This surprised Dance.
Boling smiled at her apparently naive expression. “Oh, an average gamer can easily spend thirty hours a week in the synth world, and it’s not unusual for people to spend twice that. There are hundreds of millions of people who have some involvement in the synth world, and tens of millions who spend much of their day there. And we’re not talking Pac-Man or Pong. The level of realism in the synthetic world is astonishing. You — through an avatar, a character that represents you — inhabit a world that’s as complex as what we’re living in right now. Child psychologists have studied how people create avatars; players actually use parenting skills subconsciously to form their characters. Economists have studied games too. You have to learn skills to support yourself or you’ll starve to death. In most of the games you earn money, payable in game currency. But that currency actually trades against the dollar or pound or euro on eBay — in their gaming category. You can buy and sell virtual items — like magic wands, weapons, or clothing or houses or even avatars themselves — in real-world money. In Japan, not too long ago, some gamers sued hackers who stole virtual items from their synth world homes. They won the case.”
Boling leaned forward, and Dance again noticed the sparkle in his eyes, the enthusiasm in his voice. “One of the best examples of the synth and real worlds coinciding is in a famous online game, World of Warcraft. The designers created a disease as a debuffer — that’s a condition that reduces the health or power of characters. It was called Corrupted Blood. It would weaken powerful characters and kill the ones who weren’t so strong. But something odd happened. Nobody’s quite sure how, but the disease got out of control and spread on its own. It became a virtual black plague. The designers never intended that to happen. It could be stopped only when the infected characters died out or adapted to it. The Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta heard about it and had a team study the spread of the virus. They used it as a model for real-world epidemiology.”
Boling sat back. “I could go on and on about the synth world. It’s a fascinating subject, but my point is that whether or not Travis is desensitized to violence, the real question is which world does he inhabit most, the synth or the real? If it’s synth, then he runs his life according to a whole different set of rules. And we don’t know what those are. Revenge against cyberbullies — or anyone who humiliates him — could be perfectly accepted. It could be encouraged. Maybe even required.
“The comparison is to a paranoid schizophrenic who kills someone because he genuinely believes that the victim is a threat to the world. He isn’t doing anything wrong. In fact, to him, killing you is heroic. Travis? Who knows what he’s thinking? Just remember it’s possible that attacking a cyberbully like Tammy Foster meant no more to him than swatting a fly.”
Dance considered this and said to O’Neil, “Do we go talk to him or not?”
Deciding when to initially interview a suspect was always tricky. Travis would probably not yet think he was a suspect. Speaking to him now would catch him off guard and might make him blurt out statements that could be used against him; he might even confess. On the other hand, he could destroy evidence or flee.
Debating.
What finally decided it for her was a simple memory. The look in Tammy Foster’s eyes — the fear of reprisal. And the fear that the perp would attack someone else.
She knew they had to move fast.
“Yep. Let’s go see him.”
Chapter 10
THE BRIGHAM FAMILY lived in a scabby bungalow whose yard was strewn with car parts and old appliances, half dismantled. Green garbage bags, out of which flowed trash and rotting leaves, sat amid broken toys and tools. A scruffy cat stared cautiously out from a nest of vines beneath an overgrown hedgerow. It was too lazy or full to care about a pudgy gray rat that skittered past. O’Neil parked in the gravel drive, forty feet or so away from the house, and he and Dance climbed out of his unmarked MCSO car.
They studied the area.
It was like a scene from the rural South, vegetation thick, no other houses in sight, dereliction. The debilitated state of the house and the pungent aroma suggesting a nearby, and inefficient, sewer or a swamp explained how the family could afford such secluded property in this high-priced part of the state.
As they started toward the house she found her hand dangling near her pistol butt, her jacket unbuttoned.
She was spooked, alert.
Still, it was a shock when the boy attacked them.
They had just passed a patch of anemic, reedy grass beside the lopsided detached garage when she turned to O’Neil and found the deputy stiffen as he looked past her. His arm rose and gripped her jacket, pulling her forward to the ground.
“Michael!” she cried.
The rock sailed over her head, missing her by inches, and crashed through a garage window. Another followed a moment later. O’Neil had to duck fast to avoid getting hit. He crashed into a narrow tree.
“You all right?” he asked quickly.
A nod. “You see where it was from?”
“No.”
They were scanning the thicket of woods bordering the property.
“There!” she called, pointing at the boy, in sweats and a stocking cap, who was staring at them. He turned and fled.