“Has Gail or Melanie ever met up with any of the people they have interacted with online?” Noah asked.
“Of course not!” Ava said. “I’m surprised you’d even ask. That would have to be me, and I would never do it, even if I was trying to pass myself off as Gail or Melanie. It would be a huge mistake for dozens of reasons. Besides, it wouldn’t surprise me if half or more of the other people are smurfs as well. It’s officially admitted that at least ten percent of all the Facebook users are fake profiles. That’s somewhere around two hundred million. But as disturbing as that may sound, it doesn’t matter. It is the anonymity that is important. As soon as real people are involved face-to-face, anonymity goes out the window.”
“It all sounds confusing to me,” Noah said. “And not easy to do. When I was a teenager, I learned that the problem with lying was forgetting what you lied about. Do you ever get confused about who you are when you move from one to the other with these virtual identities?”
“I keep extensive files on them, which I update on a regular basis. I even have developed my own algorithms to alert me if I say something out of character. It is part of the challenge to be consistent.”
“You are really into this,” Noah said. He had trouble believing it was all worth the effort.
“I am,” Ava admitted. “As much or more than I was into gaming.”
“What about photos and all that? How is that handled?”
“That’s easy with all the profiles and photos available on the Internet and the capabilities of photo-editing apps. Believe me, it’s not hard.”
“One last thing,” Noah said. “I remember reading an op-ed piece not too long ago about people coming to believe their lies on social media. Some psychologists were worried about such distortions affecting someone’s sense of self. Do you see that as a problem?”
“It depends on your viewpoint,” Ava said. “There has always been a certain amount of embellishment that people have done to their histories, even before the Internet and social media. The opportunities are greater now, with technology effectively changing our culture. It is even changing medicine. Everybody is becoming somewhat of an imposter as well as progressively narcissistic. Some people might see that as a problem, others might view it as opportunity.”
“I have to admit it’s all fascinating,” Noah said. “While I’ve been locked up in the hospital these last five years, the world has changed.”
“And the speed of change is accelerating,” Ava said. “Listen, after your shower, I can take you up to the computer room and introduce you to Melanie Howard. In a half-hour or so, you’ll feel like she’s an old friend. You’ll know that much about her, and we’ll make sure to friend you. I can assure you that she is going to love you.”
“I’ll enjoy meeting Melanie,” Noah said while he and Ava carried their dishes to the kitchen sink. As they rode up squashed together in the elevator, Noah found himself remembering the movie Her, wondering exactly how he was going to feel about Melanie Howard. Would he see her as a separate, virtual person even though he knew it was Ava’s hand inside the sockpuppet?
17
THURSDAY, JULY 20, 10:21 P.M.
Keyon Dexter took exit 25 off Interstate 93 to Plymouth, New Hampshire. He was tired since he’d been driving for almost two hours from Boston. He had lost a coin toss with his partner, George Marlowe, that decided who would be the driver. On out-of-town trips, they both preferred to sit with the passenger seat pushed way back and reclined, so they could put their feet up on the Ford van’s dash. For almost a year they had been assigned to the Boston area by ABC Security out of Baltimore, Maryland, which had established a branch office in Boston in the Old City Hall building on School Street.
“Man, we are out in the boonies here,” Keyon remarked. “I was hoping we were finished with this mickey-mouse stuff after taking care of Savageboy.”
“I did, too,” George said. He put his feet down and slipped on his shoes, then straightened up the seat and pulled it forward to make it even with Keyon’s. “Hopefully once we take care of CreepyBoar we’ll have seen the end of it. The virtual proxy network that’s in place now should keep this kind of crap from happening in the future.”
“I don’t know,” Keyon said. “These kids are something else. They’ve grown up with this technology rather than having to learn it the hard way like we did. For them it’s second nature. They’re all a bunch of hackers in waiting. Maybe they’ll find a way to circumvent a VPN.”
“I suppose it’s possible. They are also clever in their username choices. CreepyBoar is pretty unique.”
“Do you think he’s going to be as easy as Gary Sheffield?”
“If I had to guess, I’d say yes. Why else would he be spending so much effort trying to meet up with a thirteen-year-old girl?”
“It takes all kinds,” Keyon said with disgust. “It also depends on whether he’s a faculty member or a student. What’s your guess?”
“Faculty member,” George said without hesitation. “Students have too much candy within reach. They don’t have to go trolling on the Internet.”
“I suppose you have a point,” Keyon said. “But online he says he’s an eighteen-year-old college student.”
“I don’t care what he says,” George snapped. “People make up all sorts of shit online. But maybe I’m just being hopeful. If it turns out to be a student, our job of cleaning up this particular mess gets a lot harder. Teenage boys in particular are always bragging about their exploits, so Teresa Puksar’s address and info might already be in lots of smartphones.”
“We can only be expected to do the best we can,” Keyon said.
They had come to Plymouth as dictated by their target’s IP address. But in contrast to Gary Sheffield, whose IP address gave them the man’s actual street address, with CreepyBoar, they were able to get only the Plymouth State University network’s location. What they needed to do was get on the university’s network to get CreepyBoar’s computer location, which was why they needed to do it at night. They wanted CreepyBoar to be at home.
When they came to a roundabout, they headed south on Main Street. It was a modest college town with mostly one-or two-story buildings. The university campus was on their right, stretching up a gradual hill. The center building was a square-shaped brick clock tower.
Using a detailed map they had downloaded from the Internet, they made a circle around the campus, or at least as much of a circle as they could. The architecture was an indeterminate mix, with most of the buildings made of red brick.
“Not a lot of activity,” George said.
“It’s their summer session,” Keyon said. “It’s probably a lot different during the normal academic year.”
They rode in silence. Each knew what the other was thinking. There was no way they would want to live in such a rural environment.