The Never Game

Shaw sipped the coffee, which was a fine brew, yet the Costa Rican beans didn’t live up to their claim of overshadowing the Salvadoran.

Foyle was listening to Shaw’s explanation about the kidnappings, sitting forward at an acute angle. The man seemed shy and had made no pleasantries, offered no greetings; he had not shaken Shaw’s hand. A bit of Asperger’s, maybe. Or perhaps because software code looped through his thoughts constantly and the idea of social interaction emerged briefly, if at all. He wore no wedding ring or other jewelry. His loafers needed replacement. Shaw recalled the article about the game designer and assumed if you spent eighty hours a week in a dark room, it was because you enjoyed spending eighty hours a week in a dark room.

When Shaw finished, Foyle said, “Yes, I heard about the girl. And on the news this morning the other kidnapping. The journalists said it was likely the same man but they weren’t sure.” A Bostonian lilt to his voice; Shaw supposed he’d acquired his computer chops at MIT.

“We think probably.”

“There was nothing about The Whispering Man.”

“That’s my thought. I told the investigators but I’m not sure how seriously they took it.”

“Do the police have any hope of finding the new victim?” His language was stiff, formal in the way that Shaw supposed computer codes were formal.

“They didn’t have any leads as of an hour ago.”

“And your thought is that either he’s some troubled kid who’s taken the game to heart, like those boys a few years ago, or — alternatively — someone has hired him to pretend he’s a troubled kid to cover up something else.”

“That’s right.”

Knight asked, “What do you think, Jimmy?” Unlike his dictatorial attitude toward the other minions, with Foyle the CEO was deferential, almost obsequious.

Foyle drummed his fingers silently on his thigh while his eyes darted about. “Masquerading as a troubled gamer to cover up another reason for a kidnapping? I don’t know. It seems too complicated, too much work. There’d be too many chances to get found out.”

Shaw didn’t disagree.

“A troubled player, though, stepping over the line.” The man nodded thoughtfully. “Do you know Bartle’s categorization of video game players?”

Knight offered a gutsy laugh. “With all respect, he doesn’t know shit about games.”

Which wasn’t exactly true but Shaw remained silent.

Foyle went into academic mode. His eyes widened briefly — his first display of emotion, such as it was. “This is significant. There are four personality profiles of gamers, according to Bartle. One: Achievers. Their motivation is accumulating points in games and reaching preset goals. Two: Explorers. They want to spend time prowling through the unknown and discovering places and people and creatures that haven’t been seen before. Three: Socializers. They build networks and create communities.”

He paused for a moment. “Then, fourth: Killers. They come to games to compete, to win. That’s the sole purpose of gaming to them. Winning. Not necessarily to take lives; they enjoy race car and sports games too. First-person shooters are their favorites, though.”

Killers...

Foyle continued: “We spend a lot of time profiling who we’re creating games for. The profile of Killers is mostly male, fourteen to twenty-three, who play for at least three hours a day, often up to eight or ten. They frequently have troubled family lives, probably bullied at school, loners.

“But the key element of Killers is they need someone to compete against. And where do they find them? Online.”

Foyle fell silent and his face revealed a subtle glow of satisfaction.

Shaw didn’t understand why. “How does that profile help us?”

Both Knight and Foyle seemed surprised at the question. “Well,” the game designer said, “because it might just lead you straight to his front door.”

38

Detective LaDonna Standish was saying, “Don’t mind admitting when I’m wrong.”

She was referring to her advice that Shaw leave Silicon Valley for home or to do some sightseeing.

They were in her office at the Task Force, only one half of which showed any signs of occupancy. The other hemisphere was completely vacant. There’d been no replacement found for Dan Wiley, who’d now be shuffling files to and from the various law enforcement agencies throughout Santa Clara County, a job that, to Shaw, would be a level of hell unto itself.

When Standish had stepped into the JMCTF reception area twenty minutes ago, Shaw had been amused to see her stages of reaction when he told her what he’d found: (1) confusion, (2) irritation and (3) after he’d shared what Jimmy Foyle had told him, interest.

Gratitude — reaction 3½? — had followed. She’d invited him to the office. Her desk was covered with documents and files. On the credenza pictures of friends and family, as well as several commendation plaques, were daunted by more files.

Jimmy Foyle’s idea was that if the suspect were a Killer he would be online almost constantly.