"So did his dad, from the outside," Joe mused.
"True," Sam agreed. "It's early yet. We'll get a better crack at both of them soon enough."
"How come they didn't report him missing?" Lester asked.
"They didn't think he was," Sam told them. "He said he'd be in Vegas at a week-long convention, and that maybe he'd extend his stay to enjoy the sights afterward."
"It's been a hell of a lot longer than a week," Joe commented.
"I said the same thing," Sam agreed, adding, "I guess it was that kind of marriage. In her defense, I don't think the wife missed him any. When I told her he was dead, she took it pretty well-more like he was a relative they hadn't seen in a while. Sad, but not destroyed."
"Married how long?"
"Sixteen years."
Gunther cupped his chin in his hand thoughtfully. "He ever do this before? Go off to quote-unquote Vegas?"
"Nope-overnights only."
"Meaning what?"
"Business trips. I checked with his boss. Nashman didn't have the kind of job that called for any trips."
Joe straightened. "Huh."
"What?" Lester asked him.
"Just a thought," Joe told them both. "Earlier we played with the idea that both he and Rockwell came here following a recipe-come by bus, get two keys at the desk, stick one on the door, etcetera. How 'bout a part of that being that they were supposed to tell everyone they'd be gone for a week or more?"
Spinney was already nodding enthusiastically. "That's what happened with my guy. Told his roommates the exact same thing."
"Makes sense," Sammie agreed. "It would guarantee the trail being pretty cold before anyone like us started backtracking."
"Except," Joe then countered, playing devil's advocate, "why would they agree to that? It would sure make me suspicious."
"You aren't horny out of your mind," Sam answered. "We don't know what they were promised."
"Okay," Joe said to Lester. "How 'bout you?"
Spinney read from notes, sitting at his desk, while Sam settled down on the edge of hers to listen.
"Rockwell, or Wet Bald Rocky, was actually Norman Metz. Totally different outward appearance. Or maybe just further down the slippery slope than Red Fred. He was divorced, unemployed, living in a dump, and nobody's best pal among the other tenants I interviewed. They all thought he was weird and antisocial, what little they saw of him. He kept all hours, didn't go out much, and, like Fred, seemed to spend all his spare time on the Net."
"How did they know that?" Joe asked.
"When it was hot, he'd leave his door open a bit, to allow for circulation. The only thing people saw or heard was him tapping on the computer. Bit of an assumption, I suppose, but borne out by what I found once we got access."
"Which was what?" Sam asked.
"Like you did," he said, "but a lot messier. Metz had porno all over the place, including on the walls of the bathroom-that was gross; I didn't want to know what he did in there."
"You interview the ex?" Joe asked.
"Yup. She didn't live far away. She knew all about it, or him. That's why they broke up. He had a good job-prospects, as she called them-but got hooked on the Internet and went off the deep end. That's her take, by the way. I'm not playing shrink here. Anyhow, lost her, lost his job. All this wasn't long ago, which explains why his clothes were good but worn when we found him, and probably why he checked into the cheaper motel."
Once more Joe thought back to Hillstrom's comment about Rocky's-now Metz's-middle-class toenails. She'd been right-again.
Joe leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers against his chin, thinking over what they'd reported. "You check into Metz's background?"
Lester nodded, scanning his notes. "Not lily white like Nashman. He was busted in a prostitution raid, had a couple of minor drug possession charges. There was at least one propositioning-a-minor case that was dropped. There's probably more, since he didn't come from Ardmore originally-moved there only about ten years ago from further west. I've got a request in for a total records check."
Joe was shaking his head slightly. "If Metz was going down the tubes and his place was such a mess, with porno all over the walls, why did he use the Internet cafe? He had an online computer at home. What're we missing here?"
After a moment's contemplative silence on all parts, Sam suggested, "Maybe he was asked to."
Joe stared at the far wall as he spoke slowly. "I like that. All right, let's recap a bit. So far, in a nutshell, we have two possibly minor league perverts with an interest in Internet porn involving underage kids." He paused before asking, "Boys or girls mostly?"
"Girls," they both said.
"Okay-another overlap," Joe commented, holding up a fist and raising one finger at a time. "Child predators interested in girls; under instructions on how and why to come here; living relatively nearby to us." He let a second lapse before adding, "And dead under suspicious circumstances."
"In Brattleboro," Sam added.
"And as for Metz using the cafe," Joe continued, "maybe Sam's right. Nashman was secretive. That probably came through in his communications. Metz could've been told to use a neutral computer so nothing could be traced back to him."
Lester raised his hand as if answering a question in class. "I can confirm that Nashman was careful. After I got the subpoenas to go after Freddy's IP address, John Leppman told me that Freddy used what they call a shadow address, meaning that if we hadn't found Nashman's car and backtracked it to Waterbury, we'd still be clueless about him and Freddy being one and the same."
"Looks like we're after a homicidal avenger-a father?" Sam mused.
"Possibly," Joe agreed. "At least someone with a specific grudge fitting both victims. Both of you got their computers, right? The hard drives?"
They nodded in unison.
"Process them like you did the garage computer, then. Use Leppman if he's amenable, or the state police, if they have anybody, or anyone else who's credible and trained in this. Do it by the book, keep the prosecutor on board, and let's see if we can figure out who or what is the common denominator between Nashman and Metz. We do that, maybe we find out whoever got them traveling here in the first place."
He got up from his desk to look out onto the darkened streets of Brattleboro, or what little he could see of them. "Also, let's throw out a net for angry parental types across the state who've voiced any outrage against Internet predators. Not letters-to-the-editor types," he added, "although we may get there. But violence-prone ones-people who've been arrested or detained for acting out. Mothers, fathers, aunts, uncles-the works."
He reached up and wiped away where his breath had fogged the windowpane. "Somebody is seriously pissed off out there, and I have a sneaking suspicion they may not be through."
It was long past two in the morning by the time Joe drove by Silva's, knowing it was well after hours. Still, his spirits sank when he saw the lights out and the place closed for the night. Unsure he should risk aggravating his disappointment, he nevertheless swung by Lyn's apartment on his way home, his growing anticipation making him feel embarrassingly juvenile.
There was at least one light on in her window, in the living room, and, as he got out of his car, he could see the rosy flickerings of a dying fire reflected off the ceiling.
Quietly, he climbed the stairs to her apartment, his doubts growing as he went. He liked this woman very much-always had, in fact-and having seen Gail with a new companion, he now knew absolutely that both of them had moved on. Nevertheless, he was torn. With Leo still unconscious, his mother hanging from an emotional thread, and several major investigations crowding his brain, Joe knew for a fact that he was poorly placed to begin a new relationship.