Cait set her elbows on the desk, her hands clasped above her chin, as she rested her thumb nails along her bottom lip. She stared at the screen, her teeth clenched so tightly that her heartbeat pulsed in her temple, and she reached for a pen and notepad that was next to my desk phone. She clicked the pen, the ball point shot out of the tip, and she started to write. The blue ink scrolled quickly over the pad and I leaned forward to read the words.
script
altered voice
warehouse
at least two
female victim
caucasian
actress
suffer
She wrote on individual lines of the notepad. “There’s another video?” she asked as she looked at me over her shoulder.
I nodded. “It’s in the same folder.”
Cait scrolled the cursor to the folder that contained the videos and clicked on the second one. A large box filled the monitor as the video played. She made checkmarks next to the words “warehouse” and “female victim” when Fionna Michaels appeared on the screen. Fionna sat in the same cement room as Pamela Westlake. Cait watched the second video with the same horror and compassion for the second victim as she did the first, and she placed checkmarks next to every word and phrase on her notepad.
“When did you receive these?” she asked when the second video ended.
“The first one was on August twenty-fifth at seven in the evening. The second was September first at nine o’clock,” I answered. “Each video was sent from a different email account. We subpoenaed the host site, but they—”
“Have up to ninety days to respond,” Cait interrupted. “And they take their sweet time too.” She wrote the date and time of each video next to their associated words. “When did you put in the request?”
“As soon as we received the first video,” I replied.
“Flu said the IP came from a local shopping center?”
“We believe so, yes.”
“And the victimology reports are…,” she trailed off as she reached for the manila file next to the computer. “Here,” she said as she opened the file.
Cait leafed through the pages, licking her fingers after every fifth page as she separated the victims into individual piles. She tapped the tip of her index finger on the date of each woman’s Missing Persons Report, and she stared at the information as if she was calculating the significance in the dates. She crossed and uncrossed her legs as she swiveled lightly back and forth in my chair. She ran her finger down the information listed on each Missing Persons Report. She looked over her shoulder again and shook her head when she saw me.
“You probably want your desk back,” she said more to herself as she stood from the desk. She collected the two piles she had made, walked around to the other side of the desk, and sat in the empty chair across from me.
“Agent Porter, you’re welcome to sit wherever you’d like,” I said, emphasizing just how professional I could be when it came to working with her again.
“Cait,” she corrected me. We locked eyes again. A smirk danced in the corner of her mouth as she shook her head.
“Cait.”
I sat on the edge of the warm seat cushion as it sank under my weight, and I leaned forward to open the original case file that sat on my desk. I pulled out the Missing Persons Reports for both victims.
“I’m on the Pamela Westlake file,” Cait said as she waited for me to get situated. I picked up a pen to write down the pertinent information as Cait read aloud. “Reported missing on July eighteenth,” she continued. “Local West Joseph resident. Age thirty-three. Hair stylist. Living with her boyfriend, who reported her missing. Mother and father both alive. No living will, assets worth less than ten thousand dollars.”
“She had been missing for over a month by the time we got the video,” I said.
“That’s a long time to hold someone hostage,” Cait said. “It’s possible… but why go to the trouble?” she mumbled to herself. “Fionna Michaels,” Cait continued. “Age twenty-seven. From Akron, Ohio. Recent college graduate, BFA. Reported missing July twenty-fourth by her mother. Father lives in Wyoming. No living will, life insurance, or estate.” Cait sighed. “It’s safe to assume ransom wasn’t the motive. Neither of these women had anything of real value.”
“Just their lives,” I muttered. “BFA? Bachelors of Fine Arts—that’s acting, right?”
“Anything creative,” Cait answered. “Writing, drawing, design, acting.”
“Is there anything in Pamela Westlake’s file regarding drama or acting?” I asked. “They were both very comfortable in front of the camera. They were both in some kind of an audition—whether the audition was real or not.”
Cait thumbed through her Pamela Westlake pile, and the papers rustled together as she scanned each page for anything that would indicate an interest in theater or film. The light above my desk reflected in the highlights in her dark auburn hair. Her eyes darted from one side to the other as she continued to read. Her lips parted as she breathed in and looked up at me.
“Here,” she said. “In the statement from her boyfriend. He said she auditioned for local plays but had never been offered a role.”
“We have her computer too.” I said. “Our tech guys have it. We can run a search on her hard drive to see if she responded to an ad or emailed anyone regarding an audition.”
“It’s textbook Mardi Gras,” Cait said.
“Mardi Gras?” I asked.
“Mardi Gras Effect,” she said. “When the assailant uses the internet to mask his or her true intentions. Like, in a chat room or an ad. The anonymity of hiding behind a screen, a mask, allows the offender to be whoever he or she needs to be in order to carry out the mission.” Cait clasped her hands together and set them atop the case file. “The Craigslist Killer here in Ohio,” she said. “He placed job ads on Craigslist in order to lure victims to his house.”
“I remember,” I said. “One of the victims got away. Who knows how many more victims there would have been if he hadn’t.”
“Pedophiles, rapists— they all fall under Mardi Gras. I have yet to come across a pedophile who goes into a chat room and announces his full intentions to underage victims,” Cait said. “Prostitution is another one—she, or he, will use code terms that aren’t as easily identifiable by those not active in that world. Terms like ‘escort,’ are too familiar, so they’ll use internet slang and rose symbols to announce their presence.”
“Rose symbols?” My interest piqued.
“It’s a way to publicize pricing,” she answered. “A rose, or the ‘at’ symbol.” She drew a lower case A with a circle around it, followed by two dashes, a less-than sign, and three more dashes. “It’s used to show pricing,” she said. “Each ‘at’ symbol is how many hundreds of dollars the night will cost. So three ‘at’ symbols is equal to three hundred dollars.” She then wrote an example headline: LET’S CHAT @@@-->---
“Is this what you specialize in? With the BCI?” I asked.
“I deal with anything cyber-related,” she said. “Hacking, identity theft, solicitation, stalking. This is just information I’ve picked up along the way. How soon can you get the victims’ computers from your tech guy?”
I locked eyes with Cait as I picked up the phone and dialed Abram’s extension. She looked down at the desk, the soft glow from the sunlight that snuck through the blinds struck shadows across her face as she read over her notes from the videos. I wedged the phone between my ear and shoulder as it rang. It hummed in my ear until Abram picked up on the third ring.
“Myers,” he said.
“It’s Evans. I need Pamela Westlake’s computer. Do you still have it?”
“I’m walking it back down to Evidence after my lunch,” Abram said. “I can send you what I pulled from it.” He struck a series of keys on his keyboard. “You should have it in your email now,” he said.
“I need the laptop too.”
“Just give me a few minutes to finish m
y lunch,” he said.
“Thank you,” I said before I hung up. “We’ll have it soon,” I told Cait. “I’ll send a request to Evidence for Fionna Michaels’ computer too,” I said as I dragged the keyboard in front of me.
The printer made a loud grinding noise as if it were digesting the paper as it printed the form. The paper flipped and flopped as it traveled through the large machine, ink swiped across the paper as it scrolled across it line by line, and fell onto the loading tray. I reached across the gap between my desk and the printer and grabbed the request form off the tray. I placed it on my desk as I read over it. I signed my name at the bottom of the sheet and placed the form into the “OUT” bin that sat on my desk.
“Here you go,” Abram said as walked into my office without knocking. He set a silver and black laptop onto my desk. The computer had been sealed in a clear plastic bag with red lines across it. On the top red line, written in black marker, was Pamela Westlake’s name, along with the date of admittance and her case number. Abram loosely held a clipboard in his left hand as he backed away from my desk. “Hello,” Abram said as turned to Cait when he realized I wasn’t alone in the room.
“Abram, this is Special Agent Porter. She’s with BCI,” I said. “Agent Porter, this is Abram Myers. He’s a tech analyst.”
“Agent Porter,” Abram said. The way he said her name made it sound like it was synonymous with beautiful. “It’s lovely to meet you.” He offered his hand to Cait. He cocked a smile as he looked her up and down, as if he was trying to dazzle her with his charm.
“It’s nice to meet you,” she politely said and shook his hand—although I had a feeling she was less than impressed with his cocky demeanor.
Abram lingered next to Cait, a goofy smile stretched across his face as he looked at her. As I set my pen down, a soft thud broke the silence in the room and snapped Abram out of his trance. “Oh,” he said as he shook his head. “Sign this,” he passed me the clipboard.
Pamela Westlake’s case number was written in black ink along the top of the sign-out sheet that was attached to the clipboard. I signed my name, along with the date and time, under Abram’s name before handing him back the clipboard.
“I’ll walk this down to Evidence,” he said with a nod. “It was nice to meet you, Agent Porter.”
“You too.” Cait smiled.
Abram let the clipboard hang from his hand as he excused himself and left my office. I lifted the seal across the plastic bag that was wrapped around the laptop. A high-pitched rip filled the room, and I pulled the laptop from the bag. A white index card, taped to the lid of the laptop, had Pamela’s password written on it. I opened the lid to her laptop, typed in the password from the index card, and a series of icons appeared on the screen.
A black and white photo of Pamela Westlake and, presumably, her boyfriend filled the screen behind the program icons. They sat on cement porch steps, Pamela on the third step, nestled between her boyfriend’s knees, as her boyfriend hugged her from behind. His backward baseball cap fit snug around his head. Wavy strands of brown hair fell around his face. Pamela rested her head against his chest as they both looked into the camera and smiled, her boyfriend’s goatee jagged down into a point. Pamela’s hair was just above her shoulders, much shorter than it was in the video. Dry leaves scattered around the cement steps, and a pot of decayed flowers sat along the brick doorframe of the front porch.
I clicked on a series of folders until I reached her internet history and opened each webpage.
“Do you want to look at this?” I motioned for Cait to stand next to me. She stood from her chair and walked around my desk. She blocked the sun’s reflection off the laptop’s monitor. She set her arm across the back of my chair and leaned forward as I opened each webpage from the week of her disappearance.
“She looked at a series of online ads searching for an actress,” I said as I scrolled through the first page. “Indie Director and production crew looking for actress, age eighteen to thirty, to play lead role in upcoming horror film. Must be able to scream, work nights, and not afraid of gore,” I read aloud.
“That sounds like the video,” Cait added as she leaned in closer to the screen. Her left breast lightly skimmed against my shoulder. “What about the next one?” she nodded.
“Film maker seeking actress for adult film. Please respond with stats,” I said.
“Did she respond?”
“No. The link to respond isn’t in her history. But she did respond to the horror movie,” I said as I turned in my chair and opened the email Abram sent me. “Abram sent me copies of her emails,” I told Cait as I opened each document attached to the messages. “Here,” I said. “She responded to the horror ad on July twelfth and received a response from the director the next day with his phone number.”
“Is that a local number?” Cait asked.
“Yeah, the area code is West Joseph….” I trailed off as I searched the phone number in our system. “It’s assigned to a pre-paid phone.”
“Practically untraceable, especially if he paid cash for it,” Cait added. “Is that it? Just his phone number? No address or name?”
“It doesn’t look like it,” I said. It was smart—any verbal communication between him and Pamela would be untraceable. Cell phone companies didn’t keep transcripts of conversations or text messages. If the director verbally told her where to meet him, there would be no way for us to know. Unless….
I moved through each webpage from the week of her disappearance as I looked for a mapping site. If the director had given her a place she wasn’t familiar with, she would have searched for directions.
“Nothing,” I muttered.
“Do you have her cell phone? Or her car?” Cait asked.
“No to both. But she hasn’t made any incoming or outgoing calls since the day she was reported missing.”
“Any abandoned warehouses in the area?” Cait asked. “It’s a needle in a haystack at this point, but it’s a start at least.”
“There are a few,” I said. “Who knows if this warehouse is even in West Joseph,” I added. “I’ll have Abram create a list of vacant warehouses. We can go tomorrow.” I had to assume—since the videos were being sent to West JPD and the two victims were from West Joseph—that the murders were also taking place in West Joseph.
“Evans,” Flu said as he sharply knocked on the door before he walked into my office. He nodded toward Cait and smiled. “Agent Porter, do you mind if I speak to Sergeant Evans?” Flu’s potbelly spilled over the waistline of his black trousers as he eyed Cait.
“Of course.” Cait stood from the chair and walked out of my office.
“We need to discuss the media,” Flu said as he closed the door. “How did the video leak?”
“Are you asking me, or accusing me?” My defense clamped around me like a suit of armor.
“Asking, Evans. What’s gotten into you?” Flu invited himself to take a seat across from me. He set his left ankle across his right knee and folded his hands over his belly while he waited for my answer.
He might have been asking, but his tone, at least how I took it, sounded more like an accusation. As if I was the one who could’ve leaked the video to the media. Of all people, Flu should know how much I despise reporters. They meddle and interfere with our investigations. They harass victims and their families solely for an increase in ratings. They strip away the victim’s dignity just to get what they want. In my eyes, they were just as bad as the perpetrator.
“I don’t know,” I answered. “Has anyone called them? Maybe the station will reveal its source.” It was a shot in the dark, but maybe one person working there had an ounce of decency.
“Abram did,” Flu nodded. “They told him it had been sent anonymously via email.”
“Do you believe them?”
“I have to,” Flu said. “It’s the same way we received it.”
He had a point. Had we not received the video in the same fashion, I would have argued the news station
was lying to protect its source. But in this case, they may be telling the truth.
Flu lowered his voice: “I don’t have to tell you how important it is that we get to the bottom of these videos.”
“I think you just did,” I pointed out. For some reason, I had an impulsive and uncontrollable urge to challenge Flu’s authority. There had been a chip on my shoulder since the Collins’ case, but maybe that chip had grown into a boulder.
“You’re a good detective, Evans. But watch yourself.” Flu stood from the chair. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed the attitude you’ve been handing out these past six months. At first it was tolerable, but now you’re really testing your boundaries. I’m not the only one who’s noticed either.” He turned the doorknob and opened the door slightly. The roar of office conversations trickled into the room. “I know you went through something terrible. But I’m not the one who hurt you. This department isn’t the one who hurt you. Just remember that. We’re a team—nothing gets solved if we turn on one another.” Flu pulled the door open and stepped into the hallway. “I’ll tell Agent Porter she can come back,” he added before leaving.
Within a few seconds, Cait returned. She looked over her shoulder toward Flu’s office and watched him walk away. “Everything okay?” she asked as she came back in to my office.
“Yes,” I said. The reprimand from Flu was absolutely none of her business. “I’ll request that list of warehouses from Abram,” I added as I sent Abram an email with the request. “He should have it for us by tomorrow morning.”
I picked up my phone and looked at the screen. It was a quarter after one. Not a word from Abi. No text, no call, nothing.
I hadn’t heard from her since Friday evening. The last thing she’d said to me was that she needed time. I thought I would’ve heard from her over the weekend. But here it was, Monday afternoon, and nothing. This was the longest we had ever fought for—although this was more than a fight. This was a break-up. The feeling of permanency had finally sunk in.
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