Authors: Greg Iles
What does that mean as far as tracing Brahma?
Miles chuckles softly. It means it takes an
actual human being
running up and down the aisles between those switches to trace the connections. With digital tracing, you can move through twenty states in a couple of minutes without getting permission from anybody. But to authorize an actual human being to chase down mechanical connections in one of these little towns, you have to have a court order.
What?
Miles is laughing harder. Heres the brilliant part. To get that court order, you have to prove that a crime is being committed
in the state where that town is
. Its one hell of a buffer system, and Brahma knows it. Rather than going higher and higher techwhich is what most hackers do and which is ultimately a no-win gamehe goes to the simplest possible solution. He goes
analog
. Its exactly what Id do, man.
Exactly what Id do
.... So what happens now?
Baxter is strong-arming a Wyoming judge as we speak, trying to get permission for a local yokel phone guy to do the trace.
How long will that take?
Hel-lo. Miles sighs with almost sexual satisfaction. Your question just became academic. The Strobekker account just went dead. Brahmas history. Miless voice rises to the exaggerated bellow of a game show announcer: The switches in Wyoming are
no longer connec-ted
!
I picture blue-suited FBI agents in the EROS office
staring at Miles with murder in their eyes. What alias was he using?
Kali this time. I havent seen that one before.
C-A-L-I?
No.
K
-A-L-I.
Whos Kali?
The Hindu mother goddess, consort of Shiva, which is one of his other aliases. Kalis an ugly black bitch. Wears a belt of skulls, carries a severed head and a knife, has six arms. Shes the betrayer, the terrible one of many names. Weird that hed log on with a female alias.
Severed head? Christ. Are you an expert in this Eastern stuff or what?
Ive dabbled. Read the Vedas, the Upanishads, some other things. They make a lot more sense than the chickenshit dualism of Christianity. You know, you really should
I dont have time for it, Miles.
Neither do I. Someone just told me the Wise and Wonderful Oz wants me on another line.
Oz?
Arthur Lenz. Hes the man behind the curtain on this thing, isnt he?
I guess. Ive got to run, Miles. Keep me posted. But use my answering machine, not e-mail.
Dont sweat it. Nobody reads my e-mail if I dont want them to. Not even God.
I tear off Lenzs fax and run for the Explorer. I believe nobody reads Miless e-mail if he doesnt want them to, but what Im thinking as I crank the engine is this:
Maybe somebody should.
I am crossing the Washington Beltway in a yellow taxi driven by a black lay preacher. Lenz told me I would be met at Dulles Airport by FBI agents, but none showed, so I took the cab. The driver tries to make conversationhe still knows a lot of people from down home, meaning the Southbut I am too absorbed in the object of my journey to keep up my end of the exchange.
Lenzs private office is supposed to be in McLean, Virginia. All I know is that my lay preacher is leading me deep into upscale suburbia. Old money suburbia. Colonial homes, Mercedeses, Beemers (700 series), matched Lexi, tasteful retail and office space. The driver pulls into the redbrick courtyard of a three-story building and stops. You could probably buy five acres of Delta farmland for the monthly rent on Lenzs office.
The first floor of the building is deserted but for ferns, its walls covered with abstract paintings that look purchased by the square yard. A bronze-lettered notice board directs me to the third floor. When the elevator door opens on three, I am facing a short corridor with a door at the end. No letters on the door.
Beyond the door I find a small, well-appointed waiting room. Theres a lot of indirect light, but the only window faces the billing office. A dark-skinned receptionist sits behind the window. I am not looking at her. Im looking at a pale, gangly, longhaired young man folded oddly across a wing chair and ottoman. He is snoring.
Miles? I say softly.
He does not stir. A Hewlett-Packard notebook computer and a cellular telephone lie on the floor beside him.
The computer screen swirls with a psychedelic screen-saver program.
Miles.
The snoring stops. Miles Turner flips the hair out of his eyes and looks up at me without surprise. His eyes are the same distant blue they have always been.
Hello, snitch, he says. Whats in the briefcase? The names of everybody who works at EROS?
Fresh underwear. What the hell are you doing here?
Same as you, I guess. The mad doctor wants to pry open my skull, see what he can find. I hope hes in the mood for drama. I certainly am.
I cant believe you agreed to come.
A fleeting smile touches his lips. Didnt have any choice, did I? Ive got an old drug charge hanging over my head. All Lenz has to do is tell his sidekickBaxterto push the button, and I go to jail. Do not pass
GO,
et cetera.
Jesus.
Miles leans his angular head back with a theatrical flourish and tries to catch the eye of the receptionist. I take the opportunity to study him more closely. Its been four years since I saw him in the flesh. Miles long ago vowed never to set foot in Mississippi again. When I saw him last, in New Orleans, he had short hair and wore fairly conservative clothes. No Polo or khakis, of course, but your basic Gap in basic black. Hes wearing black again today, but his hair hangs over his shoulders, his sweater is not only torn but looks cheap, and he is
dirty
. I dont smell himyetbut he plainly hasnt bathed for at least a couple of days.
Staring is rude, he says, his eyes still on the window to my left. Dont you read your Amy Vanderbilt? Or is it Gloria Vanderbilt?
Miles, what the hell is going on? You look terrible. Whats happening with the case?
He smiles conspiratorially and brings a warning finger to his lips. His eyebrows shimmy up and down as he says in a stage whisper:
Shhhh. The walls have ears.
When I stare blankly, he adds, But then their ears have walls, so perhaps it doesnt matter.
Are you telling me you think this waiting room is bugged?
Why not? Lenz works for the FBI. They could bug this room in the time it took you to wake me up.
How do you know how long that took?
Touch.
Whats the computer for?
Keeping up with developments, of course. Baxter just got the court order to do the trace in Wyoming. He must have blackmailed the judge. I think its a standard FBI tactic.
Has Brahma logged on again?
Once, about an hour ago, but Baxter didnt have the court order then. He was only on for a couple minutes. They did manage to trace digitally back to the Wyoming phone company again. Lake Champion.
How do you know that?
Miles smiles with satisfaction, then replies in a vintage Hollywood Nazi accent: I haf my sources, Herr Cole.
What about the kidnapping? Rosalind May. Anything on that?
Nada. By the way, I didnt know you had a mole among my faithful.
What are you talking about?
He smiles again. How else could the FBI have found out about Rosalind May?
Dont you care about these women, Miles?
I care about
all
women. Suddenly he is whispering so that I can barely hear. I sit beside him.
Theyre going to call one of us in there soon, he says. Why dont we make a little deal right now? I say nothing to Lenz about you, you say nothing about me.
This shocks me more than anything Ive seen or heard yet. You think you have to spell it out like that? You think Id tell these people anything about you?
His lips narrow in a shadow of the smile Jesus must have given Peter when he prophesied the disciples betrayal. Humans do strange things under stress, Harper. Why dont we just shake hands on it?
I look down at the proffered hand and surprise myself by taking it.
You want to grab a bite to eat after this? he asks lightly. Tie on the old feed bag, as they say back home?
Sure. I want to find out what the hells going on with this manhunt.
Whoever goes first waits for the other. Cool?
Sure.
Mr. Turner?
The receptionist has slid open her window, but she is seated, and I see only a tight black bun atop her head.
Dr. Lenz will see you first, she says in a husky, almost luminous voice. Go through the door and down the corridor. The doctor is waiting.
Miles stands slowly, looks through the billing window, and says, You have spooky eyes. Then he picks up his computer and his cellular phone and disappears through the door like a tall and undernourished White Rabbit.
When the receptionist finally calls my name, Miles has not yet reappeared. Perhaps Lenz wants to talk to us together. As I get up and move toward the door that bars the office proper, I turn to get a closer look at the receptionist.
She is no longer there.
The door leads into a short hallway carpeted in royal blue. To my left is the empty receptionists cubicle, at the end of the hall another door. I open it without knocking.
Arthur Lenz is seated behind a cherry desk in a worn leather chair much like the one my father used in his medical office. But Lenz smells of cigarettes, not cigars. And his office is spartan compared to the Dickensian clutter of my fathers sanctum sanctorum.
My first thought when Lenz looks up is that I pegged him wrong in New Orleans. There he seemed a handsomer version of William F. Buckley Jr. Now, seated silently behind the ornate desk with his iron gray hair and gold-rimmed spectacles, he seems to have morphed into a more sinister characterDonald Sutherland in one of his heavier roles. Lenz gives me a perfunctory smile and motions me toward a sleek black couch that reminds me of an orthodontists chair.
Did you transport Miles to an alternate dimension? I ask.
He looks puzzled. Here are your printouts, I say quickly, dumping the contents of my briefcase on the center of his desk.
Lenz gives the laser-printed pages a quick scan, then slips them into a desk drawer. I was about to have some tea sent in, he says. Care for some?
So this is how he means to play it: two supercivilized males sitting here sipping tea. Got any Tabs?
Tabs?
You know, the drink.
Tab
. Tasted shitty in the seventies, now its just palatable. Thats what I drink.
The psychiatrists mouth crinkles with distaste. Theres a vending machine in the building next door. I suppose I could send my receptionist over for some.
Fine. Normally, Id be gracious, but since youre the one picking my brain, I insist. I need some caffeine.
Tea has caffeine.
But it aint got
fizz
.
Lenz pushes a button on a desk intercom and makes the request. It reminds me of the old
Bob Newhart Show
. I almost laugh at the memory.
Whats funny, Mr. Cole?
Nothing. Everything. Youre wasting time talking to me. Your UNSUB could be out there killing another woman right this second.
Yes, he could. But you dont seem to grasp the fact that you and Mr. Turner are the only direct lines into this case. And as for wasting time, I frequently spend hours interviewing janitors or postmen whose only connection to a case may be that they walked past the crime scene.
I dont respond to this.
Lenz smiles like hes my favorite uncle or something. I know the couch seems camp. But it does tend to concentrate the mind. He takes a pencil from the pocket of his pinpoint cotton shirt and taps the eraser on a blank notepad in front of him. Lie back and relax, Mr. Cole.
The soft leather couch wraps itself around my back like beach sand, which tells me it does anything but concentrate the mind. Lenzs ceiling tiles tell me his roof has leaked before. He modulates his deep voice into a fatherly
Masterpiece Theatre
register, but behind it I sense an unblinking gaze.
This is not a formal interview, he says. Psychological profiling is not an exact science. Any wet-nosed FBI trainee could question you about the homicidal triangle: bed-wetting, fire starting, cruelty to animals. I use a different approach. Despite the attempts of thousands to
discredit Sigmund Freud, I still believe the old grouch was onto something regarding the importance of sexual experiences.
Uh-huh.
Are you familiar with Nietzsches epigram?
That tired old saw about monsters and the abyss?
No, this. Suddenly Lenz is speaking harsh German that sounds like Erich von Stroheim in
Five Graves to Cairo
.
I didnt catch that, Doctor.
Forgive me. The degree and kind of a mans sexuality reach up into the ultimate pinnacle of his spirit.
Ive seen that on EROS.
I happen to believe it. Im going to ask you some very personal questions. I hope youll answer frankly. You may feel a bit harried. I tend to jump from subject to subject, following my nose, as it were. Please try to remember that there is no personal motive behind my questions.
Right
.
You just want to put me in line for a lethal injection
. Fine, I say aloud. Lets do it.
What is the worst thing youve ever done, Mr. Cole?
The question takes me off guard. Im not sure I understand.
What could be simpler? Please answer.
You dont waste much time on foreplay, do you?
What is the worst thing youve ever done?
Next question.
Lenz sighs in frustration, but I dont really care. Very well. What moment are you proudest of in your life?
What is this? I ask, trying to get some idea of how to handle this guy.
Mr. Cole, did you come here expecting to look at Rorschach blots? Perhaps to say the first thing that popped into your head when I said words like breast or hate?
I guess I thought you were going to ask me about EROS.
EROS, you, Turnerits all one package, isnt it? For the moment Im concerned with you personally. Moments of shame and pride are frequently things people keep to
themselves. The acts that cause these emotions often illuminate the extreme boundaries of the personality. If I know the extremes, I know the man. So please try to answer frankly. Yes?
Okay.
Would you consider yourself what laymen call a control freak?
Yes. I guess that makes two of us.
Do you masturbate regularly?
Dont you?
Is that a yes?
Im still waiting for your answer.
Lenz gives a faint smile. Do you masturbate while communicating on EROS?
Occasionally.
Would you say most subscribers use EROS as an aid to masturbation?
Im sure most of them
have
. I wouldnt say thats their primary use for it. EROS is more for your head than your body.
What do you think about when you masturbate?
Thats my business.
Mr. Cole.
Women, of course.
Women doing what?
What do you think?
That youre being evasive.
What the hell do you want to know?
Do you have violent fantasies?
Such as?
Women bound, for example.
No.
Women making sounds of supplication?
No.
Women in pain?
No.
Do you ever make mental connections between sex and blood?
Hell no.
This may be a sensitive question, but I must ask it.
You grew up in a rural area. Have you ever had sex with an animal of any kind?
Have you ever had someone pound the living shit out of you? Jesus.
Lenz marks on his notepad. Would it surprise you to learn that over a third of all males raised in rural areas have had intercourse with some type of animal to the point of orgasm?
Its not something Ive ever thought about, okay? And Id like to keep it that way.
I hope you can control your temper, Mr. Cole. There is a method to my madness, I assure you. Now... what is your first sexual memory?
What do you mean? Like as a kid?
Your first sexual memory of any kind.
Well... trying to peek under my mothers nightgown while she was sleeping, I guess.
What did you see?
Not much. It was dark.
After that?
Playing doctor in a tree house.
With girls or boys?
Girls. One girl.
The same age as you?
Yes.
What age?
I dont know. Definitely little kids. Innocent stuff.
Any genital touching?
Nah. Just show-and-tell.
What about same-sex play?
I hesitate. A little.
One boy, or several together?
Several. Just neighborhood buddies.
How old were you?
Older. Still young though.
Any fear that you were a homosexual because of it?
We didnt even know what a homosexual was. Discovering my dads stash of
Playboy
s was like unearthing the Rosetta Stone.
Have you had on-line sex with other men?
Not knowingly.
What do you mean?
A lot of men pretend to be women on-line. On regular networks its because theres a shortage of women. But on EROS that doesnt apply. Some men still do it there, so I guess I could unknowingly have fantasized sex with a man.
But youve never pretended to be a woman on-line?
Once. My wife told me I should try it to see what it felt like. I did, and I didnt like it.
Why?
Its like youre assaulted from every side. Even on EROS, which is the most civilized on-line service, being a woman means youre constantly approached by men. Its the loss of control, I guess.
How old were you when you first had sex with a woman?
All the way? Complete intercourse?
Serious foreplay. Touching of genitals.
Probably... thirteen. With a couple of curious girls the same age. When I was fourteen this other girl and I did pretty much everything but intercourse. We were in love, though. Jesus. Like holding hands and kissing and touching each other was some kind of new religion. An indescribable intensity of feeling. Your heart pounding like it would punch through your chest. She was a year older than me.
How did that relationship end?
She broke my heart after seven months. I still remember that. Funny, huh? Seven months. I was physically sick. I think that warped me. I was never willing to fall totally for a girl after that. I knew what could happen.
How did that color your relationship with other girls? You were angry?
I dont think so.
When did you first have sexual intercourse?
Fifteen. The girl was eighteen.
A one-time experience?
Are you kidding? Once I got a taste of that, it was nonstop. Day and night, sneaking out of the house, anywhere we could find a place.
What kind of places did you usually find?
Outside, mostly. Or in the car, you know.
Not in her parents house?
No. We had a little respect.
What do you remember most about that relationship?
I close my eyes. Later, a couple of years later, I heard shed become a slut. Id really started to care for her after a while. She was country, but she read poetry, like that. She was a real person, just a little lost. She had feelings nobody knew about. It was sad.
What makes you say that?
Well... I read her diary once.
She let you read her diary?
Not exactly. I went over to her house one time, and nobody answered the door. I went in anyway.
The door was open?
No. The few times Id sneaked in to see her, I went though her window, so I did that. I looked around the house. Her room, especially. I found this little calendar where shed written really small in the day spaces, like a diary.
What had she written?
All kinds of things. She had codes. Simple ones. There were Xs on the days when she had her periods, that was easy. Then there were some initials, which I figured out were guys she knewguys her age. Then there was M.L. on some days, which stood for made love. I knew that because Id been with her on those days.
All of them?
Not all.
How did you feel reading that diary?
Like a spy.
You put it back where you found it?
No. I took it.
Stole it?
Mm-hm. There were a few of them. I just took the one.
Do you still have it?
No.
When did you get rid of it?
Just after I got married. With a bunch of old letters
and stuff. I didnt want Drewe finding that kind of thing. Stuff from old girlfriends, you know? Some of it was pretty explicit. And she knew some of the girls.
Why did you keep those letters so long?
All is vanity, right?
Lenz scribbles something on his notepad. How many women have you slept with in your life?
I pause. Fifteen.
Approximately fifteen? Or fifteen exactly?
Exactly.
You could write down all their names? Here and now, I mean?