For a 14-year-old boy named Daniel Perry from the UK, it started with a simple Facebook message. The sender appeared to be a teenage girl from America, and the conversation was easy and engaging. Soon, their chat moved to Skype, where a video call escalated into intimate, explicit acts.

Daniel believed it was a private moment shared between two teens. In reality, he was being secretly recorded by a sophisticated criminal syndicate thousands of miles away. Moments after the call ended, the trap was sprung. A new message arrived, threatening to leak the compromising video to his family and friends unless he paid up.

Terrified, Daniel sent £3,000, but the demands didn’t stop; they only grew larger. When the boy could no longer pay, his tormentor told him he deserved to be gone from this world. After a final, heartbreaking message of “Bye bye,” Daniel Perry’s body was found by a rescue team beneath a bridge. His de@th was a tragedy that would blow the lid off a global extortion empire.

UK police traced the digital footprint of the blackmailers to the Philippines. They partnered with the Philippine National Police (PNP) Anti-Cybercrime Group, and their joint investigation led them to a small town called Norzagaray in the province of Bulacan. At the center of the web was a woman named Maria Caparas.

Known locally as “Madam” or the “Extortion Queen,” Caparas was the alleged pioneer of this cruel trade. Locals recalled her arriving in the area as a poor, single mother of five. Then, seemingly overnight, her wealth exploded, and no one dared to ask how.

The scheme she allegedly masterminded was both simple and ruthlessly effective. Her network of employees, called “chatters,” would create fake Facebook profiles using photos of attractive women stolen from other accounts. They would then target men, often professionals like engineers, and strike up a conversation.

Once a target was engaged, they were lured to a Skype call. The chatter would play a pre-recorded video of a woman undressing while simultaneously convincing the victim to perform explicit acts on camera. The victim’s performance was secretly recorded. A couple of hours later, the blackmail would begin.

The vast majority of victims, fearing humiliation, would immediately send money through services like Western Union. Caparas’s operation was a massive success, reportedly raking in an estimated $1.9 million from thousands of victims across the globe, from Hong Kong to the United States.

In April 2014, a joint task force including Interpol launched “Operation Strike Back,” aimed at dismantling these syndicates. Authorities raided Caparas’s suspected headquarters, arresting her and eight others. They seized over 100 electronic devices, from laptops to cellphones, along with unlicensed firearms.

Some of her employees, including minors, admitted to earning tens of thousands of pesos in just a few days. The money was life-changing, allowing them to buy new homes and cars. Yet, despite the initial success of the raid, Caparas was released from custody after just one month, with reports suggesting she may have paid off local officials.

However, authorities did not give up. In September 2016, they raided her home again. This time, they had stronger evidence: a Facebook photo of her son covered in thousands of pesos and pictures of her team celebrating their illicit earnings. They discovered her opulent, 5-million-peso, two-story house which served as a base of operations.

The home was equipped with a billiard table, a gym, a prayer room, and nine computer stations used for the scams. It was just one of nine houses she allegedly owned, along with a fleet of luxury vehicles. Caparas was known to throw lavish parties and raffle off expensive electronics to her employees.

Despite the mountain of evidence, Caparas denied everything. She claimed to be a “scapegoat,” insisting the real leader was another woman in the village. She tearfully pleaded her innocence in front of reporters, begging to be released so she could raise her five children and focus on her legitimate businesses, like a water refilling station and a spa.

But she also admitted to having once been in the business, boasting that she could fool a foreigner in 30 minutes. She explained that her chatters, many of whom were transgender and spoke little English, used pre-written scripts to copy and paste messages to their victims.

The town of Norzagaray itself was the perfect hub for her operation. With little police presence and widespread poverty, the “easy money” from being a chatter was an offer few could refuse.

Reporters visiting the town found that nearly 70% of the residents were involved in the trade, and any questions about “Madam” were met with a sudden case of amnesia.

As of the latest reports, Maria Caparas remains in custody, awaiting a trial with no set date and having been denied bail.

Her syndicate is believed to be linked to a rise in self-harm cases in the UK, a dark legacy of an empire built on shame, secrecy, and the tragic de@th of a young boy.