Buzzworm (A Technology Thriller): Computer virus or serial killer? (20 page)

Med used the remote to move a pointer around the screen. The whiteboard was now filled with colorful icons, the background a very detailed photograph of a circuit board. How appropriate.

“Here’s a start.” She clicked on an icon on the lower right of the display. “This is a presentation we put together for Frank’s team. I’ll call up the last presentation.”

Med moved up to the board and tapped the icon with her index finger. “That’s interesting. It was last viewed the night Scammel was killed. It was last saved at 1:38 AM.” She drew her hand across the board and dragged an icon, then tapped it twice. The screen expanded to fill the whiteboard. The image consisted of dozens of colored boxes. Each had a label.
Testing. GUI. Logic. Storage. Rendered. Shader.

“Can someone give us a laymen’s explanation?” I asked.

Med pointed to the screen. “It looks like Scammel was running through his project for someone, just before he died. If he were just checking this out for himself, you’d think he would use his own computer. Scammel was working on the video generator routine that created images of submarines. In this case, an example of a Russian submarine running along the continental shelf.”

She tapped an icon of a submarine and the screen filled with a detailed image of a coastal area, the aquamarine blue of the ocean and near the light colored sand at the bottom, a modern submarine was slowly cruising across the banks.

“This is what Scammel was working on?” I asked, unable to keep the surprise out of my voice. The image was crystal clear, almost breathtakingly real.

Vienna jumped in. “He was working with a small developer team on problems with animation and graphics. The light reflecting off the sub for example. The shadow of the sub on the ocean floor. All the little details that re-create reality. He was working with black and white snapshots. From them to this.” You couldn’t miss the pride in her voice. Then she added. “Of course you know detective that everything you see here is highly classified and cannot leave this room.”

Med was moving the mouse pointer over the illuminated whiteboard. “I have an idea, Jo. We can replay his presentation frame by frame. At 1:38 AM he brought up the project plan. He must have talked for a while right here then zoomed in on the shader routine.”

“Shader?” I asked.

“This is the software they developed that creates the shadows. A tank crawling across the desert would cast a shadow on the sand. The shadow has to be accurate because it adds depth. Has to be the right length, the right density. It has to look as real as possible. The shader routine creates those shadow details.”

“And has to be able to deal with several sources of light,’” added Jo.

Med continued. “The desert is easy. One point of light to deal with. The sun is 93,000,000 miles away. But underwater you get reflections of light off the sandy bottom and through the rippling of the water itself. In other situations, you can have several lights casting different complex shadows.”

Vienna touched the whiteboard and zoomed in on the submarine. “The final video has to be as realistic as possible. Game developers have figured this out years ago, but are very proprietary about their code. So we had to re-invent the wheel. Scammel’s team did, anyway.”

Med moved the mouse and pointed to the bottom of the submarine, now suspended on the screen and rotating slowly. “Scammel was having a shadow problem. He was trying to get it fixed before the launch this Monday. And he was stuck. Whoever he was presenting this to that night knew about the project. That would narrow things down quite a bit.”

I stepped up closer. “Why do they not show up on the log then? The person or persons who visited Scammel?”

Vienna was chewing a fingernail. “Good question. Med? Can you call up the security videos from that night?”

Med ran her hands across the board, shrunk the current window and tapped on another icon, then another. She was very skilled with the interface — like the conductor of an orchestra. The images flew by. She quickly came to several rows of small thumbnail images. They were all dated. She tapped one, which expanded to fill most of the screen.

“There, that’s the outside hallway at midnight. Empty of course. I’ll fast forward. The time is shown at the bottom.” The minutes scrolled by, but the image remained unchanged. “Nothing changed until after four o’clock when the cleaning people go in and find Frank.” At this point, two people, one pushing a floor cleaner, came into view.

Roger stepped up behind Mary Ellen and took a closer look. “Med, go back. To around 1:30 or so,” he asked her. It was the first time I’d heard her referred to as Med. Her initials.

She slid her fingers across the images and they rolled in reverse. She stopped at 1:30 and slowly tracked forward in time, her fingers tapping on the whiteboard. The hall was empty. “Nothing,” was all she said.

I studied the screen. “So what are you suggesting, Ms. Duke? That
Buzzworm
somehow doctored the video? You say he showed this presentation to someone, but they’re not evident on the security logs.”

Mary Ellen turned to me. “And why not, detective? If Frank was an expert on video editing then he could also have manipulated our security data. He or someone else working with him could have erased anything.”

“And you can’t tell? They just erased the person?”

Roger asked again. “Play it back one more time, Med.” This time she advanced the frames slower. “Stop it right there. Back up just a few frames. What the hell is that?”

We all stared at the shimmering screen. Vienna was the first to react. “I think it’s a shadow. Or the ghost of a shadow.”

Roger stepped right up and examined the gray smudge on the edge of the carpet in the hallway. “Sure as shit it’s a shadow. A shadow out of nowhere.”

Med moved up closer to the image, her body partly in the stream of light from the projector, her blond hair lit up like it was on fire. “It’s a shadow. But caused by the second light source here. The light coming from the glass door into one of the other labs. See here, Jo? This video has the same problem that Frank’s shader program had. The application got confused by the multiple sources of light coming from the ceiling. So whoever tried to erase this person from the video forgot that the error would leave behind a telltale clue.”

Roger traced the shadow with his stubby finger. “Look at it again. It’s absolutely a man. You can tell by his shoulders somehow. And the shape of the head.”

Vienna commented from further back, her eyes squinting behind her thick glasses. “He looks tall. Absolutely. I would estimate medium length hair. Well-built.” I wasn’t sure if we could draw that much from the wisp of a single muddy shadow, but the comments made sense. There were enough frames of movement to suggest gait, scale and even gender.

I asked the obvious question. “Who is he? He visited Scammel minutes before he killed himself. And then erased his presence from the logs and video?”

Vienna turned to me, the light from the projector glaring off of her glasses. “That’s impossible, Mr. Hyde. With our security as tight as it is there is no way that a stranger could have walked in here. Manipulating a video is one thing. As preposterous as that sounds. But how did he get into the building? You can’t Photoshop yourself into the CIA.”

Roger responded almost before Vienna finished her thought. “It wasn’t a stranger. He was an employee.” Everyone froze momentarily, digesting the idea of a terrorist in their midst.

Roger continued. “It’s unavoidable — and this confirms it. An outsider might be able to scam the system, but he can’t con his way in the front door. It has to be someone with access. This is an inside job.”

“When you say insider, do you mean Building 213 or the entire CIA?” I asked.

Vienna shook her head. “Unfortunately it could be anyone within the entire security community. CIA. Defense. NIM. Homeland Security. Anyone with a valid security pass can walk in here.”

Roger jumped. “Wait. It’s one thing to break into this security system and erase a date and time. I can see how that could be done. But the security contractors working at the front entrance? They see everyone coming and going. Wouldn’t someone remember a visitor on that day? Someone from another branch?” He had a point. It was time to talk to the security team that screened employees every morning.

“Vienna. I’m going to need that video footage for evidence. Can you make a copy?”

“If it will get me out of here sooner, I’ll do it myself.”

“Appreciate your cooperation.”

Roger returned to the computers on the workbench. He turned to Mary Ellen, who was still captivated by the video on the screen. “I have one other search word I’d like to check out before we’re finished. I hope you’re OK with it.”

“What are you talking about?” she said, distracted,

“This,” he said and typed
Xavier
into the search tool. I watched as he tapped the return key, unfamiliar with the name. Or was it another technology term, another virus. The computer whined. He kept his back to Med. The search finished. Nothing. He groaned.

“You want to explain that?” She was behind him now, angry, her arms crossed.

“I have reason to believe that Scammel and your David friend knew each other.”

Med glared at him, her face turning red. “That’s ridiculous. Where would you get that from?”

Roger stopped working the keyboard and turned. “I didn’t find your video, Med. All I have is a scrap of information that says that David Xavier met with Frank over five years ago. Something to do with a sex crimes investigation. Also connected somehow with this Vice cop shooting himself.” Roger looked at me then. He was holding something back. This Xavier obviously knew Med. And he also had a connection with Wishnowsky.

Med leaned forward, her voice a little louder. “Sex crimes? You’re saying David was involved in a sex crime?”

“No. No. Scammel was somehow involved in that. But Xavier knew him.”

“But how would David be part of…”

Roger tensed. Everyone could tell he clearly didn’t care for this Xavier character. “Med. You know him. Was he involved in law before he got into spy planes?”

Med shook her head from side to side. “How do you know any of this? Have you been spying on me?”

“You don’t know, do you?”

Med turned on him. “Listen, Roger. David is none of your fucking business. Just because I gave you his name doesn’t give you permission to hack into our personal lives. Especially when it has nothing to do with your contract or any of us.” She turned to me. “Are we finished here detective?”

“No,” I said. “Not even close. But you can go for now.” She turned back to the worm expert. “You’re worse than the virus, you know that, Strange? I wouldn’t be surprised if you created it just to get some attention. From your other hacker losers. You’re on your own from now on. Arrest me if you want, Hyde. I could use a break.” And with that she flew out of the room.

At 8:22 AM on Thursday morning,
Roger Strange had been stopped by Division 213 security and was searched.

Shortly after that, Detective Wishnowsky of Washington Vice arrived and arrested the suspect in the lobby. BW knew this because he had watched the security feed. He enjoyed the drama immensely. And why not? BW was the writer and director of this fascinating little morality play.

The moral was
fuck with the devil and he will cast you out
.

All of that joy faded away instantly at 1:37 PM when an alert chime made BW jump in his chair. He pulled up the window on his computer that gave him access to all of the security camera feeds. There he was. Strange. Walking back in the building with that hulking homicide detective, Hyde. BW could have sworn he saw the hacker smile directly into the security camera like he knew he was being watched. BW swore quietly under his breath. How had Wish messed this up? Had Hyde finally figured out what the terminal cop’s role was at police HQ?

BW wanted to strangle the scrawny detective from Vice with his own hands. They hadn’t paid him a small fortune over the years to shoot outside of the lines. The one disadvantage of managing people at a distance was not being able to smack them around. Xavier would be the one to get the satisfaction. Xavier would get to use his open hand on Wishnowsky. BW would pay anything to deliver the blow himself.

BW imagined taking the cop out. Using the detective’s own gun on him. That would be satisfying for a few minutes. But Wish was the key link to the network of cops at the Washington police department who were on the take. They trusted the doddering old fool. And who knew what angry cops might do if they heard that one of their own had been killed? That could tear the whole city apart. Stranger things had happened. Look at the race riots in LA.

BW felt a shiver ripple through his guts. His anger for Strange had just escalated. But there was more. BW sensed the slippery programmer was getting closer to finding out his secrets. And now he had found a way around Washington Vice and was hanging with Homicide. Hyde and Strange needed to be taken out and soon. Time was running out.

BW had nearly choked on his caffeine cocktail days before — when he had seen Med sitting in the cafeteria with the Canadian contractor. That was a combination he never expected. Med was on the GIPETTO project. GIPETTO was as classified as you can get. There was no reason they should be talking. But he heard that Jo had given their partnership her stamp of approval. That stupid woman. She had no idea how dangerous GIPETTO was. And BW couldn’t understand how they could trust Strange? Everyone knew he had broken into banks for pocket change. GIPETTO’s secrets were worth millions. Maybe billions.

BW’s plan to have Med shaken up a bit was also foiled. Med wasn’t as helpless as he thought, and Xavier had shown up at the last minute to scare the mugger away. This gave BW a splitting headache thinking that his NOC agent was acting at cross-purposes with him. He also hated the thought of Duke and Strange putting their heads together or anything else for that matter. How had they connected? Was she sharing her troubles with GIPETTO? Was that possible? The two of them together was a nightmare come true for him. She knew the CIA culture and people and he was obviously experienced in security penetration. The CIA doesn’t pay that kind of money for amateurs.

BW rubbed his head. There were too many options. Too many potential points of trouble. His head felt like it had been hit by a sledge hammer. He needed to know what Wishnowsky had to say about this failure to follow through on a simple directive.

BW jerked in his chair. On his screen he could now see Vienna and Med joining Strange and the pig-headed homicide dick. They were headed for the elevators. He tracked them as they dropped three floors, not saying much to each other. They left the elevator on sub three and headed for Scammel’s lab. He grunted and slammed his hand down on his desk. Once they entered the lab he would lose contact. There were no security cameras in the secure work areas. What were they up to?

BW banged his fist again on his desktop. He was blind. The head of GIPETTO was in a closed room with the Washington police and he had no idea what they were talking about. He tried the network, but of course none of Frank’s computers were online. They had been removed, so he couldn’t check to see if they were looking for clues on the workstations. He wanted to smash his keyboard with both hands, imagining the keys, like broken bones, spraying across the room.

As a last resort, his hands shaking, BW checked the whiteboard system in the lab, the only other computer in the room. It was active. He mapped the screen of the whiteboard display to his monitor and he felt his throat constrict. They were looking at the GIPETTO presentation that Frank showed him only an hour before he died — before BW had instructed him on how to kill himself, while he watched. But this was only a demonstration of the shader routines; why would it matter to them? BW had never thought to erase the file, but now, looking at it from Hyde’s point of view, it felt dangerous and revealing.

Then the screen changed. They were opening the security camera files taken the night of the suicide. Someone was scanning through the video taken early in the morning. Then the images froze. The screen showed the empty hallway at 1:38 AM. But the hallway wasn’t empty. There was a gray shadow on the carpet and the wall where a shadow shouldn’t exist. They were zooming in on the muddy gray pattern. BW felt like the air had suddenly gone out of the room. The shadow was his. Or what was left of it after Scammel’s defective program attempted to erase his presence from the security tapes. He sat back in his chair, unable to take his eyes off the screen. It was only a partial shadow. But how many other partial shadows existed in the system? Had Scammel done this on purpose? Was there a computer process they could use to restore the original image?

BW moved up closer to his computer screen, his hands now moving over the same keys that only seconds ago he imagined shattering into plastic fragments. He laughed to himself. They thought they were clever. What was a shadow? Compared to the nightmare he was about to put them all through. He realized then their next obvious step. Once Hyde realized that someone had visited Scammel early in the morning, he would go to the security team and ask to see who had entered the building that day. That would be a long list; there were hundreds of employees at Building 213. But what if they weren’t looking for employees. What if Hyde figured out that the mysterious shadow person was a visitor? That would narrow the search. So BW ran the report. He wasn’t surprised to see only four names came up. Two analysts from the Department of Defense, a reporter from
The Economist
. And him. All complete with photographs taken from security badges.

BW shivered slightly. To Hyde, the photo ID would be meaningless. But Med would recognize him. That would end the game very quickly. He keyed into Building 213’s security log application, activated his access, and erased his file and the picture. He logged out and dropped his head. That had been close. Too close. But he couldn’t deny that the adrenaline had been flowing, and he felt like he had just won an important battle. He would live to see another day. That was more than he could say for the four people in Scammel’s video lab.