produce a readable image even in darkness.”
“Whose bedroom is it?”
“We don’t know. But we have still images of the woman-and of two other women whose bedrooms were similarly wired over the past three months.”
“Two others?”
“Yes, sir. The first two victims of the Hourglass Killer.”
Walsh caught his breath. “You’re sure?”
“Absolutely. I read the memos and bulletins as they came in, so I was aware of the case. But to be certain, I went online and matched the photos to images of the victims from the FBI database. They’re Nikki Carter and Martha Eversol.”
“Christ. You said the tip-off message was anonymous?”
“Yes. Scrubbed, so we can’t trace it. Probably a visitor to the site got suspicious and decided to let us know.”
“Why you in particular?”
“The Web site’s server is in Baltimore. But the camera must be in
LA.”
“Christ.” Walsh took another look at the image on the computer. “Wait. You’re saying this bedroom belongs to a third woman?”
Cellini was staring at him. Having heard only his end of the dialogue, she had no idea what the excitement was about.
“Right,” Rawls said. “We have images of her but no name or address. She was in the bedroom earlier tonight.”
“Damn. She’s the next one. The next victim. This son of a bitch has been putting them on the Net before he kills them.”
“That’s the same conclusion we’ve reached,” Rawls said. “He strikes on the last day of the month, I understand.”
“Yeah.” Walsh licked his lips. “He’ll try to take her tonight. Agent Rawls, we’ve got to identify this woman immediately.”
“I understand, Detective, but it may not be possible.”
“You can’t trace the video feed?”
“Unfortunately, no. It’s being sent through a proxy.”
Walsh didn’t know what this meant, but he let it slide. “All right, look. Can you send me the images you’ve got? Of all three women, but especially the latest one?”
“I’ll e-mail them to you. Just give me your address.”
“Actually, I, uh…” Walsh was feeling more and more like a dinosaur as this conversation continued. “I don’t have an e-mail account, but hold on.” He asked Cellini for her e-mail address and recited it to Rawls. “Send the pics there.”
“We’re doing it now.”
“Should we, uh, get offline so the computer’s not busy? You know, so the message can get through?”
Walsh thought he heard Rawls chuckle. “You’re not really an Information Age type of guy, are you, Detective?”
“How’d you guess?” Walsh said sourly.
“The message will go through whether you’re online or not. Let me give you my cell phone number.” He recited a number with a Baltimore area code, and Walsh scribbled it on his desk blotter. “Once you’ve received the images, call me back and we’ll discuss our options.”
“Right. Thanks, Agent Rawls. This is a break. This is our only break.”
Walsh hung up, then briefed Cellini on the news. “You think this is legit?” she asked.
“We’ll know when we see the pictures.”
Cellini logged on to her e-mail account and found a message from Rawls. She opened the attached files and tiled them across the screen. Nikki Carter, Martha Eversol, and a third woman stared at them.
“It’s him,” Walsh said. “It’s our guy.”
“No doubt. Victims one and two.”
Walsh tapped the last picture. “And three. Unless we find her right away.”
“Any ideas?” Cellini asked.
“We print out her picture, photocopy it, distribute it throughout the divisions. Maybe we’ll get lucky and someone will know her.”
“What if we put her on TV?” Cellini was already sending the image to the printer, which went to work churning out pages. “Get her picture on KTLA, KCAL, KTTV, and KCOP at ten o’clock, follow up with the eleven P.M. broadcasts on channels Two, Four, and Seven. If enough people see it, someone will recognize her. She may even watch the news herself.”
“Could work,” Walsh said slowly. He was thinking of the panic that would ensue if people knew that a serial killer was not only stalking his victims but putting them on public display over the Internet. “Or we could try to track her down ourselves. Is there anything in her bedroom that might give us a clue to where she lives?”
Cellini guided the Web browser back to the video feed. “Nothing I can see. No windows, so we can’t look at any outdoor landmarks. No indication of whether it’s an apartment or a house.”
Walsh saw an unmade bed. Beyond it, the door to a bathroom. That was all.
“Could be anyplace,” he muttered.
“God, this is sick. Guys have been watching this woman. She’s been on the Web all month.”
“Looks that way.”
“Her bedroom on public display.” Cellini shivered.
“He exhibits them before an audience before he moves in for the kill.”
“Some of the visitors to the site must have recognized the victims once the reports showed up in the papers.”
“At least one of them did. That’s how the FBI guys got on to this. An anonymous tip-off, presumably from a visitor who caught on.”
Cellini looked away. “Well, thank God for that much anyway. It may have saved this one’s life.”
Walsh wasn’t prepared to be so optimistic. “Only if we get to her before he does.”
He had rarely felt so frustrated-to have the next victim almost within reach and to be unable to protect her, warn her, even know her name.
26
“Still busy,” Chang said, clicking off the cell phone.
“Don’t worry about it.” Tanner spun the steering wheel, guiding the cruiser north on La Brea Avenue. “We’ll call him later.”
After talking to C.J., Tanner had instructed Chang to dial the number on Detective Walsh’s card. Walsh’s line had been tied up for the past few minutes, while the squad car sped from the Harbor Freeway to the Santa Monica Freeway, and now along the surface streets of the mid-Wilshire district.
“How far is it now?” Chang asked.
“Another six blocks. We’re almost there.”
“I thought she told you she wouldn’t be home.”
“Maybe I can catch her on her way out.”
“But why? What’s the emergency?”
