Beyond them, at a desk tucked in the corner, there was a third white male, small, scrawny, oily brown hair, lots of acne. Three computer screens dominated the small desk where he sat, and he had headphones on as well, engrossed in the screens.
I reached over and flicked the dorm room light off and on twice.
As if a hypnotist had snapped his fingers, all three of them came up out of their virtual trances and looked around groggily. The closest kid, a chubby towhead named Fred Vertze, spotted me first. His double chin retreated, and he tugged off his headphones.
“Who are you?” he said. “What are you doing in here?”
I waited until the other two removed their headphones before making a show of shutting the door behind me and locking it. They were alarmed when my cold attention swept over them.
“Who are you?” Vertze demanded again.
“Who I am is irrelevant,” I said.
“Hell it is,” said Juan Cyr, the other young man who’d been playing the video game. Cyr was built like a fullback and stood up to show me he was no one to be trifled with.
Brian Stetson, the kid with the acne and the three computer screens, said, “Don’t do anything el stupid-o, Juan. I’m calling campus security.”
“Do that and I’ll have to tell campus security what I know about what goes on in this dorm room,” I said.
They glanced at one another uncertainly.
Vertze, who could have used a shower or two, said, “We don’t know what you’re talking about, man.”
“Okay, let’s cut right to it, then, before I alert the NSA, the FBI, and six other law enforcement agencies. Gentlemen, which one of you is Lone Star Blondes Must Die?”
CHAPTER
14
VERTZE’S EYELIDS DRIFTED almost shut. Stetson frowned, as if he’d heard a foreign phrase spoken at a distance. Cyr acted like I’d punched him in the gut.
Then the burly teen’s expression shifted from shock to anger. He twisted his shoulders and hissed at Stetson, “I told you messing around with that kind of crap was mind poison.”
“Shut up, Juan,” Stetson said, studying me calmly. “Who are you?”
“The worst kind of poison, unless you come clean,” I said, feeling like I’d identified the leader of this crew. “How old are you, Brian?”
“Eighteen,” he said. “How do you know my name?”
“I know all your names. I know you get your kicks exploring the dark web. Pushing the boundaries. Looking into nasty places.”
“Free world,” Stetson said.
“Dogfights?” I said. “Explicit war clips? Hardcore S-and-M fantasy sites?”
“There some law against watching I don’t know about?” Stetson said.
“No, but there are several against abetting the kidnap and advocating the murder of five women.”
That seemed to rock the kid, who looked less certain as he said, “I know what that means, abetting, and no one in this room abetted anything.”
“Didn’t you post a comment on a bulletin board about the Killingblondechicks website?
Quote: ‘I want in to that site. I can contribute. Help. Break some skulls, even.’”
He looked at me dumbly, then at his computer. “You hacked me?”
“FBI hacked you, Stetson. You screwed up. Forgot to use onion routers. Which means that I should go to the dean’s office and tell him what you’ve been up to, which means you most certainly will be expelled, which means your parents will be called, which means you’ll be escorted out of here in complete disgrace and humiliation.”