Game of Death

by David Hosp

  ‘We have the evidence,’ I say.

  ‘The evidence is wrong.’

  I’m not sure what to say. ‘Well, it’s in the hands of the police now, so I suppose they’ll figure out whether they have the right person.’

  ‘No, they won’t,’ she laments. ‘They won’t, because that’s not the way the police work. Once they believe they have the right guy, they’ll stick with that. It’s the easiest way to deal with things. Anything that comes up that doesn’t support their theory they will either ignore or they’ll jam into a box that they can say makes sense.’

  ‘Why do you think that?’

  I can almost see her eyes rolling. ‘I’ve dealt with the police before.’

  ‘I’m not sure what you want me to do,’ I say.

  ‘Please, just promise me you won’t let this drop. Maybe I’m wrong, and maybe it’s not Josh, but I’m sure it’s not Gunta. It just doesn’t make sense. Will you promise me you’ll keep looking into this?’

  ‘It’s not my job,’ I say. In fact I worry about interfering in the investigation in a way that will get me arrested.

  ‘I know it’s not your job, but it’s something you’re good at. You’re smart, and you’re stubborn, and you don’t like it when people get the better of you. What better traits are there for an investigator?’

  ‘I’m not sure there’s much I can do.’

  ‘There has to be,’ she says. ‘There has to be, because whoever did this to those girls is still out there. And if he’s still out there, it means he will do it again.’

  I look at my watch and realize that Yvette has been waiting at the Diner for ten minutes. ‘I’ve got to go.’

  ‘Okay. Just please think about it?’

  ‘I will.’ I switch off the phone.

  ‘That took a while.’

  Yvette is sitting in a booth near the Diner’s front door. The coffee on the table in front of her is half gone. She stirs what is left deliberately.

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Is she relieved?’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘She doesn’t believe that Gunta killed the girls. She thinks it’s someone else.’

  ‘Pinkerton?’

  I nod. ‘She admitted that it could be someone else, but she’s convinced that it’s not Gunta.’

  ‘Did she explain why?’

  ‘Not really.’ I flag down a waitress and order a coffee. Yvette orders another. I consider getting something to eat, but I’m not particularly hungry. ‘She doesn’t think he has murder in him.’

  Yvette takes a sip of her coffee contemplatively. ‘I can’t say I disagree with her on that. I’m not a fan of his personality, but the good doctor doesn’t strike me as a killer. And he certainly doesn’t strike me as someone who would kill these girls in such a sexually ritualistic way. I just don’t see it.’

  ‘You think it’s Pinkerton too?’

  ‘Could be,’ Yvette says. ‘But that wouldn’t explain why the LifeScenes were created on a computer that was handed out to Gunta. And I don’t think he has the skills to create the kind of graphics that are used in De Sade’s LifeScenes.’

  Our coffees arrive, and Yvette pours a huge dollop from the creamer on the table and chases it with five sugars. I drink mine black while I think about what she’s said. ‘What if it’s not just him?’ I ask idly. ‘What if there’s someone else who’s helping him?’

  ‘Like who?’

  ‘What’s your impression of Michael, the guy who works with him?’

  ‘He’s good-looking,’ Yvette says immediately. ‘He certainly wouldn’t need to tie a girl up to get laid.’

  ‘Maybe that’s how they get these girls in the first place, you know? I mean, getting someone to go home with you without a struggle isn’t necessarily the easiest thing in the world.’

  ‘Speak for yourself.’

  ‘I’m talking about someone like Gunta. Older, awkward with women and a little severe, you know?’

  ‘A little?’

  ‘That’s my point. I haven’t heard anything from Killkenny about these women being drugged, and it doesn’t sound like they were attacked before they were killed – it sounds like they put themselves in these positions voluntarily. I have a hard time seeing Gunta being able to accomplish that on nothing but his own charm.’

  Yvette tilts her head. ‘It’s possible, I suppose. But then, what does Gunta get out of it? What’s he in it for?’

  I shrug. ‘Who knows? Maybe he just likes to watch.’ I take another sip of my coffee and look around the place. It’s midafternoon and the Diner is half full, mainly with college students and people in their twenties taking a break from whatever work they have. I notice that nearly every single one of them is tapping away at some sort of device: tablets, iPhones, BlackBerrys, iPads, smartphones . . . Everyone is sending out information about themselves over the Internet. Personal, intimate messages to secret lovers; sensitive business plans; credit-card information; missives to arch enemies. Few of them even look up to interact with the people sitting there in front of them. At that moment it strikes me how sad and lonely technology has made us. I think about the people on NextLife, passing their time in fantasies, unable to engage with the real world. ‘We’ve become a nation of voyeurs, after all. Gunta was the one who created the NextLife LifeScenes in the first place.’

  ‘Maybe. You think his assistant, Michael, is involved?’

  ‘He gave me a look like he wanted to kill me as they took Gunta away today. He certainly seems like a guy who might be capable of murder.’

  ‘How do you know, really? Do we know anything about his background?’

  ‘No, we don’t,’ I admit. ‘But I know a way we can find out.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  We’re back in my office, sitting in front of my computer screen. ‘I have an administrator’s access to the company’s employment records,’ I explain. ‘HR decided it was necessary because of the sensitive nature of what this department does. I need to be able to check on my employees to make sure there is no one who is a security risk.’

  ‘Has anyone ever come up on the system as a legitimate concern?’

  ‘Yes,’ I answer honestly.

  ‘Who?’

  I look over at her. ‘You.’

  She laughs. ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Yeah. You have a history of hacking and at least one arrest for computer-related offenses. Remember, you hacked the WorldCom system and shut down all their financial records for three hours.’

  ‘That was a prank! Everyone hated that company anyway. I was just trying to stop them from distributing any cash to their executives.’

  ‘Yeah, but unfortunately it was while the Feds were conducting their investigation, and it freaked the hell out of everyone.’

  ‘That was just bad timing. I was never even charged with anything.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter – our system picks up everything that’s out there. We have a full record of every interaction our employees have had with a government entity, every Facebook posting they’ve made, every bill they’ve been late on. It’s all here.’

  ‘Isn’t that illegal?’

  I shake my head. ‘It’s all available online, if you know where to look. Hell, most people regularly click website terms and conditions that give away all of their privacy without even reading them. We just go out and collect it.’ I type in my administrator’s password and navigate my way to the HR section. Once there, I pull up Michael’s information.

  ‘Anything interesting?’ Yvette asks, looking over my shoulder.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Well, I suppose it was a long shot,’ she says.

  ‘No, you don’t understand, there’s nothing here. There are no records of where he came from or what he did before he started working here. All we have is a social security number, and his date of birth. There are no recommendations, there’s no employment history, no educational background. Nothing.’

  ‘How can that be?’

  ‘I don’t know. I�
��ve never seen anything like this before.’ I scroll through what few records there are, looking for anything that might give a clue to what happened to Michael’s records. There is a link with no identifying information at the bottom of the screen, and I click on it to see what happens. The image on the computer flashes twice, and then links to an outside site.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘It’s the record site for the Massachusetts Department of Corrections.’

  ‘The prison system?’ Yvette looks in close. ‘What the hell?’

  The top of the screen identifies the Massachusetts prison-system records database, and the prompt asks me for an inmate number and security clearance. I try typing in Michael’s name and hit return, but that just throws me back to the entry page with a red indication that the information I have entered is insufficient to allow access.

  ‘At least we know he has a criminal record,’ I say. ‘That suggests there’s a problem with him.’

  ‘Bullshit,’ Yvette says. ‘I have a criminal record. For all we know, he’s just another hacker who pulled something juvenile that pissed off the wrong people.’

  ‘Fair enough, but there’s no way at the moment for us to find out anything more.’

  She shakes her head in disgust. ‘You really don’t deserve to work at a technology company. There’s always a way to find out more. Move aside.’

  I smile; it’s the reaction I was hoping for. I slide my chair away from the computer and allow her to slide her chair in. ‘You’re gonna hack it?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m gonna hack it.’ Her fingers start flying across the keyboard.

  ‘How long do you think it’ll take?’

  ‘Depends on what level of encryption they have on this puppy.’

  ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’

  ‘Yeah, shut up and get me a cup of coffee.’

  Apparently the Massachusetts Department of Corrections online records system has a very sophisticated encryption system. Three coffees later, Yvette is still beating on the keyboard, obscene gerunds slipping quietly from her lips. I’m pacing at the back of my office, which clearly isn’t helping her concentrate. Twice she turns and glares until I sit and force myself to be still. The second time this happens, I take out my phone and text Killkenny to ask him to call me. I’m curious about how the interrogation of Gunta is going, and whether he has learned anything that might help us.

  Another half hour passes, and I think I may be losing my mind. I even consider going out onto the floor to do some GhostWalking, just to occupy my mind during the interminable wait. The thought of crawling around in other people’s psyches, though, is no longer alluring to me. There was a time, particularly when we began the black-ops program, when I thought I had one of the coolest jobs anyone could imagine. The ability to peer into the minds of my fellow human beings seemed a power that any curious, adventurous person would kill for. Now it seems a tawdry, cheap parlor trick. I’m not sure I will ever view the company or my role in it the same way again, and I wonder what that means for my future. That kind of introspection, however, seems unproductive at the moment, so I put it out of my mind.

  The room is silent except for occasional outbursts of Yvette’s keystrokes. When she started, her rhythm was a steady stream. Now it’s sporadic and violent. ‘How’s it going?’ I ask at one point.

  ‘It’d go better if you’d shut the fuck up.’ I hadn’t said a word for over an hour, but I let it pass, and we lapse into more silence. Her keyboard acrobatics become shorter and are separated by longer periods of silence.

  At one point she hasn’t touched the keyboard for nearly five minutes. She’s just sitting there, staring at the screen, not blinking. I wonder whether she’s okay, but I keep my mouth shut. The tension is becoming unbearable. At that moment the deafening off-key computer melody from my phone shatters the silence, and both of us jump. Yvette turns on me and gives me a glare. I pull the phone out of my pocket and hold it up with an apologetic shrug of the shoulders.

  ‘Yeah?’ I say, answering the phone.

  ‘It’s Killkenny. You asked me to call.’

  ‘I just wanted to know how it’s going.’

  ‘Nick, it’s a police investigation. I can’t very well give you updates.’

  ‘No shit, it’s a police investigation. Remember, you wouldn’t have anything if it wasn’t for the information we’ve been feeding you. I just want to know whether he’s said anything that’s helpful.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like has he confessed? Has he said anything?’

  ‘He denies everything. When he got here he talked a little, but only to say he didn’t know anything about the murders. He’s lying, though. I’m sure of it.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Ten years as a cop.’

  ‘That’s it?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s it. Within a half hour of being here he lawyered up. We’ve gotten nothing from him since. You don’t have to worry, though; my read on this is that we’ve got the right guy. There’s no doubt in my mind he’s lying.’

  ‘Yeah, but lying about what?’ I ask quietly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing. Okay, thanks. Let us know if you get anything else.’

  ‘Us?’

  ‘Me and Yvette. We’re working on something here at the office.’

  ‘Related to the case?’ I say nothing. I can hear him breathing on the other end of the line. ‘Nick, let me be clear about this. We appreciate the help you’ve provided, but at this point you two need to let us handle this. You start freelancing and you could weaken the case – make it harder for us to get a conviction.’

  ‘I just want to make sure you convict the right guy,’ I say.

  ‘Whatever you’re doing, you need to stop.’

  ‘Okay, understood.’

  ‘I mean it.’

  ‘Okay, we’ll talk later.’ I press the phone off.

  ‘Killkenny?’ Yvette asks.

  ‘Yeah. They’ve gotten nothing useful from Gunta. He denies having anything to do with any of this. Killkenny’s convinced that he’s lying.’

  ‘Did he say anything else?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘He wants us to keep helping in any way we can.’

  Yvette turns and looks at me, studying my face for a moment. Then she goes back to her work. ‘You may be the worst liar in the history of mankind.’

  ‘That bad?’

  ‘It’s one of your few endearing qualities.’

  It’s nearing midnight. Yvette has been hacking for more than eight hours. The air in the office is stale with sweat and coffee breath. The ventilation in the basement is awful to begin with, but my office is the worst. There are no windows, and only one HVAC vent. It’s a tiny little mousehole of a space, and at this moment, for the first time, I regret not having made demands for better accommodation.

  I’m sitting in my chair, leaning back far enough that my head is resting against the wall, my feet stretched out. I’m on the verge of falling asleep.

  ‘I’m in!’

  Yvette screams loud enough that I slip off the side of the chair and hit my head on the wall. She doesn’t even seem to notice. ‘I’m in,’ she repeats. ‘Holy shit, I did it!’ She seems genuinely surprised. I’m not; I never had a doubt.

  I roll my chair over to the computer and peer at the screen. We are inside the firewall for the Massachusetts Department of Corrections records website. There is a prompt asking us to put in the name of the prisoner we are searching for. Yvette types in Michael in the place for the first name. ‘What’s his last name?’ she asks.

  ‘François,’ I respond. She hesitates before putting the name in. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she says. ‘Somehow the name seems familiar.’ She shakes away the feeling and types in the name, hits return. An icon pops up showing that the server is being searched and the information compiled. It takes around two minutes before the results are displayed.

  ‘Oh God,’ Yvette sa
ys quietly as the results are displayed. There, before us, is a three-page list of arrests for sexual assaults of varying degree. There are only two convictions, both for aggravated sexual assault, though the records indicate that in both instances he was charged with the more serious offense of aggravated rape, and the charges were reduced in accordance with a plea agreement. There is also a record of his activities in prison, where he took extensive courses in computer programming. ‘Jesus Christ!’ Yvette says as she scrolls through the information. ‘Why the hell would we hire this guy?’

  ‘It looks like he was a wizard of a programmer, from what the instructors of his prison remedial classes say,’ I point out. ‘They say he has a real gift.’

  ‘Yeah. A gift wrapped up in a rapist. It still doesn’t make sense.’

  I’m still reading through the information and I come to the end. ‘That’s why,’ I say, pointing to the bottom of the last screen. There is a notion that he participated in an advanced pilot program to determine recidivism. The author and overseer of the program was Dr Santar Gunta, and there is a notation that the results clearly showed that Michael François was deemed highly unlikely to repeat his crimes. ‘Gunta gave him a clean bill of health, based on his interactions on the NextLife system.’

  Yvette sucks in her breath. ‘Oh no!’ she says.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I think I just realized why Michael’s last name is familiar.’

  ‘Why?’

  She taps on the keyboard and pulls up another Internet connection and runs a search for Marquis de Sade. She clicks on the first historical website that comes up and stares at the screen. ‘I came across it when I was doing research on De Sade,’ she says. She pushes back from the screen so that I can get a better look.

  I read the first line: Marquis de Sade; born Donatien Alphonse François, June 2, 1740; died December 2, 1814. ‘It’s the same last name,’ I say.

  She nods. ‘It’s the same last name.’

  We sit here, staring at the screen in silence, wondering what to do next. My phone interrupts our ruminations, ringing in my pocket. I answer it. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Nick, it’s Killkenny.’