“You’re kidding,” I said, disappointed.
“I’m not kidding,” Batra said, her face clouding as we entered the Vietnam Memorial. “This is serious black-net stuff you’ve gotten yourself into, Cross. Almost everything having to do with that website was done through onions, so I have no idea who built it or who maintains it.”
“Can’t you hack it?”
“What’s to hack?” Batra said. “The website is anonymously built and self-sustaining. I can shut down whatever the hosting URL is, but I’d imagine there are dozens of mirroring sites with the content on them already.”
I thought about that. “You said almost everything having to do with the website was done through onion routers.”
Batra arched an eyebrow and said, “You’re smarter than you look, Cross.”
“One of my redeeming qualities. What was not done through an onion?”
“Those posts on the hackers’ bulletin board. Those I could track. And I did.”
“All of the posters?” I said, impressed.
“Just the high-volume ones so far,” Batra said.
“What do we know about them?”
“Creeps,” the FBI agent said, taking another sip of coffee.
I was getting chilled, so I untied the hoodie around my waist and put it on as she continued.
“On the clear net, they troll porn,” Batra said. “In the darknet areas where I can track them, they’re into lots of the sicker stuff. I wrote it all down.”
“Where are they?”
“You mean physical location? All over the world, though one of the regular creeps posting is definitely local.”
“How local?” I said, stopping.
“Right here,” she said, waving her coffee cup. “DC.”
“You have a name? Address?”
Batra studied me several beats, calculating what to tell me, no doubt, and then said, “Close enough.”
CHAPTER
13
LEAVING THE BROOKLAND-CUA Metro stop later in the day, I knew damn well I shouldn’t have been walking up John McCormack Drive. I could hear Bree in my head saying I had no authority here and that my time would be better spent working on my defense for trial.
But I was back in the game, and who was going to tell Bree or anyone?
The creep?
Not a chance. The creep would want to avoid any contact with legitimate law enforcement. And I just might learn something useful about Gretchen Lindel and the other missing blondes, which would more than justify my actions as a concerned citizen.
With that firmly in mind, I went to the security guard at the main entrance to the Catholic University of America and asked how to find the alumni office. The guard gave me a map. I thanked him and started in that direction until I was around a corner and out of sight.
Then I made my way to Flather Hall, a brick-faced dormitory for male freshmen. Classes were over that Friday. Rap and heavy-metal music pulsed and dueled from inside open dorm rooms. I spotted a few underage drinkers and smelled hemp burning as I made my way to the second floor and down a long hallway that reeked of too many young men living on their own for the first time.
The door I sought, number 278, was ajar. I stood there, listening, hearing nothing, and then knocked. No response.
I pushed open the door, saw bunk beds to my right and a single twin bed across the room. Two white males in their late teens sat on a love seat between the single bed and me, wearing Beats headphones and holding video-game controllers. They were absorbed in a violent game playing on a screen on the wall, oblivious to my presence.