Tuesday, September 17
Rutherford Towers
Phoenix, Arizona
“I MADE COFFEE.” Caitlin gave Spense the perkiest smile she could muster when he appeared in the kitchen. Her side had ached most of the night, and between that discomfort and her preoccupation with the case, she’d hardly slept.
Spense, on the other hand, had apparently slept rather well. They kept their doors open, and she’d heard him snoring from his room. Maybe something had triggered his allergies, or maybe he’d just slept in the wrong position, but snores or no snores, she’d found his presence reassuring.
“Thanks.” He snagged the pot and poured himself a cup. “You’re up early. D’ya sleep okay? Because I thought I heard you snoring.”
“That was you.”
He grinned. “Nope. I think it was you.”
Pushing her hair out of her eyes, she arched one eyebrow. It certainly had not been her. And it was time to change the subject to the thoughts that had kept her up all night. After the interrogation of Silas Graham yesterday, they’d had a long conversation with both Baskin and Thompson, filling the men in on the Man in the Maze. One of many questions the detectives had posed to them was how, if the Man in the Maze truly existed, did he connect with Kramer?
“I mean there’s not exactly a Match dot com for serial killers. So how did they find each other?” Caitlin began the conversation in the middle of her thoughts, as if Spense could read her mind.
But maybe he really had read her thoughts because he’d picked the thread right up. “My guess would be either personal contact or the Internet. You’d be surprised how many truly creepy sites are thriving out there. Which brings up another point. According to our profile, Kramer knew the Man in the Maze might be after him but he didn’t seem to know his true identity. If he had, I believe he would’ve given you a name.”
He took a sip of coffee, and she noticed he was using the cup Jenny had brought over—the one with the Man in the Maze motif. Her mind racing with possibilities, she pulled out a chair and sat down hard. Spense fixed her with an expectant stare. As if waiting for her to catch up . . . and suddenly she did. Good Lord. How had she missed it before? Of course they met online. That’s why Kramer didn’t know his real name—he only knew him by his handle.
“You think the Man in the Maze finds his students . . .” As soon as the word popped out of her mouth, her hand went to her chest. This was one of those little gems that comes as a gift. Apparently while she’d tossed and turned last night, her subconscious mind had been solving the riddle.
Students.
It was all so obvious now. Teachers didn’t usually confine themselves to one student. And the Man in the Maze from the legend had pupils, not a pupil. Spense motioned for her to continue like he was one step ahead and waiting for her to catch up. Maybe he’d been doing more than just snoring last night. “So like a cyber kill club or something? You think there may be other students? Because if there are . . .” She realized there were troubling sites out there, and illegal ones, too, but she’d never understood how they operated without being caught.
“If there are more “trainees,” our UNSUB could be the Man in the Maze or any one of his minions.” Spense took a long slurp of coffee and gave her an appreciative look. “This is damn good, Caity.”
She didn’t see how Spense could remain calm. Her legs were bouncing up and down beneath the table. She wanted to jump up and do something. But what? “Okay. If there’s a kill club, and if they have a Web site or loop or whatever, can’t you just call up one of your cyber guys at the Bureau and have him track the club down?”
“I’m afraid it’s not that simple. Yes, the Bureau has their eye on this kind of thing. There’s an entire FBI division devoted to cybercrime, and dozens of specific cybercrime task forces, but it’s not that easy to locate these subversive groups. They come across our radar on occasion, but other times, we’re not that lucky. Have you ever heard of the deep web?”
He wasn’t tugging his ear to signal semirhetorical question, so she answered, “No.”
“Then let me explain it in terms a psychiatrist can relate to. You believe in the power of the subconscious mind, right?” This time he did tug his ear, so she kept quiet. “Well, these groups operate in the cyberspace equivalent of the subconscious mind.”
Intent on this new information, her legs settled down, and her mind homed in on his words. “Go on.”
“The brain contains all sorts of information that can’t be easily accessed. Most of the information is below the surface, and we often need a specific trigger—like a smell or an old song—to access those memories or that bit of knowledge. And sometimes, we need special techniques, like hypnosis to get to them. The deep web is a lot like that.”
Instantly, she got it. Because Spense really had found an analogy she could wrap her head around.
“There’s an enormous underground network in cyberspace. Just because you can’t see it doesn’t mean it’s not real. It’s there, only hidden. You can’t get into the deep web with a Google search, because the sites aren’t registered anywhere. And they operate mainly through file sharing, so there’s no static page.”
“But, if the sites are not searchable, that means they’re not accessible, doesn’t it? So how do people get to them?” Maybe she hadn’t gotten it after all.
“Oh, they’re accessible all right. You just have to find the right trigger. By typing the right words into the address bar, it’s possible to stumble upon a particular site, and there are other ways if you know what you’re doing. But more likely a member who knows you, in person or from another site, recruits you. Most clubs require you to protect their privacy once they allow you in. There are programs that use layers of encryption, sometimes called onion routing, to direct traffic through a network of volunteer relays, making it extremely difficult to track a user’s location. Anyway, that’s my lesson for the day. Deep web for dummies.” He spread his palms. “Not that you’re . . .”
She laughed at his sudden sheepishness. “No offense taken. I appreciate you dumbing it down for me.”
A deep-web kill club.
That sounded like fiction, but she recalled a recent case . . . that one too had involved a cop . . . like Kramer. The group had operated in the guise of a fantasy role-play site. From what she’d read, many of the members were indeed just engaged in role-playing. She touched her throat. If the Man in the Maze really had his own club, and Kramer had been a part of it, how many of the members were just creepy role-players, and how many were the real deal—psychopaths out hunting their prey? And even if they rounded up all the club members, would the authorities ever be able to tell the difference? “They can’t all be real killers in the club. Surely some think it’s just a game.”
“Undoubtedly. And that makes it damn hard to go after them proactively. How can you convict anyone from the club for their part in things? Is it a conspiracy to commit murder or mere fantasy? I’m not sure anyone can really know . . . until somebody turns up dead.”
Spense’s phone buzzed again. He looked at it and held up one hand. Then he set his cup down too hard in its saucer, and it clattered, sloshing coffee on the tablecloth. Heaving a rough sigh, he said, “Saddle up, Caity. We gotta roll.”