“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.
“All right,” George said when they had made a full loop around the college. “Now that we’ve got the lay of the land, let’s find a place to park and see if we get lucky.”
Keyon pulled into a spot on Main Street where there were a number of other vehicles. Most were pickup trucks. A few restaurants were still open, including one that looked like a 1950s diner. The other stores were closed.
Both men moved into the back of the van and powered up their gear. It didn’t take long once they were on the Plymouth.edu network. As they expected from already knowing CreepyBoar’s online habits, the target was busy at the computer. But what they didn’t expect was that it wasn’t a he. The computer belonged to a Margaret Stonebrenner.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Keyon said.
“Let’s not jump to conclusions,” George said. “Maybe Margaret has a teenage son who is busy using his mother’s computer.”
“You’re right,” Keyon said.
They then ran Margaret Stonebrenner of 24 Smith Street through all the extensive databases they had access to. They soon learned she had no criminal record, and that she was an instructor in psychology who had been divorced since 2015 from Claire Walker, whom she had married in 2011. There had been a daughter from Claire’s previous marriage, but Claire ended up with full custody.
“There you go,” Keyon said. “At least we were right about her being a faculty member.”
“And wrong about the orientation,” George said. “It never occurred to me the mark might be gay. Why the hell was she trolling a teenage girl pretending to be a teenage boy? I’m shocked, although maybe it’s hard being gay in a small rural town. But what do I know?”
“You think you’re surprised,” Keyon said with a chuckle. “Think how poor Teresa Puksar would have felt if she’d agreed to meet.”
Keyon and George had a good laugh.
“I tell you,” George said when he had recovered, “I don’t know what this world is coming to. I’m only thirty-six, but considering how far out of it I am about all this LGBT stuff, I might as well be twice that. It’s crazy.”
After consulting their street map of Plymouth, the two men climbed back into the front bucket seats and set off toward Smith Street. It wasn’t far, as nothing in Plymouth was far. They first did a drive-by, noticing that 24 Smith Street was a small two-story white Victorian house with decorative bargeboard under the steeply angled eaves. The first-floor windows were illuminated, while those on the second floor were dark.
“Looks encouraging,” Keyon said. “Think she lives alone?”
“We can’t be that lucky two hits in a row,” George said. “But we can always hope.”
They parked the van on a neighboring cross street and hiked back. As they walked they checked out the nearby houses, most of which were dark. “People turn in early here in Plymouth,” Keyon said. “I guess there’s not a lot of nightlife.” He chuckled quietly at his understatement.
When they reached their destination, they glanced around at the immediate neighboring homes. Conveniently, they were all dark. Turning their attention to Margaret’s house, they could hear a noisy, old-fashioned window air conditioner, which they also thought advantageous. The sound of gunfire in the complete silence of a country town could carry far and wide. With that in mind, Keyon had brought along his Beretta semiautomatic pistol with suppressor. It was a surprisingly quiet weapon. The downside was that it was significantly bulky in its shoulder holster, and he wouldn’t have gotten away with wearing it in daylight.
As per usual, they positioned themselves on either side of the door, fake FBI badges at the ready. As there was no doorbell, George knocked. When no one responded, he knocked louder. This resulted in a carriage lamp going on right next to George, which he didn’t like. A moment later a female voice called through the door asking who was there.
On this occasion Keyon did the talking, essentially reiterating the FBI-agent spiel they gave Gary Sheffield about being part of the bureau’s Cyber Action Team. The difference was that Margaret didn’t open the door.
“What do you need to talk about?” Margaret asked.
Again, Keyon followed their usual protocol by explaining that there had been felonious cyber-activity emanating from the house that needed to be investigated.
“I would prefer that you come back tomorrow,” Margaret said. “How do I know you’re FBI agents?”
Keyon and George exchanged a worried glance. They also heard something else they didn’t like, a bark and growl, and it wasn’t from a miniature poodle.
“If you would open the door, we can show you our credentials,” Keyon said.
“I’ve never heard of FBI agents coming to someone’s door this time of night,” Margaret said. “I’m sorry. I’m here by myself.”
“Ma’am, we understand your reluctance, but if you don’t talk with us, we will have to come back with the local police and have you arrested. We are quite sure that we can clear this all up without that kind of embarrassment. But we can’t do it through the door.”
For a moment, there was silence marred only by the sound of the nearby window air conditioner. Keyon and George exchanged another glance, sensing they were losing control of the situation. Then they heard what sounded like the musical notes of a mobile phone being dialed.
“Shit!” George snapped, speaking up for the first time since they’d come onto the porch. He stepped back and raised his foot, kicking the paneled door with all the force he could muster just to the side of the doorknob. The old wood splintered and the door burst open. A second later they charged into the room, causing a shocked Margaret Stonebrenner to stumble backward. At the same moment, a large black German shepherd charged at George, who was first through the door.