Lisa Gardner - Catch Me

“I hate this case,” Neil said again.

But D.D. had an idea. “So judging from that cycle, what is Stephen Laurent? The mentor or the intern?”

“Intern,” O said without missing a beat. She turned to look at Phil. “That’s basically what we saw on his computer, right? The understudy gathering information on his next, starring role.”

Phil nodded his agreement.

“And the first shooting victim,” D.D. asked quickly. “Antiholde. He went to these chat rooms, too?”

“Same chat room,” Phil provided.

“Trainer or trainee?”

“Trainer,” Phil said flatly. “Given his criminal history. The second victim, Laurent, hadn’t been caught yet. Our first victim, Antiholde had already been caught and paroled. I bet he visited the chat room for two reasons-to brag about past exploits, while trying to improve his technique for future offenses. Definitely a more experienced predator than Laurent.”

“But still seeking more information, guidance,” D.D. said.

“Pedophiles are always seeking more information,” O said bluntly. “It’s a high-risk lifestyle, where they feel victimized by their own impulses and live in constant fear of being caught. It keeps them logging on.”

“And how many users in this chat room?” D.D. asked.

“Can’t get on to find out. Transcript from Laurent’s computer shows a few dozen active posters.”

“We need to track them down.”

“Obviously working on that,” O said dryly. “Unfortunately, pedophiles are a suspicious bunch, and very sophisticated with their computer skills.”

“But our victims have a common link-this chat room. Identify the users, identify the killer…or the next victims.”

“But again,” Phil reminded D.D., “we only have copies of a chat, not access to the chat room itself. While the transcripts show a couple dozen posters, that’s probably only the tip of the iceberg. Most members ‘lurk’ in these kinds of forums. Meaning there’s probably hundreds if not thousands of other users who don’t actively post, meaning they remain invisible to us. We’ll work on tracing the user names we can identify from the transcripts, but bear in mind, it’s probably a needle-in-the-haystack kind of exercise.”

“You said we can’t access the real chat room,” D.D. spoke up. “That it’s encrypted eighty ways to Sunday, invitation only. So how can we get an invite?”

“Don’t know,” O said. “Probably friend of a friend kind of thing. Meet in other forums, perhaps swapping porn, and once enough trust is gained, eventually a member of the chat room will extend an invitation.”

“But they must get new members, these teenagers, like you said.”

“Sure, and one possibility is that we could go ‘undercover’ as a teenage boy. Build a virtual identity that surfs the right places on the net, engages in the kind of Internet searches that might catch a fellow pedophile’s eyes. There are ‘undercover’ operators on the Internet, you know. But that kind of thing can take months to fully execute. Given our shooter’s time line, we have more like weeks.”

“We need a hacker,” D.D. said bluntly.

“Agreed.”

“Or…” D.D. thought a moment. “Do they know two of their users are dead? What if we claimed their user names and passwords? Could we log on as Stephen Laurent and/or Douglas Antiholde?”

“We’d have to identify their user names and passwords,” Phil said.

“Which our fine computer forensic experts should be able to do, right? Mine it out of the hard drive of the victims’ computers?”

Slowly, Phil nodded. O, as well.

“Yeah,” Phil considered. “Might take them a couple of days, but the computer pros should be able to do that.”

“All right, so forget building an undercover identity. We’ll simply steal Stephen Laurent’s user name, log on, and recon. We’ll listen, we’ll learn, and with any luck, we’ll find our man…or woman as the case might be.”

“Woman?” O asked.

D.D. hadn’t mentioned her conversation with the forensic handwriting expert before. She figured it was probably time. “The notes left at both scenes: Everyone has to die sometime. Be brave. Based on penmanship, our note writer is most likely female. Tightly wound, probably private school-educated, and prone to wearing plaid. Which is another question, I suppose: How much ‘personality’ can you tell from chat room logs? Any of the users come across as a type A female? Or can you even distinguish male users from female users?”

Phil shook his head. O, too. Both detectives were thinking, however. D.D. had that feeling between her shoulder blades, the one that as a detective she liked to get. They were on to something. Finally gaining ground.

Case would crack. Soon. Suddenly.

They would get their man…or woman.

“Anything else I need to know?” she asked.

Her case team shook their tired heads. “O,” D.D. said, “how about you meet with Neil, take over photos?”

O nodded. Neil looked embarrassed to surrender his assignment but didn’t argue.

“Neil,” D.D. continued, “in my office at ten. Phil, you’re off duty at noon. Go home, get some rest. O, you can finish today, but I don’t want to see you tomorrow before noon. Remember, it’s a marathon, not a sprint.”

Phil looked at her strangely. “You never send us home.”

“Are you complaining?”

He shut up.

D.D. adjourned the meeting, returning to her office, where she picked up a second crime scene report and prepared for her second major case of the day: the soon-to-be murder of Charlene Rosalind Carter Grant.

D.D. lifted the phone and dialed.

TRAINING EQUALS PREPAREDNESS. You drill a pattern of movements over and over again, so that when the moment of attack occurs, rather than freezing in shock, you fall back into a series of instinctive responses that quickly renders your opponent useless.

That’s the theory at least.

Tulip and I left the Grovesnor PD a little after 8 A.M. No Officer Mackereth to drive us home. The morning sun was weak, barely penetrating the thickening clouds. I could already taste the snow building on the horizon, feel the frosty bite through my coat, hat, and gloves.

Within a matter of minutes, Tulip, with her short tan-and-white fur, was shivering.

It distracted me. That was my excuse as I hustled us both to the corner, where I began the competitive game of hailing a taxi at the height of the morning commute.

After five minutes, I’d had no luck, and Tulip was shivering harder.

Bus pulled up. Number was right for my purposes, so I boarded, hefting Tulip up with me.

The bus driver, a heavyset black woman with crimped gray hair and a face that had seen it all, shook her head. “Service dogs only.”

“She is a service dog. Lost her collar. Some jerk took it off her right outside the police station. How d’you like that? Now look at her. She’s out of uniform and freezing to death.”

Tulip helped me out by giving the driver a particularly pathetic glance.

Four other people shoved up behind me, trying to board, impatient with the holdup, particularly given the freezing temperature.

Bus the driver ignored them, stared at me.

“What’s your disability?” she demanded.

“Peanut allergy.”

“There’s no dogs for peanut allergies.”

“Are too.”

“Are not.”

“Are too,” muttered the man behind me. “Come on. Let her on or kick her off. It’s fucking cold out here.”

I glared at him, then took in the row of passengers already filling the seats. “Anyone eat peanut butter this morning?” I called out. “Or have peanuts in your purse?”

Couple of tentative hands went up. I turned triumphantly to the bus driver. “See, I need my dog. Otherwise, I might die on your bus, and think about the paperwork. Nobody wants to do that kind of paperwork.”