“Around the time I got up to pee, he got out of the car. Opened the door, but the inside light didn’t come on. That struck me strange, it bein’ such a nice car and all. Fueled my mind even more. I squinted my eyes, get a better look.” Another long pause.
“And?”
“He was tall, a blond gentleman. White fella. We don’t get too many of them around here at night, or even in the daytime, for that matter.”
Chapter 56
DETECTIVE PATSY HAMPTON’S INVESTIGATION of the Jane Doe murders was starting to show forward movement and positive results. She thought she might have something good in the works. She had confidence in her ability to solve the murders. She knew from experience that she was smarter than everybody else.
It helped to h
ave Chief Pittman and all the department’s resources on her side. She had spent the past day and a half with Chuck Hufstedler at the FBI building. She knew she was using Chuck a little, but he didn’t seem to mind. He was lonely, and she did like his company. She and Chuck were still sitting around at three-thirty in the afternoon when Lancelot entered the Gamester’s Chatroom again. Laughalot, she remembered.
“He couldn’t resist, could he?” Hampton said to Hufstedler. “Gotcha, you fantasy freak.”
Hufstedler looked at her, his thick black eyebrows arched. “Three-thirty in the afternoon, Patsy. What does that say? Tell you what it says to me. Maybe he’s playing from work. But I bet our Lancelot is a school kid.”
“Or he’s somebody who likes to play with school kids.” She offered a thought that upset her even as she uttered the words.
This time, she didn’t try to make contact with Lancelot. She and Chuck just listened in on a stultifying discussion of several role-playing games. In the meantime, he was trying to trace Lancelot.
“He’s pretty good at this, a real hacker. He’s built a lot of security into his system. Hopefully, we’ll get to him anyway.”
“I have confidence in you, Cheeseman.”
Lancelot stayed in the chatroom past four-thirty. By then it was all over. Chuck had his name and address: Michael Ormson, Hutchins Place, Foxhall.
At a few minutes before five, two dark-blue vans pulled up in front of the Ormson house on the Georgetown Reservoir. Five agents in blue FBI windbreakers and Detective Patsy Hampton surrounded the large, Tudor-style house with an acre or two of front and back lawn and majestic views.
Senior FBI Agent Brigid Dwyer and Hampton proceeded to the front door and found it unlocked. With weapons drawn, they quietly entered the house and discovered Lancelot in the den.
He looked to be around thirteen years old. A baby geek. He was sitting at a computer in his shorts and black socks.
“Hey, what the heck is going on? Hey! What are you doing in my house? I didn’t do anything wrong. Who are you guys?” Michael Ormson asked in a high-pitched, peeved, but quivering voice.
He was skinny. His face was covered with acne. His back and shoulders had a rash that looked like eczema. Chuck Hufstedler had been right on target. Lancelot was a teenage geek playing with his fancy computer after school. He wasn’t the Weasel, though. This boy couldn’t be the Weasel.
“Are you Michael Ormson?” Patsy Hampton asked the boy. She had lowered her weapon but hadn’t holstered it.
The young boy dropped his head and looked ready to weep. “Oh, God, oh, God,” he moaned. “Yes, I’m Michael Ormson. Who are you guys? Are you going to tell my parents?”
Chapter 57
MICHAEL’S FATHER AND MOTHER were immediately contacted at their jobs at Georgetown University Hospital and the U.S. Naval Observatory, respectively. The Ormsons were currently separated, but they both made it to Foxhall in less than ten minutes, even with rush-hour traffic starting to build. The other two Ormson children, Laura and Anne Marie, had already come home from high school.
Patsy Hampton convinced the parents to let her talk to their son at the house. She told the Ormsons that they could be present, and could interrupt, and even stop the interview anytime they wished. Otherwise, she and Agent Dwyer would have to take Michael to FBI headquarters for the interview.
The Ormsons, Mark and Cindy, agreed to let Michael talk. They were clearly frightened, especially of the FBI personnel, but they seemed to trust Detective Hampton. Most people did, she knew. She was pretty and sincere and had a disarming smile that she used when she needed to.
“I’m interested in the game called the Four Horsemen,” Hampton said to the boy. “That’s the only reason I’m here, Michael. I need your help.”
The teenager dropped his chin to his chest again and then shook his head back and forth. Hampton watched the nervous boy and decided to take a chance with him. She had a hunch that she wanted to play.
“Michael, whatever you think you’ve done wrong, it’s nothing to us. It’s nothing. We don’t care what you’ve done on your computer. This isn’t about you or your family or your hacking. There have been some terrible murders in Washington, and there might be a connection to this game called the Four Horsemen. Please help us, Michael. You’re the only one who can. You’re the only one.”
Mark Ormson, who was a radiologist at Georgetown University Hospital, leaned forward on the black leather couch in the den. He looked more frightened now than when he’d gotten home. “I’m beginning to think I better get a lawyer,” he said.
Patsy Hampton shook her head and smiled kindly at both parents. “This is not about your son, Mr. and Mrs. Ormson. He’s not in any trouble with us, I assure you.”