Ripper

  After Keller’s death, though, the investigation took a new turn. They were no longer blindly following clues in an attempt to find a killer—instead they were determined to track down a suspect and prove him guilty. That suspect was Ryan Miller.

  Since Bob Martín followed the legal requirements to the letter—to ensure that any evidence found would be admissible at trial—it took several days to get a search warrant for the old printworks where Miller lived. Few judges were prepared to sign such a sweeping search warrant. The suspect was a former Navy SEAL, a decorated war hero who apparently worked on secret projects for the government and the Pentagon; the slightest misstep could have grave consequences, but hindering the arrest of a suspected murderer would be even worse. Finally, the judge bowed to the deputy chief’s pressure. The moment he had the warrant, Bob personally led the ten-strong team that stormed Miller’s loft, using the most technologically sophisticated equipment.

  The deputy chief was determined to match the evidence in his possession with what they found in the loft apartment. He had María Pescadero’s descriptions of the man with the dog, which fitted Ryan Miller and that hideous creature that usually trotted around after him. At the crime scene, they had found animal hairs that identified the dog as being a Belgian Malinois, bootprints in the hallway and on the tiled floor, fingerprints on the doorframe, the bell, the water bottle, and the glass, synthetic fibers identified as being pink nylon fleece, and—most importantly—traces of skin and hair, left when the attacker had punched Keller in the face, from which they could extract DNA. In Miller’s apartment they found the same dog hairs, the same pink fibers, the same boot prints on the floor; they also discovered bottles of Xanax and lorazepam, firearms, and a crossbow that employed a series of levers and pulleys, of the sort used in archery competitions. The ammunition found in the apartment was not the same caliber as the bullet recovered from the head of Ed Staton, and the arrows were also different from that retrieved from Keller’s body, but the existence of the bow proved that the owner was familiar with the weapon.

  The team seized Miller’s computers and sent them to a lab, but before the forensic technicians could open them, an order arrived from Washington, insisting that they be sealed until a decision could be made. In all probability Miller had installed a self-destruct program, but if he had not, only the proper authority would be permitted to access the contents.

  During his interrogation, Pedro Alarcón explained that his friend worked with a number of security companies in Dubai, and it was not unusual for him to go away for a couple of weeks. But no one carrying Ryan Miller’s passport had left the country.

  “Ryan didn’t do this, Dad,” Amanda said when Petra Horr told her about the search. “Does he look like a serial killer to you?”

  “He looks like a suspect in Alan Keller’s murder.”

  “But why would he kill Alan?”

  “Because he was in love with your mother,” said Bob.

  “People haven’t murdered out of jealousy since Shakespeare’s day, Dad.”

  “You’re wrong—it’s the most common motive for murder among couples.”

  “Okay, maybe Ryan did have a motive to kill Keller, but why would he have been involved in the other murders? I mean, they were all committed by the same person.”

  “He was trained to wage war, trained to kill. Now I’m not saying that all soldiers are potential murderers, nothing like that, but sometimes mentally unbalanced men join the army and are given medals for the very actions that in civilian life would land them in jail or in a nuthouse. And there are also men driven mad by war.”

  “Ryan’s not crazy, Dad.”

  “You’re hardly an expert in psychology, Amanda. I really don’t get what you like about this guy. He’s dangerous.”

  “The only reason you don’t like him is because he’s friends with Mom.”

  “Your mother and I are divorced, Amanda—her friends are none of my business. But Miller has a history of physical and emotional problems, depression, drug and alcohol addiction, and violence. He’s taking anxiolytics and sleeping pills—the same pills used to drug the Constantes.”

  “Gramps says lots of people take those drugs.”

  “Why are you defending him?”

  “It’s common sense, Dad. In every single earlier murder the killer was careful not to leave any evidence—he was probably wearing plastic coveralls, he made sure he left no fingerprints, even on the stuff he sent by mail, like Ashton’s book and Judge Rosen’s glass wolf. Do you really think a guy who wiped his prints off the arrow in Keller’s body would have left them all over his house, including on the poisoned glass? It doesn’t add up.”

  “There are cases where a suspect’s life spins out of control and he starts leaving clues, because deep down he wants to be caught.”

  “I guess one of your criminal psychologists told you that? Ryan Miller would split his sides if he heard that theory. To handle cyanide, the killer would have to wear latex gloves. You really think Ryan put on gloves to tip the powder in, then took them off to pick up the glass? He’d have to be an idiot!”

  “I don’t know precisely what happened yet, but you have to promise me that you’ll let me know if Miller tries to get in touch with your mother.”

  “Please don’t ask me that, Dad. This could end with an innocent man being sentenced to death.”

  “I’m not kidding, Amanda. Miller will have a chance to prove his innocence, but right now we have to assume he’s very dangerous. Even if he did not commit the other murders, in the Keller case, all the evidence points to him. Am I making myself clear?”

  “Yes, Dad.”

  “Promise?”

  “I promise.”

  “What?”

  “That I’ll tell you if I find out Ryan Miller has been in touch with Mom.”

  “Have you got your fingers crossed behind your back?”

  “No, Dad, it’s not a trick.”

  Though she promised her father she would rat out Ryan, Amanda had no intention of keeping her word—a broken promise would weigh less heavily on her conscience than ruining the life of a friend. She had to choose the lesser of two evils, but to ensure the situation did not arise in the first place, she asked her mother not to tell her if Ryan made another appearance on her patient list or in her love life. Indiana must have seen something in her daughter’s face, because she asked no questions, only nodded.

  Indiana knew that the police had a warrant out to arrest Ryan as the only suspect in Alan Keller’s murder, but like Amanda, she did not believe he was capable of cold-blooded murder. No one was more desperate to see Alan’s killer caught than Indiana, but she felt certain that her friend, her one-time lover, this man she felt she understood, whose body she had caressed with the hands of a healer and the lips of a lover, was not guilty. She would have found herself in a difficult situation if asked why she was so convinced of the innocence of an ex-soldier prone to fits of violence, a man who had shot civilians, including women and children, and tortured prisoners in order to secure confessions. But no one did ask; no one, aside from Pedro Alarcón, knew about Ryan’s past. Indiana’s belief in Ryan’s innocence was based on intuition as well as on the wisdom of the planets, and under these circumstances she trusted it more than she did the judgment of her ex-husband. Bob had had problems with all the men Indiana had dated since their divorce, but he had taken a particular dislike to Ryan. Amanda was quick to explain it: just like orangutans, as alpha males, they were incapable of sharing the same territory. Indiana, on the other hand, was happy about her ex-husband’s dating, convinced that among his many conquests he would find the perfect stepmother for Amanda and settle down.

  In the end, Indiana didn’t need to keep secrets from her daughter—who in turn did not need to lie to her father—because Ryan did not contact Indiana. Instead he got in touch with Amanda indirectly. Pedro Alarcón showed up at her boarding school just as class got out, waited for the buses and cars to leave, and then went in an
d asked if he might speak to Amanda Martín about a video. He was greeted by Sister Cecile, who looked after the boarders—a tall, powerful Scottish woman who looked younger than her sixty-six years, and whose piercing blue eyes could detect sins in her pupils before they had committed them. When he explained Amanda’s project about Uruguay, she led him into the Silent Room, as they called the small annex off the chapel. Since the school’s ecumenical policy was considered more important than its Catholic heritage, this room was provided for girls of other denominations and for agnostics. Here they could worship in their own fashion, or simply sit in silence. The room had a polished wooden floor and tranquil blue-gray walls; there was no furniture except a few cushions for meditations and some rolled-up prayer mats for the two Muslim girls at the school. At this hour the room was empty and almost dark, lit faintly by slim shafts of evening light that filtered through the two narrow windows. Outside, the slender branches of the larch trees were silhouetted against the glass, and the only sound to be heard was a distant piano. Pedro felt a lump in his throat as he suddenly found himself transported to another time, another place, to the distant country of his childhood before guerrilla warfare put an end to his innocence. He was once again in his grandmother’s little chapel in the familiar surroundings of Paysandú, a cattle-farming region where sweeping pastures rolled away toward a boundless turquoise horizon.

  Sister Cecile brought in two folding chairs, offered the visitor a bottle of water, went to fetch her pupil, and left the two alone. The door remained ajar, however, and she made it clear she would be close by, since Alarcón was not on the list of the girl’s authorized visitors.

  As they’d agreed in their e-mails, Amanda showed up with a video camera that she set up on a tripod before opening her notepad. They talked about Uruguay for fifteen minutes before spending a further ten minutes talking in whispers about the fugitive. In January, when he heard the Ripper kids had started investigating the San Francisco murders, Alarcón had been immediately interested—not simply because he was intrigued by the idea of five shy, reclusive, gifted brats taking on the vast apparatus of a police investigation, but because the function of the human brain was his specialty. Artificial intelligence, as he liked to say to his students on the first day of class, is the theory and development of computer systems capable of accomplishing tasks that ordinarily require human intelligence. Is there a difference between human and artificial intelligence? Is it possible for a machine to create, to feel emotions, to imagine, to have consciousness? Or can it merely imitate and perfect certain human abilities? From these questions came the academic discipline that most fascinated Professor Alarcón: cognitive science, which—like artificial intelligence—posits that human thought can be understood in terms of computational procedures. The objective of the cognitive sciences is to reveal the workings of the most complex device we know: the human brain. When Alarcón announced that the number of distinct states of the human mind is probably greater than the number of atoms in the universe, any preconceived idea his students had about artificial intelligence crumbled. The kids who played Ripper reasoned using logic, something a machine could do with unbelievably greater power, but they also had something unique to human beings: imagination. They enjoyed complete freedom in the game, playing simply for the fun of it, and could therefore access inner spaces that, for the moment, artificial intelligence could not reach. Pedro Alarcón dreamed of the possibility of harvesting this elusive feature of the human mind and applying it to a computer.

  Amanda knew nothing about any of this. She had kept Alarcón up to speed about the progress of Ripper simply because he was a friend of Ryan’s, and because he and her grandfather were the only adults who had shown any interest in the game.

  “Where’s Ryan?” Amanda asked.

  “He’s on the move. A moving target is harder to hit. Listen, Amanda, Ryan’s no Jack the Ripper.”

  “I know. What can I do to help?”

  “You can find out who the real killer is, and fast. You and the kids playing Ripper can be the brains of this operation, and Ryan can be the executive arm.”

  “You mean like James Bond?”

  “Yeah, but without the gadgets. No death-ray-shooting fountain pens or shoes with jet engines in the soles. All he’s got is Attila and his Navy SEAL gear.”

  “What does that consist of?”

  “I don’t know—a pair of swim trunks so he doesn’t have to go skinny-dipping, probably, a knife in case he gets attacked by a shark.”

  “He’s living on a boat?”

  “That’s confidential information.”

  “There’s a hundred acres of park and unspoiled forest right here in the school grounds, and it’s teeming with coyotes, deer, raccoons, skunks, and probably a couple of polecats—but no people. It would be a good place to hide out, and I could bring food from the canteen. The food’s good here.”

  “Thanks, I’ll bear that in mind. For the time being, Ryan can’t get in touch with you or anyone else—I’m the only link. I’ll give you a number. If you need me, call, let it ring three times, then hang up. Don’t leave a message. I’ll find you. I need to be careful, I’ve got people watching me.”

  “Who?”

  “Your dad. I mean, the cops. But don’t worry about them, Amanda, I can shake a police tail—I spent half my youth dodging the cops back in Montevideo.”

  “Why?”

  “I used to be an idealist, but I got over that a long time ago.”

  “It was easier to shake off the cops in the old days than it is now, Pedro.”

  “Oh, it’s still easy, don’t you worry.”

  “You know how to hack into people’s computers?”

  “No.”

  “I thought you were some kind of computer genius, worked in artificial intelligence or something.”

  “Computers are to artificial intelligence what telescopes are to astronomy,” said Alarcón. “What do you need a hacker for?”

  “It’d be useful to have in my line of investigation. We could use a hacker for Ripper.”

  “When the time comes, I can find you one.”

  “We’ll use my henchman as a messenger. Kabel and I have a code. Kabel’s my grandfather.”

  “I know that. Can we trust him?”

  Amanda answered with an icy stare.

  They said their good-byes at the front door of the school, closely watched by Sister Cecile. The nun was particularly fond of Amanda Martín because she shared her taste for brutal Scandinavian crime novels and because, in a moment of weakness she later regretted, the girl had told her she was investigating the bloodbath predicted by Celeste Roko. She regretted it because ever since, Sister Cecile, who would have given her right arm to play the game if the kids would allow her, had insisted on following every detail of the investigation, and Amanda found it difficult to keep anything from her.

  “A charming gentleman, your Uruguayan friend,” she said in a tone that immediately put Amanda on the alert. “How do you know him?”

  “He’s a friend of a friend of the family.”

  “Does he have anything to do with Ripper?”

  “That’s ridiculous, Sister. He only came to help me out with my social justice project.”

  “Then why were you whispering? I thought I sensed a certain complicity—”

  “Occupational hazard, Sister. After all, it’s your job to be suspicious, isn’t it?”

  “No, Amanda.” The Scottish woman smiled, flashing teeth as big as dominos. “My job is to serve God and to educate young women.”

  Saturday, 24

  Ryan spent the first week of his new life as a fugitive from justice sailing around San Francisco Bay in the boat Pedro had managed to find, a half-cabin sixteen-foot Bell Boy with a Yamaha outboard motor, registered under a false name. At night he moored in small inlets and sometimes went ashore with Attila so they could run a few miles in the darkness, the only exercise he could take aside from swimming, and that only if he was very careful. He cou
ld have gone on bobbing on the bay for years without ever having to show his permit or being intercepted as long as he did not dock in any of the popular marinas, since Coast Guard vessels could not navigate in shallow water.

  His knowledge of the bay, where he had often gone out rowing, sailing, or fishing for sturgeon and sea bass with Pedro, made life as an outlaw easier. He knew he was safe in places like Toothless Creek—the nickname given to a tiny port full of clapped-out boats and floating houses whose few residents had lots of tattoos but very few teeth; they barely spoke to each other and would not even look a stranger in the eyes. He was also safe in some of the ramshackle villages near the mouths of the creeks, where locals grew weed or cooked meth and no one was in a hurry to attract the attention of the police. Even so, the cramped boat quickly became unbearable for both man and dog, so they began hiding out on land, camping in the woods. Ryan had had very little time to prepare before he ran, but he had brought the essentials: his laptops, various ID cards, a bag containing cash that was waterproof and fire-resistant, and some of his Navy SEAL equipment—more for sentimental reasons than because he thought he might use it.

  He and Attila holed up for three days in Wingo, a ghost town in Sonoma with a disused bridge eaten away by rust, boardwalks bleached by the sun, and tumbledown cabins. They would have stayed longer among the ducks, the rodents, the deer, and the silent presence of the ghosts that gave Wingo its reputation, but Ryan was afraid, with spring fast approaching, that the place would attract fishermen, hunters, and tourists. At night, huddled in his sleeping bag, with the wind whistling between the timbers and the warmth of Attila’s body beside him, he imagined Indiana lying next to him, her head on his shoulder, one arm slung across his chest, her curly hair brushing against his lips.

  It was on their third night in the abandoned village that Ryan dared summon the image of Sharbat for the first time. It took a while to come, but when it did, she was not the faint, blood-drenched figure of his nightmares but the little girl he remembered—unhurt, a surprised look on her face, wearing a flowered headscarf and carrying her little brother. He was able to ask her forgiveness, to promise that he would go halfway around the world to find her, and in an unstoppable torrent of words, he told her all the things he could tell to no one but her: no one wants to know the truth about war, only the heroic account stripped of all horror; no one wants to listen to a soldier talking about his pain. He could tell her how, after World War II, when it was discovered that only one in four soldiers was prepared to shoot to kill, military training had been developed to eliminate this instinctive aversion and replace it with an automatic reflex to fire at the slightest stimulus—a reflex burned so well into soldiers’ muscle memory that 95 percent of soldiers now killed without even thinking. But the army still had not found a way to silence the tolling bell of conscience that rang out later, after the fighting, when soldiers rejoined the ordinary world and had time to think; when they were plagued with nightmares and with shame that even booze and drugs could not blot out; when they had nowhere to vent the rage welling inside them, forcing some to pick fights in bars and others to beat their wives and children.