The Sapporo Outbreak

by Craighead, Brian

  With a shrug.

  Tech crimes were complicated, convictions took time and investigations chewed up lots of resources. With far more digital criminals than digital cops, priorities needed to be set. Terrorism, money laundering, fraud, sex and hate crimes took up everyone's time. The rising criminal activity tucked away in massive multiplayer games just wasn't big enough, wasn't scary enough - wasn't real enough - to get any serious attention.

  Today's group was no different. After a moment's silence, the Chief ('damn - what is his name?') thanked Skinner for the lecture and delivered some final housekeeping instructions to the group. Liberated from their forced silence, conversations sparked into life, cheap plastic chairs and desks were pushed aside and, in less than a minute, Skinner was left alone. Which was just the way he liked it.

  Eager to get back to his hotel and dinner with the brilliant and beautiful Dr. Eva Santos, Skinner hurriedly tucked his smartphone into his back pocket, the micro-projector into his jacket pocket and bustled out of the room. Skinner hurried down a corridor of shoulder-height white cubicles and was walking through the reception area when a familiar voice stopped him in his tracks.

  "Ben, do you have a moment to talk?"

  Skinner stopped and turned to the voice. Sitting on a black leather sofa opposite the reception desk was a craggy-faced man in his mid-fifties, impeccably dressed in a fitted dark blue suit, white shirt and red 'power' tie. Skinner's slightly rumpled chinos, tan sand shoes and faded blue cotton shirt were a sharp contrast.

  Skinner grinned. "Bad news I'm afraid Andrew. You've missed my presentation. Pity, it brought the house down."

  Andrew Morris didn't smile. He rarely did.

  Morris was a cautious man by nature. His training and a career tracking down the worst in society had heightened an already innate suspicion of people. After 30 years in the business, Morris had learned to trust his instincts - and instinctively he liked Ben Skinner. He admired the Professor's ability to relate to people, no matter their station. He wasn't on a power trip and didn't talk down to anyone. He came across as a good guy who just happened to be the smartest guy in the room, and Morris respected him for that. Most of all, Morris was impressed with the way Skinner had turned his life around after his ugly divorce two or three years back.

  "Sit down Ben - you'll want to hear this."

  #

  Intrigued, Skinner navigated his way past the oversized white vinyl coffee table and thudded onto the same leather sofa as the man from Homeland Security.

  "What's up Andrew? It's always good to see you, but I've got a lot to do in the next hour or two and a dinner meeting with a colleague at eight. Any chance we can make this quick?"

  Morris examined his friend and colleague. He'd known Skinner for years, and while Morris felt older every day, Skinner seemed to stay just the same. The casual way he dressed, the trim frame of a keen runner and a distinctive mop of straight sandy blond hair - ruffled and spiky on top and short everywhere else. However, as Morris had often reflected, it was Skinner's attitude - his curiosity, his energy and enthusiasm - which seemed to keep him young.

  "Ah yes, Dr Santos. She's very impressive Ben. Smart and - if you don't mind me saying so - very attractive. Way out of your league!" Morris deadpanned.

  Skinner shook his head and with a mock-pained expression. "No arguing with that, but the truth still hurts."

  Skinner paused for a second, then as the man from Homeland Security started to speak, he jumped in.

  "Wait. How do you know my dinner was with Eva? I'm pretty sure I haven't mentioned her before."

  "Actually Ben, Dr Santos - or rather her research - is related to the issue I have come to discuss."

  Baffled, Skinner stared at the older man for a few seconds, before nodding cautiously. "Go on."

  "How much do you know about the WhiteStar Corporation Ben?"

  "WhiteStar?" Skinner responded quickly, surprised and even more curious about where this was heading.

  "Well ... let me see. Pretty much anyone over thirteen and under sixty has played one of their iSight online games at some point. As a result, they're a household name and have made billions of dollars. Which is great - because it's WhiteStar's sponsorship dollars that fund a large part of the Criminology research facility back at the University."

  "And your relationship with WhiteStar Ben?"

  Skinner cast a quizzical glance at the lined face gazing back at him.

  "It hasn't changed since we last talked Andrew. As you know WhiteStar's been investing enormously in a new game which tries to create as real an environment as possible. They're not calling it a 'virtual world' anymore - they describe this new game as an 'alternate world'."

  Clearly getting impatient, Morris interrupted. "All very interesting, but why would a global software company selling online entertainment engage a Professor of Criminology, a criminal psychologist and a team of researchers. What sort of game needs that sort of research?"

  Skinner face lit up as he shuffled forward slightly in his seat.

  "What I've seen Andrew really is quite remarkable. Unless you've been living under a rock, you know that their games create lots of scenarios players can enter into. Some of them fun, some adventurous and some a little surreal. Well - some have good guys and bad guys. Our work has helped WhiteStar simulate as accurately as possible the criminal mind in different situations. In effect, in the new game players will find the more they play, the smarter the bad guys get and the more realistic the scenarios become. It's amazing really. A few months ago I had the chance to try an early version and it's like nothing I've ever seen. The whole planet's going to be playing this damn game, mark my words."

  Morris raised an eyebrow. "Helping promote violence Ben, that doesn't sound like you at all."

  "Completely the opposite. Like a lot of these games, simulated crime and violence play a part. It's a fantasy world of good and bad guys. I've been concerned for years about the potential for that pretend violence to bleed over to the real world. I've written papers on it from a criminology perspective, and Doctor Santos has written about the psychological risks involved. Tanaka seemed to share our concern, and asked that we act as advisors, guiding their developers on how to walk the line between realism and risk."

  Morris leaned back and absorbed Skinner's words. 10, 20, 30 seconds past in silence while Morris gazed into the middle distance, clearly lost in thought.

  "So Ben, what you're saying is that you - and Doctor Santos - are responsible for making sure the game doesn't turn spotty-faced teenagers into hardened criminals?"

  Skinner gave a wry grin. "I guess you could say that. Look, I really do have to get going. Is there anything else you need from me?"

  Morris turned toward Skinner, the focus in his eyes returning.

  "Sorry Ben - just trying to join some dots. Actually I do have two more quick questions then we're done. Is that ok?"

  Skinner sighed. "Sure Andrew - what do you need to know?"

  "Ok - do you have any idea why WhiteStar would be investing so heavily - and I mean over three billion dollars and counting Ben - in buying up augmented reality and artificial intelligence companies? Why a game company would need massive new data centres around the world? And why WhiteStar would install military-grade supercomputer technology in these centres? I mean - what the hell Ben. It's just a game right?"

  Skinner sat forward. "Three billion? Well - I don't pretend to understand the technology driving it all, but if there's some pretty expensive equipment in a cupboard somewhere, then it doesn't surprise me. Really Andrew, when you try out this new game it's like walking into a different world. It feels ... real. I guess that level of reality needs billions of dollars to feed it?"

  "Maybe your right Ben, but it's ringing bells in Homeland Security. A lot of this has been built on the quiet, through different holding companies and offshore vehicles. It's taken a while for us to piece it together, and it's hard to believe all this is for one, big game. And another thing. These dat
a centres are spread all over the world - the biggest somewhere in Japan - and they're going to be capturing data and God knows what else about almost every adult American. We don't like it Ben - it doesn't smell right."

  "I'm not sure what you want me to tell you Andrew. I'm a criminologist. I can tell you that they've built a hell of game, and that the bad guys in it are pretty damn realistic. But still - it's just a game. A truly amazing game, but just a game."

  "Y-e-a-h." Morris stretched out the vowels, seemingly reluctant to continue. "That leads me to my last question. How well do you know Kaito Tanaka? Should we be worried about the man?"

  Skinner paused for a second, surprised by the unexpected question, and then broke into a broad smile.

  "Tanaka? Kaito Tanaka? Don't tell me Homeland has him tagged as a bad guy? Tanaka's smart and very eccentric - the ultimate nerd-made-good. He's enthusiastic, and sure he's a little crazy. But I can't see him as a someone Homeland should be concerned with."

  Morris' face darkened. He pushed forward, the leather squeaking as he moved.

  "Ben. The world knows Tanaka as the WhiteStar guy. An eccentric gaming nerd turned multi-billionaire. Let me tell you how Homeland see him. We've been looking at this guy for two years now. Do you want to know what the combined resources available to Homeland has uncovered?"

  Intrigued and a little disturbed by his friend's ominous tone, Skinner slowly shook his head.

  "No."

  "Nothing Ben, nothing. Sure - we know Tanaka's background, we know about his wife and daughter, we know about starting his business in a Japanese cafe. We know all the stuff that's in the brochure. But we don't know the man at all. It's like he's managed to hide in plain sight. Everyone knows of Tanaka, and yet no one really understands him, what makes him tick. What about you Ben? He contacted you personally, and you've worked with him for the last eighteen months. What can you tell me about Tanaka?"

  Skinner's brow furrowed.

  "It's funny Andrew. I've spent eighteen months dealing with the man. I've met him maybe a dozen times in half a dozen different countries. I've spent days in his presence. Yet - when I really think about it - I can't say I know the man at all."

  Morris nodded as if he expected it.

  Skinner continued; "Jesus Andrew, I've build a career understanding people - and turns out I've missed this guy completely. Now - that is interesting."

  #

  5pm Tuesday, Santa Clara County (Minus 29 Hours)

  Three years earlier, on an icy-cold grey winter's morning with the wind howling up the Delaware River, Dr Stanley Kosner decided to leave New Jersey. To leave a career, his wife and some bad memories behind and take up the position of Lead Medical Examiner at the Santa Clara County Coroner's office.

  It was the second best decision he'd ever made. The first had been the divorce.

  It was late in the afternoon, and the winter sun was starting to set. Kosner was looking forward to calling it a day, since his move to California he'd found his days had slid backward. He got up for a run before the sun rose, and was getting tired by dinner. He was already regretting his early start and long run this morning, and stifled a yawn as he tried to focus.

  Dr Kosner combed his thick grey hair with the outstretched fingers of his right hand, then hunched forward to read from the ring-bound folder on his polished oak desk. The low drone of the air conditioning vent in the ceiling was the only sound humming softly as Kosner methodically read through the forensic report. A minute or two later, Dr Kosner carefully closed the folder, sat upright in his high-back leather chair, clasped his hands together and gazed at his visitor. Sitting in a worn brown leather chair arranged to face Dr Kosner across his large, impeccably organised desk was the investigating officer, Santa Clara Police Detective Steve Clark.

  At 6'2" and 220 pounds, Clark cut an imposing figure. One of the few African-American detectives in Santa Clara County, his large frame and blunt approach disguised a sharp, analytical mind. Over time Clark had become the main man on difficult cases.

  The leather chair groaned as Clark shifted his weight and fixed his eyes on the doctor.

  "So, Doctor...." Clark paused for a second, unhurried, calm - as if this sort of carnage happened every day, "...can you tell me how a 13-year old girl, who must weigh a hundred pounds soaking wet, could tear apart a fit young woman?"

  Slightly unnerved by Clark's hard stare, Kosner subconsciously flicked the photographs in the forensic report lying on his desk. "It's difficult to say - this really is a very unusual incident. The girl has what appears to be traumatic self-inflicted wounds, significant corneal abrasion, a detached retina and deep tears on her eyelids and the skin around her eyes."

  "So what? She tried to scratch her own eyes out?"

  "All I can tell is that these injuries are very serious and - judging from the location and direction of the wounds and tissue under her nails - appear to be self-inflicted. Obviously, I can't tell you why she would do this to herself. There's no sign of drug or alcohol abuse in the young girl. Your department's report reveals no previous incidents of any kind. On the contrary, it appears she was a smart, gentle model student from a supportive, well-balanced home."

  Clark's expression darkened. He shuffled forward again, his knees now pressed against the polished wooden desk. "Doctor, I don't need you to tell me what it's not. I'm here so can tell me what it is - or at least what it could be? You have to give me something to work with."

  "Believe me, I understand how you feel Detective. I haven't seen an attack of this nature before from a fully grown adult, let alone from a young girl. It's not just the ferocity, it's the form it took. The bites to the face and neck are extremely deep, and it appears the girl chewed the flesh during the attack.

  The behaviour of the girl during the attack is similar in some ways to a condition know as 'Furious Rabies'. In these cases, the infected animal can not only kill or seriously injure other animals that it comes into contact with, but inflict serious injuries on itself. However, there's no reported incident of this crossing over to humans and, if it had, the blood test would have picked this up. Although I haven't any personal experience, other coroners have reported similar injuries over the past few years. However, in every one of these cases the psychoactive drug Methylenedioxypyrovalerone was present."

  Clark shrugged. "In English please, Doctor."

  The doctor nodded. "Of course, I'm sorry. You might know this drug by one of several street names, such as MDPK, Cloud 9, Peeve, Magic Maddie or Bath Salts."

  Clark pushed back into the worn brown leather chair and let out a frustrated sigh.

  "Cloud Nine? But the girl came up clean."

  "Yes Detective, I'm aware of that. That's why this is such an unusual incident and why I took the liberty of consulting a colleague of mine about this. Dr Edwards is the Professor of Psychiatry at UCS. Having reviewed the case notes, Dr Edwards feels the girl that attacked Mrs Brennan may have been suffering from an extreme form of paranoid delusion. I'm inclined to agree."

  "So - you're saying she was crazy?"

  Kosner paused, torn between his natural desire for accuracy and the need to get his message through to the detective.

  "I'd say deeply delusional Detective, the girls rage most likely driven by fear. Both Dr Edwards and I suspect the girl was living in her own world, separated from reality. And whatever was happening in this private world of hers was sufficiently terrifying for her to attack without regard for her safety. The only silver lining to this tragedy Detective is that it's almost certainly an isolated incident. I seriously doubt we'll be seeing another attack like this for a very long time, if ever."

  #

  8pm Tuesday, Washington D.C (Minus 29 Hours)

  "Yes sir, your guest is already seated. Shall I take your coat?"