Buzzworm (A Technology Thriller): Computer virus or serial killer? (16 page)

“You said you had information on other homicides.”

“I do. I’m going to send you internal files. You can connect the dots yourself.”

“And where do I say they came from?”

“The CIA of course. This helps you and it helps my cause as well.”

“Then what?”

“Detective. I’m asking a simple favor in return for solving a dozen cold cases. You follow the trail on those and you let Frank lie in peace.”

“Why should I do that?”

“Because my work is extremely critical and I don’t need the distractions. But there’s another good reason.”

Entering the room from behind Osama, stepping out of the shadows on the screen, was my daughter. Or at least a video representation of Kyla. I couldn’t tell. She was so real, it was impossible for me to take my eyes off her. The walk. The way she moved her head. It had all been captured. I could feel my blood pressure climb and my fists tighten.

She took a chair next to Osama, sat forward, stared into my eyes.

“Daddy, I’d like you to meet my new boyfriend.” It was her voice, her tilt of her head, her shy smile.

Somewhere, part of me knew this was a trick of the senses, a clever video game. Another part of me had turned my fight or flight mechanism up to a new deafening level. The roar of blood in my ears almost blocked out his words. All I wanted to do was tear this guy apart. Take away the threat. Then Osama put his arm around her shoulder.

“Kyla has been helping me out. She has a knack with photography, as you know, Hyde. And we both love Gershwin too.”

I tried to hold back a flood of anger. I didn’t want this guy to know I was losing it. “Is this a threat?”

“I like to think of this as a prediction.”

“Which means …”

Osama held his left hand up, as if to wave. With his right hand he then removed what looked like a ceremonial sword from his belt. It was long and curved. Light reflected off the blade and streaked across the screen as he brandished it, leaving a lingering trail in the space above Kyla’s head. The effect was hypnotizingly real. Kyla stood up then, still smiling in Osama’s direction, no fear in her eyes. She turned to me, smiled and waved goodbye. Then Osama brought the blade down across the back of her neck in one angry blow.

I watched as the blade passed through her in a dark blur, sending her separated head toppling forward and twisting in the air where it finally crashed into the webcam. There was a blast of noise, the screen filled with the scream of static and then silence.

Osama stood there, breathing heavily, the sword at his side. I could clearly see blood dripping from the point of the blade onto the desktop. Blood that was supposed to be my daughters. I couldn’t look at his face anymore. Couldn’t bear to hear the disgusting sound of his panting.

Since I didn’t know how to turn the system off, I took my gun from its holster and flipped off the safety.

I fired the first shot into the center of the LCD screen. The next went into the webcam, sending bits of plastic careening everywhere. The third and last went into the heart of the computer itself, which died noisily, black smoke curling out of the vents.

Osama was gone. I hadn’t killed the asshole, but at least I shut him up.

Every visitor and employee
who entered or left any Federal high-security building in Washington or Virginia was required to pass through formal security. BW, like all CIA staffers, queued up for the scanners several times a day.

For most people, the daily security nonsense was like background noise, the new everyday reality of the post 9/11 world. What was security looking for? First they scanned IDs for authenticity, the goal being to keep unauthorized individuals out of the center. And to track the whereabouts of staff. And they scanned for weapons, the way they would at a modern airport. Several computer terminals also stored employee information and photos.

When Roger Strange passed through the security portal on his second day at Building 213, an alarm was triggered. He looked up, confused. He was pulled aside by a security guard who’s biceps threatened to pop the seams of his navy blue uniform. Strange was surprised, but accepted it calmly. The guard looked down at his screen to check Strange’s ID. Roger looked over and could see his unsmiling face on the monitor. Obviously the photo matched his security pass ID. What Roger couldn’t see was a comment screen that asked the guard to make another inquiry.

“Sir, I need to look at your laptop,” was all the guard said.

Roger said ‘Sure.” Just like at the airport, he unzipped his carrying case and handed it over. The guard looked for the latch and flipped the screen up.

“Turn it on, please”

Roger pressed the power switch. They waited for the operating system to load up. At this point, another member of the security team had joined them, this fellow in a jacket. He started tapping on the laptops keys. This was something Roger had never seen before. Typically security wanted to make sure the laptop worked; that was why they would power it up. He wasn’t sure why they were using the keyboard. The larger of the two security guards then asked Roger to enter his password. Roger looked from the laptop to the security officer.

“If I give you the password, you would then have access to confidential CIA material. I think we better call Jobime.”

The guard with the jacket shook his head, swiveled the display back towards him and began typing again. The unit beeped indicating he had entered Roger’s password. Roger’s shock was clear on his face. How had this security guy hacked his personal password? Then he froze. A color image had popped up on the screen of his laptop. A young girl, about seven or eight, naked. “What the hell is that?” he said, his voice breaking.

“I was just going to ask you the same thing,” said the biggest guard. The two of them turned on him. They weren’t hiding their disgust. Roger felt instantly surrounded.

“That’s not mine. It wasn’t on there yesterday.”

“How about this one.” The guard flicked through several images, more young girls, some carrying out various sexual acts. Roger felt the room begin to spin, his breakfast crawling up his throat. How did those images get on his laptop? He had never left it unattended. And how did security know?

“
Buzzworm
did it,” was all he could think of saying. “I need to see Vienna Jobime. This was put there by the virus.”

The guards looked at each other and then back at Strange. “You are being denied access to this building, sir. And we will have to contact the Washington police immediately. Child pornography is a felony offence in this country.”

“It’s an offence in my country too. But I didn’t put those there. You need to call Jobime.”

“I don’t have to call anyone, sir. Just the police. And I am confiscating your computer.” The guard in the jacket had the computer under his arm now. Another guard joined them.

Roger could see that he was attracting a good deal of interest. Some of the morning staff had stopped when they saw the contents of his laptop and were talking amongst themselves. He turned to the group of them.

“Has anyone else here had problems with their computers lately? Problems caused by
Buzzworm
?” They stared at him, their faces full of curiosity and revulsion. Two of the guards circled him, corralling him towards a back office. He tried to protest, but it was useless. As they marched him away from the front foyer, he reached into his jacket pocket and found his phone. He had Jobime’s number in his phonebook. When he took the phone out, one of the guards stopped and reached out.

“We’ll have to confiscate that as well.”

Before Roger could respond, a hand from behind him snatched the phone away. When he turned, he came face-to-face with an older man in a brown jacket, his tie loose at his collar. “Detective Wishnowsky. Washington Vice. This phone is evidence now. We’ll need to see if you have any more kiddy porn on here as well.” Then he turned to the security team. “Guys? I’ll take it from here. Let’s get him in these cuffs, and you can escort him out to my car out front. I’ll take that laptop too.”

Captain Ipscott was the head
of the Washington Homicide unit. He’d been with the department for over twenty years. I reported to him directly, but not on a daily basis. He knew who to give some space to and who needed hustling. And who needed a swift kick in the ass to get them moving. I liked that about him. For the most part, he left Emile and I to follow our instincts.

Ipscott answered to the chief of Police, a political animal who always had his hackles up. I stayed out of the Chief’s way, and Ipscott did his best to keep the politics out of Homicide Division. He wasn’t always successful.

The Captain had a corner office on our floor, mostly glass, but he almost always had the blinds pulled down. We figured he was in there practicing his putting. Ipscott‘s passion was golf. His frustration was he never had any time to play. He called me in the minute I arrived, shortly after lunch, getting ready to start the afternoon shift. He was sitting behind his desk holding a putter. His look gave me pause. The putter looked strangely menacing in his hands.

“Detective Hyde. I read the report.” He lightly touched a file folder on his crowded desk as if it were infected. He grimaced. “But let me get this straight because I’m sure I’ll eventually be re-telling your fucked up story to everyone in the department before the day is out. You discharged your weapon at a Kinko's this morning? Intentionally? And your target was a computer. Have I got that right?”

“It’s hard to explain, but that's it in a nutshell.” Ipscott liked answers that were to the point. I was going to keep this brief.

“Was the computer a threat to you?”

“Yes, sir.”

Ipscott absorbed my answer, his eyes still on the shiny shaft of what looked like a new putter. I could read the words
Scotty Cameron
on the head. I heard they were expensive. I relaxed a bit. Not the kind of putter someone would try to use as a weapon. “A threat to your
person
?”

“A threat to me and to others, yes sir.”

Now Ipscott was suspicious. I rarely called him
sir
. He placed the putter on his desk, as if to keep it close by. “I'm going to need more, Hyde. You may find a computer sinister and dangerous just because it's sitting on your desk. But most people just don't see it that way. Just so we are clear, is my computer threatening you right now?”

“Not right now, no.”

“I'm relieved. But it might in the future?”

I shifted in my chair. I wasn’t sure if I could explain what happened at Kinko’s, even to myself. “I was video conferencing with a suspect. Said suspect decided to threaten me — and others. And I felt the only way to stop the threat was to shoot.”

“Not shoot the suspect. Shoot the screen you saw him on. Several times.”

I nodded. OK. Maybe it was a rash thing to do. In hindsight, it did sound a bit irresponsible. But I didn’t admit that. I was putting all my effort into hiding my rage for
Buzzworm
.

Ipscott got up and stretched his legs. He got into his golf stance and tried a few practice swings. “The Kinko’s franchisee wants to charge you with reckless use of a firearm. I don’t have a clue as to how to talk him out of that. Got any ideas?”

“I’ll go talk to him. And pay for the damages.”

“If he sees you walking into his store, he’ll hide behind the counter and call 911. I’ve already told him that the case is peculiar, and you took what you thought were appropriate steps.” He looked at me then, the first time we were eye-to-eye all morning. “Now I sound as crazy as you, Hyde.”

There was nothing I could say. Ipscott was a friend. He was taking a bullet for me.

“You’re going to replace the damaged equipment and pay for repairs to the conference room,” Ipscott said. It was not a request.

“Understood.”

Ipscott sat back down. “Finally, tell me this isn’t related to your investigation at the CIA.”

“The conference call was from a tipster. He said he knew who assisted in Scammel’s death. He also sent over a dozen files to me today on unsolved Washington cases. All new evidence.”

Ipscott whistled. “Someone thinks that Scammel’s death was assisted? Who?”

“The caller did.”

Ipscott walked over to the blinds, lifted them quietly and squinted into the Homicide bullpen. “I want to see if there is anyone out there who will witness my beating you with my golf club.” He walked back and dropped into his chair. “I’m taking you off the CIA case.”

“You're the boss. I only took this case because you asked. I’ll give all the new evidence to some rookie who likes being buried in paper.” I was bluffing. There was no way I wanted off this case since
Buzzworm
had given me the finger and threatened Kyla. But that was the way it went with Ipscott.

“Since you put it that way, you’re back on it again.” I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t stop thinking about the psycho who killed the video version of my daughter. Even if it was only a video trick, it froze my heart. I wasn’t going to sleep until I had the bastard. As a precaution, I had enrolled Kyla in a Jazz camp for the next two weeks in South Dakota. Something she had been asking about.

“And before you go out today, I think you should have a chat with the staff counselor too. Green, I think her name is.”

“Green? Why would I need to do that?”

“Because if you don't, there will be a number of people upstairs who are going to insist that I go to therapy for not suspending you on the spot.”

“Got it.”

“Now go. Do what you do best. Solve a fucking homicide.” I stood up to leave and Ipscott led me to the door. Before he opened it, he hesitated. “Hyde. Just between you and me. Screw the report. Why a shoot out with a computer system?”

I looked him in the eyes. They looked darker than I remembered. Being Captain will do that I guess. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

Ipscott shook his head. “So how did it feel?”

I didn’t have to ponder that one long. “Between you and me, Lieutenant? It was better than sex.”

Ipscott nodded his head, a slight smile on his lips. “Hyde. You are one crazy asshole
.”