Date: Sat, 15 Jun 2013 06:24:59 -0700 (PDT)
From: z119z 2000 <z119z2000@yahoo.com>
Subject: The Carma Klown installment 3

The Carma Klown

z119z (z119z2000@yahoo.com)

© 2013 by the author

Chapter 6

Wednesday, ca. 7:30 a.m., June 9, 2010

"Why are you all dressed up?" Michael stopped midway through buttering a
slice of toast and looked up in surprise as Jeff entered the kitchen. "And
isn't it kinda early for you? You were up past two last night. You woke me
up when you took your shower, and I looked at the clock. You only got
four-five hours of sleep."

"Dressed up? What do you mean?" Jeff yawned. "Is there more bread or did
you take it all again?"

"Usually you wear a T-shirt to work." In answer to the last question,
Michael pointed to the loaf of bread sitting on the counter.

"I wear shirts sometimes." Jeff looked down at the pale green,
short-sleeved shirt he had just put on. He scowled at it. "Is this too
formal?"

"Depends on what you're doing today?"

"I told you last night, Michael. I'm being interviewed by Geo
Arlecchini. He called Carson yesterday, and Carson set it up. He thinks it
will be good PR."

"Who's Geo whatshisname?"

"Geo Arlecchini. I told you last night, when you finally got home. Don't
you ever listen to me?"

"Hey, back off, you don't have to snap at me. I'm just asking." Michael
suddenly sounded as grumpy as Jeff. "It's not my fault if you don't get
enough sleep. You could go to bed earlier instead of staying up all
night. I tried to be quiet when I got up. I'm sorry if I woke you up. I
worked fifteen hours yesterday trying to track down leads on The Carma
Klown. I had a frustrating day. I had a lot on my mind, and I was tired
when I got home. I'm sorry if I wasn't paying attention. I just wanted to
get some sleep." Michael smiled apologetically. At least he hoped he looked
apologetic. What is Jeff getting all upset about anyway, he thought. It
isn't like it could be anything important. He tried a more placatory
tone. Maybe that would lower the temperature in the room. "So, please, tell
me again. Who's this guy you're going to see?"

"Geo Arlecchini. He runs a website about games." Jeff spoke slowly and
carefully as if he were attempting—with difficulty—to keep the anger
out of his voice. "He has lots of followers. A recommendation from him can
mean several thousand more sales. He wants to interview me about how games
are written."

"Maybe you should put on a tie then."

"Are you out of your mind? A tie?" Jeff glared in irritation. "Jeez, he'll
think I'm some sort of corporate hack if I wear a fucking tie. I'm supposed
to be a writer of cutting-edge games."

"Okay, okay. Just trying to help." More and more it seemed to Michael that
whenever Jeff got tense or felt pressured, his temper flared up and the
arguments escalated so easily. He tried to tell himself that Jeff acted
this way toward him only because he felt it was safe to get angry at
him. What he really wanted to do was scream back at Jeff, to tell him that
he didn't have time to put up with all this shit right now, that he was
sorry, okay, goddammit, he was sorry, but Jeff's problems weren't his
fault. Instead he smiled weakly and shrugged.

"You're right." Jeff abruptly pulled the shirt out of the waistband of his
pants and started unbuttoning it. "A shirt's not right. I'll wear a T." He
wheeled about and rushed out of the room.

A few seconds later, Michael heard drawers being opened and shut. He took
the opportunity of Jeff's absence to grab his coat and leave. It was best,
he had found, to get out of the way when Jeff was in one of his moods. As
he went out the door, he called out in the most neutral voice he could
muster, "I'm off. I'll see you later. What about dinner at Blanca's
tonight? 7:00? Okay?" He didn't wait for an answer. He would text Jeff
later to remind him and confirm the time.

*****

Wednesday, ca. 7:30 a.m., June 9, 2010

It was a moment for self-congratulation, he felt. He owed himself that
much. He lifted his cup of tea and saluted the screen, where a dim
reflection of his face and body were superimposed on the Klown's image at
the end of the video.

It was his first production with two "victims." He had wondered if that
would make it more difficult, but everything had gone smoothly, just as he
had planned. Perhaps a future session could feature two korporate kriminals
in a bidding war to see which of them would pay more for the privilege of
demonstrating exactly how much he liked to worship another man's
asshole. Maybe three, or even more, rimmers forming a daisy chain, each
with his nose shoved up another man's ass, except for the unlucky ones at
the front and back ends of the line. Unless he had enough participants to
form a circle. Or maybe even a contest. Four contestants, three elimination
rounds. A panel of distinguished judges drawn from the ranks of gay porn
actors critiquing each candidate's efforts. "Mr. X's tongue work lacks
finesse." "Mr. Y demonstrated a playful inventiveness in the use of spit."
"Loved Mr. Z's groans. I want him for my next video." People could vote in
the comments section, and the person receiving the least votes would be
eliminated. He would have to think about that. He had so many ideas, his
mind was filled with them. Which contestant would have that elusive XXX
factor?

Also, the selection of participants for the video had been perfect. He had
to acknowledge that he couldn't have made the video without them. Of
course, viewers of the video would soon be calling them the Klown's latest
"victims." He detested, really detested, that term. "Victims" was just
plain wrong. The media in particular had become wedded to it. The chosen
men weren't victims. They were the deserving recipients of punishment. He
just didn't care at all for the implications of "victim"—the media's use
of the term was simply another example of their general laziness. They just
could not be bothered to take the time to understand what he was doing. He
resolved to devote some thought to how he could make his point more
explicit.

Still, he felt he had to be fair. If his videos were to be effective, he
had to understand how others saw them and make whatever adjustments were
needed to deliver his point clearly. He could appreciate that those who
identified with the participants might view them as victims, but no one, he
thought—no reasonable person, that is—would consider these two to be
victims, at least not in the same way as the participants in the other
videos. They were examples—and warnings. He hadn't selected them because
of what they had done but because of who they were. That was necessary in
order to send the message he wanted to send. He needed two men who hadn't
committed the financial and environmental crimes his previous examples
had. Two men whose crimes, if indeed they had committed any worth noting,
were minor and unknown, secret little thefts or small omissions, nothing of
public importance, two men who had nothing in common with the participants
in the previous videos. And the humiliation had been different this
time—just enough to show his target audience that he could make anyone
do whatever he wished. At most the video would be an embarrassment for the
two men. Well, they shouldn't be embarrassed. They should feel privileged
to have been chosen to star in his seventh video. And if they did feel
humiliated, that was their own problem. He had no desire to humiliate them,
and it wouldn't be his fault if they were so small-minded not to get the
joke and to appreciate the honor of being chosen as vehicles for his
message in this bit of public theater.

Nor had he made them reveal their names or addresses on the video. He
didn't even show their faces clearly. He had searched their bodies for some
other physical attribute, a particular mole or a tattoo that was usually
not visible and that was unique enough to them to link them beyond question
to the video. But there hadn't been anything dramatic enough to be
usable. In the end, in a moment of serendipity, he had found the perfect
means of identifying them. It was a stroke of genius, even if he did say so
himself. And just in case that they tried to deny that it was them in the
video or others tried to deny it on their behalf, he had marked them with
the CK tattoo. For the two men's colleagues, those verifiable IDs would be
enough. And that was really all that mattered.

Nor would he make the video public. He had decided against that. There was
a far more effective way to deliver the message to his intended
audience. It wasn't his intent to do anything but make a point. The message
was meant for the two men's colleagues, and the video would be sent only to
them. He had no doubt, however, that some recipient would give in to
temptation and post the video online or release it to the media. It really
was too delicious to resist. It wouldn't take long for the video to go
viral. Of course, the police would question the two men later, but they
would remember nothing.

The message—well, that was simple and straightforward enough. He hadn't
tried to be subtle. This time, he felt, he needed to deliver a punch to the
nose, a hard uppercut to the jaw, given the general stupidity of the swine
in his target audience. He had made the message so simple and spelled it
out so clearly that everyone who saw the video would understand what he was
saying: If I can get these two men to do this, I can get
anyone—including you—to do anything. You, yes you, might wake up some
morning to discover that you had become the latest star in a Carma Klown
video—your secret vices exposed to the world. It didn't matter that it
was the first time you had exhibited that particular vice. Now, everyone
would know of your affinity for assholes. And you could deny all you liked
that it wasn't you in the video, and that you would never ever rim another
man with such obvious relish, but the video wasn't a lie. Experts could
take it apart, and they would swear under oath that the "victim" of the
video was exactly who he appeared to be—you. Oh, you might be able to
convince a few people that it was manufactured, that some clever computer
operator had manipulated the image to superimpose your head on someone
else's body or had somehow inserted your body and your voice onto a video
of someone else doing this vile, despicable act. But you wouldn't convince
everyone. They might agree with you to your face, but they would be
thinking, "Where there's smoke, there's fire." And that certainly was a
smoking hot ass in the video with you, and you were doing everything you
could to set it on fire. And then there was that little matter of the CK
tattoo on your left buttock. How to explain away that stylish addition to
your body?

He was particularly proud of the red herrings in this video, little gifts
for Michael Chang to find. He could see Chang running to his captain and
trumpeting his discoveries. How many hours would the police waste chasing
after those "clues," clues that led nowhere near him, the first in a series
of clues that implicated someone else? He had carefully picked the image he
would use and had blown it up to the right size to attach to the wall. It
was reflected on every shiny surface, and there were so many
impossible-to-miss reflective surfaces in this video. The cops would leap
on that "mistake." He could hear them now: "The Carma Klown fucked up. He
isn't perfect. Carmie Klownie made a boo-boo." Wrong, dickheads. The Carma
Klown hasn't fucked up. He is perfect. He never makes mistakes. It's a
trap, you fools, but you'll never see that.

And the image was perfect—it wasn't obvious. Chang would have to labor
over it to develop it, and it would take him a lot of effort to identify
it. So much time would go into detecting the one and only possible original
that could result in that reflection that Chang and his colleagues would
value it all the more. After expending so many hours of work, it wouldn't
enter their minds that they could be wrong, that they were being led down a
primrose path of his choosing.

The game was becoming even more interesting and rewarding. Now, it was time
to start planning the eighth video. But first he needed another cup of tea.

*****

Wednesday, ca. 9:00 a.m., June 9, 2010

"Hey, you must be Jeff Corelli. Thanks for meeting with me."

Geo Arlecchini wasn't quite what Jeff had expected. He hoped his face
didn't betray his surprise. Arlecchini was thin, almost emaciated. His arms
and legs were like pencils. Apparently he never went out in daylight. He
was bleached-looking. The black T-shirt and shorts he wore accentuated the
pallor of his skin. Jeff knew from references on Arlecchini's website that
he was in his late twenties, but the man standing in the doorway looked
much older. His head was shaved to the scalp and waxed until it shone. A
moustache and goatee surrounded his mouth and covered his chin; the rest of
his face was shaved cleaned, but the dark shadows under his skin implied a
heavy beard. He had little flesh on his face. The skin was thin over his
prominent nose and his high cheekbones, and stretched tight across his
forehead. His cheeks were hollow, almost cadaverous. His eyes were an
indeterminant color. His pupils were so dilated that the irises were only
narrow bands of color surrounding them. Jeff wondered if he was on drugs.

Arlecchini shook Jeff's hand and then step aside and motioned for him to
enter his apartment. "Coffee? I have a great espresso machine. Do you know
Peggy's on Hudson? They roast beans every morning. I figured since you were
Italian like me, you like strong coffee. So I got their special Italian
roast. It's great. The machine's ready. It won't take long."

"I'm only a quarter Italian," said Jeff. "But I love coffee."

"A latte? An espresso?"

"Espresso for me."

"Good man. You don't dilute. Already I like you. Have a chair. Two
espressos coming up." Arlecchini's apartment was one large room. The
kitchen stretched along the length of the interior wall. It was separated
from the rest of the room by a work counter.

Jeff leaned against the counter and watched Arlecchini as he made the
coffee. "You look like you've had a lot of practice. Did you ever work as a
barista?"

"No. When I bought the machine, I asked Peggy if she would teach me how to
use it. It took me several hours of practice, but I finally got to the
point I could pull a cup that satisfied her. She said I wasn't good enough
to work in her shop yet but that at least I was no longer committing
criminal assault on the beans I was using. Okay, we—are—ready. Why
don't you sit over there, and I'll bring it to you."

Arlecchini placed the small cup on the table next to Jeff. "Do you mind if
I record the interview? I find I can concentrate better on the conversation
if I don't have to take notes at the same time. As I told you when I
called, I'll let you read the edited text of the interview before I post it
online. If the recording comes out clear enough, I may even post that."
Arlecchini didn't wait for Jeff to answer. He placed a small tape recorder
on the table and turned it on.

"Okay, why don't we start with your background? You're not a native New
Yorker. I can tell from your accent."

Jeff gave a quick summary of his life.

"And are you married? Partnered?"

"I have a partner."

"Is she in the game business too?"

"He. And he's a detective with the NYPD. He specializes in computer
crime. We've been together since our junior year of college. Seven years
now."

Arlecchini nodded. The news that Jeff was gay didn't seem to come as a
surprise. Jeff got the impression that he had suggested that the partner
was a woman simply as a means of checking Jeff's honesty. Arlecchini asked
a few more personal questions and then moved the conversation to Jeff's
work. He had a detailed, first-hand knowledge of all the games that Jeff
had helped write. "I think many gamers will be surprised to learn of the
amount of work that goes into writing the story outlines for games. We tend
to think of games as being visual and interactive. Since the player appears
to be creating the story as he plays, I think there's a feeling that
somehow the story is evolving and being created as we play."

"Well, a lot goes into the backstory for each character in a game, and a
lot of people are involved. Not just writers, but visual artists. Camera
and sound techs. It's a joint effort of a team. We want a character whose
story not only makes sense but who looks and sounds the part. It helps me
write the bio and the backstory for the characters if I know what they look
like, what they wear, how they sound. And what they look like and how they
speak depends on the life history we writers create for them. So our work
is a process of shared inspiration. It's dialectical rather than linear. I
have an idea. Other people take that idea and modify it. Then it comes back
to me, and I modify my idea. We keep doing that until we have a complete
character. That's what we're aiming for—a well-rounded character. And we
take it to a level of detail that may well be irrelevant to the people who
eventually play the game. It may not be necessary to the game to know that
the particular character eats raw meat for breakfast every day or is a
coffee fanatic, but it helps us conceive the character to know that he
does." Jeff explained.

"So, recursive feedback loops? Speaking of coffee fanatics, can I make you
another espresso?"

The interview continued for another hour. Jeff had been reluctant to
participate in it when his bosses first broached the idea. His knee-jerk
reaction to people asking him questions dated to his teenage years when he
felt that he had to keep his sexuality totally secret. Questions about his
personal life still disturbed him and made him uncomfortable. But Carson
and Will had made it clear that Arlecchini's posting of the interview would
be great publicity. As they had instructed, he mentioned all the games and
updates currently in development. In the event, the interview turned out
easier than he had expected. Arlecchini wasn't particularly interested in
his personal life. His focus was on the creative and technical process, and
he understood it so well that his questions were intelligent and to the
point.

"I really enjoyed this. I didn't think I would."  Jeff paused at the door
to Arlecchini's apartment. "Maybe after the interview is published, we
could have lunch sometime." It felt really great to talk to someone who
listened and thought what you were doing was important. He left in a much
better mood.


Chapter 7

Wednesday, ca. 9:00 a.m., June 9, 2010

"So there's no way to gain access to the other victims' bank accounts?" The
four principal investigators on The Carma Klown task force reacted in
dismay to Sophia White's refusal to ask for warrants to check the finances
of the other men who had appeared in the CK videos. Each of them
interrupted the assistant DA's explanation with a version of the same
question. The table was strewn with empty coffee cups and the remains of
the pastries Altmann had brought for the 8:30 a.m. meeting. For the past
half-hour, they had been discussing what they had learned so far and
suggesting possible avenues for investigation.

White shook her head. "There are no grounds for a warrant. As far as we
know at this point, none of the other victims has committed a crime or even
been involved in the commission of what we can claim to be a crime. None of
them has filed a complaint. The only reason you can look into Rossiter's
finances is because he committed suicide, and that's still on the books as
a crime. And that's what gives us the right to look into his
life. Otherwise you couldn't go near his records either."

"There has to be some way to get this information," Altmann said.

"At the moment, the only way is to get them to talk to you willingly. I
think some of them may be persuadable. Their colleagues in the financial
world are worried about becoming the next victims of the Klown. For some
reason," White smiled ironically, "they seem to be worried about that. Only
god knows why they think this maniac might single them out. Anyway, the
mayor or my boss might be able to ask other people in the financial
world—people the victims in the videos respect or have to listen
to—to talk to them and pressure them to cooperate. The interviews would
have to be very discreet, however. They would probably insist on having a
team of lawyers present to advise them before they said anything. They
might be more ready to agree if my boss rather than the police conducted
the interviews at their homes or offices. If they do, you'd have to prepare
a list of questions for him."

"Are they still claiming that the videos are a hoax? That it's not really
them in the videos?" Redding asked.

"Yes. Not one of them will admit to being in the videos. The official story
is that they were Photoshopped into them. Is that possible, Detective
Chang?" White turned to look at Michael.

Michael shook his head. "It's possible, but I think it's unlikely. I
examined each video second by second. Each one is a continuous
recording. There are no splices or interruptions. The lighting is
uniform. The motions are unbroken. The sound level is constant
throughout. The density of pixels remains constant—that means that a
smaller image wasn't blown up to fit inside a larger image or vice
versa. I've found a recording of a speech made by Morris Lanning, the
second victim, to some business group, and I've contacted an expert at City
University to check the voice on the tape against Lanning's. That should
allow us to confirm whether it's Lanning speaking on the video or not. Even
if my expert says it's not Lanning's voice on the CK video, that will be
helpful. We won't have to spend time trying to figure out how the Klown got
these guys to appear in the videos. But I think we'll find that it is
Lanning on the tape. These guys can argue it's not them in the videos, but
as far as I can see there's no evidence to prove that in the videos
themselves."

"There is one way to prove whether it's them in the videos." Baker grabbed
the file with coroner's preliminary report on Rossiter off the table and
flipped through the photographs until he found the one he wanted. He held
it up so that it faced the others. "Rossiter's autopsy revealed that he had
the CK tattoo on his ass. The other guys in the videos have the same
tattoo. Ask them to undress if they want to prove it's not them in the
videos. No clown on the butt, the video's a hoax. A clown on the butt, they
were in it. Even if they tried to have the tattoo lasered off, there will
still be a trace of it."

"Yeah, I can just about see their lawyers agreeing to having them drop
trou. Do you suppose my boss will invite me along for those interviews?"
The others joined White in laughing at the thought of the matronly looking
ADA examining the victims' buttocks. "Seriously, how long does it take to
get a tattoo like that? Does anyone know? The coroner estimates it was done
about eighteen hours before Rossiter killed himself, or around midnight on
Saturday. I just can't figure out the timeline on this. Rossiter worked at
his office until just before 6:30 on Saturday night. Then he went out for
drinks with a group of his employees. Rossiter and what's his name?—she
consulted her notes—"and this Bradford Williams III decide to have
dinner together. According to Williams, Rossiter gave no sign that anything
was wrong. A little after 10:00, Rossiter says that he's tired and that he
still needs to call his wife and son in California that night. He gets into
a cab and leaves. The cabbie says that he was talking on the phone for most
of the ride and that he was still talking when he got out of the cab in
front of his home. The phone records verify that. That's the last anyone
sees of him until the video is posted the next morning. And then too many
people see him. At some point between the time he got out of that cab and
around 9:00 the next morning, Rossiter presumably gets the tattoo and makes
the video."

"The video wasn't made in his house," said Chang. "He had to have been
somewhere else."

"You're sure about that?" asked White.

Michael nodded. "Absolutely. These videos are being made in a dedicated
facility. You can't just put together equipment like that in a spare room
in somebody's house. It would take time to set up and then dismantle a set
like that. Do you know how hard it is to exclude all external light and
sound? It would be too much trouble for the Klown to do it in a different
place each time. No, I'm 99 percent sure that it's the same place each
time. I'll be able to verify that if we ever find the place and the
camera."

"So we're looking at a period of time from 10:48 p.m. on Saturday when
Rossiter's phone call to his wife ended and roughly, let's say, 7:00
a.m. Sunday." Altmann held up his left hand and splayed the fingers. With
the index finger of his right hand, he began ticking off the
points. "During that time, (a) Rossiter either drives to the place the
video was made or is abducted and taken there. I think we can assume that
an abduction would take longer because Rossiter would be struggling. But we
haven't found any signs at his house that he resisted. Nor did any of his
neighbors see or hear anything. (b) Rossiter gets a tattoo—maybe. Maybe
the tattoo was made beforehand—although the coroner is sure that the
tattoo was made Saturday night around midnight. (c) The Carma Klown makes
the video with Rossiter in it. (d) Rossiter returns home or is returned
home. The actual video lasts what—about fifteen minutes? Presumably even
with the best equipped facility, there's going to be set up
time—lighting and so on. Then the actors have to be drilled. Rossiter
and The Carma Klown—if that's who is doing the talking in the
background—have to rehearse their lines. The guy supplying the butt has
to be told what to do. So, say, a minimum of two hours, probably more, to
prepare to make the video and to actually make it. Maybe if they've done
this before and are organized, a little less. This of course is assuming
that Rossiter didn't make that video willingly. That tattoo—how long
would that take?"

"I'll call around and check," said Baker. "I know that simple tattoos are
quick. When I was in the Marines, I was with a guy in the Gulf when he got
an outline of a small heart and arrow with his girlfriend's name on his
upper arm. That was just plain black, and it took maybe half an hour,
forty-five minutes at most. But this one is complicated and has lots of
colors and shading. That's gotta take longer, don't you think?"

"Much longer." Redding took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. Baker had
left the photograph of Rossiter's tattoo on the table, and he didn't want
to look at it anymore. "Usually they ink in the outline of the tattoo in
black and then go back later and add the colors one at a time. A really
complicated tattoo can take several hours spread out over several
sessions. But I can't see Rossiter getting this tattoo willingly, can you?
He had to have known about the other Carma Klown videos. They've been all
over the news. People are talking about them, especially people in his
world. He probably knew some of the earlier victims, at least by name. I
can't see someone agreeing to get this tattoo knowing that it would soon be
featured in a video in which he would admit to various crimes and then
engage in an embarrassing behavior. It doesn't make any sense that he would
do that unless he was unconscious or drugged."

"That's a good point," said White. "But we'll have to wait until the blood
tests come back to find out."

"Ah, Captain," Michael raised his hand to interrupt. "There's a new
technique for making tattoos. It involves programming a computer to make
the tattoo. It's like color printing. Multiple colors can be laid down
simultaneously. It's a lot faster than having a single person do the
inking. And if the Klown is using something like that, he would have the
machine pre-programmed and ready with all the inks so that he wouldn't have
to wait. From what I've read, a tattoo like this one would take about
fifteen minutes. But I understand that the process is painful. People have
to be sedated while it's being done. But it's still in the experimental
stage. There can't be more than a few such machines in the city. We could
check on them."

"Ok, Mike, if you will do that. When you get a list, give it to Phil and
Jerry. They'll assign some of their guys to look into it. Otherwise, Jerry,
if you'll ask around about how long it would take to make The Carma Klown
tattoo on someone's butt in the old-fashioned way. Maybe see if anyone has
been hired to do such a tattoo late at night—we might get lucky and get
a lead that way. Sophia, Mike suggested in his memo that we might be able
to get this website to cooperate and divulge the source of the
video. They're located in Florida. What are the chances of getting a
warrant?"

"Again, next to nonexistent." White shook her head. "Most of these porn
sites are run by the Russian mob. They may have an address in the US so
that they can look domestic and All-American for their customers, but the
entire operation is somewhere else. I emailed them asking them to
cooperate, but I don't expect to hear back. Michael, what have you found
out about them?"

"This Star in Your Own Porn website doesn't really have customers. Anyone
can join just by giving them an email address and a screen name. Once
you've joined, you can upload videos or watch them—as many as you
like. They make their money through ads. If you try to watch a video, you
get deluged by ads and banners and pop-ups. It takes a good minute to clear
the screen so that you can watch the video you want. I should also warn you
that it's a dangerous site. I'd advise all of you to make sure your
antivirus program is up to date before you go online with them. The site
will try to install a Trojan on your computer. They certainly will use your
email address to bombard you with other ads. I've got
clean—safe—copies of all the videos. I've uploaded them to the
electronic case file on the police computer. Have your people use those. If
there are more CK videos, I'll do the same."

"Good work, Mike," said Altmann, "Phil, Jerry, make sure everyone on your
teams knows about this. I'll get someone to circulate a department-wide
warning. Sophia, you should tell your people too."

Everyone nodded and jotted down a note.

"Steve," Phil Redding asked, "what about Michael's suggestions that we try
to identify the other actors in the videos—the guys whose asses are
used? I've got some ideas on that. And, I know it's a long shot, but, like
Michael said, maybe we should look at the comments posted with the videos
to see if the victims were mentioned before they appeared in the
videos. Michael, I assume that there's some way of searching the comments
for the names. I've got several people on my team I can assign to you, if
that would help."

Michael was about to answer, when his phone and those of the other three
policemen in the room rang simultaneously.

Phil Redding was the first to react and check the message. "Hey, we got one
of those department-wide alerts. First time I've seen that system in
action."

All four cops checked their phones. Altmann held his so that White could
read the message as it came up on the screen. The department's official
seal materialized on the screen over the words "Official Alert." The screen
went black for a second and then the message appeared.

"Stay tuned. Important video at 9:18."

"Captain, that's the time the . . . ."

"I know what the time means. That's two minutes from now. Jesus, what is
this nutjob doing now? How could he get into the system? No, it's
impossible, isn't it, Mike? It must be a coincidence. It can't be another
Carma Klown video. Mike, don't these alerts go to all computers?"

"Yeah, as long as a computer is connected to the main network, the alert
will be broadcast on it."

The five people rushed out the door and clustered around the nearest
screen, looking over the shoulders of the detective who until a few seconds
before had been typing a report. All activity in the squad room ceased as
everyone found a screen to watch. The air filled with questions and
speculation until Altmann shouted. "Quiet, everyone. Here it
comes. Michael, can we record this?"

Michael pushed aside the cop sitting before the monitor and typed furiously
for a few seconds. "Got it, Captain." A moment later the video began.

Two men knelt motionless on their hand and knees, side by side. They wore
the uniforms of beat cops, including the hat with its distinctive sharp
corners on the bright white pentagonal crown. Both were well built, broad
shouldered, with thick forearms covered with black hair protruding from the
sleeves of their uniforms. The muscles of their upper arms stretched the
fabric of their shirts, and their trousers strained to contain their huge
thighs. Their faces were tilted downward and obscured by the long, shiny
black rounded visors of their hats and by large aviator-style
sunglasses. The camera slowly circled their bodies, lingering over the
insignia on the sleeves of their shirts and their gun belts. The various
tools on the belts—the heavy flashlight, the baton, the gun
itself—hung down at angles. Their highly polished shoes gleamed in the
light.

When the camera completed its circuit, it stopped. First one man, then the
other, swayed forward a bit to the accompaniment of the sound of cloth
ripping before settling back into his former position. The first man
grunted and then moaned. It was impossible to tell whether he groaned from
pain or pleasure or both. A few seconds later, the second man did the same.

The camera resumed its slow circuit of their bodies. As before, it lingered
over the insignia on their sleeves and then slowly moved down their bodies
to their gun belts. But this time there were differences. Pinned to the
fabric of their trousers over their right buttocks were badges. The camera
zoomed in on each until it filled the screen. The numbers were clearly
visible.

"Someone check those numbers," ordered Altmann. Several of those watching
typed the numbers into their computers.

"7211 is Patrolman Patrick Reilly, 62nd Precinct, currently assigned to the
night shift, Thursday through Sunday."

"3589 is Patrolman Frank Milowski, assigned to Superior Court 2, day shift,
Tuesday through Friday."

"Find out where they are now. We need to bring them in." Altmann looked
around the room and signaled to two of his squad to get on it.

"Jesus, what the fuck is that?" The shocked voice was met with silence as
everyone gasped.

The camera continued its clockwise circuit so that more of the kneeling
men's rear ends came into view. Each man's uniform trousers and underpants
had been split at the rear seam and cut open beneath the belt and at the
top of the thigh on the left side. The left-hand sides of their pants had
been peeled back, exposing the left buttock. Extending from between each
man's buttocks was a curling piece of black plastic, thicker at the base
and narrowing to a tip at the end.

Someone in the crowded room spoke up. "It's a butt plug, shaped like a
pig's tail."

There were murmurs of outrage throughout the room as the camera paused for
a minute. An older cop who asked, "What's a butt plug?" was shushed into
silence.

The camera pulled back slightly so that all of both men's buttocks was
visible. Tattooed on the left cheeks was the image of The Carma Klown
speeding away in his tiny car.

The silence in the squad room was complete now as the camera continued its
circling until it reached their heads again. In front of each man lay a
pink cardboard box, the lid folded back, containing a mixed assortment of
frosted and glazed donuts.

"What are you?" The voice of The Carma Klown spoke from several dozen
computers and cell phones.

"Pigs, Sir," both men replied.

"And pigs like donuts, don't they?"

"Sir, Yes, SIR." The response was immediate and enthusiastic.

"Just the thought of donuts makes pigs wag their tails, doesn't it?"

The camera pulled back again to show the entire scene. Both men were now
wagging their "tails" and grunting.

The Carma Klown laughed maniacally. "Well, then, bon appetit, piggies."

The two men plunged their faces into the boxes of donuts, tearing at them
with their teeth and open mouths and squealing and grunting with
pleasure. Frosting—chocolate brown, vanilla white, strawberry pink,
lemon yellow—coated their chins and lips and stuck to their noses as
they gulped down the donuts. Quickly their sunglasses and the visors of
their hats became smeared with muck. Variously colored sprinkles and
jimmies stuck to them.

"An edifying sight, don't you agree?" The Carma Klown taunted the viewers
he knew were watching intently. "I do want to thank these patrolmen for
helping me. It was so kind of them to take time off from their busy days to
come in. As you can see, I've found an appropriate way to repay them for
their trouble. Mmm, mmm, the boys sure do like those donuts, don't they?
Just look at them wolfing them down. I imagine the rest of you are getting
the munchies for some yummy donuts right about now. Well, I'm sorry I
couldn't supply each of you with your own box so that you would have
something to chow down on while you watch. But don't worry. Next
time—and there will be a next time, you can be sure of that—next
time, it could be any of you. So don't despair. You may have a chance to
assist me in making a video. And next time I might have you slobbering over
something more than donuts. Think on it. It could be you, Captain Steve
Altmann. Or you, Detective Sergeant Jerry Baker. Or you, Detective Sergeant
Phil Redding. Or you, Detective Michael Chang. Although maybe not Phil and
Michael. They might enjoy what I have planned for the next pair of cops."

The mad laughter resumed as the images of the screen changed to the exit
shots of The Carma Klown and his speeding car.

The spectators in the squad room collectively exhaled as they straightened
up and backed away from the screens they had been watching. When Altmann
turned around to speak, he discovered that everyone had drawn away from the
group of four principal investigators, isolating them, almost as if the
Klown's comments had suddenly turned them into pariahs, a source of
potential contagion.

"Captain?"

"What, Michael?"

Michael was excited. "The Klown's made a couple of mistakes. When the
camera circles the men, the guy on the left—he's wearing a watch. It's
on screen twice. We might be able to get a time off it. We know his work
schedule, and we should be able to pin down if the video was made during
the day or at night."

"Sharp eyes, Mike." Altmann nodded approvingly. "That will really be
helpful. What else you got?"

"This video is filled with shiny surfaces—the visors on the men's hats,
their glasses, their batons, their shoes, even their guns—there are
reflective surfaces everywhere. And there are images inside those
reflections. Those are standard batons and standard-issue guns. We know how
long they are. We can measure the angles at which they are hanging. I can
use that to figure out angles and lengths and heights and I can create a
composite image of what's generating the image in the reflection. Plus he
had to hack into the network to broadcast this video. I can trace that."

"Jesus, Chang, aren't you scared?" Sergeant Ryan interrupted, "The guy
knows your name. He practically threatened that you would be next. You guys
are marked."

Michael waved him away. "Then the sooner we find him, the sooner we'll be
safe. Captain," he turned back to Altmann, "Captain, can I get started?"

"Go, Mike, go. The rest of you guys, Mike asks for your help, you give it
to him, you understand."

There were enthusiastic murmurs from the crowd of officers and civilians in
the room. As Michael headed back toward his cubicle, two detectives broke
away and followed him, animatedly offering ideas and their help. One of
them, Altmann noted, was Jim Mitchell, the resident expert on using angles
of entry on gunshot wounds and blood spatter to calculate angles and
distances. The other was a young women, Ellen Corwin, who was as much of a
computer geek as Mike. He couldn't have picked two better assistants for
what Michael intended to do.

"Baker, Redding, we need to interview those two cops right away. But get a
doctor in here to get blood samples first. Let's find out what the Klown
used to drug them. There's no way they cooperated willingly with him." As
Altmann doled out tasks, he was pleased to note the enthusiasm with which
everyone clamored to join the task force. He had to restrain several of his
detectives who wanted to abandon other important cases. Mike Chang was
right. The Klown had made a mistake, several mistakes. If he thought that
the video would demoralize the department, he was wrong. It had galvanized
it.