The Broken Window

where?”
    “Sure.”
    Sachs held up the sheet to the webcam.
    “It’s kind of glary. Can you take it out of the plastic?”
    The detective pulled on latex gloves and carefully slipped the sheet out, held it up again.
    “That’s better. Sure, it’s from OurWorld.”
    “What’s that?”
    “You know, a social-networking site. Like Facebook and MySpace. It’s the hot new one. Everybody’s on it.”
    “You know about those, Rhyme?” Sachs asked.
    He gave a nod. Curiously, he’d been thinking about this recently. He’d read an article in The New York Times about networking sites and virtual existence worlds like Second Life. He’d been surprised to learn that people were spending less time in the outside world and more in the virtual—from avatars to these social-networking sites to telecommuting. Apparently teenagers today spent less time out of doors than in any other period in U.S. history. Ironically, thanks to an exercise regimen that was improving his physical condition and his changing attitudes, Rhyme himself was becoming less virtual and was venturing out more. The dividing line between abled and disabled was blurring.
    Sachs now asked Pam, “You can tell for sure it’s from that site?”
    “Yeah. They’ve got that special border. If you look close it’s not just a line; it’s little globes, like the earth, over and over again.”
    Rhyme squinted. Yes, the border was just as she’d described it. He thought back, recalling OurWorld from the article. “Hello, Pam . . . there are a lot of members, aren’t there?”
    “Oh, hi, Mr. Rhyme. Yeah. Like, thirty or forty million people. Whose realm is that one?”
    “Realm?” Sachs asked.
    “That’s what they call your page. Your ‘realm.’ Who is she?”
    “I’m afraid she was killed today,” Sachs said evenly. “That’s the case I told you about earlier.”
    Rhyme wouldn’t have mentioned the murder to a teenager. But this was Sachs’s call; she’d know what to share and what not to.
    “Oh, I’m sorry.” Pam was sympathetic but not shocked or dismayed by the hard truth.
    Rhyme asked, “Pam, can anybody log on and get into your realm?”
    “Well, you’re supposed to join. But if you don’t want to post anything or host your own realm you can crack in just to look around.”
    “So you’d say that the man who printed this out knows computers.”
    “Yeah, he’d have to, I guess. Only he didn’t print it out.”
    “What?”
    “You can’t print or download anything. Even with the print screen command. There’s a filter on the system—to prevent stalkers, you know. And you can’t crack it. It’s like what protects copyrighted books online.”
    “Then how did he get the picture?” Rhyme asked.
    Pam laughed. “Oh, he probably did what we all do at school if we want a shot of a cute guy or some weird Goth chick. We just take a picture of the screen with a digital camera. Everybody does that.”
    “Sure,” Rhyme said, shaking his head. “Never occurred to me.”
    “Oh, don’t worry, Mr. Rhyme,” the girl said. “A lot of times people miss the obvious answer.”
    Sachs glanced at Rhyme, who smiled at the girl’s reassurance. “Okay, Pam. Thanks. I’ll see you later.”
    “ ’Bye!”
    “Let’s fill in the portrait of our friend.”
    Sachs picked up the marker and stepped to the whiteboard.
----
    UNSUB 522 PROFILE
    • Male
    • Possibly smokes or lives/works with someone who does, or near source of tobacco
    • Has children or lives/works near them or near source of toys
    • Interest in art, coins?
    • Probably white or light-skinned ethnic
    • Medium build
    • Strong—able to strangle victims
    • Access to voice-disguise equipment
    • Possibly computer literate; knows OurWorld. Other social-networking sites?
    • Takes trophies from victims. Sadist?
    • Portion of residence/workplace dark and moist
    NONPLANTED EVIDENCE
    • Dust
    • Old cardboard
    • Hair from doll, BASF B35 nylon 6
    • Tobacco from Tareyton cigarettes
    • Old tobacco, not Tareyton, but brand unknown
    • Evidence of Stachybotrys Chartarum mold
    Rhyme was looking over the details when he heard Mel Cooper laugh. “Well, well, well.”
    “What?”
    “This is interesting.”
    “Be specific. I don’t need interesting. I need facts.”
    “It’s still interesting.” The lab man had been shining a bright light on the slit-open spine of Robert Jorgensen’s book. “You were thinking the doctor was crazy, talking about