Pop! Goes the Weasel

CHAPTER Fifty-Six

Detective Patsy Hampton's investigation of the Jane Doe murders was starting to show forward movement and positive results. She thought she might have something good in the works. She had confidence in her ability to solve the murders. She knew from experience that she was smarter than everybody else.

It helped to have Chief Pittman and all the department's resources on her side. She had spent the past day and a half with Chuck Hufstedler at the FBI building. She knew she was using Chuck a little, but he didn't seem to mind. He was lonely, and she did like his company. She and Chuck were still sitting around at three thirty in the afternoon when Lancelot entered the Gamesters' Chatroom again. Laughalot, she remembered.

'He couldn't resist, could he?' Hampton said to Hufstedler. 'Gotcha, you fantasy freak.'

Hufstedler looked at her, his thick black eyebrows arched. 'Three thirty in the afternoon, Patsy. What does that say? Tell you what it says to me. Maybe he's playing from work. But I bet our Lancelot is a school kid.'

'Or he's somebody who likes to play with school kids.' She offered a thought that upset her even as she uttered the words.

This time, she didn't try to make contact with Lancelot. She and Chuck just listened in on a stupefying discussion of several role-playing games. In the meantime, he was trying to trace Lancelot.

'He's pretty good at this, a real hacker. He's built a lot of security into his system. Hopefully, we'll get to him anyway.'

'I have confidence in you, Cheeseman.'

Lancelot stayed in the chatroom past four thirty. By then it was all over. Chuck had his name and address: Michael Ormson, Hutchins Place in Foxhall.

At a few minutes before five, two dark-blue vans pulled up in front of the Ormson house on the Georgetown Reservoir. Five agents in blue FBI windbreakers and Detective Patsy Hampton surrounded the large Tudor-style house with an acre or two of front and back lawn and majestic views.

Senior FBI Agent Brigid Dwyer and Hampton proceeded to the front door and found it unlocked. With weapons drawn they quietly entered the house and discovered Lancelot in the den.

He looked to be around thirteen years old. A baby geek. He was sitting at a computer in his shorts and black socks.

'Hey, what the heck is going on? Hey! What are you doing in my house? I didn't do anything wrong. Who are you guys?' Michael Ormson asked in a high-pitched, peeved, but quivering voice.

He was skinny. His face was covered with acne. His back and shoulders had a rash that looked like eczema. Chuck Hufstedler had been right on target. Lancelot was a teenage geek playing with his fancy computer after school. He wasn't the Weasel, though. This boy couldn't be the Weasel.

'Are you Michael Ormson?' Patsy Hampton asked the boy. She had lowered her weapon but hadn't bolstered it.

The young boy dropped his head and looked ready to weep. 'Oh God, oh God.' he moaned. 'Yes, I'm Michael Ormson. Who are you guys? Are you going to tell my parents?'