Clean
Page 23
Vortmit wondered how many complete innocents died in the nightly total. He questioned how much he should read. Would his nightmares be fueled by the sheer volume of innocent deaths if he didn’t know the individual stories behind them? Probably, so he decided not to read more. The innocents were surrounded by those that Clean found to be guilty for real reasons, and it would be impossible for Vortmit to tell the difference between the two.
However skewed Clean’s “thinking” became with Peggy’s name added to the ranks of the guilty, Voermit hoped the program might eventually learn Peggy was an outlier, an anomaly. To learn she was a mistake would take time, if it even happened. In the meantime, her public death listed her on Clean’s guilty and dead list.
A few final manipulations, and his mission would be done, his goals accomplished. Rhodes would pay him an absurd sum. He could walk away from Leonard forever.
“If only I could let myself walk away—”
The thought of future nightmares stopped him. He couldn’t walk away from the carnage Clean imposed. Every headline would bring him back to the program. Each day, he would add fodder to his mind’s search for soul-ripping nightmares.
To stop adding to his nightmares, he’d need to stop Clean. He wondered if it could be done.
36
Rube felt victorious.
Peggy was dead.
Despite being responsible, he remained unworried about being implicated in the crime. Talk about easy. What a bunch of fussy blather all the warnings were about altering the program by manually inputting names onto the guilty list.
Leonard, when they had met to set-up Rube and Carson with access to the program, had said emphatically, “Under no circumstances can you enter a name into Clean manually. There is no telling what might happen.”
Santrelle Simonson sat with them at that meeting, of course, because she committed to pay for everything. Rube would never forget how Santrelle looked at Leonard when he became so officious, as if Leonard was pond scum.
She said, “Really, Leonard, don’t you think you’re being overdramatic? What could happen?”
Well, Rube knew what happened. Peggy Whitfield bought the big one. That’s what happened. He, Rube, sat at his desk and typed Peggy Whitfield’s name and address into the program. What could be easier. She died a day or so later, and the sun rose the next day. As a matter of fact, the day looked more promising than any of the past year. Rube leaned his chair back and pondered his future success and came up with an action plan. He pulled out a small sheet of paper and created a short list with a few people’s names on it. The power he felt eclipsed anything Carson Miller could promise him. He added names to his paper, and crossed off some too, after further contemplation. The power he felt intoxicated him. If Rube handled this situation correctly, Carson Miller would receive credit for purging the undesirables from society, and along the way Rube could carry out side projects that would bring Rube the power he deserved. Ultimately with Rube controlling Clean, Carson would become Rube’s pawn.
And with the sudden ability to eliminate anybody in the world with a few taps of the keyboard, Rube’s ascent wouldn’t stop there. He would plot a strategy to gain himself the wealth he deserved as well, even without charismatic dazzle, or funny jokes, or even the ability to dress well.
Rube needed to set out on his own. After all, Carson took him for granted. He began to treat Rube like he was… an expendable employee. If only he’d put a stop to it right when it started after the successful broadcast of Carson Miller’s first national news story with that idiot newscaster William Bryant.
Rube kept access to the footage on his laptop with a shortcut saved to his otherwise uncluttered home screen. To him it proved that he, Rube, could manipulate the press and create an image by controlling a message. The video of that day should have been a trophy, an artifact of the war he fought side by side with Carson Miller. Now, if it was indeed a trophy, its positives were heavily tarnished. No, Rube no longer associated it with victory, or the future. Instead, its content foreshadowed Carson Miller’s hubris.
Rube clenched his teeth in anger and pressed a button to play the video clip.
The intended set-up promised a waste of time, puff piece about nothing, literally. William Bryant approached Carson Miller on the street as Carson campaigned for the state Senate.
He said, “And as luck would have it, my fellow New Yorkers, we’ve stumbled upon Carson Miller here, as he campaigns for his seat in the district’s state Senate race.”
Rube, alone, had decided on William Bryant after watching hundreds of hours of news recordings.
Carson wore the plaid flannel shirt with rolled up sleeves that Rube purchased for him. Because Rube sent Carson to take a shower and wash the styling wax out of his hair, his hair blew in the wind. Carson Miller squinted like Rube showed him.
Rube watched as Carson let the camera love him for a second, and then just as Rube taught him, Carson said, “Hi, William, what a surprise seeing you out here.”
The surprise was fake, of course, because the meeting and interview to follow had been arranged three weeks prior.
“I hate to sneak up on you like this,” William Bryant said like he meant the total opposite. “But now that we’re here, do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”
Just as Rube told him to do, Carson opened his hands up and took a step towards the camera. His smile engaged as he chuckled.
“Fire away, William,” Carson said. “I’m an open book.”
“What do you think about your opponent’s claim that the only way out of the budget crisis is to raise taxes?” William Bryant asked.
“I don’t think he works as hard as you and I do, or as hard as this gentleman here,” Carson put his hand around the street vendor that until the interview started, had been selling Carson a pretzel. “Honestly, do either one of you want to pay higher taxes?”
Carson pounded his strong arm onto the heavy stainless lid of the vending cart.
He answered his own question as he said, “No, of course you don’t. Nobody who works for their money thinks more taxes are a good idea. What’s a good idea, is eliminating society of the people who benefit from our hard work, but don’t pay into the system. I’m talking about no-good criminals, drug dealers and others who operate illegally in our economy and don’t pay taxes. They need to be expelled from our lives, and our society, completely.”
This part of the video was played on every major network across the country.
A little boy, he was the son of one of the campaign office staff, walked up to Carson Miller and said, “Are you angry?” Rube remembered choosing the boy for his All-American look.
The boy sucked a lollipop and a Band-Aid covered one knee. A stuffed backpack with a spider man figure on it weighed him down.
“Angry?” Carson said as he leaned over and picked the boy up and held him in his arms. “No, I’m not angry. I’m determined. I’m ready to work. I’m ready to say what’s on my mind, even if it isn’t popular.”
The little boy nodded and when Carson Miller put him down he ran to his father with a smile on his face.
William Bryant looked moved.
Carson Miller said, “And to answer your question, William. I want us to grow our way out of the budget mess, not penalize workers with more taxes. If we roll up our sleeves and work, we can make anything happen. We are Americans.”
And that was how Rube got Carson Miller to be a national household name. All the networks played the footage over and over again.
Rube stopped the video. He didn’t want to see any more.
After the interview replayed around the country, Carson never said thank you. He just asked for better results with the next interview. Rube remembered wanting just one word of praise, but it never came. Now Rube no longer cared about thanks. Peggy Whitfield was dead. He was taking control.
Rube’s thoughts were interrupted by a knock on his office door. Carson Miller himself, wearing Levi blue jeans and a white cotton button down shirt. His best quality, Rube knew, was that Carson Miller could be the “every man” candidate making plain old common sense.
“Rube,” Carson said without a hint of his trademark smile, or a trace of charm. “What’s the deal with Peggy Whitfield?”
Rube lied, “Huh, I don’t really know. I’ll check and get back to you later this morning.”
“Make sure, Rube,” Carson said. And that was fuel to Rube’s fire. Make sure. Make sure. Make sure. Who was Carson to tell him to make sure? Like he needed reminding. Didn’t he always make sure for Carson? Rube had just directed a killing. He didn’t need to be told to make sure.
Carson let his gaze linger on Rube, until Rube looked down at his desk and began fumbling with his socks. It wouldn’t do to let Carson see his defiance just yet.
“Yes sir,” Rube said, trying not to let his tone turn sarcastic.
“And the poll numbers?” Carson asked.
Rube didn’t care half a wit what the poll numbers were anymore.
He looked at Carson like he was vomit, unable to hold it back, suddenly, and said, “Check them yourself. I’m busy.”
Carson stared, obviously surprised by the change in the air. He paused and then switched gears himself, drawing from the many looks in his polished political cache of appropriate expressions. He looked pointedly at Rube. “Yeah, Rube, I totally understand. Thanks for keeping track of everything around here. We really ought to head out to the house on Lake George in the next couple weeks and catch a little sunshine. We’ve been working a lot.”
Rube wanted to mention that he used to be invited to go to Lake George often, until Carson started to bring his more famous friends there, leaving Rube in the office to toil away. He wanted to mention that his time and loyalty couldn’t be bought with one lobster salad and a good view anymore. He wanted to say that Carson often mentioned taking him out to Lake George, dangling the possibility in front of Rube, and then never followed through.
What he wanted to do was scream at Carson. Rube wanted to scream that he was done. Done with all of it. His planning skills and strategic brilliance were no longer available to Carson Miller. Rube was ready to work exclusively for what he himself wanted and deserved.
Instead, he didn’t look up and Carson eventually left after patting Rube on the shoulder and saying, “Yup, we’ll do that real soon.”
Rube tucked the short list of people he planned to kill with the program into his breast pocket. He visualized what he could accomplish. He envisioned his plan’s timing and sequencing, and success.
37
Officer Pincus waited outside Leonard’s driveway for Peggy to be alone.
He’d wrapped Barbara Pelman’s dead body in a painter’s tarp and lay her in his trunk. He’d known her since for as long as he could remember, and he wanted to feel sadder about killing her. She kept pressing him though, on and on, about how he’d lied in the newspaper.
“Peggy Whitfield isn’t dead,” Barbara had insisted. “We both know it. I saw her in the window of Denny’s house just minutes ago, if I needed a reminder. How come you’re in the newspaper saying she’s dead?”
He didn’t have a good answer for that one.
Peggy came out on the porch to look at the Atlantic. Officer Pincus knew Leonard and Finley were in the house too, and he could imagine the two of them hunched over laptops speaking about computers in a language he’d never learn.
He checked the balance of his account, yet again, and realized he was in a panic. There wasn’t any new money there. He felt a fool, but half wondered if it was his own doing; maybe that his charade with Peggy caused it. Maybe whoever sent the email knew she was still alive and how Officer Pincus deceived the press. They weren’t going to pay him five million dollars because the job still hadn’t been completed. He looked up from his phone, and Peggy looked small and vulnerable to him on the vast decking of Leonard’s place.
He looked at the seat next to him. A black strap, a police baton, a box of trash bags, a freshly-sharpened meat cleaver, a case of bleach and a particle mask seemed to taunt him into action. It wouldn’t be much, he thought, to snatch Peggy and exchange an hour of unpleasantness for his family’s future prosperity. Would it? When he finished, he would go out on the water and dispose of the bodies. He’d fueled his small boat and knew where the sharks fed on the southeast side of the island.
To be ready for anything, Officer Pincus placed the items on his seat into an oversized duffle bag that carried soccer balls when he coached the local team. He shut the door to the cruiser quietly, and braced himself for what, he knew, would be terrible. He hoped he had enough trash bags in his car, and that they would endure the weight of the pieces he planned to put in them.
As he turned from the cruiser, he noticed his phone blinking on its car charger, a green light flashing to indicate a new message. The duffle bag felt suddenly heavy in his hand, and his body needed to escape the sun beating down on the asphalt around him. Sweat from the moist sea air ran down the contours of his body in little rivers. He ignored his blinking phone and headed to the steps that would lead to Peggy. Still at the bottom, he thought better of leaving his phone behind, and he put down the bag with the meat cleaver and his other tools while he strolled back to the cruiser.
He threw the car door open, annoyed now by the inescapable heat of the day, and checked his phone. He was trying to be smart; whatever was lighting up his phone could be an alibi if he could work something memorable into the communication. There were downsides to not responding to some messages, too. His lovely wife had no patience for delayed return calls and had been known to come looking for him if she had something important to discuss with him. Encouraged and welcomed every day he could remember, he didn’t want it today. Not while he was disposing of Peggy Whitfield.
When he activated the screen on his phone with a password, there was a new call, text and an email. The call and text came from a number out of Plano, Texas. The main message of each had numbers without letters or words. Only the text had words. It said, “National Bank of Geneva” and preceded three digits. It took a few seconds for Officer Pincus to understand what new information his phone contained. He checked the chronology of the communication and found that the text came first, the email second, and a machine generated voicemail arrived at his phone last. He put the three pieces of communication together. The series of numbers stunned Officer Pincus into momentary inaction. The communication, when looked at all together, could contain a bank account number at the National Bank of Geneva. Hope continued to build as he searched for the bank online and found it, based in Switzerland.
His pulse felt like if it didn’t slow down, his heart might pop. Sweat ran off his brow, and he no longer cared about it dripping onto the pavement, the droplets leaving small wet circle patches in front of him. He called the American number for the bank. A heavily accented woman shared the line, spouting well-versed pleasantries and he inquired about an account. He could swear she got even nicer, if possible, but it might have been him just becoming caught up in the moment. She asked him to hold and transferred him to another lady who asked how she could help. He told her about the account number he had. The sound of a keyboard working under fingers came through the phone, and then she addressed him again.
“Ah yes,” she said. “We have been expecting your call.”
“You have?” he asked and then said with confidence, “Yes, you have.”
“Yes sir,” she said. “Per the instructions for this account, can you please provide me with a new twelve-number identification number? It will be your account identification number going forward.”
“Account identification number?” Officer Pincus asked.
“Yes sir,” the bank official said. “It is imperative that you remember the numbe
r for future account access. It needs to be a series of numerals that you will always remember.”
“Okay,” he said, thinking that he liked her word choices and accent.
Officer Pincus provided a long, new account number.
“Thank you, sir,” she said. “Your account has been fully activated. Is there anything I can help you with today?”
“Uh, yes, uh, there is,” Officer Pincus said.
“Yes?” she asked.
“Could you provide me with my balance?” he asked.
“Of course, it is four-million-four-hundred-fifteen-thousand-four hundred Euros,” the banker said.
There was a pause.
“Sir, are you there?” she asked.
“Four million four…” he said, calculating. “Can you convert that amount into dollars?”
“Of course,” she said. The keyboard clacked in the background.
“It’s five million dollars,” she said. “Oh, and seventy-seven cents.”
Officer Pincus would have felt more normal if he’d been struck by lightning, lit on fire and a bulldozer fell from the sky onto his police car. Stunned would short-change the amount of surprise, relief, and sudden anxiety he felt.
He looked up at the porch and didn’t see Peggy. He’d lost track of her while he was on the phone. The sun was hotter now, if that was possible, and he became aware of the heat coming up from the pavement and through the soles of his shoes.
The lady from the bank was talking some more, and he brought the phone back to his ear in time to hear, “Sir, are you there?”
“We had a breakup in reception,” he said. “Sorry about that, I’m here.”
“Excellent, may I help you with anything else, sir?” she asked.
“No,” he said. “There won’t be anything else today.”
“Well, thank you for calling the Preferred Client Group at The National Bank of Geneva,” the banker said. “Remember we are here to serve you. If you need anything, do not hesitate to ask. Just be sure to remember your account identification number for future communication.”