“So, Valerie killed two birds with one Justin?” She said when I was finished.
“I guess you could look at it that way.”
“Tell me more about this Julian Wolhardt.”
I told her everything Wolhardt had told me, closing my eyes and throwing myself back into the prismatic weirdness of Wolhardt’s world.
“So somebody broke in and stole his notes? But not the real notes?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t you think it’s weird that they hung around for a few days before? Watching him. Tipping him off that they were watching him. Creeping around and scaring his kitty. Then finally breaking in and taking the notes he left on the desk without doing a thorough search and finding the safe?”
“Not really weird if you assume it was an amateur or maybe amateurs. Going through the whole sequence the way Wolhardt laid it out makes me think it must have been another Enigma fanatic who broke in and stole his notes, somebody who didn’t really know what they were doing.”
“So our first stop would be the message board where he made his announcement. Find out who would have seen it and research them.”
“Yeah. But is it worth it?”
“Hmmm.” Ashna was thinking, eyes narrowed.
“Is it interesting? Worth pursuing? We should make sure we’re on the same page before we get started, if we get started.”
“The cryptography part is cool. I’m not going to lie, I’m a crypto nerd. I wonder if anyone who really knows their shit has ever tried to break this? He said there’s a hidden, unplayed theme or counterpoint that matches harmonically? It’s got to be some fairly well-known piece of music written some time before he composed the variations. So, why not put all the pieces of music Elgar would have known about into a database then use a routine to loop over them all and analyze them using music theory logic to determine whether or not they would create a pleasant harmony if played together? I don’t know that much about music theory but it can’t be that difficult.”
“Good question. I don’t know. You’d probably have to ask Wolhardt.”
“Yeah. I will. But first let’s take a look at the message board. It’s probably some PHP script from ten years ago we can hack in two minutes.”
“Some light hacking for our digestif?”
“I’ll take an actual digestif too if you have anything that’s not crap.”
Back inside, seated at my kitchen table, I watched while Ashna did her thing. I had found one of Wolhardt’s film scores and streamed it while Ashna worked. The music was slow, elegiac, and poignant—from a movie about the wreckage and disintegration of a family. Ashna had her laptop open and was slouched in her chair, body still and eyes intent while her fingers moved rapidly on the keyboard. The URL was enigmavariations.net and it was an old school bulletin board system where people could register for accounts, choose anonymous screen names, and post questions and comments about some area of obsessive interest. I was familiar with the type of site. One of my areas of obsessive interest was lock picking and the sites I visited to read up on new techniques were similar.
There was an active moderator who seemed to be the owner and maintainer of the site. His or her screen name was enigma_admin and it popped up here and there on threaded conversations reminding people, in bitterly sarcastic terms, to stay on topic, keep their posts polite, and search before posting to make sure a question had not already been answered. Occasionally, enigma_admin also asked questions or replied to posts. He or she was clearly not running the message board on a lark. They were deeply interested in the cryptography angle. Ashna browsed through the site for a while, poking around, then ran a search for Wolhardt’s screen name which was jw48. The system showed a number of his posts and comments going back ten years. The results were sorted in date order and the one we were looking for was at the top. The post was short and to the point.
JW48: Enigma Co-Enthusiasts, After many years of seeking I believe I may be very near to solving this riddle. Expect big news from me within a few short weeks.
It seemed both in and out of character based on what I knew about Wolhardt. I could imagine his triumphant feeling of being near the end of his quest and his need to share the feeling with people who would understand. At the same time, he seemed like a careful, methodical person and the post was anything but careful. His emotions must have overruled his common sense. About ten people had replied to the post, most with some variation of congratulations. There were four longer replies.
Bender39: Congratulations JW! I can’t wait to hear your solution.
Crowley1875: I await your announcement with anticipation and dread.
NB: Congratulations. Very interesting. Your solution is eagerly awaited. However, as with all other solutions proposed over the years, yours will have to stand up against the combined intellects of the community. Past solutions, as you know, have not fared well.
enigma_admin: Fascinating. I look forward to your announcement. Did any of the techniques we discussed in your last post prove useful?
“Interesting,” Ashna said, reading through the replies. “I think we have four good suspects right here. Maybe more. Although it seems like the ones who took the time to reply with actual comments are the ones most likely to be our culprit.”
“Agreed,” I answered. “It’s like when people just click the little heart on the photo you post of yourself accepting the Nobel peace prize. Those aren’t the bitter losers who are going to write angry letters to the selection committee.”
“Yeah, that happens to me all the time.”
“Let’s search up these four and see what we find.”
I looked on as Ashna searched them one by one. Aside from enigma_admin, it quickly became clear that, together with Wolhardt, the other three were the most prolific users on the site. Their contentious relationship also became quickly obvious. In post after post they bickered with each other, cut each other down, and belittled each other’s theories. The only one who was above the fray was Bender39. He—I found myself assuming they were all men based on subtle clues in their writing—often tried to calm the rhetoric and keep the discussion civil, usually to no avail. He also seemed the most deeply competent with music theory—often displaying his breadth of knowledge when arguing obscure points. Crowley1875 had a sardonic style and sometimes alluded to mysterious occult theories. NB was on the attack at all times, never backing down and often inciting arguments.
“This is running on Drupal,” Ashna said after right clicking and choosing the View Page Source option. She pointed to a line in the HTML header. “You can tell by the directory structure. It’s loading these javascript files from folders under the modules directory.”
“What’s Drupal?”
“Content management system. Basically a web app that lets you create a sophisticated website without having to write any code. Drupal is pretty well broken. It was big back in the day bit nobody uses it anymore. I’m sure there’s a known exploit we can use to gain admin credentials. It looks like this is version seven. No one ever upgrades Drupal—too much of a pain in the ass. Half the time you would end up bricking your site. I remember hearing about a privilege escalation exploit for version seven.”
Twenty minutes later Ashna had gained admin rights to the system and was viewing user profiles and log files. The profiles didn’t tell us much beyond the email addresses they had used when creating their accounts. The log files showed recent logins to the site.
“It records their originating IP address when they log in,” Ashna said, pointing at a string of numbers on her screen. “With that we can find their general geographic location.” She pulled up another site and began copy/pasting the addresses. “Bender39’s in the Seattle area,” Ashna said. “Crowley1875 is in Philadelphia. NB is in London. And enigma_admin is right here in SF.”
“What was Bender’s email address?”
“J benderick at seattlephil dot org.”
“So he’s a musician. He plays for the Seattle Philharmoni
c. That’s why he knows music theory.” I opened the Seattle Philharmonic website on my phone and clicked through to a page that listed all the musicians. I scanned the list but no J. Benderick appeared. On a lark, I tapped a link labeled Meet the Director and there he was: Johann Benderick, Music Director and Principal Conductor of the orchestra. “He’s the music director!” I exclaimed.
“Fancy,” Ashna answered.
“Wait, they’re performing the Enigma Variations.”
“What the actual fuck?”
“Yeah, This coming weekend. Three performances. Matinee on Sunday.”
“You’d better get your tuxedo dry cleaned and book some tickets.”
“You think I should go?”
“Of course. You need to figure out how to corner Benderick and ask him about Wolhardt’s stolen notes. I think we need to eliminate all four of these people before we look at other suspects, don’t you?”
“They seem like the best leads we have. What about the other three? Can you figure out who they are?”
“Probably. Give me a few days. My team at work has a deadline coming up so I’m going to be pulling long days next week but I can try to crack them. It might be next weekend before I can give you anything.”
“All right. I’m going to let Wolhardt know we’re working on it. This one’s a little weird because he can’t pay us up front expenses. We get paid if we get his notes back and he wins the reward for cracking the enigma.”
“I guess I better get in touch with him then and make sure his supposed solution isn’t a bunch of bullshit.”
“Not a bad idea.”
“Okay,” Ashna said, rising and closing her laptop. “I’ll email him. Let’s check in before you go to Seattle.”
“Can’t wait. I love our little chats.”
Ashna flipped me off on her way out the door, then stuck her head back in. “Thanks for dinner by the way.”
“Always my pleasure.”
Chapter 6
The Never-Ending Party
June 24: San Francisco
I woke up early and took my coffee to the roof. The bay was fogged in and the big boats were visible only by their lights, spectral in the haze. The ladies were beginning to arrive for work downstairs. I listened to them chatter, coming up the street. Far from annoying me, their voices sounded like home. I knew there were plenty of people who would find my living arrangement difficult to understand. My two-story cinder block box suited me perfectly. Still, buildings were growing up all around—four, five, six stories tall. More people were in the neighborhood all the time. The families were leaving and the twenty and thirty something party people were moving in. A friend who taught dance to kids at a local studio had told me that they were cutting back hours and staff. There weren’t enough kids in the city anymore. The demographics were shifting. It was like Logan’s Run but the old people weren’t euthanized, they just buckled their kids into their car seats and went to the East Bay. Still, I would remain as long as possible, like one of those old ladies in a little Victorian house completely surrounded by concrete walls. They would have to force me out by eminent domain.
I was about to go in when my phone pinged with an incoming text from Ashna. She had figured out the identity of enigma_admin. Weirdly enough, she had his email address in her own contact list.
—This f*ing guy! I’ve been to parties at his place a few times. James Ringold. Everybody calls him Molly (for obvious reasons). He’s a real weirdo. Lives on top of a building in SOMA. One of those dudes who made millions in the first dot com boom and retired to a life of non-stop partying. He was employee number five at PayPal or eBay or something. A crypto nerd like me. He was into that sex cult for incels back in the day. And burning man. He’s a no sleeve burner—
—no sleeve burner?—
—Yeah man. No sleeves. They never have sleeves! I don’t know. They cut them off of all their shirts. Or maybe there’s a shop that sells them that way, artfully ripped with threads all hanging off. Not a bad look if you have the shoulders for it. Anyway, it’s been a couple of years since I attended any parties at his place but I just asked a friend at work and he says the party has not stopped. The EDM and MDMA are strong with this one. You should check him out before you go to Seattle. It was the solstice a few days ago. The party should still be going strong—
Ashna sent me the address and I replied that I would go by and see if I could scare up any clues. From the description, he didn’t sound like a strong suspect but I had a couple of days free so it couldn’t hurt to check it out.
I spent the day working, grinding and smoothing welded joints. By five o’clock I was ready to quit. I had texted my friend Roberto earlier to see if he wanted to crash the party with me and he was an enthusiastic yes. He was coming over from Oakland and we were meeting for tacos in the Mission, then heading to Molly’s rooftop pleasure palace.
We met at Taqueria El Buen Sabor on Valencia. Roberto didn’t like fancy restaurants—especially the ones in the Mission district that catered to the tech crowd—so we compromised on my favorite taqueria. It didn’t have much atmosphere but you could sit at the counter that faced the street and watch people pass by out on Valencia.
“The pollo verde’s better at Taqueria Cancun,” Roberto said, poking at his taco, perched on his stool like a malnourished buzzard with a toreador’s pompadour. “Not enough cumin in this.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
“How was the food in LA?”
“No idea. I just ate take out and room service.”
“A wasted trip.”
“Not completely. I met a guy down there who asked me to do a job for him.”
“One of your secret jobs.”
“Yeah. That’s why I need to go to this party house tonight. The guy who lives there might have some info.”
“Interesting. If you need me to cause a distraction let me know. I’ll knock over a potted palm and start screaming.”
We caught the BART two stops, getting off at Powell and walking down into SOMA. The address was on Howard Street. When we reached it, we found an old, six story brick apartment building. I could see from the street that there was a kind of penthouse sprouting up from the roof. A weird structure built up out of steel girders, big panes of glass, cinder block, and corrugated metal roof panels, it didn’t look new but it didn’t look original either. Through the windows I could see lights flashing purple and blue.
“Is that where we’re going?” Robert asked.
“Yeah, I think so. Just need to figure out how to get in.”
“I bet those two can help.” Roberto pointed down the street. Two women were approaching. They looked like jeans and T-shirt software architects who had gotten dressed up for a night out and had a few drinks on their way over. They stopped in front of the main entrance while one of them looked something up on her phone. Roberto and I wandered over.
“Going to Molly’s?” I asked.
“Yeah. Just need to find the code,” said the taller one, not looking up.
“Hi,” said the shorter, drunker one, peeking around her friend. She wore what I thought might be a Doctor Who cosplay outfit—suspenders with culottes, rainbow shirt, and a long coat.
“Hello!” Roberto answered. “I want to dance with you. You look like fun.”
“Found it!” Exclaimed the taller one who, in fact, looked much more like Doctor Who than her companion but wore a more traditional burner outfit in the steampunk genre that included leather pants and World War One pilot goggles. She typed a five digit code on the keypad by the door while I reflexively memorized it.
We rode up to the sixth floor together in a rattletrap elevator, then climbed a set of dank stairs to the roof where we found a crowd already assembled, lounging on chaises that looked like they were made out of reclaimed pallet wood, milling around the edges, and dancing in twos or threes to the steady thump of bass heavy EDM coming from an open, roll up metal door leading into the penthouse. As we moved into the mix,
I realized that many of the partiers looked older, like they might have been into the scene all the way back at the beginning in the early to mid-nineties. There were plenty of younger people though, like the two we had entered with, sprinkled into the mix amongst the grizzled OG burners. Nearly everyone was in glorious regalia. There were fake fur leg warmers, dresses made of silver metallic fabrics shimmering like fish scales, leather vests weathered by alkali dust, top hats, Edwardian trench coats fitted at the waist and flaring out below, chainmail bikinis, neon colored booty shorts, and, as Ashna had mentioned, plenty of missing sleeves. I admired their devotion to creative self-expression. Strolling through the crowd toward the open door, I saw lots of dilated pupils and blissed out faces shiny with perspiration.
“OMFG Justin,” Roberto said into my ear, clutching my arm. “I feel like I just stepped back in time to two thousand two. I’m sure I went to this exact same party my first year in art school.”
“Yeah, I went to this party about twenty times my first year. We probably went together. These might even be the same people.”
“I’m glad they found something that works for them.”
Inside, the penthouse was one huge, open space—hardwood floor, stained and scuffed by years of parties, eighteen foot ceiling at the center with exposed girders and insulation, unpainted cinder block walls, alternating with giant, wood framed windows that looked out over the rooftops of SOMA to the south and the downtown skyline to the north. A DJ was set up in one corner on what looked like a permanent platform. The music, crisp and chest thumping, came from speakers mounted near the roof throughout the space. A thick crowd surrounded the platform, leaping, cavorting, and spinning in trance like movements. A kitchen took up the opposite corner with stainless counters, huge refrigerator, and butcher block island. To the left of the roll up door was a chill out area with a massive super shag carpet and innumerable pillows and bean bags scattered around for lounging. To the right stood a cube structure on hefty casters made of clear pine and plywood, maybe ten feet by ten feet, fully enclosed, with an open door through which I could see soft light and white linens.
Enigma Variations Page 6