Black screen. Suddenly a gleaming chrome logo hissed in from the left while ultrapasteurized techno music thumped in over the title:
News to America
The title twirled into infinity as inset video images crisscrossed the screen, and the music built in tempo. Anji Anderson pushing a microphone at a businessman covering his face. Anderson helping a handicapped child take her first steps on artificial limbs. Anderson typing feverishly at a laptop keyboard in the open air while columns of black smoke towered over a city skyline behind her. Fast cuts following fast cuts. Half a second each. The human brain had to scramble to identify the image, determine whether it presented a threat, and just barely resolved it in time for the next image: Anderson standing, arms akimbo, glowering at the camera in the middle of Times Square while her name slid into place beneath her belt line. The music stopped cold.
The screen flipped immediately to black. A color photograph of a small child faded in. A boy smiling into his birthday cake, surrounded by friends. Anderson’s voice rose. “Peter Andrew Sebeck was born in Simi Valley, California, only son to Marilyn and Wayne Sebeck. He was their ray of hope after the loss of their first daughter to leukemia two years earlier. Outgoing, well liked, Peter was a model child.”
Another picture resolved over the first. It showed Sebeck in a high school football uniform, holding his helmet on his knee, once again smiling.
“Peter appeared to have the perfect life. But his early promise was cut short when he fathered a child at the age of sixteen with Laura Dietrich, a girl he’d known only a short while. Within a year they married. Friends described it as a cold marriage, devoid of tenderness. Yet, to all outward appearances, Pete Sebeck was still a model citizen. He joined the Ventura County Sheriff’s Department at age twenty-one, took night classes to earn a bachelor’s degree in criminal justice, and rose quickly, becoming a twice-decorated officer and later a sergeant of detectives. To his fellow deputies, he was a no-nonsense officer and a family man—a well-respected citizen of Thousand Oaks, California, the safest city in America.”
Chilling music rose. The image changed to a still photo of a menacing Sebeck being escorted in handcuffs, his face a blur of fast-moving rage, lashing out at reporters. It was the type of iconic photograph that made careers. A photo of the year. A symbol of the times.
“But this façade concealed a darker side. Peter Sebeck, convicted mass murderer—nine of his victims federal officers. Another victim, a young colleague who trusted and admired him. Conspirator, embezzler, adulterer. Sex and drug addict. What drives seemingly normal people to commit heinous acts? Is it anger? Greed? Or does evil really exist? Can it possess you? Tonight we’ll find out as I interview Peter Sebeck live from Lompoc Federal Prison. This is News to America.”
The techno music rose again. A title appeared:
Sebeck on Death Row
The screen resolved on Anderson, sitting erect and alert in medium close-up. She looked businesslike yet sexy in a dark Chanel suit. Her makeup was perfect in the warm glow of camera lights. The lighting had to be done carefully so as not to reflect harshly off the bulletproof glass partition—beyond which sat Detective Sergeant Peter Sebeck. The most hated man in America.
She had helped to make that a reality.
Sebeck stared from behind the small intercom microphone in the prison visitation cell. The studio provided a better sound system for this interview, and a smaller microphone was clipped onto Sebeck’s khaki prison jumpsuit. One quarter of all households in America were anticipated to tune in. Everything was in place, and after a quick smile Anderson began.
“I must confess, Detective Sebeck, I’m surprised you agreed to this interview. I’m the person most responsible for your capture and conviction.”
Sebeck regarded her coolly. “I agreed for my own reasons, not yours.”
“So you still claim innocence?”
“I am innocent.”
“How do you explain the substantial evidence against you?”
“It was manufactured by Matthew Sobol. He stole my identity years ago.”
“So you still claim that Sobol’s Daemon is real, even though all efforts to discover such a thing have come up empty?”
Sebeck tried to keep his cool. “The government wants people to believe the Daemon is a hoax. They think it takes them off the hook.”
Anderson shook her head sadly. “Detective, you’ve already admitted your relationship with Cheryl Lanthrop—or did Sobol fake that, too?”
“He facilitated it. It was designed to impugn my character.”
“But you’ve been quoted saying—”
“I’ve been incorrectly quoted—most of the time by you. And there’s no appeal to the court of public opinion, is there? But I guess you know that.”
“Then this is a conspiracy against you? Everyone from the media to the police, and Sobol himself, have all conspired to frame you for these murders? You’re completely innocent?”
“I’m guilty of this much: being a bad husband and a worse father. I’m guilty of having an affair and of being too egotistical to realize I was being set up.”
“Please forgive me, Detective, but that sounds far-fetched.”
“Yes. That’s the whole point. It was designed to be far-fetched.”
“Designed by Sobol?”
“Yes.”
“So, you’re asking everyone to believe you, instead of the facts. We’re to believe that Sobol went to Herculean lengths to frame you—spending not just millions but tens of millions of dollars in the effort?”
“I’m not asking anyone to believe anything. To be honest, even I wouldn’t believe me.”
“So you don’t blame anyone?”
Sebeck stared hard at her. “Oh, I blame some people. But their time will come.”
“That sounds like a threat. Do you believe the American public will be sympathetic toward threats?”
“I’m not here to talk to the American public.”
“Then who are you here to talk to?”
“The Daemon.”
“The Daemon?” Anderson was taken aback. “The Daemon doesn’t exist, Sergeant.”
“You and I both know that isn’t true.”
Anderson shrugged blissfully. “No, I don’t know that.”
“You’re real proud of yourself, aren’t you, Anji? Famous and rich—isn’t that what the Daemon promised you? And all you had to do was sell your soul—if you ever had one.”
“I didn’t come here to be insulted, ex-Detective. Why don’t you tell us your side of the Daemon hoax instead? Help us understand your point of view.”
“Keep them entertained, Anji. Keep them busy and distracted. That’s your purpose, isn’t it? I see that now. Be careful, because I’m starting to understand Sobol. Maybe even better than you. I’ve had plenty of time to think in here. Why did Sobol warn me?”
“Sobol warned you? How did he warn you?”
“At his funeral he said he would destroy me. Those were his exact words. And that’s exactly what he did. He destroyed everything that once defined me. It doesn’t make sense that he would warn me—unless he had further plans for me.”
“So he’s your friend now? Does that idea comfort you?”
Sebeck looked her straight in the eye. “Fuck you.”
Anderson clenched her jaw angrily for a moment. Then a pleasant smile spread across her face. “We have a time delay, Detective. But please watch your language. This is a family show.”
“I understand what Sobol meant now.”
“Well, you’re running out of time to solve the case, Sergeant. If the Supreme Court refuses your appeal, you’re scheduled to die by lethal injection. You must be impressed by the unusually swift hand of justice.”
Sebeck contemplated it calmly. “It is unusual, isn’t it?”
“Perhaps it was the murder of those federal officers.”
“Why are you helping this thing? Do you think it will ever let you go? Do you think you will ever be free?”
Anderson ignored him. “You’re undergoing psychiatric treatment. Is that going well?”
“I’m through talking to you. I came here to send a message to the Daemon.”
“Well, you’d better hope it watches television, Detective.”
Sebeck looked directly into the camera. “At Sobol’s funeral, he phoned me. He said that I had to accept the Daemon. That in the months before my death I had to invoke it. And although it will make me sound more insane than ever, my message is this: I, Peter Sebeck, accept the Daemon. And I am ready to face the consequences.”
Sebeck turned to the prison guards and federal officials standing behind Anderson. “That message needs to get out. She’ll try to cut it from the interview—and when she does, you’ll know she’s afraid. You’ll know she’s in collusion with the Daemon. If you think I’m a nutcase, then that’s all the more reason to get my message out there. It proves your case against me. It condemns me.”
Anderson watched grimly from beyond the bulletproof partition. “Sergeant, there is no Daemon. But I’ll be happy to pass along the message.”
Sebeck pointed at her. “You and I will meet again.”
Anderson felt strangely exhilarated. Sebeck was sexy when he was pissed off—and god, did this guy have balls. He was going to die, but he was going down swinging. She motioned to stop rolling camera, then locked eyes with Sebeck. “I’ll convey the message. Have no doubt.”
She had a direct line, after all.
And word from the Daemon was that Sebeck must die.