‘It looks like he used a Tor connection. You know what that is?’
‘I know the word,’ O’Neill admitted, ‘but basically, no, I don’t know.’
‘It’s an anonymity network. Tor lets you do whatever you do, and no one knows who you are, your internet business isn’t monitored by anyone.’
Salgado leaned forward in his chair. ‘But it’s monitored by us, right?’
‘Not by anyone,’ Geisler repeated. ‘It uses relays, over seven thousand of them, to disguise the source IP address. Each relay only decrypts enough to reveal the next relay.’
‘So, it works like a mafia cell.’
‘Exactly. It’s all on a need to know, no need to tell basis.’
‘And it’s not going to tell us?’
‘Right. At least not quickly. Given time, I can get some of it. Given for ever, I might be able to get all of it. But that’s time we clearly don’t have. I’ll need to talk to the service provider, get a warrant, yada yada yada. And I’ll almost certainly need help from the Feds. If they’ll give it.’
‘Oh great.’ Salgado sighed theatrically. ‘So, what do we have?’
The sigh was matched by one of exasperation from the tech. He was pretty sure he’d explained this already.
‘We have the search history from that one session. It’s all in the doc I emailed you but if you need it summarised, I can do that.’
‘Please do.’
‘Okay. It runs to just a three-hour period, but he was busy. There was quite a bit of time spent on Facebook, a few articles viewed on there and I’ve listed them all. He was also on a number of news sites, some mainstream but others are on the alt-right. InfoWars, Breitbart, World Net Daily, Townhall. He spent a short time on Gab and 4chan but short enough that I don’t think he could have done anything more than looked in either and left again. Apart from that, there were some general searches on Google and they’re all listed in the doc. Which I emailed to you and which I am now also handing to you.’
Salgado began to retort but Geisler cut him off.
‘I also have this.’ He held four sheets of paper. ‘The bad news is he seems to have done a lot of regular housekeeping on this machine. He wasn’t a hoarder, that’s for sure, and has gone out of his way to protect himself. But I did find one file that he had, presumably for easy, probably regular, access. This is the printout of it. It’s definitely interesting.’
Interesting was a word they liked.
‘Again, I’ve emailed it to you both, but I thought you’d want to read it immediately. There was no useful title on the file, it was labelled “Christmas Card List” so I almost went past it but then I thought it might give you known associates. But it’s not that at all. Not unless his cards were weirdly detailed.’
O’Neill took the printout and began to read it.
‘It’s a list of names with biographies for each,’ Geisler explained. ‘It lists age, appearance, job title and description, likes and dislikes. A mix of male and female.’
‘A list of victims?’ O’Neill couldn’t hide the excitement in her voice.
‘Well . . .’ Geisler’s tone didn’t offer the hope she wanted.
‘Kurt, don’t tell us it’s Christmas in one breath then Santa’s dead in the other,’ Salgado warned.
‘It might be Christmas,’ Geisler shrugged, ‘but I don’t have anything that says it’s snowing. I’ve only had the chance to run a few of the names but no hits so far.’
‘So, what are these?’ Salgado sounded like he was ready to shoot the messenger.
‘That’s your job,’ Geisler smiled. ‘It’s why you get paid the big bucks.’
‘You really should stop hacking my bank account and hack this fucker’s computer instead. We need everything you can screw out of it.’
‘I’m on it.’
O’Neill and Salgado began studying the list. It was broken down into sections, all under individual names.
Alice Reid: Age 29. Five foot two. Blue eyes. Long dark hair. Slim. Best feature, eyes.
Single. Mother of one. Graphic designer. Monday to Friday. Been in same job three years.
Ambition: manager or run own art gallery.
Likes: Cats. Modern art. Running. Dance. Cake. Rain.
TV shows: Mad Men. Better Call Saul. Love Island.
RuPaul’s Drag Race.
Favorite movie: La La Land.
Music: Nina Simone. Adele. Beyoncé. Amy Winehouse.
Dislikes: Pushy guys. Mondays. Traffic jams.
Smoking. Pigeons.
‘What the hell is this?’ Salgado asked aloud.
Greg Hurst: Age 32. Six foot one. Fair hair. Blue eyes. Athletic build. Optician. Formerly worked in retail. Current job two years.
Ambition: own own business.
Likes: Sports, particularly running. Cars. Travel, particularly cities. Partying. Dogs.
TV shows: Big Bang Theory. Curb Your Enthusiasm. Black Mirror.
Favourite movie: The Hangover.
Music: Nirvana. Kings of Leon. Foo Fighters.
Dislikes: Mornings. Carrots. Decaf.
Brianna Holden: Age 27. Five foot four. Green eyes. Long blond hair. Slim. Best feature, thinks it’s her smile but it’s her legs.
Married. Mother of two. Shop worker. Been in same job three years.
Ambition: to create own clothing brand.
The list went on. Steve McLennan. Kris Perera. Ellen Lambert. Jamie Stark. Danny Cook. Stefan Kalinowksi.
Chrissie Ramsay: Age 32. Five foot four. Dark brown hair. Green eyes. Curvy. Married. Student. Studying politics and philosophy.
Ambition: Wants to be a policy advisor.
Likes: Activism. Equality. Buddhism. Craft beer. Cooking.
TV shows: Chef’s Table. The West Wing. House of Cards. Breaking Bad.
Favourite movie: The Shawshank Redemption.
Music: Joni Mitchell. Wyclef Jean. Springsteen. Rage Against the Machine.
Dislikes: Poverty. War. Misogyny. Climate change deniers.
And the list went on.
O’Neill called over to the cold case cop. ‘Hey, Charlie, any of these names mean anything to you?’
Randall was a long streak of a man, as slim as he was tall with a mournful face that nurtured a perpetual grievance. He took the printout from Salgado and scanned it. They watched his eyes go from top to bottom and then repeat the process.
‘Nope. Not one of them is familiar. I wish I could say different.’
‘How many outstandings do you have, Charlie?’ she asked.
‘Too many. This is southern California. If you want to add missing persons to unidentified bodies to unidentifiable bodies then double it and add the number you first thought of. Ask me tomorrow and it will be more.’
‘CCSS must be a laugh a minute,’ Salgado teased.
‘It has its moments. Can’t all be car chases and press conferences.’
‘Yeah. We’re all about the glamour.’
‘You notice that about half of this list is in italics and half in a plain font?’ he pointed out. ‘That mean something?
‘Detectives!’
The shout was from their left, but they let it wash over them.
‘Detectives!’ Geisler’s voice was urgent. ‘You better see this. Now.’