Mortal Fear (5 page)

An unusual one, Baxter says thoughtfully.

Maybe hes a taxidermist, cracks Mayeuxs 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 psychiatrists superior tone. And thats what he did here.

I am looking for a place to sit down, but no one notices. I whisper, Someone cut off Karin Wheats
head
?

Thats classified information, says Baxter.

Mayeux snorts at the spook-speak.

That is not accurate, Mr. Cole, corrects Chief Tobin. Someone did cut off Ms. Wheats 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 paupers 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 didnt 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 wouldnt 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 Mayeuxs partner.

Five of these six cases
were
sent in to VICAP, says Mayeux, giving his partner covering fire. But they werent 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 wasnt 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.

Shell 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 womanvictim, I meanhad set up her account on the blind-draft account system.

Whats that? asks the chief. A direct bank draft?

Yes, but not the kind you imagine. A lot of EROS subscribersparticularly womenare married, and dont want their spouses to know theyre on-line 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 doesnt want her husband to know shes on-lineor vice versawe advise the user to set up a checking account at a bank not used by the spousean out-of-town bank, if possibleand use a P.O. box as her address. We then arrange to draft this secret account directly for payment of the monthly fee.

Son of a bitch, says Mayeuxs partner.

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

Except Karin Wheat.

But three of them werent married, Mayeux points out. Who were they hiding from? Boyfriends?

Or girlfriends, says Dr. Lenz.

What about phone bills? asks Mayeux. Wouldnt connect-time show up on the phone bills of all the victims?

Its an eight hundred number, remember?

Shit. So after they were killed, their secret accounts eventually dropped to zero?

Eventually
is exactly why I got suspicious. EROS isnt like CompuServe or America Online, where you might lose interest but keep paying the nine ninety-five per month, thinking youll get back into it. Were talking three to five hundred bucks a month. EROS users may be wealthy, but when they get bored they close those direct-draft accounts.

And the murdered women didnt, says Mayeux.

Right. And two particular womenthe third and fourth victimswere very active on-line. Then
poof,
one day they were gone. But their bank drafts kept coming in. That didnt fit the pattern. Im not saying it had never happened beforeit had. Thats why I didnt call the police immediately. But the longer the accounts stayed active without the women showing up on-line, the more uncomfortable I got. I started probing the accounting program to see how many blind-draft clients were paying regularly but not logging onto the system. There were about fifty, enough to make me think I might be paranoid. And enough for the company to decide not to investigate. But then I remembered that victims three and four had talked to this Strobekker guy a lot. So I started watching for him. Then I started printing out his exchanges. I also asked about him in private e-mail. Thats how I came up with the names of the first and second victims. And while I was doing that, he was setting up and killing five and six. He was also talking to at least twenty other women during this period as well.

Doesnt the company try to contact people when their accounts drop to zero? Mayeux asks. In case it was just an oversight?

No. Its understood by both parties that if a blind-draft account has insufficient funds for even a single payment, the company assumes the client no longer desires its services, and access is immediately terminated.

I dont buy that, says Mayeuxs partner. I dont believe any company would kiss off that kind of bread without making sure the client wanted to quit.

How can I explain this to them? Jan Krislov is the sole
owner of EROS. And whether you believe it or not, shes not in it for the money.

Oh, I believe it, mutters Baxter.

Then why does she charge so damn much for the service? Mayeuxs partner asks doggedly.

A faint smile crosses Arthur Lenzs patrician face. This alone draws all eyes to him. The high fee functions as a crude screening system, he says softly. Correct, Mr. Cole?

What kind of screening system? asks Mayeuxs partner.

Lenz answers for me. By charging an exorbitant rate, Ms. Krislov ensures that her on-line environment is accessible only to those who have attained a certain position in life.

Flawed system, says Mayeux. It assumes rich people arent assholes.

I said it was crude, Lenz admits. But I imagine it works fairly well.

It works perfectly, I say, unable to keep the admiration out of my voice. Because there are other constraints on membership.

Curiosity flares in Lenzs eyes. Such as?

EROS is open to any woman who can pay the fee, but any man who wants to join has to submit a writing sample for evaluation.

Who evaluates the sample?

Jan Krislov.

What are the criteria?

Unable to resist, I point at Mayeuxs partner. He wouldnt make the cut.

Mayeux lays an arm across his partners chest and asks, How many people belong to this thing?

Five thousand. Half of them male, half female. The numerical relation is strictly maintained.

Gays allowed? Lenz asks.

Encouraged. And contained within that ratio.

Mayeux shakes his head. Youre telling us this Krislov woman has personally evaluated twenty-five hundred writing samples from men writing about sex?

Personally
approved
twenty-five hundred samples.
Shes evaluated a lot more than that. Theres a waiting list of twenty-eight hundred men at this moment.

So Jan Krislov sits up at night reading her own personal
Penthouse
letters, Baxter says in a gloating voice. I know some senators wholl eat that up.

Probably beats watching Leno, pipes up the local FBI agent. For a woman, I mean, he adds hastily.

Dr. Lenz leans forward in his chair. I doubt these samples are as crude as you assume. Are they, Mr. Cole?

No. There are some gifted people on EROS.

Mayeuxs partner snorts.

To wit, Karin Wheat, says Lenz.

One more thing, I add. Not all the men on EROS are wealthy. Certain men have submitted writing samples that impressed Ms. Krislov so much that she gives them access free of charge. Sort of a scholarship program. She says it improves the overall experience for the women.

The secretary nods her head in a gesture I read as
Right on, girl
.

Id be very interested in studying some of these on-line exchanges, Lenz says. You have some in that briefcase?

Yes.

Baxter asks, Does anything stand out in your mind that these women had in common?

I pause for a moment. Most of them spent a lot of time in Level Twomy level. Their fantasies were fairly conventional, by which I mean they involved more romance than sex. They could get kinky, but they werent sickos. No torture or revolting bodily substances. The truth is, I dont know anything about these women in real life. Only their fantasies.

Their fantasies may be the most important thing about them, says Lenz.

Maybe, I allow, but thats not the sense I got. Im not sure why. What did they have in common in real life?

None of your goddamn business, snaps Mayeuxs partner.

I see. Well, I guess thats my position too.

Dr. Lenz inclines his head toward Baxter, who says,
All the victims were under twenty-six years old except Karin Wheat, who was forty-seven. All were college educated, all Caucasian except one, who was Indian.

Native American? asks Chief Tobin.

Indian Indian, says Mayeuxs partner, tapping a file on the table. Dot on the fucking forehead.

I dont recall an Indian name, I say, almost to myself.

Pinky Millstein, says Baxter. Maiden name Jathar. Married to a litigation attorney who traveled a lot. There was also an Indian hair found at one of the other crime scenes. Does that mean anything to you?

Well... one of Strobekkers aliases is Shiva. Thats Indian, isnt it?

Yes, it is, Dr. Lenz says softly. Shiva the Destroyer. What are his other aliases?

Prometheus. Hermes.

The psychiatrist remains impassive. What about the victims? Does anything come to mind that links their on-line code names?

Not that I could see.

What else stands out in your mind? asks Baxter.

Strobekker himself. No matter what alias he uses, his style is unmistakable.

How so?

Hes very literate, for one thing. Intuitive, as well. One minute hes writing extemporaneous poetry, the next he cuts right to the bone with some insight into a womans character, almost as though he can answer whatever question is in her mind before she asks it. But the strangest thing is this: he must be the best damned typist in the world. Lightning fast, and he never makes a mistake.

Never? Lenz asks, leaning forward.

Not in the first eighty-five percent of contact.

What do you mean?

With the sixth victim, and with Karin Wheat, I realized that Strobekker began making typographic errorsjust like anyone elsea few days before each woman dropped off-line. When I went back and studied my printouts of the killer-victim exchanges, I saw that the typos began at about the eighty-five percent point in each relationship. Of course, I didnt know anyone was being killed.

You sound like youve distilled this thing down to a science, says Baxter.

I work with numbers.

Running this sex thing? asks Mayeux.

I chuckle bitterly. No, I got into EROS for fun. You believe that? I earn my living trading futures.

My audience stares as if Ive announced that I am an alchemist.

In a dink farmhouse in the Mississippi Delta? asks one of the young FBI agents. Who are your clients? Farmers hedging their crops?

I only have one client.

Who? Mayeux asks suspiciously.

Himself, says Arthur Lenz.

Dr. Lenz is obviously the alchemist here. Thats right. I only trade my own account.

You some kind of millionaire? asks Mayeuxs partner. A goddamn gentleman farmer or something?

Keep a civil tongue, Poch, snaps the chief.

I do all right.

What about the final fifteen percent of contact? Lenz asks, plainly irritated by the squabbling.

He makes mistakes. About as many as anyone else. And his typing gets slower. A lot slower.

Maybe he starts jacking off with one hand as he gets closer to the time of the hit, suggests Poch.

The chief frowns but lets that pass.

Dr. Lenz strikes a pose of intense meditation as the door behind me opens swiftly. I turn and see a black woman in her twenties holding a computer printout in her hand. There is handwriting scrawled across it in blue ink.