“Where the victims are suspected pedophiles, which just so happens to be my area of expertise. Trust me, you need me.”
D.D. gave O a look. They’d both been around long enough to know that as arguments went, trust me was never the right approach.
O slapped a sheath of papers on D.D.’s desk. “Forensic analysis of the first perv’s computer. I’ll give you three minutes to review it, then you tell me the relevant findings, because I already know.”
“Three minutes?” D.D. scowled. She hadn’t gotten to reviewing details of the “first” shooting yet. She was still working on the homicide that had happened on her watch, not the one that hadn’t.
“Three minutes was all it took me,” O declared boldly. She crossed her arms over her chest. The sex crimes detective was wearing a white button-down shirt over a blue tank. Nothing wrong with the ensemble, perfectly professional. It was all D.D. could do not to reach over and fasten the top button.
Apparently sleep-deprivation made her petty. And bitchy. And way too tired for this.
D.D. sighed and gave up. She pushed the report back to O. “Fine, you’re the expert, and yeah, especially if these two shootings are related, we could use some help. What do you got for me?”
O appeared genuinely startled. Maybe D.D. was, too. She’d never caved easily, or gracefully, before. Hah, she wanted to say. You’re younger and prettier, but I’m older and wiser. That would probably ruin the moment, however, so she didn’t.
“All right,” O said. She uncrossed her arms, took up position on the edge of D.D.’s desk, and got serious. “Douglas Antiholde, level three sex offender, shot four weeks ago in the doorway of his apartment. Double tap to the left forehead.”
“Yeah, know that much.” D.D. made a motion with her hand for Detective O to speed it along.
“’Kay. So most pedophiles specialize, particularly when it comes to MO. Some use coercion, some use force, some use opportunity. Either way, all of them start by ‘grooming’ their targets. And they have preferred methodology for that as well, the latest and greatest being the Internet.”
“Douglas Antiholde was an Internet predator,” D.D. filled in dryly. Another hand gesture to move it along. Not her first rodeo.
“You know the target age group for online predators?” O asked.
“Fourteen-year-old girls,” D.D. guessed.
“Nope. Five-to nine-year-old boys.”
“Really?” D.D. sat up a little straighter. Okay, she had not known that.
“Antiholde’s Internet log is textbook,” O was saying. “He was a registered user of every major kiddie website out there, plus Facebook, plus Spokeo, plus Chatroulette. You gotta understand, these guys are like day traders—this is what they do, twenty-four seven. They surf the Internet, identifying targets, initiating relationships, and then grooming, grooming, grooming. Just like stockbrokers, they understand that not every target is going to pay off. So they build a ‘portfolio’ of ten, fifteen, twenty victims they’re actively following and researching. They don’t expect all to bear fruit. They just need one to work out, and it’s worth it to them.”