“Where’s the Deep Web?”
“Um, it’s kind of like the bottom of the ocean.”
“So the Surface Web is all the good parts of the Internet, and the Deep Web is all the bad parts of the Internet?”
“Not necessarily, no.” Cait shook her head. “The Surface Web is anything that can be found through a search engine, like Google. Recipes, obituaries, movie show times, stuff like that. The Deep Web is for anything that the search engines can’t find. It can be something as innocent as a status update on a private profile. Or court records.”
“That’s why I can’t find police records on a person unless I go to the court’s website?”
“Yes. Those records are part of the Deep Web.”
“Okay, I think I’ve got it.”
“Good, because we’re going deeper.”
“To the Deeper Web?”
Cait smiled. “The Deep Web is for sites that are purposely hidden. It isn’t just for drug dealers and sex offenders. Some of what’s on the Deep Web is less harmful. Sometimes it isn’t harmful at all.”
“So why have it?”
“Anonymity,” Cait confidently answered. “Some countries are more restrictive with what their governments allow people to do online. Some people may want to complain about their leaders, but doing so on the Surface Web would get them executed. So they go to the Deep Web, to organize protests and the like.”
“I’m sure that’s few and far between,” I scoffed.
“In America, it is,” she said. “But that doesn’t mean U.S. citizens use the Deep Web solely to plot terrorist attacks or sell babies. Some people use it to download music and books. Other people, like your typical conspiracy theorists, use it because they think the NSA is spying on them and they want their privacy.”
“Privacy for what?”
“Anything. Even to send family members pictures of their vacation. They want to communicate privately without the fear of the government hacking their email.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“To you, maybe. But not to them. Anonymity is vital.”
“But if they believe the government can hack into their email, then why don’t they believe the government can hack into the Deep Web?”
“If you had your own website, so that anyone could get ahold of you, what would you call it?”
“I don’t know. Lena-Evans-dot-com?”
“Exactly! But what would you call it if you didn’t want people to find it?”
“Why would I have a website if I didn’t want people to find it?”
“Okay….” Cait paused with a chuckle. “What would you call it if you only wanted certain people to find it?”
“I don’t know. I’m-Not-Lena-Evans-dot-com?”
Cait laughed. “Close.” Her laughter continued. “You might call it a series of letters and numbers. Jargon, basically. H-four-nine-sixteen-A-seven-dot-com, for example.”
“Wouldn’t the government be able to find that?”
“Eventually. But it’s a very small needle in a very large haystack. We don’t even have the manpower to do a proper stakeout, let alone dozens people to randomly type in letters and numbers, hoping to stumble upon a website.”
“Maybe not, but I think it would be beneficial. Those sites are just sitting ducks.”
“Drug dealers’ houses are sitting ducks too, but we don’t go knocking on every door in the country just to find them,” Cait countered.
“Good point.” I chuckled. “What does all this have to do with the Casting Call Killer?” I loathed using the media’s attention-grabbing title, but that was still the only identifier we had for him.
“I think that’s where he’s getting his attention,” Cait said.
“How so?”
“Flu said he wants attention, right? And we aren’t giving it to him. But the Deep Web has areas specifically for this kind of stuff, where viewers see it as entertainment. Like snuff films.” She paused. “But I don’t know if he’s the one sending us the videos. Maybe it isn’t him—maybe it’s a viewer who all of a sudden grew a conscience.”
“So you think someone is sending us the videos so that we can put a stop to it? But why send us just one at a time? Why not send all of them?”
“Maybe the killer only posts them once a week,” Cait offered.
“Let’s say you’re right. Why didn’t he just send us a link to the website where they’re being posted?”
“You need a special web browser,” Cait answered. “Internet Explorer or Safari won’t work.”
“Why not?”
“Do you speak German?”
“No.”
“So if I gave you a book written in German, would you be able to read it?”
“No,” I sighed. My patience had become unbearably thin. She was getting into the type of computer talk beyond my comprehension.
“Neither can your web browser,” Cait said. “Deep Web sites are written in German, metaphorically speaking, and your browser only speaks English. But if you install a web browser that understands German…”
“Then I’ll be able to go to the Deep Web.”
“Yes.”
“So your hypothesis is that the killer recorded his victims, put the videos online for people to watch, and one of the viewers is sending us the videos?”
“Basically, yes.”
“So why not just tell us the killer’s name and location?” I asked. It all seemed more complicated than it needed to be.
“Because he may not know it,” Cait answered.
“Okay, but that doesn’t explain why he’s killing them.”
“I know.” Cait sighed. “It’s the ‘why’ that’s the most difficult to solve,” she muttered.
“Can we go on this Deep Web of yours and find the answers?” I was ready to throw in the towel—not permanently, but definitely for the day.
Then I remembered Kristen Valeri’s face. The horror in her eyes as she realized her life was coming to an end. It’s the reason I forced myself to watch the video. I had to keep going—for her sake, and for the sake of the other victims.
“Not from this computer,” Cait replied. “We would have to get admin’s approval to download the program. And they’d probably say no. The program isn’t a toy.”
“Can the program be downloaded on my laptop at home?”
“It can be,” Cait said. “But you’ll still need admin’s permission. And I don’t think you realize how serious this can get.” Her tone shifted. “There are very smart and very dangerous people on the Deep Web. And they don’t like newcomers. Promise me you won’t get on there without me.”
I wanted to laugh at her sudden shift in concern, but the worry in her face made me believe she was actually quite serious. “Okay, I promise,” I said. “But let’s just download the program onto my laptop. We don’t have time to waste on admin’s red tape, so I’d rather ask for forgiveness than permission.”
“Okay.” She let out a sigh. “When do you want to do this?”
“Well….” I paused as I thought about what the day had in store for us. “I want to cross a few more warehouses off the list. How about after that? Do you have plans tonight?”
“No,” Cait shook her head. “I’m all yours.”
CHAPTER | ELEVEN
CAIT AND I spent the entire afternoon and early evening checking out vacant warehouses on the list Abram had given us. We batted oh-for-eleven at the eleven warehouses. Some of them were impossible to get into because the door hinges were so rusted. The ones we were able to get into didn’t match the warehouse from the video, or the inside was so dilapidated that it was clear no one had been there for years.
As the day progressed, I couldn’t help but feel that our canvassing was a waste of time. But, as Flu had pointed out, it was all part of the investigation process. Leaving no stone unturned meant coming up empty-handed nine times out of ten.
Feeling defeated and a little car sick, I drove us to my house. It was a little past
eight o’clock, and I wasn’t particularly looking forward to a night of Deep Web research. But if it led to even one answer, then maybe this entire day wouldn’t feel like such a failure.
Cait and I sat in my home office, both exhausted from the day. “Who,” “what,” “when,” “where,” “why,” and “how”—or the 5W-H—was written on the white board affixed to the bare wall. That wall, and this entire room, was one of the features that sold me on the house. Most people are interested in a large backyard or a spacious living room for entertaining. I, however, wanted a wall big enough to hold a white board that I could use to map out my investigations.
Cait sat at the desk and began to download the program we needed to search the Deep Web. I sat across from her in the oversized chair and rhythmically brushed the micro suede fabric with my fingertips. It was soothing, like drawing lines in the sand. We both faced the white board, and I stared at the sheer lack of information we had. Every time we got one step closer to solving a piece of the puzzle, another mile grew between us and the final answer.
We barely had a grasp of the “when” and the “where.” The “who” was still a mystery, and the “why” was taunting us like a class clown during recess. The videos—or the “what” in this investigation—were the only concrete facts we had. And although we might be on our way to discovering the killer’s “how” via the Deep Web, we were still just as clueless now as we were the day we received the first video.
“Are you ready?” Cait said as she turned her chair to face the monitor on the desk. I stood up and walked behind her chair, and I stared at the laptop’s monitor. The screen displayed a plain white website with a simple search bar in the center. “Do you have any masking tape or duct tape?” she asked. “Anything that isn’t clear?” She scanned the top of my desk as she fumbled through the bin that housed paper clips and rubber bands.
“Side drawer,” I said. Cait opened the top left drawer and pulled out the roll of masking tape. She tore off a piece about an inch long and placed it along the top of the monitor’s frame. “What did you do that for?” I asked.
“Webcams are easily hacked. You don’t want anyone looking in, especially without your knowledge.” Her deadpan tone was alive with earnest.
“I thought I was anonymous?”
“You are. But there’s no such thing as complete anonymity,” Cait said. “This site has a proxy server that reroutes your IP address to over a dozen places. When we start our search, you’ll notice how slow each page is to load.”
“What do you mean ‘a dozen places’?”
“The Surface Web is like following someone who’s driving a straight line from Point A to Point B. But an anonymous site, like this one here, is more like following someone from Point A to Point Z.”
“Okay….”
“Here, watch. If we search for social security numbers,” Cait said as she typed “SSN” onto the screen, “the search starts at your IP address, Point A. Then it goes to points B through Y—an IP address in Rome, then Spain, then Africa, then back Rome, then to a dozen other IP addresses before it finally lands on the search result. Point Z.”
As she explained, her search for social security numbers slowly loaded onto the screen. The speed was worse than the days of dial-up. Line by unbearably sluggish line appeared on the page, with more than fifty links to Deep Web pages on how to purchase fake identities.
“It’s just like buying flowers online,” I muttered. “You just type in ‘flowers,’ and a hundred florists come up.”
Cait nodded as she typed “drugs” into the search bar. At a snail’s pace, the results loaded onto the screen. Hundreds of links came up, describing various types of illegal drugs—along with prices, how soon they could be delivered, and customer reviews.
“Sellers receive feedback from their customers?” I asked aloud. It looked like any online marketplace—complete with red, green, or yellow stars next to the sellers’ accounts.
“Mm hmm,” Cait confirmed. “Red stars are new sellers, green stars are VIP sellers, and yellow stars are confirmed VIP sellers—they’re the most expensive but the most trusted by buyers,” she explained as she continued to scroll through the page.
“They sell everything,” I said, letting my astonishment ooze. “Oxy, heroin, cocaine…,” I rattled off as Cait continued to scroll. “Marijuana, Vicodin….”
“Crystal, Molly... they have it all,” Cait said once she reached the end of the page.
“How do people pay for this?”
Cait chuckled to herself. “It’s called cryptocurrency. It’s a digital payment system that can be transferred into real money. It’s like….” She paused. “Pac-Man eats pellets. Those pellets are worth points.”
“Okay….”
“That part really isn’t important. It would take all night for me to explain the payments.” Cait laughed. “We shouldn’t snoop on here for too much longer. Like I said, the people who monitor these sites don’t like newcomers—or voyeurs.”
“I can see why.” I took a few steps around the desk and returned to my chair.
We had been working on this case nonstop since ten o’clock this morning, and we had little to show for it. The warehouses were a bust, and this dip into the Deep Web was a frightening and potentially pointless journey. Frustration flowed through my body like water from a ruptured pipe. Images of Kristen Valeri’s murder flashed in my mind like clips from a horror film. But I had to keep climbing this hill. For her. I was exhausted, though, and my brain was on the verge of shutting down. I needed to walk away from the case and regroup—even if it was just for an hour.
“I know it seems like a long shot,” Cait said, “but I know this is where the answers are. I can’t explain it. It’s just a feeling I have.”
“I know that feeling,” I assured her. It was stronger than a woman’s intuition. It’s the proverbial sixth sense, which some investigators are just born with. For whatever reason, when we blindly walk down the right path, a feeling deep within the gut awakens. It screams “warm,” warmer,” “hot!” whenever we come close to the answer. “But I need to walk away from this, just to clear my mind for a bit.”
“That’s fine,” Cait said. “I have a little fuel left. Do you mind if I stay here to work?”
What did she mean by “stay here”? And how long did she want to stay? It was close to ten o’clock. And if Cait worked much longer, it would just make sense for her to sleep here. She could sleep in the spare room. I had an extra toothbrush she could use in the morning.
“That’s fine. Do you want to stay the night?” My voice went up an octave. “That way you can work as late as you want.”
Cait paused as if she seriously considered the offer. “A hotel bed or a bed here, it doesn’t matter to me.” She graciously smiled. “As long as it isn’t an inconvenience.”
“Not at all.”
“Okay,” she said. “In that case, a glass of wine might help with the search.” She smiled again.
“Is red okay?”
“That’s fine.” Cait nodded and typed on the keyboard.
“I have a few extra pairs of pajama pants.” I gestured to the closet next to the whiteboard. “You’re welcome to whatever you want.”
I walked down the short hallway that led past my bedroom and through the living room to the kitchen. I grabbed two wine glasses from the cupboard above the sink and a bottle of cabernet from the pantry. I returned to the office with two full glasses and found Cait scrolling through a site that I could only imagine was filled with perverse and illegal requests. I set the glass next to her and took a seat in the oversized chair.
The way she sat in the chair, leaned forward, her legs crossed at the knee, she was completely absorbed by the work in front of her. The ends of her hair fell tamely against her back, and her fingers punched each letter on the keyboard with rapid precision.
From time to time, she would pause and take a sip from her glass. I was afraid to ask questions for fear that I might break her c
oncentration. It was fascinating to watch how engrossed she was. I envied her in a way. She was able to take her hobby and turn it into a career. When we first met, the Internet craze had just begun. She quickly took an interest and worked her way from novice to expert in just a few months.
When Cait had finished her glass of wine, she stopped typing and looked at me. “I have an idea,” she said. Hesitation tainted her voice. “Do you trust me?”
“That depends on what with,” I said and drank the last bit of wine from my glass. Her sudden allusiveness had piqued my curiosity. Trust her with what? My life? I didn’t need any time at all to come up with the answer. I did trust her with my life. She was my partner. It was a given that I did. But did I trust her with my heart? Maybe I should answer that when I hadn’t just downed a glass of wine on an empty stomach.
“It involves your name.” Cait locked eyes with me. Her tone was sympathetic but stern.
“Okay…,” I reluctantly said.
“I want to search your name.”
“Why?” I asked. “What’s that going to do?”
“The videos are being addressed to you. Somehow the sender knows you… he trusts you, maybe.”
“I’m still not following.”
“I’ve been searching for snuff ads,” she said. “Nothing has come up. But I haven’t tried the forums.” She began typing again.
“Forums? Like, chat rooms?” I sat upright in the chair.
“Yes,” Cait answered. After several keystrokes, she forcefully struck the “enter” key with her pinky and waited for the results to load. Minutes of my life ticked away as I waited for the forum page to load. The screen scrambled as the results appeared, and flashes of black and green lines filled the monitor. Cait pressed the “escape” key then hit a series of keys before shaking the mouse, as if that would somehow bring the screen back to normal. “I lost the connection,” Cait said when the screen went completely black.
“Why did it go out?”
Skin Deep Page 17