A Conspiracy of Bones

by Kathy Reichs

  I clicked on the “aisle” offering podcasts for sale. Noted nothing different from my last visit. I was thinking about that when frenzied knocking managed to seep into my concentration.

  Mama was peering through the back door, face anxious, nose pressed to the glass. I got up to let her in.

  “What’s wrong, sweet pea? I can tell by those lines creasing your lovely brows that something’s amiss. Are you having a spell?” she asked, parking a covered casserole dish on the counter and reaching a hand to my forehead in one deft move.

  “I’m fine, Mama. Really. Where’s Sinitch?”

  “Doing some serious introspection.”

  “You’ve quarreled?”

  Sniff. “The gentleman has lost all playground privileges for a while, let’s just leave it at that.”

  Totally in agreement.

  “I brought you my spinach and Gruyère quiche. Given your condition, it’s imperative that you eat properly.” Noting the laptop. “What are you working on? Does it have to do with that poor man got gnawed by the hogs?”

  “Indirectly.” Then, wanting to divert from the topic of my “condition,” “Let me ask you something.”

  “Shoot.”

  “What might cause a website to look slightly off?”

  “That question is about as clear as mushroom soup. Be more specific.”

  “I’ve visited the site recently. Now when I go back, it doesn’t appear the page has been updated or redesigned. It just doesn’t look right.”

  “Show me.” Setting her Louis Vuitton tote on the table and repositioning a chair beside mine.

  I did. And described the connection between Vodyanov and Nick Body. Kept it vague. Like the soup.

  “How’d you log in each time?”

  I told her.

  Pulling a MacAir from her bag, she brought up Body’s site and, fingers flying as fast as any teen hacker on the planet, explained what she was doing.

  “I’m profiling myself as a seventy-seven-year-old female.”

  “Why?”

  “Because that’s what I am, sweet pea. But more important, if your perception is accurate and my hunch is correct, I’ll explain the relevance.”

  “I’m happy to pay the subscription fee.”

  “Done.”

  “How?”

  “Cyber-currency.”

  I didn’t ask.

  When Mama was in and had linked over to the general store, we both studied the images, eyes ping-ponging between our two side-by-side screens.

  “There,” I said, pointing. Those bundled sets of archived podcasts. They’re offered on my laptop but not on yours.”

  “Huh.” Fingers dancing. Firing through the inventory presented on her screen. “Let me see your laptop.” A few key combinations. Then, “Malware.”

  “Malware?” I knew what it was but wasn’t sure where she was going.

  “They’re using some sort of malicious virus, something like DNSChanger, to infect the computers of certain visitors to the site.”

  “DNSChanger?”

  “I’ll back up. But you really must educate yourself more about the World Wide Web, sweat pea.” Pause. “DNS, the Domain Name System, is an internet service that converts user-friendly names, for example, BodyLanguage.com or ESPN.com, into numerical addresses that allow computers to talk to each other. Without DNS and the DNS servers operated by internet service providers, computer users wouldn’t be able to browse websites or send email.”

  “Got it.” I did.

  “A malware program like DNSChanger redirects an unsuspecting user to a rogue server, allowing a hacker to manipulate that user’s web activity.”

  “Let me get this straight. When the user of an infected computer clicks on the link for some website, say, BodyLanguage.com or ESPN

  .com, because of the malware, they are taken to a different website instead.”

  “Close enough. A few years back, the FBI busted an internet-fraud ring operating out of the Baltics that had infected millions of computers worldwide.”

  “Why?”

  “It allowed the hackers to manipulate the multibillion-dollar internet advertising industry. It’s fascinating. Do you want to hear the details?”

  “Later. So why infect my computer and not yours?”

  “They must be using an algorithm that selects only certain visitors. If the designated profile logs in, that computer is infected and redirected.”

  “To a rogue server they control.”

  “Yes.”

  I considered that.

  “A forty-two-year-old man is rerouted but not a seventy-seven-year-old woman.”

  Mama finished the thought. “To a modified site offering bundled podcasts. At very high prices, I might add. Who would pay that amount to listen to such drivel?”

  My mind was going a billion miles a second.

  “What type of audio files are those podcasts?” I asked.

  A series of keystrokes. “MP3 files.”

  Several beats as we both stared at our screens. Then Mama gasped, sharp and quick. I turned. Her eyes were like hubcaps. Wearing mascara.

  “What?”

  “I believe I know what deviltry Body is up to.”

  37

  TUESDAY, JULY 17

  Thirty minutes later, Slidell was swiping us through security and into the crime lab. Mittie Peppers met us outside the QD section. Nods all around. No pleasantries. The tension was enough to revive the DOA Mars rover.

  Peppers led us through the door, past the marvelous ESDA machine, to a village of computers glowing along a back wall.

  “You think it’s nuts?” I asked. “What I said on the phone?”

  “Not at all.”

  “You’re familiar with the process my mother referred to?”

  “Steganography. Definitely.”

  “You’re on board with her malware theory?”

  “Let’s see your computer.”

  I entered my password and handed Peppers my Mac. She settled by one of her screens and began working my keyboard. I sat beside her. Slidell stood behind, taut as a patient awaiting a root canal.

  Seconds passed. A full five minutes. I chewed a thumbnail, as agitated as when I’d come to Peppers about the indented writing.

  “Oh, yeah. You’ve got a nasty little bugger.”

  “Sonofabitch.”

  “This machine seems brand new.”

  “I bought it last Friday.” After my old one was incinerated due to my own stupidity. I didn’t add that.

  “Have you visited Body’s site using this Mac?”

  I nodded, anger sparking so hot I didn’t trust my voice.

  “I can remove the malware when we’re done.”

  “I’ll owe you. Go to BodyLanguage.com.”

  She did.

  “I’ve joined as a forty-two-year-old male. Use that profile, then link over to the general store, and enter the podcast aisle.”

  She did. I pointed to the bundled podcasts. Explained how they’d appeared on my Mac earlier and not on Mama’s. Peppers logged onto one of the lab’s computers, joined Body Language as a thirty-three-year-old female, promising to bill Slidell at the CCU for reimbursement, and navigated to the proper aisle in the general store. No bundled podcasts. Peppers agreed that an algorithm in the malware was sending some users to a rogue server, then to a modified version of the page, which was hawking the bundles to what the site’s operators perceived as a specialized slice of the market.

  “Roll me through steganography,” I said. “How does it work?”

  “Stick to the King’s English, ladies?” Slidell, churlish.

  The ladies shared an eye roll.

  “You’ve heard of encryption, right?” Peppers began.

  “Coding,” I said.

  Peppers nodded. “When we talk about encrypting, we mean making something indecipherable. It’s obvious the secret code is there, but no one can read it without knowing the key. Steganography is all about hiding a message so that no one even
knows it’s present.”

  “Like writing with invisible ink.” Mama had used that analogy.

  “Exactly. Say you want to hide some info in another document, maybe in an image. You do it by subtly adjusting individual pixels …”

  Peppers stopped mid-sentence. Turned from the screen to see if we were following.

  “Pixels are the tiny squares that make up a digital image.” Hearing Slidell grunt, I let it go at that.

  “A pixel is barely noticeable to the human eye but easily detected by a computer,” Peppers continued. “By making very subtle adjustments, you can hide whole strings of text. For example, change the color or brightness values of three successive pixels, and you could invisibly code the word CAB. I am greatly oversimplifying.”

  “You’re talking about hiding text,” I said. “Could you also conceal one image inside another?”

  “Yes. Since the intensity values are changed only slightly, the steganography creates deviations so subtle they can’t usually be detected by the naked eye. Typically, the only way you could say that one pic is a steg would be to compare two seemingly identical images. Even then, if you suspect one may be modified, there’s no quick way to tell which is the innocent and which is the carrier.”

  “Come on, come on.” Slidell flicked a hand at the screen. “If Body’s dirty, I got to nail his ass fast.”

  “Can you hide text or images in audio files?” I asked, feeling the same blunt-force dread as when Mama first proposed the idea.

  “Yes. You take advantage of the way the algorithm for MP3—that’s code for mathematical process—converts and compresses analog audio into digital form. Your secret information would not only be hidden, it would be encrypted as well, so very hard to detect and decrypt.”

  “There are programs that do this?” I was so pumped I was asking dumb questions.

  “The web is lousy with apps. For example, MP3Stego hides things in music files. SkyDe is a steganographic add-on for Skype. There’s COAGULA—”

  Slidell cut us off. “Brennan’s thinking this jerkweed Body might be floating kiddie porn in stuff he sells on his site. Maybe hiding it in these podcasts.” Jabbing a thumb at the monitor.

  “Is that possible?” I asked, wanting confirmation. Not wanting confirmation.

  “A lot of steganography is done with apps on mobile devices. What you’re suggesting would require computers on both ends. The buyer would download the podcast—the MP3 file, one of the most common audio files out there, by the way. Normally, he or she would play it using an audio player on his or her computer, iTunes on Mac, for example. But instead, with the setup I’m picturing, the buyer would open the file in a special program that is shared by the bad guy and the buyer, let’s call it Play Inside.”

  “Which Body has used to hide images or videos.”

  “Yes. The buyer opens Play Inside and selects the downloaded podcast from within that program. Play Inside then decodes the hidden porn, or whatever it is. Additional security might be to require the use of a password to open the file from within the special program.”

  “Body’s got tech people could figure shit like that.” Slidell was pressing way too close to my back. “Maybe that freak Unger.”

  “A savvy undergrad could set it up.” Peppers turned raised brows to me, then swiveled them to Slidell. “You in a spending mood, detective? Shall we put one of these in our shopping basket?”

  “Fuckin’ A.”

  We cruised the inventory, chose a podcast collection labeled “Our Children Are in Danger,” the only suggestive title of the half dozen offered. Peppers purchased and downloaded the bundle to one of the lab’s computers. Then, with a flurry of typing I couldn’t begin to follow, she launched a program and opened the first MP3.

  “The DSSS steg-hiding algorithm—” she began.

  “DSSS?” Wanting to be sure I understood.

  “Direct sequence spread spectrum. It’s a technical method used for cell phones and other digital signals, which can also modify MP3 files to hide bits of a message.”

  “Because an MP3 file is nothing more than a digital signal.”

  “Exactly. The DSSS steg-hiding algorithm can enter random noises into audio files.” More keystrokes. “The software I’m using now analyzes sound, checking for extremely subtle variations, random noises like blips, barely detectable, but clues that might suggest a steg version of an original file.”

  Lots of readouts and sliding bars and flashing lights on the screen. Peppers watched them as she listened for indicators of manipulation. Shook her head slowly.

  “I’m going to reduce the speed. Slowing can reveal sounds incongruous to the flow of the music or the voice, or whatever, distortions that would be missed when playing at regular speeds.”

  She typed in the command. A few seconds, then, “There. Do you hear that?” Raising an index finger, eyes now closed for better concentration.

  Unconsciously, I leaned in. Behind me, I felt Slidell mash closer to my chair. Bend lower, so his breath was hot on my neck.

  At first, nothing. Then I caught it. Tiny hitches in Body’s gravelly voice. A quick note here and there of higher or lower pitch.

  “Yes.” Heart pumping fast. “What is it? Are you able to decode what’s been hidden?”

  “Unfortunately, no. I can say this file demands more analysis to determine if something else is there, but without a lot more digging, I can’t tell you what it is.” Peppers leaned back and turned to face me. Instead of elated, she seemed wary.

  “What?” I asked.

  “The problem is, the whole thing seems unwieldy.”

  “Unwieldy.”

  “I’m not sure an audio file like this would have enough space”—she hooked air quotes around the last word—“to contain a whole image, much less a video. An image could be spread across several MP3 files, I suppose …” She didn’t sound convinced.

  “Go on.”

  “OK, say a buyer forks over for a bundle of podcasts. They’re expensive but not crazy. How much could Body make off this type of operation? As a distribution system for child porn, it would be reasonably secure and keep him at arm’s length. And the images would be hard to detect. But profitable?”

  Though my mind was in hyperdrive, my thoughts were tracking along the same lines.

  “Holy bleeding Jesus.” Slidell straightened like a marionette yanked up by strings. Shot a hand through his hair. “So you’re sayin’ we still got nothing on this bastard?”

  “I’ll keep at it,” Peppers said, tipping both palms in a gesture meant to calm.

  It didn’t. With one final growl, Slidell turned and thundered out, nostrils flaring, looking ready to dog-dare anyone to get in his way.

  Exiting police headquarters, I was overwhelmed with feelings of anger and self-blame. Body was going to skate, and that was partly my fault. What if I’d done more? Been smarter? Confronted Heavner earlier? Pushed Duncan Keesing harder? Been more conscientious about backing up my laptop? Spotted something in one of those lost images? Hadn’t been so damn preoccupied with the state of my brain? A million what-ifs.

  And I was running out of time. In a few short hours, I had to board a flight to Montreal. Driving toward home, I felt myself clawing for sanity with ten ragged nails.

  * * *

  Mittie Peppers rang at twelve past five. I recall noting the time on my phone. Trepidation must have seared the glowing digits into my memory.

  I’d just finished packing, which took ten minutes. Lacking enthusiasm for couture or maquillage, I’d simply tossed random items into a Rollaboard. Business suit for court. Beyond that, whatever.

  “I’ve got it.” Unlike earlier, Peppers now sounded jazzed.

  “You managed to open an image?”

  “Not exactly. Can you come back uptown?”

  “You bet your ass.”

  Slidell arrived as I did. We ascended together. He smelled extra-ripe, even for Skinny. The reek of frustration and sleep deprivation.

  On
ce in her lab, Peppers wasted no time. As we reconvened at the same computer, she said, “Body’s not hiding images. He’s hiding links and passwords.”

  We both stared at the back of her head.

  “It’s a double-layered setup. The message hidden in the steg podcast is a URL, many fewer bytes than an image.” Pointing to a string of text displayed on the screen. “Once the buyer uses the special program to decode and display the link on his or her computer, he or she copies or clicks on it, and the browser loops to another window.”

  “You’re unbelievable. How did you—”

  “Open it.” Slidell’s barked command was like a slap, quick and painful.

  “Not that simple,” Peppers said. “For added security, Body requires a password to access the URL.”

  “Sonofafreakinbitch.”

  “Fear not, detective. After attempting beaucoup manipulations—I won’t burden you with the fine points—I cracked the bastard.”

  Returning to the Body Language homepage, Peppers pointed to the tab labeled “Support Our Efforts.” “I won’t go into detail now, but the buyer gets to decode the password, also hidden in the podcast, by making a five-thousand-dollar donation here.”

  “That explains profitability.” My mouth and throat felt rough and dry.

  “It does.”

  “So what do these maggots get for their money?”

  Peppers returned to the original screen and indicated a second string of text that I hadn’t noticed before. “That’s our password. Alert your boss, detective. My department will be billing yours.”

  “Do it!” Slidell snapped.

  Peppers clicked on the link. The screen shifted to the new URL. A rectangular box demanded a password. She entered the $5,000 string of text.

  Again, the screen morphed. A video began to play. No, not a video. A livestreamed image, broadcast in real time.

  I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t blink.

  Adrenaline surged through every vessel in my body.

  38

  WEDNESDAY, JULY 18–THURSDAY, JULY 19

  I never took the stand. As I was climbing the steps of the Palais de Justice, Dorothée Pasquerault’s killer pleaded guilty to manslaughter, and the trial was adjourned. I would later learn that the scumbag got fifteen years. A shorter time than Dorothée was allowed to breathe air on the planet.