Spider

BUON GIORNO ITALIAN POLICE!

A cold wave of emotion seeped down Jack's shoulders and spine, his eyes locked on the three letters that had ruined his life.

The Black River Killer.

Jack read the note again and noticed that the three letters came up twice. It was almost as though the writer was trying too hard to convince the police that it was his handiwork.

'Are you okay, Jack?' asked Massimo.

'I've been better,' he said, rubbing a hand across his forehead. Something wasn't right, but he couldn't put his finger on it. Maybe it was the sick humour – a heads-up – or maybe once more he was just grasping for a reason, any reason, to convince himself that this wasn't proof that BRK was killing again. He took a long breath and cleared his head. 'I spoke to my old office in New York and it turns out that the corpse of an early BRK victim had been exhumed and the skull posted there, care of yours truly.'

Massimo screwed up his face. He felt for Jack. All this was a lot of pressure to pour on the guy at once. 'I saw a Bureau note on this, and heard some details had leaked to the press, but nothing was said about it being addressed to you.'

'Well, it was. Howie Baumguard, my old number two, is convinced it's BRK.'

'The Bureau note said nothing of that,' remarked Massimo.

'Same confidentiality problem as your Prime Minister's office,' said Jack, forcing a smile. 'Put that kind of information on the closed wires and it's sure to get out in the open.'

Massimo was wondering whether it was really possible for BRK to be almost simultaneously active in both Italy and the USA. 'Do you think this Black River Killer really is responsible for the incident back in America?'

Jack let out the breath he'd been holding. 'I really don't know. The issue is clouded now because of what you've just told me.'

Massimo scratched at a patch of stubble just below his left ear. 'Two decapitations. Two heads, both mailed by the killer…'

Jack cut him off. 'BRK has a thing about left hands, not heads. But you're right; it seems too much of a coincidence to believe that two separate killers send dead women's heads to law enforcement organizations at roughly the same time.'

'I agree,' said Massimo, 'and I really hope I'm wrong. I would much rather believe we're dealing with a first-time psycho, than entertain the thought that your infamous serial killer has decided to make Italy his new playground.'

Jack searched his mind for the name of the Italian victim, and felt bad that it didn't come. 'Cristina Bar- Bar -'

Massimo helped him. 'Barbuggiani.'

'Barbuggiani,' continued Jack. 'How was her head delivered to you?'

Massimo raised his eyes in exasperation. 'Not yet fully clear. Our goods bay took possession of a cardboard box. It was passed to the mail room and then one of the clerks, a young woman, opened it.'

'What can your bay tell us?'

'It wasn't signed in, and we can't find anyone to say that they took possession,' answered Massimo, looking embarrassed. 'It's possible that it was just left with other mail in one of the "In" crates. We security-scan all the mail and packages, but not until they are being sorted into the different departments.'

'Do I feel a security review and tightening of procedures coming on?' asked Jack.

'Already under way,' confirmed Massimo. 'There was a courier company stamp on the box, but we've not got anything on them yet.'

'Forensics find anything on either the box or your note?' asked Jack.

'No prints. ESDA testing also came back blank. We're running a trace on the notepaper and the ink.'

Jack shook his head. 'Not much point. It'll be the commonest possible.'

Massimo hoped he was wrong. 'Don't despair too early, my friend. Even the best of criminals make mistakes.'

'Not this guy,' said Jack. 'Let me tell you how he works. Before this son of a bitch does anything, he researches the backside off it. I bet you your life savings that the pen he used to write this pornography is the most commonly used felt-tip pen in America.'

'Or Italy.'

'I bet you a hundred euros it's American. The paper too. Your researchers will draw a blank on all your Italian manufacturers, I promise you, Mass.'

Massimo shrugged. 'Then maybe we discover the paper is a particular batch, issued to a particular region, on a particular date. Your colleagues in the FBI will be able to help us with this.'

'You betcha, they've got whole databases on ink and paper,' said Jack dismissively. 'But I'll guarantee you this as well: BRK knows we'll run those traces, he knows that eventually we will find the factory that produced the ink, the very tree the damned wood came from to make the paper.'

'What are you saying, Jack?'

'I'm saying this. He will have bought the most common paper he could get his hands on, months and months, maybe even years, ago. He'll have bought it for cash, from a giant store, in a city that he no longer has anything to do with, and in the first place was probably only passing through. Even if we trace the day, the date, the time that he purchased it, the information will lead us nowhere.'

Massimo's door opened and Claudia, his PA, came in with the espressos and some small tumblers of water.

'Grazie,' said Massimo. Claudia smiled and left as quietly as a burglar.

'You want this?' Mass held out a cup of coffee to Jack.

'Yeah, I sure do,' said Jack, craving anything that would jolt him out of his moment of pessimism. 'Anyway, the pen and paper aren't the biggest clues.'

'You mean the text?' said Massimo, pulling his chair alongside Jack on the other side of his desk.

'Yeah. He thought long and hard about these words, Mass. What were your first impressions when you read it?'

Massimo turned the paper towards him and read silently. 'Shocking. Cold-blooded. Brutal. How you say in America, "straight to the point", is that right?'

'Yeah, that's right. What else?'

Mass puzzled for a moment. 'Clear – threatening – dangerous.' He started to struggle to add to his list. 'And you? What do you make of it?'

Jack scanned the paper again. 'He's begging for attention. The bold capital letters, the brevity of the note, the use of exclamation marks, the fact that he mentions his own name twice – it all shows that he's craving, almost demanding our attention. As you know, when killers do this, it's usually a sign that they are full of pent-up anger and are bursting to release it. I'd say he's either about to kill again, or maybe has even killed since writing this letter.'

It wasn't a thought that Massimo wanted to consider. His resources were stretched to the limit and another murder would cause mayhem, not just on the Barbuggiani case, but on three other, unrelated ones that he was overseeing. He took out a cigarette, tapped the end of it repeatedly on his desk and asked, 'Will he have found the process of writing the letter arousing?'

'Undoubtedly,' said Jack. 'Not only arousing, but empowering. He'd also be particularly turned on by the waiting process, the anticipation that we would read it.'

Massimo looked down at the letter again. 'I noticed that he spelt buon giorno correctly. Not many foreigners would do that. I think maybe he is an educated man.'

'He's certainly no fool. Check the letter again and you'll see that the grammar, spelling and punctuation are all correct,' said Jack. 'But I think there are two reasons why he is precise and so correct. Firstly, like I've said before, it's not that he's hugely intelligent, it's that he's hugely careful. BRK researches everything he does, meticulously. This guy probably looked up the spelling of buon giorno to make sure he didn't make a mistake. His whole attitude to life is to be careful, to plan, to avoid making that one slip-up that could end his freedom, and that's mirrored in this letter as well.'

'And the second reason?' asked Mass.

'His ego. This is a murderer with the biggest ego on the planet. If you could see egos, then we'd just hire a plane, fly around a bit and pull him in. It would be as easy as that.'

'Why so egotistical?'

'BRK would be mortified if he'd done something wrong and thought we were laughing at him, rather than him laughing at us.' Jack moved the paper closer to Mass. 'Here, look at this.' He pointed out the smiley face. 'Kids use these on e-mails, they draw them as symbols to express that they're happy in an uncomplicated, pure, childish way. The smiley is pretty much the first face a kid gets to draw. By using it, he's showing us that he has no respect for any of our values, and is happy to be seen as a threat to the most precious thing we have, our children. He's using the smiley as a form of intimidation. And now look at this.' Jack ran his finger under the line 'HA! HA! HA!' 'He's going to great lengths to mock us. Note the bold capitals again, and three exclamation marks. That's his way of saying, "I see you all as a joke, don't you get it?" And then there's this, the sickest of lines.' Jack's finger pointed to 'CALL IT A "HEADS-UP" OF WHAT I'VE GOT IN STORE FOR YOU!' The former FBI profiler leant back in his chair. 'He's warning us that he's going to kill again. Why?'

Massimo lit the cigarette, blew out smoke and considered his answer. 'It's a game. Maybe this whole thing is just one giant game for him.'

Jack blinked from the smoke wafting his way. 'You're right, and he wants to make certain that we'll play. I think he's here in Italy, and I'm a hundred per cent sure that he's going to kill again.' At the same time that Jack was meeting Massimo in Rome, American tourist Terry McLeod paid the taxi driver, moved his baggage off the dusty road and snapped the first of his holiday pictures, the outside of La Casa Strada.

'Sure is a pretty place,' he told Maria, as he bowled into the cool reception area and announced his arrival.

'We have you staying with us for just five days. Is that correct, Meester McLeod?' she said in the English that she hoped one day would be good enough to see her compete internationally as a beauty queen.

'That's right. Wish it could be longer. Never been to Tuscany before, it looks really fantastic.' He peered at her name badge. 'Tell me, Maria, are the owners of this place around? What're their names again?'

'Mr and Mrs King,' said the receptionist, struggling to understand him because he spoke so quickly. 'Mrs King is here, but not Mr King. Would you like me to call her for you?' She picked up the desk phone. 'Are you a friend from America?'

'No, no, don't do that,' he said. 'I'm sure I'll bump into them while I'm here. Lots of time to catch them, let it ride for now.'

Maria looked him over. He was about the same age as Mr King but nowhere near as tall or good-looking. He had a little fat belly that billowed beneath a pink Ralph Lauren polo shirt, like the one she'd hoped to buy her boyfriend Sergio. On closer examination, she noticed it had a thin brown stain running down the front of it, as though coffee or ice cream had dribbled from his machine-gun mouth and caught on his big stomach. 'May I have your passport, please?' she asked. 'And the credit card you wish to use to settle your bill? Breakfast is available until ten thirty and is included in your daily rate.'

McLeod handed over his passport and sized up the receptionist as she photocopied it. She was beautiful. He'd pay good money to have her sent up to his room along with a stack of beer and some decent air-conditioning. Man, Italy may be great on historic buildings but it sure sucked when it came to keeping things cool.

'Thank you,' said Maria.

McLeod smiled at her. 'How do you say that in Italian? Is it the same as in Spanish, gracias?'

'No,' said Maria sweetly, 'not quite. We say grazie.'

'Grat-sea,' he tried.

'Perfetto,' said Maria, deciding it would be rude to correct his slight mispronunciation. 'You are in the Scorpio suite,' she told him, taking a key from a set of hooks on the wall behind her. 'Please go straight down the corridor, here to the right of me, then first left and up some stairs, that's Scorpio.'

'Scorpio,' he repeated. 'Are all the rooms named after star signs?'

'Yes. Yes, they are,' said Maria, now growing tired of him and wishing he would go, so she could return to the magazine under her desk.

'How many are there? In total, how many rooms?'

Maria had to think for a moment. 'Six. No, eight. There are eight rooms in all.'

'Eight,' repeated McLeod, thinking for a minute of how he might be able to persuade the beautiful Maria to spend some time with him in one of them. Later. There would be time for that later. First though, he had a lot of planning to do. Business first – pleasure later.