He struggled to pull it off at first, always pushing a little too hard. When the person realized some kid had defaced their clothing, Tobias just pretended like he was a mischievous little runt and fled. But over time, he became an expert. He was like a ghost, watching customers from afar, chalking them and then dispersing into the crowds. From the age of 11 onwards, no one ever could catch him. His fingers were so nimble they were like clouds on the end of his palm.
But the real educators came from the carnival’s performers. Clowns, illusionists, card sharks, pickpockets. The people that could not only manipulate objects in unique ways, but could bend a person’s psychological responses to their advantage. Weaponized psychological manipulation. He recalled a magician making a coin disappear, over and over again, then explaining that it wasn’t his hands doing the work, it was the power of distraction. The fingertips were just the bullet, he said, the rest of the body was the gun. The closer you look, the less you see.
The same man taught Tobias sleight of hand and how to apply it properly. He taught him how to guide a person’s attention wherever you wanted it. Pattern recognition exploitation, he called it, fooling the brain into thinking something had occurred when it hadn’t. Transferring a coin from one hand to the other, placing a ball in your pocket, swallowing a needle.
Or stealing something right in front of an armed guard.
Tobias’s fingertips grazed the underside of the mouse while he scrolled up and down the page. It was an old type of mouse with the ball inside, ancient by even his standards. It was all he deserved, he apparently.
“Officer, I think I’m done here,” Tobias said. “I really have no use for this machine. Plus, I’m not feeling very good.”
“Still got three minutes,” the guard said.
Tobias smiled, sat back in his chair and put his hands behind his head and coughed loudly. He watched the clock in the corner of the screen and counted down until the moment of glory.
Just three minutes, he thought.
Three minutes until he could see Agent Dark again.
***
Every cell in Maine Correctional Institute had a pull cord tied up at the rear. In the case of emergency, an inmate was to pull the cord for immediate medical assistance. The cords in Category A cells were placed cruelly high, and in a catastrophic medical emergency, the chances of an inmate being able to reach the cord were almost zero. It was one of the prison system’s little tricks to kill off notable inmates, Tobias knew.
Tobias untied his cell-cord every day, so it dangled down at head height. Not that he’d ever used it.
But that changed today.
Every day at the carnival, Tobias would watch the magician perform his act from the side of the stage. Even after a thousand shows, his tricks fascinated the boy. There was one trick above all else that he would watch with unbridled focus and attention, the one trick of which the magician never revealed the secret.
He used to call the trick Alive and Undead. The magician would call up a spectator from the audience to hold his pulse. Then, the magician would place a plastic bag over his head and claim he was going to cut off the oxygen to his brain. The resulting effect would be a zombie-like state of such euphoric highs that he couldn’t feel pain.
Sure enough, the spectator would soon discover that the magician’s pulse had stopped beating – an impossible feat, surely. The magician would then walk on glass, pierce his skin with needles and hammer nails into his nose – all without flinching.
How could it be? It was an illusion like no other, and one that left a lasting impression on the young boy watching from the wings. The mystery consumed young Tobias day and night, to the point that he fully believed the magician’s stage patter might be true. Maybe he really did kill and revive himself every night? Even after years of begging and pleading, the magician never revealed the secrets of this bizarre illusion.
Then one winter morning, the carnival owner discovered the magician dead in his trailer. Suffocated, apparently, like all those nights cutting off his oxygen supply finally caught up with him. More mysteriously, was that the magician’s notebook had vanished too.
The magician and his unexplainable death taught Tobias more about himself than school ever could. And this was how 14-year-old Tobias finally learned the secret to this illusion, and if he was being honest, it was something of a disappointment.
All he needed was a ball. Any ball, no matter its size or shape or toughness. A sponge ball would do, or a tennis ball.
Or the ball from an old computer mouse.
Back in his cell, Tobias concealed the ball in his armpit and sat on his bed. He remembered watching the magician from the side of the stage perform the same rite thirty years ago, wondering whether or not he was witnessing some esoteric supernatural practice.
A minute later, Tobias’s pulse stopped beating.
There was nothing supernatural about it. The fact that it was a simple biological response was much more fascinating to him.
Tobias pulled the cord then collapsed onto the floor in a heap. Between violent spasms, he coughed up blood all over his white jumpsuit.
He’d watched a thousand magic performances, night in and night out for over a decade.
It was time to put on a show of his own.
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
Ella, Byford, and Sheriff Hunter stood between their offices in the NDPD precinct.
“It’s him,” Byford said. “It has to be.”
Sheriff Hunter scratched his stubble. He looked like he hadn’t seen a bed in weeks, Ella thought.
“Same. That man has trouble written all over him. He’s got something to hide.”
Both turned to Ella, waiting for her input. She looked back towards the holding cell area then tied back her admittedly greasy hair. She simply shook her head. Byford and Hunter both sighed in unison.
“Ella, seriously? Just take one look at that man and you’ll get everything you need to know.”
“There are a few things that don’t add up to me.”
The sheriff’s phone rang but he clicked it to voicemail. “That man is a career thief. He’d steal anything that isn’t nailed down and then take the nails too.”
“Exactly,” Ella said. “Stealing is in his blood. Alan Yates was rich as hell. Loveridge was an antiques dealer. Windham had thousands of rare coins. Yet nothing was stolen from any of the scenes? You think a hardened thief like that isn’t gonna sweep those places clean? Plus, he’s only been free for a month. He needs the money, and these crime scenes gave him the perfect opportunity.”
Neither Byford nor Hunter had a response.
“Secondly, why would he confess to one murder and not the others? He just cemented himself a long term, maybe even life inside. He might as well go the whole hog.”
“Alright,” Byford said, “anything else, or are you done crushing our spirits?”
“One more. What motivation does Steen have to kill these people anyway? It’s not like they have dirt on him. He’s dirtier than a pigsty and he openly admits it. If these victims did have something on Steen, wouldn’t they have dished it while Steen was safe behind bars? They’ve had five freaking years.”
“Valid points, but I still think it’s him,” Hunter said. “We’ve had a few cops go through his house while you were in there. He’s got quite a few coins.”