Double Jeopardy

by William Bernhardt

  Crescatelli flipped open a panel on the box to reveal a numeric keypad similar to that found on a telephone receiver. “Of course, Bell subsequently had all issues of that journal yanked from every library in the country. But it was too late. The entire AT&T switching system operates on twelve electronically generated combinations of six master tones—those are the tones you hear sometimes after you dial a long-distance number. The tone for each number is a combination of two fixed tones played simultaneously to create a certain beat frequency. Once those frequencies became public knowledge, all a guy had to do was get a Casio keyboard and a tape deck and record the tones. Play back the recording into a phone receiver and presto!—you’ve made a long-distance phone call without touching the dial.”

  Cavanaugh was writing frenetically. “So your tape recorder can now make a long-distance call, something I could’ve done with my fingers. So what?”

  Crescatelli shook his head. “I suppose for certain doubting Thomases it will be necessary to explain every little step. Remember the tandem networks? The blue box is programmed with tones that emulate the inactive whistling of a tandem. When the blue-box operator wants to call from Dallas to Tulsa, he might start by calling a toll-free number in Ypsilanti. The tandem in Ypsilanti is seized and starts listening to the beep tones that tell it which number to ring. Meanwhile, a mark is made on the Dallas office accounting tape noting that a call from your number to the Ypsilanti toll-free number has been initiated. The blue-box operator then sends a tone that emulates the inactive whistling of the tandem. The tandem assumes the caller has hung up and stops ringing the toll-free number. As soon as the blue-box operator stops sending the signal, the Ypsilanti tandem assumes the trunk is again being used and listens for a new series of tones to tell it where to call. The blue-box operator beeps out another number, say to Poughkeepsie.”

  “Why would anyone call Poughkeepsie?” Travis whispered. Cavanaugh swatted him.

  “The tandem relays the call. The blue-box operator can go on like this indefinitely, whistling his way from one tandem to the next, till he decides to connect with his ultimate destination. When he does, he can talk as long as he wants—’cause it’s all going to be charged to the owner of that first toll-free number. More importantly, for the purpose of those on the lam, the call cannot be traced by normal methods, and even abnormal high-tech methods will require much longer than usual.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Say someone has a trace on the receiving phone; his trace won’t run back to the caller’s phone—he’ll go back to the last tandem in the chain—and then the one before that, and the one before that, and so on and so on. Slowly. Eventually he’ll get back to the caller’s phone, but I’d like to think most people would have the sense not to talk that long.”

  Travis whispered to Cavanaugh, “Did you get all that? Or any of that?”

  “Enough,” she said, nodding.

  “As any fool can see,” Crescatelli continued, “this information could easily be put to nefarious purposes, especially by cheapskates who don’t want to give the phone company its due. Come to think of it, it would probably be irresponsible to write this dissertation. I think I’ll scrap the whole idea.” He sighed. “What the heck. I’ll probably never go to college anyway.”

  Cavanaugh stepped out from behind the machinery and quietly slipped the blue box into her purse. “You’re a gem and a half, John, but you’ve only taken me halfway home. How can I trace a phone call made in the past—one that’s already been disconnected? And don’t tell me it can’t be done. I work for the federal prosecutor’s office. I know it can.”

  “Then again,” Crescatelli reflected, still staring at the ceiling, “there might be some legitimate uses for the article I envision. After all, once you understand about tandems, there isn’t much you can’t do with the phone system. Every major city has a central accounting computer that maintains their phone records. Of course, this is done for billing purposes, not out of any desire to aid law enforcement officials, but it does come in handy when the police want to know everyone who’s called a particular line within a given time period.”

  “How do we access the central computer?”

  Crescatelli batted a finger against his lips. “How does one access the central computer? Well, if you have a modem, you do it just like you call anyone else. All you have to know is the number.”

  “Then we need the number of the central accounting computer for Dallas,” Travis said.

  “Fortunately,” Crescatelli said, “the number of the Dallas computer, now displayed on this terminal screen, is totally top secret. I shudder to think what might happen if an unscrupulous person got hold of it.”

  Cavanaugh jotted down the number.

  Crescatelli punched a few more numbers on his terminal. “While I’ve been sitting here musing I’ve managed to take the phone line connected by modem to this computer through eighteen tandems crisscrossing the United States. Not absolutely necessary, but it would be best if this inquiry were not easily traced back here, just in case someone should become suspicious. Of course, I’m just doing it to remind myself how it’s done. Anybody could call on this line now and it couldn’t be traced back for twenty years.”

  Crescatelli stood, stretched, and yawned. “All this brain work is tiring. I’m going to get a Coke. Maybe a doughnut, too.” He pushed his chair back and sauntered toward the kitchen.

  “A prince among men,” Cavanaugh whispered as she slid into his chair.

  “No kidding,” Travis said. “You must’ve saved that guy’s life.”

  She began punching keys on the terminal keyboard. “As a matter of fact, I did.”

  “How?”

  “Oh … it’s a long story.”

  “So shorten it.”

  “Before John went legit, which was before John was John, he was a phone phreak. That’s with a ph.”

  “What’s a phone phreak?”

  “A telephone hacker. Used blue boxes and other devices to help friends make freebie long-distance phone calls. Not exactly admirable, but hardly a crime against humanity. Despite the fact that he was married, had one baby and another on the way, the phone company decided to make an example of him. John went underground. I was assigned to find him. I didn’t.”

  “You mean, you did, but you didn’t turn him in.”

  “Whatever. John is basically a good man, and I didn’t think an entire family should be destroyed just because Daddy made a dumb mistake he’ll never repeat. I’ve always had a soft spot for underdogs.” She looked at Travis awkwardly, then returned her attention to the terminal. “Did you follow all that rigmarole about switching tandems?”

  “Not by a long shot.”

  “Then watch.” She keyed up the modem and punched in the number on the computer screen. After a few moments they heard a typically shrill recorded operator voice say: “You have reached the central accounting records for area code 214. If you wish to make an inquiry, press one. If you wish—”

  Cavanaugh pressed one.

  “Please dial the number you wish records displayed for at the sound of the tone.” After a short pause they heard a beeping noise. “What’s your phone number, Byrne?”

  He told her. “Why?”

  “Just wait and see.”

  Almost immediately, the screen filled with a long list of dates and times, each numbered sequentially. Beside the time and date stamp was a numeric indication of the length of the call.

  “Good Lord!” Travis exclaimed. “That’s every phone call I’ve received in the past week!”

  “Right you are.”

  “What an enormous invasion of privacy.”

  “You’re wrong, if only because your privacy was an illusion. Big Brother has been watching all along. You just didn’t realize it. Anyway, did you answer any calls after Moroconi phoned you?”

  “No. I haven’t been there.”

  “Good. Then we just need to take down the number of the last completed call to your phone.
” She punched the number up. Travis noted that the date and time corresponded to Moroconi’s call. Cavanaugh highlighted the entry, then pressed the return key.

  “Please hold,” the computer said.

  Cavanaugh withdrew the tape recorder from her purse and pushed the record button. A few seconds later they heard the seven beeps of a phone number, as if dialed on a Touch-Tone phone.

  “Thank you,” the recorded voice said.

  “Bingo!” Cavanaugh exclaimed. She disconnected the phone line. “We got it.”

  “We got what?” Travis asked, mystified. “A bunch of beeps?”

  “Boy, you’re not following this at all, are you? How did anyone so slow-witted ever beat me so many times in court?” She rewound the tape, lifted the receiver on the desktop phone console, and played the beeps back into the receiver. After a few clicking noises, they heard the line ring.

  Cavanaugh grinned proudly. “Can I cook, or can I cook?”

  Someone lifted the phone on the other end of the line. “Million Dollar Motel.” The voice had a foreign accent. “Can I help you?”

  Cavanaugh’s eyebrows bounced up and down. “What room is Al Moroconi in?”

  “Moroconi.” They heard some shuffling of papers on the other end of the line. “There is no Moroconi here.”

  Travis took the phone. “He’s a medium-sized, dark-haired guy, with greasy skin and an unpleasant expression.”

  “Oh, yes. I know the gentleman. He did not register under that name.”

  “Big surprise.”

  “If you can hold on, I will connect you to his room.”

  “No, no, no,” Travis said quickly. “I want to surprise him. Just give me his room number.”

  “Oh, no, sir. So sorry, but I am not permitted to disclose that information.”

  Travis’s voice deepened. “Look, this is Sergeant Abel T. Stoneheart of the Dallas Police Force, badge number 714, and if you don’t give me that room number in five seconds flat, I’ll send a platoon of squad cars out to search every room in your place. Including your office.”

  There was an audible drawing of breath on the other end of the line.

  “They’ll be there in less than five minutes,” Travis added. “Think you can clean up that quickly?”

  The desk clerk cleared his throat. “I believe the man you are looking for is in Room 14.”

  “Fine. We’re on our way. And you’d damn well better not tip him off before we arrive, or I might bring you in for questioning in his place. That could take days. And I’ve heard the strip search is particularly unpleasant this time of year.”

  The man’s voice became a dry, raspy whisper. “I understand, Sergeant, sir. My lips are sealed.”

  “Keep it that way.” Travis slammed down the receiver. “See? I learned something in my former life, too.”

  “Right. Deception and intimidation.”

  As if on cue, Crescatelli wandered back into the room. Travis and Cavanaugh skittered away from his terminal.

  “Oh, my goodness,” Crescatelli said. “I left my terminal up. With all those tandems connected. I’d better clear those out right away.” He punched a few keys. The screen went blank.

  “Well, that takes care of that,” Crescatelli said. “Whatever I was connected to, there’s no trace of it now.”

  Cavanaugh put her hands on his shoulders, leaned forward, and kissed him on the cheek. “Thanks a million, John. We’re even now.”

  He shook his head. “Not by a long shot. But we’re closer.”

  She smiled and kissed him again.

  “What was that?” Crescatelli asked. “I felt a sudden breeze against my cheek. I’m going to have to talk to the guys in Climate Control. It’s always too hot or too cold, and the thermostats are no help. Nothing around here ever works.”

  43

  2:45 P.M.

  CAVANAUGH EXITED BELT LINE Road and eased her Omni into the parking lot of the Million Dollar Motel, careful not to attract undue attention. After all, they probably weren’t the only people in town looking for Alberto Moroconi.

  The Million Dollar Motel appeared to have been financed with approximately one one-millionth of the funds specified in its name. A wire fence restricted access to the rooms in theory, but the fence was broken by so many vandal-cut holes as to make it ridiculously ineffective. The swimming pool was coated with green fungi; it looked as if it hadn’t held more than puddles of rainwater in years. The ugly pink paint was peeling; leaden flecks curled away from the walls. Travis wondered if the place didn’t fulfill the legal description of a toxic-waste dump. He was not surprised to find that, as its flickering neon sign announced, there were VAC NCI S.

  “So,” Cavanaugh said, after she parked her car near Room 14, “you think your client would hole up at this ersatz Bates Motel?”

  “I think it reeks of Moroconi’s personal style. Emphasis on reeks.”

  “Okay. What’s our plan?”

  “Our plan?” Travis shrugged. “I suppose we’re going to bust the door open and grab Moroconi by the short hairs before he has a chance to slither away.”

  “Once a cop, always a cop. And people wonder why prosecutors lose so many cases on technicalities.”

  “I’m not trying to build a federal case. I’m trying to extract information from a walking waste pile who’s standing trial for a sexual felony and is wanted for murder. This guy has very little to lose. If you stop to read him his Miranda rights, you might as well kiss your pretty little butt goodbye.”

  She gave him a withering look. “I suppose that’s a compliment, of sorts. But I plan to ignore it. Okay, Dick Tracy, you do the busting, I’ll bring up your rear.”

  They scanned the outer perimeter of the motel, saw no one, and stepped out of the car. Travis held back the fence while Cavanaugh stepped through a conveniently placed hole. He glanced at the desk clerk, visible through the large bay window in the front office. He appeared to be reading a magazine and didn’t notice them.

  Travis and Cavanaugh silently approached Room 14. Travis aimed his foot at the door.

  “Don’t you think we should knock first?” Cavanaugh whispered.

  “No.” Travis kicked the door just below the doorknob. The thin, warped plywood splintered and cracked down the middle. Travis kicked again, this time opening a hole wide enough for his arm. He reached through, turned the knob, and unlocked the door.

  He burst into the room just in time to see someone crawling beneath the bedcovers. Travis dove onto the bed, throwing his arms around the cloaked figure.

  “Don’t bother trying to get away, Moroconi. I’ve got you.” His captive squirmed and kicked, trying to get free of the bedspread and Travis. Cavanaugh tried to help, to little effect. Despite their best efforts, one foot got free of the covers and kicked Travis between the legs. Fortunately, the aim wasn’t exact.

  “Damn it, Moroconi, hold still!” Travis shouted. He ripped the bedspread away—to find a dark-haired teenage girl wearing a black lace teddy and too much makeup. What’s worse, her face was familiar.

  “This is Moroconi?” Cavanaugh asked. “He’s changed a lot since he got out of the slammer.”

  “Not hardly,” Travis said, staring at the girl. “Where is he?”

  “Al? I dunno.” The girl looked puzzled; then, suddenly, a smile of recognition appeared. “Hey, you’re the sex weirdo.”

  Cavanaugh raised ah eyebrow. “I take it you two have met?”

  Travis took the girl roughly by the arm, and scrutinized her face. Yes—it was the same scantily clad young woman who had waltzed into his apartment two nights before. “What are you doing here?”

  She lifted her chin defiantly. “This is my room. What are you doing here?”

  Travis pressed her back against the headboard. “We don’t have time to play around. Where the hell is Moroconi?”

  “You’re hurting me.”

  “I could do a lot worse. Where is he?”

  “I’m not sure,” she said, squirming. “He left somet
ime last night.”

  Travis pushed her away and crawled off the bed. “Is he coming back?”

  She rubbed her arm. “I don’t think so. He took all his stuff.”

  Travis paced back and forth beside the bed. “And what’s your story? Who are you, his long-lost sister?”

  Cavanaugh looked pointedly at Travis. “Somehow I don’t think that’s the answer,” she said, popping a lace garter beneath the girl’s teddy.

  Travis’s face flushed red. “How long have you known Al?”

  “Since night before last.”

  “Night before last? The same night you were in my apartment? The night he broke out of jail?”

  “Al broke out of jail?” She covered her mouth with her hands. “Omigod. Are you a cop?”

  Travis intentionally failed to answer. “How did you meet him?”

  “I was on my usual corner downtown late that night, after I left your place. Al drove up in a pickup and asked if I wanted a date.”

  “I thought so,” Travis said. “You’re a—”

  “I’m a private entrepreneur,” she interrupted.

  “Right.”

  Cavanaugh sat down on the bed beside the girl. “Relax, kid, we’re not cops. We won’t bother you, we won’t report you. We just need to know as much about your trick as possible.”

  The girl seemed considerably relieved. “Well, he’s about five foot seven with black hair—”

  “We know what he looks like,” Travis barked. “What else can you tell us?”

  “Well, he’s heavily into bondage, and his favorite snack is edible panties—”

  Travis turned away, thoroughly disgusted. He spotted a pair of handcuffs dangling from the headboard of the bed. “We don’t want to hear about his kinky …” Travis searched for the right word, but it wasn’t in his vocabulary. “We want to know about his other activities. Do you have any idea where he’s gone, or what he’s been doing?”

  “He was gone for several hours yesterday. That’s all I know.”