Mortal Fear (5 page)

 “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?”

 “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?”