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Boling added, "And one thing we've found out about him. He's very active in computer games. Young people who are good at them learn very sophisticated combat and evasion techniques. One of the things military recruiters always ask is how much the applicants game; everything else being equal they'd take a gamer over another kid any day."
Overby asked, "Motive?"
Dance then explained to her boss that if Travis was the killer, his motive was probably revenge based on cyberbullying.
"Cyberbullying," Overby said, gravely. "I was just reading up on that."
"You were?" Dance asked.
"Yep. There was a good article in USA Today last weekend."
"It's become a popular topic," Boling said. Did Dance detect slight dismay about the sources that informed the head of a regional office of the CBI?
"That's enough to turn him to violence?" Overby asked.
Boling continued, nodding, "He's being pushed over the edge. The postings and the rumors have spread. And it's become physical bullying too. Somebody's put up a YouTube video about him. They got him in a happy slap vid."
"A what?"
"It's a cyberbullying technique. Somebody came up to Travis at Burger King and pushed him. He stumbled--it was embarrassing--and one of the other kids was waiting to record it on a cell phone. Then they uploaded it. It's been viewed two hundred thousand times so far."
It was then that a slightly built, unsmiling man stepped out of the conference room across the hall and into the doorway of Overby's office. He noted the visitors and ignored them.
"Charles," he said in a baritone.
"Oh . . . Kathryn, this is Robert Harper," Overby said. "From the AG's office in San Francisco. Special Agent Dance."
The man walked into the room and shook her hand firmly, but kept a distance, as if she'd think he was coming on to her.
"And Jon . . ." Overby tried to recall.
"Boling."
Harper gave the professor a distracted glance. Said nothing to him.
The man from San Francisco had an unrevealing face and perfectly trimmed black hair. He wore a conservative navy blue suit and white shirt, a red-and-blue striped tie. On his lapel was an American flag pin. His cuffs were perfectly starched, though she noticed a few stray gray threads at the ends. A professional state's attorney, long after his colleagues had gone into private practice and were making buckets of money. She put him in his early fifties.
"What brings you to Monterey?" she asked.
"Caseload evaluations." Offering nothing more.
Robert Harper seemed to be one of those people who, if he had nothing to say, was comfortable with
silence. Dance believed too she recognized in his face an intensity, a sense of devotion to his mission, akin to what she'd seen in the Reverend Fisk's face at the hospital protest. Though how much of a mission caseload analysis would entail was a mystery to her.
He turned his attention to her briefly. She was used to being looked over, but usually by suspects; Harper's perusal was unsettling. It was as if she held the key to an important mystery for him.
Then he said to Overby, "I'm going to be outside for a few minutes, Charles. If you could keep the door to the conference room locked, I'd appreciate it."
"Sure. Anything else you need, just let me know."
A chilly nod. Then Harper was gone, fishing a phone from his pocket.
"What's the story with him?" Dance asked.
"Special prosecutor from Sacramento. Had a call from upstairs--"
The attorney general.
