Lisa Gardner - Catch Me

Detective O shrugged; given that the perpetrator was now dead, there wasn’t any way of answering such questions.

“The sixteen-year-old had just exposed himself,” O said, “when the woman appeared. The victim didn’t recognize her and has no memory of her following them. But she seemed to know the sixteen-year-old, implied that she’d been watching him. She identified herself as a gamer from the same website.”

D.D. stood up, frowning. “Really? So while one user is targeting kids, another user is targeting the predator. And both were able to find their victims in real life? But how? Isn’t that supposed to be the hard part?”

“Sixteen-year-old probably targeted the younger based on his stated interest in the Red Sox. Once sixteen-year-old established that the boy lived in Boston, he sent an e-mail inviting him to the library, which, as a public place, seemed harmless enough.”

“Lured him in.”

“Exactly. As for our Femme Nikita,” O shrugged, “there are several tools available to her. Personally, I’d start by running my target’s user name through Spokeo, to find other sites he visited. Given ‘Barry’ was sixteen, one of the first sites that would probably come up is his Facebook page. So I’d visit there, study his photo, identify friends, hobbies, interests. Better yet, Facebook has a feature, called Facebook Places or Check In. Meaning that when ‘Barry’ posts while at the Boston library, that site automatically shows up as part of the post. Now, La Femme Nikita can follow all of Barry’s comings and goings, including that he was at the Boston Public Library tonight. Assuming she has a smartphone, she doesn’t even need to lug around a laptop. She simply carries her smartphone in one hand, her gun in the other, and lets Barry tell her exactly where he’s going and what he’s doing. Takes all the fun out of stalking if you ask me.”

D.D. shook her head, gazing down at the snowy shadow of a dead kid. “But you said the sixteen-year-old targeted his victim at a gaming website, not the chat room you and Phil discussed earlier?”

“Not the chat room. AthleteAnimalz.com, however, is a major corporate kiddie site. Chances are, our first two pedophiles roamed there as well.”

“Meaning that’s the connection, not the chat room.”

“Or all of the above. The pedophile community isn’t that large. It’s not unreasonable that their paths crossed in several different sites on the Web.”

D.D. could buy that. She straightened, working on getting the choreography established in her head. “Sixteen-year-old boy targets seven-year-old-boy. Lures him to dark alley. Then…this woman appears. What happened next?”

“According to our seven-year-old witness, she was already holding the twenty-two. Pretty much ignored the younger boy, homed straight in on Barry. Of course, at this point, Barry had his pants unzipped and was holding his penis, making himself the obvious target.”

“What’d she say?”

“Not much. Confirmed the older boy’s Internet identity as Pink Poodle-”

“A sixteen-year-old boy is Pink Poodle?”

“Welcome to the Internet. And for the record, that strategy helped him. The seven-year-old agreed to meet tonight in part because he assumed he’d be meeting a girl, and who’s afraid of a girl?”

“Shit,” D.D. said.

“The shooter then identified herself as Helmet Hippo, another user from the website. Teenager tried to defend himself. Argued his age, said he’d change.”

D.D. looked down at the snow angel. “Obviously, that didn’t work.” But it bothered her again. Sixteen years old. Shot down in cold blood. What if he could’ve changed? The courts probably wouldn’t have tried him as an adult, but another citizen had. Tried him and executed him in a matter of minutes.

“The woman stated he’d been a very naughty boy, ordered him to be brave, then shot him.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that. Granted, our witness is young and traumatized, but his best guess is that the entire altercation took about three minutes.”

“Be brave, you said. Was there a note?” D.D. asked. “Everyone has to die sometime, yada yada yada.”

“Tucked inside the victim’s coat. Most likely written in advance, as, according to the witness, she didn’t have time to write anything at the scene. He saw her bend over the body, however, probably placing the paper in the victim’s jacket.”

“So definitely the same shooter. Refining her game now. Not just picking off pedophiles, but rescuing their victims.”

“In her mind, I’m sure she had a good night.”

“What happened after she shot the sixteen-year-old?”

“The shooter introduced herself to the witness, told him not to worry, then walked away.”

D.D. arched a brow. “Which way did she exit?”

“To the left. The boy didn’t follow, though. He stood there a minute longer, then bolted back to the library, where his mother had alerted the staff she couldn’t find him. They were going to lock down, police had just been called, when he came tearing up the steps. He was hysterical, she became hysterical. It took five or ten minutes to sort things out. Then uniformed officers immediately dispatched to this location, while broadcasting the woman’s description, but no hits.”

D.D. wasn’t surprised. Anyone could disappear in Boston. Which is why Charlene Grant had originally moved here.

D.D. thought about it. “That the Internet user was sixteen should’ve startled her. Made her pause, ask more questions, something. But it didn’t. Meaning your theory stands to reason-she’d been stalking her target for a bit, visiting his Facebook page, maybe even following him in person on other occasions. She wasn’t surprised by his age or his actions. She expected both.”

“Premeditation,” O supplied. “Planning. Strategy.”

“Smart. Adept with computers. Patient.”

“Controlled,” O added to their profile of the shooter. “She shot the sixteen-year-old, then walked away. No collateral damage, no fussing with the witness. Just in, out, done.”

“Where’s the witness now?”

“Back of a squad car with his mother. We’re arranging for a forensic interviewer who specializes in children to meet them at HQ.”

“Can he talk?”

O shrugged. “Last time I saw him, he clung to his mother and didn’t say a word.”

“I’d like to try.”

O hesitated. D.D. looked at her. “What?”

“You have any experience with kids?”

“Worked a case where a four-year-old was the prime witness.”

“Look, you may be older and wiser,” O drawled, “but I’m sex crimes, and unfortunately, most of my cases involve questioning kids. So take it from me, you can’t screw this up. You lead the witness here, and that contamination will carry. Then the entire interview will be tossed, and we’ll have no grounds for arresting our prime suspect, Charlene blah blah Grant. You gotta be smart.”

“Then I’ll leave the stupid questions at home.”

O still didn’t seem happy, but she turned away from the alley, returning in the direction of the flashing cruiser lights. The little boy and his mother were huddled in the back of the first patrol car. The door was open, probably to make them feel less like prisoners. But it also let in the chill, and both the boy and his mother were shivering. The mom held a cardboard cup of steaming beverage, probably coffee, but she wasn’t drinking it. Just holding it, as if willing the warmth to make a difference.

The little boy didn’t look up when they approached. He was leaning against his mother’s side, his tiny form nearly lost in an oversized black winter coat, hat, scarf, and mittens. D.D. had an impression of dark eyes and a pale pinched face, then he turned away from her.