O’Melissokomos
The Bee Keeper

The Carma Klown 12–13

by z119z

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Chapter 12

Friday, ca. 9:30 a.m., June 11, 2010

“That looks so familiar.”

The group of cops crowding the AV conference room stared at the image on the large monitor. In the center was a row of three large windows divided into smaller panes by what appeared to be a metal framework, and, to the right and left, portions of similar windows. Weathered, stained bricks surrounded the windows. It was night and several panes held a reflection from a street light. The building looked old and slightly decayed. It wasn’t derelict—someone used the building and needed the windows to be functional, but clearly not much money was spent on its upkeep. The image appeared to have originated from an upper floor of the building across the street.

“That’s the problem,” said Michael. “It could be any of hundreds of buildings in the metro area. An old factory or workshop, some sort of office building. We’re trying to work out how high off the ground the windows are, based on the angles of the reflections of the street light and the shadows cast by the light. We’re not going to get an exact figure—the Public Works Department says that there are dozens of different types of streetlights still in use, but they vary only about five feet or so in height. So we should at least be able to estimate what floor the video was made on.”

“Google has that street view program. Did you run it through that?” Some voice in the group standing behind him interrupted his explanation.

There always has to be one smartass who thinks I don’t know my job and asks the obvious question, thought Michael. 

Before he could say anything, Altmann spoke up. “That was the first thing Mike did. The problem is that there are hundreds of possibilities.”

Michael found no little satisfaction in the impatient note of reproof in Altmann’s voice. At least the Captain was beginning to appreciate his efforts.

“It took hours of careful work for Mike and his team to build this image,” Altmann continued. “If you could see what they started with, you would know that it’s a miracle that we have this much. But it’s just a start. Look at it. It tells us a lot. We know that the Klown isn’t working in a high-rent district.” He stopped and gestured out the window at the row of gleaming modern buildings across the street from One Police Plaza. “It’s an old building. That in itself eliminates a lot of areas. We’re circulating the image to every precinct. It will be shown at every watch meeting. We’re asking every patrol officer in the city to alert us to possible candidates. Mike has set up a special account where they can send us pictures from their phones along with a text message identifying the location. Checking them out is not going to be easy. We expect hundreds of suggestions. But Mike or somebody on his team will show you how to use Google Street Views to eliminate the buildings it can’t be and to whittle down the list. Then we start going out to look at each of the remaining ones. This is the best lead we have so far, and we can thank Mike and his team for it. Now . . . .” Altmann began assigning tasks to various individuals.

It was a vote of confidence, Michael knew. An hour earlier, Altmann had met with his team, and they had shown him the image. Mike had begun explaining how they had generated the image. Altmann had listened for two or three minutes and then asked only, “Is it accurate?” Their assurances that it was satisfied Altmann. He had been disappointed that they weren’t able to identify the precise building immediately, but he quickly moved past that and grasped the possibilities. Then he had called everyone present in the squad room to a meeting and had Michael show them the reconstruction.

Michael had noticed that about the captain before. Once Altmann was confident of his subordinates’ abilities, he didn’t question their expertise. It might take a while to earn that confidence, but once it was earned, the captain was supportive. He didn’t need to know the technical details, but if you gave him the information relevant to the case, he built on that and moved the investigation forward. Michael mentally filed this technique of leadership away for future reference. If—when—he made lieutenant and then captain, he could use it.

When the captain had cleared the room of all but the three lead investigators, he closed the door. “This will keep everyone busy for a couple of days. Good work, Mike.”

“It was a group effort, Captain. Jim Mitchell did most of the mathematics to help us work out angles and distances, and Ellen Corwin and Vince Pascoe worked with me to make the composite image.”

Altmann looked at him speculatively for a second and then slowly nodded. Michael couldn’t tell if he had scored points by admitting that the credit didn’t belong solely to himself or if Altmann was indicating that team work was an assumption that didn’t need to be acknowledged.

“The building looks so familiar. I have this feeling that I’ve seen it somewhere recently.” Michael shook his head. “It’s like a name that’s on the tip of your tongue but you just can’t remember it.”

“That’s the problem,” Jerry Baker said. “It’s the type of building you see every day, but you don’t really look at it. Practically every major highway in the metro area is bordered by buildings that look like that. You see them as you drive past. Brooklyn, the Bronx, Queens are full of them. They’re all over the place. It could even be up in Yonkers or across the river in New Jersey. About the only place you don’t find them is downtown Manhattan. And that’s because they were all torn down years ago.” 

The four men nodded in resignation. It was going to be hard to identify the building. Although no one brought it up, they all knew that luck would play a large role in the process.

“So,” sighed Altmann, “what else do we have? Phil? What have you got on the other people in the videos and on the equipment.”

“Okay, we’re making some progress.” Redding caught Michael’s eye. “We’ve been following up on a couple of your suggestions, Michael, and been looking into the other actors in the videos and sources of equipment. We found an ad that appeared on Craig’s List beginning the week before the first video appeared. It asked for actors—it specified male actors—with well-developed backs and buttocks for modeling work. We reposted the same ad hoping that some of the same people who replied to the first ad will reply to ours. So far we’ve had 37 responses. We emailed each of them asking if they also applied to the first ad. We didn’t explain why—we didn’t want to alarm them by getting them worried about being involved with the police. But it worked. Fourteen of the people who replied to our ad said that they had also replied to the first ad. We’re going to start interviewing them today. We’ve also been tracking the people who commented on the videos and suggested other victims. So far we’ve found a couple of people who suggested one or more of the men who subsequently appeared in a video. Some of the commentators claim to have personal knowledge of the Klown, and we’re sorting through those. Most of those appear to be braggarts, but we’ve still got to check them out.”

“Any luck finding the suppliers of the equipment?”

“We talked with several suppliers of video cameras, but they all say they can’t help us until we know the make and model used. So that’s a dead end unless we can find out more. We did have some luck with one of the—I guess you would call it a prop—one of the props used in the video with Reilly and Milowski. Kinda embarrassing, but we were able to identify the company that makes that particular, er, um, butt plug, and they gave us a list of local stores that sell it. We’ve been checking them out. No luck so far. They aren’t the type of store that keeps detailed sales records. The only store that admits to selling a pair of them lately said that they were purchased by an older woman. The clerk said she looked like somebody’s grandmother. He had never seen her before, and she paid cash. So there’s no credit card record. The clerk said she knew what she wanted. She walked in, went right to the butt plug display, picked up the two she wanted, and then bought them. She didn’t say anything, but that’s not unusual for stores like that. We had the clerk work with a sketch artist. This is what they came up with.”

Redding handed a copy of the sketch to each of the others. “As you can see, it’s not very helpful. Plus, I don’t know about you, but it seems unlikely to me that the Klown is an old woman. Maybe she’s an accomplice. But in this city, you never know. An old lady like that—she might have a dozen reasons for buying a butt plug.”

“I sure wouldn’t want to be her husband,” Baker laughed. 

“Me neither,” said Redding. He shuffled the papers in the folder he had brought with him. “That’s all I got for now, Captain. Just one more thing. Michael, can you get me several pictures of each of the men who appeared in the videos? I mean the other men, not the victims. As many angles as possible. We’ll need them for comparison purposes when we start interviewing the guys who replied to our ad.”

Michael nodded and made a note. “I’ll email them to you when they’re ready. It won’t take long.”

Jerry Baker didn’t wait for Altmann to ask for his report. “We’ve been conducting follow-up interviews with everyone. No further information there. The good news is that Sophia White persuaded the victim in the first video—his name’s Malcolm Hainault—to talk to us. The meeting’s set for this afternoon in Hainault’s office. Sophia’s going to be there, plus Hainault and a group of his lawyers. We’ll try to persuade Hainault to show us his left buttock so that we can confirm if he was actually in the video. Sophia thought maybe she could ask one of his lawyers to check. Come to think of it, Michael, can you get me some pictures from that segment of his video? That might help for identification purposes.”

Michael made another note. “Will do.”

“Michael, what have you got for us?”

“Ellen and I are going back to Syswide this afternoon to check on the six computers used to upload the videos. We’ve tracked the access back to Syswide in all cases. Plus Ellen’s discovered what looks like an earlier appearance of The Karma Klown. Can I show you? It will just take a second. I’ve got the file right here.” Michael pointed at his computer.

When Altmann nodded, he tapped in a command and an image appeared on the monitor.

Below the text on the screen was the familiar image of a clown speeding away in a small car.

“How did you find this?” asked Altmann.

“We were searching for earlier evidence of the Klown’s activities. We were Googling various catchphrases and images, like the clown in the car. We found this when we searched for the phrase “worthless, pathetic, old faggot.”

“What are we looking at exactly?”

“It’s one of Google’s caches of a website. This one is no longer active. If you type in Revenge.com, you get a notice from one of the sites that licenses commercial websites that this name has not been taken and an offer to help you arrange to claim the name. Luckily this website was originally created after Google began its caching program. What you see here is the website as it appeared on . . .” Michael consulted a note he had made “on June 22, 2008.”

“What’s the idea?” Baker asked.

“The person who set it up described it as an interactive video game. We can’t really tell how it was supposed to work because this screen is all that survives. We found a few discussions of the site elsewhere. As near as we can deduce from the comments of those who saw the original site, the idea was that someone with a grievance would join the site, log on, and then choose one of several dozen authority figures to punish. These could be varied by age, gender, race, appearance, occupation. I guess so that the person could match the online victim as closely as possible to the person annoying them. Then you gave the online image a name and chose the punishment you wanted to inflict. These varied from the physical to the mental, but they all involved humiliation. Then the scenario was played out. The resulting session was recorded and other members of the site could log in, view it, and rate it.”

“That sounds familiar,” said Redding. “So this is either an earlier version of the Klown’s scheme that he’s now expanding on, or he took the idea from this site. Can you trace who set up this site?”

“That’s a bit trickier. The site was registered through Metasites, which is one of the services I was talking about. According to them, the site was active only for a couple of weeks in 2008. They processed the application, which was paid for using a credit card. We traced the credit card number. It belonged to a woman who died on June 19, 2008. The charge went through, and Metasites had no reason to be suspicious. The family didn’t get around to canceling the card until June 26. Apparently the family just paid the bill without questioning any of the items on it—Metasites doesn’t charge much for its service. So whoever registered the site didn’t leave any trace of himself.”

Altmann broke in, “I’m sensing a ‘but’ here.”

“We’re working with Metasites, but they’re not hopeful. Once the site was registered, the owner uploaded the screen I’ve just shown you. That was apparently the only time he accessed the site. They didn’t keep a record of his IP address. The site attracted some attention. Within a few days there were comments on other sites and chat rooms about Revenge.com, but these were quickly followed by complaints that none of the links worked. No one could sign up. And a year later, the license expired and the site was no longer active. We’re trying to trace some of the people who commented on it. Vince suggested maybe the Klown himself posted some of the comments to draw attention to the site and to see how people reacted to it. Sort of like a trial run.”

“What were the responses?” asked Redding.

“Overwhelmingly positive. There was a lot of regret that the site didn’t work.”

“Yeah, I can imagine,” said Altmann. “Ellen told me that the funeral home handling Milowski’s funeral put up an online notice about the services. There was a place where people could leave messages, condolences for the family, that sort of thing. I guess they had to disable that because there were so many nasty comments. She also said that all but a few of the comments on the Klown’s videos applaud his efforts. He tapped into a vein of popular discontent.”

“I saw T-shirts with the Klown image in a shop as I walking to the subway,” said Baker.

Michael nodded. “I’ve seen them too. There are several websites devoted to his activities now. As far as we can tell, none of them is connected directly to the Klown, but I’ve got Vince Pascoe working on that.” It doesn’t hurt, Michael thought, to remind them that I’m assigning jobs to people. “We also discovered several earlier examples of people using the name Karma Clown with variant spellings, including karma with a ‘c’ and clown with a ‘k’. Dozens more people have begun using the name since the videos started appearing. We’re trying to trace the users of the name that predate the videos. Most of them are not local or they’re clearly kids. So we’ve been able to eliminate lots of them.”

“Good work, Mike. You got anything else for us at the moment?” Altmann began gathering up his things in preparation to leave.

“Well, if you look at the wording used on Revenge.com, you’ll see that all of the proposed authority figures are male and the punishments involve male-male sex. That seems to be true of The Carma Klown as well. I happen to agree with Phil that doesn’t necessarily mean that the Klown is homosexual. It’s just that homosexual sex is the most humiliating punishment he can think of. He does have it in for male authority figures, however, and all of his victims so far benefited from the financial collapse in 2008. So I’m guessing that is the cause behind his campaign.”

“We can hardly investigate everyone who suffered in 2008,” Baker broke in. “It would be 90 percent of the country. That’s a deadend. As for people who would see forcing someone to have gay sex as a form of humiliation—that’s got to be a large number too.”

“Yeah, too large,” Michael admitted. “There’s one more thing. The Klown is adept at hiding behind screens—first Syswide and now Metasites. He has to be someone who understands computers and how networks function and how companies like Syswide and Megasites operate. We’re working with Syswide and Metasites to see if any of their employees overlap.”

“Okay. I think we’re on the right track. Let’s keep digging. Thanks. That’s all for now.” Altmann stood up and opened the door to the conference room. As the other three men gathered their papers together, he said, “Mike, if you’d step into my office for a second. There’s something I want to talk to you about. Not about this case.” He directed the last comment to Redding and Baker. “It will just take a couple of minutes.” 

Baker and Redding paused outside the door of the conference room and stared at Michael’s back as he entered the captain’s office. Altmann nodded at them as he closed the door.

“Take a seat.” He pointed to the chair in front of his desk. “Coffee?” He held up the thermos that seemed always to be filled.

Michael shook his head. “No thanks. I’ve already had too much.” He waited while Altmann filled his mug, spooned in sugar and powdered creamer, and then stirred it. He folded his hands and rested them on the file folder he had placed on his lap. His posture was tense. He wasn’t sure why the captain had called him into his office. There had been that shrewd, speculative look earlier. Had he done something wrong?

Altmann tossed the plastic stir stick into his wastebasket. He sat down and leaned back in his chair. He looked out the window into the squad room and took a deep drink of coffee. He let the silence linger for several beats before speaking. “You’ve been doing good work, Mike.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

Altmann’s eyes flicked briefly in his direction. “Steve’s fine. At least in private. Use your judgment about what title is appropriate in public.”

Michael nodded to show that he had heard. He didn’t think he could manage “Steve” at this point.

“How long have you been a detective, Mike?”

Michael suspected that the captain already knew and was simply asking for confirmation. “Four years and nine months, plus a few days.”

“Good. Almost five years. The next examination for detective sergeant is coming up in October. You’ll meet the time requirements then.”

“I’ve been studying for it. I plan to sign up when they make the formal announcement and open the list.”

“Good. You know that if you pass the test, I’ll be asked to testify before the Promotions Board. I just wanted to let you know that based on your work to date I’ll be able to recommend that you get the promotion. You’ve shown good leadership skills. You’re a team player. You’ve got good judgment and a good eye for details. You interface well with the public. Just a word of advice—be sure you have the legal stuff down cold for the exam. Sergeant is regarded as the first management level, and they want to make sure that the people leading ordinary officers know the law. If you have any questions, just ask one of the ADAs. They all like to give lectures on the law, especially to cops.”

“I will, Captain. Thanks for the advice. I appreciate your taking the time to talk with me.”

“It’s just something I’ve been meaning to talk with you about. Of course, a lot depends on whether we catch the Klown or not. You’re playing such a major role in that, you’d get a lot of credit for that. I’d make sure of that. But that’s not the reason I called you in. I need you to help me with something else.”

“Anything, Captain. Whatever I can do.” At the moment, Michael would have jumped out the window if Altmann told him to.

“It’s becoming obvious that crime involving computers and, whaddya call it, the Web? The Internet?”

“Most people say the Internet now.”

“Yeah, the Internet then. It’s just becoming more and more of a factor in crimes—especially crimes involving finance and money. The department needs to keep up with the criminals. That’s where you come in. Right now we got people like you with computer skills scattered throughout the division. What I need from you is a report on what it would take to form a permanent computer group. Like the Robbery or Murder or Fraud groups but different. It would investigate computer crimes directly but also advise the other groups. Work up detailed proposals for staffing, budgets, equipment. That sort of thing. You’ve already got the nucleus of one now. Corwin, the Pascoe kid, the others. Just base it on that. Don’t be too ambitious. We need to be realistic about what the Department will approve. And you’ll need to work on the report on your own time. I’ll add a summary of the cases in which we’ve relied on your skills to solve and make the case that we need this sort of group permanently. But I need you to supply the technical details. Focus on financial crimes, fraud—that’ll appeal to the mayor. But don’t forget other crimes—ways in which computers can help us with drugs, vice, theft. Anything you can think of. And again, if we can find this Carma Klown, it will make the case even stronger. There’s no hurry. Let’s aim for September 1. By the time the report makes its way up to the people who will make the decision, you should be the sergeant who helped put a stop to the Klown.”

Michael was sitting on the edge of his chair, leaning toward the captain. He had to restrain himself from showing his enthusiasm. “I’ll get right on it. I’ve got lots of ideas, Captain.”

Altmann smiled. “I’m counting on that.”

*****

Chapter 13

Friday, ca. 12:45 p.m., June 11, 2010

 “Yeah, I replied to the ad on Craig’s List. But I never heard back from anyone. I’d almost forgotten about it when I saw your ad.”

“You’re certain that no one contacted you about the first ad? You look like a natural for it.” 

Ian Villers, who had introduced himself as an actor who sometimes modeled for underwear ads, nodded to acknowledge the compliment. He was the ninth man that Phil Redding was interviewing out of the fourteen respondents to his ad on Craig’s List who said they had also replied to the first ad. “Yeah, I’m certain. I’d remember something like that, wouldn’t I?”

The other men Redding had interviewed had made the same claims. The nine men varied in height and build. Four of them were definitely overreaching in asserting that they had a muscular back and buttocks. Redding was able to dismiss them immediately. The Carma Klown appeared to prefer young, well-proportioned men with prominent, muscular buttocks and a deep cleft for the second actors in the videos. It was as if the Klown wanted to emphasize the physical contrast between those he was punishing and the men he was using to punish them. Of the remaining five, three, including Villers, were possible matches to the second actors in the videos based on their general looks.

“Have you heard of the Carma Klown?” 

“Sure, everybody’s heard of him,” Villers nodded. “He’s been all over the news since that guy killed himself. I haven’t watched any of the videos though. From the descriptions I’ve heard, it’s not my thing.”

“We think the first ad may have been placed by the Klown. That’s why we’re trying to track down anyone who responded to it.” Redding checked the envelopes Michael had given him with printouts from the videos. He found what he was looking for in the collection of screen captures from the second video. “We know it’s probably a long shot, but a lot of police work is eliminating long shots. We suspect the Klown is drugging the people who appear in his videos to get them to do what he wants. None of the people who can be verified as victims has any memory of his participation. So the same may apply to the others as well.”

Villers frowned. Despite his disavowal of knowledge of the contents of the video, he evidently knew enough about them to find the thought that he might have been in one unappealing. He shifted uneasily in his chair, and then pulled back the sleeve of his coat and checked his watch. 

I’d better wrap this up, thought Redding. He’s getting restless. He pulled one photo from the envelope and studied it without letting Villers see it. “May I ask, Mr. Villers, if you have any tattoos on your back?” The photo showed a man’s back. The man appeared to be tall and wide-shouldered. He wore jeans and was shirtless. No tattoo was visible, but Redding had intentionally phrased his question as if he were looking at a photo of a man with a tattoo on his back.

Villers immediately relaxed. He thought he was off the hook. “Nah. I hate the things. I can’t imagine why anyone gets one.”

Redding nodded. “Would you take a look at this photo?” Redding slid the photo across the interview table.

Villers picked it up and stared at it for several moments. He turned the photo over and placed it face down on the table. He gulped nervously and then covered his eyes with his hand. 

“Can I get you something? A glass of water?”

Villers shook his head.

“Mr. Villers, is it possible that that is your back in the photo?”

Ian Villers reluctantly nodded his head yes. “It might be. But there are lots of guys with backs like that.” 

“I assume that because of your work that you are familiar with your appearance. Could I show you some other photos?” Redding didn’t wait for Villers to answer. He pulled the other photos out of the envelope and spread them out on the table and began pointing out certain unique features. “The jeans are standard 501s. Do you own a pair of those?”

“Sure, doesn’t everyone?” Villers glanced at the photos as Redding began arranging them on the table, but he quickly turned away when Redding placed the first ass shot before him.

“What about the belt? Do you have one like it?” Redding picked up one of the photos and forced Villers to look at it.

“Yeah, that might be mine. But there must be several thousand guys with belts like that.”

“Mr. Villers, I appreciate your cooperation in coming in and answering my questions.” Redding put on his best reassuring voice. “As I said, we think the Klown is drugging his victims. None of his victims remembers anything about their participation in the videos. Of course, no one is going to recognize the other participants in the video. Their faces are never shown, and the parts of their bodies that appear are not going to be familiar to most people. But it would help us enormously in catching the Klown if we can find the other men in the videos. I’m going to ask you to look at one more photo. Will you do that for me? I realize that this is unpleasant for you, but I assure you that the information you give us is invaluable.”

Redding lifted a photo of a man’s right buttock and used his pen to point out three spots. “As you can see, there are three small moles on this man’s buttock. We found an underwear ad in which you appeared.” Redding pulled a page torn from a magazine from a folder. “What appear to be two of the same moles are visible above the top edge of these briefs. Would you allow us to check to see if the third mole matches?”

Villers flushed a deep red. “Why would the Klown do this to me?” 

Redding shrugged. “You may have been a random victim. The fact that you replied to an ad probably means that the Klown does not know you. But we can’t rule out the possibility that this is some form of revenge against you personally. We won’t know until we catch the guy. I’m sorry to ask, but could I check the moles to see if the pattern matches. It’s the only way we can either confirm that it’s you in the video or eliminate you.” 

Villers stood up slowly. He was wearing a corduroy sports jacket over his jeans. He removed that and then turned around. “It’s the right cheek?” When Redding nodded, Villers lowered the jeans on that side to expose his buttock. He was not wearing any underwear, and it took Redding only a few seconds to locate the third mole.

“Thank you. You can . . . ”

Villers quickly lifted his jeans back in place. He took one look at Redding’s face and then said, “Jesus, it was me, wasn’t it?”

Redding nodded. “I’m sorry. The pattern matches.” I’d better get him past this quickly, he thought.

“Mr. Villers, we think the video in which you may have appeared was made at some time either late Friday evening, March 19, or the early hours of Saturday, March 20. Do you know where you were that night?”

“In March on weekends, I was working as a back-up barman at L’Ane d’Or. That’s a bistro on 29th near Lexington. Service stops at 11:30, and the last customers are usually gone by 12:15 or so. I can check to see what I got paid that night and tell you how many hours I worked. We’re usually out of there by 12:30. Sometimes I go out with one of the guys for a drink. Not often though. We’re usually too tired. I usually just go straight home and fall into bed.”

“Do you live alone?”

“I was in March.”

 “Do you remember anything unusual happening in March?”

“Like what?”

“Like an unusual dream? Or waking up on a Saturday morning and feeling strange? Or finding more cash in your wallet than you expected? The Klown may be paying his actors.”

Villers snorted. “No, to the extra cash. That I would remember. I often feel wasted when I wake up after working at night. I probably wouldn’t have thought it was unusual if I woke up feeling like I had a hangover.” He glanced at the cop. “I know what that feels like.”

“What about a strange dream?”

Villers shrugged again. “I can’t remember when I had it, but there was one dream.” Villers looked embarrassed again.

“What happened?”

“Do you know what rimming is, Sergeant?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I dreamt that I was being rimmed. It struck me as unusual when I woke up. It’s not something I do.”

“Mr. Villers, I’m going to ask you to look at a video. I warn you that you may find it distressing, but I’d like you to watch it until the end.”

By the time the cartoon of the Klown speeding away appeared, Villers was not so much distressed as furious. He wanted the Klown to be punished. Redding quickly took advantage of his anger to get him to dictate a statement, He didn’t tell Villers that he had undergone what would be only the first of several interviews. Nor that if the Klown were brought to trial, he might well end up testifying in court.

In the end, Phil Redding was able to identify only two of the men who had appeared in the first six videos. The other man’s experience was much like Villers’s—he, too, could not remember making a video. But the physical evidence in both cases was irrefutable.

*****

Friday, ca. 2:00 p.m., June 11, 2010

A minute after entering the conference room at Malcolm Hainault’s office, Jerry Baker was ready to concede that the Carma Klown might have a point. He and Sophia White had been kept waiting for twenty-some minutes after the appointed time of 1:30 p.m. White had instructed him to wear the suit and tie he reserved for court appearances. She herself was dressed in the female equivalent. Baker knew he looked good in the suit. He could have passed for another assistant district attorney. When the receptionist finally showed them into the meeting room, Hainault and four other men were already present, occupying one side of a table that was larger than the living room in Baker’s house. The four men rose to their feet as Baker and White entered. The man Baker recognized as Hainault from the video remained seated. 

It was difficult, thought Baker, to like some “victims.” There were some who were not so much victims as criminals attacked by rivals. Those he felt had got what they deserved, and he wasted no sympathy on them. In contrast to them were the innocents who had become entangled in a crime—people who surprised a burglar at work in their home and ended up in intensive care, the random pedestrian who crossed paths with a mugger, the shopper at the supermarket who got carjacked. That could happen to anyone; it was simply a matter of bad luck and of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Those he could feel compassion for. But even among the genuine victims were those who behaved so stupidly that he could only shake his head in wonderment that they had lasted so long before becoming the victim of a crime. Those, he wanted to shout at. He saw them almost as enablers, walking temptations to criminals.

And then there were victims like Hainault, who seemed to think that the police were their enemy and that they had to defend themselves with lawyers. They begrudged every second of their interviews, they saw no need to supply information, they denied their involvement in the crime even when it was clear. Hainault may have agreed to the interview, but he wasn’t going to make it easy. 

One of the four men who stood up stepped around the table and shook White’s hand. “Sophia, nice to see you again. I wish it were under more pleasant circumstances. How is Robert? We must get together. I’ll talk with Pat and see if we can’t arrange a dinner some evening.”

“If you are referring to my husband, Walter, Roland’s fine. Thank you for asking. This is Detective Sergeant Jerome Baker from the Midtown Major Crimes Division. He’s one of the lead investigators on The Carma Klown case. Jerry, this is Walter Remington, of Remington, Palmer, and Associates.”

“Jerry!” Walter Remington greeted him like an old friend and cuffed him on the shoulder as they shook hands. “No need to introduce Sergeant Baker, Sophia. We’re old acquaintances. We met during the Carl Vincennes trial. I was lead counsel on that case.”

“Yes, Sir, I remember.” I remember you failed to shake my testimony, thought Baker. I also noticed that you misremembered Sophia’s husband name and Sophia seems not to want to get together with you and “Pat” for dinner. Baker took that as her comment on the sincerity of Remington’s attempt at friendliness.

Remington introduced the other three men who were standing. All were associates in his law firm. As each was introduced, he nodded. None offered to shake hands. They were bit players, Baker decided, of no importance to the meeting. They were simply there to emphasize the resources potentially available to Hainault. 

Hainault himself paid no attention to the preliminaries. He sat upright in his chair with his hands crossed on the table in front of him. He looked neither at White nor at Baker. Baker knew from the case files that Hainault was 72 and a billionaire who had parlayed a sizable inheritance into what Forbes ranked as the twelfth largest fortune in the United States by buying up companies, gutting them, and then selling the remains. The whiteness of his hair emphasized the faultless tan of his face. Hainault’s suit alone, Baker estimated, probably cost more than his entire wardrobe.

Remington motioned White and Baker into chairs on the opposite side of the table. The chairs were as opulent as the table. Baker mentally compared it to his office chair, whose leatherette seat cover was cracked and torn. Everything about the room shrieked wealth and expense. An enormous Turkish carpet covered most of the floor. The painting that hung on the wall at the foot of the table looked liked it should be hanging in a museum. Baker assumed that it wasn’t a copy. The receptionist busied herself at a silver coffee service and then placed cups of coffee in front of Baker and White. After checking that none of the attorneys wanted more coffee, she left. The door made no noise as it closed behind her.

Baker examined each of Hainault’s lawyers. They had the sleek, polished appearance of men who could afford a crew of assistants to keep them looking good. Other people had decided what tie they should wear, how they should cut their hair, what style of shoe they should put on their feet—people who knew how to tailor a suit so that a narrow band of shirt cuff extended from the sleeve of the suit jacket, people who knew how to shave someone so as to leave the person’s face smooth and unmarked, people who knew what type of briefcase stated that the person carried it was important. 

He instinctively disliked them. They would smell subtly of talcum powder and the cologne of privilege. Their contempt for him and White was obvious. He was just an ignorant cop, and she had to work in the DA’s office because, unlike them, she wasn’t good enough to get a job in a law firm where summer interns earned more than assistant district attorneys. Outwitting him and White was, they had decided, not a challenge, unworthy of their talents, something that could be done with half a mind on the task. 

Baker knew that he had to suppress his feelings toward them. He couldn’t let them distract him from his job—getting Hainault to cooperate in the investigation. He put on his best poker face and directed it toward Hainault. He would ignore the flunkies. They were irrelevant, minor obstacles to be pushed aside.

“Mr. Hainault,” White began, “on behalf of the District Attorney’s Office and the Police Department, I would like to thank you for . . .”

“Sophia, pardon me for interrupting. I have a statement to read on Mr. Hainault’s behalf. It will make his position clear and speed matters along. I’m sure that all of us would like to get back to productive work as soon as possible.” Remington opened a black leather folder and pulled out three sheets of paper. He handed two of them to the associate sitting beside him, who stood up and walked around the table. Remington began to read as soon as his assistant placed a copy in front of both Baker and White.

“Our client, Mr. Malcolm Hainault, is always happy to assist the police and the District Attorney in their enquiries. He has, however, no knowledge of the man known as The Carma Klown and, to the best of his recollection, he in no way contributed to or participated in the making of the video that purports to show him engaging in certain acts. He further denies the admissions of guilt spoken by the actor who impersonated him in the video. . . .”

The letter continued for another hundred words or so, all of them disavowing any connection between Hainault and the video. When Remington finished reading the letter, he returned his copy to the leather folder and placed his hands on top of it.  He was about to speak when Baker interrupted.

“You would have no memory of it, Sir,” Baker spoke directly to Hainault, ignoring the immediate protests of the phalanx of lawyers surrounding him. “All the participants in the videos, both the victims and the other actors, were drugged. We have found remnants of the narcotic commonly known as ‘roofies’ in their blood. You may not be familiar with this drug, but it renders people extremely compliant and ready to do whatever they are told. Most people have no memory of what they did while they were under the influence. So far The Carma Klown has kidnapped and drugged five of your colleagues in the financial world, six other men who have as yet not been identified, and two policemen. He made them perform unspeakable acts, ones every decent person finds abhorrent. None of them participated willingly in making the videos or remembers anything. When we find the Klown, he will be charged with kidnapping, unlawful imprisonment, and the administration of a listed narcotic for starters. The District Attorney will undoubtedly add other charges. Two of the fourteen men who appeared in the videos have committed suicide out of shame. One of those men—John Rossiter—had a background similar to yours. You may well have known him or the other victims. The more evidence we can uncover about the Klown’s activities, the faster we will be able to put a stop to him. The more people who step forward to testify against him, the greater the likelihood that the DA will be able to get a conviction.” 

Hainault had sat impassively throughout Baker’s speech, neither making eye contact nor indicating in any manner that he was listening. It was only when he mentioned Rossiter’s and Milowski’s suicides that Hainault looked up and met Baker’s eyes. The thought of suicide disturbs him, thought Baker. It’s my entry. Absolve him of all responsibility, direct his anger at The Carma Klown, make him feel the pain.

“I know that you do not remember taking part in the video. I cannot begin to appreciate what it must feel like to know that other people think that is you in that video and that you are willingly and enthusiastically performing those awful acts. I am told that John Rossiter was a decent man, a loving husband, a good father.” (Actually it had become clear to Baker that Rossiter was a bastard devoted only to increasing his power and wealth.) “The Carma Klown, not Rossiter, decided what Rossiter, would do on that video. That wasn’t the real John Rossiter on that video, but it’s what people will remember about him because this bastard drugged him and forced him to engage in those disgusting activities. We can only imagine the anguish that led him to put a gun to his forehead and shoot himself. . . .”

“Sergeant Baker—Jerry—I must protest.” Remington cut in. “Mr. Hainault has said that he did not participate in making the video and has no knowledge of The Carma Klown other than what he has heard on the television or read in the newspapers or heard as gossip. He would be only too happy to assist you in your investigations if he could . . .”

“Walter,” Hainault spoke for the first time. “I would like to hear the rest of what Sergeant Baker has to say.”

“Malcolm, I must caution you against saying anything that would entangle you further in this case. If the police do catch this man and he is brought to trial, his lawyers will use any statement you make against you. You will end up on trial instead of The Carma Klown.”

“I knew John Rossiter. He was a good man, a decent man.” Hainault spoke to Baker for the first time. “I understand that one of your colleagues also killed himself.”

“Yes, Officer Frank Milowski.” Baker tried to put as much regret as possible into his voice. The first feelings Hainault had shown indicated an empathy for the two men who had committed suicide. He wanted Hainault to identify with them. It was a wedge and he knew immediately that he had to exploit it.

“Malcolm, I must insist that you let me speak for you.” Remington stood up. “Sophia, Jerry, this meeting is at an end. I will protest formally to both of your supervisors about the way that you have taken advantage of Mr. Hainault’s patience and hospitality to question him about matters that he has no knowledge of. Hamilton, please escort Mrs. White and Sergeant Baker out.”

As one of the assistants leaped to his feet, Hainault said, “Sit down. Or, rather, don’t sit down. Walter, I think Ms White, Sergeant Baker, and I can continue on our own without your and your colleagues’ able assistance.”

“Malcolm, I must caution you against such a move. The police are notorious for twisting an innocent person’s statements. We are here to advise you and prevent you from . . .”

“Your indignation is noted, Walter. It is also unnecessary.”

“Malcolm, if I am indignant, it is because I am here to protect your interests.”

“Walter, you are a lawyer. Your indignation is purchased by the hour. In fact, all your services are purchased by the hour, a trait your profession shares with another of the oldest professions in the world.”

Hainault must have signaled his secretary, for she appeared in the doorway as he was speaking. “Lydia, please show Mr. Remington and his colleagues out.”

Remington continued to protest. His sputtering was cut short by Hainault. “Walter, that is enough. I will speak with you later.”

When the lawyers had left, Hainault walked over to the coffee pot and poured himself a cup. He held the pot up, querying whether Baker or White wanted a refill. When they shook their heads no, he pulled a chair out on their side of the table and sat down facing them. “I will do everything I can to help the investigation. I want this man punished for what he did to me, and to the others. Unfortunately the statement Walter Remington read is partially correct. I have no memory of the video.”

Sophia White spoke up, “Mr. Hainault, the statement Walter prepared for you denied any involvement in the making of the video.”

“A more correct statement would be that I have no memory of participating in the making of the video. My body, however, bears unmistakable proof that I was involved.”

“You refer to the Carma Klown tattoo?”

“Yes, Sergeant Baker. I have been undergoing laser treatments to remove it. Unfortunately, there are still traces. The one thing I am thankful for is that this madman did not make me reveal my address and invite anyone who wanted to, to drop by as he did with John Rossiter. At least I was spared that humiliation.”

In the end, Hainault could not add much other than an admission of his appearance in the video. He could recollect nothing about the making of the video. His appointments log for the night on which the video had likely been made showed only that he had left his office to return home around 7:30. To his recollection, he and his wife had eaten dinner and then gone to bed as usual around 11:00. Both of them had awoken around 6:30. His chauffeur had driven him to the office just after 8:00, and he had worked until around 10:00 when his wife had called. She had seen the video and was disturbed and distraught. A copy of the video had also been delivered to his office. He viewed it for the first and only time that morning. His response had been to summon his lawyers.

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