A Killer Like Me, page 17
The killer clicks the hidden link, and a new Web page opens in his browser. The new page is a blank screen with two empty boxes, one for a user name, the other for a password. The killer types his user name and password and presses the enter key. A second password box appears.
Access to the Web site requires three different passwords. All three must contain letters, numbers, and at least one special character: an asterisk, a percent sign, an ampersand, or any of the others symbols that run along the top of the number keys on a computer keyboard.
The killer types his remaining two passwords. The Web site opens. Across the top of his screen the name of the site appears—DEVIL’S DEN.
Access to the site costs two hundred dollars a month. Setting up the payments is complicated and involves a double-blind system that uses international money orders instead of credit cards. Once a month the killer mails a money order to an address in Mexico.
In chat rooms connected to the Web site, he has learned that on the last day of each month, all of the customers’ money orders are cashed in for a single money order that is mailed to a bank in Eastern Europe. To protect the customers’ identities, no electronic money transfers of any kind are used and no records are kept other than user names and passwords, both of which, the Webmaster assures the site’s clients, are manually, not electronically, encoded.
It took the killer two months to get his account approved and set up, and like all new members he had to pay a one-time initiation fee of five hundred dollars.
The Devil’s Den is an amateur video swap shop featuring nearly every depravity known to man: bestiality, hardcore child-on-child and adult-on-child sex, necrophilia, self-mutilation, rape, beatings, stabbings, shootings, torture, and killings of all kinds. All filmed by the participants. It is the YouTube of perversion.
The site is broken down into fetishes. Subscribers can upload their own videos. New ones appear almost daily. The killer selects MURDER. The he clicks the upload link. A brief set of instructions appear. There is no warning label or age verification. Everything on the site is illegal in nearly every country in the world.
Below the instructions is a question that must be answered.
DO YOU WANT THIS UPLOAD TO BE PRIVATE OR PUBLIC?
Two clickable buttons appear below the question, the first labeled PRIVATE, the second labeled PUBLIC.
The killer clicks the second button. A warning screen pops up.
ARE YOU SURE YOU WANT YOUR UPLOAD TO BE PUBLIC?
Two buttons appear below the questions: YES and NO. The killer clicks YES.
A second warning page appears.
PLEASE VERIFY THAT YOU WANT YOUR UPLOAD TO BE PUBLIC.
Below that, two more buttons: VERIFY and CANCEL.
The killer verifies that he wants his upload to be public.
Within the Devil’s Den Web site, private videos are indexed and are viewable by members only. Those videos marked for public viewing are stored on the site for members, but they are also uploaded through a redundant cutout system to a network of shifting, piggybacked Web sites in countries in Asia, Africa, and the Middle East. One of the biggest such Web sites operates in North Korea. Most of the sites don’t require registration, and the videos can be viewed by anyone with access to the Internet. But their origins cannot be traced.
The killer selects the video file of the woman’s beheading from his hard drive and uploads it to the site. He then clicks a link to another screen and answers a few more questions. The Devil’s Den provides an extra service, for a fee payable by the last day of the current month. If the payment isn’t received, the member’s account will be canceled. A member whose account is canceled can open a new account—members’ names aren’t recorded anywhere—but that requires another five-hundred-dollar initiation fee.
Either way, the Webmaster gets his money.
The extra service, which costs two hundred fifty dollars, will send a link to the video to tens of thousands of e-mail addresses around the world, including those of journalists and bloggers. The mass e-mailings create a global buzz about the video. The more demented or perverted the video, the louder the chatter. Part of the reason the killer joined the Devil’s Den was so he could take advantage of this service.
As soon as he finishes making all of the arrangements, he logs out of the Web site, clears his browsing history, cache, and cookies, then shuts down his computer. He knows the police, and especially the FBI, have sneaky ways of extracting deleted files from a computer, but the police will never get that close to him. The Lord is with him.
Outside, he hears a car drive past, followed by the sound of a newspaper hitting his driveway. He looks toward the sliding glass door and sees the first hint of daylight shining through. He knows the newspaper will have a big story about the fire. Maybe several stories. But he is too tired to go outside. He has been awake for twenty-four hours, and his exhaustion has finally overtaken his exhilaration. He does not have to be at work again until Monday, so he can sleep all day. The newspaper can wait.
Soon they’ll find the woman’s body. Soon they’ll discover the video. Then all hell will break loose.
The killer slides into bed and pulls the covers up to his chin. It has been a good day, a good couple of days. He closes his eyes.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Saturday, August 4, 8:10 AM
“If I was you, I’d stay out of the office today,” Gaudet said. “With all the shit we got going on, I’m sure the captain is going to be there.”
Murphy and Gaudet were at the Coffee House on Canal Boulevard, sitting at a table in the back. A copy of that morning’s Times-Picayune lay between them, along with their breakfast bill. Murphy’s police radio was on top of the newspaper and the bill to keep the ceiling fan from blowing them off the table. Murphy shot another angry glance at the headline.
SERIAL KILLER SUSPECTED IN RED DOOR FIRE
“You figure Donovan is going to blame that on me?” Murphy asked.
Gaudet nodded as he shoveled a forkful of scrambled eggs into his mouth. Between bites, he said, “Definitely.”
“I haven’t talked to Kirsten since Tuesday night on Freret Street, and even then the only thing I told her was that I didn’t have anything to say to her.”
Gaudet flicked the edge of the paper with his fingers. “There’s also a story about you in the metro section.”
“What!” Murphy lifted his radio and snatched the newspaper from the table. He flipped to the “B” section.
“It’s a very . . . how should I say it . . . flattering portrait of you,” Gaudet said, obviously pleased with his choice of words. “It talks about the Houma case, about the lifesaving medal you got for pulling that woman out of the river, about the shootout with the bank robbers. It makes you look like a goddamn saint.”
Murphy found the story at the top of page B-3, under a picture of him at the Freret crime scene. The headline read, DETECTIVE GOOD CHOICE TO HEAD SERIAL KILLER TASK FORCE.
“I didn’t know about any of this,” Murphy said.
“You don’t have to convince me.”
“But you believe me?”
Gaudet nodded. “We’re partners. We can lie to everybody else, but we can’t lie to each other.”
Murphy scanned the article, then dropped the newspaper back on the table, next to his plate of half-eaten eggs and grits.
Gaudet was right. Even though Donovan didn’t normally work weekends, this was no normal weekend, not with a serial killer on the loose and a mass murder headlining every news program in the country. Murphy looked at his watch. The captain was probably already in the office and had certainly seen the newspaper by now.
He needed to stay clear of Donovan.
Murphy’s coffee sat in front of him, untouched and growing cold. “I’m not Kirsten’s snitch, not on this story. She’ll tell Donovan, DeMarco, and PIB that herself.”
Gaudet scooped the last of his eggs onto a torn piece of white toast and shoved the whole thing into his mouth. When he finished chewing, he said, “The more she denies it, the less they’ll believe her. She’s a reporter. She’s supposed to protect her sources.”
Murphy banged his fist down on the newspaper hard enough to shake the table and make his coffee cup jump. “This is bullshit.”
“Take it easy,” Gaudet said. “I told you, I believe you.”
“This story doesn’t help the investigation. The last thing I want to do is let the killer know what we’re doing. I want him to keep thinking we’re stupid. I want him to think we missed his mark on the door.”
Gaudet shrugged and washed his breakfast down with a gulp of coffee. “You ain’t got to convince me, brother.”
“Have you heard from Doggs or Calumet?”
Gaudet shook his head.
Murphy picked up his radio and pressed the squelch button, making sure the radio was working and the volume was loud enough for him to hear a call. “Who are these guys, dumb and dumber? You think they know we’re up to our eyeballs in dead bodies?”
“They probably saw the paper and have enough sense to lay low.”
“Good point,” Murphy said. He took a sip of his coffee and realized he had forgotten to spike it with cream. It backed up in his throat like bile.
“You want me to call them and tell them to meet us?” Gaudet said.
Murphy shook his head. “They’ll turn up.” He slid his chair back. “I’m headed to the crime lab. Abramson owes me a favor. I got his daughter out of a DWI. He doesn’t know it yet, but he’s going to find us a lead. Somewhere in all that stuff we picked up at the crime scenes, or somewhere on one of those bodies, the killer had to have left something behind.”
Murphy fished in his pocket for money.
Gaudet waved him off as he pulled out a wad of cash. “I got it.”
Murphy looked at the stack of bills. “Did you knock over a liquor store on the way here?”
“I do a little gigolo work on the side.”
Murphy was about to say something when his radio squawked.
“Command desk to the unit with Detective Sean Murphy.”
“Oh, shit,” Gaudet said. “Somebody’s looking for you.”
Murphy stared at his radio. He was afraid to answer it, certain it was an order to report to Captain Donovan’s office, or to the assistant chief, or to PIB.
“Command desk to the unit with Detective Sean Murphy.”
Murphy picked up the radio and thumbed the transmit button. “Twenty-five fifty-four to command desk, this is Detective Murphy.” He waited for the ax to fall.
“Command desk, twenty-five fifty-four, Fifth District rank requests task-force units respond to Forstall and Douglas, on the levee. Signal thirty.”
Murphy looked across the table at his partner.
“Not a-fuckin’-gain,” Gaudet said.
“Call dumb and dumber. Tell them to meet us there.”
Forstall Street dead-ends at Douglas Street. Douglas runs alongside the Mississippi River. Between the street and the river, the earthen levee rises gently to a height of twenty feet, then sweeps down to the edge of the muddy water. An asphalt exercise path runs along the top of the grass-covered levee. At roughly quarter-mile intervals along the path, wooden benches sit facing the water. Murphy’s junior- and senior-high-school alma mater, Holy Cross, sits a block to the west. He knew the area well.
The decapitated body of a white woman, wearing orange pajama shorts and a matching tank top, lay fifteen feet up the levee, partially hidden in the knee-high grass.
Murphy, Gaudet, and a Fifth District uniformed sergeant stood beside the body. Joey Doggs and Danny Calumet were working a neighborhood canvass. Murphy was staring at the grisly wound that had severed the woman’s neck.
“We still haven’t found her head,” the sergeant said.
“Any ID?” Gaudet asked.
“Not confirmed, but we have an idea.”
“Who?”
“Sandra Jackson . . . from the crime lab.”
“Our crime lab!” Gaudet said.
The sergeant nodded. “Her boyfriend, the guy she’s living with, is in the Fourth District narcotics task force. He reported her missing early this morning.”
“You think it could have been domestic?” Gaudet asked the sergeant.
“It’s not domestic,” Murphy said.
Gaudet looked at him. “How do you know?”
“A cop is not going to cut off his girlfriend’s head. He might shoot her, might stab her, might strangle her, but he’s not going to cut off her head. That takes a psychotic disposition that your average cop just doesn’t have.”
“An ex-husband then, or an old boyfriend,” Gaudet said.
Murphy shook his head. “This is our killer.”
“You think he left his . . . calling card?” Gaudet said.
“What calling card?” the sergeant asked.
Murphy shrugged. “When we roll her we’ll find out. But this is him.”
The sound of a racing car engine behind them made the detectives and the uniformed sergeant turn around. Two blocks down Forstall, flying toward them, was a black Ford Crown Vic.
“Got to be the boyfriend,” Gaudet said.
A marked patrol car sat crossways in the street a block from the levee. The black Ford shot through a gap between the back bumper of the patrol car and a utility pole. Two seconds later the driver braked to a hard stop at the end of the street. Murphy was pretty sure if there hadn’t been an overgrown ditch there, the driver would have driven straight up the levee.
Three uniformed cops converged on the Ford just as the driver’s door flew open and a muscular man in his midthirties with a shaved head jumped out. The man, who Murphy saw had a silver NOPD badge clipped to his belt and a pistol holstered on his right hip, sloughed off two of the three cops as they tried to hold him back. The third officer gave up and backed away.
The plainclothes cop jumped the ditch and ran toward the woman’s body. The Fifth District sergeant stepped forward, holding up both hands. “Stop right there, officer. This is a crime scene.” But the cop pushed past him.
Murphy stepped in the cop’s way and put both hands on his chest. “Hold it.”
The grieving officer knocked Murphy’s hands away and tried to step around him.
Murphy blocked his way again. When the cop tried to push him out of the way, Murphy reached out with his right hand and jabbed two fingers into the base of the cop’s throat. The man stumbled back, gasping as he clutched his throat.
“I told you to stop,” Murphy said. He could see the man had tears in his eyes, and they weren’t from the finger jab.
“Is that Sandra up there?” he croaked.
“We don’t know yet.”
The cop tried to walk around Murphy, but Gaudet stepped in to block him.
“Tell me if it’s her,” the cop shouted.
Gaudet laid a hand on the man’s shoulder. “He said we don’t know, and that’s the truth, brother.”
“I’ll make the ID,” the cop said.
Murphy shook his head. “We can’t do that right now.”
“Why not? If you want to know if it’s her, let me see her face.”
Behind the man, the three uniformed officers he had slipped past were scrambling up the levee. Doggs and Calumet, drawn by the commotion, were trotting down Douglas Street from half a block away. Murphy caught Dagalotto’s eye and jerked his head in a “come here” motion. The two young detectives started climbing the levee.
Murphy held out his hand until the plainclothes cop shook it. “I’m Sean Murphy. I’m in charge of this investigation. If you want to help, go with these detectives and tell them everything you know about Sandra’s whereabouts during the last twenty-four hours.”
The fight had gone out of the man. He looked over his shoulder, saw Dagalotto and Calumet approaching. Then he turned around and walked down the levee to meet them.
Murphy looked at the uniformed sergeant. “Can you see if the command desk has a chaplain or a psychologist available, somebody who can talk to him?”
“Are you sure he wasn’t the one who killed her?” the sergeant said.
Murphy nodded. “Positive.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Saturday, August 4, 6:00 PM
All of the local TV stations carry the mayor’s press conference live.
The first topic is the approaching storm.
The killer sits in his bed, his back against the wall. He stares at the thirteen-inch TV on the dresser across the room. He doesn’t care about the storm. He wants the mayor to talk about the other thing. As he waits, he sips from a straw stuck in the neck of a twenty-ounce plastic bottle of Sprite.
Mayor Ray Guidry, flanked by a host of stern-faced city officials, announces that Catherine has strengthened into a category-two hurricane with sustained winds of one hundred miles per hour. Computer models project the storm will pass through the Florida Straits and deliver only a glancing blow to Miami. It will then pound the Florida Keys and skirt the northern coast of Cuba. Without making landfall, the storm will not weaken before it enters the Gulf of Mexico, which it is expected to do late Sunday.
The mayor ends his prepared remarks by declaring, “I am asking the governor to activate the National Guard, and I will be coordinating with the state Office of Emergency Preparedness on a possible evacuation of the city.”
Finally, with the storm news over, someone asks the mayor about the video.
News of the Internet video of the woman’s death broke this afternoon. Since then, the cable news networks have gone berserk. Their prime-time crime hosts, Nancy Grace, Greta Van Susteren, and the backbenchers, have been on the air for three hours discussing the outrageous video with their “experts” and demanding government action to shut down the overseas Web sites that carry it.
The killer has seen the video on half a dozen of those Web sites.
In response to the question about the video, the mayor pounds the lectern with his fist and promises to do whatever it takes to catch the serial killer. He describes the video as “sickening beyond belief.”
