Sex and Murder.com

by Zubro, Mark Richard

  Before they started on the computers, Turner said, “Tell me about the late night parties Mr. Lenzati had.”

  “I know nothing of such parties,” Werberg said.

  Fenwick rubbed his hands together. “Excellent. A blatant lie. Our first big one of the case.” He clamped a huge paw on Werberg’s shoulder. “Ya see, we’ve got a witness that saw people, individuals and in groups, here late, and you, you poor sap, you were seen and identified as being part of that crowd. Blatant lies whet my appetite. They cheer me up. They make life worth living. They make me think you are a much better suspect than you were even five minutes ago.”

  Turner was dying to mutter that just about anything whetted Fenwick’s appetite. He kept quiet.

  Werberg said, “I came to his house late a few times for small get togethers. That isn’t a crime.”

  “Then why lie about it?”

  Werberg looked confused but kept silent. Turner and Fenwick waited. Silence was most often the detective’s friend. Most people couldn’t stand to let silence build. Werberg kept mum. After several drawn out moments, his lawyer asked, “Did you want to get to work on the computer programs?”

  “How could Lenzati work after partying all night?” Turner asked.

  “Same as you,” Werberg said. “Same as anybody. We worked every minute from the time we were both twelve years old until we sold our first company in our twenties. All those years, when we weren’t in school, we were working. Neither of us had a life. We were the ultimate computer nerds. We reveled in being different and the possibility of being rich. We had a goal, and we met it beyond our wildest expectations. We’ve more than earned the right to play and party.”

  “Who was he partying and playing with Thursday night and Friday morning?” Turner asked.

  “I have no idea. I wasn’t there. He didn’t need to check in with me. Did you want to go over this computer stuff or not? I’ve got to get to our offices today. Craig’s loss is a tragedy, but I’ve got to do damage control before the stock market opens Monday.”

  “Do you know which properties he owned in the city?”

  “I have no idea. He invested in real estate. I invested most of my profits in precious metals and long term municipal bonds.”

  The five of them entered the computer room. “What projects was he working on?” Turner asked.

  Werberg said, “We have a bunch of different projects. Probably the most important is trying to create artificial intelligence. That’s in these files here.” He began inserting CDs in the disk drives of two of the computers. Werberg pointed to several sets of gibberish on the screen. “All these are programs for that.”

  “What do they mean by artificial intelligence?” Turner asked.

  “A machine that works on its own,” Werberg said.

  Fenwick said, “No matter how sophisticated a machine, won’t it all simply be a matter of open and closed, on and off? No matter how fast the thing goes, it will simply be programmed. How can you program a machine to do something for which there would be no program? Why wouldn’t it just shut off? How could it go beyond what it is programmed to do?”

  Turner asked, “That’s what people are really working on?”

  “How much of this do you want me to show you?” Werberg asked. “I can show you mathematical formulas and programming language, but I don’t see how that would help your case.”

  “We’re not sure what’s going to help or not help,” Turner said. “If we’re going to examine what competitors might be interested in stealing, or be willing to kill for, we need to know what he was doing.”

  “Another big project at computer companies is coming up with new operating systems. That’s always hot. Whoever develops the best and newest and fastest system can always make a ton of money.”

  “Show us that,” Fenwick said. Werberg inserted more disks and called up more unintelligible data.

  “Is he faking this?” Fenwick asked Micetic.

  “Not that I can tell. I can only follow about half of this. I’m awed. I wish I had time to study it all.”

  “I would rather not have him study it, period,” Werberg said. “These are industrial secrets.”

  “He’s going to study everything,” Fenwick said. “You’re going to explain it to him. This is a murder investigation. We need to know everything.”

  “Did you ever have trouble with hackers?” Fenwick asked.

  “You mean crackers. Never,” Werberg said.

  Fenwick chortled. “Another lie.”

  Vinkers interrupted, “I don’t believe such dispargements are helpful. Mr. Werberg is being as cooperative as possible.”

  Fenwick subsided for the moment. Turner said, “One of your employees told us about Eddie Homan, the computer hacker.”

  “Oh,” Werberg said. “Who told? No one was supposed to.”

  “Someone did and we know,” Turner said. “So tell us about him.”

  “Some people were against hiring crackers, Rian the most. She’s probably the one who told you.” The detectives said nothing. He continued, “But even the government is hiring them to develop safeguards. In Homan’s case I was wrong, but it wasn’t a big deal. We’ve always had security in place. With broadband becoming more extensively used, everybody is scrambling to improve industrial safeguards.”

  After more than an hour of poring over mostly incomprehensible data, Turner pulled the encrypted document they’d found yesterday out of his folder.

  “What’s this?” Turner asked.

  Werberg barely glanced at it. “I have no idea. Which file was it in?”

  Turner’s cop instinct told him the guy was lying. Micetic began moving the pointer to a document file. Turner stopped him. “We want to know what it means. The computer programs are complicated and might be tough to understand, but this is in a secret code.”

  “I have no idea what that document says.”

  “We’re going to find out,” Fenwick said. “When we finish decoding it, I hope it has nothing to do with you, because if it does I will become mightily suspicious.”

  “I didn’t kill my friend.”

  “We need that list of personal acquaintances.”

  Werberg rapidly typed at the keyboard. Three names appeared on the screen.

  “This is it?” Turner asked.

  “Other than those we worked with, this is everybody I know of. Neither of us went out much.”

  “Except for late night parties,” Fenwick said.

  “We worked,” Werberg said. “That’s what we did mostly. We didn’t do a lot of socializing.”

  Turner said, “We were told Mr. Lenzati often appeared in public with attractive women.”

  “Yes.”

  “Who were they?” Turner asked.

  “I have no idea.”

  Turner pointed at the list on the screen. “Who are these people?”

  “Old friends. People from the old company who decided not to stick with it when we sold it.”

  “Were they angry about your selling?”

  “Not after we explained the deal. Anyone who had worked for us for five years or more was guaranteed a salary for ten years, no matter what they did. Along with that, they received stock options in the new company. They were very rich and very secure.”

  “Where is his personal address book?” Fenwick asked.

  “His Palm Pilot? I have no idea.”

  “Who is handling the funeral arrangements?”

  “I am,” the lawyer said.

  “Why not some member of his family?”

  “His will specifically states that I am to take care of it.”

  Werberg knew nothing more that was helpful. He and his lawyer left. The detectives turned to Dylan Micetic. “Anything he was telling us that was obviously wrong?” Fenwick said.

  Micetic waved at all the computer disks. “They were geniuses. When I say that, I’m not just making a compliment. This stuff is far beyond my experience.”

  “Who can we get who would unders
tand it?”

  “You probably can’t. This is the cutting edge of computer technology. If there is something beyond this, I don’t know about it. I’ve never heard of a lot of this stuff. I thought I was pretty smart. I am pretty smart about computers.” He gave a rueful shrug. “I’m willing to admit my shortcomings in light of what I’ve seen here. I’d love to work for this guy—it’s great stuff.”

  Fenwick said, “Before we drown in admiration for a possible murderer, can you give us anything on this code?”

  Micetic picked up the paper and gazed at it. “This I will be able to figure out. I did my graduate thesis on encryption. But it will take a while.”

  Turner asked, “Even if they were geniuses, you’ll be able to figure it out?”

  “If I don’t, I can resign.”

  “We need to make more copies,” Turner said. “Maybe we can get other people working on it.”

  “Sure.” Micetic tried to call up the program on the computer. He couldn’t retrieve it. “I don’t understand it,” Micetic said. “It should be here. I didn’t erase it. I know I didn’t.”

  “Computers screw up all the time,” Fenwick said.

  “I know exactly what I did. I didn’t screw it up. It should be here.” Micetic worked for five minutes, but he couldn’t call it up.

  “How can it be gone?” Turner asked.

  “Somebody came in here and erased it,” Micetic said. “Computers don’t erase things all by themselves.”

  “Mine does,” Fenwick said.

  Micetic said, “It’s usually someone who isn’t good with computers who screws something up. I’m telling you, someone erased it.”

  Fenwick said, “Computer age fuckups drive me nuts.”

  Micetic said, “The impression I have is that any kind of fuckups drive you nuts.”

  Fenwick muttered, “That’s part of my devastating charm.”

  They asked the local police district to check with the beat cops who had guarded the scene. In a few minutes they learned that no one had been permitted into the mansion.

  Turner asked, “Could someone have turned the computer on from another location and worked with it from there?”

  “Sure”

  Fenwick said, “We need to get a warrant for Werberg’s house.”

  Turner asked, “To find out he has nothing on his computer to match the nothing that’s here?”

  “There’s got to be a record,” Fenwick said.

  “There isn’t one here,” Micetic insisted.

  Fenwick said, “Let’s dispense with the computer age and get back to something simpler I do understand. Go to Area Ten. Make enough copies of this to paper the entire Loop. Make sure a stack of them gets to my desk.”

  Turner asked, “Have you found a list of the property he owned?”

  “Not yet.”

  “We’ll probably have to visit all of them,” Turner said.

  “I’ll be sure to look out for it,” Micetic said.

  Turner asked, “Have you found any reference to his Palm Pilot in all this data?”

  “Nothing I’ve seen gives a hint about it,” Micetic said. He took the copy of the encryption and left.

  “That son of a bitch knows a hell of a lot more than he’s telling us,” Fenwick said.

  “Micetic or Werberg?”

  “Probably both. I don’t trust these computer guys.”

  11

  I love the information age. I can find out more about possible victims than they ever imagine. A click here and there and I get all kinds of data, details, and knowledge they don’t know I have. Before I kill them I want to feel like I have power over them.

  The entryway of Area Ten headquarters was a mob scene. Reporters clustered in the foyer, down the hallways, and on the stairs. Fenwick bulled through the maelstrom. Turner followed in his wake.

  “What the hell was that all about?” Fenwick asked when they arrived on the second floor.

  Bokin, the beat cop who was normally on the front desk, said, “Two things. The Lenzati case, and somebody tried to kill Dwayne Smythe early this morning.”

  “How bad is he?” Turner asked.

  “All I know is Dwayne was cut up real bad, and he’s still in the hospital.”

  “Knifed?” Fenwick and Turner echoed.

  “Yep.”

  Turner asked, “Has Smythe been able to give any information about what happened?”

  Bokin said, “All I know is that I was told to tell you guys to get your butts over to Northwestern Hospital.”

  As they rushed to their car, Turner said, “Our guy was knifed.”

  “All these cases can’t be connected,” Fenwick said.

  “We’ve had odder connections. And be wary of absolutes. Often enough as soon as we use one, the opposite turns out to be true.”

  “Cops around the country were knifed,” Fenwick said. “That’s going to be the connection everybody makes.”

  Turner said, “We’ve got to find out if it’s a real one or not.”

  They hurried to the hospital. Even with the milling groups of cops abounding, the hospital corridors were quiet. Their badges got them up to the fourth floor, where a uniformed officer was on duty. Commander Molton and the deputy superintendent of the department, Calvin Sturm, were in the hallway. Sturm had iron gray hair, cut within a quarter inch of his skull. He was short and fat.

  “Is Smythe all right?” Turner asked.

  “He’s in and out of consciousness,” Molton said. “He lost a lot of blood. Some of the wounds were to some vital spots. They aren’t sure he’s going to make it.”

  “The victim in the Lenzati murder was stabbed numerous times,” Sturm said. “Are the two cases connected?”

  “No idea,” Turner said, “but none of us believes in coincidences.”

  “Be certain of everything,” Sturm ordered. “We can’t take chances on any mistakes. We’ve got several detectives in Area One working on this attack. Work with them. Don’t talk to the press. We’ll handle all contact with reporters.”

  Turner wondered about the universal ability of moronic administrators to speak in commands and imperative sentences as if all underlings were stupid beyond belief. That manner of speaking and that presumption of stupidity were two of the things he hated most in administrators.

  Molton said, “It is possible that the attack on Dwayne is connected to the cop murders east of here. We’re going to have a million reporters around trying to horn in.”

  “Be extra careful with this case,” Sturm added.

  “Where did all this happen?” Turner asked.

  Molton said, “A beat cop coming out of the Fraternal Order of Police offices on Washington Avenue found him in a nearby parking lot. He didn’t see the actual attack. There could be other possible suspects. Dwayne’s marriage was in trouble—all this scandal was taking a toll domestically. His wife is unstable and has physically assaulted him several times.”

  Turner didn’t ask Molton how he knew this. The police department was a notorious haven for rumors and gossip. Or perhaps Molton had been Dwayne’s’ personal confidant.

  “Anybody know where his wife was?” Fenwick asked.

  Molton said, “Her alibi’s being checked. Another real possibility is that it was a relative or friend of the boy he’s accused of shooting.”

  Fenwick said, “All kinds of people hated Smythe, not just us. I feel better knowing that.”

  “Lose the gallows humor, asshole,” Sturm decreed. “He was one of ours.”

  Everyone shifted uneasily for a moment. Even Fenwick wasn’t about to directly challenge the deputy superintendent.

  Finally, Molton spoke. “He’s been asking for you, Paul. That’s why we sent for you.”

  “Why?”

  “He wouldn’t say. He didn’t ask for his wife or kids.”

  “I’m jealous,” Fenwick said.

  Molton said, “We’ve got two active cases that we aren’t sure are connected.”

  “Check to see if they
are,” Sturm interjected.

  Molton said, “That reporter who broke the serial killer story has been hounding half the detectives in the city for interviews. Go ahead and speak with him. He hasn’t given us any more details. You need to have everything he’s got.”

  Sturm blustered, “It’s all bullshit speculation. I’d like to string that little bastard up by the balls.”

  Turner said, “Maybe he’s really onto something. If he is, we’d catch hell if somebody in this town died and we did nothing to prevent it.”

  Sturm thought for a moment. “Talk to him. Only him. Nobody else from the press. Make sure he knows it is not an interview.”

  “We definitely don’t want to see him at the paper,” Turner said, “and not at the station. Someplace neutral would be good.”

  Molton agreed to work it out.

  “Talk to Smythe,” Sturm ordered. “And you need to stop harassing Vinnie Girote.”

  Fenwick said, “He’s a suspect. Are you saying if he did it, we should cover it up?”

  “I’m saying do your job,” Sturm said.

  “Are you sure it’s okay to talk to Smythe?” Turner asked.

  Molton said, “He asked for you. The doctor said that if he was awake and willing, we could try but no one should stay very long. One of the most serious wounds was to his throat but he can whisper.” They found a doctor who reiterated permission for a brief visit.

  Turner and Fenwick walked into the hospital room. As they entered, Smythe was trying to get out of the bed. He wore only a pair of white boxer shorts and white socks. A hospital gown was around his feet. He desperately clutched one corner of the nightstand. The other was holding onto a bandage on his stomach. Large swatches of cotton covered wide patches of his body. His neck was almost completely encased. His IV cord trailed behind him.

  “You supposed to be out of bed?” Turner asked.

  “No.” Smythe’s voice was more of a ghastly rattle than a modulated whisper. It didn’t sound even remotely healthy to Turner.

  Smythe pointed at the nightstand next to the bed. “Open … drawer … please … what’s in?” He gasped between nearly every syllable. His butt thumped back onto the bed.

  Turner hurried over and propped him up. He wondered if they shouldn’t just call the doctor and then turn around and leave.