“Can you print them out?” I asked.
“Already did. Printouts are on my desk. But wait,” Watts said. “You guys are gonna love this.”
He double-clicked another icon. Chrissie’s mail program opened up.
“She left all her messages on the server – all except these. These, she downloaded.”
A ream of messages opened up, all from Mr. Big Shot. He was obsessed with her. She didn’t want to see him again, but he wouldn’t take no for an answer. The clincher came when he threatened her father:
“I can make sure he’s sent back,” he wrote. “I can and I will.”
A date was set. It was the day she died.
THAT EVENING, AFTER pouring myself a generous shot of Johnnie Walker, I turned on my computer and found the first entry on Chrissie’s blog. It described how, days earlier, she’d set up a webcam and posted information on a Web directory, hoping to find friends. She’d gotten her first contact within minutes. It was another girl, she thought, but as they chatted, she sensed that something was wrong. Eventually, the “girl” admitted to being a guy. Chrissie started to sign off, but the man was friendly, apologetic. He was witty and flattering – and ready with gifts. Within hours, she’d “met” others just like him.
One evening, one of her digital admirers said he was feeling blue. How could she cheer him up? she asked. Looking at her made him feel good, he said. He loved looking at her. If she wanted to be kind, all she had to do was raise her blouse and let him see her. He’d pay her “fifty bucks for three glorious minutes.” He’d pay it into her online account. It was like cash in the hand. She didn’t have an account? He’d help her open one.
It wasn’t as though she didn’t know what he was after. It wasn’t as if she didn’t sense where his request might lead. It was the money and sense of power his asking gave her – that and a feeling of despair. Was this kind of attention the only kind she could hope for? If so, then why not make the best of it? According to her blog, she was suffering at her stepfather’s hands nightly. She couldn’t fight him. But here, she had the power to say no and the right to exact payment when she said yes. Here, the men couldn’t even touch her. They could only watch her, long for her – and only for as long as she let them.
Chrissie said she had more than a thousand “fans” who made monthly “donations” for her performances. They advised her on the best camera and software to use. They even paid for it, having suggested that she set up a “wish list” on online stores. She could ask for anything she wanted, they said. She could list DVDs, CDs, clothes, jewelry, computer hardware – anything. They would pay for it, and the stores would deliver while keeping her address secret.
It was a hell of a ride, and Chrissie was holding on tight. But it wasn’t all fun and games. She battled fear and self-loathing. Certain men were terrifying. One wrote that he wanted to possess her. Many pressed her to meet them, but she refused – all except one.
Enough. I drained the last drop of whiskey, turned off the computer, and went to bed, but I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about her, trapped with her stepfather, and about another girl I’d known, likewise trapped.
Mama, can I talk to you? I can’t take the pain.
Shush, it always hurts the first time, child.
Stop him, Mama. Stop him, ’cause I won’t let him near me again.
I thought about the day my stepfather died. For years, all I could remember was what they told me: that my mother heard me screaming, rushed into my room, and found him on me. He was dead, bleeding like a stuck pig, and I was under him, holding the knife. That’s all. Simple.
I didn’t serve a day in jail. I didn’t live another day with my mother either. The court forgave me. She didn’t. I’d killed her man, taken her livelihood. She left town and never looked back. I decided to do the same. That was that. Simple.
Until Chrissie.
Around midnight, Shin called. “The wine was definitely a merlot. It matches a bottle from the hotel. Also, you remember I said she ate brownies?”
“Now that you mention it… what about them?”
“Ever heard of bud brownies?”
Brownies made with pot. “You telling me she was high?”
“As the wind blows.”
O’DONNELL MET US at the door with a brandy in hand. His tie was loosened and his jacket tossed across a chair. He looked stressed. Good. Chrissie’s mother was nowhere in sight. Even better.
“Look, I’m stunned,” he said, “but guys, c’mon. I had nothing to do with it.”
“Let’s sit down,” I said.
He glanced at his watch. “I have to get back tonight. You shouldn’t have sent for me. We could’ve talked on the phone.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Fine. Let’s get this over with.”
Lee and I made a show of consulting our notes.
“We know,” I said, “that you met Chrissie at a hotel on Saturday, that you had sex with her and bought her lunch.”
“Preposterous.”
I eyeballed him. “Think about it.”
“There’s nothing to think about. I was in Albany. I’ve been there since Friday.”
I was tired and short-tempered after a bad night. “Mr. O’Donnell, the hot-and-heavy e-mails on Chrissie’s hard drive will tell us they came from you. Your credit cards will tell us where you stayed and when. DNA taken from Chrissie’s body will tell us that it came from you. Now, do you really want us to go to all that trouble? Trust me, sir. If you make it hard for us, we’ll make it hard for you.”
He broke out in a sweat. “You’re bluffing.”
“Try me.”
He ran a hand through his thick silver hair, sorting options, finding none. “All right. But I left her at the hotel – alive. And I loved her. I never would’ve hurt her.”
I felt cold inside, cold enough to kill without batting an eyelash.
“You’re sick,” Lee told him. “You know that, right?”
“I had nothing to do with her death.”
“She threatened to reveal you,” Lee said. “You had to shut her up.”
O’Donnell licked his lips. “Listen, I was nowhere near her when she died. I can prove it. I usually take a train to Albany, but I was late, so I flew instead. The flight was at four. I have the boarding pass.”
“Let me see it,” I said.
He dug it out of his wallet and handed it over.
The pass was legit. I showed it to Lee.
“You’re not off the hook,” I said.
“But I’ve proved – ”
“You’re going to jail,” Lee said. “For child abuse and rape.”
“You’re crazy.”
“When we’re finished with you, you’ll wish we were.”
Back in the car, Lee scratched his temple. “That SOB. He wasn’t just our main suspect. He was our only one.”
“It’s time we had a meeting,” I said.
“With who?”
“Elektra.”
I MADE THE calls from the car. She was at the station when we got there. I expected to see her mother too, but the girl was alone.
“I sort of expected to hear from you,” she said.
“Why?”
“Abigail and Susan said they’d seen you. I figured you’d want to see me too.”
I ushered her into a small soundproof room with a desk, three chairs, and walls that were bare, except for a one-way mirror. I pointed to the metal fold-up chair set in the narrow space between the desk and the mirror. The room was claustrophobic, the chair uncomfortable. They were meant to be. She sat on the edge of the chair and eyed the mirror.
“Is anyone watching?” she asked.
“Where’s your mom? I thought you’d bring her.”
She gave me an indecipherable look, then said, “She’s busy.”
“I’ll call her.”
“No, please. She doesn’t need to come here.” Panic edged her voice. She pushed her glasses back up on her nose. “Was it the e-mails or the blog?”