Game of Death (28 page)

‘That was a prank! Everyone hated that company anyway. I was just trying to stop them from distributing any cash to their executives.’

‘Yeah, but unfortunately it was while the Feds were conducting their investigation, and it freaked the hell out of everyone.’

‘That was just bad timing. I was never even charged with anything.’

‘It doesn’t matter – our system picks up everything that’s out there. We have a full record of every interaction our employees have had with a government entity, every
Facebook posting they’ve made, every bill they’ve been late on. It’s all here.’

‘Isn’t that illegal?’

I shake my head. ‘It’s all available online, if you know where to look. Hell, most people regularly click website terms and conditions that give away all of their privacy without
even reading them. We just go out and collect it.’ I type in my administrator’s password and navigate my way to the HR section. Once there, I pull up Michael’s information.

‘Anything interesting?’ Yvette asks, looking over my shoulder.

‘Nothing.’

‘Well, I suppose it was a long shot,’ she says.

‘No, you don’t understand, there’s nothing here. There are no records of where he came from or what he did before he started working here. All we have is a social security
number, and his date of birth. There are no recommendations, there’s no employment history, no educational background. Nothing.’

‘How can that be?’

‘I don’t know. I’ve never seen anything like this before.’ I scroll through what few records there are, looking for anything that might give a clue to what happened to
Michael’s records. There is a link with no identifying information at the bottom of the screen, and I click on it to see what happens. The image on the computer flashes twice, and then links
to an outside site.

‘What’s this?’

‘It’s the record site for the Massachusetts Department of Corrections.’

‘The prison system?’ Yvette looks in close. ‘What the hell?’

The top of the screen identifies the Massachusetts prison-system records database, and the prompt asks me for an inmate number and security clearance. I try typing in Michael’s name and
hit return, but that just throws me back to the entry page with a red indication that the information I have entered is insufficient to allow access.

‘At least we know he has a criminal record,’ I say. ‘That suggests there’s a problem with him.’

‘Bullshit,’ Yvette says. ‘I have a criminal record. For all we know, he’s just another hacker who pulled something juvenile that pissed off the wrong people.’

‘Fair enough, but there’s no way at the moment for us to find out anything more.’

She shakes her head in disgust. ‘You really don’t deserve to work at a technology company. There’s always a way to find out more. Move aside.’

I smile; it’s the reaction I was hoping for. I slide my chair away from the computer and allow her to slide her chair in. ‘You’re gonna hack it?’

‘Yeah, I’m gonna hack it.’ Her fingers start flying across the keyboard.

‘How long do you think it’ll take?’

‘Depends on what level of encryption they have on this puppy.’

‘Is there anything I can do to help?’

‘Yeah, shut up and get me a cup of coffee.’

Apparently the Massachusetts Department of Corrections online records system has a very sophisticated encryption system. Three coffees later, Yvette is still beating on the
keyboard, obscene gerunds slipping quietly from her lips. I’m pacing at the back of my office, which clearly isn’t helping her concentrate. Twice she turns and glares until I sit and
force myself to be still. The second time this happens, I take out my phone and text Killkenny to ask him to call me. I’m curious about how the interrogation of Gunta is going, and whether he
has learned anything that might help us.

Another half hour passes, and I think I may be losing my mind. I even consider going out onto the floor to do some GhostWalking, just to occupy my mind during the interminable wait. The thought
of crawling around in other people’s psyches, though, is no longer alluring to me. There was a time, particularly when we began the black-ops program, when I thought I had one of the coolest
jobs anyone could imagine. The ability to peer into the minds of my fellow human beings seemed a power that any curious, adventurous person would kill for. Now it seems a tawdry, cheap parlor
trick. I’m not sure I will ever view the company or my role in it the same way again, and I wonder what that means for my future. That kind of introspection, however, seems unproductive at
the moment, so I put it out of my mind.

The room is silent except for occasional outbursts of Yvette’s keystrokes. When she started, her rhythm was a steady stream. Now it’s sporadic and violent. ‘How’s it
going?’ I ask at one point.

‘It’d go better if you’d shut the fuck up.’ I hadn’t said a word for over an hour, but I let it pass, and we lapse into more silence. Her keyboard acrobatics become
shorter and are separated by longer periods of silence.

At one point she hasn’t touched the keyboard for nearly five minutes. She’s just sitting there, staring at the screen, not blinking. I wonder whether she’s okay, but I keep my
mouth shut. The tension is becoming unbearable. At that moment the deafening off-key computer melody from my phone shatters the silence, and both of us jump. Yvette turns on me and gives me a
glare. I pull the phone out of my pocket and hold it up with an apologetic shrug of the shoulders.

‘Yeah?’ I say, answering the phone.

‘It’s Killkenny. You asked me to call.’

‘I just wanted to know how it’s going.’

‘Nick, it’s a police investigation. I can’t very well give you updates.’

‘No shit, it’s a police investigation. Remember, you wouldn’t have anything if it wasn’t for the information we’ve been feeding you. I just want to know whether
he’s said anything that’s helpful.’

‘Like what?’

‘Like has he confessed? Has he said anything?’

‘He denies everything. When he got here he talked a little, but only to say he didn’t know anything about the murders. He’s lying, though. I’m sure of it.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Ten years as a cop.’

‘That’s it?’

‘Yeah, that’s it. Within a half hour of being here he lawyered up. We’ve gotten nothing from him since. You don’t have to worry, though; my read on this is that
we’ve got the right guy. There’s no doubt in my mind he’s lying.’

‘Yeah, but lying about what?’ I ask quietly.

‘What?’

‘Nothing. Okay, thanks. Let us know if you get anything else.’

‘Us?’

‘Me and Yvette. We’re working on something here at the office.’

‘Related to the case?’ I say nothing. I can hear him breathing on the other end of the line. ‘Nick, let me be clear about this. We appreciate the help you’ve provided,
but at this point you two need to let us handle this. You start freelancing and you could weaken the case – make it harder for us to get a conviction.’

‘I just want to make sure you convict the right guy,’ I say.

‘Whatever you’re doing, you need to stop.’

‘Okay, understood.’

‘I mean it.’

‘Okay, we’ll talk later.’ I press the phone off.

‘Killkenny?’ Yvette asks.

‘Yeah. They’ve gotten nothing useful from Gunta. He denies having anything to do with any of this. Killkenny’s convinced that he’s lying.’

‘Did he say anything else?’

‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘He wants us to keep helping in any way we can.’

Yvette turns and looks at me, studying my face for a moment. Then she goes back to her work. ‘You may be the worst liar in the history of mankind.’

‘That bad?’

‘It’s one of your few endearing qualities.’

It’s nearing midnight. Yvette has been hacking for more than eight hours. The air in the office is stale with sweat and coffee breath. The ventilation in the basement is
awful to begin with, but my office is the worst. There are no windows, and only one HVAC vent. It’s a tiny little mousehole of a space, and at this moment, for the first time, I regret not
having made demands for better accommodation.

I’m sitting in my chair, leaning back far enough that my head is resting against the wall, my feet stretched out. I’m on the verge of falling asleep.

‘I’m in!’

Yvette screams loud enough that I slip off the side of the chair and hit my head on the wall. She doesn’t even seem to notice. ‘I’m in,’ she repeats. ‘Holy shit, I
did it!’ She seems genuinely surprised. I’m not; I never had a doubt.

I roll my chair over to the computer and peer at the screen. We are inside the firewall for the Massachusetts Department of Corrections records website. There is a prompt asking us to put in the
name of the prisoner we are searching for. Yvette types in
Michael
in the place for the first name. ‘What’s his last name?’ she asks.

‘François,’ I respond. She hesitates before putting the name in. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘I don’t know,’ she says. ‘Somehow the name seems familiar.’ She shakes away the feeling and types in the name, hits return. An icon pops up showing that the server
is being searched and the information compiled. It takes around two minutes before the results are displayed.

‘Oh God,’ Yvette says quietly as the results are displayed. There, before us, is a three-page list of arrests for sexual assaults of varying degree. There are only two convictions,
both for aggravated sexual assault, though the records indicate that in both instances he was charged with the more serious offense of aggravated rape, and the charges were reduced in accordance
with a plea agreement. There is also a record of his activities in prison, where he took extensive courses in computer programming. ‘Jesus Christ!’ Yvette says as she scrolls through
the information. ‘Why the hell would we hire this guy?’

‘It looks like he was a wizard of a programmer, from what the instructors of his prison remedial classes say,’ I point out. ‘They say he has a real gift.’

‘Yeah. A gift wrapped up in a rapist. It still doesn’t make sense.’

I’m still reading through the information and I come to the end. ‘That’s why,’ I say, pointing to the bottom of the last screen. There is a notion that he participated in
an advanced pilot program to determine recidivism. The author and overseer of the program was Dr Santar Gunta, and there is a notation that the results clearly showed that Michael François
was deemed highly unlikely to repeat his crimes. ‘Gunta gave him a clean bill of health, based on his interactions on the NextLife system.’

Yvette sucks in her breath. ‘Oh no!’ she says.

‘What?’

‘I think I just realized why Michael’s last name is familiar.’

‘Why?’

She taps on the keyboard and pulls up another Internet connection and runs a search for
Marquis de Sade
. She clicks on the first historical website that comes up and stares at the
screen. ‘I came across it when I was doing research on De Sade,’ she says. She pushes back from the screen so that I can get a better look.

I read the first line:
Marquis de Sade; born Donatien Alphonse François, June 2, 1740; died December 2, 1814.
‘It’s the same last name,’ I say.

She nods. ‘It’s the same last name.’

We sit here, staring at the screen in silence, wondering what to do next. My phone interrupts our ruminations, ringing in my pocket. I answer it. ‘Hello?’

‘Nick, it’s Killkenny.’

My words come out in a rush. ‘Paul, it’s not Gunta – at least not alone. It’s someone else!’

‘I know.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Because we just found Taylor Westerbrooke.’

Neither Yvette nor I speak on the ride to Roxbury. A couple of times I start to say something, but when I play it in my mind before it comes out, it seems inappropriate. I
finally settle for putting a hand on her shoulder when we’re stopped at a light. She looks over and again I have the impulse to say something – anything to let her know that it’s
alright; that we did everything we could have done. But I know it’s not alright, and I’m not convinced that we – that I – did everything that could have been done.

We pull up outside the building off Melnea Cass Boulevard in Roxbury, a rundown area of the city that’s wedged between the fashionable South End and suburban Brookline. We’re only a
few miles from where Taylor Westerbrooke grew up, but I feel certain that she never spent any time in this neighborhood when she was younger.

There are several police cars parked haphazardly near the building, cutting traffic down from four lanes to two. Fortunately it’s late enough that the pile-up seems to be causing minimal
inconvenience to drivers. The locals who are awake and observing the process from a distance seem accustomed to the invasion of the law.

I park the car a half a block up the street, just past the last police car. We get out and walk back toward the building. A string of police tape stretches waist-high across the sidewalk, one
end tied to a tree, the other to a car door handle. A young cop stands there, keeping the curious at bay. We walk up to the tape and I call out to him. ‘Officer?’ At first he pretends
not to hear me, so I raise the volume. ‘Officer!’

He looks at me, annoyed. ‘Stay back, sir!’ he barks.

‘Detective Killkenny called. We’ve been helping with the investigation. He asked us to come.’

He looks at me suspiciously. ‘You cops? Where’s your badges?’

I shake my head. ‘We’re not cops. Just ask for Paul Killkenny. Tell him Nick Caldwell is here.’

‘Caldwell?’

‘Caldwell. Whatever, just tell him.’

The officer calls over another uniformed cop and talks to him, sending him inside. He turns and keeps his eye on us. It takes around three minutes before Killkenny pokes his head out of the
building’s front door. He shouts to the cop watching the small crowd, ‘They’re good!’ and ducks his head back inside. The cop gives us a grudging look, but lifts the tape to
let us through.

Killkenny is waiting for us just inside. The building is a six-story box structure with all the personality that early 1960s utilitarian architecture had to offer. The hallways are tiled, and
the floors are some sort of industrial linoleum that looks like it was designed to be easily cleaned. ‘It’s a flophouse,’ Killkenny says. ‘Rentals can be anywhere from
nightly to monthly. I talked to the manager, and the efficiency apartment Taylor’s in was rented for three nights.’