by Robin Cook
“I was very serious.”
“You also said that you would be willing to explain it to me sometime. Is this a good time?”
“As good a time as any,” Ava said. She sat back in her seat. “First, why I enjoy it so much? That’s easy. It fills a social void, which binge-watching Netflix doesn’t do, although I do that sometimes, too. I’ve already explained why I prefer not to socialize with colleagues—you excepted, of course. Since my work is so encompassing and I’m invariably out of town consulting or traveling when I’m off, I know almost no one here in Boston. Online, I have an entire complement of so-called ‘friends’ always waiting, probably a lot more varied and interesting than if I had acquaintances here in Boston who would undoubtedly be as busy as I am and unavailable when I was available. The online world is so much bigger than the invariably parochial real world, and it is always there, never sleeping and never too busy. And best of all, when you have had enough for whatever reason, you just click it off, no muss, no fuss.”
At that moment, Ava’s mobile phone filled the room with its raucous sound. After checking to see who was calling, she excused herself and went out of earshot to take the call. It was a typical interruption that Noah had learned to expect but hadn’t learned to like. While she was away, he thought about what she had said and wondered if he would rely on social media as much as she if he had as much free time as she did. She averaged a typical 40-hour-per-week schedule, whereas he averaged somewhere in the neighborhood of 120 hours per week at the hospital, far more than he was supposed to be doing.
Noah toyed with his food but didn’t eat, preferring to wait for her return. Unfortunately, this episode was longer than the usual. When she finally reappeared thirty-five minutes later, she was appropriately apologetic. While they microwaved their food to rewarm it, she explained that one of her major bosses at the NSC was all uptight about an article coming out in the Annals of Internal Medicine the following week. This article, similar to but larger than others that had come out since 1992, would be reporting on a study of almost a half million people over a decade that multivitamins and dietary supplements failed to show any benefits. Perhaps even more damning, it would state that megavitamins had shown a paradoxical increased risk of cancer and heart disease.
“No wonder your boss was upset,” Noah said, not bothering to suppress his delight. “That could be a death knell for the industry and maybe for your consulting.”
“Not in the slightest,” Ava mocked. “We lobbyists have learned how to deal with such studies. There have been others, and like what was done in the past, we’ll argue that the wrong amounts of vitamins or the wrong brands of supplements were used. Then we’ll say there was something wrong with the way the subjects were selected. After that we’ll blame the results on the big drug companies and fan conspiracy theories even to the point of suggesting big pharma was behind the study because they don’t want people to keep themselves well with relatively inexpensive supplements. The implication, of course, is that the drug companies want to sell more expensive prescription drugs. The public will eat it up. Besides, something like a medical journal article stays in the news feed for one cycle only, and then it disappears under the next scandal or disaster or tweet.”
“God! That’s discouraging,” Noah said.
“Ultimately, it is what the public wants, meaning an easy way out by taking a few pills rather than making the effort to maintain healthy lifestyles. Of course, for me it means I’ll have to go directly back to Washington to do damage control.”
With the food reheated, they sat back down at the counter. Night had completely fallen, and thanks to a run of superb weather, it was yet another picture-perfect evening. The glass sliders that lined the kitchen were folded back into their pockets, making it seem like the kitchen and the backyard were one single room. The floodlight illuminated the carefully planted garden. With the help of a few crickets, the fountain provided restful background noise.
“So you were telling me how social media fills a social need for you with no muss and no fuss.”
“Right,” Ava said. “But it’s a lot bigger than that. It gives me the opportunity to explore aspects of myself that I wasn’t even aware of.”
“Oh?” Noah questioned. Statements like that seemed to him to be on the weird side, especially coming from a fellow physician.
“In real life we’re all caught up in the reality of who and what we think we are,” Ava said. “We value consistency and so do our family and friends, who are more like us than we usually like to admit. That’s not the case in a virtual world. I can be whoever I want to be without any downside or consequence, with the benefit of learning more about myself.”
“So Gail Shafter, your Facebook and Snapchat persona, is not you with a different name?”
“No way,” Ava said with a unique laugh. “Although we’re the same age, she’s mired in a world that I was initially caught in right after high school but managed to escape. She’s stuck in a small town, working for a dentist who lords it over her, and she’s divorced after a failed marriage. She gives me a true appreciation of my life and what I’ve been able to become in the real world by a combination of hard work and chance. Compared to her, I am so lucky.”
“So it’s safe to say that when you’re on Facebook you’re Gail and not you?”
“Of course. It goes without saying, just like when I go on Facebook as Melanie Howard, I’m Melanie Howard.”
“Melanie Howard? Is that the name of another sockpuppet?”
“I don’t like the term sockpuppet or even smurf. They are too closely associated with uncivil online behavior. Melanie and I don’t do that. We don’t engage in any vicious trolling or any flaming whatsoever. That’s hardly the goal or the point. Melanie Howard is just another person in the virtual world trying to do the best she can within the limitations of her social circumstances, her personality, and her intelligence.”
“What’s she like?”
“In general, she’s the antithesis of me, or what I am afraid could have been me to some extent. She is the same age but a shy, unsophisticated, and gullible woman who is as desperately looking for love and companionship. Her boring job is as a secretary at a plumbing firm in Brownfield, Texas, working for an unappreciative boss who is constantly trying to hustle her. On the positive side, she’s attractive, with a warm, generous, and accepting heart, at least up to a point. Once that point is overstepped, she is as hard as steel.”
“Wow,” Noah said, not quite knowing what else to say. His original thought was that Ava used the name Gail Shafter just to protect her privacy, not because she wanted to experience a virtual life completely different from her own.
“Does this shock you?” Ava asked, looking at Noah with her head tilted slightly. She was smiling and obviously challenging him. “This is the twenty-first century,” she reminded him. “Almost two billion people use Facebook alone.”
“I’m just surprised,” Noah said. “Does it make you feel at all like an imposter with all these Facebook identities?”
Ava laughed. “Not in the slightest, because the word imposter has much too much of a negative connotation. I consider people like Melanie friends of mine and separate, real virtual identities for whom I merely act as the spokesperson so I can explore aspects of my own personality. I know that sounds a bit like ‘real artificial diamonds,’ but the current-day virtual world is challenging the real world in terms of relevance. What does real really mean? But if you insist on using the word imposter, remember that almost everyone on social media lies to puff themselves up and make their lives sound more exciting than they are. Even their supposedly candid pics are all Photoshopped. All they care about is the number of ‘likes’ they get. In that sense, most everyone today is an imposter. And what about you, Dr. Rothauser? Have you ever been an imposter to some degree, say, on a résumé?”
“Absolutely,” Noah said with such surety
that it was Ava’s turn to be taken aback.
“Like all third- and fourth-year medical students,” Noah explained, “I had to pretend I was a doctor. If we didn’t do it, patients wouldn’t have put up with our fumbling antics.”
“Ah, yes, I remember it well. There were many times I felt guilty about the deception. But I was truthful if a patient asked.”
“Same with me,” Noah said. “What about dating websites, which you said you visited? Is that Gail and Melanie who go on them?”
“For sure,” Ava said. “I’d never go on a dating website for myself. They are entertaining, but there are too many weirdos out there hiding behind fake profiles. I know you said it worked for you, but that was a few years ago. Today most are just trolling for sex.”
“Has Gail or Melanie ever met up with any of the people they have interacted with online?” Noah asked.
“Of course not!” Ava said. “I’m surprised you’d even ask. That would have to be me, and I would never do it, even if I was trying to pass myself off as Gail or Melanie. It would be a huge mistake for dozens of reasons. Besides, it wouldn’t surprise me if half or more of the other people are smurfs as well. It’s officially admitted that at least ten percent of all the Facebook users are fake profiles. That’s somewhere around two hundred million. But as disturbing as that may sound, it doesn’t matter. It is the anonymity that is important. As soon as real people are involved face-to-face, anonymity goes out the window.”
“It all sounds confusing to me,” Noah said. “And not easy to do. When I was a teenager, I learned that the problem with lying was forgetting what you lied about. Do you ever get confused about who you are when you move from one to the other with these virtual identities?”
“I keep extensive files on them, which I update on a regular basis. I even have developed my own algorithms to alert me if I say something out of character. It is part of the challenge to be consistent.”
“You are really into this,” Noah said. He had trouble believing it was all worth the effort.
“I am,” Ava admitted. “As much or more than I was into gaming.”
“What about photos and all that? How is that handled?”
“That’s easy with all the profiles and photos available on the Internet and the capabilities of photo-editing apps. Believe me, it’s not hard.”
“One last thing,” Noah said. “I remember reading an op-ed piece not too long ago about people coming to believe their lies on social media. Some psychologists were worried about such distortions affecting someone’s sense of self. Do you see that as a problem?”
“It depends on your viewpoint,” Ava said. “There has always been a certain amount of embellishment that people have done to their histories, even before the Internet and social media. The opportunities are greater now, with technology effectively changing our culture. It is even changing medicine. Everybody is becoming somewhat of an imposter as well as progressively narcissistic. Some people might see that as a problem, others might view it as opportunity.”
“I have to admit it’s all fascinating,” Noah said. “While I’ve been locked up in the hospital these last five years, the world has changed.”
“And the speed of change is accelerating,” Ava said. “Listen, after your shower, I can take you up to the computer room and introduce you to Melanie Howard. In a half-hour or so, you’ll feel like she’s an old friend. You’ll know that much about her, and we’ll make sure to friend you. I can assure you that she is going to love you.”
“I’ll enjoy meeting Melanie,” Noah said while he and Ava carried their dishes to the kitchen sink. As they rode up squashed together in the elevator, Noah found himself remembering the movie Her, wondering exactly how he was going to feel about Melanie Howard. Would he see her as a separate, virtual person even though he knew it was Ava’s hand inside the sockpuppet?
17
THURSDAY, JULY 20, 10:21 P.M.
Keyon Dexter took exit 25 off Interstate 93 to Plymouth, New Hampshire. He was tired since he’d been driving for almost two hours from Boston. He had lost a coin toss with his partner, George Marlowe, that decided who would be the driver. On out-of-town trips, they both preferred to sit with the passenger seat pushed way back and reclined, so they could put their feet up on the Ford van’s dash. For almost a year they had been assigned to the Boston area by ABC Security out of Baltimore, Maryland, which had established a branch office in Boston in the Old City Hall building on School Street.
“Man, we are out in the boonies here,” Keyon remarked. “I was hoping we were finished with this mickey-mouse stuff after taking care of Savageboy.”
“I did, too,” George said. He put his feet down and slipped on his shoes, then straightened up the seat and pulled it forward to make it even with Keyon’s. “Hopefully once we take care of CreepyBoar we’ll have seen the end of it. The virtual proxy network that’s in place now should keep this kind of crap from happening in the future.”
“I don’t know,” Keyon said. “These kids are something else. They’ve grown up with this technology rather than having to learn it the hard way like we did. For them it’s second nature. They’re all a bunch of hackers in waiting. Maybe they’ll find a way to circumvent a VPN.”
“I suppose it’s possible. They are also clever in their username choices. CreepyBoar is pretty unique.”
“Do you think he’s going to be as easy as Gary Sheffield?”
“If I had to guess, I’d say yes. Why else would he be spending so much effort trying to meet up with a thirteen-year-old girl?”
“It takes all kinds,” Keyon said with disgust. “It also depends on whether he’s a faculty member or a student. What’s your guess?”
“Faculty member,” George said without hesitation. “Students have too much candy within reach. They don’t have to go trolling on the Internet.”
“I suppose you have a point,” Keyon said. “But online he says he’s an eighteen-year-old college student.”
“I don’t care what he says,” George snapped. “People make up all sorts of shit online. But maybe I’m just being hopeful. If it turns out to be a student, our job of cleaning up this particular mess gets a lot harder. Teenage boys in particular are always bragging about their exploits, so Teresa Puksar’s address and info might already be in lots of smartphones.”
“We can only be expected to do the best we can,” Keyon said.
They had come to Plymouth as dictated by their target’s IP address. But in contrast to Gary Sheffield, whose IP address gave them the man’s actual street address, with CreepyBoar, they were able to get only the Plymouth State University network’s location. What they needed to do was get on the university’s network to get CreepyBoar’s computer location, which was why they needed to do it at night. They wanted CreepyBoar to be at home.
When they came to a roundabout, they headed south on Main Street. It was a modest college town with mostly one- or two-story buildings. The university campus was on their right, stretching up a gradual hill. The center building was a square-shaped brick clock tower.
Using a detailed map they had downloaded from the Internet, they made a circle around the campus, or at least as much of a circle as they could. The architecture was an indeterminate mix, with most of the buildings made of red brick.
“Not a lot of activity,” George said.
“It’s their summer session,” Keyon said. “It’s probably a lot different during the normal academic year.”
They rode in silence. Each knew what the other was thinking. There was no way they would want to live in such a rural environment.
“All right,” George said when they had made a full loop around the college. “Now that we’ve got the lay of the land, let’s find a place to park and see if we get lucky.”
Keyon pulled into a spot on Main Street where there were a number of other vehicles. Most were pickup trucks. A
few restaurants were still open, including one that looked like a 1950s diner. The other stores were closed.
Both men moved into the back of the van and powered up their gear. It didn’t take long once they were on the Plymouth.edu network. As they expected from already knowing CreepyBoar’s online habits, the target was busy at the computer. But what they didn’t expect was that it wasn’t a he. The computer belonged to a Margaret Stonebrenner.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Keyon said.
“Let’s not jump to conclusions,” George said. “Maybe Margaret has a teenage son who is busy using his mother’s computer.”
“You’re right,” Keyon said.
They then ran Margaret Stonebrenner of 24 Smith Street through all the extensive databases they had access to. They soon learned she had no criminal record, and that she was an instructor in psychology who had been divorced since 2015 from Claire Walker, whom she had married in 2011. There had been a daughter from Claire’s previous marriage, but Claire ended up with full custody.
“There you go,” Keyon said. “At least we were right about her being a faculty member.”
“And wrong about the orientation,” George said. “It never occurred to me the mark might be gay. Why the hell was she trolling a teenage girl pretending to be a teenage boy? I’m shocked, although maybe it’s hard being gay in a small rural town. But what do I know?”
“You think you’re surprised,” Keyon said with a chuckle. “Think how poor Teresa Puksar would have felt if she’d agreed to meet.”
Keyon and George had a good laugh.
“I tell you,” George said when he had recovered, “I don’t know what this world is coming to. I’m only thirty-six, but considering how far out of it I am about all this LGBT stuff, I might as well be twice that. It’s crazy.”