Chapter 28

Washington

1:41 am GMT, 8:41 am Local

The Dupont Circle escalator serving the north end of the DC metro station was one hundred eighty-eight feet in length. It was not the longest in the city’s underground system, but one of the steepest as it descended into the thick metamorphic subplate beneath Massachusetts Avenue.

Carter Logan could have walked north from his small apartment to the red line stop at Woodley Park, but this time of year it was packed with tourists headed to the National Zoo. Plus, it was in the opposite direction of where he was headed, which was Gallaudet University in the northeast section of the nation’s capital.

Twenty minutes ago, he’d received a text from Dr. Ralph Finley, an assistant professor who had read Logan’s blog earlier that morning. The syndicator’s lawyers had given his article their tacit approval, and it had gone live shortly after Raleigh had left his apartment. As a computer scientist—and, Logan suspected, a rather proficient hacker—Finley had claimed some knowledge about altering the date and time of origin of digital files on a computer.

Logan had not intended to dive down the rabbit hole any further than he already had. He was merely a blogger rather than an investigative journalist, and his modus operandi was to raise the specter of suspicion and doubt, then watch as other news media, pundits, and talking heads piled on. This time, however, he felt something gnawing at the back of his brain, a manic sense that Wheeler’s death was connected to something darker and more sinister than a closet pedophile taking care of business…or pleasure, in this case.

He’d agreed to meet Dr. Finley on the steps of Hall Memorial Building, the center of the university’s Information Technology Department. He had stopped at an ATM along the way and retrieved a paltry forty dollars, just enough to get him through the upcoming weekend, if he budgeted wisely.

His preoccupation with finances was why he failed to notice the woman who leisurely had followed him down Connecticut Avenue from the steps of his apartment on Wyoming Avenue. She had done her best to look drab and mousy, baggy jeans and olive-green T-shirt, gray baseball cap without a logo, canvas bag slung over her shoulder. Maybe mid-thirties, although she was highly skilled at appearing almost any age she set her mind to—such as the other night, when she’d knocked on Justice Wheeler’s door and he’d eagerly let her inside his comped suite at the Franklin Pierce Hotel.

After Logan stopped at the cash machine, he momentarily glanced at the cover of USA Today in a street box, then took the escalator into the musty bowels of Dupont Circle. The woman tailing him didn’t want to follow him down there—being below ground was the one thing that truly terrified her—but today she had no choice. When she was a young girl, she’d regularly been chained to a support post in the basement of her childhood home as punishment for the smallest infractions that would set off her drunk stepfather: leaving her books on the kitchen counter, forgetting to bring in the mail, not wiping the spoon tray on the stove after dinner. One violation and down she would go into the dark cellar, and there she would remain for hours until the motherfucker called for a beer and remembered why she wasn’t there to fetch it for him.

Her target this morning was moving with a distinct purpose, as if he had an appointment with what he probably thought of as his destiny—somewhere along the Red Line, which meant she would have to go down into that gloomy tunnel if she were going to keep an eye on him.

She would then figure out her best strategy to have him die a death—one that would earn her a one hundred-thousand-dollar bonus—that ultimately and irrefutably would be ruled natural.

See you tonight in Samarra, she thought as she closed her eyes and timidly set her right foot on the top step.

Dr. Finley was already waiting outside the main entrance to Hall Memorial Building, a four-story brick-and-glass structure that Logan figured had been designed during the architect’s austere period.

As with many of the faculty and students at Gallaudet, the professor suffered from a hearing impairment that was medically diagnosed as moderately severe. Listening and speaking were difficult but, if Logan was patient and had sufficient time to spare, Finley had promised the meeting should prove valuable to his research on Colin Wheeler’s death.

The associate professor recognized Logan from his blog photo and approached him even as Logan was walking down Lincoln Circle toward him. They shook hands, and then Finley sent him a text:

Mr. Logan…thank you for coming.

I’m glad you contacted me, Logan texted back. And please call me Carter.

Then I’m Ralph. Let’s go in out of this heat.

Text messaging without question has changed the way people around the globe communicate with each other, but nowhere has it had a more profound effect than within the deaf community. Finley had already expressed this to Logan prior to this meeting, and they had agreed that using their phones to conduct a conversation would be much more practical than trying to use sign language or scribbling notes on index cards.

Follow me up to the lab where we can chat, Finley texted, motioning “up” with his thumb.

Show me the way, Logan replied.

Finley was a slight man, hair cut close to his scalp, black skin that glistened with perspiration from just a minute’s exposure to the DC summer sun. He wore tortoise shell glasses with thick lenses, and hearing aids were nestled in both ears. Logan wondered if he’d been born with impaired vision and hearing, or if he’d suffered through a childhood disease, something like meningitis or encephalitis. Either way, he knew it would be impolite to ask, and not germane to their pending discussion.

The lab was located at the end of a hallway on the third floor. Since this was the university’s information technology learning center, he wasn’t surprised to find himself in a room full of keyboards, computer servers, external drives, and monitors. It was cold and carried a slight electrical smell, the byproduct of all the voltage buzzing through cables and surge protectors, and the air conditioning itself. Lighting came from overhead tubes, the old-fashioned kind that flickered and buzzed when the ballast was giving out. Sanitation seemed to be a low priority, since food wrappers and empty coffee cups covered most flat surfaces.

This is where the magic happens, Finley texted, adding a smiling emoji with sunglasses.

Please don’t try to saw me in half, Logan replied.

Finley laughed when he saw the response, then typed, No rabbits, no hats. Please sit.

Logan pulled out a wheeled office chair and lowered himself into it. Finley did the same, then rolled himself over to what appeared to be the main computer console. His fingers flew across the keyboard in a flurry of movement and, when he finished, he texted:

As you might guess, deaf people aren’t big on small talk. Shall we begin?

Logan didn’t bother to text back, just nodded his response.

Good. As we discussed earlier, I believe you are right about the Wheeler porn jpegs. Dates were modified to look like random downloads.

Logan nodded again, and replied, Easy to do, if you know how.

Which I do.

Finley proceeded to walk him through the process of modifying both the creation dates and most recent modification times of a half-dozen image files. The process took all of thirty seconds, and when he finished, he turned to Logan and wrote, This is what I think they did to Wheeler’s laptop.

Another nod from Logan, who then replied, Who is they?

This caused the professor to smile, then tap his finger to his head. Smart thinking.

We’ll get to that in a minute, he texted. First, let me show you something.

The IT professor tapped a few more keys and the six images disappeared from the screen, replaced by browser pages that digitally stacked themselves one on top of the other. Each appeared to be a webpage from various media outlets or wiki organizations committed to exposing global conspiracies and evil cabals.

What are those? Logan texted.

Reports of other autoerotic deaths that appear to be suspicious. Take a look.

Finley wheeled himself aside, allowing Logan to read the first headline on the digital stack, which dated back to the previous summer:

State Legislator’s Death Reportedly Due To Autoerotic Mishap

Logan clicked on the page beneath it and found a similar story, titled:

Controversial Pastor Killed By Bungled Solo Sex Romp

And beneath that, three more:

Labor Minister Dies By Own Hand During Sex Game Gone Bad

Autoerotic Asphyxia Death Ruled An Accident

College Professor’s Death Was “Sexual Misadventure”

There were ten stories in all, but Logan got a strong sense that this represented just the tip of whatever iceberg Finley thought he’d found.

Think they’re connected? he asked.

Rather than respond directly, Finley brought up an Excel spreadsheet titled Correlations Between Autoerotic Deaths. It contained a good thirty rows, each of them containing the name of a deceased victim, and five columns spaced evenly across the screen. These were identified by headings that included “date,” “location,” “victim’s livelihood,” “images present,” and “possible motive.” Data had been filled in for each of the identified victims, with a simple “Y” or “N” indicating—Logan presumed—whether incriminating images had been found at the death scene.

It was the fifth and final column that caught his attention. Finley clearly had done some extensive—and impressive—research, providing a solid reason why someone might wish any of the thirty individuals dead. Adverse court rulings, revenge, gambling debts, embezzlement, abuse, power: every one of the victims had a possible motive entered in his final column.

Logan studied the spreadsheet line for line, then pushed back from the screen.

Interesting? Finley wrote

Very. Is this research or speculation?

Both. And admittedly imprecise.

How long have you been at this? Logan wondered.

Eight months, was the response. Ever since my brother died.

I’m terribly sorry, Logan wrote back. I had no idea. Is he on this list?

Finley gave a doleful nod, pointed at one of the names halfway down the screen. Korey Wright. Half-brother, really. He died last winter.

Logan looked at the screen again, saw that Korey Wright’s occupation had been Army MP. The cause Finley had given for his death was “whistleblower.”

What sort of whistle? he asked.

Something he saw in Turkey. Reported it, and ten days later he was dead.

Logan noticed that a “Y” had been included in the “Images Present” column next to his half-brother’s name. What sort of images? he inquired.

Finley averted his eyes to his lap, clearly embarrassed by the question—and the answer. Even though he obviously didn’t believe any of this bullshit, the doubt lingered.

Little boys, he texted.

An almost imperceptible nod was the only appropriate response. Then: If this is true, who do you think is behind it?

It is true, and I don’t think…I know.

The answer took Logan by surprise, and he studied Finley to gauge his mental balance. Behind those thick lenses he found certitude and conviction, no sign of doubt or hesitation at all.

Are you going to tell me?

Finley nodded, then texted: Yes, in case something happens to me.

Sounds sinister. Do you have proof?

No. But these people definitely exist, although they weren’t easy to find.

Show me, Logan requested, giving him a nod of encouragement.

Finley didn’t reply, just took up his position at the keyboard again. He opened a program from the index, typed in a series of commands, then hit enter. Finally, he followed up with a quick text that read: Welcome to what we call the deep web.