The Blue Nowhere: A Novel

by Jeffery Deaver

  Wyatt Gillette’s thick, muscular fingers slid eagerly onto the cool plastic of the keys. He positioned his fingertips, callused from years of keyboarding, on the tiny orientation bumps on the F and J keys. The boot disk bypassed the machine’s Windows operating system and went straight to the leaner MS-DOS—the famous Microsoft Disk Operating System, which is the basis for the more user-friendly Windows. A white C: prompt appeared on the black screen.

  His heart raced as he stared at the hypnotically pulsing cursor.

  Then, not looking at the keyboard, he pressed a key, the one for d—the first letter in the command line, detective.exe, which would start his program.

  In the Blue Nowhere time is very different from what we know it to be in the Real World and, in the first thousandth of a second after Wyatt Gillette pushed that key, this happened:

  The voltage flowing through the circuit beneath the d key changed ever so slightly.

  The keyboard processor noticed the change in current and transmitted an interrupt signal to the computer itself, which momentarily sent the dozens of tasks it was currently performing to a storage area known as the stack and then created a special priority route for codes coming from the keyboard.

  The code for the letter d was directed by the keyboard processor along this express highway into the computer’s basic input-output system—the BIOS—which checked to see if Wyatt Gillette had pressed the SHIFT, CONTROL or ALTERNATE keys at the same time he’d hit the d key.

  Assured that he hadn’t, the BIOS translated the letter’s keyboard code for the lowercase d into another one, its ASCII code, which was then sent into the computer’s graphics adapter.

  The adapter in turn converted the code to a digital signal, which it forwarded to the electron guns located in the back of the monitor.

  The guns fired a burst of energy into the chemical coating on the screen. And, miraculously, the white letter d burned into existence on the black monitor.

  All this in that fraction of a second.

  And in what remained of that second Gillette typed the rest of the letters of his command, e-t-e-c-t-i-v-e.e-x-e, and then hit the ENTER key with his right little finger.

  More type and graphics appeared, and soon, like a surgeon on the trail of an elusive tumor, Wyatt Gillette began probing carefully through Lara Gibson’s computer—the only aspect of the woman that had survived the vicious attack, that was still warm, that retained at least a few memories of who she was and what she’d done in her brief life.

  CHAPTER 00000111 / SEVEN

  He walks in a hacker’s slump, Andy Anderson thought, watching Wyatt Gillette return from the analysis lab.

  Machine people had the worst posture of any profession in the world.

  It was nearly 11:00 A.M. The hacker had spent only thirty minutes looking over Lara Gibson’s machine.

  Bob Shelton, who now dogged Gillette back to the main office, to the hacker’s obvious irritation, asked, “So what’d you find?” The question was delivered in a chilly tone and Anderson wondered again why Shelton was riding the young man so hard—especially considering that the hacker was helping them out on a case the detective had volunteered for.

  Gillette ignored the pock-faced cop and sat down in a swivel chair, flipped open his notebook. When he spoke it was to Anderson. “There’s something odd going on. The killer was in her computer. He seized root and—”

  “Dumb it down,” Shelton muttered. “Seized what?”

  Gillette explained, “When somebody has root that means they have complete control over a computer network and all the machines on it.”

  Anderson added, “When you’re root you can rewrite programs, delete files, add authorized users, remove them, go online as somebody else.”

  Gillette continued, “But I can’t figure out how he did it. The only thing unusual I found were some scrambled files—I thought they were some kind of encrypted virus but they turned out to be just gibberish. There’s not a trace of any kind of software on her machine that would let him get inside.”

  Glancing at Bishop, he explained, “See, I could load a virus in your computer that’d let me seize root on your machine and get inside it from wherever I am, whenever I want to, without needing a passcode. They’re called ‘back door’ viruses—as in sneaking in through the back door.

  “But in order for them to work I have to somehow actually install the software on your computer and activate it. I could send it to you as an attachment to an e-mail, say, and you could activate it by opening the attachment without knowing what it was. Or I could break into your house and install it on your computer then activate it myself. But there’s no evidence that happened. No, he seized root some other way.”

  The hacker was an animated speaker, Anderson noticed. His eyes were glowing with that absorbed animation he’d seen in so many young geeks—even the ones who were sitting in court, more or less convicting themselves as they excitedly described their exploits to a judge and jury.

  “Then how do you know he seized root?” Linda Sanchez asked.

  “I hacked together this kludge.” He handed Anderson a floppy disk.

  “What’s it do?” Patricia Nolan asked, her professional curiosity piqued, as was Anderson’s.

  “It’s called Detective. It looks for things that aren’t inside a computer.” He explained for the benefit of the non-CCU cops. “When your computer runs, the operating system—like Windows—stores parts of the programs it needs all over your hard drive. There’re patterns to where and when it stores those files.” Indicating the disk, he said, “That showed me that a lot of those bits of programs’d been moved to places on the hard drive that make sense only if somebody was going through her computer from a remote location.”

  Shelton shook his head in confusion.

  But Frank Bishop said, “You mean, it’s like you know a burglar was inside your house because he moved furniture and didn’t put the pieces back. Even though he was gone when you got home.”

  Gillette nodded. “Exactly.”

  Andy Anderson—as much a wizard as Gillette in some areas—hefted the thin disk in his hand. He couldn’t help feeling impressed. When he was considering asking Gillette to help them, the cop had looked through some of Gillette’s script, which the prosecutor had submitted as evidence in the case against him. After examining the brilliant lines of source code Anderson had two thoughts. The first was that if anyone could figure out how the perp had gotten into Lara Gibson’s computer it was Wyatt Gillette.

  The second was pure, painful envy of the young man’s skills. Throughout the world there were tens of thousands of code crunchers—people who happily churn out tight, efficient software for mundane tasks—and there were just as many script bunnies, the term for kids who write wildly creative but clumsy and largely useless programs just for the fun of it. But only a few programmers have both the vision to conceive of script that’s “elegant,” the highest form of praise for software, and the skill to write it. Wyatt Gillette was just such a codeslinger.

  Once again Anderson noticed Frank Bishop looking around the room absently, his mind elsewhere. He wondered if he should call headquarters and see about getting a new detective on board. Let Bishop go chase his MARINKILL bank robbers—if that’s what was so goddamn important to him—and give us somebody who at least can pay attention.

  He turned back to Gillette. “So the bottom line is he got into her system thanks to some new, unknown program or virus.”

  “Basically, that’s it.”

  “Could you find out anything else about him?” Mott asked.

  “Only what you already know—that he’s been trained on Unix.”

  Unix is a computer operating system, just like MS-DOS or Windows, though it controls larger, more powerful machines than personal computers.

  “Wait,” Anderson interrupted. “What do you mean, what we already know?”

  “That mistake he made.”

  “What mistake?”

  Gillette frowned. “Wh
en the killer was inside her system he keyed some commands to get into her files. But they were Unix commands—he must’ve entered them by mistake before he remembered her machine was running Windows. You must’ve seen them in there.”

  Anderson looked questioningly at Stephen Miller, who’d apparently been the one analyzing the victim’s computer in the first place. Miller said uneasily, “I noticed a couple lines of Unix, yeah. But I just assumed she’d typed them.”

  “She’s a civilian,” Gillette said, using the hacker term for a casual computer user. “I doubt she’d even heard of Unix, let alone known the commands.” In Windows and Apple operating systems people control their machines by simply clicking on pictures or typing common English words for commands; Unix requires users to learn hundreds of complicated codes.

  “I didn’t think, sorry,” the bearish cop said defensively. He seemed put out at this criticism over what he must have thought was a small point.

  So Stephen Miller had made yet another mistake, Anderson reflected. This had been an ongoing problem ever since Miller had joined CCU recently. In the 1970s Miller had headed a promising company that made computers and developed software. But his products were always one step behind IBM’s, Digital Equipment’s and Microsoft’s and he eventually went bankrupt. Miller complained that he’d often anticipated the NBT (the “Next Big Thing”—the Silicon Valley phrase for an innovation that would revolutionize the industry) but the “big boys” were continually sabotaging him.

  After his company went under he’d gotten divorced and left the Machine World for a few years then surfaced as a freelance programmer. Miller drifted into computer security and finally applied to the state police. He wouldn’t’ve been Anderson’s first choice for a computer cop but, then again, CCU had very few qualified applicants to choose from. (Why earn $60,000 a year working a job where there’s a chance you might get shot, when you can make ten times that at one of Silicon Valley’s corporate legends?)

  Besides, Miller—who’d never remarried and didn’t seem to have much of a personal life—put in the longest hours in the department and could be found in the dinosaur pen long after everyone else had left. He also took work “home,” that is, to some of the local university computer departments, where friends would let him run CCU projects on state-of-the-art supercomputers for free.

  “What’s that mean for us?” Shelton asked. “That he knows this Unix stuff.”

  Anderson said, “It’s bad for us. That’s what it means. Hackers who use Windows or Apple systems are usually small-time. Serious hackers work in Unix or Digital Equipment’s operating system, VMS.”

  Gillette concurred. He added, “Unix is also the operating system of the Internet. Anybody who’s going to crack into the big servers and routers on the Net has to know Unix.”

  Bishop’s phone rang and he took the call. Then he looked around and sat down at a nearby workstation to jot notes. He sat upright; no hacker’s slouch here, Anderson observed. When he disconnected the call Bishop said, “Got some leads. One of our troopers heard from some CIs.”

  It was a moment before Anderson recalled what the letters stood for. Confidential informants. Snitches.

  Bishop said in his soft, unemotional voice, “Somebody named Peter Fowler, white male about twenty-five, from Bakersfield’s been seen selling guns in this area. Been hawking Ka-bars too.” A nod at the white-board. “Like the murder weapon. He was seen an hour ago near the Stanford campus in Palo Alto. Some park near Page Mill, a quarter mile north of 280.”

  “Hacker’s Knoll, boss,” Linda Sanchez said. “In Milliken Park.”

  Anderson nodded. He knew the place well and wasn’t surprised when Gillette said that he did too. It’s a deserted grassy area near the campus where computer science majors, hackers and chip-jocks hang out to trade warez, swap stories and smoke weed.

  “I know some people there,” Anderson said. “I’ll go check it out when we’re through here.”

  Bishop consulted his notes again and said, “The report from the lab shows that the adhesive on the bottle is the type of glue used in theatrical makeup. A couple of our people checked the phone book for stores. There’s only one in the immediate area—Ollie’s Theatrical Supply on El Camino Real in Mountain View. They sell a lot of the stuff, the clerk said. They don’t keep records of the sales, but they’ll let us know if anybody comes in to buy some.

  “Now,” Bishop continued, “we might have a lead on the perp’s car. A security guard in an office building across the street from Vesta’s, the restaurant where he picked up the Gibson woman, noticed a late-model, light-colored sedan parked in the company lot around the time the victim was in the bar. He thought somebody was inside the sedan. If there was, the driver may’ve gotten a good view of the perp’s vehicle. We should canvass all the employees in the company.”

  Anderson said to Bishop, “You want to check that out while I’m at Hacker’s Knoll?”

  “Yessir, that’s what I had in mind.” Another look at his notes. Then he nodded his crisp hair toward Gillette. “Some crime scene techs did find a receipt for a light beer and martini in the trash bins behind the restaurant. They’ve lifted a couple of prints. They’re sending ’em to the bureau for AFIS.”

  Tony Mott noticed Gillette’s frown of curiosity. “Automated Fingerprint Identification System,” he explained to the hacker. “It’ll search the federal system and then do a state-by-state search. Takes time to do the whole country but if he’s been collared for anything in the past eight or nine years we’ll probably get a match.”

  Although he had a real talent for computers Mott was fascinated with what he called “real police work” and was constantly hounding Anderson for a transfer to Homicide or Major Crimes so he could go chase “real perps.” He was undoubtedly the only cybercop in the country who wore as his sidearm a car-stopping .45 automatic.

  Bishop said, “They’ll concentrate on the West Coast first. California, Washington, Oregon and—”

  “No,” Gillette said. “Go east to west. Do New Jersey, New York, Massachusetts and North Carolina first. Then Illinois and Wisconsin. Then Texas. Do California last.”

  “Why?” Bishop asked.

  “Those Unix commands he typed? They were the East Coast version.”

  Patricia Nolan explained that there were several versions of the Unix operating system. Using the East Coast commands suggested that the killer had Atlantic seaboard roots. Bishop nodded and called this information into headquarters. He then glanced at his notebook and said, “There’s one other thing we should add to the profile.”

  “What’s that?” Anderson asked.

  “The ID division said that it looks like the perp was in an accident of some kind. He’s missing the tips of most of his fingers. He’s got enough of the pads to leave prints but the tips end in scar tissue. The ID tech was thinking maybe he’d been injured in a fire.”

  Gillette shook his head. “Callus.”

  The cops looked at him. Gillette held up his own hands. The fingertips were flat and ended in yellow calluses. “It’s called a ‘hacker manicure,’” he explained. “You pound keys twelve hours a day, this’s what happens.”

  Shelton wrote this on the white-board.

  Gillette said, “What I want to do now is go online and check out some of the renegade hacking newsgroups and chat rooms. Whatever the killer’s doing is the sort of thing that’s going to cause a big stir in the underground and—”

  “No, you’re not going online,” Anderson told him.

  “What?”

  “Nope,” the cop repeated adamantly.

  “I have to.”

  “No. Those’re the rules. You stay offline.”

  “Wait a minute,” Shelton said. “He was online. I saw him.”

  Anderson’s head swiveled toward the cop. “He was?”

  “Yeah, in that room in the back—the lab. I looked in on him when he was checking out the victim’s computer.” He glanced at Anderson. “I assumed you okayed i
t.”

  “No, I didn’t.” Anderson asked Gillette, “Did you log on?”

  “No,” Gillette said firmly. “He must’ve seen me writing my kludge and thought I was online.”

  “Looked like it to me,” Shelton said.

  “You’re wrong.”

  Shelton smiled sourly and appeared unconvinced.

  Anderson could have checked out the log-in files of the CCU computer to find out for certain. But then decided that whether or not he’d gone online didn’t really matter. Gillette’s job here was finished. He picked up the phone and called HQ. “We’ve got a prisoner here to be transferred back to the San Jose Correctional Facility.”

  Gillette turned toward him, dismay in his eyes. “No,” he said. “You can’t send me back.”

  “I’ll make sure you get that laptop we promised you.”

  “No, you don’t understand. I can’t stop now. We’ve got to find out what this guy did to get into her machine.”

  Shelton grumbled, “You said you couldn’t find anything.”

  “That’s exactly the problem. If I had found something we could understand it. But I can’t. That’s what’s so scary about what he did. I need to keep going.”

  Anderson said, “If we find the killer’s machine—or another victim’s—and if we need you to analyze it we’ll bring you back.”

  “But the chat rooms, the newsgroups, the hacker sites . . . there could be a hundred leads there. People have to be talking about software like this.”

  Anderson saw the addict’s desperation in Gillette’s face, just as the warden had predicted.

  The cybercop pulled on his raincoat and said firmly, “We’ll take it from here, Wyatt. And thanks again.”

  CHAPTER 00001000 / EIGHT

  He wasn’t going to make it, Jamie Turner realized with dismay.

  The time was nearly noon and he was sitting by himself in the cold, dim computer room, still in his damp soccer outfit (playing in the mist doesn’t build character at all, Booty; it just makes you fucking wet). But he didn’t want to waste the time on a shower and change of clothes. When he’d been out on the playing field all he’d been able to think about was whether the college computer he’d hacked into had cracked the outer-gate passcode.