“Yeah, I don’t like him, but every instinct in me says he’s our man. And if we don’t arrest him, he’ll be gone to England and wherever.”
“Which is why we put in an application for his computers.”
Neil nodded and tapped some text message notes into his PDA. “You ask me, he’s just another fucking low- life with a bunch of college degrees.”
“There you go, mincing words again.”
Neil let slip a smile as he continued text messaging notes for the computer warrant. “Remember I’ve got a sixteen-year-old daughter.”
“We won’t tell him.”
They drove in silence for a while as Steve stared out the window. In the distance the Boston skyline against the low gray clouds revealed a profile of glass slabs, needles, cubistic spires, a tower surmounted by a skeletalized dome, and redbrick town houses stacked up against Beacon Hill. Architecturally it was postmodern schizophrenia, but a cityscape he loved.
“So, what’s happening with you and Dana?”
“Nothing’s happening.”
“What about getting back together?”
“She wants to live alone for a while.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“Me, too.”
“What do you think that means?”
“It means she wants to live alone.”
“That’s too bad. She’s a nice woman.”
Steve had introduced him to Dana shortly before their separation. They took Neil out to eat when he was partnered with Steve. “Yup.”
“When I first met you guys I was envious. You had yourself a nice beautiful woman,” Neil said. “I thought you guys had the jackpot marriage.”
“So did I.”
27
“You’re not going to believe this,” said Sergeant Vaughn, “but he wiped clean the hard drive of his home PC. No files, no links, no surfing history, no cookies, no e-mails—nothing. He downloaded some software and did a clean sweep.”
“What’s his explanation?” Steve asked.
“Said that he was donating it to a local school.”
“Yeah, right,” Hogan said.
“But,” Neil said, “his office machine is loaded.” Neil’s face looked like a polished McIntosh.
It was around eight that night, and a unit meeting had been called because the warrant request for Pendergast’s computers had come through. With the cooperation of campus security, the office machine had been confiscated and turned over to the lab. Dacey and two patrols had showed up at Pendergast’s home to collect his only personal computer. He did not contest the seizure. Later that afternoon and evening, Neil and Sergeant Vaughn reviewed what the cyber lab discovered on the hard drives and were tag teaming on their report.
“He regularly trolled the Internet for porn sites, strip clubs, and escort services,” Neil read from his notes. “Eye Candy Pleasures, Exotic Temptations, Love Express, and a lot of others specializing in finding sexual partners. He also visited sites that featured underage girls, which we can use to hold him.”
On the projection screen Neil had set up a PowerPoint display of site names and blogs from Pendergast’s home computer. The list sent a wave of relief through Steve. It didn’t fill Steve’s fifteen-hour blackout hole, but Pendergast was looking dirtier by the minute.
“Also interesting,” Neil continued, “he visited sites specializing in naked women with red hair.”
“Why’s that interesting?” asked Dacey.
“Seems to be his fetish. He actively blogged strip clubs in southern New England and reported where you could find real redheads. His blog name was Pale Prince.”
“Pale Prince?” Dacey said.
“It’s from a poem by John Keats,” Steve said. “He’s published scholarly articles on him.”
“You might be the only cop in existence who knows that,” Reardon said.
“There’s a claim to fame.”
The blogs were arranged from oldest to most recent, which was dated a few weeks ago. It was the confessional of a man who loved redheads with “porcelain” skin:
I’m searching for that perfect club where you can order a nice wine, kick back, and watch exotic dance artists get down to the buff to the accompaniment of a jazz ensemble.
The Happy Banana, in spite of its name, is kind of a classy club where the girls are fetching but not all Barbie clones. There’s a fair range of body types and skin tones. Many of the dancers have breast augmentations.
My criteria are simple: long legs, tight buns, and medium size breasts—no implants please. I’m turned off by augmentations. I also hate tattoos and piercings. I love natural redheads, if you know what I mean. The flaming thatch drives me WILD.
Give me the scullery maid with hair ablaze.
Neil highlighted a block of sentences with the cursor. “This one here was posted about a month ago.”
I FOUND HER: Xena Lee at the Mermaid Lounge. Long legs, bottom like peach halves, thin waist, gorgeous features, and flaming Julianne Moore hair. And if you can get your eyes off her body, she’s got a face to kill for.
What she does with a pair of stockings will make your eyeballs smoke.
Neil left the blogs on the screen. “I think these speak for themselves.”
The room was silent as the team stared at the screen.
“And if you want a second smoking gun…,” Neil continued. On the screen appeared a list of various Web sites Pendergast had visited. “Four of these are extreme sex sites that discuss autoerotic asphyxia.”
“Nice going,” Dacey said. “The dots are connecting.”
“Yeah,” Neil said, “and it spells
Heads nodded. “Except why would he take the chance to download all this stuff on his office computer?” Dacey asked.
“Even though the school technically owns it, the contents are the intellectual property of the user. He’s protected by privacy expectations.”
“I can only imagine what was on his home PC,” Dacey said.
“Any theory on his motive?” Steve asked.
“Yeah,” Neil said. “He’s fucking obsessed.”
Steve nodded. “Except a prosecutor would say that obsession is not a motive nor a probable cause, especially without a history of violence.”
Neil glared at him, his face swelling red. “Give me a break, man.”
“I’m trying to.”
“Maybe because he never got caught.”
“So what do you think his motive was?” Reardon asked Neil.
“I don’t know. Maybe he doesn’t like how she turns him on.”
“The guy’s a strip-club junkie. Must be a hundred women who turn him on.”
“But she’s special, he confessed that on his blog. And they were friends. So he goes over with the intention of
