.

The next day there was a buzz on campus, not just amongst the faculty who knew of the nighttime altercation but also within the student body. Several fraternal organizations allegedly found packages on their doorsteps. Inside was a CD-ROM of the very married Jerry Timmons. Insert the CD-ROM in a computer, and Timmons’s face popped up along with a menu of choices: Frequent Correspondence, Photos, Videos, and Frequented Web sites.

The Correspondence file brought up Timmons’s email exchanges between single women, married women, hookers, underage females, and underage males, basically anything bipedal. The photos and videos all starred Timmons. Timmons had always been viewed as anal. The photos only tweaked that perception. In most, it was obvious the other participant, or participants, had no idea they were being filmed. The exception was a transvestite hooker. The Frequented Web sites menu, while less damaging, further evidenced Timmons’s secret salacious life.

Rightful suspicion fell on Dean Fallow, which he vigorously protested. He blamed fraternal pranksters, but his denials were dismissed, and he was fired. Fallow sued, successfully, claiming no proof was ever submitted. The settlement was not exorbitant, but it was enough for him to pursue another dream. Ten years ago he moved to New York City and dabbled in a few things; some worked better than others, but he eventually started the company he presides over now. Computer security became a necessary business.

The elevator ascended and abruptly opened. Ridgewood and Presto walked out onto a speckled tan and blue carpet and walked toward the receptionist. A young, bored female smiled when she saw them. “May I help you?”

Ridgewood explained that she could. Without showing their badges, they asked if they could see Dean Fallow. The receptionist obliged and phoned, presumably, Fallow’s office. A short moment later, a waxen female appeared; she looked like she’d never seen the sun for fear, unlike the foolish Icarus, that she’d melt.

The candle woman led them through double doors that opened to a standard office, a large room portioned by drab cubicles with offices along the exterior. They headed to a corner office that was by far the largest in view. They were led inside.

A plain-faced man with short-cropped brown hair rose from behind his desk, hand extended. His figure was lithe, yet athletic in a swimmer’s build type of way. “Good afternoon. What can I do for you?”

Ridgewood and Presto showed their badges. Fallow’s face faltered. He went to the door and shut it. He motioned to the two chairs before his desk.

Presto surveyed the office. The floor-to-ceiling windows could be disconcerting if you were prone to vertigo. Potted plants were situated on either end of the window, with Fallow’s desk in the center.

Presto watched Fallow. A few things occurred to him. The man’s appearance was within their profile, but there was something else that nagged at him. When he researched this lead, he found one grainy shot taken during his tenure at the university. The company’s Web site did not have Fallow’s photo, and yet, he looked familiar in a recent way.

Something about this first impression nagged him. When their eyes met, Fallows grew as if they registered recognition. Fallow’s eyes quickly shifted to Ridgewood, where they now rarely wavered. Presto could not blame the man, but he sensed this was not based strictly on sex appeal.

“Yes?” Fallow asked. His hands were clasped, but his fingers still wiggled. A forced sense of composure.

Ridgewood began, yet again, with general questions about his whereabouts at certain dates and times. His answer for Easter morning was in bed with his wife and later at a family get-together.

Presto took notes, but his eyes rarely glanced down at the paper. He watched Fallow who seemed overly preoccupied with Ridgewood. Where could he have ever seen this man?

At this point, most of their interviews fizzled due to the obvious. Fallow had survived to round two, and Ridgewood continued.

“Mr. Fallow, we’re investigating the murders of the city’s religious leaders,” she ruminated and stared, hard.

Fallow’s reaction appeared to be one of relief. “Oh, that,” he trivialized. “I thought you were here on some trumped up charge from one of our competitors. They think my wisdom and foresight is a byproduct of illegal hacking.” He dismissed this notion with a smirk. “But this business, I’m curious; talk to me.” He now leaned forward, interested. He shot a quick glance at Presto but went back to Ridgewood.

“Your background fits our profile,” Ridgewood said.

Fallow cast an awkward smile. “I take it this meeting is not for my proficiency in computers, chess, and pistachios then.”

From Presto’s angle, he could see the side of Fallow’s grin. He asked a question, but not for the verbal response. “Ah, I love those pistachios too, Dean. I’m a salted guy myself. What about you?”

Fallow faced him and answered, uneasily. “I prefer them without the salt. Doctor says I should avoid sodium,” he divulged with a too-quick, tepid smile.

Fallow looked away again, but Presto was sure he’d seen this man recently. Like being unable to summon the right word, Presto could not place it.

Ridgewood evenly said, “Mr. Fallow. It’s about your past.”

He unclasped his hands, and he tugged on one of his cuffs. “Hmm. I have an inkling I know what this is about, and I’ll answer candidly, but why the charade. Be specific,” he offered.

Without a beat, Ridgewood said. “Yes, the Jerry Timmons matter. The killer seems to share your disdain for religion. And, yes, our killer also has some expertise with computers.” She stopped to let that resonate. “You can understand the connection we drew.”

Fallow shrugged. “No, I understand. While it is true, I think religion is a farce and have not always behaved in a pristine ethical manner, I’m not a killer. My unloving wife,” he stated with a reedy expression, “will hopefully attest that I was by her side on at least a few of these murders, unless she plots to rid me,” he said with a trying laugh. “You may reach her at any time.”

He stopped and shot Ridgewood and Presto a conspiratorial look. “I may have information for you.”

Fallow eased closer in confidentially. “As these murders got a foothold in the press, I was reminded of someone whom I’d interviewed a few months back. He looked like a nice enough chap, served his country in the Gulf War, but he returned home bitter and without work.

“If the guy kept his mouth shut, he would have had a job. The guy professed to know of me by some means that I cannot recall,” Fallow said. “The guy tried to forge a quick camaraderie on similar philosophical grounds. I confess; at first, I liked the guy.”

With his eyes still squarely focused on no one, Fallow continued. “Maybe it was his training, but the guy began to talk in a militaristic fashion—mobilize platoons, body bag the believers. It was all so crazy.”

Fallow looked to Ridgewood for understanding. He got nothing.

Fallow smiled. “I saw the debate with Timmons as a matter of education,” Fallow ventured. “As humans progress, we’ll cast away the gods created in ancient and superstitious times. It will eventually happen, but I don’t foresee it in my lifetime. The guy I interviewed advocated speeding up that development in a nasty way.”

Fallow drummed his fingers on the desk. “Naturally I did not employ this man, but I have to say that for the first time in a while, I thought of him when I read the paper. It seems an uncanny coincidence that you are before me now. Maybe there is a god, and you are one of his angels,” Fallow stopped to smile at Ridgewood. “You certainly look like one, and perhaps you’re here to receive this message.” He nodded to Ridgewood and grinned. “Or I’m wrong, and the connection is a mere coincidence. Either way, ask anything that will clear me and speed up your case. I have no need for an attorney.”

Ridgewood thanked him and asked, “I guess a name of this man you described, for starters, would help.”

Fallow frowned. “That I do not know, but I could describe him perfectly. However, as a data collector, it’s possible I have his name in storage.” He gestured somewhere outside his office. “We recently upgraded our systems; have to in our world. But I keep every hard drive that I’ve owned personally and professionally since that Timmons’s incident. Access to someone’s hard drive is more revealing than a diary.” He chuckled to himself. “If you give me some time, I’ll get to those drives and see if I can find this guy’s name.”

“Gee thanks,” Presto amicably responded. He lifted his rear and procured his wallet. He handed the two business cards to Fallow. “Keep one. We’d appreciate if you give us a call whether you glean something or not. On the other, please, if you may, list all your contact numbers in case we need to reach you.”

Fallow took the cards and hesitated before he set out and completed the request. When Presto received the card, he overtly only touched the edges, and dropped it in the inside pocket of his sport jacket. Inside was an open evidence bag. Presto’s fingers found the thread and sealed it.

Ridgewood looked to Presto, searching his face for his thoughts. He winked.

Ridgewood finally returned a smile to Fallow. “I appreciate your unsolicited assistance,” she said easily. “First, I’d like to ask you a few more questions.”