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Roseline felt her gut twist. This was all for the entertainment of the killer’s online audience.
Garofalo thrashed against his restraints, tipping the chair dangerously before the Game Master slammed him back down.
“Now, now, let’s not get too excited just yet,” the Game Master chided. He moved out of frame for a moment, returning with a table bearing various wicked instruments—knives, pliers, a cattle prod.
Callan glanced at Roseline. She tried to maintain a stony face. She had already endured this once before.
For the next agonizing minutes, they both watched as the Game Master selected tools from the table in response to suggestions that scrolled across a chat window on-screen. First, he used a knife to make shallow cuts across Garofalo’s chest and arms, eliciting muffled screams and encouraging the viewers to be even bolder in their suggestions.
Then he applied the cattle prod at various points on Garofalo’s body, the mobster writhing against his restraints from the excruciating shocks. Garofalo’s eyes bulged wildly over the gag, pleading for mercy.
But the Game Master was just getting started. He continued his brutal work slowly and methodically, pausing occasionally as if to give his online audience time to savor the violence and offer more sadistic suggestions.
When Garofalo finally slumped over, the Game Master simply fetched some smelling salts to rouse his victim back to consciousness for more agony.
He endured more and more rounds of unbelievable pain guided by the anonymous crowd until the Game Master had the last word and sliced his throat to the virtual cheers of his followers.
Callan must have seen his share of violence, but he turned ashen at the scene.
“Jesus,” he muttered under his breath. “Christ.”
Roseline’s fingers absently traced invisible lines on the conference table.
“Over fifty viewers bought access to the live stream, revealed only by usernames on the screen,” she went on, her voice leaden. “The Game Master informed them any requests for ‘creative embellishments’ could be placed in the chat box, in exchange for further gifts of… appreciation.”
Callan swallowed hard. “So that bastard turned torture and murder into a spectator sport,” he said. “Letting an audience bid on ways to mutilate a helpless man.”
Roseline nodded, a cold anger brewing inside her. “The Game Master provided the knife. His virtual patrons offered the direction… and incentives. All culminating in Garofalo’s inevitable end once they are tired of the game.”
“And nobody watching reported this?” Hemlock demanded. “They just sat back sipping beer and popcorn while some psychopath slaughtered a human being live?”
“Reporting likely would have implicated them as witnesses,” Roseline said. “These cretins celebrated the performance. Even egged it on once it began. The chat log contains their nauseating play-by-play commentary.”
She slid a stapled printout across to Hemlock. His eyes scanned the lewd banter and cheering interspersed with time stamps. His face flushed with disgust.
Roseline understood his dismay all too well. She had pored over every chilling detail herself, searching for coded clues that might betray the Game Master’s identity or location. But he had covered his tracks flawlessly so far. A ghost in the machine.
“No other identifying traces left behind?” Hemlock asked, setting the chat log down with unsteady hands. “No computer metadata, hidden encryption signatures?”
Roseline smiled wryly. She appreciated him grasping that her analytical skills extended beyond the obvious.
“I dug extensively,” she assured him. “But our suspect is meticulous. The video stream itself appeared untraceable, routed through endless proxy servers abroad. No way to pinpoint where it originated. And the Game Master disguised his voice when addressing the audience or responding to their vile suggestions.”
“Monster’s obviously tech savvy himself,” Hemlock muttered. “He knew how to hide behind all the digital smoke and mirrors.”
Roseline tilted her head, struck by Hemlock’s shrewd observation. She had come to the same conclusion regarding the Game Master’s technical proficiency. Perhaps their thinking aligned more than she had presumed.
“My take as well,” she confirmed. “Covering his tracks this expertly implies an intimate understanding of cyber security tactics. He’s no amateur stumbling blindly through the dark web. The Game Master possesses extensive knowledge of how to leverage technology to strategically anonymize his activities.”
Hemlock leaned back in his seat, rubbing his chin pensively as he reflected on her summary. Roseline found herself unexpectedly eager to hear his impressions and theories. She realized how solitary this work felt without another keen mind to spar with.
“Have you been able to dig up anything more on who this Game Master is?” Hemlock asked. “Any clues about the actual psychopath behind the digital mask?”
Roseline shook her head in frustration. “Unfortunately, not yet. The dark web forums he frequents are impenetrable without direct access. Codenames and encryption hide everyone’s true identities. For now, he remains a lethal phantom.”
“Well, we’ll just have to change that,” Hemlock said firmly. “Flushing monsters like him out of the shadows is why we’re here.”
Roseline felt mildly heartened by his resolve. Perhaps, together, they could indeed cast light upon the Game Master’s elusive evil. She had grown weary of chasing his warped brilliance alone down countless dead ends. Fresh eyes might make a difference.
