I stare at him for a moment, letting this sink in. We all do. Finally, I nod. "Thanks, Leo. So--does everyone know what they're working on?"
I look around. "Good."
The door to the office opens, breaking the moment. I glance to see who's coming in, and concern floods me.
Marilyn Gale is standing in the doorway, looking worried. A uniformed policeman is standing next to her, holding a package in his arms.
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I T CAME AN hour ago," she says. "Addressed to you, Agent Barrett, care of me. I figured . . ." she trails off, but we all understand. Who else would be sending something for me to Marilyn's address?
We're back in the office. Everyone is crowded around the desk, looking at the package while sneaking curious glances at Marilyn. Callie notices the latter, and her exasperation at this seems to overtake her concern about the package.
"Oh, for heaven's sake," she says. "This is my daughter, Marilyn Gale. Marilyn, meet James, Alan, and Leo, lower functionaries."
Marilyn grins at this. "Hi," she says.
"Did you intercept it?" I ask the policeman, a Sergeant Oldfield.
"No, ma'am." He's a solid-state-looking guy. Been around, very comfortable being the police, and not cowed by myself or the FBI in general. "Our assignment was to watch the residence. And Ms. Gale when she goes out, of course." He jerks a thumb at Marilyn. "She came to us with the package, explained her concerns, and asked us to transport her and the package here."
I turn to Marilyn. "You didn't open it, did you?"
Her face grows serious again. "No. I didn't think I should. I mean, I've only done my first year in criminology"--I see Alan and Leo exchange glances at this--"but even if I hadn't, all you have to do is watch some TV to know you don't mess with possible evidence."
"That's good, Marilyn," I say. I choose my next words with care. I don't want to frighten her too much, but they have to be said. "That's not the only reason, though. What if he decided to do something crazy?
Like send a letter bomb."
Her eyes go wide. She gets a little pale. "Oh--I . . . Jesus. I mean, it never occurred to me . . ." She gets paler. Thinking of her baby, I bet.
Callie puts a hand on her shoulder. I see anger and concern in Callie's eyes. "Nothing to worry about now, honey-love. It was x-rayed by security before you came up, right?"
"Yes."
"That's exactly the kind of thing they look for."
Marilyn's color is coming back. She recovers fast. So then what we have here, I think, is something new and exciting. And maybe not pretty to look at.
"Callie, why don't you take Marilyn to lunch?"
She gets the message. I'm going to open this up; there could be something in here that Marilyn doesn't need to see.
"Good idea. Come on, honey-love." She grabs Marilyn by the arm, moving her toward the door. "Where's little Steven, by the way?"
"My mom's watching him. Are you sure you can leave right now?"
"It's fine," I say to her, smiling though I don't feel it inside. "And thanks for bringing this by. If this happens again, call us. Don't touch the package."
Her eyes widen again, and she nods. Callie hustles her out.
"Mind if I hang around, ma'am?" Sergeant Oldfield asks. He shrugs.
"I'd like to see what's in the package. Get a feel for the perp."
"Sure. As long as you add intercepting packages to your list of duties in the future." I look at him. "Not a rebuke, just a request."
He nods. "Already done, ma'am."
I open a drawer, reach in, and extract some latex gloves, slip them on. Now I focus on the package. It's another legal-size manila envelope. The familiar block printing in black ink is on the front: ATTN.: AGENT SMOKY
BARRETT. The package is about a half to three quarters of an inch thick. I turn it over, check the flap. Not sealed. Just the brad holding it closed. I look up. Everyone is silent, waiting. Might as well open it. The letter is on top. I rifle through the other contents, a brief look. My eyes narrow at the sight of a few pages of printed photos. Each picture shows a woman, naked from the waist up, wearing panties, some tied to chairs, some tied to beds. In every case, a hood is over the woman's head. Something else is in the envelope, and my heart sinks. A CD. I turn my attention to the letter. What now? I think, bleak. Greetings, Agent Barrett!
I realize this was circuitous, being sent care of Ms. Gale. But that served just one purpose: to continue to push my prior point home. That no one you love is safe, should I decide to reach out and . . . touch them.
No, this is all for you, Agent Barrett. Please bear with me as I walk you through it. There is a philosophical basis behind it, some history you need to understand, if you are to grasp these contents in their en- tirety.
Do you know what the most searched-for word on the Internet is?
Sex. Keeping that in mind, do you know what one of the other most sought-after words is? Rape.
With the millions who access the Web, with all that exists upon it, two of the things most looked for, most desired, are sex and rape. What does this mean? One could argue, with the demographics of the Net, that it means there are a million men sitting in their homes right now, thinking about the subject of rape. All sweaty palms and tents in their trousers. This is something, is it not?
Now let me take you down another, related path. A new type of Web site has begun to proliferate on the Internet. Sites devoted to men sharing their hatred of women with each other. Let us take the site aptly named "revengeonthebitch.com." On this Web site, jilted men post compromising photos of their former girlfriends or wives. Nude photos. Sexual photos. All with one end in mind: degradation and embarrassment. Below each photo, others are invited to post their opinions. I've enclosed a sample of this, the first attachment. Give it a once-over. I find the attachment he's referring to. At the top is a picture of a smiling, brown-haired woman. She's twenty or twenty-five. She's naked, legs spread for the camera. The caption says: My stupid, cheating girlfriend. One skanky fucking slut. Below it is a listing of responses. I read through them.
CALIFORNIADUDE: WHAT A FUCKING SKANK! BE GLAD SOMEONE
JAKE 28: SHOULD HAVE SLIPPED THAT BITCH SOME ROOFIES AND
PASSED HER OFF TO ME AND MY CREW TO BUTT-RAPE HER! SLUT!
RIZZO: ROOFIES RULE!
DANNYBOY: I'D HIT IT!
TNINCH: NICE COOZE. TOO BAD SHE'S SUCH A CUNT.
HUNGNHARD: DO WHAT I DO! SHOVE YOUR COCK IN HER MOUTH AND
I put it aside. I've read enough. The careless hatred is nauseating.
"Wow," Leo whistles. "That is incredibly fucking disturbing."
I continue reading.
Revelatory, isn't it? So, what do we have in our cauldron, then? Let's take stock: sex and rape, hatred of women as a pastime. Mix them to- gether, and what do we get?
An environment perfectly conducive to a meeting of the minds. Minds like mine, Agent Barrett.
True, most of these minds are puerile, unworthy. But if you are will- ing to search, as I am, to poke, coddle, cajole . . . you can find a few who are poised to take that leap to the other side. All they are lacking, in most instances, is little bit of encouragement. A mentor, if you will. I feel my stomach beginning to churn. Some part of me thinks I know where this is going.