Roadside Crosses: A Kathryn Dance Novel (13 page)

“Oh, that. The boy did it, you think?”

“Possibly.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me. Not one bit.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Sometimes you get a feeling. Travis was dangerous. Had eyes just like the kids at Columbine.”

How could he possibly know the visage of the killers in that horrific 1999 murder spree?

Then Brodsky added, “He was a fan of theirs, you know, the shooters. Had pictures up in his locker.”

Did he know that independently, or from the blog? Dance recalled that someone had mentioned it in the “Roadside Crosses” thread.

“Did you think he was a threat?” O’Neil asked Brodsky. “When you interviewed him?”

“Yes, sir. Kept my cuffs handy the whole time. He’s a big kid. And wore this hooded sweatshirt. Just stared at me. Freaky.”

At this reference to the garment, Dance recalled what Tammy had given away about the attacker wearing a hoodie.

She thanked the officer and they hung up. After a moment she looked over at Boling. “Jon, any insights you can give us about Travis? From the postings?”

Boling reflected for a moment. “I do have a
thought. If he’s a gamer, like they’re saying, that fact could be significant.”

O’Neil asked, “You mean by playing those games he’s programmed to be violent? We saw something on Discovery Channel about that the other night.”

But Jon Boling shook his head. “That’s a popular theme in the media. But if he’s gone through relatively normal childhood developmental stages, then I wouldn’t worry too much about that. Yes, some children can become numb to the consequences of violence if they’re continually exposed in certain ways—generally visual—too early. But at the worst that just desensitizes you; it doesn’t
make
you dangerous. The tendency to violence in young people almost always comes from rage, not watching movies or TV.

“No, I’m speaking of something else when I say that gaming probably affects Travis fundamentally. It’s a change we’re seeing throughout society now among young people. He could be losing the distinction between the synthetic world and the real world.”

“Synthetic world?”

“It’s a term I got from Edward Castronova’s book on the subject. The synthetic world is the life of online games and alternative reality websites, like
Second Life.
They’re fantasy worlds you enter through your computer—or PDA or some other digital device. People in our generation usually draw a clear distinction between the synthetic world and the real one. The real world is where you have dinner with your family or play softball or go out on a date after you log out of the synthetic world and turn off the computer. But younger people—and nowadays I mean people in their twenties and even early thirties—don’t see
that distinction. More and more, the synth worlds are becoming real to them. In fact, there was a study recently that showed nearly a fifth of the players in one online game felt that the real world was only a place to eat and sleep, that the synthetic world was their true residence.”

This surprised Dance.

Boling smiled at her apparently naive expression. “Oh, an average gamer can easily spend thirty hours a week in the synth world, and it’s not unusual for people to spend twice that. There are hundreds of millions of people who have
some
involvement in the synth world, and tens of millions who spend much of their day there. And we’re not talking
Pac-Man
or
Pong.
The level of realism in the synthetic world is astonishing. You—through an avatar, a character that represents you—inhabit a world that’s as complex as what we’re living in right now. Child psychologists have studied how people create avatars; players actually use parenting skills subconsciously to form their characters. Economists have studied games too. You have to learn skills to support yourself or you’ll starve to death. In most of the games you earn money, payable in game currency. But that currency actually trades against the dollar or pound or euro on eBay—in their gaming category. You can buy and sell virtual items—like magic wands, weapons, or clothing or houses or even avatars themselves—in real-world money. In Japan, not too long ago, some gamers sued hackers who stole virtual items from their synth world homes. They won the case.”

Boling leaned forward, and Dance again noticed the sparkle in his eyes, the enthusiasm in his voice.
“One of the best examples of the synth and real worlds coinciding is in a famous online game,
World of Warcraft.
The designers created a disease as a debuffer—that’s a condition that reduces the health or power of characters. It was called Corrupted Blood. It would weaken powerful characters and kill the ones who weren’t so strong. But something odd happened. Nobody’s quite sure how, but the disease got out of control and spread on its own. It became a virtual black plague. The designers never intended that to happen. It could be stopped only when the infected characters died out or adapted to it. The Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta heard about it and had a team study the spread of the virus. They used it as a model for real-world epidemiology.”

Boling sat back. “I could go on and on about the synth world. It’s a fascinating subject, but my point is that whether or not Travis is desensitized to violence, the real question is which world does he inhabit most, the synth or the real? If it’s synth, then he runs his life according to a whole different set of rules. And we don’t know what those are. Revenge against cyberbullies—or anyone who humiliates him—could be perfectly accepted. It could be encouraged. Maybe even
required.

“The comparison is to a paranoid schizophrenic who kills someone because he genuinely believes that the victim is a threat to the world. He isn’t doing anything wrong. In fact, to him, killing you is heroic. Travis? Who knows what he’s thinking? Just remember it’s possible that attacking a cyberbully like Tammy Foster meant no more to him than swatting a fly.”

Dance considered this and said to O’Neil, “Do we go talk to him or not?”

Deciding when to initially interview a suspect was always tricky. Travis would probably not yet think he was a suspect. Speaking to him now would catch him off guard and might make him blurt out statements that could be used against him; he might even confess. On the other hand, he could destroy evidence or flee.

Debating.

What finally decided it for her was a simple memory. The look in Tammy Foster’s eyes—the fear of reprisal. And the fear that the perp would attack someone else.

She knew they had to move fast.

“Yep. Let’s go see him.”

THE BRIGHAM FAMILY
lived in a scabby bungalow whose yard was strewn with car parts and old appliances, half dismantled. Green garbage bags, out of which flowed trash and rotting leaves, sat amid broken toys and tools. A scruffy cat stared cautiously out from a nest of vines beneath an overgrown hedgerow. It was too lazy or full to care about a pudgy gray rat that skittered past. O’Neil parked in the gravel drive, forty feet or so away from the house, and he and Dance climbed out of his unmarked MCSO car.

They studied the area.

It was like a scene from the rural South, vegetation thick, no other houses in sight, dereliction. The debilitated state of the house and the pungent aroma suggesting a nearby, and inefficient, sewer or a swamp explained how the family could afford such secluded property in this high-priced part of the state.

As they started toward the house she found her hand dangling near her pistol butt, her jacket unbuttoned.

She was spooked, alert.

Still, it was a shock when the boy attacked them.

They had just passed a patch of anemic, reedy
grass beside the lopsided detached garage when she turned to O’Neil and found the deputy stiffen as he looked past her. His arm rose and gripped her jacket, pulling her forward to the ground.

“Michael!” she cried.

The rock sailed over her head, missing her by inches, and crashed through a garage window. Another followed a moment later. O’Neil had to duck fast to avoid getting hit. He crashed into a narrow tree.

“You all right?” he asked quickly.

A nod. “You see where it was from?”

“No.”

They were scanning the thicket of woods bordering the property.

“There!” she called, pointing at the boy, in sweats and a stocking cap, who was staring at them. He turned and fled.

Dance debated only a moment. Neither of them had radios; this hadn’t been planned as a tactical mission. And to return to O’Neil’s car to call in a pursuit to Dispatch would have taken too long. They had a chance to catch Travis now and instinctively they went after him, sprinting forward.

CBI agents learn basic hand-to-hand combat skills—though most, Dance included, had never been in a fistfight. They also are required to have physical fitness checkups every so often. Dance was in fair shape, though not thanks to the CBI’s regimen but to her treks into the wilderness to track down music for her website. Despite the impractical outfit—black skirt suit and blouse—she now eased ahead of Michael O’Neil as they pushed fast into the woods in pursuit of the boy.

Who was moving just a little faster.

O’Neil had his cell phone out and was breathlessly calling in a request for backup.

They were both gasping hard and Dance wondered how Dispatch could understand him.

The boy vanished for a moment and the officers slowed. Then Dance cried, “Look,” spotting him emerge from bushes about fifty feet away. “Weapon?” she gasped. He held something dark in his hand.

“Can’t tell.”

Could have been a gun, though maybe a pipe or a knife.

Either way . . .

He vanished into a dense part of the woods, beyond which Dance could just see a glimmer of a green pond. Probably the source of the stench.

O’Neil glanced at her.

She sighed and nodded. Simultaneously they drew their Glocks.

They pushed forward again.

Dance and O’Neil had worked a number of cases together and fell instinctively into a symbiotic mode on an investigation. But they were at their best when solving intellectual puzzles, not playing soldier.

She had to remind herself: finger off the trigger, never cross in front of your partner’s weapon and lift your muzzle if he crosses in front of you, fire only if threatened, check your backdrop, shoot in bursts of three, count your rounds.

Dance hated this.

Yet it was a chance to stop the Roadside Cross attacker. Picturing Tammy Foster’s terrified eyes, Dance rushed through the woods.

The boy vanished again, and she and O’Neil pulled up, where two paths diverged. Travis had probably taken one—the vegetation was very thick here, impassable in parts. O’Neil silently pointed left, then right, raising an eyebrow.

Flip a coin, she thought, angry and unsettled that she’d have to separate from O’Neil. She nodded toward the left.

They began easing carefully down their respective routes.

Dance was moving through the thickets, thinking how unsuited she was to this role. Her world was one of words and expressions and nuances of gesture. Not tactical work, like this.

She knew how people got hurt, how they died, stepping out of the zones they were in harmony with. A sense of foreboding filled her.

Stop, she told herself. Find Michael, go back to the car and wait for backup.

Too late.

Just then Dance heard a rustling at her feet, and glanced down to see that the boy, hiding in the bushes next to her, had flung a large branch in her way. It caught her foot as she tried to jump over it and she went down hard. Struggling to keep from falling, Dance rolled onto her side.

Which had the effect of saving her wrist.

And another consequence: the boxy, black Glock flew from her hand and vanished into the bushes.

Only seconds later, Dance heard the rustle of bushes once more as the boy, apparently waiting to make certain she was alone, charged out of the bushes.

CARELESS, MICHAEL O’NEIL
thought angrily.

He was running in the direction of Dance’s cry, but realized now he had no idea where she was.

They should have stayed together. Careless to split up. Yes, it made sense—to cover as much ground as they could—but while he’d been in several firefights and a couple of street pursuits, Kathryn Dance had not.

If anything happened to her . . .

In the distance sirens sounded, growing louder. The backup was getting closer. O’Neil slowed to a walk, listening carefully. Maybe the rustle of bushes nearby. Maybe not.

Careless too because Travis would know this area perfectly. It was, literally, his backyard. He’d know where to hide, what paths to escape down.

The gun, weighing nothing in his large hand, swung ahead of O’Neil, as he looked for the attacker.

Frantic.

Pushing ahead another twenty feet. Finally he had to risk some noise. “Kathryn?” he called in a whisper.

Nothing.

Louder: “Kathryn?”

The wind rustled brush and trees.

Then: “Michael, here!” A choked sound. From nearby. He raced toward her words. Then he found her ahead of him on a path, on her hands and knees. Her head down. He heard gasping. Was she wounded? Had Travis struck her with a pipe? Stabbed her?

O’Neil had to suppress his overwhelming urge to tend to her, see how badly hurt she was. He knew procedures.
He ran closer, stood over her, his eyes scanning, swiveling around, looking for a target.

At last, some distance away, he saw Travis’s back vanish.

“He’s gone,” Dance said, pulling her weapon from a thicket of bushes and rising to her feet. “Headed that way.”

“You hurt?”

“Sore, that’s all.”

She did seem to be unharmed, but she was dusting at her suit in a way that was troubling to him. She was uncharacteristically shaken, disoriented. He could hardly blame her. But Kathryn Dance had always been a bulwark he could count on, a standard he measured his own behavior against. Her gestures reminded him that they were out of their element here, that this case wasn’t a typical gangbanger hit or a weapons smuggling ring cruising up and down the 101.