Mortal Fear

by Greg Iles

  Locating the main New Orleans police station is easy. It’s near Drewe’s alma mater, the Tulane Medical School, just behind the Orleans Parish criminal court building. Locating Detective Michael Mayeux is easier still. Homicide is on the third floor. The moment I mention my name to the desk sergeant—who sits behind a window of armored glass—I am whisked through a heavy door, through a squad room, down a corridor, and into a small office. Mayeux is seated at a scarred and cluttered metal desk, speaking urgently into a wire telephone. The office has no windows. It does have a computer, an overcrowded bookshelf, and, enshrined in the single clearing amid the chaos, a coffeemaker. A torn red sack of Community dark roast with chicory sits on top of it.

  “Help you?” Mayeux asks, hanging up the phone and taking a bite from a sugar-dusted beignet I hadn’t noticed.

  “I’m Harper Cole.”

  He freezes in midbite, then sets down the beignet, stands, and begins chewing quickly as he ushers me back into the hall and to another door. He is five eight or so, with good shoulders, noticeable love handles, and a bald spot on the back of his head. At the door he stops and turns back to me, his dark brown eyes reassuring like those of a coach before an important game.

  “Just tell these people what you know, Mr. Cole. Take your time and don’t leave anything out. If you get hungry or you need to take a leak, nod your head at me and we’ll break. It might get pretty intense. All of a sudden there’s a lot riding on what you have to say about these women.”

  “Hold on,” I say, raising my hands. “I thought I was coming down to talk to you. Who’s in there?”

  He gives me a crooked smile. “Don’t worry. I’ll be beside you the whole time. So will my partner, so will the chief.”

  Mayeux meant to reassure me, but he’s accomplished the opposite. “And . . . ?”

  His eyes move off my face. “The other guys will be feds. FBI.”

  “FBI? What for?”

  “These guys are from the Investigative Support Unit. What used to be called Behavioral Science. One special agent and a shrink. Plus two Fibbies from the local office. Remember what I told you. Two of the dead women were killed in California—one in L.A., one in San Francisco. Because their bodies were mutilated in a specific way, and for other reasons, the police out there decided they might be looking at some type of cult murders. They called in the Investigative Support Unit to assist them in coming up with a profile of their UNSUB.”

  “Their what?”

  “UNSUB. Unknown subject. Anyway, soon as I queried the names of those two dead California women, the Unit was on us like you know what. When they heard about you and the other women, they started foaming at the mouth. They think we’re looking at a serial murderer here. Maybe a whole new kind of killer. We got detectives flying in from all over the country right now. This is major-league stuff.”

  “So much for our friendly little chat.”

  Mayeux starts to turn the doorknob, then hesitates. A spark of Cajun mischief twinkles in his eyes. “Don’t take the shitty vibes personally. Chief Tobin officially requested the Unit’s assistance—he knows their chief—but NOPD and the local Bureau office have bad blood from way back. Not your problem. Just tell your story.” Mayeux winks. “Show time, cher.”

  Chapter 5

  Detective Mayeux’s warning understated the tension level. The bare police conference room reminds me of nothing so much as a room full of lead vocalists. Egos bumping against each other like tethered balloons as their owners strike practiced poses, unaware of any agenda but their own. Four men in business suits sit in a protective phalanx at the far end of a rectangular table. They might as well be wearing lapel tags that read “FBI.” The New Orleans police chief, an enormous black man, sports a starched white duty shirt that strains under his bulk. Four stars adorn the blue boards on each hamlike shoulder.

  To the right of the chief sits a rail of a guy who has to be Mayeux’s partner. He looks like lukewarm hell. Eyes like quarter slots on a Coke machine, hands quivering with the irregular tremor that signals serious sleep deprivation. I know the symptoms well. There is a busty Hispanic secretary beside him. Her left ear is cocked toward the chief, but her eyes stay on the young FBI agents.

  “Gentlemen,” says Detective Mayeux, “Mr. Harper Cole.”

  Mayeux is telling me names, but they don’t find a permanent memory address. Three of the FBI agents wear blue suits, the fourth charcoal gray. Does this mean he’s in charge? He’s clearly the oldest, yet he wears his graying hair longer than the others. Mayeux speaks his name softly, giving it unintended emphasis.

  Arthur Lenz. Doctor Arthur Lenz.

  Of course. Lenz is the shrink.

  Whenever I meet interesting strangers, I find myself casting them as stand-ins for the stars of my memory. Sometimes I meet an Edmond O’Brien or a George Sanders, maybe a Robert Ryan. I remember those guys from when I was a kid staying up late with my dad, watching Channel 4 out of New Orleans. So it’s a habit, trying to slot strangers into the celluloid templates in my head. Some people are just extras, like Mayeux’s partner and the secretary. But every once in a while I meet the genuine article. Someone who doesn’t just remind me of, say, Fredric March, he could be the man.

  Doctor Lenz might be the genuine article. He is physically tall—this is obvious even though he is seated—and yet . . . he is limited. Like an actor who never made the jump to the big screen. Perpetually middle-aged, WASP or WASP wannabe, expensive suit, heavy on control. His charisma is undeniable, but somehow he finishes out more TV than film.

  In the uncomfortable silence that follows the introductions, one of the blue-suited FBI men—Baxter, I think—gives the police chief an annoyed glance. Then he looks me in the eye and says, “Good morning, Mr. Cole,” giving the “mister” that special and contemptuous stress that military men reserve for civilians. “I’m Special Agent Daniel Baxter.”

  I didn’t notice Baxter at first because sizewise he blends with the other two blue-suits. But I see him now. And I get the feeling he’s hiding. In the Biblical sense, as in hiding his light under a bushel. He’s got weight behind his dark eyes, but he’s not a leading man. He’s a tough-as-nails sergeant from a black-and-white war movie, thrust into command by the death of his lieutenant.

  As if summoned to life by Agent Baxter’s words, the police chief greets me in a startling James Earl Jones basso. “Mr. Cole, I’m Chief Sidney Tobin. I thank you for coming down so early today. Needless to say, we’re all very interested in whatever you might have to say about these murders. You have our undivided attention.”

  Detective Mayeux sits, offering me the chair at the head of the table as he does, but I remain standing. I am six feet and one inch tall, 195 pounds, and I know my size gives me a psychological edge when I choose to use it. Today I figure I need any edge I can get.

  “Before I say anything,” I begin, “there is one very important thing I didn’t tell Detective Mayeux on the phone.”

  “What’s that?” rumbles the chief.

  “I’m pretty sure I know who killed those women.”

  Astonished silence blankets the room. Dr. Lenz breaks the impasse. “You have a name, Mr. Cole?”

  “And an address.”

  “Christ!” cries Mayeux. “Give it to me.”

  I open my briefcase and remove a single sheet of paper. From it I read: “David M. Strobekker. That’s S-T-R-O-B-E-K-K-E-R. Fourteen-oh-two Moorland Avenue, Edina, Minnesota. It’s a suburb of Minneapolis.”

  “What else you know about this guy?” barks Mayeux’s partner.

  “He has a checking account at the Norwest Bank in Minneapolis. That’s all I know for sure.”

  “Run it through the computer, Mike,” commands the chief. “Right now.”

  “I can access the Bureau computers by phone,” one of the younger FBI men tells Mayeux, who shoots me a furious glance on his way out.

  “I could be sued for giving you that name,” I tell them.

  “Let us worry about t
hat,” says Baxter.

  “The FBI will provide lawyers to defend me in a civil case?”

  Arthur Lenz’s face shows a trace of bemusement.

  “Let’s stick to these murders,” says the police chief. “Tell us how you came to know those six names and why you suspected the women might be in trouble.”

  The door opens and closes behind me. Mayeux reclaims his chair on the right side of the table. “Kiesha’s checking on Strobekker, Chief.”

  “Stop me if I say something you don’t understand,” I tell them.

  The two younger FBI agents smirk at this, but I’m fairly certain they’ll soon be strafing me with stupid questions.

  “I work for a company called EROS,” I say slowly. “That’s an acronym—E-R-O-S—which stands for Erotic Realtime Online Stimulation.” Seeing a couple of leers, I ignore the mythological connection and push on. “We’re an online service that caters to a wide range of clients interested in human sexuality. EROS is a New York–based corporation legally chartered in the State of Delaware—”

  “Who owns it?” interrupts Baxter.

  “A widow named Jan Krislov.”

  “What?”

  From the sick look on Daniel Baxter’s face, I can see that he’s familiar with Jan Krislov in some capacity. A flash of instinct tells me it’s her fierce championship of electronic privacy rights.

  “Please continue, Mr. Cole,” instructs Chief Tobin.

  “Anyone in the continental U.S. can have full online access to EROS twenty-four hours a day. We also have European subscribers who reach us through the Internet. There are three levels of forum traffic, which people access under aliases—code names—that ensure complete anonymity. Level One is the most diverse. Clients use it to discuss all sorts of sexual topics, from psychology to medical problems to privacy issues.”

  “Jan fucking Krislov,” mutters Baxter.

  I take a breath. Hearing no questions, I focus on Mayeux and continue. “Level Two is the first of the two fantasy forums. In Level Two clients write about their fantasies, correspond with each other through forum messages and e-mail, or sometimes just eavesdrop on the fantasies of other subscribers. The exchanges can be group or, if a client prefers, he or she can switch down to one-on-one contact, completely private. We call that a private room. There are also files available at all times from the online library. Popular exchanges from past sessions, stuff like that.”

  “Stroke files,” says Mayeux’s partner, opening his red eyes in a glare of challenge. “Right? They’re not talking to anybody real-time, so their hands are free. Jack-off time, right?”

  The man is crude, but not far off the mark. “That’s probably a fair assessment.”

  “What about Level Three?” asks Doctor Lenz, his eyes alight with fascination.

  “Level Three . . .” I often stumble here when explaining EROS to anyone outside the company. I never know quite how to describe Level Three. To be honest, I don’t monitor it that much. At least I didn’t until I began to have my suspicions about the “missing” women. Most Level Three traffic is nocturnal, and thus Miles’s gig. That’s another reason I allowed him to persuade me to put off acting for as long as I did.

  “Level Three,” I say again, “is what you might call the major league of sexual forums. The dialogues are pretty heavy, basically no-holds-barred. Don’t get the wrong idea—it’s not kiddy porn or anything, but—”

  “It’s hot,” Dr. Lenz finishes.

  “Pretty hot, yeah. Until three weeks ago we didn’t even allow transmission of graphic images, but believe me, words alone are powerful enough. We’re talking bondage, S and M, homoerotic sex, you name it. Straight sex too, of course.”

  “How much does it cost to join EROS?” asks Baxter.

  “A thousand dollars to join—”

  Mayeux whistles long and low.

  “—plus five hundred a month flat fee after that, with various payment arrangements. For women it’s three hundred a month. EROS has one–eight hundred access numbers, so nobody has any long-distance charges to worry about.”

  “All the women but Wheat were in their twenties,” says Baxter. “Where did they get that kind of money?”

  “Inherited it,” I reply. “A lot of rich girls on EROS. We get a lot of trophy wives too. They marry money—old money—fake orgasms at night, and log on to EROS during the day. It’s safer than adultery, especially in the age of AIDS.”

  “Karin Wheat was a member of this EROS thing?” Chief Tobin interrupts.

  “Yes. For about three months now.”

  “And those other women? All of them were members?”

  “Right. Most of them had been subscribing for more than a year at the time they dropped off the net.”

  “What exactly do you mean by ‘dropped off’?” Lenz asks.

  “Just a minute, Doctor,” says Chief Tobin, reasserting the temporary supremacy he enjoys in his headquarters. “Mr. Cole, you mean to tell me all these murder victims were members of this super-expensive computer club or whatever it is, and no homicide cop in L.A. or San Francisco or Houston or Portland or the other places managed to link these crimes with billing receipts from your company?”

  “I can explain that.” I pause, realizing I’m more interested in asking questions than answering them. “Honestly, I’m more surprised by the fact that the murders weren’t linked before now by physical evidence. No offense, but isn’t that what you guys do?”

  “Goddamn,” growls Mayeux’s partner.

  “Plenty of reasons for that,” injects one of the FBI agents.

  “Different weapon in every case,” says his blue-suited cousin. “Forensic evidence indicating multiple perps.”

  “Multiple perps at the same scene,” adds the first agent.

  “Which is rare,” says Baxter, glaring at the younger men. “Highly unusual.”

  “We’re still getting in evidence reports, Chief,” says Mayeux, “but the M.O. does seem to have varied a great deal in almost every case.”

  “As did the signature,” says Baxter.

  “The killer left notes?” I ask.

  Baxter shakes his head. “ ‘Signature’ is the offender’s behavior at the crime scene.” He looks at me closely, as if judging whether to continue. “Behavior beyond that strictly necessary to commit the crime. Individualized behavior.”

  “Oh.”

  “There is no signature in these cases,” Dr. Lenz says imperiously. “It’s all staging. But the trophies in California varied not an iota.”

  “Trophies?” I echo. “What kind of trophies?”

  “Why don’t you tell us?” Mayeux’s partner asks, pointing an index finger at my chest.

  The room goes silent, and in that instant I feel the first ripple of real fear in my chest. “Am I a suspect in this case?”

  Several looks are exchanged, none directed at me.

  “Do I need to call an attorney?”

  Finally Baxter breaks the silence. “Mr. Cole, I’m going to go out on a limb here. I am not merely a special agent. I’m the chief of the FBI’s Investigative Support Unit. We profile and help the police hunt violent serial offenders, whether they’re killers, rapists, arsonists, bombers, or kidnappers. When crimes of this nature are committed, the individual who reports any of them is always considered a suspect. Serial offenders frequently report their own crimes as part of an attempt to avoid being found out, or to gain enjoyment by assisting in an investigation of themselves. In this case you’ve reported all the crimes. When I was apprised of this situation last night, the Unit began an exhaustive check of your background, including all your movements during the past two years. It sounds drastic, but it’s standard procedure.”

  Baxter glances at his watch, which he wears with the face inside the wrist, military style. “Dr. Lenz and I have spent the past few hours putting together a preliminary profile of the offender in these murders. And frankly, it’s one of the most difficult jobs we’ve ever undertaken. At this point I won’t sa
y why, but Dr. Lenz believes that you are probably not the killer in this case. I concur. I’m not saying you couldn’t be involved in some way—it would be irresponsible of me to rule you out—but I’m willing to proceed today on the assumption that you are what you claim to be—a Good Samaritan coming forward in an attempt to see justice done. Obviously, other women’s lives are at risk as we speak. An atmosphere of cooperation is the best thing for all of us at this point. If you wish to consult an attorney, that is your right, but at this time no one here”—Baxter fires a sharp glance at the New Orleans police officers—“intends to charge you with any crime.”

  When he finishes, no one speaks. Everyone but Baxter and Lenz seems to be looking at his shoes. I may be making the worst mistake of my life, but I decide to trust Baxter, at least to the extent of not calling an attorney.

  “What kind of trophies?” I ask again.

  “An unusual one,” Baxter says thoughtfully.

  “Maybe he’s a taxidermist,” cracks Mayeux’s partner, winking at Mayeux.

  “Make a note of that, Maria,” says Chief Tobin, and watches the brunette pounce on her notepad.

  “Taxidermists do not mount glands,” Dr. Lenz says scornfully.

  “Houston P.D. says he took the whole goddamn head,” snaps Mayeux, unwilling to tolerate the psychiatrist’s superior tone. “And that’s what he did here.”

  I am looking for a place to sit down, but no one notices. I whisper, “Someone cut off Karin Wheat’s head?”

  “That’s classified information,” says Baxter.

  Mayeux snorts at the spook-speak.

  “That is not accurate, Mr. Cole,” corrects Chief Tobin. “Someone did cut off Ms. Wheat’s head, but that information is not classified. Still, I would strongly suggest that you keep the knowledge to yourself.” The chief shoots me a very clear look: If you fuck up my investigation in any way, I will hound you to a pauper’s grave. “Now,” he says, his gentle bass voice filling the conference room like soft light. “What about my question? Credit card receipts from EROS, canceled checks, phone bills, and suchlike? Why didn’t this link the crimes?”