Chapter Nine
The network president wore his dark hair clipped close, his lightweight gray suit no more expensive than Harrow’s first car. He was smiling, but the gray-green eyes were cold stones in the well-tanned, conventionally handsome face.
Dennis Byrnes said, “Let’s get right to it, shall we, J.C.? With the ratings Crime Seen’s enjoyed, you are right to expect certain rewards. Including a raise.”
Seated opposite the network president, Harrow said, “I’ve had another offer.”
Byrnes raised a hand. “I’m sure you have, J.C. You were bound to. Assembling your forensics team, taking them on the road, that was smart showmanship. Plus you got lucky, and some great television happened. The kind that will be written about and studied for years. So I don’t play down your contribution.”
“Dennis …”
“Now, J.C., I’m being straight up with you. But despite all this success, you know what kind of economy we’re facing, and your road trip was extremely expensive. So I don’t want you to be offended if the increase seems unduly modest, and—”
“I said, I’ve had another offer.”
“J.C., don’t be ridiculous. You know your contract includes an iron-clad non-compete clause.”
“Not quite iron-clad, Dennis.”
“… Explain.”
“The non-compete clause applies only to other offers in broadcasting.”
“Actually, J.C., it’s more than just broadcasting—you do know it includes cable.”
“All of television, sure.”
“And radio, and really anything in media. Throughout the universe, if I remember the language.”
“It’s not a job on Mars, Dennis, that I promise you.”
“Where then?”
“Iowa.”
Byrnes frowned, as if Harrow had said Mars. “That’s where you used to work.”
“Right. In law enforcement.”
Byrnes had a flummoxed look. “Well, J.C., regional, local broadcasting, that’s covered by non-compete, too.”
“I’m aware.”
“Who’s made you an offer, anyway?”
“You don’t know them.”
“And it’s not television?”
Harrow gave him a single head shake.
“How much is the offer, then?”
“Twenty-seven five.”
Byrnes erupted in something that was vaguely a laugh. “You’re making seventy-five thousand per show, J.C. And I’m about to offer you one hundred.”
“Not talking about weekly salary.”
“What … what are you talking about?”
“The offer is per year.”
Byrnes frowned in incredulity. “Twenty-seven thousand five-hundred a year?”
“Plus certain perks. Three weeks’ paid vacation. Medical and dental.”
“That doesn’t sound like work. That sounds like welfare. What the hell kind of job pays twenty-seven thousand a year?”
“Twenty-seven-thousand five. Police chief of Walcott, Iowa.”
“There’s no such place!” Byrnes grinned in desperation. “You’re punking me, right? Is that brat Ashton Kutcher in the hall?”
“No, but he’s from Iowa, too. He’d know Walcott’s a real place. If I stay five years, I climb to thirty-three thousand and change.”
Byrnes was a man trying to awaken from a bad dream. “Small-town police chief. You want to trade it all for small-town police chief. Who the hell quits a hit show without something better already lined up?”
“This is better, Dennis. Better for me. Look, I know we’re a success. I know we’ve done a good job. But surely this can’t be that big a surprise.”
“Dennis, when I took this gig, I told you it wasn’t about the money.”
“You also wouldn’t have called it a ‘gig’! J.C., you’re a show-biz guy now, like it or not. You really think it will be so goddamn easy going back?”
Harrow shrugged. “Whether there’s a life back there for me, after what I lost, I don’t honestly know … but I need to find out.”
Byrnes’s eyebrows lifted. “Find out after doing a third season for us. I know you took satisfaction, during season one, helping bring all those bad guys to justice.”
“I know we did some good….”
“You did a lot of good, J.C. We did a lot of good. You can contribute more here than being a Podunk lawman, no offense. You want to go back to Iowa? Why not spend another year here first, socking big dough away for your golden years—you’re no spring chicken, after all … particularly for a TV star.”
That actually made Harrow smile.
“J.C., give me one more year, and I’ll have time to properly replace you for season four … unless you change your mind and want to stay on.”
Harrow shook his head. “Dennis, it’s not just me—my Killer TV team is ready to get back to their lives, too.”
“Unacceptable,” Byrnes said, with what a stranger might have mistaken for a smile.
Harrow knew better. “Pardon?”
“The network holds an option on all your contracts for next season. We intend to pick up those options.”
“Suppose we went public with our unhappiness,” Harrow said. “Suppose I went on strike.”
“I don’t think you will, J.C.”
“And why not, Dennis?”
“Because you owe me.”
And Harrow did.
When Harrow had gone off script, on live TV, pledging Crime Seen resources to track down his family’s killers, Byrnes could have fired him. Could have sued him, and hung him out to dry.
Instead, Byrnes had backed his play.
Ellen and David Harrow’s murders would have almost certainly gone unavenged without Dennis Byrnes.
“… Okay, Dennis. You’re right. I do owe you.”
Byrnes did not allow anything gloating to come in his smile.
“I owe you and I’ll stay, for one more season … but my people? They’re free to go.”
The executive shrugged elaborately. “I will exercise my right to try to convince them with pay raises, J.C., but they will not be held to the options in their contracts. I promise you that.”
“Okay.”
Harrow’s phone vibrated—caller ID: CARMEN.
Harrow didn’t leave his seat—there was nothing Carmen Garcia might call about that Byrnes couldn’t hear.
Without preamble, Carmen said, “She won’t let me in.”
“She who?”
“Kate,” the secretary said loud enough to carry over the phone. “My name is Kate.” The last part Harrow and Byrnes both heard through the door.
Pushing a button, Byrnes said, “Kate, what is going on out there?”
The answer came by way of the door flying open and Carmen Garcia bursting in, dark hair bouncing off her shoulders, open laptop computer in her arms, the unhappy blonde secretary in her wake.
Carmen was holding up the computer as she strode straight to Harrow. “You need to see this. Now.”
“We’re in the middle of a meeting here,” Byrnes protested irritably.
“This is more important,” Carmen said, fearless in the face of the network president. “You might explain to your secretary that news has a shelf life.”
While Byrnes and Kate looked on in offended surprise, Carmen set the computer on the executive’s desk but facing Harrow, who quickly found himself watching a video stream. Though the image was surprisingly high quality, it seemed to be nothing more than amateur porn.
And the absurdity of that made Harrow wonder if Carmen had lost her mind. News? What made homegrown smut news?
On-screen, a long-haired blonde lay stomach-down on a bed, obviously having rear-entry sex, face turned toward camera, her lover almost entirely off camera, his back to the viewer, but not blocking the blonde much from this angle, as she writhed, her moans of pleasure loud and long, distorted through the computer’s small speakers.
“Carmen,” Harrow demanded, patience frayed, “what the hell is this?”
“Not what you think it is—keep watching.”
The blonde on screen was clearly enjoying the vigorous lovemaking, but the longer Harrow watched, the more he realized that something was slightly off-kilter.
Maybe the woman was drunk or high, but something, something, seemed amiss. When the man finished, the blonde turned over on her back, her eyes open but half-lidded and unfocused. She was very pretty.
Harrow threw Carmen a look, but she pointed to the screen. “Keep watching.”
As the man disappeared completely off camera, the woman tried to get up and slowly slumped back to the bed.
Byrnes and Kate had moved around to where they could see the screen better.
“What’s wrong with her?” Byrnes asked.
“High,” Kate and Carmen said in unison. They exchanged an awkward pause, adversaries suddenly teammates.
Shaking his head, Byrnes asked, “Why get so high you can’t even enjoy …”
“You assume,” Kate said, cutting him off, “it was her choice. Ever hear of roofies, Dennis?”
Even as the pair traded a frowning glance, Carmen shushed them.
On-screen, the woman was on her back on the bed, head lolling slightly. She had given up trying to rise.
A metallic voice came through the speakers. “Beautiful, isn’t she?”
“Voice filter,” Harrow said.
A hand came into view, stroked the woman’s hair, getting it out of her face, improving the view of her blurry-eyed beauty.
“You may call me Don Juan,” the voice said. “This is my audition tape—I intend to become your next star … the new star attraction of Crime Seen”
All eyes went to Carmen for some sort of explanation.
“Watch,” she said, grimacing. An order, but an apologetic one.
A knife flashed through the frame and slashed into the woman’s throat, severing the carotid artery. Blood spurted and a weak gurgling scream reminded Harrow of a rabbit’s cry when a hawk swooped in and carried it off. Then the scream dissipated amid more gurgling and the struggle for air as a victim drowned on her own blood. …
Kate recoiled from the computer, and Byrnes had to catch her.
Harrow, though, remained glued to the screen, watching this beautiful young woman grasp feebly at her neck, trying to hold in the spurting blood, turning her fingers runny, smudgy scarlet. She only grew weaker, her attempts more feeble….
Then she was gone.
“Don Juan again. When I love a woman, she has been loved so completely, so well, that she has no more reason to live. Nothing else to look forward to, since I never repeat myself—no woman is worthy of receiving my love twice.”
“Sick,” Kate said, looking like she would be.
“I do apologize for making demands—I know producers do not like to be bossed around by talent.”
Harrow and Byrnes shared an awkward glance.
“You will cast me as your new star on Crime Seen, or I’m afraid, face the consequences. Give me my rightful glory, my proper respect … and air time … and I will keep my fatal seductions down to one a week.”
Harrow frowned.
“But if you do not accede to my demands … let’s call them ‘requests,’ we are all friends here, collaborators … I will have to accelerate the frequency. Now, you may be asking yourself if you have just witnessed a master of special effects … no. This is real. This is realism. By way of proof, you will find the body of my latest lover within twenty-four hours. She will serve as proof that I am sincere.”
Harrow said, “My God—he’s not kidding. It is a goddamn audition tape….”
“I will expect your answer on this Friday’s show, or next week you will meet two of my satisfied lovers. The week after, three lovely women will die on camera … and I have the stamina and will power and seductive skills to expand to daily conquests if need be. So it’s up to you, UBC. And to the star of the show—J.C. Harrow? I have this personal message.”
“Bastard,” Harrow said.
“Don’t be envious. My popularity will soar—it will exceed your own. But jealousy is beneath real artists like ourselves, Mr. Harrow. You know … and I know … that a true hero is only as strong as his adversary. And now you have a worthy one.”
Carmen’s laptop went blank, and the audio ended.
Feeling like he’d been poleaxed, Harrow said, “Where in the hell did this come from?”
“Cyber tip line,” Carmen said. “Came in as an attached file.”
“Is it real?” Byrnes asked.
Verging on hysteria, Kate said, “It looks real! It looks terribly real!”
Carmen said, “Effects on screen—like the Saw movies, and those Rob Zombie ones—they look real, too.”
“I missed those,” Harrow said dryly. “But like Don Juan himself said—those aren’t special effects. Not in my opinion, anyway.”
Kate leaned into Byrnes, who put an arm around her, a protective father standing there, just shaking his head.
“Get Jenny on it,” Harrow said to Carmen.
Byrnes finally found his voice. The tanned exec was now blister pale. “My God … we created a serial killer.”
“No, Dennis,” Harrow said. “We didn’t.”
The network president stared at him blankly, his mind obviously awhirl.
“Dennis, a killer like this? He’d be at it whether we had a show or not. In his twisted mind, Crime Seen provides a rationalization—it tells him that his actions are somehow acceptable.”
Byrnes pointed to Carmen’s computer, the way the Ghost of Christmas Future pointed at Scrooge’s headstone.
“You meet the parents of that young woman,” he said, “you think they’ll give a damn about semantics? ‘Don Juan’ said he wanted to star on Crime Seen, and that’s all people will hear.”
Well, Harrow thought, at least Byrnes hadn’t reacted by saying they had a new ratings sensation on their hands. But it would have been more encouraging had the exec acknowledged that they just watched a young woman die. On screen.
Byrnes was saying, “Kate, get legal on the phone and get them the hell up here.”
Steady in the storm, Harrow said, “Dennis—there’s something far more important to do first.”
“What could possibly be more important than protecting the network’s ass?”
Harrow held Byrnes’s gaze. “Assuming that film is real? We need to call the LAPD, and help them get this madman off the street.”