Chuck Hustmyre - A Killer Like Me

In chat rooms connected to the Web site, he has learned that on the last day of each month, all of the customers’ money orders are cashed in for a single money order that is mailed to a bank in Eastern Europe. To protect the customers’ identities, no electronic money transfers of any kind are used and no records are kept other than user names and passwords, both of which, the Webmaster assures the site’s clients, are manually, not electronically, encoded.

It took the killer two months to get his account approved and set up, and like all new members he had to pay a one-time initiation fee of five hundred dollars.

The Devil’s Den is an amateur video swap shop featuring nearly every depravity known to man: bestiality, hardcore child-on-child and adult-on-child sex, necrophilia, self-mutilation, rape, beatings, stabbings, shootings, torture, and killings of all kinds. All filmed by the participants. It is the YouTube of perversion.

The site is broken down into fetishes. Subscribers can upload their own videos. New ones appear almost daily. The killer selects MURDER. The he clicks the upload link. A brief set of instructions appear. There is no warning label or age verification. Everything on the site is illegal in nearly every country in the world.

Below the instructions is a question that must be answered.

DO YOU WANT THIS UPLOAD TO BE PRIVATE OR PUBLIC?

Two clickable buttons appear below the question, the first labeled PRIVATE, the second labeled PUBLIC.

The killer clicks the second button. A warning screen pops up.

ARE YOU SURE YOU WANT YOUR UPLOAD TO BE PUBLIC?

Two buttons appear below the questions: YES and NO. The killer clicks YES.

A second warning page appears.

PLEASE VERIFY THAT YOU WANT YOUR UPLOAD TO BE PUBLIC.

Below that, two more buttons: VERIFY and CANCEL.

The killer verifies that he wants his upload to be public.

Within the Devil’s Den Web site, private videos are indexed and are viewable by members only. Those videos marked for public viewing are stored on the site for members, but they are also uploaded through a redundant cutout system to a network of shifting, piggybacked Web sites in countries in Asia, Africa, and the Middle East. One of the biggest such Web sites operates in North Korea. Most of the sites don’t require registration, and the videos can be viewed by anyone with access to the Internet. But their origins cannot be traced.

The killer selects the video file of the woman’s beheading from his hard drive and uploads it to the site. He then clicks a link to another screen and answers a few more questions. The Devil’s Den provides an extra service, for a fee payable by the last day of the current month. If the payment isn’t received, the member’s account will be canceled. A member whose account is canceled can open a new account-members’ names aren’t recorded anywhere-but that requires another five-hundred-dollar initiation fee.

Either way, the Webmaster gets his money.

The extra service, which costs two hundred fifty dollars, will send a link to the video to tens of thousands of e-mail addresses around the world, including those of journalists and bloggers. The mass e-mailings create a global buzz about the video. The more demented or perverted the video, the louder the chatter. Part of the reason the killer joined the Devil’s Den was so he could take advantage of this service.

As soon as he finishes making all of the arrangements, he logs out of the Web site, clears his browsing history, cache, and cookies, then shuts down his computer. He knows the police, and especially the FBI, have sneaky ways of extracting deleted files from a computer, but the police will never get that close to him. The Lord is with him.

Outside, he hears a car drive past, followed by the sound of a newspaper hitting his driveway. He looks toward the sliding glass door and sees the first hint of daylight shining through. He knows the newspaper will have a big story about the fire. Maybe several stories. But he is too tired to go outside. He has been awake for twenty-four hours, and his exhaustion has finally overtaken his exhilaration. He does not have to be at work again until Monday, so he can sleep all day. The newspaper can wait.

Soon they’ll find the woman’s body. Soon they’ll discover the video. Then all hell will break loose.

The killer slides into bed and pulls the covers up to his chin. It has been a good day, a good couple of days. He closes his eyes.

Saturday, August 4, 8:10 AM

“If I was you, I’d stay out of the office today,” Gaudet said. “With all the shit we got going on, I’m sure the captain is going to be there.”

Murphy and Gaudet were at the Coffee House on Canal Boulevard, sitting at a table in the back. A copy of that morning’s Times-Picayune lay between them, along with their breakfast bill. Murphy’s police radio was on top of the newspaper and the bill to keep the ceiling fan from blowing them off the table. Murphy shot another angry glance at the headline.

SERIAL KILLER SUSPECTED IN RED DOOR FIRE

“You figure Donovan is going to blame that on me?” Murphy asked.

Gaudet nodded as he shoveled a forkful of scrambled eggs into his mouth. Between bites, he said, “Definitely.”

“I haven’t talked to Kirsten since Tuesday night on Freret Street, and even then the only thing I told her was that I didn’t have anything to say to her.”

Gaudet flicked the edge of the paper with his fingers. “There’s also a story about you in the metro section.”

“What!” Murphy lifted his radio and snatched the newspaper from the table. He flipped to the “B” section.

“It’s a very… how should I say it… flattering portrait of you,” Gaudet said, obviously pleased with his choice of words. “It talks about the Houma case, about the lifesaving medal you got for pulling that woman out of the river, about the shootout with the bank robbers. It makes you look like a goddamn saint.”

Murphy found the story at the top of page B-3, under a picture of him at the Freret crime scene. The headline read, DETECTIVE GOOD CHOICE TO HEAD SERIAL KILLER TASK FORCE.

“I didn’t know about any of this,” Murphy said.

“You don’t have to convince me.”

“But you believe me?”

Gaudet nodded. “We’re partners. We can lie to everybody else, but we can’t lie to each other.”

Murphy scanned the article, then dropped the newspaper back on the table, next to his plate of half-eaten eggs and grits.

Gaudet was right. Even though Donovan didn’t normally work weekends, this was no normal weekend, not with a serial killer on the loose and a mass murder headlining every news program in the country. Murphy looked at his watch. The captain was probably already in the office and had certainly seen the newspaper by now.

He needed to stay clear of Donovan.

Murphy’s coffee sat in front of him, untouched and growing cold. “I’m not Kirsten’s snitch, not on this story. She’ll tell Donovan, DeMarco, and PIB that herself.”

Gaudet scooped the last of his eggs onto a torn piece of white toast and shoved the whole thing into his mouth. When he finished chewing, he said, “The more she denies it, the less they’ll believe her. She’s a reporter. She’s supposed to protect her sources.”

Murphy banged his fist down on the newspaper hard enough to shake the table and make his coffee cup jump. “This is bullshit.”

“Take it easy,” Gaudet said. “I told you, I believe you.”

“This story doesn’t help the investigation. The last thing I want to do is let the killer know what we’re doing. I want him to keep thinking we’re stupid. I want him to think we missed his mark on the door.”