Mortal Fear (4 page)

Dear Father,

We landed in Michigan in the afternoon. So gray after the decadent green of New Orleans. As gray as our fatigue. My joints ached constantly; we had to fly through the black heart of a storm.

I varied the transport this time, and the technique. I learned from my mistake with Karin. How disconcerting to recognize naivete in oneself, even after years of cynicism.

I was drunk with anticipation. Our seduction had been a long and baroque one, a progression from the sacred to the profane. I sat on the patients patio with the notebook and the cell phone, knowing she believed she was interacting with a man thousands of miles distant, a faceless lover, and me sitting less than twenty feet away.

I crept to her window and watched her typing her responses. Kali stroked me as I watched, spilling my seed in the flower bed. Will the FBI look there, I wonder? For footprints, yes. For semen, no. They will find that where they expect to find it, but of course it will not be mine.

I could not resist telling Rosalind I was there. There was no risk; she could not call the police while linked to EROS, and Kali was already inside. Terror was absolute. Paralyzing. Kali demonstrated exemplary control, reassuring after the blood lust of New Orleans. And this time I left a note, a passage you read me long ago:

I know, I know. But Im tired of leaving biological refuse. Why not mislead with a little flair? You of all people should appreciate that. This is just the kind of rot they salivate over at Quantico. It will be the only file written in French, but nevertheless I signed it Henri. Subtlety is wasted on the police. By the time they translate it, the procedure will be complete. The lab work tonight. A day to collect the next patient. Another to rest my joints, to steady my fingers.

Then I cut my way into Valhalla.

Three hours of hard driving put me over the Louisiana state line with dawn breaking over my left shoulder and New Orleans seventy miles ahead. The last two hundred miles were a slow-motion strobe of darkness and glaring truck-stop light. On any other night I would have taken Highway 61. Not many people do these days. They choose speed over scenery, as I was forced to do tonight.

I-55 runs straight as a pipeline, and most travelers on it never give a thought to the older, more indirect arteries that lie just to the west: Highway 61, a blacktop track of history lined with scorched chimneys like sentinels guarding unquiet land; and beyond the levee, the aorta of the continent, the mile-wide tide of river that ran before man set foot here and will run long after he is gone.

But in this breaking dawn I can afford only the straightest distance between two points. On the passenger seat beside me sits a briefcase full of laser-printed papertranscripts of the killer seducing his victimsand my best hope of absolution in the matter of the six dead women.

Seven, I think, remembering Karin Wheat.

At La Place I jump down onto I-10 for the final twenty-minute run into New Orleans. The August sun is fully up now, past eight oclock, and the shallow soupy water of the Bonnet Carre spillway simmers under its lidless gaze. Cranking down the Explorers windows, I catch an airborne wave of decaying water plants and fish from Lake Pontchartrain.

During the past four hours, I have recalled every step on the mental path that led me to this physical journey. What the police hope to learn from me I am not sure. But
the most sensitive question for me is this: why didnt I report my suspicions sooner? I am not quite sure myself. I can only hope that what I have to say will shock the police sufficiently to divert them from that question, at least for a while.

Locating the main New Orleans police station is easy. Its near Drewes alma mater, the Tulane Medical School, just behind the Orleans Parish criminal court building. Locating Detective Michael Mayeux is easier still. Homicide is on the third floor. The moment I mention my name to the desk sergeantwho sits behind a window of armored glassI am whisked through a heavy door, through a squad room, down a corridor, and into a small office. Mayeux is seated at a scarred and cluttered metal desk, speaking urgently into a wire telephone. The office has no windows. It does have a computer, an overcrowded bookshelf, and, enshrined in the single clearing amid the chaos, a coffeemaker. A torn red sack of Community dark roast with chicory sits on top of it.

Help you? Mayeux asks, hanging up the phone and taking a bite from a sugar-dusted beignet I hadnt noticed.

Im Harper Cole.

He freezes in midbite, then sets down the beignet, stands, and begins chewing quickly as he ushers me back into the hall and to another door. He is five eight or so, with good shoulders, noticeable love handles, and a bald spot on the back of his head. At the door he stops and turns back to me, his dark brown eyes reassuring like those of a coach before an important game.

Just tell these people what you know, Mr. Cole. Take your time and dont leave anything out. If you get hungry or you need to take a leak, nod your head at me and well break. It might get pretty intense. All of a sudden theres a lot riding on what you have to say about these women.

Hold on, I say, raising my hands. I thought I was coming down to talk to
you
. Whos in there?

He gives me a crooked smile. Dont worry. Ill be beside you the whole time. So will my partner, so will the chief.

Mayeux meant to reassure me, but hes accomplished the opposite. And... ?

His eyes move off my face. The other guys will be feds. FBI.

FBI? What for?

These guys are from the Investigative Support Unit. What used to be called Behavioral Science. One special agent and a shrink. Plus two Fibbies from the local office. Remember what I told you. Two of the dead women were killed in Californiaone in L.A., one in San Francisco. Because their bodies were mutilated in a specific way, and for other reasons, the police out there decided they might be looking at some type of cult murders. They called in the Investigative Support Unit to assist them in coming up with a profile of their UNSUB.

Their what?

UNSUB. Unknown subject. Anyway, soon as I queried the names of those two dead California women, the Unit was on us like you know what. When they heard about you and the other women, they started foaming at the mouth. They think were looking at a serial murderer here. Maybe a whole new kind of killer. We got detectives flying in from all over the country right now. This is major-league stuff.

So much for our friendly little chat.

Mayeux starts to turn the doorknob, then hesitates. A spark of Cajun mischief twinkles in his eyes. Dont take the shitty vibes personally. Chief Tobin officially requested the Units assistancehe knows their chiefbut NOPD and the local Bureau office have bad blood from way back. Not your problem. Just tell your story. Mayeux winks. Show time,
cher
.

Detective Mayeuxs warning understated the tension level. The bare police conference room reminds me of nothing so much as a room full of lead vocalists. Egos bumping against each other like tethered balloons as their owners strike practiced poses, unaware of any agenda but their own. Four men in business suits sit in a protective phalanx at the far end of a rectangular table. They might as well be wearing lapel tags that read FBI. The New Orleans police chief, an enormous black man, sports a starched white duty shirt that strains under his bulk. Four stars adorn the blue boards on each hamlike shoulder.

To the right of the chief sits a rail of a guy who has to be Mayeuxs partner. He looks like lukewarm hell. Eyes like quarter slots on a Coke machine, hands quivering with the irregular tremor that signals serious sleep deprivation. I know the symptoms well. There is a busty Hispanic secretary beside him. Her left ear is cocked toward the chief, but her eyes stay on the young FBI agents.

Gentlemen, says Detective Mayeux, Mr. Harper Cole.

Mayeux is telling me names, but they dont find a permanent memory address. Three of the FBI agents wear blue suits, the fourth charcoal gray. Does this mean hes in charge? Hes clearly the oldest, yet he wears his graying hair longer than the others. Mayeux speaks his name softly, giving it unintended emphasis.

Arthur Lenz.
Doctor
Arthur Lenz.

Of course. Lenz is the shrink.

Whenever I meet interesting strangers, I find myself casting them as stand-ins for the stars of my memory. Sometimes I meet an Edmond OBrien or a George
Sanders, maybe a Robert Ryan. I remember those guys from when I was a kid staying up late with my dad, watching Channel 4 out of New Orleans. So its a habit, trying to slot strangers into the celluloid templates in my head. Some people are just extras, like Mayeuxs partner and the secretary. But every once in a while I meet the genuine article. Someone who doesnt just remind me of, say, Fredric March, he could
be
the man.

Doctor Lenz might be the genuine article. He is physically tallthis is obvious even though he is seatedand yet... he is limited. Like an actor who never made the jump to the big screen. Perpetually middle-aged, WASP or WASP wannabe, expensive suit, heavy on control. His charisma is undeniable, but somehow he finishes out more TV than film.

In the uncomfortable silence that follows the introductions, one of the blue-suited FBI menBaxter, I thinkgives the police chief an annoyed glance. Then he looks me in the eye and says, Good morning, Mr. Cole, giving the mister that special and contemptuous stress that military men reserve for civilians. Im Special Agent Daniel Baxter.

I didnt notice Baxter at first because sizewise he blends with the other two blue-suits. But I see him now. And I get the feeling hes hiding. In the Biblical sense, as in hiding his light under a bushel. Hes got weight behind his dark eyes, but hes not a leading man. Hes a tough-as-nails sergeant from a black-and-white war movie, thrust into command by the death of his lieutenant.

As if summoned to life by Agent Baxters words, the police chief greets me in a startling James Earl Jones basso. Mr. Cole, Im Chief Sidney Tobin. I thank you for coming down so early today. Needless to say, were all very interested in whatever you might have to say about these murders. You have our undivided attention.

Detective Mayeux sits, offering me the chair at the head of the table as he does, but I remain standing. I am six feet and one inch tall, 195 pounds, and I know my size gives me a psychological edge when I choose to use it. Today I figure I need any edge I can get.

Before I say anything, I begin, there is one very
important thing I didnt tell Detective Mayeux on the phone.

Whats that? rumbles the chief.

Im pretty sure I know who killed those women.

Astonished silence blankets the room. Dr. Lenz breaks the impasse. You have a
name
, Mr. Cole?

And an address.

Christ! cries Mayeux. Give it to me.

I open my briefcase and remove a single sheet of paper. From it I read: David M. Strobekker. Thats S-T-R-O-B-E-K-K-E-R. Fourteen-oh-two Moorland Avenue, Edina, Minnesota. Its a suburb of Minneapolis.

What else you know about this guy? barks Mayeuxs partner.

He has a checking account at the Norwest Bank in Minneapolis. Thats all I know for sure.

Run it through the computer, Mike, commands the chief. Right now.

I can access the Bureau computers by phone, one of the younger FBI men tells Mayeux, who shoots me a furious glance on his way out.

I could be sued for giving you that name, I tell them.

Let us worry about that, says Baxter.

The FBI will provide lawyers to defend me in a civil case?

Arthur Lenzs face shows a trace of bemusement.

Lets stick to these murders, says the police chief. Tell us how you came to know those six names and why you suspected the women might be in trouble.

The door opens and closes behind me. Mayeux reclaims his chair on the right side of the table. Kieshas checking on Strobekker, Chief.

Stop me if I say something you dont understand, I tell them.

The two younger FBI agents smirk at this, but Im fairly certain theyll soon be strafing me with stupid questions.

I work for a company called EROS, I say slowly. Thats an acronymE-R-O-Swhich stands for Erotic Realtime On-line Stimulation. Seeing a couple of leers, I ignore the mythological connection and push on. Were
an on-line service that caters to a wide range of clients interested in human sexuality. EROS is a New Yorkbased corporation legally chartered in the State of Delaware

Who owns it? interrupts Baxter.

A widow named Jan Krislov.

What?

From the sick look on Daniel Baxters face, I can see that hes familiar with Jan Krislov in some capacity. A flash of instinct tells me its her fierce championship of electronic privacy rights.

Please continue, Mr. Cole, instructs Chief Tobin.

Anyone in the continental U.S. can have full on-line access to EROS twenty-four hours a day. We also have European subscribers who reach us through the Internet. There are three levels of forum traffic, which people access under aliasescode namesthat ensure complete anonymity. Level One is the most diverse. Clients use it to discuss all sorts of sexual topics, from psychology to medical problems to privacy issues.

Jan fucking Krislov, mutters Baxter.

I take a breath. Hearing no questions, I focus on Mayeux and continue. Level Two is the first of the two fantasy forums. In Level Two clients write about their fantasies, correspond with each other through forum messages and e-mail, or sometimes just eavesdrop on the fantasies of other subscribers. The exchanges can be group or, if a client prefers, he or she can switch down to one-on-one contact, completely private. We call that a private room. There are also files available at all times from the on-line library. Popular exchanges from past sessions, stuff like that.

Stroke files, says Mayeuxs partner, opening his red eyes in a glare of challenge. Right? Theyre 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. Thats 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 dont monitor it that much. At least I didnt until I began to have my suspicions about the missing women. Most Level Three traffic is nocturnal, and thus Miless gig. Thats 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. Dont get the wrong ideaits not kiddy porn or anything, but

Its hot, Dr. Lenz finishes.

Pretty hot, yeah. Until three weeks ago we didnt even allow transmission of graphic images, but believe me, words alone are powerful enough. Were 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 its 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 moneyold moneyfake orgasms at night, and log onto EROS during the day. Its 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 Im more interested in asking questions than answering them. Honestly, Im more surprised by the fact that the murders werent linked before now by physical evidence. No offense, but isnt that what you guys do?

Goddamn, growls Mayeuxs 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.

Were 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 offenders 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. Its all staging. But the trophies in California varied not an iota.

Trophies? I echo. What kind of trophies?

Why dont you tell us? Mayeuxs 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, Im going to go out on a limb here. I am not merely a special agent. Im the chief of the FBIs Investigative Support Unit. We profile and help the police hunt violent serial offenders, whether theyre 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 youve 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 its 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, its one of the most difficult jobs weve ever undertaken. At this point I wont say why, but Dr. Lenz believes that you are probably not the killer in this case. I concur. Im not saying you couldnt be involved in some wayit would be irresponsible of me to rule you outbut Im willing to proceed today on the assumption that you are what you claim to bea Good Samaritan coming forward in an attempt to see justice done. Obviously, other womens 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 hereBaxter fires a sharp glance at the New Orleans police officersintends 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.