Twisted (15 page)

He thought of Allison in the meeting just now, studying those crime-scene pictures. He remembered her at the Bones Unit. She’d had an intense distaste for what she was seeing—outrage, even. Allison was still in the fighting stage. She had that unchecked passion, that thirst for justice. Being around her reminded him how he’d felt when he’d first started this job, and part of him wanted that back.

Another part of him knew he couldn’t have it. Time marched on. What he had now was experience.

A pickup chugged up to the curb and Mark watched as the window slid down. Allison leaned across the front seat and peered out at him.

“We’re going the same direction,” she said. “Want a lift?”

“How do you know where I’m going?”

“Delphi Center. Home of the best cyber-crimes lab in the country.” She smiled slyly, and he knew she liked making digs at the Bureau. Perversely, he liked it, too.

He looked out over the parking lot full of police cars. He looked at the woman offering him a ride. Either she was oblivious to local politics, or she didn’t care.

“I need to be back by three to take a conference call,” he said.

“Fine.”

“No detours for tater tots.”

“Fine.”

He got in the truck, which was warm for a change. He stowed his briefcase stuffed with files in the back of the cab.

She shot him a peevish look as she pulled away from the curb. “But if I pass out from hunger, I’m blaming you.”

“What’s your in with the DNA lab here?”

They hiked up the wide marble stairs and passed through a pair of Greek columns.

“What makes you think I have an in?” Allison asked.

Mark shifted the packages he was carrying and opened the door for her, demonstrating those old-fashioned manners again.

“Expediting evidence is no easy task,” he said. “And you volunteered.”

“Maybe I like a challenge.”

He looked at her patiently.

“Okay, yes, I have an in,” she said. “A friend of mine is a DNA tracer here.”

“The one Kelsey was talking about Saturday. Mia Voss.”

“Not bad, Wolfe. Now I see why you’re a cop.”

They approached the reception desk and presented IDs in exchange for visitors’ badges.

“Actually, it should be
Ric’s
in,” Allison said. “He’s engaged to the woman. But until about an hour ago, I’m not sure he thought much of your case theory.” She
clipped the badge to the lapel of her blazer and headed for the evidence room. “By the way, nice going earlier. You did well back there.”

Allison glanced up at him, but he didn’t acknowledge the compliment. Then again, Mark knew he was good. He didn’t need her to stroke his ego.

“Mia’s very passionate about what she does,” she told him. “And she’s got a thing about untested rape kits. When I explained the situation, it wasn’t hard to get her to put us at the front of her line.”

“At Quantico, even ‘front of the line’ doesn’t necessarily mean soon. What’s her time frame?”

“With her, soon means soon. We could have something within a week. Like I said, she’s very dedicated. She even offered to do the tests for free.”

“What’s the catch?”

“They get grants here,” Allison said. “Private funding to help clear the backlog of biological evidence. You know how this place was founded?”

“Wealthy oil heiress left them her estate, right?”

“Massive endowment. This woman’s daughter had been raped and murdered by a convicted sex offender.”

Allison plunked her packages on the counter and greeted the evidence clerk, whom she’d met on several occasions. The woman handed over a familiar form for Allison to fill out while she checked in the evidence, which consisted of several cardboard boxes and oversized envelopes. The clerk entered some notes in her computer, printed out bar codes, then tagged everything and gave Allison a receipt.

“Very efficient,” Mark said as they retraced their steps to the lobby.

“You know, their elevators are on that biometric security thing. I think we need an escort to get up to Cyber Crimes.”

“My contact said he’d meet me in the lobby,” he said. “Finish telling me about the founder.”

Allison was pleased he was interested. Some of her close friends worked here, and she had a deep respect for the lab’s mission.

“Before this ex-con attacked the founder’s daughter, he’d assaulted something like six women while he was out on parole,” Allison said. “His DNA was in the system, and he should have been locked up again, but the rape kits were collecting dust in various evidence rooms. I remember the media uproar when it came out how he’d slipped through the cracks.”

“Happens all too often.”

“Well, the victim’s mother agreed with you, which is why we have the lab.”

They reached the lobby, where a twenty-something man in jeans and a T-shirt was talking on an iPhone. He took one look at Mark and stepped forward, stuffing the phone in his pocket.

“Special Agent Wolfe.” He thrust out a hand. “I’m Ben Lawson, Assistant Director of Cyber Crimes.”

Allison compared the two men as everyone traded introductions. Ben was tall like Mark, but the similarities ended there. With his shaggy goatee and faded
Pub Scouts of America
T-shirt, Ben looked more like an aimless college kid than an investigator. And yet he was one of the best cyber sleuths in the country.

Ben led them to the elevator and did the palm-press thing before jabbing the button for the sixth floor.

“You guys got the penthouse,” Allison said as they got on.

“Us and DNA—we lucked out. Bones is stuck in the basement. Man, I hate it down there.” He made a face. “Like the catacombs or something. Here we go.”

The doors dinged open and they followed him down a glass corridor. On one side, a row of windows looked out at the Texas Hill Country. On the other side, glass walls revealed a room filled with computers, monitors, and all sorts of electronic equipment.

“How many people you have working here?” Mark asked.

“Twenty-three,” Ben said proudly. “We’re growing. There’s been a surge recently in identity theft and crimes against children.”

He held the door open for his visitors and led them to a cubicle where no fewer than five computer screens formed a semicircle atop the spacious desk.

“All of these are yours?” Allison asked, thinking of her putty-colored CPU back at the station house.

“We share workstations here in the lab. I’ve got my own in my office, but this has better software, so . . .” He dragged a chair over from a neighboring cube. “Here, sit down.”

Mark rested an elbow on the wall of the cubicle and looked at Ben. “You read my e-mail, so you know what we’re looking for.”

“Death Raven.” Ben rolled his eyes. “What a handle.”

“He calls himself Death Raven?” Allison asked Mark.

“It’s one of his aliases.”

“I looked him up already,” Ben said. “That name isn’t
really original. It’s all over the Net, so it’ll take some time to sort out what’s him and what isn’t.”

“I realize that.”

“And aside from the one link you sent me”—Ben swiveled in his chair and opened an e-mail on one of his computer screens—“which was posted on October twenty-ninth, you don’t have anything dating from the last decade.”

“That’s correct.”

Ben grinned. “So I’m looking for digital footprints from eleven years ago. In Internet years that’s, like, an eternity.”

“I know.”

Ben looked at Allison. “Good thing I like a challenge. Let me guess,” he said to Mark. “You’ve got someone at Quantico working this, too, right?”

“You have an issue with that?”

“Not at all. Just want to know who my opponent is.”

“Your opponent isn’t the FBI,” Mark said, and Allison heard the edge in his voice. “It’s this UNSUB. He’s murdered at least seven women in two states, and he’s planning his next strike now.”

Ben’s grin vanished. “Seven?”

“Maybe more.”

“Damn, I had no idea.”

“We’re reasonably certain he’s finding his victims online,” Mark said, “and using information about them to develop ploys to lure them in.”

“Who’s ‘we’? You mean the Bureau?”

“As well as the local task force that’s been set up to work the case.”

Ben leaned back and gave Mark an appraising look.

“Okay, now I’m getting it. That means you’re a profiler, aren’t you? Part of that new FBI cyber team.”

Allison shot Mark a look. “Cyber team?”

“I read about you guys,” Ben said with admiration. “Online profiling.”

Mark nodded. “I’m spearheading the project.”

“We’ve been doing some of that here, too, trying to create software that can track down child predators on the Net. You guys have come up with some cool techniques.”

“Uh, someone want to fill me in?” Allison felt a twinge of irritation. How come she was just now learning about this special project?

“It’s a new focus within BAU,” Mark said. “We’re developing ways to profile criminals based on their online activities.”

“Such as . . . snooping through their e-mails?” she ventured.

“Way beyond that. More and more, criminals are online in connection with their crimes. They post videos, blogs, leave comments on Web sites. They send threatening mail or pictures, tying to intimidate their victims beforehand, or they brag about their crimes afterward.”

“It’s an exciting area,” Ben said. “Wish we were doing more of it.”

Allison looked at Mark and saw the glint in his eyes.

“No offense to the geeks in the room,” she said, “but what’s so exciting about it?”

“The Internet is everything now,” Ben said. “You can use it to buy a car, sell a child, start a revolution.”

“And it’s a whole new type of profiling,” Mark added.
“People behave differently on the Internet than they do in real life. We get a unique glimpse into what makes them tick.”

“It’s the anonymity,” Ben said. “Or perceived anonymity. People think they can do anything in cyberspace, no consequences.”

“That’s part of it,” Mark said. “People hide behind their Internet persona. They let their guard down and reveal things about themselves they wouldn’t reveal in face-to-face contact. For investigators, it’s a potential jackpot of information. But you have to know where to look.”

Mark pulled a folded piece of paper from the inside pocket of his suit. “These are the dates and URLs of the Internet activity we believe is his. Only one of these is recent. I need you to see if there’s anything else from the intervening years.”

“What are his other aliases?” Allison asked, peering over Ben’s shoulder.

“Only one that we know of: E. Poe. It’s a reference to Edgar Allan Poe, who wrote ‘The Raven.’ ”

“The original dark poet,” Ben said. “Did you see the verse he posted to that newspaper site after his second kill? ‘My love, she sleeps . . . Soft may the worms about her creep.’ This guy likes the macabre.”

“Maybe,” Mark said, “but I also think he’s being practical here. Poe’s been dead since 1849.”

“Aha. Public domain.” Ben leaned back in his chair. “That’s very clever.”

“Wait, back up,” Allison said.

“His work is in the public domain.” Ben looked at her. “That means it’s everywhere. People post his stuff on
poetry sites or anyplace they want. Imagine running an Internet search for someone who liked to post comments accompanied by Bible verses. You’d get a zillion hits and have to wade through all of them to find the ones you were looking for. He’s hiding his messages in plain sight, which is like a big F-you to investigators.” He looked at Mark. “Am I right?”

“That about sums it up.” Mark glanced at his watch. “Now, what I need is a name and a location. Current. And anything else you can dig up. Phone number, birth date, Social Security number—”

“Hey, no problem. Why don’t I just whip out my superpowers and beam him on over here for an interview?”

Mark looked deadly serious. “The Bureau’s cyber-crimes unit has logged more than three hundred hours on this case to date. That’s not counting all the time I’ve spent on it. This guy’s good, but he’s not perfect. And he’s out there somewhere, which means he can be found. No one at Quantico’s managed to do it yet, so I’m looking for someone with fresh ideas on how to outsmart him.”

“Fresh ideas.” Ben took a deep breath and nodded. “That case, I’m your man.”

Allison kept a heavy foot on the gas pedal to make it back in time for Mark’s conference call, but the icy roads were slowing her down.

“Think he’ll come through?” Allison asked.

“He seems motivated.”

“You were baiting him with all that Quantico stuff. He’s competitive about the Bureau.”

“Whatever works.”

The pickup skidded through the next turn, and Mark sent her a look.

“Sorry.”

“I can be a few minutes late,” he told her. “I’m the one leading the call.”

She looked at him in the seat beside her. He seemed tense. Ten minutes ago, he’d downed three aspirin without even a sip of water.

“You juggling a lot of cases?” she asked.

“Always.”

“How many?”

“Couldn’t tell you. I stopped counting a long time ago.”