Greg Iles - Mortal Fear

“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 wouldn’t 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 Mayeux’s partner.

“Five of these six cases were sent in to VICAP,” says Mayeux, giving his partner covering fire. “But they weren’t 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 wasn’t 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.”

“She’ll 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 woman-victim, I mean-had set up her account on the blind-draft account system.”

“What’s that?” asks the chief. “A direct bank draft?”

“Yes, but not the kind you imagine. A lot of EROS subscribers-particularly women-are married, and don’t want their spouses to know they’re 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 doesn’t want her husband to know she’s on-line-or vice versa-we advise the user to set up a checking account at a bank not used by the spouse-an out-of-town bank, if possible-and 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 Mayeux’s partner.

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

“Except Karin Wheat.”

“But three of them weren’t married,” Mayeux points out. “Who were they hiding from? Boyfriends?”

“Or girlfriends,” says Dr. Lenz.

“What about phone bills?” asks Mayeux. “Wouldn’t connect-time show up on the phone bills of all the victims?”

“It’s 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 isn’t like CompuServe or America Online, where you might lose interest but keep paying the nine ninety-five per month, thinking you’ll get back into it. We’re 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 didn’t,” says Mayeux.

“Right. And two particular women-the third and fourth victims-were very active on-line. Then poof, one day they were gone. But their bank drafts kept coming in. That didn’t fit the pattern. I’m not saying it had never happened before-it had. That’s why I didn’t 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. That’s 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.”

“Doesn’t the company try to contact people when their accounts drop to zero?” Mayeux asks. “In case it was just an oversight?”

“No. It’s 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 don’t buy that,” says Mayeux’s partner. “I don’t 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, she’s not in it for the money.”

“Oh, I believe it,” mutters Baxter.

“Then why does she charge so damn much for the service?” Mayeux’s partner asks doggedly.

A faint smile crosses Arthur Lenz’s 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 Mayeux’s 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 aren’t 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 Lenz’s 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 Mayeux’s partner. “He wouldn’t make the cut.”

Mayeux lays an arm across his partner’s 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. “You’re telling us this Krislov woman has personally evaluated twenty-five hundred writing samples from men writing about sex?”

“Personally approved twenty-five hundred samples. She’s evaluated a lot more than that. There’s 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 who’ll 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.”

Mayeux’s 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.”