Mortal Fear

Whenever I meet interesting strangers, I find myself casting them as stand-ins for the stars of my memory. Sometimes I meet an Edmond O’Brien or a George Sanders, maybe a Robert Ryan. I remember those guys from when I was a kid staying up late with my dad, watching Channel 4 out of New Orleans. So it’s a habit, trying to slot strangers into the celluloid templates in my head. Some people are just extras, like Mayeux’s partner and the secretary. But every once in a while I meet the genuine article. Someone who doesn’t just remind me of, say, Fredric March, he could be the man.

Doctor Lenz might be the genuine article. He is physically tall—this is obvious even though he is seated—and yet … he is limited. Like an actor who never made the jump to the big screen. Perpetually middle-aged, WASP or WASP wannabe, expensive suit, heavy on control. His charisma is undeniable, but somehow he finishes out more TV than film.

In the uncomfortable silence that follows the introductions, one of the blue-suited FBI men—Baxter, I think—gives the police chief an annoyed glance. Then he looks me in the eye and says, “Good morning, Mr. Cole,” giving the “mister” that special and contemptuous stress that military men reserve for civilians. “I’m Special Agent Daniel Baxter.”

I didn’t notice Baxter at first because sizewise he blends with the other two blue-suits. But I see him now. And I get the feeling he’s hiding. In the Biblical sense, as in hiding his light under a bushel. He’s got weight behind his dark eyes, but he’s not a leading man. He’s a tough-as-nails sergeant from a black-and-white war movie, thrust into command by the death of his lieutenant.

As if summoned to life by Agent Baxter’s words, the police chief greets me in a startling James Earl Jones basso. “Mr. Cole, I’m Chief Sidney Tobin. I thank you for coming down so early today. Needless to say, we’re all very interested in whatever you might have to say about these murders. You have our undivided attention.”

Detective Mayeux sits, offering me the chair at the head of the table as he does, but I remain standing. I am six feet and one inch tall, 195 pounds, and I know my size gives me a psychological edge when I choose to use it. Today I figure I need any edge I can get.

“Before I say anything,” I begin, “there is one very important thing I didn’t tell Detective Mayeux on the phone.”

“What’s that?” rumbles the chief.

“I’m pretty sure I know who killed those women.”

Astonished silence blankets the room. Dr. Lenz breaks the impasse. “You have a name, Mr. Cole?”

“And an address.”

“Christ!” cries Mayeux. “Give it to me.”

I open my briefcase and remove a single sheet of paper. From it I read: “David M. Strobekker. That’s S-T-R-O-B-E-K-K-E-R. 1402 Moorland Avenue, Edina, Minnesota. It’s a suburb of Minneapolis.”

“What else you know about this guy?” barks Mayeux’s partner.

“He has a checking account at the Norwest Bank in Minneapolis. That’s all I know for sure.”

“Run it through the computer, Mike,” commands the chief. “Right now.”

“I can access the Bureau computers by phone,” one of the younger FBI men tells Mayeux, who shoots me a furious glance on his way out.

“I could be sued for giving you that name,” I tell them.

“Let us worry about that,” says Baxter.

“The FBI will provide lawyers to defend me in a civil case?”

Arthur Lenz’s face shows a trace of bemusement.

“Let’s stick to these murders,” says the police chief. “Tell us how you came to know those six names and why you suspected the women might be in trouble.”

The door opens and closes behind me. Mayeux reclaims his chair on the right side of the table. “Kiesha’s checking on Strobekker, Chief.”

“Stop me if I say something you don’t understand,” I tell them.

The two younger FBI agents smirk at this, but I’m fairly certain they’ll soon be strafing me with stupid questions.

“I work for a company called EROS,” I say slowly. “That’s an acronym—E-R-O-S—which stands for Erotic Realtime Online Stimulation.” Seeing a couple of leers, I ignore the mythological connection and push on. “We’re an online service that caters to a wide range of clients interested in human sexuality. EROS is a New York–based corporation legally chartered in the State of Delaware—”

“Who owns it?” interrupts Baxter.

“A widow named Jan Krislov.”

“What?”

From the sick look on Daniel Baxter’s face, I can see that he’s familiar with Jan Krislov in some capacity. A flash of instinct tells me it’s her fierce championship of electronic privacy rights.

“Please continue, Mr. Cole,” instructs Chief Tobin.

“Anyone in the continental US can have full online access to EROS twenty-four hours a day. We also have European subscribers who reach us through the Internet. There are three levels of forum traffic, which people access under aliases—code names—that insure complete anonymity. Level One is the most diverse. Clients use it to discuss all sorts of sexual topics, from psychology to medical problems to privacy issues.”

“Jan fucking Krislov,” mutters Baxter.

I take a breath. Hearing no questions, I focus on Mayeux and continue. “Level Two is the first of the two fantasy forums. In Level Two clients write about their fantasies, correspond with each other through forum messages and email, or sometimes just eavesdrop on the fantasies of other subscribers. The exchanges can be group or, if a client prefers, he or she can switch down to one-on-one contact, completely private. We call that a private room. There are also files available at all times from the online library. Popular exchanges from past sessions, stuff like that.”

“Stroke files,” says Mayeux’s partner, opening his red eyes in a glare of challenge. “Right? They’re not talking to anybody realtime, so their hands are free. Jack-off time, right?”

The man is crude, but not far off the mark. “That’s probably a fair assessment.”

“What about Level Three?” asks Doctor Lenz, his eyes alight with fascination.

“Level Three …” I often stumble here when explaining EROS to anyone outside the company. I never know quite how to describe Level Three. To be honest, I don’t monitor it that much. At least I didn’t until I began to have my suspicions about the “missing” women. Most Level Three traffic is nocturnal, and thus Miles’s gig. That’s another reason I allowed him to persuade me to put off acting for as long as I did.

“Level Three,” I say again, “is what you might call the major league of sexual forums. The dialogues are pretty heavy, basically no-holds-barred. Don’t get the wrong idea—it’s not kiddy porn or anything, but—”

“It’s hot,” Dr. Lenz finishes.

“Pretty hot, yeah. Until three weeks ago we didn’t even allow transmission of graphic images, but believe me, words alone are powerful enough. We’re talking bondage, S and M, homoerotic sex, you name it. Straight sex too, of course.”

“How much does it cost to join EROS?” asks Baxter.

“A thousand dollars to join—”

Mayeux whistles long and low.

“—plus five hundred a month flat fee after that, with various payment arrangements. For women it’s three hundred a month. EROS has 1–800 access numbers, so nobody has any long-distance charges to worry about.”

“All the women but Wheat were in their twenties,” says Baxter. “Where did they get that kind of money?”

“Inherited it,” I reply. “A lot of rich girls on EROS. We get a lot of trophy wives too. They marry money—old money—fake orgasms at night, and log onto EROS during the day. It’s safer than adultery, especially in the age of AIDS.”

“Karin Wheat was a member of this EROS thing?” Chief Tobin interrupts.

“Yes. For about three months now.”

“And those other women? All of them were members?”