Heart of a Killer

by David Rosenfelt

  All Janssen could then do was wait. After the crash on the amusement park ride, he had no illusions that disaster had been diverted. He knew better than to think there was any chance that Tammy’s plan had been thwarted that easily.

  At that moment, the Predator B, serial number A256489, had finished its run over the border, and was on its way back to base. It was currently five miles south of Crystal City, about a hundred and twenty miles from San Antonio.

  At a 135 miles an hour top speed, it would take under an hour to get to its destination. The operator on the ground, watching the computer, believed that it was on course back to base. After twenty-five minutes, he finally realized that the pictures it was sending back were inconsistent with the route it should have been on.

  It took another seventeen minutes for the word to get to the command center, and another five before anyone connected the off-course drone with the Homeland Security emergency that had grounded airplanes throughout the state.

  The only option at that point would have been to shoot it down, but the Army had no way of doing that. Not considering its location, and the fact that all of its airborne assets were grounded.

  The operator could only watch the pictures the drone was sending back. They were crystal clear, in high definition, and he could actually see the horrified, panic-stricken faces of the tourists at the Alamo as the drone bore down on them, and crashed in their midst.

  Forty-one people died, and another twenty-eight were injured in varying degrees, eleven of them critical.

  The man’s voice that replaced Tammy had told Janssen that he would give him something to remember, but Janssen had not made the connection.

  Until it was too late.

  And now the entire country would again remember the Alamo.

  “My fellow Americans, I come before you tonight to tell you that we are under attack.” With those words from the president of the United States, in a national address to the nation, any chance Jamie Wagner had of maintaining press coverage of Sheryl’s case came to an end.

  “It has been an insidious form of attack, technological in nature, but deadly in its result. When I campaigned for this office, I promised that I would always be straight with you, and that’s what I’m going to be tonight.”

  He proceeded to explain the origins of the three incidents, the Charlotte plane crash, the Disneyland ride crash, and the Predator drone crash, and to show that the three were the work of a single entity. He didn’t mention the childlike Tammy voice, and he withheld some other facts as well, as Janssen thought it would be wise to keep those things known only to the investigators.

  Also at Janssen’s suggestion, the president talked of the need for the public to get involved and to report any suspicions they might have to a special number that the FBI had set up. He talked about the way Americans come together in a crisis to defeat whatever enemy was before them, and this time would be no exception.

  And then he talked about our technological strengths, saying that our expertise in this area was second to none. He said extraordinary measures were being taken to ensure that our computers were secure, and he was confident that those efforts would be successful.

  He was lying. He knew as he was speaking that the military had tested the security of not only its aircraft, but also its Predator drones. They had done this before the attack in Texas, and had specifically tested Predator B, serial number A256489. It had been judged secure, and then within days had been coopted by the terrorists.

  The implications of that were chilling, so much so that the president felt it exceeded the limit of what his “straight talk” might include. Because in the drone case, we assumed they were coming, we took defensive measures, and the enemy still prevailed.

  How, then, could we stop it next time?

  Janssen watched the speech with mixed feelings. On the one hand, he was glad that his advice was finally being heeded, albeit mostly for the wrong reasons. The president and his team felt that the lid could not be successfully kept on the secret for much longer, and that it was far better politically to be the ones to tell the American people, rather than have it come out through the press.

  In fact, in the hours before the president spoke, there was rampant speculation as to what he was going to say, and much of it was fairly accurate. The press was on the story, far too late for them to take any bows, but the administration wanted to come out ahead of it, to the extent that they still could.

  Janssen was also glad that the public would now be a source of investigative tips. Someone, somewhere, knew the perpetrators, and if they could connect the dots and come forward, the chances of arrests grew exponentially.

  But there would be a negative component to the revelations, Janssen knew. When people get scared, they get irrational, and things can turn ugly very easily. Especially when more attacks follow.

  And that was the other part of this that made Janssen uneasy, and a little scared himself. There was always the chance that the public exposure could speed up the timetable of the perpetrators. Janssen had long felt that there was something big coming, something which the killers hoped would net them far more than the money they had so far been leaving on the table.

  And the truth was that Janssen and his team had no idea where the attack would come from, what it would be directed against, or how to stop it.

  After the speech, the administration sent a small army of people out to deal with the media, to supply the details that the president had not gone into. The story they told made the situation seem that much more dire, because of the lack of specificity as to how people could protect themselves.

  If computers were not safe, and computers were everywhere, then how could anyone hope to stay safe?

  Novack and Captain Donovan had no illusions about getting federal help. While they originally rejected the idea of going to the FBI and trying to take advantage of their cyber-crime capabilities, they hadn’t taken the idea off the table.

  Now, with a declared national emergency totally relying on those same capabilities, there was not a big enough table in the world to accommodate the requests of a local police department. The FBI had one mission, and one only, and that was to catch the hackers that were killing and terrorizing people.

  Even Donovan, who had been less than eager for his department to even peripherally get involved in the Sheryl Harrison situation, was aware that the investigation had increased dramatically in importance.

  Hennessey’s murder, plus the discovery that Charlie Harrison had participated in other frauds in the same jurisdiction, using the IDs in the safe-deposit box, had upped the ante considerably. Donovan did not have to be coaxed into putting more resources into the investigation. Anders, Novack’s partner, was now assigned to the case exclusively, as were two other teams, who would work under Novack’s direction.

  Most important, Donovan gave instructions to Emerson that the Computer Crime Division was to drop anything that wasn’t an emergency and devote itself to the case. Local police departments are not exactly overstaffed in this area, so it put considerable pressure on Emerson, Andrew Garrett, and their small team.

  The decision was made not to go public with Hennessey’s identity or murder, at least not at that point. It would give them something to hold back in the investigation, and with all that was going on in the news, it wouldn’t get the notice they would have wanted anyway. There was time for that later, if they chose to release it.

  Novack met with Emerson and Garrett to get an update on the computer search for Nolan Murray. An old schooler, Novack believed that Murray would be found by old-fashioned street work, but he looked to Emerson and Garrett to give him a head start.

  He invited Jamie Wagner to sit in on the meeting, though it was clear that both Emerson and Anders considered it inappropriate to have an outsider there. Novack was sticking to his promise to keep Wagner as involved as possible, in return for access to Sheryl Harrison. That access had already paid off by getting Hennessey’s name, and entry in
to the safe-deposit box.

  Novack would never have admitted it, but another motivation for having Wagner there was the parole hearing, which was less than a week away. He had come to like Sheryl, and to sympathize with her plight. Even more important, he was now positive she was innocent, and he had helped to put her behind bars. It was an error that needed to be rectified, regardless of the situation with her daughter.

  “Nolan Murray barely exists,” said Emerson, starting the presentation. “He has no driver’s license, no home, no birth or death records. He has not filed tax returns, or worked at a job. He has not received medical care, been married, or ever gotten so much as a traffic ticket.”

  “So no Nolan Murray exists anywhere?” Wagner asked, instantly breaking his promise to Novack that he would just listen and not ask questions. “It can’t be that uncommon a name.”

  Nobody seemed to mind, probably because the question was logical, and Garrett answered it. “We’re going by Laufer’s estimate of Murray’s age, and the fact that he thought he might be from Maine. It’s very inexact, but that doesn’t really matter, because we have the right guy.”

  “How do you know that?” Novack asked.

  “Because, as I said, he ‘barely’ exists. We found a Nolan Murray who has no record of himself anywhere, except in one place. He took a class at Bowdoin College in advanced computer science eleven years ago. He wasn’t a student there, and in his record it shows that the grade was sent to the University of Maine, to fulfill a graduation requirement.”

  “You checked with the University of Maine?” Novack asked.

  Emerson nodded. “Yes, they have no record of a Nolan Murray ever going there, and also no record of having received the grade that Bowdoin sent.”

  Garrett jumped back in. “So it has to be our guy. He has systematically erased his own existence. Just like he created people online, he’s made himself disappear. Except he made that one mistake; he missed the Bowdoin grade.”

  “Does the Bowdoin record give an address? Any personal information at all?”

  Emerson nodded. “There’s a form that Murray filled out, showing personal information. The Social Security number he gave doesn’t exist; either he provided a false number, or he’s since erased it. I suspect it was the latter, since he probably didn’t have all this planned that far back. But maybe he did; this is a smart guy. There’s an address as well, in Damariscotta, Maine.”

  “We checked,” Garrett said, anticipating the question. “He doesn’t live there now.”

  Novack turned to Wagner. “You ever been to Maine?”

  “Yes,” Wagner said. “I went to camp there as a kid.”

  “Good. You can show me around.”

  I have to admit I was a little nervous about the trip to Maine. We were flying from LaGuardia to Portland, an hour-long trip that I had made a number of times. But I had never made it after the president of the United States said that terrorists could take over the plane’s computer.

  One thing was for sure; getting a seat would be no problem. Airline traffic in the immediate aftermath of the president’s address had dropped 71 percent. It was just one part of an economic downturn that was sure to get much worse.

  No one knew what to be afraid of, so people made the logical decision to do as little as possible. And when people do nothing, they don’t spend money. Businesses then cut back or shut down, laying off employees, so people don’t earn money to spend anyway. The situation had economists predicting a deep recession, perhaps even a depression, if it was not resolved quickly.

  The political repercussions were coming fast and furious as well. While there was some banding together of politicians and citizens to unite and fight the common enemy, the fact that it was an unseen enemy made that difficult.

  There was also a sense of outrage that the secret had been withheld from the public for so long. Families of victims of both the Disneyland tragedy and the drone crash at the Alamo were coming forward, furious that their loved ones were sacrificed in this manner. Had they been armed with the information they should have had, they would not have gone on their vacations, and they would be alive and safe.

  Ethnic and political groups were being scapegoated, aided and abetted by the Internet. Outlandish speculation and conspiracy theories would appear and then spread like wildfire online. The authorities would rebut them, but ineffectively, since no one trusted the authorities.

  It seemed to me that pretty much the only two people in America that weren’t in a state of panic over the terrorist danger were Sheryl and Novack. Sheryl, of course, had a mounting panic of her own. The word from Terry at the hospital about Karen was not great; while the new device was doing its job, it was a short-term fix. Of course, nobody could say exactly what “short term” meant.

  Novack just seemed oblivious to the danger. He had a job to do and he was going to do it. If something happened to prevent that, like his plane crashing, then there was nothing he could do about it. But he was not about to stop himself out of fear.

  My natural reaction would be to curl up in the fetal position in my apartment with headphones on, not to listen to music, but to drown out the world. But something prevented me from doing that. I don’t think it was courage; it’s more likely it was potential guilt. Sheryl was depending on me to be ready for the parole hearing, and I simply wasn’t going to abandon her.

  We met at the mostly empty airport at eight in the morning. I had come up with another legal Hail Mary pass to throw, and I would work on it on the plane. Hopefully it would distract me and make me less scared.

  I was going to petition the governor for a commutation of Sheryl’s sentence. Before the president’s address, when the last poll about Sheryl’s situation was conducted, a healthy majority felt she should have the right to give her heart to Karen.

  In New Jersey the majority was even greater, and I figured it would be a natural thing for a politician like the governor to try and do something popular with the voters. But in any event, just like with the parole board, Novack and I would have to come up with evidence that could provide a political cover for him to act.

  Which was why I was on the plane to Portland, and why I didn’t take a normal breath until the wheels touched down. We rented a car, and made the one hour and ten minute drive to Damariscotta. There was almost no traffic along the route; it seemed as if the entire country had shut down.

  I had actually visited Damariscotta once; we had stopped there for lunch after a camp whitewater rafting trip. It’s not the quintessential New England town; it’s not pristine, with the smell of potpourri in the air. But it has more than its share of charm, sitting on the water in a beautiful setting, and it feels more real than most similarly sized towns.

  We went straight to the address listed as Murray’s home on his Bowdoin transcript. It was on Route 215, about five minutes from the heart of town. The house was large, with probably ten more rooms than needed, unless the inhabitants included the Maine National Guard. It sat on at least twenty acres, which did not seem unusual for the surroundings. Were I in the mood for irony, I would have reflected on the glee with which New Yorkers reacted to getting an apartment with a three-by-six-foot balcony.

  The woman who answered the door identified herself as Mrs. Danforth, and was probably in her late sixties. She had lived in that house for just three years, having moved to the town to be near her children, once her husband died. She believed that the previous owner had also only lived there a short time, but she wasn’t sure. She had never heard of Nolan Murray, but said that we should ask her daughter, who had lived in the town for fifteen years.

  Her daughter Julie was at work, but Mrs. Danforth said we could talk to her there, and she offered to call her and arrange it. We expressed our appreciation, turned down a second offer of tea, and were on our way.

  Julie Danforth worked as a waitress at the King Elder’s Pub, on Main Street, a two story pub-restaurant with a look and a menu so appealing that I decided I could eat every meal
for the rest of my life there. She was expecting us and didn’t even ask to see Novack’s identification. If her mother said we were okay, that was clearly good enough for her. Of course, her mother hadn’t asked for ID either.

  These were trusting people.

  She yelled out to a guy I assumed was her boss, telling him that she was taking us upstairs to talk. She led us to a second-floor room, and we sat in a booth. Another waitress brought us coffee and assorted pastries, and I decided that maybe I was cut out for police work after all.

  “We’re looking for a man named Nolan Murray,” Novack said. “We believe he used to live around here.”

  Julie thought for a few moments, and then brightened. “Nolan! Sure, I remember him. Strange guy … what ever happened to him?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to find out. What can you tell us?”

  “Well, I’d have to think about it; it’s been a while. But he used to come in here. He’d have coffee, or a beer, and read.”

  “What did he read?” Novack asked.

  “I think some kind of textbooks, but I’m not really sure. We sort of let people be around here, you know?”

  “Did he have family here?” I asked.

  “I really didn’t know him very well, but now that I think of it, I think he lived with his mother, no, it was his father. He died, and Nolan must have moved away, because he stopped coming by.”

  “And you have no idea where he went?” Novack asked.

  “No, I really don’t. Sorry.”

  “Could you describe him for us?”

  She said she’d try, and proceeded to do so. Unfortunately, it was a fairly generic description that could have fit a half dozen people in the room, including me.

  But it seemed clear that the person who lived here was the Nolan Murray that we were looking for. The person who had effectively erased his entire personal, online history.