The Hacker Who Became No One

by A J Jameson

  The old pathway led to an abandoned coal mine turned landfill. Not long after that the seeds of agriculture had started sprouting and public health commissions found the place unworthy of any more waste. Now it was nothing. The perfect scape goat.

  Marek eased the car into the forgotten parking lot. A dilapidated brick building loomed along one side of the gravel pit. The building wore vegetation as a blanket and every glass window was shattered. The front entrance stood open, its door missing. Not that it would matter, but Marek searched the building’s four corners for cameras. It was all clear.

  Marek changed into his inspector’s uniform and then opened the trunk of his car. He released a machete from its scabbard. Surprisingly, he hadn’t much need of it during his march to the riverbank. Severed vines, cut branches, and chunks of hacked-away shrubbery lay fallen on either side of the well-trodden pathway, perhaps created by those who had worked at the landfill and spent their breaks on the riverbed. Unlikely.

  The sound of rushing rapids grew louder. The smell of bark and leaves gave way to watery weeds and the faint odor of burnt wood. As Marek reached the wide, tumultuous river, he saw a tunnel of smoke the size of an F1 tornado drifting in the distance. A controlled fire most likely created by campers.

  He planted the tip of his machete into the ground and found a shaded incline to lie down. The sound of water, the smell of fire. A perfect balance of equilibrium. He drifted easily, no screams or feelings of freefall haunting his dreams. Just the buzz of tiny wings, flapping inches from his face. Tickling his nostrils. Plugging his ear holes.

  Marek jolted awake, his body jerking into a sitting position. No more than two inches away from his face hovered Ivan’s drone. “Holy shit, Ivan,” Marek gasped. “Were you watching me sleep?”

  The drone took to the air, flying for the lush branches overhead. It soon vanished. Marek heard its return before seeing it. It had travelled through the forest before emerging at Marek’s rear flank. He wasn’t sure what point Ivan was trying to make, but his best bet was a demonstration in drone-flying skills. “All right, Ivan, you’ve proven yourself an effective drone operator, now go recon the cloud of smoke drifting—”

  Marek’s train of thought derailed when Zyta materialized on the small black screen mounted on the drone’s gimbal. Her bottom lip was puffed out and her eyebrows were arched. Marek couldn’t remember the last time he saw her look this upset. “Hey, Zee, everything okay?”

  She nodded sympathetically. “It looked like you were having a bad dream. You were trembling.”

  Marek laughed in relief. “It’s okay, I don’t remember any details on this one. Is Ivan with you?”

  “No,” she said, her mood morphing from sad to happy.

  Being extremely upset was one thing, but for Zyta to then zip through the gamut of emotions and arrive at emphatically pleased…something was off. “What’s going on with you?” Marek asked.

  And then her mood transformed again, from ecstatic to vanilla. She looked, to Marek’s unnerved realization, like a corpse. And then she pulled off her face.

  Marek reeled backward, tripping over himself and falling on his butt. He couldn’t peel his attention away from the ghoulish, black-dotted face that had resembled Zyta a second ago. Ivan removed the skin-colored wire taped along his neck. “What did I say?” His voice had reverted to its original sound. “How’d you pick my guise?”

  Marek pushed himself up from the ground. “I know my own sister.”

  “But I had you at the beginning,” Ivan said, pleased with himself.

  The sting of deceit had already begun to fade. “Externally you were sound. And the voice passed as Zyta’s. But the tone was off.” Marek stopped himself from going too far. Being fooled by the rookie once was one too many. “The way you worded your sentences differed from Zyta.” A nice vague answer for him to chomp down on.

  “Oh, I see,” Ivan said. “I need to spend more time with her. Engage her personality a little better.”

  “Right,” Marek said. “Now let’s get back to the mission. I have a feeling that a few residents may be living within the spillage area. The old landfill building where I parked had a couple of windows busted out and somebody hacked a trail to the riverbank. Could be wandering vagrants, but I’m thinking teenagers that live nearby. Mark all residential buildings found within a fifty-mile radius. And go investigate that cloud of smoke over there.” He pointed, and the drone followed his finger.

  “You got it, boss,” Ivan said, flying away.

  Dissimulation, Marek pondered, smirking in spite of himself. And then a cold chill ran down his spine. What would’ve happened if Ivan knew better than to smile wide? How much of Marek’s nightmares would the two have discussed?

  Great, Marek thought. Now I’m going to be questioning my own sister’s legitimacy.

  Chapter 8

  It took an hour for Axel to drive to the address Little Eye had provided. The homes he passed first grew in stature, then lengthened in width. Now they were all ranches, and the distance between them stretched the longer he rode. The rural sticks. The land of his parents.

  “Franklin Desmond, age sixty-nine, retired for the past eleven years,” Little Eye reminded Axel as he pulled into the driveway.

  “Okay,” Axel said, and rubbed his hands together. “This will be quick and easy. Knock…wait, he’s sixty-nine?”

  “Yes, Axel, that’s what I’ve been telling you for the past hour. The probability of him being the suspect is extremely unlikely.”

  Axel had the impulse to drive home, but he’d already turned off the SUV he’d acquired from a local police auction. The vehicle was two decades old and nearing the end of its life cycle. Each turn of the key could be its last.

  “Maybe the bike belongs to somebody else,” Little Eye said. “A brother or child, or grandchild, living in the city with plates registered here. We made the trip, so we may as well try the stew.”

  “What stew? What are you talking about, Little Eye?”

  “Sorry, I’m practicing my idioms. What I meant to say was that you should at least investigate the suspect’s residence before we move on to Banshee.”

  “I agree.” Axel got out of the SUV and walked around the shiny black sedan parked in front of the garage. He followed the brick pathway to the front door, two large lavender bushes planted on either side. Whoever lived here practiced a level of property upkeep rarely seen in the city.

  Axel opened the storm door, its metal handle radiating yellow through his eyeglasses, and knocked. He rang the doorbell, too. An elderly man with cleanly trimmed white hair answered a moment later. He stood slightly stooped, both hands gathered around the handle of a cane, and cocked his head to one side, revealing a hearing aid.

  “Hi,” Axel greeted. “Do you own a Honda sports bike, model CBR800M, license plate number CEE30?”

  The man extended his neck. “What was it you want?”

  Axel repeated himself, raising his voice and slowing his cadence.

  The man grinned and nodded. “I have one of those in my name. Has something happened to it?”

  “It was spotted weaving through public traffic at reckless speeds—”

  “Wait,” Little Eye cut in. “He said it’s in his name, not that he possesses it. We may be looking for a different address.”

  “Do you possess the aforementioned bike?” Axel asked.

  “Huh?” the man shrieked, extending his neck again. “Where was it you said you’re from?”

  Axel took a moment to reverse his thoughts, then asked again if the man possessed the sports bike, followed by repeating the name of the local citizen watch supplied by Little Eye. The man smiled when Axel mentioned the Reverent Sleuths. His stoop straightened, and he leaned his cane against the doorway, leaving it as he hobbled past Axel for the garage. He punched in a password and a minute later Axel was looking at the same bike from the city.

  “That’s the one,” the man said. “Cleaned and waxed it just yesterday. That’s about th
e most action it’s had for the past while now.”

  He’s clean. It explains the pristine sedan in the driveway and meticulously trimmed bushes, Axel thought, and almost smiled at his own proficiency of interpretation…but then he noticed a difference in the bike.

  “This bike has a single muffler,” he pointed out. “The one I’m referring to had dual mufflers.”

  “Are you positive?” Little Eye asked. “We don’t want to make accusations without sufficient evidence.”

  “I’m positive,” Axel said.

  The man frowned at the bike, then at Axel, then back at the bike.

  “I’m scanning the footage of traffic cameras for confirmation,” Little Eye said. “This is another example as to why you need to wear your gadgets at all times. If you had been wearing your eyeglasses, I would already have the footage uploaded to our database.”

  “Oh,” the man said, then gently smacked his forehead. “It must have been my son. The other day he was flustered from arguing with his girlfriend. I told him to take his frustrations out on something besides me.” He lightly smacked his forehead again.

  Axel sniffed. Forgery. Misinformation.

  “He must have taken it for a spin without my knowing. Kids full of passion and ambition can be troublesome if they aren’t given proper guidance.”

  Axel understood this last part. Identified with it, even. And it was for this reason he almost overlooked the man’s dishonesty.

  “He’s stalling,” Little Eye said.

  “He is,” Axel agreed. Then to the man, “I don’t appreciate you lying to me, and don’t understand what your son has to do with the fact that this bike has a single muffler opposed to the dual mufflers I saw on the perpetrator’s bike.”

  Something changed in the way the man was looking at Axel. A softening of his features. The way his cheeks sagged a little lower and his eyes slowed their jittery movements. “Are you here to write my son a citation?”

  “No,” Axel said. “It’s not within my authority to issue official citations. I’m here acting on behalf of the city’s people, wishing to inform the speeder that he is putting himself and others in jeopardy, and to consider following the imposed speed limits. Life is good, after all.”

  “You came here,” the man said, pointing at the ground he stood upon, “to tell my son he ought to drive safer? That’s what this whole thing is about?”

  “You lost your angle,” Little Eye said. “He’s no longer threatened. We should move on to Banshee.”

  “Not exactly,” Axel said to the man, “but I guess you can paraphrase it that way. Sure.”

  The man approached Axel, hesitated, and then extended a hand. Axel shook it, but never broke eye contact. He wanted a thorough recording of the man’s expression. It was an unfamiliar one. “Thank you for paying me a visit, son,” the old man said.

  Axel considered correcting the man of their relationship status, but his warm expression was somehow disarming. It incited a sense of eagerness within Axel. In that moment he wanted nothing more than to upload and analyze the man’s expression.

  Little Eye reminded him to check the license plate before leaving. CEE30. A perfect match.

  “Thank you for your time,” Axel said. “And tell your son that life is good, so be safe.” The man waved him goodbye, and Axel peeled out of the driveway, tires screeching as he made the turn.

  He couldn’t believe Little Eye’s address had actually led to the perpetrator’s motorbike, and that the man living there understood Axel’s intentions. Plus, a new facial expression! If his luck stayed this good, he’d have Banshee apprehended and delivered to the police by nightfall.

  “Down,” Little Eye was saying. “Slow. Down.”

  Axel eased off the accelerator. The speedometer read 70 mph. “Sorry, I’m just excited. I mean, that guy understood me.”

  “Well he may not appreciate your hypocrisy, doing exactly what you preached for his son not to do. You’re driving recklessly, Axel.”

  “You’re right,” Axel agreed. He tapped the brake pedal and brought the SUV’s speed down to a smooth 40. “So, what do you have on Banshee? Don’t keep me waiting, I’m thinking we’ll have him strung up by dinner time.”

  “Don’t let this small success go to your head. Conversing with an elderly man about his speeding son is a bit different than apprehending a known murderer.”

  “I know I know. I’ll bring my guard up again when we get closer.” He noticed that the speedometer had risen to 65 mph. Why was he driving so fast? I’m being a hypocrite. But chasing a homicidal maniac, one that may be planning his next murder this very moment, was exhilarating. Then an odd thought hit Axel. Why was the man’s son rushing around the city? Was he chasing somebody? Fleeing from somebody else? What if the son was evading Banshee? Dammit, he couldn’t he have been home to answer these questions?

  “To reiterate Banshee’s latest murder, the victim was male, mid-forties, and was found in the driver’s seat of his car with puncture wounds around his neck. Given the fact the man’s pants were around his ankles, authorities have included the possibility of sexual assault.”

  “A torture method, like lust murder?” Axel suggested.

  “I do not understand your response. Please elaborate,” Little Eye said.

  “The man who was found with his pants around his ankles…maybe he was forced to strip and fulfill some kind of sexual fantasy demanded by Banshee.”

  “Nothing’s impossible. But I would also consider that Banshee was forced into a position of self-defense. Perhaps the driver was trying to elicit sexual favors from Banshee and pushed it too far.”

  “Sexual favors from Banshee?” Axel slowed the SUV and merged onto the freeway. Vehicles were piling up—the beginning of rush-hour traffic. “That would mean Banshee is a homosexual.”

  “Or a woman,” Little eye said.

  “We’ve been through this. The chances of any given serial killer being female is less than fifteen percent.”

  “That doesn’t disqualify Banshee from being female.”

  Axel didn’t answer. He was too preoccupied processing the horizon of small red lights blinking on and off, on and off, the traffic slowing and slinking along the freeway.

  “In the police report they described the victim’s vehicle as being ‘parked outside the frame of surveillance cameras,’” Little Eye continued. “That would indicate that the driver desired privacy.”

  “It could’ve been the last available spot,” Axel said, not wanting to jump to any conclusions. “See if you can get a hit.” He slammed his brakes, a chorus of horns honking behind him. “I have to focus on driving, Little Eye. Search the public database for Banshee’s identification.”

  “That will mean trespassing against the right of privacy.”

  “Do whatever has to be done.” Axel rolled down all four windows. Exhaust fumes flooded the car. It didn’t help his woozy head.

  “Accessing available recorded videos and photos taken within the vicinity of the murder,” Little Eye said. “Those relevant will be uploaded to your dashboard laptop.”

  Axel grimaced at the refurbished police laptop. Upon procuring the vehicle, he had updated all necessary software, yet barely used it. Driving was difficult enough without the added distraction. “No, don’t upload it. Just fill me in if you find anything.”

  “Permission to access facial simulation files?” Little Eye asked.

  “Why?”

  “I’m going to contrast the simulator’s sense of panic, alarm, and induced adrenaline against all images found in public records around the time of the crime. I will then extend the radius surrounding the crime scene in search for those with matching expressions and facial features.”

  “Fine.” Axel pulled into the breakdown lane. “Send installation files,” he said, logging into the dashboard computer.

  “I’ve already installed the facial simulator onto your laptop.”

  And there it was, center screen. He double clicked and entered t
he login information. Top right of the computer blipped a text box of incoming mail. It was Little Eye’s IP address.

  “I don’t have to remind you of prying…” Little Eye said.

  But she did. Each time she made herself vulnerable, usually during an attempt to assist Axel, the first thing he wanted to do was run a trace on her IP and get her location. It wasn’t fair that she always knew where he was, but he wasn’t allowed to even know on which continent she resided. “I won’t pry,” Axel said, and envisioned his should-do list, the fourth bullet-point reading “always tell the truth.”

  And so, he didn’t pry. In fact, he gave her complete control and then shut the laptop to eliminate all temptation. Little Eye thanked his effort.

  Axel inched his way back onto the freeway. As the traffic snailed along, Little Eye conducted her research, updating Axel on evidence gathered by the investigating unit. This included partial prints, exfoliated from the passenger door of the victim’s car. And blood analyzed at the scene, all of which belonged to the dead body. Forensics guessed the struggle had ensued for the duration of half a minute. If that.

  Also, Little Eye’s prediction of Banshee’s gender was gaining momentum. Blood analysis revealed the victim’s identification: William Moore, a forty-five-year-old man that worked as a broker selling yachts. He lived one county over from where the murder took place with his wife and two kids. A heterosexual with a past record of infidelity. He had been caught twice before, but the wife never filed for divorce.

  Two abusive parents, then an unfaithful husband. It’s as if this Banshee person has a code of conduct. A should-do list.

  “Do you think Banshee’s some sort of vigilante?” Axel asked. “Cleaning up the crumbs left behind by law enforcement?”

  “No. I think Banshee’s a serial killer. To speak frankly, and given his or her past record, I know Banshee’s a serial killer.”