Chapter 36
Unlocking the cloned drive was both harder and simpler than we thought. As we suspected, everything was encrypted, which meant we needed the password to access the files. After making several backups, we mounted the clone into the laptop we already had, the same one as Becker’s, and got to work.
It took several trials and errors for Lex to fine-tune a password-searching program that wouldn’t trigger the drive’s security measures. Otherwise, three failed attempts and the encryption keys were wiped, which turned the data into useless noise.
Once we had that safeguard in place, we let it work through potential passwords.
It could have taken fucking weeks, but I suggested we try something more subtle than brute force and focus on Becker himself.
We tested combinations tied to his family, birthdays, and anything remotely sentimental.
When that led nowhere, we fed Lex’s algorithm an entire encyclopedia of butterfly names.
And while that was going on, Lex and I worked on the pictures and the video of the notebook.
It contains what seems to be an extensive account of all his “intimate parties,” which are all named after a specific butterfly.
About fifteen of them, out of nearly two hundred, have a star drawn next to them.
Another mystery we might solve once the computer gives way.
The upper-right corner of each entry has a date, which will be extremely helpful for us.
Then there’s a list of names that range from three to twelve.
It’s pretty clear to us that these are the attendants, since the last entry, which is dated last Friday, has ten names on it.
And at the bottom, Becker always writes a few notes, as if he wants to remember who did what.
When we saw the men arrive at his penthouse on Friday, they all wore masks. Are they aware their “friend” is keeping close tabs on them? Is Becker doing it to have some kind of leverage over them?
Seventeen years. That notebook spans over seventeen years of those vile evenings.
And we catalog everything in a spreadsheet, which allows us to find out who took part and how many times.
Some of these people are high-ranking politicians, which is insane.
The senator who visited, the one I brought the tray to, is in that notebook a lot.
Twenty-three times. This is so much bigger than us.
It’s a full-blown national scandal, and I’m not sure how we’ll handle it.
Lex has a small panic attack when we find his father’s name in one of the entries, and I do everything I can to help him regulate and come down from it.
It looks like ten years ago, Richard Coleman was a participant.
His name is, however, crossed out. It’s the only time Lex’s father is mentioned, and I maintain that he either didn’t show up or didn’t like what he saw and left that day.
That would explain why Becker removed him.
We might know more when Lex cracks the computer’s key.
Sixteen hours. That’s how long it takes the software to find it once it has the butterfly names. Sixteen hours instead of weeks. And the password was Catasticta Lycurgus, in one word with capitals, all along—that tiny yellow butterfly Becker told me was his favorite. Go fucking figure.
As elated as I am to have found an in, Lex grabs my face and gives me one of his bone-melting kisses. “You genius woman,” he groans as he pulls away.
“I have my moments.”
He gives me an enthusiastic peck and then focuses back on the double screens.
For an entire minute, we stare at it. The moment is so fucking surreal, neither of us grasps what’s happening.
We’re in. This is it. Depending on what we find in there, eight months of living on the edge and fearing for our lives are coming to an end.
The computer is very organized, almost in an obsessive-compulsive way. A few folders are perfectly aligned in the middle of the screen, and I bring my finger to one of them, thinking it’s a great place to start.
“This one, Chrysalides. Open this one.”
He does so, and within it, more folders, also cleanly organized.
They’re each labeled with a feminine name and a date.
Lex selects them all, and we see there are two hundred and seventy-three folders.
The oldest one dates back over twenty years.
Norman Becker has been a sick fuck for a long time, hasn’t he?
Though he might have started earlier, and only began documenting it two decades ago.
The most recent folder is titled Jasmine and is from five days ago. The second one is named Lola, and from that night he brought her to his place.
Lex thinks the same as I do, and he opens the Lola folder.
We find a video file and several screen grabs that seemingly came from it.
Probably Becker’s favorite moments from that fucked-up session?
I wince at the sight the thumbnails offer, with Lola’s bare behind striped with red marks, bleeding in parts.
There are also close-ups of her face, and the agony on it is hard to bear.
That fucking psycho enjoys hurting women a little too much. We absolutely have to stop him. He’s a menace to society and to my gender.
Lex opens the video file, and we watch the first ten minutes, where Becker gives her a false sense of security and flirts with her as he lays out his conditions.
It’s sickening to see how he coerced her into accepting, his tone dismissive and light, as if he isn’t a twisted fuck, as if he isn’t about to hurt her so badly, she won’t be able to sit straight for a full week.
Lex skips the undressing part and fast-forwards to the moment she’s tied up and helpless.
Before it can begin, Lex has the great idea of turning the sound off.
We don’t need to hear Lorelei’s screams. He jumps through the video as we both watch with disgusted expressions on our faces.
How can someone enjoy abusing a woman like this?
She’s screaming and bucking, pulling at her restraints, and with each scream, Becker goes harder.
She eventually breaks, and we listen as Becker makes her a new deal. She gets the money if he can fuck her.
Both of us agree to close the video as Becker fumbles with the opening of his pants. We don’t need to see that to know what goes on next. That poor woman …
Those poor women, I correct myself, seeing the other folders that Lex scrolls through. “Do you think they’re all the same?”
“Given his obsessive-compulsive nature, I think so, yes. Men like him are creatures of habit. This is his process, his modus operandi.”
Just to make sure, Lex opens another one of those videos, and sure enough, it unfolds exactly the same way. Except this time, the woman doesn’t break, and Becker ends the session on his own, sweaty and exhausted, before defiling her like he did Lorelei.
We close that folder, deciding we’ll come back to it later, and inspect the other ones. The one named Butterflies intrigues me, so I ask Lex to open that next.
Instead of feminine names, it’s butterfly species. The last folder is Friday, and something tells me we’re about to see what happened to those three women Horvat delivered to his penthouse. As I look at them, sorted from most recent to oldest, I realize all these match a specimen on his wall.
Those are trophies. That’s why the wall of framed butterflies felt so morbid.
My sixth sense was warning me, telling me this was never about the butterflies.
It’s about the women they represent. And Becker has those trophies displayed in front of him at all times, all over his penthouse.
But only he and his special guests know what they mean.
I feel sick, my stomach twisting with disgust. I can’t believe I was in the same room as that man. He deserves more than jail at this point. He deserves death.
“Do you want to check out the one that had your father’s name on the entry?” I offer softly, knowing Lex needs the closure.
“I don’t know …”
“To me, it was your father’s breaking point,” I explain, like I did a few days ago. “He was friends with Becker, was invited to one of his sick gatherings, and not only did he leave, but he also cut all ties with Becker. I’m convinced of it.”
“You’re giving him a lot of credit.”
I smile tenderly. “Half of you comes from him, so I know there’s no way your father is that big a monster, baby.”
“Now, you’re giving me a lot of credit,” he jokes.
I give him a little nudge with my shoulder and nod at the screen. “Go on, find that folder. If I’m right, you’ll owe me a beer.”
“And what if you’re wrong?” The teasing is there to mask his actual concern, and I notice it.
“If I’m wrong, I’ll owe you as many beers as it takes to forget that your father is a bigger dick than we thought.”
“Sounds fair.”
I don’t even need to pull up the page Lex photographed, as he remembers the exact date. He opens the folder that matches, and we look at the thumbnails. The men we see are in all-black suits, with their masks, while one stands out, white from neck to toe, with a golden domino mask.
“Is that Becker?” I ask, pointing at the all-white man.
Lex opens a screenshot, and, sure enough, we recognize his lower face. “What an egomaniac douche,” I snort. Who the fuck does he think he is? Some kind of god?
When Lex opens the video, I grab his free hand and squeeze it. We watch as a few men are gathered in a circle around an empty chair, six of them in black, then Becker in white.
“That’s my father,” Lex says, pausing the frame to point at one of the men. The pain in his voice echoes in my heart. God, I hope I’m right. Please let me be right.