Chris Mooney - The Killing House

At 7 a.m., Borgia sat down for his first interview, conducted by the always affable and courteous host Dan Harris. Manhattanites hustling through the cold streets surrounding Times Square saw the interview being played on the massive LED screens prominently displayed on the front of the ABC building.

Borgia sat down looking sharp and confident. His media escorts had prepped him about the importance of body language, and they had provided him with a new wardrobe. The suit-and-tie combination chosen for this interview had colours that, according to extensive research, projected warmth and trust.

High-definition was not kind to Borgia. The pancake makeup gave his skin an unflattering orange tint; it did a poor job at hiding the dark and puffy circles underneath his tired eyes. Despite his exhaustion, Borgia spoke clearly, and well.

‘The task force assigned to find and apprehend Malcolm Fletcher received and acted on a credible tip. I can’t get into specifics about what happened or how he escaped — our investigation is still ongoing — but I can tell you that the evidence we’ve uncovered at this stage suggests that Malcolm Fletcher, in addition to killing one of Ali Karim’s employees, a man named Boyd Paulson, attempted to kill Karim himself before fleeing.’

Dan Harris raised an eyebrow, nodding. ‘I understand he also killed a member of the Hostage Rescue Team.’

‘That’s incorrect. We deployed gas into the house. One of our Hostage Team officers rushed up the steps to the first floor, and, because he couldn’t see clearly, made a wrong turn and fell over a banister. He landed the wrong way and was killed instantly.’ Borgia sighed, then added with real emotion: ‘It was an unfortunate accident, and our thoughts and prayers are with the man’s family.’

‘The victim, Ali Karim, is a well-known security expert and has an office here in New York. Why did Malcolm Fletcher target him?’

‘We haven’t ascertained why Malcolm Fletcher targeted him or his employees,’ Borgia said. ‘Our investigation is in the preliminary stages.’

‘Tell us about Malcolm Fletcher.’

‘He’s not an ordinary criminal. Before he became a federal agent, he trained as a Navy SEAL. He has considerable talents, especially in the area of surveillance and counter-surveillance — training which has assisted him in eluding law enforcement. He’s also a polyglot — he speaks multiple languages, which has allowed him live abroad and blend in without arousing suspicion.’

‘You’ve called him — and I quote — a rare combination of sociopath and psychopath.’

Borgia nodded. ‘Because of his background and training in psychology, he managed to evade detection by our screening process. That gives you an indication of just how highly intelligent he is. People who knew him described him as a loner — and emotionally impenetrable.

‘While he worked as a profiler, he was suspected of murdering mass murderers and serial killers — cases he was working on. When the Bureau discovered what he was doing, we sent three agents to his home to question him.’

‘And what happened?’

‘Fletcher attacked them. One agent is still on life-support.’

‘And the other two agents?’

‘We don’t know what happened to them,’ Borgia said. ‘They disappeared.’

‘And during all these years as a fugitive, what has he been up to, do you know?’

‘Fletcher has become, in his own right, a very dangerous serial killer. As long as he’s out there, no one is safe. We need the public’s help to find him. The federal government is offering a three-million-dollar reward to the person offering information leading to Fletcher’s capture and arrest.’

‘This picture we’re about to show, is it a recent picture?’

‘This is the last picture we have of him. Before Fletcher disappeared, he had taken the extraordinary steps of erasing all information about himself from the Bureau — this happened before computers and databases were as prevalent as they are today. Everything existed on paper.

‘Malcolm Fletcher has one distinguishing characteristic, as you’re about to see,’ Borgia said. ‘One that’s impossible to disguise.’

Malcolm Fletcher’s face appeared on the LED screens overlooking Times Square. The picture showed him with short black hair and a face composed of chiselled-granite angles. He wasn’t wearing contact lenses. His strange, black eyes stared down at the surrounding streets.

Many people stopped to watch. Others shivered and turned away, quickening their pace.

Dan Harris’s voice spoke over Malcolm Fletcher’s photograph: ‘Explain the man’s eyes, what happened?’

‘We honestly don’t know,’ Borgia said. ‘Unfortunately, there’s nothing on file in Bureau records as to the nature of this medical condition. The specialists we spoke with are divided. Some believe it’s either ocular melanocytosis or pigment-dispersion syndrome, both congenital diseases which cause an unusual dispersion of dark pigmentation in the eyes. There’s also ocular siderosis, caused by iron toxicity. The lack of colour in the eyes could simply be an aberrant genetic mutation.’

‘A birth defect, in other words.’

‘A rare, one-of-a-kind birth defect.’ Borgia paused for emphasis, then continued. ‘This defect will allow us to find him.’

‘What about contact lenses?’

‘It’s a possibility. However, when he worked for the Bureau, he made no effort to disguise his condition. Another former profiler told us that Fletcher said he was allergic to contacts. If Fletcher is, in fact, wearing contacts they’ll be specially made ones that cover the entire eye. We’ve seen some created by Hollywood prop makers, and even the best ones can’t mimic the human eye — the tiny blood vessels, etcetera. If you get close enough, you can see that they’re fake.’

‘Let’s read off that toll-free number.’

A small crowd of scrawny Goth teenagers dressed in black leather jackets and hoodies had gathered across the street from ABC’s massive LED screens. Heavily tattooed and pierced, they pounded cans of Red Bull in between chain-smoking cigarettes to counter the downing effects of alcohol and ecstasy. T. J., a reedy man with a blue Mohawk and pierced lips, was the first to speak: ‘Jesus, that dude’s a freak.’

The man standing near by glanced in his direction. T. J. couldn’t see the eyes. Dude was wearing sunglasses.

T. J. looked away, feeling his scrotum tightening. He had noticed the guy coming out of the coffee shop. Something about the dude gave off this, like, primal reaction that made T. J. want to turn and start walking in the opposite direction — quickly.

Maybe it was the guy’s size. Dude was built like a brick shithouse — tall and ferociously solid underneath that stylish John Varvatos look he was rocking: scuffed black boots with a grey tie worn against a chambray shirt; a black scarf wrapped loosely around his neck. He wore black leather gloves and a fedora that gave him that cool and edgy New York artist look.

The only woman in the group stared at the picture of Malcolm Fletcher on the TV screens and said, ‘I think he’s kind of hot.’

‘Hold up,’ another man said. ‘You think this guy’s good looking?’

‘He’s got a sexy face,’ she said. ‘Strong jaw and nice cheekbones. I’m just saying.’

T. J. saw the big dude with the sunglasses dump his coffee into a bin and start to walk towards them. T. J. waved a hand to shut up his friends.

The stranger stepped up next to them. ‘Excuse me,’ he said with some sort of accent — British, maybe. ‘I was wondering if I might take a quick look at that.’ He pointed to the New York Times tucked underneath the girl’s arm.