Game of Death (13 page)

‘Still, it might be better if he were here,’ he says. He picks up the phone on his desk and presses a button. ‘Michael, will you please have Mr NetMaster found and sent to my
office?’ He hangs up quickly. The room is silent for a moment.

‘If it’s helpful, we can do this down at the station,’ Killkenny says. It’s clear that he is intent on reasserting control over the situation.

‘No, no,’ Tom says, ‘that’s not necessary.’ He looks at Gunta with a pleading expression. ‘We’re just looking for a little background. Dr Gunta will be
happy to cooperate, right?’

It takes a moment for Gunta to nod slowly. ‘What connection do these women have to NextLife?’ he asks.

‘All three were prototypes from our original sessions,’ Tom says. ‘I wasn’t involved in the process, other than that I signed the contracts, so I thought it would be
helpful to have some background from you.’

Gunta looks at Killkenny. ‘What is it that you would like to know?’

‘Well, first of all, what the fuck is a prototype?’

‘There’s no need for swearing, Detective,’ Tom says sharply.

‘I don’t know about that,’ Killkenny shoots back. ‘Three girls are dead. Seems to me that justifies some choice language.’

‘It is okay, Tom,’ Gunta says quietly. He looks at Killkenny. ‘A prototype is a model we used as a baseline for creating our library of avatars for the system.’

‘What does that mean?’ Killkenny asks.

‘It means exactly what I said.’ Gunta is quiet for a moment and then rolls his eyes slightly. ‘Computers only function based on the information that is fed to them. No one
would be able to create a convincing avatar from scratch; the computer would have no effective frame of reference. Oh, if you were skilled you could create the kinds of avatars they have in video
games – those that look somewhat lifelike and mildly realistic. But that has never been our goal. Our goal has always been to create a world that is virtually indistinguishable from reality.
To do that, we had to begin with detailed photographs mapping the exteriors of various subjects that served as models – what we call prototypes.’

‘Detailed photographs?’ Yvette, who hasn’t said a word since we entered the lab, stares at Gunta. It is as though the cadence of a woman’s voice has never been heard on
this floor. Gunta glares at her, his mouth drawn down in embarrassment. ‘How detailed?’

It takes a few beats for him to answer, and he averts his eyes as he speaks. ‘Very detailed.’ He looks at Killkenny. ‘It was part of the process. All of the models gave
releases, and all of them knew what they were being asked to do. They were well compensated. There was nothing improper done.’

‘Of course not,’ Tom says. ‘No one is suggesting that.’

‘No,’ Killkenny agrees. ‘I’m not suggesting that there was anything improper about the process. But three of them have been murdered, so I need to have a sense of the
process. How did it work?’

Gunta shrugs. ‘This was very early in the company’s existence. Even before Nick joined us. We put ads in some of the local papers, explaining that we were looking for models for a
computer simulation. You understand, we had more people volunteer than we could even use. Literally thousands sent in pictures. It was quite remarkable.’

‘How many did you use?’

‘To start out, two hundred. Over the past few years we have expanded the database, but we started with a manageable number.’

‘All women?’

‘No, seventy-five percent women. That ratio has held even as we have expanded the database of prototypes.’

‘Why the disparity?’ I ask, genuinely curious.

He fidgets behind his desk, as he starts to answer. ‘We have found—’ He stops talking, as though he’s searching for words. ‘Our customers . . . men
generally–’ He cuts himself off again.

‘What?’ Killkenny pushes.

His sinks toward his chest and looks up hesitantly at Yvette. ‘It is indelicate,’ he says.

She smiles at him, and I wonder whether he can tell that her look is one of pure condescension. ‘Don’t worry about it,’ she says. ‘I’m indelicate.’

He frowns, but continues. ‘Men tend to be more visually demanding,’ he says. Yvette barks out a laugh, which clearly makes Gunta even more uncomfortable. ‘To be clear, we have
found that men have more particular tastes, and have a wider variety of interests in the way women look. Both with respect to their facial appearance and parts of the female anatomy. As a result,
we provide a wider baseline of the female form.’

‘I’m guessing very few men are looking for a wider baseline when it comes to the female form,’ Yvette cracks.

This, at least, draws a wry smile from Gunta. ‘You’d be surprised.’

‘So, basically, you needed a bunch of hot women to entice men to the site, is that it?’ Killkenny says.

Gunta shakes his head emphatically. ‘No, Detective, that is most certainly not it. Do you know what this technology was originally developed for?’

Killkenny shakes his head. ‘No. I assumed it was for the company to use on its website.’

‘The company has funded the expansion of the technology – the commercialization of it. But I developed this technology for the criminal-justice system. The original concept was to
use this technology to train convicted prisoners to deal with real-life situations before they were released, and to pre-screen for recidivism to aid the parole board in determining who was ready
to be out in the world.’

‘I never knew that,’ I say.

Gunta nods. ‘It is not something the company publicizes widely, though I’m not sure why. It will ultimately be of great benefit to society.’

‘How does it help?’ Killkenny asks.

‘You must understand,’ Gunta begins, ‘prisoners – particularly those who have been incarcerated for an extended period of time – have lost all sense of how to
behave in the real world. They have been isolated, and they have learned to function in accordance with a very different set of rules and behavioral norms – one that often rewards violence.
If we can begin giving them some experience in more normal situations, even if they are computer simulations, it can help them relearn appropriate behaviors. It also allows us to observe their
responses to stimuli. It can test them to see whether they will react with violence; by seeing whether they are capable of resisting baser instincts – how they react to women, for example
– we can start to determine who really presents a risk upon release.’

‘Has it been implemented?’ Yvette asks.

‘Only in testing over the past several years.’

‘Has it helped?’ I ask.

Gunta purses his lips. ‘I believe it has. It is, of course, difficult to track on a scientific level, and there are those who say the evaluations are inconclusive, but I believe it has
been helpful in many instances.’

‘Is this testing done in connection with NextLife?’

Gunta nods. ‘The company has been very generous in allowing us to use the facilities. The technology that you use, Nick, in tracking our customers was originally designed to give us
visibility into our experimental subjects’ actions – so we could observe how they reacted to different situations and actually feel what they were feeling.’

‘When the models were hired, was it for the company, or for your experiments?’

‘Both,’ Gunta says. ‘At that point we were working on parallel tracks. What we learned on the technology side, we implemented in both systems.’

‘Who was involved in the hiring process?’ Killkenny asks.

Gunta looks at him, his eyes narrowing slightly. ‘As I said, we were a very small company at the time.’

‘Which means you were personally involved,’ Killkenny says. It’s not a question.

‘Yes, I was.’

‘Were you involved in the photo sessions as well?’

‘I don’t understand what you are implying!’ Gunta protests. His voice is raised at least an octave.

‘I’m not implying anything,’ Killkenny says smoothly. ‘As I’ve said, I’m trying to get the facts. And, in particular, I need to identify anyone who had actual
contact with these women. Were you involved in the photo sessions?’

‘It was necessary!’

‘I’m sure it was.’ Killkenny takes out a notebook and smiles as he makes a few jottings. ‘Who else was involved? There was a photographer, presumably?’

Gunta is flustered, but seems more relaxed as the discussion turns away from his involvement. ‘Yes, of course.’

‘Was he someone from the company?’

‘No. We hired a professional photographer. I don’t recall his name, but I am sure we have his contact information somewhere in our records.’

‘That would be helpful,’ Killkenny says. ‘Who else was involved?’

‘We had two assistant programmers at the time. They had some contact with the models, but very little.’

‘I’ll need their names as well. Anyone else?’

‘Not that I can recall.’

‘Was Josh involved?’ I ask the question without thinking; it just seems very odd that at that stage Pinkerton would have relinquished complete control. And, frankly, he seems like
the kind of a man who would have trouble forgoing an extended photo shoot with a series of beautiful women.

Gunta glares at me as though I’ve transgressed.

‘Was he?’ Killkenny asks.

‘Yes,’ Gunta says, his eyes still on me. ‘He was.’

‘Anyone else?’ Killkenny presses. ‘Anyone at all?’

Gunta shakes his head.

‘Have you had any contact with any of the models since their photo sessions?’

Gunta looks offended. ‘No! Why would I have?’

‘None whatsoever?’

‘No, Detective. None whatsoever.’ Gunta’s voice has turned cold, and he is no longer fidgeting in his chair. He now looks straight at Killkenny, his eyes clear.

‘Do you know Amanda Hicks?’

‘I’ve never heard of her,’ Gunta says. ‘Who is she?’

Killkenny pulls out the photograph of Amanda Hicks on the coroner’s slab, puts it on the desk. Gunta looks at it, flinches slightly and looks away. ‘As I said, I don’t know
her,’ he says.

Killkenny pulls out the pictures of the other two dead women, puts them on the desk. ‘How about Janet Schmidt or Patricia Carnes?’

Gunta keeps his eyes averted. ‘I don’t know them.’

‘Maybe you could look at them, just to be sure.’

It takes a moment for Gunta to turn his head and glance briefly at the images. When he does, it’s as though the pictures burn his eyes and he turns away almost immediately, his fist going
to his mouth. ‘I don’t know them!’ he says. ‘I told you!’

The room is silent for a moment. Killkenny, Yvette and I are staring at Gunta. Tom is staring at the floor. Suddenly the door swings open and we all turn to see NetMaster standing at the
threshold, scowling. Michael is standing, barely visible, behind him, looking protectively at Dr Gunta. ‘Why wasn’t I informed of this interrogation?’ NetMaster demands in his
thick Dutch accent.

No one says anything for a moment. ‘It’s not an interrogation,’ Killkenny says at last. ‘Just a friendly conversation.’

NetMaster’s eyes narrow as he looks at Killkenny. ‘I know you, no?’

Killkenny nods. ‘Yeah, we’ve met. I organized security on the police side for a corporate party the company had a little while back. Name’s Killkenny. Detective
Killkenny.’

‘Yes, Detective. I remember now. You were paid well, yes?’

‘I was paid the going rate.’

‘The going rate is more than you make for the police?’

Killkenny doesn’t reply.

NetMaster scowls at me. ‘Nick Caldwell, you were to keep me involved in all aspects of this . . . cooperation . . . we are providing. Why was I not informed that you would be talking to Dr
Gunta?’

‘It wasn’t on our schedule, initially,’ I reply honestly. ‘We were talking to Tom, and he suggested a conversation with the Doc. I had no idea you wanted to know every
time we talked to anyone.’

‘I must know everything,’ NetMaster says. ‘Everything’

‘I’ll keep that in mind, now that I know.’

‘You are done with the Doctor,’ NetMaster says to Killkenny. His inflection is ambiguous enough that it could have been either an order or a question. From the violence simmering
under his demeanor, I am assuming NetMaster meant it as a directive.

‘Yeah, sure,’ Killkenny says. ‘I’m done with him for now. I may have a few follow-up questions later, obviously, but for the moment he’s been very helpful. Thank
you, Doc.’

‘You are welcome,’ NetMaster answers for Gunta. ‘If you have any further questions, please let me know, and I will arrange to have them answered.’ He makes clear that any
additional access will have to come through him.

‘Sure thing. I’ll need the name of the photographer, as well as the names of the two programmers who were involved in the process as well.’

‘Of course, Detective,’ NetMaster says. ‘Anything else?’

‘Yeah, actually. I need a list of all the models who were hired, and pictures of them matched to their names.’

‘Why?’ NetMaster demands.

‘Because, at the moment, we still have a killer out there who is choosing his victims from your company’s prototypes. I think it’s only fair to warn them, don’t
you?’

‘What did you think?’

Killkenny, Yvette and I are out in the parking lot at NextLife’s headquarters. It’s a little after noon, and the sun is shining in that crisp way it does in New England. Even from
ground level, we can still see the tallest buildings downtown peeking over the smaller buildings in Brighton. I know Killkenny is going to ask me the question even before it comes out, and
I’m not sure exactly how to answer it. I’m still a top executive in the company, and complete honesty isn’t necessary or appropriate in that role.

‘Interesting,’ I say. It’s noncommittal enough, I figure.

‘That’s one word for it.’ Killkenny takes out a pack of cigarettes, slides one out, puts it between his lips. He holds out the pack in our direction. ‘Either of you
smoke?’

‘Only when I’m drunk,’ Yvette says.

I wave him off. ‘I’m good, thanks.’

‘Is he normally like that?’ Killkenny asks.

‘Who?’

‘Gunta.’

‘Like what?’

He takes a long drag off his cigarette, looking at me carefully as he takes it into his lungs. ‘You know what I mean,’ he says as he exhales. ‘When we started talking about the
girls, he looked like I had his nuts in a vice and was turning the screws.’