Greg Iles - Mortal Fear

“Stroke files,” says Mayeux’s partner, opening his red eyes in a glare of challenge. “Right? They’re not talking to anybody real-time, 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 one-eight hundred 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?”

“Right. Most of them had been subscribing for more than a year at the time they dropped off the net.”

“What exactly do you mean by ‘dropped off’?” Lenz asks.

“Just a minute, Doctor,” says Chief Tobin, reasserting the temporary supremacy he enjoys in his headquarters. “Mr. Cole, you mean to tell me all these murder victims were members of this super-expensive computer club or whatever it is, and no homicide cop in L.A. or San Francisco or Houston or Portland or the other places managed to link these crimes with billing receipts from your company?”

“I can explain that.” I pause, realizing I’m more interested in asking questions than answering them. “Honestly, I’m more surprised by the fact that the murders weren’t linked before now by physical evidence. No offense, but isn’t that what you guys do?”

“Goddamn,” growls Mayeux’s partner.

“Plenty of reasons for that,” injects one of the FBI agents.

“Different weapon in every case,” says his blue-suited cousin. “Forensic evidence indicating multiple perps.”

“Multiple perps at the same scene ,” adds the first agent.

“Which is rare,” says Baxter, glaring at the younger men. “Highly unusual.”

“We’re still getting in evidence reports, Chief,” says Mayeux, “but the M.O. does seem to have varied a great deal in almost every case.”

“As did the signature,” says Baxter.

“The killer left notes?” I ask.

Baxter shakes his head. “ ‘Signature’ is the offender’s behavior at the crime scene.” He looks at me closely, as if judging whether to continue. “Behavior beyond that strictly necessary to commit the crime. Individualized behavior.”

“Oh.”

“There is no signature in these cases,” Dr. Lenz says imperiously. “It’s all staging. But the trophies in California varied not an iota.”

“Trophies?” I echo. “What kind of trophies?”

“Why don’t you tell us?” Mayeux’s partner asks, pointing an index finger at my chest.

The room goes silent, and in that instant I feel the first ripple of real fear in my chest. “Am I a suspect in this case?”

Several looks are exchanged, none directed at me.

“Do I need to call an attorney?”

Finally Baxter breaks the silence. “Mr. Cole, I’m going to go out on a limb here. I am not merely a special agent. I’m the chief of the FBI’s Investigative Support Unit. We profile and help the police hunt violent serial offenders, whether they’re killers, rapists, arsonists, bombers, or kidnappers. When crimes of this nature are committed, the individual who reports any of them is always considered a suspect. Serial offenders frequently report their own crimes as part of an attempt to avoid being found out, or to gain enjoyment by assisting in an investigation of themselves. In this case you’ve reported all the crimes. When I was apprised of this situation last night, the Unit began an exhaustive check of your background, including all your movements during the past two years. It sounds drastic, but it’s standard procedure.”

Baxter glances at his watch, which he wears with the face inside the wrist, military style. “Dr. Lenz and I have spent the past few hours putting together a preliminary profile of the offender in these murders. And frankly, it’s one of the most difficult jobs we’ve ever undertaken. At this point I won’t say why, but Dr. Lenz believes that you are probably not the killer in this case. I concur. I’m not saying you couldn’t be involved in some way-it would be irresponsible of me to rule you out-but I’m willing to proceed today on the assumption that you are what you claim to be-a Good Samaritan coming forward in an attempt to see justice done. Obviously, other women’s lives are at risk as we speak. An atmosphere of cooperation is the best thing for all of us at this point. If you wish to consult an attorney, that is your right, but at this time no one here”-Baxter fires a sharp glance at the New Orleans police officers-”intends to charge you with any crime.”

When he finishes, no one speaks. Everyone but Baxter and Lenz seems to be looking at his shoes. I may be making the worst mistake of my life, but I decide to trust Baxter, at least to the extent of not calling an attorney.

“What kind of trophies?” I ask again.

“An unusual one,” Baxter says thoughtfully.

“Maybe he’s a taxidermist,” cracks Mayeux’s 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 psychiatrist’s superior tone. “And that’s what he did here.”

I am looking for a place to sit down, but no one notices. I whisper, “Someone cut off Karin Wheat’s head ?”

“That’s classified information,” says Baxter.

Mayeux snorts at the spook-speak.

“That is not accurate, Mr. Cole,” corrects Chief Tobin. “Someone did cut off Ms. Wheat’s 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 pauper’s 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 didn’t this link the crimes?”