fitness instructor had, somewhat understandably, been stealing glances at it.
Alan lifted a printout from the stack of papers inside the folder and handed it to Lorelei.
“Do you recognize this, Ms. Monroe?”
Lorelei took a few seconds to study the printout.
“These are my photos, of course,” she said. “But hey, wait a minute, this is a profile from a dating website.”
She laid the paper down on the desk and looked at Alan and Maribel.
“What is this about? I feel like you two are beating around the bush, trying to entrap me here. Then you show me this dating profile with my photos in it, and—I haven’t ever even done any online dating. I mean, not ever . I’m engaged , in fact.”
She gestured to a photo in a standing frame atop her desk: Lorelei and a bookish-looking but handsome man, obviously on vacation in a tropical location. The man was standing behind Lorelei and he had his arms wrapped around her. Their fingers were intertwined.
“You might not be doing any online dating,” Alan said, “but someone is setting up online dating profiles using your pictures.”
Lorelei laughed. “You mean like—false advertising? A bait-and-switch type of thing?”
“I’m afraid it's a bit more serious than that,” Maribel replied.
Alan and Maribel then told Lorelei exactly how her photos had been used. When they were done with their explanation, the color had drained from Lorelei’s face.
“Oh my God. You mean to tell me—a serial killer.” Then another thought occurred to her. “You don’t mean—you don’t think that I’ve been going around killing people, do you? Because, listen: I don't know anything about this! I’ll take a polygraph test or whatever you need!”
“No,” Alan said, holding up both hands in a take-it-easy gesture. “We actually don’t think that you had anything to do with this.”
“Well, that’s a relief to hear.”
“But we do think that the person—or people—behind these killings might know you . And that’s the main reason why we’re here. Yours weren’t the only photos used in the fake dating site profiles in this case. But the other photos have all been traced to stock photos—European models—grabbed off the Internet at random. While its possible that the killer might have grabbed your photos at random, too, it’s just a bit too much of a coincidence. You live here in Columbus, and the very first killing was in Columbus.”
“So what we need,” Maribel said, “is for you to tell us if you have any idea who might have taken your photos.”
“How could I possibly know?”
“Perhaps you don’t,” Alan allowed. “But can you think of anyone you know who might have done this? Has anyone expressed any overt or covert hostility toward you of late? Remember: Even though photos of women were used as bait, we don’t know yet if this serial killer is a man, a woman, or multiple people.”
“I have no idea,” Lorelei said. “I—I don’t know anyone who would do something like this. This—this is sick. Totally sick . I’m so sorry for what happened. And I know this sounds selfish, given that people have been killed, but I feel violated .”
“You have been violated, Ms. Monroe,” Alan agreed.
Such was the mixed blessing of the Internet. Alan had noticed over the years that there was something cultlike and self-important about online culture. Anyone who described the Internet as anything but a boon to progress was dismissed as a fogey or a Luddite.
In the roughly twenty years of its modern, commercial incarnation, the Internet had created whole new ways of life, and billions of dollars in economic opportunities. That much was true. But Alan had also read that the Internet had bankrupted much of the music industry through online piracy. The Internet had provided places where child pornographers, Islamic extremists, and cranks of every kind could find a podium and like-minded associates.
And the pervasive reach of social media, coupled
Alan lifted a printout from the stack of papers inside the folder and handed it to Lorelei.
“Do you recognize this, Ms. Monroe?”
Lorelei took a few seconds to study the printout.
“These are my photos, of course,” she said. “But hey, wait a minute, this is a profile from a dating website.”
She laid the paper down on the desk and looked at Alan and Maribel.
“What is this about? I feel like you two are beating around the bush, trying to entrap me here. Then you show me this dating profile with my photos in it, and—I haven’t ever even done any online dating. I mean, not ever . I’m engaged , in fact.”
She gestured to a photo in a standing frame atop her desk: Lorelei and a bookish-looking but handsome man, obviously on vacation in a tropical location. The man was standing behind Lorelei and he had his arms wrapped around her. Their fingers were intertwined.
“You might not be doing any online dating,” Alan said, “but someone is setting up online dating profiles using your pictures.”
Lorelei laughed. “You mean like—false advertising? A bait-and-switch type of thing?”
“I’m afraid it's a bit more serious than that,” Maribel replied.
Alan and Maribel then told Lorelei exactly how her photos had been used. When they were done with their explanation, the color had drained from Lorelei’s face.
“Oh my God. You mean to tell me—a serial killer.” Then another thought occurred to her. “You don’t mean—you don’t think that I’ve been going around killing people, do you? Because, listen: I don't know anything about this! I’ll take a polygraph test or whatever you need!”
“No,” Alan said, holding up both hands in a take-it-easy gesture. “We actually don’t think that you had anything to do with this.”
“Well, that’s a relief to hear.”
“But we do think that the person—or people—behind these killings might know you . And that’s the main reason why we’re here. Yours weren’t the only photos used in the fake dating site profiles in this case. But the other photos have all been traced to stock photos—European models—grabbed off the Internet at random. While its possible that the killer might have grabbed your photos at random, too, it’s just a bit too much of a coincidence. You live here in Columbus, and the very first killing was in Columbus.”
“So what we need,” Maribel said, “is for you to tell us if you have any idea who might have taken your photos.”
“How could I possibly know?”
“Perhaps you don’t,” Alan allowed. “But can you think of anyone you know who might have done this? Has anyone expressed any overt or covert hostility toward you of late? Remember: Even though photos of women were used as bait, we don’t know yet if this serial killer is a man, a woman, or multiple people.”
“I have no idea,” Lorelei said. “I—I don’t know anyone who would do something like this. This—this is sick. Totally sick . I’m so sorry for what happened. And I know this sounds selfish, given that people have been killed, but I feel violated .”
“You have been violated, Ms. Monroe,” Alan agreed.
Such was the mixed blessing of the Internet. Alan had noticed over the years that there was something cultlike and self-important about online culture. Anyone who described the Internet as anything but a boon to progress was dismissed as a fogey or a Luddite.
In the roughly twenty years of its modern, commercial incarnation, the Internet had created whole new ways of life, and billions of dollars in economic opportunities. That much was true. But Alan had also read that the Internet had bankrupted much of the music industry through online piracy. The Internet had provided places where child pornographers, Islamic extremists, and cranks of every kind could find a podium and like-minded associates.
And the pervasive reach of social media, coupled
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