Tate sat at a picnic table near the fountain and divided his time between staring intently at his computer screen and staring intently at the girls on their blankets. The man’s sunglasses couldn’t mask the admiring way his head followed the young girls’ movements.

The second was a Hispanic male in his forties, Daniel Espinosa. Balding, gray at the temple, and the right age, but pedophiles tended to hunt within their ethnic group. It didn’t eliminate him, but it didn’t move him to the top of the list either. He had a friendly, open face and was chatting with a couple sharing his park table.

The third man was Lawrence Kenney. He was in his early fifties and looked like he’d purchased his crisp khakis, sweater vest, and unapologetic, sweeping comb-over from the same anal-retentive superstore. The man looked like the proverbial mild-mannered accountant pecking away at his laptop, but he made Gibson uneasy. He couldn’t put his finger on why. Perhaps it was the way the accountant sat among people but felt palpably apart from them. A woman pushing a baby carriage brushed past the accountant, who stiffened. His eyes trailed after her, fixing a simmering glare on her back that made the hair on Gibson’s arms stand up. Did goose bumps qualify as probable cause in Pennsylvania?

Hopefully, Rilling could match names with faces and run background checks on all of them. Until then, they would have to rely on old-fashioned police work and intuition.

Jenn and Hendricks set to debating and dissecting their pool of subjects. Listening to them, two things were clear to Gibson. One, they knew what they were talking about. Two, he didn’t, and the conversation quickly eclipsed his ability to follow. His knowledge of serial offenders stemmed largely from The Silence of the Lambs and Patricia Cornwell novels. What he did know was computers and the people who used them. He wondered if the same techniques that were used to profile killers and rapists could be applied to hackers. If he extrapolated backward from the signature of the ACG hack—to whom did it lead?

He supposed his money was on the accountant. The coding on the virus was clean, precise, and required attention to detail. At least going by wardrobe, the accountant was the best match. It was thin, though. He knew plenty of programmers who were slobs. He figured he was out of his league, discarded the theory, and went back to work sorting through the batch of driver’s license photographs that Mike Rilling had sent him from DC. Over the next hour, he mapped out their locations as best he could.