Date: Thu, 27 Jun 2013 01:08:19 -0700 (PDT)
From: z119z 2000 <z119z2000@yahoo.com>
Subject: The Carma Klown, Installment 6

The Carma Klown 6

z119z (z119z2000@yahoo.com)

© 2013 by the author

Chapter 12

Friday, ca. 9:30 a.m., June 11, 2010

"That looks so familiar."

The group of cops crowding the AV conference room stared at the image on
the large monitor. In the center was a row of three large windows divided
into smaller panes by what appeared to be a metal framework, and, to the
right and left, portions of similar windows. Weathered, stained bricks
surrounded the windows. It was night and several panes held a reflection
from a street light. The building looked old and slightly decayed. It
wasn't derelict—someone used the building and needed the windows to be
functional, but clearly not much money was spent on its upkeep. The image
appeared to have originated from an upper floor of the building across the
street.

"That's the problem," said Michael. "It could be any of hundreds of
buildings in the metro area. An old factory or workshop, some sort of
office building. We're trying to work out how high off the ground the
windows are, based on the angles of the reflections of the street light and
the shadows cast by the light. We're not going to get an exact
figure—the Public Works Department says that there are dozens of
different types of streetlights still in use, but they vary only about five
feet or so in height. So we should at least be able to estimate what floor
the video was made on."

"Google has that street view program. Did you run it through that?" Some
voice in the group standing behind him interrupted his explanation.

There always has to be one smartass who thinks I don't know my job and asks
the obvious question, thought Michael.

Before he could say anything, Altmann spoke up. "That was the first thing
Mike did. The problem is that there are hundreds of possibilities."

Michael found no little satisfaction in the impatient note of reproof in
Altmann's voice. At least the Captain was beginning to appreciate his
efforts.

"It took hours of careful work for Mike and his team to build this image,"
Altmann continued. "If you could see what they started with, you would know
that it's a miracle that we have this much. But it's just a start. Look at
it. It tells us a lot. We know that the Klown isn't working in a high-rent
district." He stopped and gestured out the window at the row of gleaming
modern buildings across the street from One Police Plaza. "It's an old
building. That in itself eliminates a lot of areas. We're circulating the
image to every precinct. It will be shown at every watch meeting. We're
asking every patrol officer in the city to alert us to possible
candidates. Mike has set up a special account where they can send us
pictures from their phones along with a text message identifying the
location. Checking them out is not going to be easy. We expect hundreds of
suggestions. But Mike or somebody on his team will show you how to use
Google Street Views to eliminate the buildings it can't be and to whittle
down the list. Then we start going out to look at each of the remaining
ones. This is the best lead we have so far, and we can thank Mike and his
team for it. Now . . . ." Altmann began assigning tasks to various
individuals.

It was a vote of confidence, Michael knew. An hour earlier, Altmann had met
with his team, and they had shown him the image. Mike had begun explaining
how they had generated the image. Altmann had listened for two or three
minutes and then asked only, "Is it accurate?" Their assurances that it was
satisfied Altmann. He had been disappointed that they weren't able to
identify the precise building immediately, but he quickly moved past that
and grasped the possibilities. Then he had called everyone present in the
squad room to a meeting and had Michael show them the reconstruction.

Michael had noticed that about the captain before. Once Altmann was
confident of his subordinates' abilities, he didn't question their
expertise. It might take a while to earn that confidence, but once it was
earned, the captain was supportive. He didn't need to know the technical
details, but if you gave him the information relevant to the case, he built
on that and moved the investigation forward. Michael mentally filed this
technique of leadership away for future reference. If—when—he made
lieutenant and then captain, he could use it.

When the captain had cleared the room of all but the three lead
investigators, he closed the door. "This will keep everyone busy for a
couple of days. Good work, Mike."

"It was a group effort, Captain. Jim Mitchell did most of the mathematics
to help us work out angles and distances, and Ellen Corwin and Vince Pascoe
worked with me to make the composite image."

Altmann looked at him speculatively for a second and then slowly
nodded. Michael couldn't tell if he had scored points by admitting that the
credit didn't belong solely to himself or if Altmann was indicating that
team work was an assumption that didn't need to be acknowledged.

"The building looks so familiar. I have this feeling that I've seen it
somewhere recently." Michael shook his head. "It's like a name that's on
the tip of your tongue but you just can't remember it."

"That's the problem," Jerry Baker said. "It's the type of building you see
every day, but you don't really look at it. Practically every major highway
in the metro area is bordered by buildings that look like that. You see
them as you drive past. Brooklyn, the Bronx, Queens are full of
them. They're all over the place. It could even be up in Yonkers or across
the river in New Jersey. About the only place you don't find them is
downtown Manhattan. And that's because they were all torn down years ago."

The four men nodded in resignation. It was going to be hard to identify the
building. Although no one brought it up, they all knew that luck would play
a large role in the process.

"So," sighed Altmann, "what else do we have? Phil? What have you got on the
other people in the videos and on the equipment."

"Okay, we're making some progress." Redding caught Michael's eye. "We've
been following up on a couple of your suggestions, Michael, and been
looking into the other actors in the videos and sources of equipment. We
found an ad that appeared on Craig's List beginning the week before the
first video appeared. It asked for actors—it specified male
actors—with well-developed backs and buttocks for modeling work. We
reposted the same ad hoping that some of the same people who replied to the
first ad will reply to ours. So far we've had 37 responses. We emailed each
of them asking if they also applied to the first ad. We didn't explain
why—we didn't want to alarm them by getting them worried about being
involved with the police. But it worked. Fourteen of the people who replied
to our ad said that they had also replied to the first ad. We're going to
start interviewing them today. We've also been tracking the people who
commented on the videos and suggested other victims. So far we've found a
couple of people who suggested one or more of the men who subsequently
appeared in a video. Some of the commentators claim to have personal
knowledge of the Klown, and we're sorting through those. Most of those
appear to be braggarts, but we've still got to check them out."

"Any luck finding the suppliers of the equipment?"

"We talked with several suppliers of video cameras, but they all say they
can't help us until we know the make and model used. So that's a dead end
unless we can find out more. We did have some luck with one of the—I
guess you would call it a prop—one of the props used in the video with
Reilly and Milowski. Kinda embarrassing, but we were able to identify the
company that makes that particular, er, um, butt plug, and they gave us a
list of local stores that sell it. We've been checking them out. No luck so
far. They aren't the type of store that keeps detailed sales records. The
only store that admits to selling a pair of them lately said that they were
purchased by an older woman. The clerk said she looked like somebody's
grandmother. He had never seen her before, and she paid cash. So there's no
credit card record. The clerk said she knew what she wanted. She walked in,
went right to the butt plug display, picked up the two she wanted, and then
bought them. She didn't say anything, but that's not unusual for stores
like that. We had the clerk work with a sketch artist. This is what they
came up with."

Redding handed a copy of the sketch to each of the others. "As you can see,
it's not very helpful. Plus, I don't know about you, but it seems unlikely
to me that the Klown is an old woman. Maybe she's an accomplice. But in
this city, you never know. An old lady like that—she might have a dozen
reasons for buying a butt plug."

"I sure wouldn't want to be her husband," Baker laughed.

"Me neither," said Redding. He shuffled the papers in the folder he had
brought with him. "That's all I got for now, Captain. Just one more
thing. Michael, can you get me several pictures of each of the men who
appeared in the videos? I mean the other men, not the victims. As many
angles as possible. We'll need them for comparison purposes when we start
interviewing the guys who replied to our ad."

Michael nodded and made a note. "I'll email them to you when they're
ready. It won't take long."

Jerry Baker didn't wait for Altmann to ask for his report. "We've been
conducting follow-up interviews with everyone. No further information
there. The good news is that Sophia White persuaded the victim in the first
video—his name's Malcolm Hainault—to talk to us. The meeting's set
for this afternoon in Hainault's office. Sophia's going to be there, plus
Hainault and a group of his lawyers. We'll try to persuade Hainault to show
us his left buttock so that we can confirm if he was actually in the
video. Sophia thought maybe she could ask one of his lawyers to check. Come
to think of it, Michael, can you get me some pictures from that segment of
his video? That might help for identification purposes."

Michael made another note. "Will do."

"Michael, what have you got for us?"

"Ellen and I are going back to Syswide this afternoon to check on the six
computers used to upload the videos. We've tracked the access back to
Syswide in all cases. Plus Ellen's discovered what looks like an earlier
appearance of The Karma Klown. Can I show you? It will just take a
second. I've got the file right here." Michael pointed at his computer.

When Altmann nodded, he tapped in a command and an image appeared on the
monitor.

Revenge.com

Did your boss (a client? a coworker?) give you a hard time at work today?

Did a cop hassle you?

Was a clerk rude to you?

Did the cable service guy fail to show up some time between nine and three,
as promised, after you took the day off work? Were you left waiting, with
no explanation, only to receive an automated message from the cable company
rescheduling your appointment for 10:00 pm the Tuesday after next?

Were you told "Please stay on the line. Your business is important to us."
till you were screaming at the phone "If my business is so fucking
important to you, why don't you hire more operators to answer calls"?

Relieve your daily frustrations at Revenge.com. Choose from our wide
selection of whipping boys and watch while we take your rage out on
him. Our boys are obnoxious bosses, lawyers, teachers, salesmen, plumbers,
dads, cops, clerks, call center employees, know-it-all nerds. You'll hate
them as soon as you see them. We have every type and shape. Ages 21 to 80.

Choose from our menu of punishments or create a scenario of your own. We
accommodate all tastes and requests. Do you want to watch a dumbass stupid
jock bend over and get paddled till his ass is red and he's crying and
begging you to stop? We can do that. Do you want a bald, overweight guy
wearing a suit and tie to confess that he's a worthless, pathetic, old
faggot who can't get it up and then watch him choke on a huge cock? We can
do that. Do you want to watch a cop kneeling on the dirty floor of a public
toilet and getting a dozen facials from cocks shoved through glory holes?
We can do that.

Why wait? Click the "enter" button below and get started on your revenge!

Below the text on the screen was the familiar image of a clown speeding
away in a small car.

"How did you find this?" asked Altmann.

"We were searching for earlier evidence of the Klown's activities. We were
Googling various catchphrases and images, like the clown in the car. We
found this when we searched for the phrase "worthless, pathetic, old
faggot."

"What are we looking at exactly?"

"It's one of Google's caches of a website. This one is no longer active. If
you type in Revenge.com, you get a notice from one of the sites that
licenses commercial websites that this name has not been taken and an offer
to help you arrange to claim the name. Luckily this website was originally
created after Google began its caching program. What you see here is the
website as it appeared on . . ." Michael consulted a note he had made "on
June 22, 2008."

"What's the idea?" Baker asked.

"The person who set it up described it as an interactive video game. We
can't really tell how it was supposed to work because this screen is all
that survives. We found a few discussions of the site elsewhere. As near as
we can deduce from the comments of those who saw the original site, the
idea was that someone with a grievance would join the site, log on, and
then choose one of several dozen authority figures to punish. These could
be varied by age, gender, race, appearance, occupation. I guess so that the
person could match the online victim as closely as possible to the person
annoying them. Then you gave the online image a name and chose the
punishment you wanted to inflict. These varied from the physical to the
mental, but they all involved humiliation. Then the scenario was played
out. The resulting session was recorded and other members of the site could
log in, view it, and rate it."

"That sounds familiar," said Redding. "So this is either an earlier version
of the Klown's scheme that he's now expanding on, or he took the idea from
this site. Can you trace who set up this site?"

"That's a bit trickier. The site was registered through Metasites, which is
one of the services I was talking about. According to them, the site was
active only for a couple of weeks in 2008. They processed the application,
which was paid for using a credit card. We traced the credit card
number. It belonged to a woman who died on June 19, 2008. The charge went
through, and Metasites had no reason to be suspicious. The family didn't
get around to canceling the card until June 26. Apparently the family just
paid the bill without questioning any of the items on it—Metasites
doesn't charge much for its service. So whoever registered the site didn't
leave any trace of himself."

Altmann broke in, "I'm sensing a `but' here."

"We're working with Metasites, but they're not hopeful. Once the site was
registered, the owner uploaded the screen I've just shown you. That was
apparently the only time he accessed the site. They didn't keep a record of
his IP address. The site attracted some attention. Within a few days there
were comments on other sites and chat rooms about Revenge.com, but these
were quickly followed by complaints that none of the links worked. No one
could sign up. And a year later, the license expired and the site was no
longer active. We're trying to trace some of the people who commented on
it. Vince suggested maybe the Klown himself posted some of the comments to
draw attention to the site and to see how people reacted to it. Sort of
like a trial run."

"What were the responses?" asked Redding.

"Overwhelmingly positive. There was a lot of regret that the site didn't
work."

"Yeah, I can imagine," said Altmann. "Ellen told me that the funeral home
handling Milowski's funeral put up an online notice about the
services. There was a place where people could leave messages, condolences
for the family, that sort of thing. I guess they had to disable that
because there were so many nasty comments. She also said that all but a few
of the comments on the Klown's videos applaud his efforts. He tapped into a
vein of popular discontent."

"I saw T-shirts with the Klown image in a shop as I walking to the subway,"
said Baker.

Michael nodded. "I've seen them too. There are several websites devoted to
his activities now. As far as we can tell, none of them is connected
directly to the Klown, but I've got Vince Pascoe working on that." It
doesn't hurt, Michael thought, to remind them that I'm assigning jobs to
people. "We also discovered several earlier examples of people using the
name Karma Clown with variant spellings, including karma with a `c' and
clown with a `k'. Dozens more people have begun using the name since the
videos started appearing. We're trying to trace the users of the name that
predate the videos. Most of them are not local or they're clearly kids. So
we've been able to eliminate lots of them."

"Good work, Mike. You got anything else for us at the moment?" Altmann
began gathering up his things in preparation to leave.

"Well, if you look at the wording used on Revenge.com, you'll see that all
of the proposed authority figures are male and the punishments involve
male-male sex. That seems to be true of The Carma Klown as well. I happen
to agree with Phil that doesn't necessarily mean that the Klown is
homosexual. It's just that homosexual sex is the most humiliating
punishment he can think of. He does have it in for male authority figures,
however, and all of his victims so far benefited from the financial
collapse in 2008. So I'm guessing that is the cause behind his campaign."

"We can hardly investigate everyone who suffered in 2008," Baker broke
in. "It would be 90 percent of the country. That's a deadend. As for people
who would see forcing someone to have gay sex as a form of
humiliation—that's got to be a large number too."

"Yeah, too large," Michael admitted. "There's one more thing. The Klown is
adept at hiding behind screens—first Syswide and now Metasites. He has
to be someone who understands computers and how networks function and how
companies like Syswide and Megasites operate. We're working with Syswide
and Metasites to see if any of their employees overlap."

"Okay. I think we're on the right track. Let's keep digging. Thanks. That's
all for now." Altmann stood up and opened the door to the conference
room. As the other three men gathered their papers together, he said,
"Mike, if you'd step into my office for a second. There's something I want
to talk to you about. Not about this case." He directed the last comment to
Redding and Baker. "It will just take a couple of minutes."

Baker and Redding paused outside the door of the conference room and stared
at Michael's back as he entered the captain's office. Altmann nodded at
them as he closed the door.

"Take a seat." He pointed to the chair in front of his desk. "Coffee?" He
held up the thermos that seemed always to be filled.

Michael shook his head. "No thanks. I've already had too much." He waited
while Altmann filled his mug, spooned in sugar and powdered creamer, and
then stirred it. He folded his hands and rested them on the file folder he
had placed on his lap. His posture was tense. He wasn't sure why the
captain had called him into his office. There had been that shrewd,
speculative look earlier. Had he done something wrong?

Altmann tossed the plastic stir stick into his wastebasket. He sat down and
leaned back in his chair. He looked out the window into the squad room and
took a deep drink of coffee. He let the silence linger for several beats
before speaking. "You've been doing good work, Mike."

"Thank you, Sir."

Altmann's eyes flicked briefly in his direction. "Steve's fine. At least in
private. Use your judgment about what title is appropriate in public."

Michael nodded to show that he had heard. He didn't think he could manage
"Steve" at this point.

"How long have you been a detective, Mike?"

Michael suspected that the captain already knew and was simply asking for
confirmation. "Four years and nine months, plus a few days."

"Good. Almost five years. The next examination for detective sergeant is
coming up in October. You'll meet the time requirements then."

"I've been studying for it. I plan to sign up when they make the formal
announcement and open the list."

"Good. You know that if you pass the test, I'll be asked to testify before
the Promotions Board. I just wanted to let you know that based on your work
to date I'll be able to recommend that you get the promotion. You've shown
good leadership skills. You're a team player. You've got good judgment and
a good eye for details. You interface well with the public. Just a word of
advice—be sure you have the legal stuff down cold for the exam. Sergeant
is regarded as the first management level, and they want to make sure that
the people leading ordinary officers know the law. If you have any
questions, just ask one of the ADAs. They all like to give lectures on the
law, especially to cops."

"I will, Captain. Thanks for the advice. I appreciate your taking the time
to talk with me."

"It's just something I've been meaning to talk with you about. Of course, a
lot depends on whether we catch the Klown or not. You're playing such a
major role in that, you'd get a lot of credit for that. I'd make sure of
that. But that's not the reason I called you in. I need you to help me with
something else."

"Anything, Captain. Whatever I can do." At the moment, Michael would have
jumped out the window if Altmann told him to.

"It's becoming obvious that crime involving computers and, whaddya call it,
the Web? The Internet?"

"Most people say the Internet now."

"Yeah, the Internet then. It's just becoming more and more of a factor in
crimes—especially crimes involving finance and money. The department
needs to keep up with the criminals. That's where you come in. Right now we
got people like you with computer skills scattered throughout the
division. What I need from you is a report on what it would take to form a
permanent computer group. Like the Robbery or Murder or Fraud groups but
different. It would investigate computer crimes directly but also advise
the other groups. Work up detailed proposals for staffing, budgets,
equipment. That sort of thing. You've already got the nucleus of one
now. Corwin, the Pascoe kid, the others. Just base it on that. Don't be too
ambitious. We need to be realistic about what the Department will
approve. And you'll need to work on the report on your own time. I'll add a
summary of the cases in which we've relied on your skills to solve and make
the case that we need this sort of group permanently. But I need you to
supply the technical details. Focus on financial crimes, fraud—that'll
appeal to the mayor. But don't forget other crimes—ways in which
computers can help us with drugs, vice, theft. Anything you can think
of. And again, if we can find this Carma Klown, it will make the case even
stronger. There's no hurry. Let's aim for September 1. By the time the
report makes its way up to the people who will make the decision, you
should be the sergeant who helped put a stop to the Klown."

Michael was sitting on the edge of his chair, leaning toward the
captain. He had to restrain himself from showing his enthusiasm. "I'll get
right on it. I've got lots of ideas, Captain."

Altmann smiled. "I'm counting on that."

*****

Chapter 13

Friday, ca. 12:45 p.m., June 11, 2010

 "Yeah, I replied to the ad on Craig's List. But I never heard back from
anyone. I'd almost forgotten about it when I saw your ad."

"You're certain that no one contacted you about the first ad? You look like
a natural for it."

Ian Villers, who had introduced himself as an actor who sometimes modeled
for underwear ads, nodded to acknowledge the compliment. He was the ninth
man that Phil Redding was interviewing out of the fourteen respondents to
his ad on Craig's List who said they had also replied to the first
ad. "Yeah, I'm certain. I'd remember something like that, wouldn't I?"

The other men Redding had interviewed had made the same claims. The nine
men varied in height and build. Four of them were definitely overreaching
in asserting that they had a muscular back and buttocks. Redding was able
to dismiss them immediately. The Carma Klown appeared to prefer young,
well-proportioned men with prominent, muscular buttocks and a deep cleft
for the second actors in the videos. It was as if the Klown wanted to
emphasize the physical contrast between those he was punishing and the men
he was using to punish them. Of the remaining five, three, including
Villers, were possible matches to the second actors in the videos based on
their general looks.

"Have you heard of the Carma Klown?"

"Sure, everybody's heard of him," Villers nodded. "He's been all over the
news since that guy killed himself. I haven't watched any of the videos
though. From the descriptions I've heard, it's not my thing."

"We think the first ad may have been placed by the Klown. That's why we're
trying to track down anyone who responded to it." Redding checked the
envelopes Michael had given him with printouts from the videos. He found
what he was looking for in the collection of screen captures from the
second video. "We know it's probably a long shot, but a lot of police work
is eliminating long shots. We suspect the Klown is drugging the people who
appear in his videos to get them to do what he wants. None of the people
who can be verified as victims has any memory of his participation. So the
same may apply to the others as well."

Villers frowned. Despite his disavowal of knowledge of the contents of the
video, he evidently knew enough about them to find the thought that he
might have been in one unappealing. He shifted uneasily in his chair, and
then pulled back the sleeve of his coat and checked his watch.

I'd better wrap this up, thought Redding. He's getting restless. He pulled
one photo from the envelope and studied it without letting Villers see
it. "May I ask, Mr. Villers, if you have any tattoos on your back?" The
photo showed a man's back. The man appeared to be tall and
wide-shouldered. He wore jeans and was shirtless. No tattoo was visible,
but Redding had intentionally phrased his question as if he were looking at
a photo of a man with a tattoo on his back.

Villers immediately relaxed. He thought he was off the hook. "Nah. I hate
the things. I can't imagine why anyone gets one."

Redding nodded. "Would you take a look at this photo?" Redding slid the
photo across the interview table.

Villers picked it up and stared at it for several moments. He turned the
photo over and placed it face down on the table. He gulped nervously and
then covered his eyes with his hand.

"Can I get you something? A glass of water?"

Villers shook his head.

"Mr. Villers, is it possible that that is your back in the photo?"

Ian Villers reluctantly nodded his head yes. "It might be. But there are
lots of guys with backs like that."

"I assume that because of your work that you are familiar with your
appearance. Could I show you some other photos?" Redding didn't wait for
Villers to answer. He pulled the other photos out of the envelope and
spread them out on the table and began pointing out certain unique
features. "The jeans are standard 501s. Do you own a pair of those?"

"Sure, doesn't everyone?" Villers glanced at the photos as Redding began
arranging them on the table, but he quickly turned away when Redding placed
the first ass shot before him.

"What about the belt? Do you have one like it?" Redding picked up one of
the photos and forced Villers to look at it.

"Yeah, that might be mine. But there must be several thousand guys with
belts like that."

"Mr. Villers, I appreciate your cooperation in coming in and answering my
questions." Redding put on his best reassuring voice. "As I said, we think
the Klown is drugging his victims. None of his victims remembers anything
about their participation in the videos. Of course, no one is going to
recognize the other participants in the video. Their faces are never shown,
and the parts of their bodies that appear are not going to be familiar to
most people. But it would help us enormously in catching the Klown if we
can find the other men in the videos. I'm going to ask you to look at one
more photo. Will you do that for me? I realize that this is unpleasant for
you, but I assure you that the information you give us is invaluable."

Redding lifted a photo of a man's right buttock and used his pen to point
out three spots. "As you can see, there are three small moles on this man's
buttock. We found an underwear ad in which you appeared." Redding pulled a
page torn from a magazine from a folder. "What appear to be two of the same
moles are visible above the top edge of these briefs. Would you allow us to
check to see if the third mole matches?"

Villers flushed a deep red. "Why would the Klown do this to me?"

Redding shrugged. "You may have been a random victim. The fact that you
replied to an ad probably means that the Klown does not know you. But we
can't rule out the possibility that this is some form of revenge against
you personally. We won't know until we catch the guy. I'm sorry to ask, but
could I check the moles to see if the pattern matches. It's the only way we
can either confirm that it's you in the video or eliminate you."

Villers stood up slowly. He was wearing a corduroy sports jacket over his
jeans. He removed that and then turned around. "It's the right cheek?" When
Redding nodded, Villers lowered the jeans on that side to expose his
buttock. He was not wearing any underwear, and it took Redding only a few
seconds to locate the third mole.

"Thank you. You can . . . "

Villers quickly lifted his jeans back in place. He took one look at
Redding's face and then said, "Jesus, it was me, wasn't it?"

Redding nodded. "I'm sorry. The pattern matches." I'd better get him past
this quickly, he thought.

"Mr. Villers, we think the video in which you may have appeared was made at
some time either late Friday evening, March 19, or the early hours of
Saturday, March 20. Do you know where you were that night?"

"In March on weekends, I was working as a back-up barman at L'Ane
d'Or. That's a bistro on 29th near Lexington. Service stops at 11:30, and
the last customers are usually gone by 12:15 or so. I can check to see what
I got paid that night and tell you how many hours I worked. We're usually
out of there by 12:30. Sometimes I go out with one of the guys for a
drink. Not often though. We're usually too tired. I usually just go
straight home and fall into bed."

"Do you live alone?"

"I was in March."

 "Do you remember anything unusual happening in March?"

"Like what?"

"Like an unusual dream? Or waking up on a Saturday morning and feeling
strange? Or finding more cash in your wallet than you expected? The Klown
may be paying his actors."

Villers snorted. "No, to the extra cash. That I would remember. I often
feel wasted when I wake up after working at night. I probably wouldn't have
thought it was unusual if I woke up feeling like I had a hangover." He
glanced at the cop. "I know what that feels like."

"What about a strange dream?"

Villers shrugged again. "I can't remember when I had it, but there was one
dream." Villers looked embarrassed again.

"What happened?"

"Do you know what rimming is, Sergeant?"

"Yes."

"Well, I dreamt that I was being rimmed. It struck me as unusual when I
woke up. It's not something I do."

"Mr. Villers, I'm going to ask you to look at a video. I warn you that you
may find it distressing, but I'd like you to watch it until the end."

By the time the cartoon of the Klown speeding away appeared, Villers was
not so much distressed as furious. He wanted the Klown to be
punished. Redding quickly took advantage of his anger to get him to dictate
a statement, He didn't tell Villers that he had undergone what would be
only the first of several interviews. Nor that if the Klown were brought to
trial, he might well end up testifying in court.

In the end, Phil Redding was able to identify only two of the men who had
appeared in the first six videos. The other man's experience was much like
Villers's—he, too, could not remember making a video. But the physical
evidence in both cases was irrefutable.

*****

Friday, ca. 2:00 p.m., June 11, 2010

A minute after entering the conference room at Malcolm Hainault's office,
Jerry Baker was ready to concede that the Carma Klown might have a
point. He and Sophia White had been kept waiting for twenty-some minutes
after the appointed time of 1:30 p.m. White had instructed him to wear the
suit and tie he reserved for court appearances. She herself was dressed in
the female equivalent. Baker knew he looked good in the suit. He could have
passed for another assistant district attorney. When the receptionist
finally showed them into the meeting room, Hainault and four other men were
already present, occupying one side of a table that was larger than the
living room in Baker's house. The four men rose to their feet as Baker and
White entered. The man Baker recognized as Hainault from the video remained
seated.

It was difficult, thought Baker, to like some "victims." There were some
who were not so much victims as criminals attacked by rivals. Those he felt
had got what they deserved, and he wasted no sympathy on them. In contrast
to them were the innocents who had become entangled in a crime—people
who surprised a burglar at work in their home and ended up in intensive
care, the random pedestrian who crossed paths with a mugger, the shopper at
the supermarket who got carjacked. That could happen to anyone; it was
simply a matter of bad luck and of being in the wrong place at the wrong
time. Those he could feel compassion for. But even among the genuine
victims were those who behaved so stupidly that he could only shake his
head in wonderment that they had lasted so long before becoming the victim
of a crime. Those, he wanted to shout at. He saw them almost as enablers,
walking temptations to criminals.

And then there were victims like Hainault, who seemed to think that the
police were their enemy and that they had to defend themselves with
lawyers. They begrudged every second of their interviews, they saw no need
to supply information, they denied their involvement in the crime even when
it was clear. Hainault may have agreed to the interview, but he wasn't
going to make it easy.

One of the four men who stood up stepped around the table and shook White's
hand. "Sophia, nice to see you again. I wish it were under more pleasant
circumstances. How is Robert? We must get together. I'll talk with Pat and
see if we can't arrange a dinner some evening."

"If you are referring to my husband, Walter, Roland's fine. Thank you for
asking. This is Detective Sergeant Jerome Baker from the Midtown Major
Crimes Division. He's one of the lead investigators on The Carma Klown
case. Jerry, this is Walter Remington, of Remington, Palmer, and
Associates."

"Jerry!" Walter Remington greeted him like an old friend and cuffed him on
the shoulder as they shook hands. "No need to introduce Sergeant Baker,
Sophia. We're old acquaintances. We met during the Carl Vincennes trial. I
was lead counsel on that case."

"Yes, Sir, I remember." I remember you failed to shake my testimony,
thought Baker. I also noticed that you misremembered Sophia's husband name
and Sophia seems not to want to get together with you and "Pat" for
dinner. Baker took that as her comment on the sincerity of Remington's
attempt at friendliness.

Remington introduced the other three men who were standing. All were
associates in his law firm. As each was introduced, he nodded. None offered
to shake hands. They were bit players, Baker decided, of no importance to
the meeting. They were simply there to emphasize the resources potentially
available to Hainault.

Hainault himself paid no attention to the preliminaries. He sat upright in
his chair with his hands crossed on the table in front of him. He looked
neither at White nor at Baker. Baker knew from the case files that Hainault
was 72 and a billionaire who had parlayed a sizable inheritance into what
Forbes ranked as the twelfth largest fortune in the United States by buying
up companies, gutting them, and then selling the remains. The whiteness of
his hair emphasized the faultless tan of his face. Hainault's suit alone,
Baker estimated, probably cost more than his entire wardrobe.

Remington motioned White and Baker into chairs on the opposite side of the
table. The chairs were as opulent as the table. Baker mentally compared it
to his office chair, whose leatherette seat cover was cracked and
torn. Everything about the room shrieked wealth and expense. An enormous
Turkish carpet covered most of the floor. The painting that hung on the
wall at the foot of the table looked liked it should be hanging in a
museum. Baker assumed that it wasn't a copy. The receptionist busied
herself at a silver coffee service and then placed cups of coffee in front
of Baker and White. After checking that none of the attorneys wanted more
coffee, she left. The door made no noise as it closed behind her.

Baker examined each of Hainault's lawyers. They had the sleek, polished
appearance of men who could afford a crew of assistants to keep them
looking good. Other people had decided what tie they should wear, how they
should cut their hair, what style of shoe they should put on their
feet—people who knew how to tailor a suit so that a narrow band of shirt
cuff extended from the sleeve of the suit jacket, people who knew how to
shave someone so as to leave the person's face smooth and unmarked, people
who knew what type of briefcase stated that the person carried it was
important.

He instinctively disliked them. They would smell subtly of talcum powder
and the cologne of privilege. Their contempt for him and White was
obvious. He was just an ignorant cop, and she had to work in the DA's
office because, unlike them, she wasn't good enough to get a job in a law
firm where summer interns earned more than assistant district
attorneys. Outwitting him and White was, they had decided, not a challenge,
unworthy of their talents, something that could be done with half a mind on
the task.

Baker knew that he had to suppress his feelings toward them. He couldn't
let them distract him from his job—getting Hainault to cooperate in the
investigation. He put on his best poker face and directed it toward
Hainault. He would ignore the flunkies. They were irrelevant, minor
obstacles to be pushed aside.

"Mr. Hainault," White began, "on behalf of the District Attorney's Office
and the Police Department, I would like to thank you for . . ."

"Sophia, pardon me for interrupting. I have a statement to read on
Mr. Hainault's behalf. It will make his position clear and speed matters
along. I'm sure that all of us would like to get back to productive work as
soon as possible." Remington opened a black leather folder and pulled out
three sheets of paper. He handed two of them to the associate sitting
beside him, who stood up and walked around the table. Remington began to
read as soon as his assistant placed a copy in front of both Baker and
White.

"Our client, Mr. Malcolm Hainault, is always happy to assist the police and
the District Attorney in their enquiries. He has, however, no knowledge of
the man known as The Carma Klown and, to the best of his recollection, he
in no way contributed to or participated in the making of the video that
purports to show him engaging in certain acts. He further denies the
admissions of guilt spoken by the actor who impersonated him in the
video. . . ."

The letter continued for another hundred words or so, all of them
disavowing any connection between Hainault and the video. When Remington
finished reading the letter, he returned his copy to the leather folder and
placed his hands on top of it.  He was about to speak when Baker
interrupted.

"You would have no memory of it, Sir," Baker spoke directly to Hainault,
ignoring the immediate protests of the phalanx of lawyers surrounding
him. "All the participants in the videos, both the victims and the other
actors, were drugged. We have found remnants of the narcotic commonly known
as `roofies' in their blood. You may not be familiar with this drug, but it
renders people extremely compliant and ready to do whatever they are
told. Most people have no memory of what they did while they were under the
influence. So far The Carma Klown has kidnapped and drugged five of your
colleagues in the financial world, six other men who have as yet not been
identified, and two policemen. He made them perform unspeakable acts, ones
every decent person finds abhorrent. None of them participated willingly in
making the videos or remembers anything. When we find the Klown, he will be
charged with kidnapping, unlawful imprisonment, and the administration of a
listed narcotic for starters. The District Attorney will undoubtedly add
other charges. Two of the fourteen men who appeared in the videos have
committed suicide out of shame. One of those men—John Rossiter—had a
background similar to yours. You may well have known him or the other
victims. The more evidence we can uncover about the Klown's activities, the
faster we will be able to put a stop to him. The more people who step
forward to testify against him, the greater the likelihood that the DA will
be able to get a conviction."

Hainault had sat impassively throughout Baker's speech, neither making eye
contact nor indicating in any manner that he was listening. It was only
when he mentioned Rossiter's and Milowski's suicides that Hainault looked
up and met Baker's eyes. The thought of suicide disturbs him, thought
Baker. It's my entry. Absolve him of all responsibility, direct his anger
at The Carma Klown, make him feel the pain.

"I know that you do not remember taking part in the video. I cannot begin
to appreciate what it must feel like to know that other people think that
is you in that video and that you are willingly and enthusiastically
performing those awful acts. I am told that John Rossiter was a decent man,
a loving husband, a good father." (Actually it had become clear to Baker
that Rossiter was a bastard devoted only to increasing his power and
wealth.) "The Carma Klown, not Rossiter, decided what Rossiter, would do on
that video. That wasn't the real John Rossiter on that video, but it's what
people will remember about him because this bastard drugged him and forced
him to engage in those disgusting activities. We can only imagine the
anguish that led him to put a gun to his forehead and shoot himself. . . ."

"Sergeant Baker—Jerry—I must protest." Remington cut
in. "Mr. Hainault has said that he did not participate in making the video
and has no knowledge of The Carma Klown other than what he has heard on the
television or read in the newspapers or heard as gossip. He would be only
too happy to assist you in your investigations if he could . . ."

"Walter," Hainault spoke for the first time. "I would like to hear the rest
of what Sergeant Baker has to say."

"Malcolm, I must caution you against saying anything that would entangle
you further in this case. If the police do catch this man and he is brought
to trial, his lawyers will use any statement you make against you. You will
end up on trial instead of The Carma Klown."

"I knew John Rossiter. He was a good man, a decent man." Hainault spoke to
Baker for the first time. "I understand that one of your colleagues also
killed himself."

"Yes, Officer Frank Milowski." Baker tried to put as much regret as
possible into his voice. The first feelings Hainault had shown indicated an
empathy for the two men who had committed suicide. He wanted Hainault to
identify with them. It was a wedge and he knew immediately that he had to
exploit it.

"Malcolm, I must insist that you let me speak for you." Remington stood
up. "Sophia, Jerry, this meeting is at an end. I will protest formally to
both of your supervisors about the way that you have taken advantage of
Mr. Hainault's patience and hospitality to question him about matters that
he has no knowledge of. Hamilton, please escort Mrs. White and Sergeant
Baker out."

As one of the assistants leaped to his feet, Hainault said, "Sit down. Or,
rather, don't sit down. Walter, I think Ms White, Sergeant Baker, and I can
continue on our own without your and your colleagues' able assistance."

"Malcolm, I must caution you against such a move. The police are notorious
for twisting an innocent person's statements. We are here to advise you and
prevent you from . . ."

"Your indignation is noted, Walter. It is also unnecessary."

"Malcolm, if I am indignant, it is because I am here to protect your
interests."

"Walter, you are a lawyer. Your indignation is purchased by the hour. In
fact, all your services are purchased by the hour, a trait your profession
shares with another of the oldest professions in the world."

Hainault must have signaled his secretary, for she appeared in the doorway
as he was speaking. "Lydia, please show Mr. Remington and his colleagues
out."

Remington continued to protest. His sputtering was cut short by
Hainault. "Walter, that is enough. I will speak with you later."

When the lawyers had left, Hainault walked over to the coffee pot and
poured himself a cup. He held the pot up, querying whether Baker or White
wanted a refill. When they shook their heads no, he pulled a chair out on
their side of the table and sat down facing them. "I will do everything I
can to help the investigation. I want this man punished for what he did to
me, and to the others. Unfortunately the statement Walter Remington read is
partially correct. I have no memory of the video."

Sophia White spoke up, "Mr. Hainault, the statement Walter prepared for you
denied any involvement in the making of the video."

"A more correct statement would be that I have no memory of participating
in the making of the video. My body, however, bears unmistakable proof that
I was involved."

"You refer to the Carma Klown tattoo?"

"Yes, Sergeant Baker. I have been undergoing laser treatments to remove
it. Unfortunately, there are still traces. The one thing I am thankful for
is that this madman did not make me reveal my address and invite anyone who
wanted to, to drop by as he did with John Rossiter. At least I was spared
that humiliation."

In the end, Hainault could not add much other than an admission of his
appearance in the video. He could recollect nothing about the making of the
video. His appointments log for the night on which the video had likely
been made showed only that he had left his office to return home around
7:30. To his recollection, he and his wife had eaten dinner and then gone
to bed as usual around 11:00. Both of them had awoken around 6:30. His
chauffeur had driven him to the office just after 8:00, and he had worked
until around 10:00 when his wife had called. She had seen the video and was
disturbed and distraught. A copy of the video had also been delivered to
his office. He viewed it for the first and only time that morning. His
response had been to summon his lawyers.