The Carma Klown

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.