Mortal Fear

“Right. Most of them had been subscribing for more than a year at the time they dropped off the net.”

“What exactly do you mean by ‘dropped off?’” Lenz asks.

“Just a minute, Doctor,” says Chief Tobin, reasserting the temporary supremacy he enjoys in his headquarters. “Mr. Cole, you mean to tell me all these murder victims were members of this super-expensive computer club or whatever it is, and no homicide cop in L.A. or San Francisco or Houston or Portland or the other places managed to link these crimes with billing receipts from your company?”

“I can explain that.” I pause, realizing I’m more interested in asking questions than answering them. “Honestly, I’m more surprised by the fact that the murders weren’t linked before now by physical evidence. No offense, but isn’t that what you guys do?”

“Goddamn,” growls Mayeux’s partner.

“Plenty of reasons for that,” injects one of the FBI agents.

“Different weapon in every case,” says his blue-suited cousin. “Forensic evidence indicating multiple perps.”

“Multiple perps at the same scene,” adds the first agent.

“Which is rare,” says Baxter, glaring at the younger men. “Highly unusual.”

“We’re still getting in evidence reports, Chief,” says Mayeux, “but the M.O. does seem to have varied a great deal in almost every case.”

“As did the signature,” says Baxter.

“The killer left notes?” I ask.

Baxter shakes his head. “‘Signature’ is the offender’s behavior at the crime scene.” He looks at me closely, as if judging whether to continue. “Behavior beyond that strictly necessary to commit the crime. Individualized behavior.”

“Oh.”

“There is no signature in these cases,” Dr. Lenz says imperiously. “It’s all staging. But the trophies in California varied not an iota.”

“Trophies?” I echo. “What kind of trophies?”

“Why don’t you tell us?” Mayeux’s partner asks, pointing an index finger at my chest.

The room goes silent, and in that instant I feel the first ripple of real fear in my chest. “Am I a suspect in this case?”

Several looks are exchanged, none directed at me.

“Do I need to call an attorney?”

Finally Baxter breaks the silence. “Mr. Cole, I’m going to go out on a limb here. I am not merely a special agent. I’m the chief of the FBI’s Investigative Support Unit. We profile and help the police hunt violent serial offenders, whether they’re killers, rapists, arsonists, bombers, or kidnappers. When crimes of this nature are committed, the individual who reports any of them is always considered a suspect. Serial offenders frequently report their own crimes as part of an attempt to avoid being found out, or to gain enjoyment by assisting in an investigation of themselves. In this case you’ve reported all the crimes. When I was apprised of this situation last night, the Unit began an exhaustive check of your background, including all your movements during the past two years. It sounds drastic, but it’s standard procedure.”

Baxter glances at his watch, which he wears with the face inside the wrist, military style. “Dr. Lenz and I have spent the past few hours putting together a preliminary profile of the offender in these murders. And frankly, it’s one of the most difficult jobs we’ve ever undertaken. At this point I won’t say why, but Dr. Lenz believes that you are probably not the killer in this case. I concur. I’m not saying you couldn’t be involved in some way—it would be irresponsible of me to rule you out—but I’m willing to proceed today on the assumption that you are what you claim to be—a Good Samaritan coming forward in an attempt to see justice done. Obviously, other women’s lives are at risk as we speak. An atmosphere of cooperation is the best thing for all of us at this point. If you wish to consult an attorney, that is your right, but at this time no one here”—Baxter fires a sharp glance at the New Orleans police officers—“intends to charge you with any crime.”

When he finishes, no one speaks. Everyone but Baxter and Lenz seems to be looking at his shoes. I may be making the worst mistake of my life, but I decide to trust Baxter, at least to the extent of not calling an attorney.

“What kind of trophies?” I ask again.

“An unusual one,” Baxter says thoughtfully.

“Maybe he’s a taxidermist,” cracks Mayeux’s partner, winking at Mayeux.

“Make a note of that, Maria,” says Chief Tobin, and watches the brunette pounce on her notepad.

“Taxidermists do not mount glands,” Dr. Lenz says scornfully.

“Houston P.D. says he took the whole goddamn head,” snaps Mayeux, unwilling to tolerate the psychiatrist’s superior tone. “And that’s what he did here.”

I am looking for a place to sit down, but no one notices. I whisper, “Someone cut off Karin Wheat’s head?”

“That’s classified information,” says Baxter.

Mayeux snorts at the spook-speak.

“That is not accurate, Mr. Cole,” corrects Chief Tobin. “Someone did cut off Ms Wheat’s head, but that information is not classified. Still, I would strongly suggest that you keep the knowledge to yourself.” The chief shoots me a very clear look: If you fuck up my investigation in any way, I will hound you to a pauper’s grave. “Now,” he says, his gentle bass voice filling the conference room like soft light. “What about my question? Credit card receipts from EROS, canceled checks, phone bills, and suchlike? Why didn’t this link the crimes?”

“Chief,” says Baxter, “despite our best efforts to familiarize city police departments with our VICAP program, we still have a pretty poor compliance rate. Not nearly enough officers take the time to fill out their violent offender profiles and send them in. This EROS connection is exactly the kind of thing that slips through the cracks. I wouldn’t be surprised if homicide detectives in one or more of the involved departments have just such a receipt in an evidence drawer somewhere, but have no idea that detectives in any other cities have the same thing.”

“All our fault, as usual,” grumbles Mayeux’s partner.

“Five of these six cases were sent in to VICAP,” says Mayeux, giving his partner covering fire. “But they weren’t linked. No EROS connection showed up. All had computers in their homes, but nothing related to EROS on their drives. Why not?”

“Well,” I say, finally regaining sufficient composure to rejoin the conversation. “As long as the killer wasn’t rushed, he could erase the EROS software from the victims’ computers and take away any manuals they had. Although it would take a real wizard to wipe every trace from the hard disks. You might have one of your people look into that.”

Baxter gives me a wry smile. “No traces so far.”

“Karin Wheat paid EROS with her Visa card,” says Mayeux. “I checked as soon as you told me she was a member.”

“She’ll be the only one that did,” I tell him.

“How do you know that?” asks Dr. Lenz, his heavy-lidded eyes probing mine.

“Because every other woman—victim, I mean—had set up her account on the blind-draft account system.”

“What’s that?” asks the chief. “A direct bank draft?”

“Yes, but not the kind you imagine. A lot of EROS subscribers—particularly women—are married, and don’t want their spouses to know they’re online with us. Some log on only from their workplace. Others from home, but only when their husbands are away. Ms Krislov makes every effort to ensure that any woman who wants to connect with us has the ability to do so without stigma. To facilitate this, she came up with the ‘blind draft’ policy. If a woman doesn’t want her husband to know she’s online—or vice versa—we advise the user to set up a checking account at a bank not used by the spouse—an out-of-town bank, if possible—and use a PO box as her address. We then arrange to draft this secret account directly for payment of the monthly fee.”

“Son of a bitch,” says Mayeux’s partner.

“Every one of the murdered women was on a secret account?” Mayeux asks.

“Except Karin Wheat.”

“But three of them weren’t married,” Mayeux points out. “Who were they hiding from? Boyfriends?”

“Or girlfriends,” says Dr. Lenz.

“What about phone bills?” asks Mayeux. “Wouldn’t connect-time show up on the phone bills of all the victims?”