“You’ve been to cons?” Griffith asked, surprised.
“A couple,” Donahue admitted, shrugging. “Mostly to get signatures from authors I like. And, hell, there are people there that you don’t have to explain who Anne Rice is,” he added with a chuckle. “Or Robert Heinlein or Poul Anderson.”
“We’re trying to build a suspect list based on this connection,” SAIC Halliwell said. “The profilers think we’re looking at a person between the ages of eighteen and thirty. With the other items, hair color, skin color and height, we can begin building a suspects list. If we can find out who has been attending the cons. Besides the victims, obviously.”
“Depending on the con, you could be looking at anywhere from six hundred to forty thousand attendees. That doesn’t narrow it down much. Even if you just look at the ‘white males with brown hair.’ ”
“It’s more than we had,” the SAIC said.
“No traces of makeup left by the perp,” Donahue pointed out. “So our perp might be mildly intelligent and not dressing the part. Or he might not be a Goth. Goths generally hang out with Goths.”
“Which is why I’m thinking LARPer,” Griffith argued. “Goths interact with non-Goths more in LARPing than anywhere else. And there are non-Goth look people that hang with the Goths.”
“Hell, all of the conventions will have lists of who attended,” Donahue said, shrugging. “Get those and you can narrow it down quite a bit.”
“We tried that,” Halliwell admitted. “The first problem is the people that run the conventions were pretty unwilling to cough up the lists…”
“I can imagine,” Donahue said, grimacing. “Con-goers and organizers tend to be… well, I guess it could best be put as either libertarian or liberal. Giving the FBI lists of their attendees has to really go against their grain.”
“The other problem is that most of them don’t have good records of people that just show up,” Halliwell said. “They don’t require ID for example. And although we had matches on people at several of the cons, no matches on all of them that met the description and profile of the perp. Also no across-the-board matches on hotel reservations.”
“So now what?” Donahue asked.
“We’re going to insert agents at cons,” Halliwell said, shrugging. “Undercover, obviously. Their task will be to try to ID suspects that meet the description and profile. Pictures and names when possible.”
“We’ll be looking for people that are ‘day-trippers,’ “ Griffith pointed out. “Most of the cons have a different badge for that. But it’s not guaranteed; they might be rotating names some way. Someone who is interacting with the Goths but may not be dressed as one.”
“Each of you will be assigned a con,” Halliwell said. “And we’ll keep sending agents to others, trying to build a list, until we close the case or the con angle proves to be a bust.” He paused and frowned then shook his head. “Donahue, Griffith, you got any suggestions on how to go undercover to a con?”
“Yeah,” Laidlaw said, grinning. “Where do we get our Klingon outfits?”
“What you wear doesn’t really matter,” Donahue said, frowning. “But you have to have a reason to be there, other than to laugh at the geeks. Or you’re going to stand out like a God damned sore thumb and blow the investigation. Just the FBI look is going to make you stand out. The clean-cut, short-hair, erect bearing is going to peg you as a military guy, maybe cop, right away. You’d be amazed how many of both go to the cons — about half the guys who wear Storm Trooper armor are local cops for example — but they generally try to keep a low profile in that area. And if you’re going to be going around asking questions, you’re going to have to have a reason for it. Depending upon the con, and who is going, I’d suggest an intensive reading course in one of the author guests. Or if it’s a media con, get familiar with one of the TV shows or movies that one of the guests was in. Get a book or a picture signed. Go to a couple of the panels. If you’re gothing, get to know some of the bands and understand the attitude, even if you don’t have it. If it’s a gaming con, you’re going to have to be able to game and that’s a skill I don’t know if any of you have. Don’t laugh at the geeks. Don’t go around with the ‘get a life’ attitude or, again, you’re going to blow the investigation. Laidlaw, you golf, right?”
“Sure,” the agent said, frowning.
“Can you explain why you go out to chase a little white ball around a course?” Donahue asked. “You get paid money to do that? No. You do it for fun. Your friends do it. When you’re done you get to hang out at the nineteenth hole and drink beer and lie about your game. That’s all that cons are. It’s where people with similar interests come together. They’re not your kind of people, they’re their kind of people. And they’re just as… disparaging of golfers as you are of them. And since most of them have a better vocabulary than you do, they can be disparaging better, trust me. Get that in your head, get some background, and you’ll be fine. Dress casual, really casual, and take good walking shoes.”
“There’s one other potential link,” Halliwell said. “An author called K. Goldberg has been a guest at seven of the nine conventions. You read any of his stuff, Donahue?”
“Her,” the agent said, shrugging. “No, but I’ve heard of her.”
“The next convention she’s at is in Greensboro in a month,” Halliwell said, correcting himself. “Read some of her books, bill them to the Bureau. That’s your con.”
“Great,” Donahue said, grumpily. “I’m supposed to infiltrate Goths. Why did it have to be Goths?”
Barbara Everette dropped Allison off at dance class with a sigh of relief and headed towards the Wal-Mart shopping center on the edge of town. She pulled onto Mississippi 15 and began weaving through traffic, pushing the Expedition up to well over the posted speed limit.
As she approached the Wal-Mart she looked at her watch and frowned, then glanced at the gas gauge. The Expedition had plenty of gas but it was time to check in.
She pulled out of the left-hand lane, inserting the vehicle into a small space between two pick-up trucks, and then whipped into a turn lane, pulling into a battered Quik-Mart. She topped off the tank with a couple of gallons of gas, then went into the store, picked up a Starbucks vanilla Frappuccino and headed to the counter.
“Hello, Mrs. Everette,” the dark-skinned owner of the store said, smiling. He took the twenty she gave him and made change for the Frappuccino and the small amount of gas. Part of the change was a gold coin that appeared at first glance to be a Sacagawea dollar.
“Thank you, Mr. Patek,” Barbara said, nodding. “Go with your god.”
“And you with yours, Mrs. Everette,” the man said, bowing slightly.
Barbara pulled back into traffic then drove to the Wal-Mart shopping center. Instead of getting out right away, she opened up the coin, wrestling with it slightly to get it to pop, and unfolded the note inside.
“Religious Retreat. Foundation for Love and Universal Faith, Women of Faith Division. Invitation and tickets by mail, Tuesday or Wednesday. Mission of one week plus duration to follow.”