Coding Isis (5 page)

‘Pass me that bucket would you Ben?’

Ben looked around and saw a stainless steel bucket by the leg of the bench. He knew that the request for help was made to make Ben feel uncomfortable, so that he could be properly teased at a later opportunity. It was all part of the game. He picked up the bucket, which was thankfully empty and held it at a medium-arm’s length. Far enough to make him feel comfortable, not so far to make him seem repulsed by what was soon to be the contents.

‘Apart from the obvious, this young lady is in very good physical shape. I’d say she exercised regularly and ate a good healthy diet.’

‘All the prerequisites for a long and happy life.’ Ben regretted his flippant remark before the words had even left his mouth.

‘Indeed.’ Alex acknowledged the comment but ignored the inappropriate nature; you didn’t get the luxury of being sensitive in this job. He continued with his narration.

‘The bullet entered the frontal lobe half an inch to the right of center.’ Alex pointed to the entrance wound with the tip of a scalpel, and then continued. ‘It travelled through the brain causing minor damage to the Parietal lobe and the anterior olfactory nucleus before exiting the skull leaving a large exit wound. The pressure inside the skull caused the ejection of a large amount of tissue and blood through the hole.’

Ben lifted his gaze to look directly at his friend, sometimes a photograph and report were definitely the better option. ‘What I don’t understand is how she survived long enough to keep running. Why didn’t she die instantly?’

‘The bullet didn’t fragment when it passed through the skull suggesting a full or total metal jacket at high velocity. The path of the bullet avoided the critical areas of the brain, although she suffered extensive blood loss. There are several cases of victims surviving head wounds—a combination of the bullet missing critical areas and receiving the proper treatment quickly. Sometimes it’s just the luck of the draw.’

‘Are there any other distinguishing marks?’

‘The entrance wound is half an inch meaning we’re looking at a .44 or .50 caliber bullet. There are no powder burns or tissue perforation around the entrance, meaning the bullet was discharged from at least four feet away. Other than that it’s as simple as it gets. The girl was shot. She died.’

‘Thank you doctor.’ Ben held the bucket by the handle. ‘And what would you like me to do with this?’

‘On the bench will be fine. When are you going to come round to see us for steaks and beers?’

‘Honestly Alex, how you talk about steak at a time like this is beyond me.’ His friend laughed at his fake disapproval. ‘Give me a call if you find anything unusual. Anything that might help.’

Alex nodded to his friend and continued with his procedure. Ben left the examining room and headed back to the check-in desk to collect his things. He was looking forward to daylight and fresh air. His next stop would be the CSI labs where he hoped the technical boys had managed to get something useful from the girl’s phone, because this case was going nowhere fast.

Chris was tired and finding it hard to concentrate. It had been a long day at the end of a very long week and the stress of today’s meeting had left him exhausted. He decided to leave work early; he figured he deserved some rest and it might help his wife to be more understanding about his long working hours.

The drive back to his Georgetown house was easier than normal given the time of day; the majority of the commuter traffic would not be hitting the streets for at least another hour. Chris was pleased, but he felt tired and light-headed from his lack of sleep. His thoughts wandered to the events of the meeting earlier and of Maynard, the new addition to his team. Maynard seemed like a good guy, he seemed to know what he was talking about and, from what Chris had been told of his background, he would probably be a useful addition. Besides, it was better than getting a bean-counter added to the project, who’s only concern was to hammer him on deadlines and budgets. At the back of his mind there was something bothering him: the Horus project. There were obvious military applications for a drone connected to Isis and it saddened him to think that his hard work, his creation, could be used for something so primeval—to kill in war. He’d always known of the possibility that Isis, or any system that he worked on, could be used for the military rather than the consumer market he had always envisaged, but still he found the thoughts disturbing. Chris had seen his fair share of war, he’d been a soldier, but he thought he’d left that part of his life behind him. He knew that now he would need to find out more about Protech but for now he was pleased that the project was going well and they seemed genuinely happy with his progress. There wasn’t much he could do about it anyway—he loved the project too much to quit. Maybe they were just getting the project ready for the maximum possible buyers. Maybe he was kidding himself.

Chris’s mind drifted to last night and his conversation with Michelle and then he remembered he needed to call in at the gun club before returning home. He’d left his cell phone in his locker after his shooting session. He pulled the car into the right lane to make the turn. Chris thought about stopping at the club and firing off a few rounds. He was a trained marksman and used target shooting as a means of relaxation. Like taking a shower helped clear his mind and sharpen his creative thoughts, he’d had some of his best ideas while shooting targets. He never understood how it worked but he’d often get frustrated with a programming problem after hours of going around in circles, then after half an hour on the range, he had it sorted and needed only to return to work and write the code. The human mind is an amazing thing.

The gun club was quiet, it didn’t usually get busy until after six when most members had finished work. He swiped his access card and went to his locker. The locker rooms were separate from the ranges and, from the quiet of the place, it seemed like he was alone. When he opened his locker he couldn’t help but take his gun out and hold it. It was a Mark XIX Desert Eagle that fired .50 caliber Action Express rounds. The AE was a powerful round and gave a significant kick, but he loved the feeling of firing the weapon, and you couldn’t get much further removed from sitting at a keyboard and typing all day. He’d bought the standard black finish as a hang-over from his army days, and when Michelle had seen it she’d had had a fit. She hated guns and made him promise to keep it at the club, and so he did. Reluctantly he replaced the gun on the shelf and grabbed his phone. He tried to switch it on but the battery was completely flat.

He was in and out in less than fifteen minutes. He would have loved to have stayed, but he was too tired from his late night at work and the nervous energy from his meeting today. His shooting would have been pretty lousy. Besides, he wanted to get home and see Michelle.

Chris nodded to the girl on reception as he left and returned to his car. He’d be home soon. He turned into Fifteenth Street and joined a line of traffic. Traffic queues were common in D.C., he wondered whether the delay was due to road works or some travelling dignitary stopping traffic with their escorted limousines. The delay was short and before long he pulled up outside his redbrick house. Michelle’s car was in the drive, she was probably getting things ready for dinner. He hoped she would be pleased he was home early and not annoyed that she wouldn’t have time to finish her preparations. He unlocked the white paneled door and dropped his briefcase in the hallway. He walked in and called to Michelle, but the expected reply didn’t come. He walked in to the kitchen and was surprised to see her sitting at the table with a glass of wine, the shopping bags were on the side but she hadn’t started cooking, something was wrong. It wasn’t like Michelle to be drinking so early in the day, and she looked as though she’d been crying.

‘Hi honey, is everything OK?’

‘Chris, I’ve just got off the phone with Frank Myers. I’m afraid it’s bad news.’

Shit.
Chris felt his stomach flip. Maybe the meeting hadn’t gone as well as he’d thought. He looked at Michelle, waiting for the bomb to drop. She looked upset.

‘Chris, there’s been an accident. One of the students has been killed. A girl named Jasmine Allan, did you know her?’

Chris’s legs gave slightly and he reached out to the table for support, then he lowered himself into a chair. He knew Jasmine, she’d worked on the project, and they’d spent a lot of time together. She was a nice girl.

‘Yes I know her, I know her well. What happened to her?’

‘I don’t know all the details, Frank didn’t want to tell me. He says the police are going to talk to you and the other students tomorrow. He says she was shot.’

‘What? Where?’

‘I don’t know Chris. Do you want a drink?’

Chris decided he would take a drink, but not wine, he needed something stronger. He went to the cupboard and grabbed the Kentucky Bourbon. His hand was shaking as he poured a large measure from the bottle that half-filled his tumbler. He drank the first drink straight back, then poured himself another.

‘I’m sorry babe,’ he said. ‘It’s been quite a long day. A lot of emotional stress, you know? And now this, it’s too much to take in.’

Michelle stood and walked round to Chris. She leaned over and put her arms around him. It felt good to have her close to him and he needed her support. Suddenly the meeting and the project didn’t seem to matter anymore.

‘When did it happen?’

‘I don’t know Chris. Frank didn’t tell me any more than I’ve told you. He said that you should stay at home, get some rest. The cops will be interviewing people tomorrow.’

Chris poured himself another drink, and then ran his hands over his tired face and through his hair.

‘I think I’m going to take a bath.’

He looked at Michelle and saw the worried look on her face. He’d seen that look before. She wasn’t worried about what had happened to Jasmine, she was worried about him. The look told him she wanted him to slow down, work some normal hours and spend more time with her. She was right, he had been pushing things too hard, maybe this was the wakeup call he needed to live his life a bit more. He rinsed his glass in the sink and went upstairs.

Chris went into the ensuite from the master bedroom and started to fill the bath. He added some bath salts and stood in front of the mirror—he looked tired. He thought about Jasmine. They’d worked closely together. She’d been a masters student, considering a PhD in applied computing. She had certainly been bright enough and, if he was honest, he’d looked forward to being her tutor. She’d done a lot of work on the Isis project and had written most of the facial recognition code. She was brilliant, she’d had a good sense of humor and they’d gotten on well. He wondered what kind of crazy screwed up world would take a brilliant girl like that and just wipe her from existence. He turned off the faucet and lowered himself into the hot water as plumes of steam rose up from the bath. He lay still for a few minutes, just resting and staring at the ceiling. For the first time in a week, he started to relax and he let out a long sigh, and then used a sponge to pour the hot water over his head and neck. Chris found it hard to stop thinking about Jasmine. Maybe he should have brought the bottle to the bath instead of leaving it. He could have drunk himself into oblivion. At times like this he envied computers with their off switch.

Michelle came into the bathroom with two tumblers and his whiskey bottle. ‘I thought maybe you could use this,’ she said. Chris smiled and watched her pour two very generous drinks. She raised her glass in a toast, ‘To being alive and feeling like shit.’

‘To being alive.’

They tapped their glasses together and drank. Michelle sat on a wicker chair beside the bath. She stared at the tumbler and turned it slowly in her hand. ‘Do you ever think there’s more to life than this?’ she asked.

‘What, more to life than whiskey and hot baths?’

Michelle ignored Chris’s attempt to lighten the mood and kept staring at the whiskey in the glass. ‘It kind of makes you think, you know, when someone dies. Someone you know.’

‘Are you asking do I believe in a higher power? In God?’

‘Hell no,’ she said as she looked up from her glass. ‘I’ve given up trying to stop your heathen ways. I’m talking about what we leave behind when we die. Is there really any point to any of this?’

Chris feigned a serious expression, ‘I’m pleased you came to talk to me,’ he said. ‘I was starting to feel a little depressed, and here you are to cheer me up. Do carry on, and would you pass me the razor blades so I can cut my wrists?’