Assured Destruction: The Complete Series

by Michael F Stewart

  “I wouldn’t—”

  “You wouldn’t set up profiles just to talk to yourself? Heckleena? Frannie? Need I go on?”

  “You have a point but—”

  “I know I have a point, Janus,” he says. “Did you hack the school database?”

  “No.”

  His chair creaks as he leans back. He has me. What he says is true. I could easily have created the IRC chat.

  “Wait,” I say. “The IRC logs location—see how he couldn’t tell where I was from? That means I can figure out what city he is from. Maybe. He’s a hacker, so maybe not.”

  After a long while Wolzowski speaks: “You can only afford one more absentee day this entire semester, and then you must repeat. I will take your word on the hack. This time. Now get back to class.”

  It’s not quite the vindication I’d hoped but I’ll take what I can get.

  “Oh, and, Janus,” he says as I cross the threshold of his office. “I haven’t seen a beautiful thing for some time.”

  “I still …” I sigh. I’d been given the punishment to create one hundred beautiful things because I Photoshopped a silly picture of Hannah, but with everything that had happened I figured he’d let it go. Not so lucky. “Right, okay. Back at it tomorrow.”

  Outside the office, the secretary looks up.

  “Five PM for the essay, Miss Rose, and not a second after.”

  “You’ll have it,” I say. I suspect the five hundred dollars is for expenses but every little bit will help Assured Destruction.

  Back in the computer lab, I open the Black Mamba presentation and complete the finishing touches. It’s not really exciting and I decide I need some humor to keep my audience awake. You’re never supposed to change a presentation at the last minute, but what can it hurt? I add one of the videos I found in his recycle bin.

  “Nice work, Detective Script Kiddie,” I say, watching the video again and laughing.

  What a great ice-breaker. It’ll humanize the profile and give everyone a face to remember. Who says murder can’t be funny?

  Chapter 20

  Hours of community service remaining: 1986

  <<@JFlyTrap Maybe a skirt would have been in order?>> Tule tweets.

  @TuleSays if you ever had to scrape frost off your windshield you’d disagree, JanusFlyTrap replies.

  “You’ll do fine,” Williams whispers to me. “Just take it slow and walk us through what you found.” She’s sitting close to the front of the room, and I appreciate the moral support.

  “Going to do you proud, Detective.” I salute her with a smile.

  Chow leans in to Williams and whispers something.

  “I’m sure analyzing your spreadsheets can wait five more minutes, Constable,” Williams replies.

  Chow slumps back: “It’s really not a good time.”

  Constable Chow, Detective Williams, and Sergeant Haines are accounted for, each with their backs to the glass wall of the meeting room. Chow looks like he’s coming down with the flu, pale and sweating; Williams fidgets, tapping her fingertips together; and Haines grinds his molars.

  I stand at the table’s end, where the presentation fills the screen. Officers in the cubicles crane their necks to watch me through the windows, and I can only think they’re hoping to witness Janus Rose’s next car crash. Not this time, folks.

  On the screen, A Killer Profile, by Janus Rose, is stenciled in an oh-so-professional typeface. White script on a black background—I deleted the fake blood I had dripping down the letters.

  Time to begin.

  “Good afternoon, everyone, thank—”

  Haines rolls his hands and I skip the pleasantries.

  “Our subject is a white, middle aged, male and, based on the contents of his hard drive, he has several of the stigmata of a psychopath.” Stigmata. I liked that word when I read an article on how a psychiatrist used it to describe his patients. Tattoos, piercings, drug abuse, bedwetting, animal cruelty … Each criterion painted a picture that, when assembled, revealed a psychopath.

  “Besides fitting the demographic and sociographic stereotype of white, middle aged, male, and middle class—” I’ve been honing my presentation-speak for days now and I can tell Williams is impressed because her fingers have stopped dancing. “—he also has tattoos and a predilection to alcohol abuse.”

  As I’m talking, in walks another man. Everyone in the room shoots to their feet. He’s familiar as if I’ve seen him around. His gray eyes meet those of each of the officers. With a confident half smile he straightens his impeccable uniform; polished brass shines under the halogens, and neither lint nor dandruff dusts his golden lapels.

  “Continue,” he says, and everyone sits back down. Something’s changed. Crisp energy fills the room like after a lightning strike. Whereas before Haines slouched with half-glazed eyes, his back is now ramrod straight.

  “Okay … so our perp’s a local boy. Weapon of choice a Glock, so maybe military, you all use Glocks, too, right?”

  Chow nods, but his eyes are skipping from the screen to the distinguished guest as if he’s trying to tell me something.

  “I’d guess clean shaven,” I say, unable to decipher Chow’s meaning. When doing a presentation, it’s tough to change stride. I know most of it by rote and don’t want to lose my place. So I continue.

  “Why?” Haines interrupts.

  “Why clean shaven?” I ask. “Because the same man who dry-cleans his clothing three times a week, leaves reminders to pick up high-end organic and bio-friendly cleaning products, and has manicure appointments—that man shaves every day.”

  “Most drunks don’t shave regularly,” Williams adds.

  “I think he’s controlling that. In fact, it’s possibly related. He could use alcohol to help him through his disorder, you know to make him less anxious—like Ethan here might have a drink before asking a woman to dance even if she’s out of his league.”

  No one laughs. Tough crowd.

  Suddenly, my laptop bleeps. The power chord has been knocked out. I peer under the table. Officer Chow’s shiny black boot has kicked the plug clear. The second plug, the projector’s, is nearly unseated too. On my hands and knees, I work them both flush into the socket.

  Suddenly Chow’s head is next to mine.

  “Stop it,” he says between clenched teeth. “It’s him.” He flares his eyes wide and then disappears topside.

  I pause with my hand on the plug. Chow? Warning me? Or is he trying to ruin my presentation? Someone clears their throat.

  “Careful, Constable Chow,” I say climbing back up. By his pained expression, I must really be doing well. “You nearly shut me down.”

  He’s flushed and gritting his jaw muscles. But he’s not the only one acting strangely. The mystery man rocks around in his seat like a bug crawled up his pant leg; he’s cracking his neck and twisting his back like he needs a spinal adjustment.

  “Continue,” Haines orders.

  Time for the funny part.

  I’m so glad I added this bit. Everyone here clearly needs a good laugh and it’ll give me a chance to think through Chow’s actions. I’m grinning broadly in anticipation of the hilarity to follow.

  “But our man isn’t so straight-laced he doesn’t let his hair down,” I say, unable to stifle my giggles.

  I click the slide forward. Chow’s head dips down so that he stares at the tabletop.

  Sometimes I’ll search for a word that will be on the tip of my tongue, and later it’ll come to me, although nothing has changed. This is like that. I knew I’d seen the officer, but I couldn’t place him. Just like the word sometimes comes when I need it, sometimes it’s a moment too late—the video plays. Too late. I recognize him.

  “What’s this?” The man’s manicured fingers tent the glossy
wood as he leans down the table toward me. His clean-shaven cheeks are ruddy. His freshly pressed jacket bunches at his muscular shoulders. The edge of a tattoo peaks out the bottom of a starched cuff.

  Girls Just Want To Have Fun blares over the speakers while the very same man as the one before me dances and belts out the song, but instead of wearing his uniform, he’s wearing a dress, wig, and boa.

  First his eyes widen in astonishment, then he appears to grow, drawing in air until it seems like he won’t leave any for the rest of us. His skin drains of color and then refills a dangerous crimson.

  Suddenly, he moves faster than I would have believed possible. He jerks the cables out of the television screen and when the singing doesn’t stop he turns his attention to my laptop. I slam the lid down before his fist can connect. His ragged breathing fills the silence.

  “Where did you get that?” he demands.

  “I—”

  “I’ll look into it,” Detective Williams says. “It was supposed to be a laptop case study. There must have been a mix up, Captain.”

  Had I really just profiled the captain of the police force? Had I called him an alcoholic and revealed his cross-dressing secret? I’ll never survive this.

  “Get her out of here,” Haines bellows. “The experiment is over.”

  Williams’s face falls. I’ve seen her expression on every hero in every movie, right when they decide no other option remains.

  “Laptop,” the captain says and I pull Black Mamba out of my bag. He tucks it under his arm like a soldier with his cap and then marches out.

  Haines looks ready to explode but just shakes his fist and follows the captain. My grave is pre-dug and deep; all that’s etched on the headstone is a big LOL.

  Chow checks back to the screen, which is a blank white. Now I understand what he was trying to tell me. But how had he known before I showed the video?

  “We need to move you out of here,” Williams says, standing beside the open door.

  “The laptop …” I say, but suddenly I’m confused no longer and turn to Chow. He knew, I realize. He set me up. I know whom I have to thank for this. He’s glaring and shaking his head. I’m about to accuse him. His eyes water with fear.

  Something like this, I realize, this prank could kick him off the force. His career. What does a black-balled cop do? Did he know what was on the laptop, or maybe he figured I would have realized, and they all would have laughed about hazing the new recruit?

  “It was stupid,” I say. And Chow’s nodding, knowing what I’m really talking about.

  “It’s a rough day for the team,” Williams says. “Ethan lost his service weapon and now this.”

  For once I understand the irony of there really being no I in team, no me anyways.

  I grab my crutches, and Williams ushers me to the exit.

  “Somehow you received the wrong laptop,” she says at the heavy security door. “Unfortunately, it’s gone too far. I’ll find something else for you. Not here, but I’ll ensure it won’t be scraping gum off park benches, all right?”

  Everything is toppling down. I’m being used as a scapegoat and she knows it. Someone’s head has to roll and she’s picked mine.

  “I thought I was doing what you’d asked.” I am so angry that my vision blurs; my hands ball into fists, and I bounce like a jack-hammer. “I didn’t hack the school, either.”

  But Williams just shakes her head and turns away. The pain of hopping on my cast begins to shoot up my leg.

  As the door shuts, I yell, “I know how the carders are stealing the numbers. I know it!”

  Williams’s head twitches; she heard; I know she did. But the door clicks locked and when it finally reopens, it’s just another cop heading out onto his beat.

  I’m officially off the clock and collapse on a nearby bench.

  Expunged.

  Chapter 21

  Hours of community service remaining: 1985—I don’t care what anyone says, I’m still keeping count.

  <> Hairy tweets.

  @HairySays You know where to shove your chess pieces? JanusFlyTrap tweets.

  Despite it being not much past lunch, I’ve gone home, retreated to Shadownet, didn’t even say hi to Trin or my mom. Given up on Hannah, school, Assured Destruction, everything. I can’t face anyone without crying.

  @FrannieMouth I’ve decided you’re not naïve, you’re stupid.

  @TuleSays You’re an over-privileged, egocentric bitch.

  @Heckleena You and I are a lot alike and that’s the worst insult I can hand you.

  I sag in my captain’s chair and say aloud: “Gumps, 8-ball question … Gumps, you don’t really know anything do you? You’re just a bunch of old quotes, right?”

  I sob. I can’t face even virtual people without tears. I brought one of the cats in with me, and it’s purring in my lap, all black, orange and white. Something in its fur bites me, but I keep patting it anyway.

  Gumps answers: If you fell down yesterday, stand up today. H.G. Wells.

  He may always know what to say, but sometimes I really don’t want to hear it.

  In my inbox, I have response notifications to my Darkslinger thread. I rub my eyes, kick the cat off my lap and bring up the website. As I’m scanning the responses, I read the bios of the members who are trying to help me. Most of them are blank. Some say meaningless things. But they’re all people, with skills, and they’re coming to my aid, unlike pretty much anyone else in my life.

  It occurs to me that Darkslinger could be a family and that I’d never in a million years offer up Sw1ftM3rcy or anyone else, even if I could figure out who they were. And I don’t want to know. Not knowing allows me to be me, and them to be them. It’s what Shadownet has given me for the past three years. Darkslinger might even be better. It’s real. With Peter’s USB key, it’s safe.

  And there it is: the translation.

  The decrypted code I extracted from the wireless keyboard hack is displayed for all to see. The final text is shorter than I would have thought. A group working together using some sort of dictionary file puzzled out the right decryption key within a couple of hours by using process of elimination. The translation is broken down into two blocks of text, with each block appearing to be a separate email.

  The first reads:

  Hello, sister, in follow up to your unsolicited advice on my love life, speed dating is an excellent and highly efficient way of meeting candidates for a mutually beneficial relationship. I can tell within thirty seconds whether someone is right for me.

  Regards.

  @JFlyTrap Who’s the voyeur now? Heckleena tweets.

  I do feel dirty, JanusFlyTrap replies.

  I’m grinning. But the real treasure is the second email.

  It is good to hear from you. If you would like to discuss the potential of a holiday on your mortgage repayment, please come and see me with Tina and we’ll work out the details. I request that you bring historical statements for the last five years. My records show that your company was far more profitable three to five years ago and I’d like to determine if I can help it return to its former levels of profitability.

  Regards.

  There’s light here. I’ve proven how the carders are stealing their information. Someone is hanging out near the bank with a directional antenna powerful enough to pick up the wireless keystrokes. The criminal could be harvesting all sorts of information, including credit card numbers.

  More important, though, Orsen has reconsidered. Assured Destruction will be saved!

  After copying the contents, I delete the whole Darkslinger thread. Although the banker never typed my name, given the timing of my email and the mention of my mother, he was talking about me and Assured Destruction. Maybe there’s enough here for someone like Sw1ftM3rcy to narr
ow down my location. Despite these concerns, I’m bouncing in my chair. The cat has scurried off into a dark corner. I push away from the desk, ready to share the news with my mom, but something’s bugging me.

  Before I go, I check my email, wondering how I missed his message in the first place. His reply isn’t there. I sit back down. Not in the spam filter either. Didn’t he say that he’d never help us, ever? I think back to the mall. He said that after I recorded his typing.

  There can be only one possible reason. The guy never hit send. He was about to save our home, our livelihood, but then he caught me spying and I compared him to mold. And I messed it all up.

  My forehead presses against the desktop. We’ll never make the payment.

  I’m leaden again, anchored to the chair. I have to go back to the bank. I have to beg; it’s the only way.

  Head up, I reread his comments. Much more profitable? Three to five years ago was while my dad was still here. Had anything happened before he left? And did it have anything to do with why he took off?

  The temporary hope imbued by the decoded message has dragged me out of my pit of despondency.

  I track down the cat, which I’m not allowed to have inside, and give Trin a belated wave. Creeping upstairs, I want to change so that I don’t remind the needle-nosed banker of a gangster. My mom’s up sitting in her wheelchair, but even after opening the fire exit she doesn’t respond. Just sits, staring out. One eye patched, the other half lidded.

  I sneak past. Right past. Right before her face and she doesn’t respond. I wanted to avoid her, but my heart hammers. Is she locked-in or something? Something worse?

  “Mom?” Nothing.

  I run over and grip her shoulder. It’s as though she was in a deep sleep and comes to groggily, rolling her head and blinking her eye.