He looks at me for a moment longer, then does what he's learned to do in the face of horror: He turns to his computer and goes to work. A minute later, he has what I need. "I have an address for the owner of darkhairedslut.com. It's an apartment in Woodland Hills."
"Do you have a name?"
"No, sorry. It's registered to a business. Probably a sole proprietorship."
"Alan. Call LAPD for that area. Tell them to check it out. If it turns out that she's there, I want them to close off the scene and let us know. No one in or out."
"Got it."
"It wasn't obvious on this video," James says. "At least not to me."
I frown at him. "What wasn't obvious?"
"That it was two killers, and not just one."
I look at him in surprise and then nod. He's right. The fact that I had to ask him what he meant was proof that his observation was sound. If Jack Jr. had company, this time it wasn't visible to the naked eye.
"But they were both there," James says. "I can feel it."
I look at him again, nod again. The dark train rolls on, chug-chug and choo-choo, and James and I remain firmly aboard. I turn to Leo. "I want to take a quick look at her Web site."
Callie looks bemused, or tries to. "I never thought I'd be ordered to surf porn, Smoky. This will make the second time."
"Something you usually do only at home?"
"Very funny."
It's a game attempt at gallows humor, but it falls flat. The images are still too vivid.
"Here it is," Leo says.
We move our chairs so we can see the site he's called up on the screen. The color scheme is a soft brown. I see a picture of the woman we watched Jack Jr. destroy, dressed in panties and nothing else. Her butt is facing us, cocked in an age-old saucy pose. She peers over her shoulder, smiling a coy smile, while one finger is cocked in a "come hither" way. She looks like someone doing porn. But she also looks pretty and alive and human. Unworthy of what we'd just seen. I'M A DARK-HAIRED SLUT, a logo states across the top of the screen. To the right of her picture are additional, smaller photos. While the truly explicit is only hinted at, the message is clear. This is not about erotic posing or cheesecake shots. There are strategically censored photos of oral sex, anal sex, sex with other women, sex in groups. Smaller type confirms this: I love to suck cock and swallow cum, I live for gang bangs and getting fucked up the ass, and I absolutely LOVE to eat PUSSY!
"Versatile young woman," Callie remarks.
I shake my head. "I'll say."
Further graphics let us know that she does live cam shows and that she throws sex parties for her fans. Members only, of course. Leo takes us through another two pages of this, leading toward the final destination of the sign-up page.
"Now what?" I ask. "I'm not using my credit card for this."
"I don't think we'll need to," Leo says. "I have a hunch."
He clicks on the link for members entry. A box appears on the screen, asking for a user name and password.
"I bet that he picked the same user name and password for this site that he did for your friend's. The user name was jackis and the password was fromhell. " He types these in as he says them and hits the OK button. A page appears that says Welcome to my hot members-only area! "Voila,"
Leo says.
"Good thinking."
He scrolls down the page, which is essentially a menu of the features offered within this part of the site. Things like personal photos, my video clips, my live cam, my amateur friends. The one that catches my eye is photos from the member sex parties.
"I wonder . . ." I muse.
"What, honey-love?" Callie asks.
"The member sex parties . . . I'm thinking that he might not have been able to resist that opportunity. Having sex with her, knowing that he'd be killing her soon--it's something I can see him doing."
"It would heighten the anticipation. The sense of power he felt."
This is a common thread for serial killers. The tracking, the watching, the planning; these things can be almost as intoxicating for them as the finale.
"I think there's a high probability that that's true," James says. "We could download all the photos. Extract the faces of all the men and run them through some facial-recognition databases." He shrugs. "It's not all that thorough yet, but it's worth a try."
Anyone who thinks law enforcement is all excitement doesn't understand this part of what we do. We'd like to move at a dead run, but we are forced to be methodical. We cast out nets and lines, like fishermen. Not one, but many, over and over and over. Look for prints, one net. Warrant for a subscriber list, another. Facial recognition, yet another. Again and again, casting and pulling in, usually coming up empty. Not caring what we catch. A shark or a minnow, whatever, anything that will take us toward the killer. It's a race of turtles, measured in inches, not yards.
"Do it. You and Leo."
I walk over to Alan. "You reach LAPD?"
"I did, and I'm going to meet them there."
"What about Dr. Child? Did you reach him?"
"Yeah. He was pretty grumpy at first, but all I had to do was give him a quick rundown of what we found today. He got interested fast. Wants a copy of the report couriered over to him tonight, and he said he'll be ready to see you on it in the morning."
"Good. Callie, get that report from Gene and make sure it gets to Dr. Child."
Callie heads for a phone as Alan heads out the door. I go to my desk, rummaging through it until I find my address book. I look through it, finding the phone number I want.
Tommy Aguilera. A former Secret Service agent, now working as a private security consultant. We'd met during a case involving a senator's son who had developed a taste for rape and murder. Tommy ended up having to shoot him, and in the political firestorm that followed, my testimony was the only thing that kept him from losing his job. Tommy had said to let him know if I ever needed anything, with emphasis on "anything" and "ever."
I dial the number, thinking about him. Very, very serious guy. A constant poker face. Speaks in a soft voice, but it's not the softness of someone who is shy. More the softness of a snake confident in its ability to strike. He answers after four rings. "This is Tommy." The voice is exactly as I remembered it.
"Hi, Tommy. It's Smoky Barrett."
A pause. "Hey, Smoky. How are you?"
I know Tommy is being polite. It's not that he doesn't care how I am. It's just that he's not a small talk kind of guy.
"I need your help on something, Tommy."
"Tell me what you need."
I explain it to him, telling him about Jack Jr., how he'd been in my house and appeared to be following me.
"There's a strong possibility he's tracking you electronically."
"That's one part of it. If he is, I want to know. But I don't want to let on that I know."
Silence for a moment. "I understand," he says. "You want me to tail you."
"Right."
"When?"
"First I want you to check my vehicle and my home for bugs or tracking devices. Then I want you to shadow me. This could be an opportunity to catch him. Maybe the one place he's being foolish." I hesitate for a moment. "To hell with it. You should know. There are two of them."