A needle in a haystack

Trigger warning: References to pedophilia and murder of children, descriptions of violence, vulgar language.

“Houston, we have a problem!” I shouted into my mic as gunfire erupted all around me. I ducked behind a stack of crates and switched my loadout from an automatic to a sniper. 

“Who are you talking to, Tacos? What’s the problem? Damnit, Freddie-”

“What? I wanted his Tommy Gun!”

“You’re going to get us all killed!” 

Chatter filled the group comms but was quickly subdued in my earpiece as another voice took precedence. 

“Seriously, Amelia! Act twelve!” Patric’s voice came over a different line, one only I could hear and designed to be heard over the chaos. 

“I’m trying!” I snapped back as I took aim from behind the crate and pulled the trigger, dropping a shiny black suit with a bright white cartoon rabbit head.

“Tryna what, Tacos? Need help?” 

I hadn’t muted the game channel. Damnit. Equipment sprawled out around the dropped body and began glowing a faint blue. 

“Dude, say dude,” Patric instructed me just in time to stop me from, well, being me. 

Patric was supposed to have been in this seat, but while he has the semblance of youth, being just 24, and intricate gaming knowledge, he has absolutely zero experience actually catching criminals. Despite the awkward position I was in, lagging behind a group of adolescents, I was damn good at what I did, and that was sussing out the bad guy. This asshole had killed four boys that we know of. Different states. All twelve to thirteen. Aside from their age, the only other thing they had in common was this game, specifically, this server. 

“Sorry, dude! Sister’s in the room. Getting distracted.” I improvised. I took aim for the next shot. Crack! Got ‘em. 

“Damn, bruh, that sucks!” Post puberty voice, probably sixteen or seventeen.

“Nice recovery!” Patric spoke over the whelp I was playing with. “Now remember-”

“Shut up!” I growled. 

“Man, chill!” Prepubescent. 

“Not you, bruh. Talking to my sister.” I said tensely as, with the flick of a finger in my neurogloves, I dove away from a grenade. 

“That’s cool, come north, we’re moving in on the candy shop.” 

Fuck! Which one is talking? I remembered to look at the top of the screen. The name Scottsdaman flashed, indicating who was talking. 

Warzone 3 was not a kid’s game. In fact, many of the players were adults. But adults were not the ones being targeted. Ergo, to get his attention and draw him out, I needed to not be an adult. A vocal filter took care of the sound of my voice, that of a thirty-five-year-old woman. A few days of training and “briefings” on the game lore and mechanics got me up to speed on gameplay. Now, the trick was to act like a twelve-year-old boy. If that asshole could pull it off, I knew I could too. I just had to remember to use ‘bruh’ a lot and tell poop jokes. If only it were actually that easy. These kids had a language and a culture all of their own. 

I switched my loadout again. Shotgun. I proceeded forward cautiously.

My team continued to bark instructions at each other, Sometimes one over the top of the other.

“Over here! No, not over there, up this way!” Monkey426 was chittering excitedly. Ah, perfectly reasonable directions. The task force leader in me cringed. 

“Leave the tank, dude!” Scottsdaman, the ‘leader’ of this hodgepodge group of misfits, barked. 

Which was followed, naturally by, “naw man! Imma blow shit up!” 

And, “What the fuck? Where did you come from? Where the fuck did he come from?” For some reason, it was always a surprise to some players. Every. Single. Time. 

Grenades, guns spraying bullets, and, yes, a tank firing, filled my earbuds as I ducked behind a derelict car that had been turned upside down and tagged. My real-life hand motioned toward my waist, my digital hand coming back holding a grenade. I tossed it at two enemies, then spotted a third. I took him out with the shotgun. Well, I lowered his HP with the shotgun, enough that Monkey426 could come in and headshot him with a handgun. Oh well, I thought, I’m not really here for the kills anyway. Something moving and glowing a soft blue within the overturned car caught my attention. 

“Hey guys, grenade launcher!” I yelled into the mic excitedly, suddenly feeling like I could channel my inner teenage boy. 

“Take it, bro,” said Noo_name.

“All yours,” HoosierDaddy69 popped in. I could practically feel the eye roll. 

Patric cut in. “Just track up to the NW toward the bus on fire and enter the city there. Remember, to get his trust you’re going to have to stick to the script. No more intellectual comments or references to Apollo 13.” I was about to ‘roger’ when he cut back in. “Oh, and mute your in-game mic when you respond to me. If we spook him it’s back to the drawing board.” 

With a flick of the wrist, I muted the in-game mic. “Roger.” I laced as much sarcasm into that one little word as I could.  

“Monkey, gimmie the hammer!” FreddieMerc exploded into my ear as the volume readjusted back to the game. I looked ahead to see him jumping up and down in front of an avatar of a woman in a leotard with cat ears. “I’m serious, Monkey, gimmie the hammer! Dude, gimmie the hammer,” he repeated over and over, then began telling the primate what he was going to do if the hammer wasn’t handed over. I tried not to wonder what he needed the hammer for in a war game with bullets and tanks.

I checked that I was still muted, “Well, he’s not that one. That one argues like my nephew.” 

“Ella’s running their names now, one sec. Nope. She hasn’t gotten to that one yet.” Patric’s cadence was slow, as though he were concentrating on something. 

I was stalking down a street now when the screen flashed red and my HP suddenly reduced. 

“Shit, where did that come from?” I dodged into an open doorway, clearing the room as I entered, then peered through the window. 

“Up and to the left. And unmute yourself. That was a good one. You almost sounded twelve!” 

I aimed high to the left and saw movement. A spikey-haired punk Army GI bopped his head up and down. I waited until he was down then jumped across the street to the building atop which he was spraying the streets of Campena like a crazed mobster. 

“Alright, time to drop a few lures out there.” 

I flipped on open-world comms as I stalked up behind him. 

“Eat this!” I said, headshotting him.

I stood, staring at the dead body as it faded, leaving behind a whole pile of loot. I relaxed my hands, closed my eyes, and meditated to the sounds of gunfire, explosions, and frenzied boy chatter. While I waited, I studied. I listened closely to the voices, trying to pick out details. Consistencies. Inconsistencies. Cadences. 

“Hey, Tacos! Where you at, dude?” A teammate interjected. I hadn’t seen the name flashing but it sounded like Noo_Name. 

I remained quiet, waiting for the next ping. It didn’t take long. Hoosier, the perfect cliche, blurted “he’s probably off t-bagging a noob.” 

That was my opportunity. “Sorry! Was AFK. My parents are out tonight and the pizza just got here. On my way.”

“Why didn’t your sister get it?” Monkey asked. 

“Cuz she’s six, bruh. She can’t answer the door. I’m on a roof, I’ll be right there.” One more seed planted. Back to cultivating to see what grows. 

I ran to rejoin my group, who had taken up high ground along the entry points to the Candy Shop to pick off easy prey. I took up a position on top of a bombed-out ice cream parlor. I could see the front entry. Through the windows I could see one of the vending machines that give loot, healing in the form of candy bars and soda pop that increases your speed. 

“Hey, guys. I’m here, up on the ice cream parlor." I chimed in enthusiastically, ever the team player. 

“Dude, you’re on public comms! Switch to private!” Scottsdaman’s voice was frantic and agitated.

“Bruuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuh!” Freddie drew out.

“We’re blown!” I could just picture Noo_Name’s facepalm.

“Great, Taco! PIG!” Hoosier emphasized the word ‘pig.’. My heart leaped into my throat and my jaw dropped. I was FBI, not police, but…how’d they know?

“It’s new slang off 'Player of the Game'. POG-PIG. It’s sarcastic for ‘worthless asshat.’” Patric cut over the annoyed and dismayed chatter. I heard him chuckle before he cut back out.

I laughed, relieved, then remembered I was still on public voice comms.

“Dude, it’s not funny.” Scottsdaman had been unphased through most of the battle but now his voice was tinged with frustration.

 I switched to group comms. “Sorry guys! I suck tonight.”

“Yeah, you do!” Noo_Name.

“Bruh, back off. Tacos’ cool. It’s okay, man, it happens.” Scottsdaman came wearily to my defense. “Let’s move to The Green and see what’s going on there.”

As he spoke, I caught movement. Other players were already moving in on us. 

“They’re here, let’s go,” I tossed a grenade toward the movement then pivoted and moved in the opposite direction. 

“Any spidey senses yet?” Patric used the time while we were moving to check in. 

I muted in-game comms. Then confirmed I was muted.

“Nothing substantial. Hoosier is a walking stereotype. Check him out. And Scottsdaman seems cool. Too cool. Neither has shown any clear indicators but it wouldn’t hurt to give them a glance.”  

This was my twentieth or so round, each with different groups. So far, listening to the chatter and watching avatar behaviors (we’re talking ‘t-bagging’ and ‘take the L’ just as ways of saying ‘hi’), I was beginning to think this was not the way we were going to catch him. It was one of several lines of investigation, including data mining, running IPs, and just good, old-fashioned detective work. Game immersion was suggested as a lark, on the off-hand chance that we might draw him out yet somehow it had matured into a fully formed task force renting an Airbnb and setting up a mock Treble Games user profile. A question loomed over me. How do you pick one douche needle out of a pile of teenagers? But then I noticed something. 

In the guild chat- the kind that is typed, not audio- was a message with my name tagged. My body tingled. It read “@TacosCats11, you discord? DM me ur name.” It was from KillerUnikitty. I tried to recall voice comms. Had I seen that name light up? I hadn’t watched as closely as I should have but I didn’t recall seeing it. That was hopeful. I had a good intuition about people and none of the voices stood out to me.

“Nevermind, Patric, I got something. Gimmie everything you can on KillerUnikitty.” I opened up a private message to Killer- the name was so ironic!- and began typing. 

“#TacosCats4FR. wut kind of server u got?” 

I did my best at their shorthand but it was sloppy, still filled with formality. Should I have included the question mark?

My body exploded. Well, not really. It bounced whole-bodied into the air then crumpled to the ground, dead. All the equipment and ammo I had collected burst from my corpse, spreading out to be picked upon by hungry vultures. Damnit! I had been so distracted by the message I’d forgotten there was a war raging around me. My death had a silver lining. The 15 seconds it would take my body to respawn gave me time. I watched the chat box on the bottom left of my vision. It faded and disappeared. 

“Damn Tacos, your body flew!” Scottsdaman had some of his easy enthusiasm back in his voice. 

“He hit a bouncer mine!” Freddie practically sang.

“That was awesome!” Monkey laughed.

“Yeah, guys, just write me off this round.” I put on my best annoyed voice. “Damn sister.” The sister I never had was a very convenient excuse. 

“Oh, that’s right, Tacos’ bee-bee-sitting!” Noo_name mocked but ultimately took the higher ground. “It’s all good, we weren’t gonna win this one anyway. Let’s just rack up as much rank as we can." 

Teams won based on completing objectives, but you ranked up through kills.

The text box reappeared, reading invite sent. party place w music. Muted WF3 comms so we can get crazy. Come on over.

“Patric,” was all I said. 

“On it.” 

I ran from the spawn point back toward the center of the city. I was nearly taken out by an enemy who was camping the spawn point- little asshole- but I jumped and dodged then came in for a little hand-to-hand. It wasn’t the best tactic but it's all I had, having just respawned. I moved my fingers frantically to work my way through his defenses then Bam! Pow! I unloaded fists until his body fell and loot scattered. I might have been proud of the kill had I not been focused on the chat. 

“Anything yet?” 

“Yeah, we’ve got a nest of them at the subway. Killed seven I think.” Hoosier came back. 

“Great. Got one myself at the spawn point.” then I muted. “Patric, I meant you.” 

“Hang on, getting there.”

A new message popped in from Monkey426 that read ‘heya.’ I ignored it for the time being. 

“So far it looks like just what they said. Nightcore and children screaming. It’s savage as fuck.” Patrick must have turned off the noise-canceling for his mic. As he spoke, chaos rose atop chaos. Over the subdued sounds of battle and voice comms, a hectic beat pulsed and kids’ voices rose. Remember Freddie and Monkey fighting over the hammer? There were several voices, one sounding as young as seven or so, inquiring “who has the hammer now?” then “Punkin, you got it?” “Yer mom has it, Beastie…” 

“Ugh, mute that shit! It’s just a bunch of noise!” Annoyed, I popped over to Monkey’s chat and moved my hands along the ethereal keyboard. ‘Sup?’ 

Comms had grown quiet but the sound of far-off gunfire drew my attention. I could move toward it and establish myself as a legit twelve-year-old or- 

"I’m sorry you have to babysit, bro. I have a little sister too." 

My spidey senses went bananas. 

"Got ‘em." I jolted in my chair and sat up. 

The change in demeanor was subtle. A twelve-year-old would have totally missed it but it jumped out at me like a giant red arrow pointing and flashing. 

“It’s not Killer. We just cleared her. Ten-year-old girl from-”

“Monkey, run monkey!” I fought the urge to pull off my gear and go help them. They were professionals, they had this. My job wasn’t done. I had to bring it home. 

I took two very deep breaths. I unmuted my mic and ran up a set of stairs, gun at the ready. Pop! Pop! I took out two players as though I had been born doing this. Something about the adrenaline made me feel unstoppable. 

“Got two more, guys! I ranked!”

“Bet!”

I got to the roof overlooking The Green and took up point. Here I could wait and still seem accountable to my team. 

I pulled up the message from Monkey and responded, “yeah, im salty. wcud?” I think I said ‘I’m bitter about it, but what can you do?' My stomach soured as I typed to him. If this was our guy, I had a whole list of things I wanted to do to him that did not involve friendly banter. 

A part of me felt antsy but I was a professional. I focused on my breathing and the game, making kills, getting killed, respawning, and blurting over the comms so Monkey didn’t catch on that he had spooked me. A minute, then two stretched into eternity. The flow of the game and its incessant noise eventually drew me back in. That’s why I damn near hit the ceiling when Patric’s voice burst into my earlobes. 

“We got ‘em! Ami, that’s him! Holy fuck we actually got him!”

“Fuck!” I exploded before I can think. Then, over the chattering responses of my teammates, I added hastily. “Shit! Guys, um, I gotta bail. My sister just spilled juice all over my carpet!” 

I didn’t wait for their responses. I disconnected and pulled the glasses off my head. I blinked my eyes a few times, adjusting to the low light of the curtained living room. Patric was standing at the far end of the room, where he had clearly just emerged from the back bedroom. He took the bud from his ear and spoke excitedly. 

“Johnathan Guyer. He’s got priors and is registered,” he meant as a sex offender, probably pedophilia. “His IP history lines up with each of the victims and, get this, he travels for work and was in Sacramento at the time of the Walton murder.” The downside to the internet is these guys have access to victims they wouldn’t otherwise have. The downside for them is we can pretty much find out anything, once we know who to look at.

“Alright let’s do this, push the warrants, and contact our field office in- where is he?” 

“Eugene, Oregon. Ella’s already on it.”

The whole bureau had been on alert so now that we had a name, I suspected he would be arrested by, let’s see, it was 12:37 AM, I’d say by morning. I felt my body loosen as I released tension I didn’t even know was there, yet it continued to buzz with energy. I may not have been Player of the Game, but I was a damn good special agent, as were the rest of my team. In the words of teenage gamers everywhere, LIT!