Michael Morley - Spider

Massimo tried to put the DNA tangle out of his thoughts and pressed on. 'We're all presuming that this BRK is American, and that he is the FBI's problem and will stay the FBI's problem. But a murder here in Italy changes all that. It makes it our problem. My problem, your problem, our problem.' His eyes roamed over them, picking them out one at a time. 'You all understand me?'

'Si, Direttore,' they managed, apologetically and not in unison.

'So why Italy?' continued Massimo, rubbing his big bald head while looking at his team for answers. 'Come on; give me some of your thoughts.'

Roberto went first, 'He's moved here, this is now his home. His job has brought him to Italy.'

'Possibly,' said Massimo. 'Next.'

'Holiday,' suggested Benito, the case coordinator. 'Even serial killers have holidays. Perhaps he just had the opportunity to kill while he was here.'

'Next,' said Massimo.

'Perhaps Cristina Barbuggiani had been on holiday in America and he came over to visit her,' offered Orsetta.

'Check it,' said Massimo. 'Ask her family where she'd recently been on vacation, and whether there were any foreign friends that she spoke of.'

'What if this serial killer turns out to be Italian?' suggested Roberto. 'Maybe he came from Rome originally, then moved to America like many Italians do, and now, after a long and illustrious career killing Americans, he has decided to come back home and settle here.'

'Then why kill here?' questioned Massimo. 'I could understand a killer, perhaps of Italian blood, coming back to his native home to give it all up, to turn his back on the murders and live out the last of his days in the sunshine, a long and happy way from anyone investigating his crimes. But not to kill here. A dog does not shit in his own basket.'

'I have a dog that shits everywhere, including his own basket,' argued Benito, stroking a straggly black goatee that Massimo desperately wanted to cut off.

'Good point,' said Massimo. 'We should not close our minds to the fact that this man is an exception to all the rules we know, and that he will never stop killing. He is not a burned-out businessman looking for a place in the sun to retire to and rest his old bones in. He is a predator, looking for new prey, thirsting for fresh blood, and perhaps he has decided that Italy is a new hunting ground for him.'

'Perhaps it's not BRK,' suggested Orsetta. 'Perhaps it's a copycat.'

'I don't buy that,' interjected Benito. 'Two killers on two different continents with the same MO, targeting the same type of victims. It's a big ask.'

'No bigger than imagining he's come all the way here just to kill,' replied Orsetta, her voice rising in defence of her theory. 'I mean, it's not like he's short of choice in America, is it? He's got three hundred million people to choose from, so why on earth would he give up such a rich hunting ground to operate in a country that is alien to him?'

'Okay, we'll chalk that up as a maybe,' said Massimo. 'But, back to my point. Why here? What's the link?'

They sat silently, dredging their minds for inspiration. 'King,' suggested Orsetta. 'If it is BRK and not a copycat, then the only link I can think of is Jack King.'

Massimo frowned. 'Jack King?'

Orsetta struggled to build on her suggestion. 'I'm not saying King is the reason BRK may be killing in Italy, I'm just saying that he appears to be the only link.'

Benito curled his beard between his fingers. 'I agree. It's the only link that I can see as well.'

Massimo thought they were getting nowhere. 'Then we are in trouble. If the only connection we can come up with is Jack King, the man I invited to help us, then indeed we have nothing to go on. I want a bottom-up evaluation of all our statements, and I mean all of them. I want every last second of Cristina Barbuggiani's life accounted for. And let me make this very clear to you. I do not want this sociopath slaughtering dozens of young girls here in Italy. I do not want a second person to die. Do you understand me?' The looks on their faces told him that they did. 'Good. First killings in new areas are never perfect. This may be our best chance to catch him. No, let me correct myself. This may be our only chance to catch him. And that is the reason I have asked Jack King to put his own health at risk in order to help us try to catch this monster – this -' Massimo was stuck for the English words to express the full venom of his hatred for Cristina Barbuggiani's killer. As he resorted to his native tongue, he respectfully covered the dead girl's picture with his big hand. 'Uno che va in culo a sua madre!'

'Motherfucker,' said Orsetta coolly. 'The word you're looking for, Direttore, is motherfucker.'

Marine Park, Brooklyn, New York The house stands alone on the corner of a quiet cul-de-sac, heavily shaded from view by large maple trees and thick hawthorn hedges that dominate the front garden and small driveway. In the pre-dawn darkness, Spider walks around it, checking his security system, testing the sensors on the lights, the angles of the surveillance cameras and the electricity feeds that he's put into a variety of other hidden security devices that will do much more than just deter any unwanted intruders.

In the back yard he sits on the edge of a heavily weathered wooden table and gets to thinking about the old days; the time he lived here with his parents, the time before they went to the Better Place and he was taken away to the orphanage. Fifteen years ago he'd bought the house back, paying cash out of the inheritance left in a trust fund for him. The rest of the money he'd invested wisely, managing a strong port-folio of stocks, shares and bonds over the Internet. His father would have been proud of him. Dad had always said 'never take any unnecessary risks' and that had been the key to his success, in whatever he did.

He remembers life in the orphanage: the bullying, the squabbling, the shortage of food, the fetid warm smell of overcrowded and unclean dormitories and, more than anything, the endless noise. It wasn't until he'd moved out that he appreciated just how golden silence can be. Spider knows those years were formative for him. For better or worse, they shaped him into what he is today. He knows that the reason he still eats his food too quickly is because if he hadn't wolfed down his meals as a kid, the bigger boys in the orphanage would simply have taken whatever they wanted from his plate. He understands his comfort with violence stems from the day he could no longer take the ritual abuse and beatings that all new boys endured, and exploded into a rage that led to him fracturing the skull of one of his attackers by repeatedly banging his head on a toilet wall.

The orphanage had been packed with kids from the wrong side of the tracks and it served as a university of crime, teaching him a dozen ways to establish false identities, obtain bogus documents and set up fake companies. Crime was literally child's play for him.

In the cool of his back yard he fires up a dual-core Dell laptop and, through a false identity web account, goes online. He accesses Webmail and finds his way to his own security-coded intranet system. A few seconds later, he's able to pull up picture feeds from any of the cameras inside or outside the house. He toggles between the external views, then shrinks the screen to compress the pixels and increase the night-view quality. Satisfied with the settings, he punches up the internal camera feeds. In the dark of the yard Sugar's prostrate body shows up as an intense, white shape, almost like a white-hot crucifix. Spider ponders the picture. There is something about the girl that unsettles him. He'd felt it the other night, when he'd approached her, and he feels it again now. He somehow senses that, even spreadeagled and dying, she represents a danger to him. He dismisses his feelings as illogical. His planning has been good, and apart from that one bloody moment when she'd bitten him, he'd experienced no real difficulties with her.