Cody McFadyen - Shadow Man

With the millions who access the Web, with all that exists upon it, two of the things most looked for, most desired, are sex and rape. What does this mean? One could argue, with the demographics of the Net, that it means there are a million men sitting in their homes right now, thinking about the subject of rape. All sweaty palms and tents in their trousers. This is something, is it not?

Now let me take you down another, related path. A new type of Web site has begun to proliferate on the Internet. Sites devoted to men sharing their hatred of women with each other. Let us take the site aptly named "revengeonthebitch.com." On this Web site, jilted men post compromising photos of their former girlfriends or wives. Nude photos. Sexual photos. All with one end in mind: degradation and embarrassment. Below each photo, others are invited to post their opinions. I've enclosed a sample of this, the first attachment. Give it a once-over. I find the attachment he's referring to. At the top is a picture of a smiling, brown-haired woman. She's twenty or twenty-five. She's naked, legs spread for the camera. The caption says: My stupid, cheating girlfriend. One skanky fucking slut. Below it is a listing of responses. I read through them.

CALIFORNIADUDE: WHAT A FUCKING SKANK! BE GLAD SOMEONE

JAKE 28: SHOULD HAVE SLIPPED THAT BITCH SOME ROOFIES AND

PASSED HER OFF TO ME AND MY CREW TO BUTT-RAPE HER! SLUT!

RIZZO: ROOFIES RULE!

DANNYBOY: I'D HIT IT!

TNINCH: NICE COOZE. TOO BAD SHE'S SUCH A CUNT.

HUNGNHARD: DO WHAT I DO! SHOVE YOUR COCK IN HER MOUTH AND

I put it aside. I've read enough. The careless hatred is nauseating.

"Wow," Leo whistles. "That is incredibly fucking disturbing."

I continue reading.

Revelatory, isn't it? So, what do we have in our cauldron, then? Let's take stock: sex and rape, hatred of women as a pastime. Mix them to- gether, and what do we get?

An environment perfectly conducive to a meeting of the minds. Minds like mine, Agent Barrett.

True, most of these minds are puerile, unworthy. But if you are will- ing to search, as I am, to poke, coddle, cajole . . . you can find a few who are poised to take that leap to the other side. All they are lacking, in most instances, is little bit of encouragement. A mentor, if you will. I feel my stomach beginning to churn. Some part of me thinks I know where this is going.

I believe I've laid the groundwork for your full understanding. Now let's jump to the photos, shall we? You've probably already glanced at them. Give them a good once-over.

I do. There are five women in total. I take a closer look. "What do you think?" I ask Alan. "Do the bed and chair look the same in each picture?"

Alan takes the pages, scans them. "Yeah." He squints, then puts the pages down on my desk, next to each other. He points to the carpet in one. "Look at that."

I do. I see a stain.

"Then here," he says, pointing to another one of the pictures. Same stain.

"Shit," Leo says. "Different women, same guy."

"But it's not Jack, is it?" James says, breaking his silence. "Jack's not the guy. Maybe Jack's current companion."

Silence at this. I go back to the letter.

You are a sharp one, Agent Barrett. I'm sure you've realized by now, after poring over these photos, that these young lasses all appear in the same location. The reason is simple: All five were killed by the same man!

I curse. Part of me knew it, but he had confirmed it. These women were already dead.

Perhaps you, or one of your compatriots, have already deduced the rest as well. That the man who killed these women is not me. If so, then let me be the first to give applause.

I found the talented young man who took these pictures in that vast, dark environment, those wild plains that make up the World Wide Web. I recognized his hungers and his hatreds, and it did not take long at all for him to take his leap. To relinquish his last, silly hold on the light and embrace the dark.

Of course, this could be a hoax on my part, yes? Take a look at the CD

I have enclosed, and when you are done, feel free to call Agent Jenkins in the New York office of your FBI. Ask him about Ronnie Barnes. Oh, and if some hope is leaping in your breast that Barnes will pro- vide you with that lead you yearn for, I'm sorry to be the one to tell you, but Mr. Barnes isn't with us anymore. Watch the CD. You'll under- stand.

Down to the point of it all, as I end this for now. The point remains the same: Hunt me. Hunt me well, and remember this: Ronnie Barnes was just one of so many with those special hungers. And I am always looking for those meetings of the minds.

From Hell,

Jack Jr.

"Jesus Christ," Alan says in disgust.

"Interesting," James muses. "He's like a living computer virus. That's what he's showing us. That he can replicate in others."

"Yeah," Leo replies. "And he's still upping the ante. Letting us know he ain't gonna stop escalating until we get him."

I'm too tired and disturbed to reply. I hand Leo the CD. "Put it in."

We move over to stand behind him as he places the CD in the tray and opens it up. We see what is now becoming all too familiar--a video file. Leo looks up at me.

"Go ahead."

He double-clicks it. Video and sound start. We see a woman bound to a chair. This time, she's fully nude, and her face isn't hooded. She's a brunette, I note. A pretty girl in her early twenties. And she's terrified to the point of insanity.

A man steps in next to her. He's grinning, naked. I swallow in disgust as I notice he's also fully erect. Turned on by the terror. I assume this is Ronnie Barnes.

"Geeky-looking guy," Oldfield notes.

Unkind, but he's right. Ronnie Barnes is a pimply-faced, only-justpostadolescent, with a scrawny chest and thick-lensed glasses. The kind who draws jeers from shallow women. He'll masturbate thinking about them even though he hates them for the things they say. He'll despise them even more for being desirable, despise himself for desiring them. I know all of this not because he's scrawny and pimply, but because he holds a knife in his hands, and it's giving him a hard-on. He looks toward something we can't see, off camera. "You want me to do it now?" he asks. I don't hear a response, but he nods and licks his lower lip, excited. "Cool."

"Who is he talking to?" Alan wonders.

"Two guesses," I say.

Barnes bends over, seems to gather himself. What he proceeds to do next is so decisive, so brutal, that we all recoil in shock.

"Fucking cunt!" he screams. He raises the hunting knife and brings it down point-first, with all the brutality he can muster. It almost seems to disappear into her. He doesn't just pull the knife out, he yanks it, savage and furious. He raises it high above his head, again, and brings it down, again.

He is putting his entire body into it, all his muscles; his neck is corded with the effort.

Again.

This is not the methodical method of Jack Jr. This is the out-ofcontrol mindlessness of a madman. Again.

"Cunt!" Barnes screams. Then he just keeps screaming.

"Mother fucker !" Leo says. He jumps and runs for a trash can, vomiting into it. None of us begrudges him this.

As soon as it has started, it's over. The woman has ended up on her back. She's barely recognizable as human. Barnes is on his knees, leaning backward, arms out, eyes closed, covered in blood and sweat. Hyperventilating in his bliss. His erection is gone. He looks off again. His expression is worshipful. "Can I say it now?"