Charlie. It all started with Charlie.
As in Chester Charlie Bennington, lead singer of Linkin Park. His band's
infectious mashup of rap and rock had made it the most high-profile act in the
genre called nu-metal. He'd sold more than 40 million records. Played stadiums,
seen the world, won a couple of Grammys.
Only 30, Bennington had survived a tough past of drugs and abuse. He married
and had a child, then endured a bitter and costly divorce. He had recently
remarried, this time to a gorgeous schoolteacher named Talinda, and moved into a
6,000-square-foot house in Orange County. Fans loved the pierced and tattooed
man-boy for his primal scream and his approachability, the way he would sign
their photos and wave back to them at the grocery store. When a group of
overenthusiastic teenage girls mobbed him and ripped out some of his hair, he
took it in stride.
"The fans are the biggest reason we do what we do," Bennington told me at a
recording studio in West Hollywood. He was dressed in ripped black pants, black
knee socks, and a long black coat with Lenin's face stitched on the side. "If
fans come up to me, I talk to them, " he said, "I'm not an egg. I don't need
this protective wall." So when he had to choose a password for his Mac.com email
account, he just typed the first thing that came to mind, something short and
easy to remember: Charlie.
Talinda Bennington sat down to check her email. It was March
2006, and for Talinda, 29, life was good. She had recently married Chester and
they had just had a son together. Chester was working on an album with legendary
producer Rick Rubin. She opened a message from an unfamiliar address. "I'm very
happy for you and Chester," it read. Then, as if to taunt Talinda, there was a
link to a Web site run by Chester's ex-wife, Samantha.
Talinda didn't make much of it. She was married to a rock star, so she knew
how obnoxious fans could be. They blasted Linkin Park songs outside the couple's
house at 3 am. Nailed lyrics to their front door. One time, a woman slammed on
her brakes and caused an accident when she saw Chester strolling by — she had to
stop and tell him how much she loved him. "There are always going to be
encounters that you kind of wish went differently," Chester says. "But the
average fan really isn't fanatical."
On April 6, the Benningtons heard from an old friend who had received a
similarly cryptic email, this one from the address informant_for_u@yahoo.com.
The friend had dated Talinda years before, and the email he received made all
sorts of dark inferences based on that fact. Later, when Chester was out of
town, Talinda got a message from the same address. But this time the tone wasn't
vicious; it was weirdly familiar and solicitous. "I know you're going through a
hard time being alone," it read. "My thoughts and prayers are with you."
The creepily chummy emails continued through the spring. Then, in the wee
hours of the morning, Chester's cell phone rang. He fumbled for it in the dark,
but when he answered there was dead silence on the other end. It happened again.
And again. And again. When Chester rang back the number on caller ID, he got a
switchboard operator in New Mexico.
"Someone called me 15 times between 4 am and 4:30," he complained.
"Well, who's trying to call you?" the operator asked him.
"That's the problem!" he said, he didn't know. But the operator was no help.
Maybe she was feigning ignorance. Or maybe she was a telemarketer. "Stop calling
my fucking phone!" he screamed, and hung up.
One night soon after, Talinda had just put their son to sleep and crawled
into bed when Chester's cell phone rang. This time, she reached over and
answered it herself.
"I'm watching you, " a woman's voice said.
Talinda tried to shrug it off. "Whatever," she said.
"Whore!" the woman snapped back and hung up. Caller ID had been blocked.
Friends began emailing Talinda and referring to messages they had received
from her — messages that she had never sent. When they forwarded the emails to
her, she saw that they came from a Yahoo account she hadn't used in months.
Then Linkin Park's head of security, Bruce Thompson, got an email from
someone purporting to be Talinda. "Hi Bruce," it read, "do we have an email
address for Samantha? Strange emails from (fan?) sources have been received.
They seem to know a lot of information." Somebody was pretending to be Chester's
current wife to get contact info for his ex.
The mind games intensified as spring turned to summer. Informant_for_U
emailed a steady stream of tips and warnings to the Benningtons that evinced a
deep knowledge of their daily lives. As they struggled through a child- custody
battle, the stalker "helpfully" outlined an elaborate scenario on how Chester
might be able to discredit his former wife.
One afternoon, Talinda discovered that she couldn't log on to her eBay
account because the password had been changed. Soon after, she got an email from
PayPal reporting that someone was trying to change the password to that
account. Though such emails are often spam, sent by cyber criminals in an
attempt to "phish" for user data, a call to PayPal confirmed it was real. No one
had taken the Benningtons' money, but someone was trying to gain access. The
PayPal rep told her to notify her local police.
"This person is hacking into everything," Talinda thought. "Are they
watching me now? Are they here?"
In August, Chester got an automated text message from Verizon Wireless, his
cell phone provider, confirming a new password for his online account. Like most
phone companies, Verizon allows subscribers to manage their accounts on the
Internet and view lists of incoming and outgoing calls. To open this type of
account, users need only go online, fill out a form, and choose a password.
But Chester had never opened an online account for his Verizon mobile phone;
he got his bills the old-fashioned way, by snail mail. So why was Verizon
confirming a password change?
Suspicious, Chester and Talinda logged on and changed the password, promptly
receiving an SMS verification of their change. Then another notification
informed them that the password had been changed again. So the couple changed it
back and got another confirmation. When they got yet another text message
announcing yet another change they had not made, the Benningtons logged on and
found a question written in the space where the password should have been.
"Who is doing this to you?" it read.
It was September 11, 2006, a fateful anniversary but just
another Monday for Konstantinos "Gus" Dimitrelos. A solid 5'5" Joe Pesci
look-alike, Dimitrelos, 40, was sitting in his office behind a Belk's department
store in Spanish Fort, Alabama, when Talinda Bennington called. Dimitrelos is a
former Secret Service agent with a black belt in judo and a knack for computer
forensics. As a special agent in the Secret Service's Technical Security
Division, Dimitrelos would secure locations for visits by presidents Clinton and
Bush — sweeping it for hazards like bugs and chemical weapons, as well as
setting up evacuation measures in case of disaster or attack.
The mission of the Secret Service also covers fraud, identity theft, and
assisting local law enforcement with forensics. As a result, Dimitrelos had
chased down counterfeiters in Colombia and software pirates in Miami. He was
particularly adept at interrogations. "I pride myself on getting a confession,"
he says. "I'm a midget compared to the guy in the street, but I'll break him.
I'll throw a chair through a wall, flip over a table."
In 2003, Dimitrelos blew out a knee during a confrontation, which relegated
him to a desk job. When he retired a couple of years later, he could have gone
into the private sector — he had lucrative offers to do cybersecurity work for
Home Depot and Bank of America — but that wasn't his speed. "Corporate America
just does not appeal to me; I like the idea of putting people away." At about
this time, the state of Alabama needed someone to set up a computer-forensics
department and asked Dimitrelos to organize and run it. There was a two-year
backlog of state cases seeking to use the FBI forensic labs, and state
law-enforcement officers needed to be trained on the seizure of digital
evidence. He wasn't crazy about moving to the sticks. But he took the contract
gig and ended up digging the beaches and the barbecues in this small town of
5,600 people.
Dimitrelos works in a windowless office with beige walls and drab furniture.
A photo on the wall shows him behind the White House press podium (someone is
hoisting him up so he can look over it). Another image shows Dimitrelos in
Bogotá with a spread of bogus Benjamins on a table before him and a shit-eating
grin on his face.
In addition to overseeing the Alabama digital evidence department, Dimitrelos
founded Alabama's High-Technology Crimes Task Force, working with current Secret
Service agents on cases involving homicide, student hackers, and arson. And he
pursues private for-hire cases under his online shingle, Whohackedme.com.
With his Secret Service experience and contacts, Dimitrelos has garnered
plenty of referrals. Since starting his company, he's done forensics work for
Perverted-Justice.com, an organization that assisted Dateline's "To Catch
a Predator" TV series in busting adults cruising for minors on the Web. Private
citizens, as well as organizations like the Boys & Girls Clubs of America, have
hired him to sweep for bugs. He worked for the Department of Health and Human
Services on a case involving an ex-employee who was sending threatening emails,
and he assisted the FBI with an investigation of a Northrop Grumman employee
accused of having a hard drive full of child porn.
There was one type of client, though, that Dimitrelos tried to avoid:
paranoid celebrities. One high-profile musician had him check for microphones in
the shower because he thought someone was listening to him sing. "Too many
drugs," Dimitrelos says. "I don't want to take their money; it's boring. If I
don't get a case that has meat, I don't want to do it."
But on September 11, 2006, a celeb case landed in his lap: Talinda Bennington
called him. "I think someone's hacking my email," she said. She had been
referred by his lifelong best friend, Beverly Hills attorney Daniel Hayes, so
Dimitrelos heard her out. She told him about the escalating invasion she and her
husband were grappling with, and that she had contacted local authorities only
to be told that they couldn't do anything until someone actually got hurt.
"OK, I'm on it," Dimitrelos told Talinda. But privately he thought, "There'd
better be meat here."
He got Talinda's login info and went into her Yahoo email account. On his
32-inch monitor, he started to examine the messages in Talinda's out-box that
had been sent without her knowledge. The activity on the account ran all hours
of the day.
Dimitrelos pulled up the header of each email, which shows the Internet
protocol address it was sent from. As he eyeballed several messages, one IP
address kept popping up. Dimitrelos ran a program to trace the address. When the
results flashed on the screen, his eyes widened. "Sandia?" he said. "This can't
be right."
Sandia National Laboratories is one of the Department of Energy's three
nuclear weapons research facilities. Located in Albuquerque, New Mexico, it was
created in 1949 by J. Robert Oppenheimer, former head of the nearby Los Alamos
lab, as a center for developing the technology that goes into nuclear bombs. The
lab is run by the Sandia Corporation, which is owned by defense contractor
Lockheed Martin.
The thought of someone inside a top-secret nuke lab spending their days
stalking a rock singer was ludicrous. Dimitrelos figured it must be a hacker who
was using a Sandia machine as a proxy to protect their own IP address and
identity. This wasn't just about a nu-metal rock star and his family anymore; it
was a national security issue. He had to let Sandia know that someone had
compromised one of its computers.
Calling the lab directly seemed unlikely to bear fruit — he was halfway
across the country, and he was working on a private case. Luckily, from his
years at the Secret Service, Dimitrelos knew his way around government
bureaucracies. He found someone in Albuquerque who might be able to assist him
in his investigation: a Department of Defense agent named Jeff Fauver, who
worked the computer-crimes beat.
Fauver was happy to help. Like Dimitrelos, he sensed that this had the
makings of a federal investigation. But he didn't have direct access. "The
difficulty of working with Sandia is that the DOD is viewed as an outside
agency," he says. "We don't have leverage to force them to provide information."
But Fauver worked his connections, and a few days later he heard back from
Sandia's IT supervisor. The reply: "It's probably a compromised machine."
When Dimitrelos heard this news from Fauver, he sank into his chair. With a
hacker God knows where, using Sandia as a proxy, the odds of catching the person
were next to none. But the former wrestler wouldn't let go. "I'm sort of a
Columbo," he says. "I keep going back, looking for something I must have
missed."
So he stayed up late into the September night, poring over thousands of the
Benningtons' emails. And that's when he caught it: another IP address. He traced
this one to a Comcast account. The subscriber's name was protected, but the
location wasn't; the account was in Albuquerque.
Dimitrelos had a hunch. He re-created a timeline of the activity coming from
New Mexico, and, sure enough, a pattern emerged: seven hours of messages coming
from Sandia during the day, then four or five hours coming from this Albuquerque
residence at night. Could they be the same person? Did the stalker work at
Sandia?
"Whatever you're doing, you've got a good case," Fauver told Dimitrelos in a
phone call. Fauver discovered that though the stalker was using a proxy server
at Sandia, they weren't accessing it from outside the facility but from another
computer terminal inside the lab. And now a supervisor at Sandia wanted to know
why a DOD official was so interested in this case. "Because," Fauver replied,
"the person is working where there's sensitive information and technology. And
clearly that has relevance to the Department of Defense."
When Dimitrelos got off the phone with Fauver, his heart was pounding. There
was meat here.
As Dimitrelos worked the case from Alabama, the Benningtons
continued to be harassed by the cyberstalker they sometimes referred to as
Crazypants. Dimitrelos hadn't yet revealed his suspicions about the culprit, and
looking back on the fall of 2006, Talinda says she was confused and suspicious.
"I didn't know who to trust," she says. "I literally only trusted my husband.
Our family and closest friends were all suspects."
"Is it one of my cousins?" Chester wondered. "Is it one of the assistants of
the guys in the band? Is it some new person at the management company?"
The rock star who'd prided himself on his accessibility began to erect walls.
He put in motion sensors. Bought a guard dog. Installed alarms on every window.
Called his dad and brother — who were cops in Arizona — and asked them to help
get his local police in California to keep an eye on his house. Chester
considered hiring a personal assistant to do errands for him but balked. "That'd
be another person in my life that I didn't know if I could trust," he told me.
Dimitrelos wasn't exactly reassuring. "Do what makes you feel comfortable,"
he told Chester. "But it's a waste of money, they're already so far into your
accounts." To make matters worse, the couple had to let the stalker continue to
harass them. Dimitrelos asked them to go about their lives and not let on that
he was racing to pinpoint the culprit, who was growing increasingly bold. "I
know where your kids are," she told them one day when she called. "I have
complete control of your lives."
The case that Dimitrelos code-named Operation Eavesdrop had taken over his
life, too. On a steady diet of pizza and Coke, he worked seven days a week,
analyzing tens of thousands of messages that had gone in and out of the
Benningtons' email and voicemail accounts, assembling a detailed timeline of the
attacks.
This was no longer a private case. On October 11, Fauver initiated a federal
investigation with the DOD and contacted Department of Justice prosecutor Fred
Federici, an assistant US attorney for the district of New Mexico. Dimitrelos
could continue to drive the investigation because, as a member of the
electronic-crimes task force, he was sworn in as a federal agent through the US
Marshals Service. Dimitrelos had brought in an old friend with whom he worked
regularly, Secret Service agent Kevin Levy. (As a current agent, Levy was not
allowed to go on record for this story.)
When Dimitrelos, Levy, and Fauver had amassed sufficient evidence of the
stalker's online activity, they acquired a subpoena from New Mexico District
Court requesting that Comcast release details on the subscriber behind the
residential IP address in Albuquerque. Comcast reported that the address
belonged to Devon Townsend.
Dimitrelos tracked down her MySpace page, which revealed her to be a
27-year-old single mother of an infant son. She lived with her own mom in
Albuquerque and was a self-described "computer nerd" who liked grilled-cheese
sandwiches, hated applesauce, and took pride in being a parent. "I enjoy
watching my son grow, knowing that whatever I do impacts him," she wrote.
Dimitrelos couldn't believe that this was the stalker.
By this point, Fauver's DOE contact, special agent Matt Goward, had convinced
Sandia officials to send him a copy of her hard drive. Townsend was employed at
Sandia as a computer technologist, assisting the engineers and researchers at
the facility.
"This case is unbelievable," Dimitrelos thought. Townsend had Q-level
security clearance, which allows nonmilitary personnel to access atomic or
nuclear materials. It was equivalent to the clearance level that Dimitrelos
himself had when he was protecting presidents. And yet she was spending seven
hours a day at Sandia logging in and out of strangers' email accounts.
Dimitrelos wondered how Townsend pulled this off. He assumed the Feds
monitored the computer activity of people in nuclear research labs. But, as he
learned after reading up on Sandia, the lab had recently experienced another
security scandal.
In 2004, Shawn Carpenter, a network-intrusion-detection analyst at Sandia,
discovered an attack on the lab's computers (later linked in news reports to a
Chinese hacking group called Titan Rain) and began back- hacking to uncover the
problem. Carpenter informed the Army Research Lab and worked with them to help
ID the hackers, for which he claims Sandia fired him. He sued for wrongful
discharge. According to court documents, he claims he was told by Sandia's head
of counter intelligence, a retired CIA officer, "If you worked for me, I would
decapitate you!" (On February 13 of this year, a New Mexico jury awarded $4.3
million to Carpenter. A Sandia spokesperson announced that they were
"disappointed" by the verdict and planned to appeal it.)
Dimitrelos was incredulous. "Here's a person trying to do the right thing,"
he says, "and he was stifled internally." The Carpenter case suggested to him
that Sandia officials might not be fully helpful in his investigation. And that
wasn't all that concerned him. Through one of his DOE contacts, Fauver learned
that Townsend's mother was also employed at Sandia. She worked directly under
Norm Jarvis, the head of security. Whether or not Townsend's mother knew of her
daughter's alleged crimes, Dimitrelos was hesitant to work directly with
Sandia's security department. For all he knew, the mother would inform her
daughter of the investigation, and Devon Townsend would try to cover her tracks.
Luckily, Dimitrelos found Gus Tyler Smith, a sympathetic agent in the
Technology Crimes Section at DOE headquarters in DC. They hit it off —
Dimitrelos called him Big Gus, and he was Little Gus. Big Gus got clearance for
Levy and Little Gus to visit the lab and agreed to meet them there. Dimitrelos
was convinced that they had to move fast. "Let's pack our bags," he told Levy.
"We're going to Sandia."
The Benningtons had no idea that investigators were closing in on the person
who was wrecking their lives. Around this time, Chester got an email from
Informant_for_U. "Hey," it read, "I felt that you probably need this for
tomorrow." He opened the attachment and gasped. It was a day sheet, the detailed
schedule for a music video he would be filming the next day. The stalker knew
more about his life than he did.
On November 14, Dimitrelos and Levy arrived in Albuquerque.
They were there to get a formal confession from Devon Townsend. As the lead
investigator on the case, Dimitrelos would conduct the interview that would
later be used by the US attorney's office. Big Gus and a man who never revealed
his identity met them at the gate and followed them as they walked through the
federal bunkers and wound down the hallways. The layout was unnerving: It was a
one-story building with an elevator going down.
Devon Townsend worked in a cramped pod of cubicles with several other people.
Her workstation was easy to spot — there was a sticker behind the monitor with
the name of her favorite band. But she wasn't around. Her manager went to fetch
her, typing a security code to unlock a heavy door. She arrived a few moments
later, a Native American with a round face, long dark hair, glasses, and a
Linkin Park hoodie.
Dimitrelos introduced himself as a retired Secret Service agent. "Do you mind
if I ask you a few questions?" he said. They walked her to a small concrete DOE
building across the street, loosening her up with small talk along the way. "You
look fit," Dimitrelos said. "Do you work out?"
Levy and Dimitrelos sat down to interview Townsend. Big Gus did not take
part, but DOE agent Goward was there, floating in and out of the room. Levy read
Townsend her rights and had her sign the Secret Service's Warning and Consent to
Speak form 1737B. Then Dimitrelos got down to business.
"Do you know the band Linkin Park?" he asked Townsend.
"Yeah, I know them," she replied. "I'm wearing their jacket."
"You finish these sentences for me," he told her as he began to repeat a
passage from one of the messages the Benningtons had received. After all these
months, he'd memorized it.
Dimitrelos recited from an email in which the stalker had taunted Chester and
Talinda about trying to change their passwords. "You finally got smart and
decided to change your password. What does — "
" — Japan mean?" said Townsend, completing the sentence from her own email.
"OK," Dimitrelos continued. "On November 9, you sent an article about — "
" — cyberstalking," she said.
There'd be no throwing chairs through the wall to elicit this confession.
Townsend coolly told her tale. The stalking started after she saw Chester's
email address inadvertently CC'd in a mass mailing to promote a tattoo parlor he
owned in Tempe. Using Chester's birthday and zip code to access his Mac.com
account, she started guessing passwords until she found the right one: his
middle name, Charlie.
Townsend suddenly had access to all of her idol's messages. Soon she had
Talinda's Yahoo address, too, and after guessing the password, she reset it.
From there, her infiltration was a feat of feverish social engineering. As
Townsend pored through the Benningtons' email, she began cataloging every detail
of their lives: friends, Social Security numbers, photos, plans. Getting
Chester's cell phone data was a snap: All she'd needed was his wireless number,
his zip code, and the last four digits of his Social Security number to register
his Verizon account online and get complete access to records of his calls. Even
Townsend herself seemed astonished at how easy it was. When she opened the
Verizon account, the user ID she chose was "ohshititworked."
Why did you do all this? Dimitrelos asked. In flat tones, Townsend told him
that she was bored. Her job at Sandia took about half an hour a day, and she was
looking to pass the time.
Dimitrelos pressed for more from Townsend, trying to get a sense of her
feelings about her victims. Townsend told him she loved Linkin Park,
particularly Chester. She said she wanted to be "part of what he is." In some of
her emails, Townsend had told the Benningtons that she was trying to shield them
from any bad information or emails that may be coming their way. It was classic
stalker behavior — introducing duress, then pretending to relieve it in an
attempt to appear useful. She finally told Dimitrelos that she knew what she was
doing was wrong, but she couldn't stop.
Levy and Dimitrelos drew up a confession. Townsend signed it, and they
witnessed it. They made her promise not to have further contact with the
Benningtons. Then she was free to go. Fauver filed a complaint on November 20
that relied on information from the interview, and Townsend was jailed that day.
She was released the next, but soon afterward Sandia placed her on leave, and
eventually she was fired.
As Dimitrelos and Levy were interviewing Townsend, Fauver and a dozen
officials from the DOE, the Secret Service, and the US Defense Criminal
Investigative Service (a division of the DOD) arrived at Townsend's house with a
warrant from a federal judge for the district of New Mexico. Inside, they found
a shrine to Linkin Park: posters, a montage of photos, a paper plate signed by
Chester, and a Linkin Park poster over her son's crib.
When officials confiscated Townsend's hard drive, they found thousands of the
Benningtons' emails, a detailed log of their friends and family, and more than
700 of their private photos. They also found one of Townsend's personal photos,
taken backstage at a concert Chester gave in Arizona. She'd learned about the
event through the Benningtons' emails, then monitored their voicemail to figure
out where they would be at certain times.
The picture showed Townsend standing proudly next to Chester.
Later that day, Chester's cell phone buzzed. "I'm sorry for
doing what I did to you guys," Townsend text-messaged. "Please accept my
apology." It was her last communication to the Benningtons. When Dimitrelos
called later to announce she'd been caught, Chester felt physically ill.
"It sparks the sort of anger you don't normally experience," Chester told me
wearily as he sat in the recording studio in March. The lights were low.
Paintings of Buddhas adorned the walls. The band had just finished recording its
new album, Minutes to Midnight, which was due to hit shelves May 15. But
Chester wasn't celebrating. He'd lost a year of his life to a stalker, and he
was still feeling wounded.
"I don't go out and pick fights," he said. "But when you find out some total
stranger has personal pictures of your kids in the bath, has phone numbers of
your parents and close friends and every business associate, listens to every
voicemail you've had for the last year, intercepts every email you've written or
received ... it fuels my desire to make sure this kind of action is viewed as
criminal."
The scary part is that it could have been much worse. Townsend might have
emptied their bank accounts, disseminated their Social Security numbers, or
exploited the information to harm their children.
Townsend's attorney Ray Twohig declined to comment to Wired, saying
only that "the case is proceeding." But at Townsend's detention hearing he
conceded, "We have an invasion of privacy here by a fan that goes beyond what
most of us are familiar with. This is not someone hiding in the dressing room of
a rock star; it goes further than that."
At the detention hearing, Townsend was placed under house arrest and
forbidden to use a computer, cell phone, game console, or anything else that
could connect to the Internet. A call to her residence was answered by a man who
also refused to comment.
Townsend is facing a range of possible charges, including interception of
electronic communications, unlawful access to stored communications, fraud and
related activity connected with information, fraud and related activity in
connection with computers, and unauthorized trafficking of sound and video
recordings. The DOJ will not comment on an ongoing case.
Dimitrelos says there should be consequences for Sandia as well. "The US
attorney wanted to get me on a gag order," he says. "I told him to suck it."
Dimitrelos believes that Sandia's ignorance of Townsend's activity speaks poorly
of the lab's security. Fauver concurs, saying, "It causes me great concern that
there would be people inside Sandia able to use a network that was not being
closely monitored."
Sandia downplays the potential for other people to do what Townsend did. "The
employee has discovered a vulnerability in the system, and we've addressed that
issue," Sandia spokesperson Michael Padilla says. He stresses that her computer
was not in a secured area and adds, "She had a lot of free time, apparently."
The National Nuclear Security Administration, the DOE agency that oversees
Sandia, issued a statement to Wired, reading in part: "Multiple layers
of stringent security controls were in place at the time the incident occurred
and the security of Sandia's network was never compromised. Although the
Laboratory is planning to improve Internet monitoring capabilities for outbound
connections, no policy changes have been required as a result of the incident.
The only completely effective way to prevent abuse of Internet access is to deny
it entirely, and that is not a viable option for a research and development
laboratory."
Meanwhile, Chester Bennington is grappling with the headaches that increased
security brings. His passwords are now long strings of random letters and
numbers that he changes frequently. "I keep a list for every different thing,
and it drives me out of my fucking mind," he says. "I want to go back." Back to
Charlie.
In 2006, a mysterious stalker commandeered the cell phone, email, and PayPal
accounts of Talinda and Chester Bennington.
"This person is hacking into everything," Talinda thought. "Are they
watching me now? Are they here?"
"I'm sort of a Columbo," Gus Dimitrelos says. "I keep going back,
looking for something I must have missed."
According to her MySpace page, Devon Townsend was a 27-year-old single
mom from Albuquerque. She worked as a technologist at the Sandia Nuclear Lab.
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