phone.”
“What’s that?” rumbles the chief.
“I’m pretty sure I know who killed those women.”
Astonished silence blankets the room. Dr. Lenz breaks the impasse. “You have a
“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. That’s S-T-R- O-B-E-K-K-E-R. Fourteen-oh-two Moorland Avenue, Edina, Minnesota. It’s a suburb of Minneapolis.”
“What else you know about this guy?” barks Mayeux’s partner.
“He has a checking account at the Norwest Bank in Minneapolis. That’s 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 Lenz’s face shows a trace of bemusement.
“Let’s 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. “Kiesha’s checking on Strobekker, Chief.”
“Stop me if I say something you don’t understand,” I tell them.
The two younger FBI agents smirk at this, but I’m fairly certain they’ll soon be strafing me with stupid questions.
“I work for a company called EROS,” I say slowly. “That’s an acronym-E-R-O-S-which stands for Erotic Realtime On-line Stimulation.” Seeing a couple of leers, I ignore the mythological connection and push on. “We’re an on-line service that caters to a wide range of clients interested in human sexuality. EROS is a New York-based corporation legally chartered in the State of Delaware-”
“Who owns it?” interrupts Baxter.
“A widow named Jan Krislov.”
From the sick look on Daniel Baxter’s face, I can see that he’s familiar with Jan Krislov in some capacity. A flash of instinct tells me it’s 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 aliases-code names-that 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 Mayeux’s partner, opening his red eyes in a glare of challenge. “Right? They’re 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. “That’s 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 don’t monitor it that much. At least I didn’t until I began to have my suspicions about the “missing” women. Most Level Three traffic is nocturnal, and thus Miles’s gig. That’s 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. 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
“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
