Telephone Terrorist

By 2003, Barnett had turned his gifts into a lucrative swindle. He pretended to be a fraud investigator, convincing hundreds of credit-card holders to reveal their account and security code. He'd then use the information to take out cash advances, stealing $400,000 before he was arrested in Missouri.

His 10-year sentence left a vacuum atop the phone-line food chain. Rosoff assumed the role, gathering his own gang of followers from across the country.

For most in the group, the lines had become an obsession. In real life, "John from California" was a Texan named Jason Trowbridge who drove a silver Porsche and ran his own collections agency. But his nights were spent on the phone.

Fortunately, the chronically unemployed Rosoff didn't have to worry about the diversion of work. He was known to spend up to 24 hours a day on the phone, so immersed he began to believe he was actually "Michael Knight."

"This was their social entertainment," explains FBI agent Kevin Kolbye.

Rosoff liked to call his group the "cavalry." Targets for their pranks were often chosen randomly, though Rosoff liked to go after women and underage girls who refused him phone sex.

In the beginning, the stunts were more annoying than dangerous. As a debt collector, Trowbridge had access to people's personal information, including phone numbers, addresses, and Social Security numbers. Someone in the cavalry would use the information to pose as a customer and call the electric company, for example. He'd claim that he'd recently moved, and the power at his old place was supposed to be shut off. The info from Trowbridge allowed the prankster to answer any identification questions.

A few hours later, the victim would suddenly be without juice.

But after a few months of shutting off power and phone lines, the group grew tired of these elementary tricks. Hoaxes, once mastered, become dull. So the cavalry began looking for more advanced ways to seek vengeance. Around 2003, they found it in a new form of long-distance calling card.

"Spoof" cards worked like any other phone card that's purchased by the minute. But they had a handy feature that allowed users to change the number that would show up on someone else's caller ID.

They weren't meant to be used nefariously, but rather as a business tool. An executive working from home could use the card to make it appear he was calling from his office. Telemarketers used them to hide their locations. But in the hands of Rosoff's cavalry, they became the vehicle for a dangerous new prank called swatting.

They would choose a victim, someone who had pissed them off. Then a group member would buy a spoof card, input the victim's phone number, and call 911 with a fabricated story. "My name is X," he might say. "I've just murdered my sister, and now I've got a hunting rifle aimed at my wife. If you don't hand over a million dollars, I'm going to go on a killing rampage."

Then he'd hang up.

Police would naturally trace the call to the victim's phone. Roads were closed. SWAT teams broke down doors. And innocent people suddenly found themselves with guns pointed at their heads, accused of heinous crimes.

The cavalry, meanwhile, would be convening in a chat room somewhere to celebrate their wit.

"They looked at it as if it were a victimless crime," explains agent Kolbye. "They thought it was amusing."

But the victims never seemed to get the joke.

"Beth," a 42-year-old single woman, never really fit in. She's introverted and self-conscious, and struggles to click with the other women in her upscale New York City neighborhood. And guys rarely gave her a second glance.

"I'm not drop-dead gorgeous," she says. "I'm a heavy woman — I know that."

But on the phone, Beth found a supportive community, filled with new friends. As time wore on, she saw little reason to leave home, sometimes spending 13 hours a day on the chat lines.

Then she started seeing a man. The boyfriend didn't approve of all the time Beth spent on the phone lines. He asked her to quit. Beth, feeling happier than she had in decades, acquiesced.

When the man received a job transfer to Michigan, he asked Beth to move with him. She was delighted and stayed behind for a few weeks to pack.

But with nothing to do at night, she drifted back to her old habits. It wasn't long before Beth was again spending hours on the phone. That's where she encountered Rosoff.

As his alter ego Michael Knight, Rosoff wasn't just some jobless schlep from Ohio. He was a mean bastard, trash-talking his way across the lines, threatening to shut off the phone service of women who wouldn't have phone sex with him.