The Man of Maybe Half-a-Dozen Faces (16 page)

“At least it's not my imagination,” she said.

“How do you mean?”

“If other people are noticing he's acting weird, then it's not just my imagination when I think he's acting weird.”

“It's probably not my place to ask,” I said, “but have you just asked him about it?”

“That's the worst part,” she said, and tears came to her eyes. “We've always talked about everything. Now he's just shutting me out.”

I reached across the table and squeezed her hand. I couldn't think of anything that might make her feel better, so I kept my mouth shut.

The food arrived. Elsie pulled her hand away and patted her eyes with her napkin.

Elsie's fruit plate looked like it had a tiny piece of every fruit on earth. If I'd dumped such a plate in my juicer (and I was thinking of it as my juicer now; Yuri would have to fight me for it), I'd probably be jumping around the room for days.

The best part of my quiche was the way it looked on the white plate: the perfect yellow triangle veined with green, the several leaves of fresh spinach spread like a fan, the silver fork.

We ate lunch mostly in silence. How's the fruit? Good. How's the quiche? Tasty. Yum.

When the coffee had been poured, Elsie said, “I know you have other cases, Brian, but I hope you can put a little time in on this. It's really important to me.”

“Funny,” I said, “one of my other cases is one Frank is working on, too. Those computer people murders. If you ignore one that's almost done, all my cases involve Frank. One way or another I'm looking at him a lot.”

We'd said about all we were going to say, so before she could start looking at her watch and thinking up excuses, I signaled for the check. “I've got to get back to work, Elsie,” I said.

We parted in the parking lot. She kissed my cheek and climbed into her car and drove away.

I drove back across the river and then south on Willamette to Spencer Butte, a big green bump from the top of which you can see everything for miles around—a magnificent view and a fully aerobic climb. Maybe it was the juice; I was feeling like maybe I should get more exercise. A climb to the top of Spencer Butte would make me feel like I was in high school again. Actually, I'd need to take beer if I was going to feel like I was in high school again. Maybe I should have asked Elsie to come along.

I huffed and puffed my way to the top. By the time I got there my head was swimming and I was seeing fuzzy black dots everywhere I looked. I found a place to collapse where I could see the view that had brought me here in the first place. When I could breathe again, I decided the hike had been worth it.

The city was a big Monopoly board where I played the game I called my life. This view reminded me how much I loved this place. I doubted I would ever go anywhere else. I'd seen a little of the rest of the world and then I'd come home.

I could see the top of my building from here. I could scan west and see the Gotta Dance, too, or at least the blurry clump of lots and streets and buildings where it lurked. A place for everything and everything in its place. Sure, there were parts of the city I had used up down there, places that for all practical purposes might as well be on the moon insofar as my revisiting them went, but there was still enough left to last a long time.

I hung around on top until it looked like I'd have to hurry to get down before dark.

I had dinner at a Japanese restaurant where the chef does knife tricks with your food right in front of your face. I decided such places were a lot more fun when you weren't eating alone.

After dinner, I drove back to the office.

I wasn't there long before the phone rang. First Elsie and now this. I would have to be careful not to let this new popularity go to my head. I hoped it would be Prudence calling. Or maybe Yuri Kost. I put down my glass of guava and grape juice and picked up the phone.

“Skylight Howells,” I said.

“Hi, this is your so-called Documentalist Killer speaking.” The voice sounded like s/he was using one of those expensive voice-disguising devices. I used to have one of those myself until I realized it was mostly redundant in my case. In any case, s/he probably didn't quite have the hang of the device yet, since the voice was high and squeaky and the words were sometimes interrupted by weird whooshing and slurping sounds.

“Really?” I flipped on the tape to record our conversation.

“I hate that label,” the caller said. “Where did you come up with ‘Documentalist'?”

“On-line,” I said. “I don't remember exactly where.”

“It's dumb, but you're wondering why I called.”

“You're a very perceptive man,” I said.

“Thank you.”

He didn't correct me or chuckle, and his thank you seemed without irony. I decided I could at least tentatively assume he was a man. This is, of course, reconstructed; I did not think and decide all of that in the time the killer said, “Thank you” and I said, “So you're calling to tell me about killing people over software documentation?”

“Not exactly,” he said. “And I'm not killing people over any old documentation. It's bad documentation, like you said.” Whoosh/slurp. “The kind that wastes your time and drives you crazy. It took you long enough. I had faith there was a detective buried somewhere inside of you, but if you hadn't figured it out soon, I would have had to make an announcement.”

“Speaking of announcements,” I said, “are you Pablo Deerfield?”

“Boy, are you ever off there,” he said. “Maybe I've made a mistake. Maybe I should just hang up.”

“So, are you SOAPY?”

“Bingo,” he said. “Your powers of deduction amaze me. What tipped you off? Maybe the fact that I've been telling the world that on-line from the very beginning?”

“I notice you're not on-line these days,” I said. “How would you have made the announcement if I hadn't figured it out?”

“They cut me off!” His was the voice of an angry cartoon—maybe like something you'd hear if you grabbed the nuts of a chipmunk. “Can you believe that? The Russians just cut me off. All that stuff about complete freedom on the net. What a load of crap.”

“You were going to tell me why you called?”

“You're hoping I'll slip up and give you a clue.”

“A clue would be nice,” I said. I wondered if he had pushed the right buttons to prevent caller ID. Since I didn't have caller ID it wouldn't do me any good, but he wouldn't know I didn't have it. On the other hand, if I reminded him of such things, he might panic and hang up on me.

“I've called to confess,” he said. “I want to turn myself in.”

What I felt was disappointment, sudden and sharp. He couldn't do that! I hadn't figured it out yet. But then he was laughing. A moment later there was the whoosh and slurp of his device.

“Just kidding!” he said.

“You're a riot.”

“Okay, here's the deal,” he said. “It's not quite that I'm going to let you watch me work, but I am going to give you the chance to be the first on the scene. That is, if you can figure it out. Who knows?” Whoosh/slurp. “There is a nonzero probability that you could figure it out in time to stop me from doing it.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Tradition,” he said. “You and I were matching wits on the net and now we're going to try it on the phone.”

“Do you know you sound like a cartoon?” I couldn't help it. I had to snap something at him and that just popped up. It was a mistake. He could have just hung up on me.

“Of course I do,” he said. “I'm sucking on helium. Did you think this was my natural voice?”

Well, so much for my voice-changing machine theory. Sometimes the obvious is the answer. Low tech. I should have recognized the sound of someone sucking helium.

“Can we get back to the matter at hand?” he asked.

“Shoot.”

“Funny you should say that,” the killer said. “I'll be going out immediately after we finish here to do number four. Do you want to know why?”

“Of course I want to know why,” I said. “I'd like to know who, too, while you're at it.”

“You puzzle out the who,” he said, “that's mostly what this call is all about. The why is that this particular bozo has written a manual for a particular piece of software. The utter mediocrity of this particular piece of documentation is disgusting, but it's probably not enough to attract my attention. After all I'd have to do away with most of the idiots doing this particular kind of thing if that was enough.”

His repetition of the word “particular” was driving me crazy. “So what was it about this particular documentation that has gotten your goat?” I asked.

“The fatal flaw,” he said, “the thing that simply cannot be tolerated, the thing that makes me go white hot with anger, that's the thing you're wondering about?”

“That's it,” I said.

“Our guy has told you how to start the program, and you'll excuse me if I'm a little vague on the details. We don't want to make your job too easy.”

“Perish the thought,” I said.

“So number four has told us how to do this with the program and how to do that with the program. If you follow the instructions you can spend hours and hours wandering around. But what the bozo doesn't tell you how to do is quit.”

“That is irritating,” I said.

“You'd better believe it!” Here at last was the true personality coming out. His fire was like the fire of an evangelical preacher. He had absolutely no doubt that the documentalist who had neglected to tell the user how to quit was among the lowest of life forms. It was not only his pleasure to snuff out such a person, it was his duty. He would send a message that other documentalists would ignore at their own risk.

“Say you just want to poke around,” he said, “so you fire up the program and you do one thing or another, exploring or following the directions or whatever, and then you want to just stop and go do something else. What happens?”

“You can't stop.”

“Exactly!” he shouted. “So you start guessing. You type ‘quit' and you type ‘exit' and you type ‘stop.' You try control Q. In short, you try everything, and nothing works!”

“That's pretty irritating I'll admit,” I said, “but it still doesn't seem like enough to kill a person over. You can always just reboot.”

There was a long silence, and I thought he might have hung up.

“Are you still there?” I asked.

“I didn't call to convince you what I'm doing is right,” he said. “I don't care if you agree or not. Nothing you can say will stop me from zapping number four. You'll have to actually catch me to stop me. And I'm not going to tell you how to do that.”

“But wait a minute,” I said, “that's no different than your documentalist who didn't tell you how to stop!”

“Hey! You're right,” he said. “Pretty neat. Well, the only other thing I have to complain about is how long it's taking you guys to find the bodies.”

“Actually, I haven't been looking for the bodies.”

“Maybe I'll start having them delivered,” he said.

“Maybe you could bring one by in person?”

“In your dreams,” he said. “Happy hunting and so long.”

“Wait!” The more he talked the greater the chance that he would let something slip. “Why did you break into my office to shoot me?” I asked quickly.

“Someone tried to shoot you?”

“As if you didn't know,” I said. I had his attention again, and I was pretty sure from his reaction that he was, in fact, not the guy who had broken into my office, but maybe I could string him along.

“Look,” he said, “we obviously have a third player in this.”

“What do you mean?”

“Someone shot at me, too,” he said.

I waited for him to go on. I waited for what seemed like a long time, but then just before I could make a “please continue” noise, he said. “I thought it was you at first.”

“Why would I shoot at you?” I asked. “In fact, if I knew who you were, why wouldn't I just turn you in, collect my fee, and call it a case?”

“My thinking exactly,” he said. “I'll admit I was wildly confused at first. But then when I thought it out, I decided it wasn't you. Nevertheless, it's just too much to believe that someone shooting at me doesn't have something to do with my … how shall I put it? My attempts to improve the quality of computer instructions.”

“I think you must be right about that,” I said.

“Well, you give it some thought,” he said. “Next time we talk, I'll be interested in hearing what you come up with. So bye for now.”

“Not yet!”

“What is it? I'm running out of helium.”

“Can't you postpone that other business?”

“Other business?”

“Number four.”

“Absolutely not,” he said. “In fact, I'm going out right now. I can hardly wait!”

He hung up.

twelve

I rejected one dumb course of action after another and finally came down to the one that most people probably would have thought of in the first place. I called the police. I asked for Frank Wallace. I liked to work alone (well, you know what I mean), but this time I just couldn't afford to take the chance that I might not be up to it.

Who's calling?

Why lie? It's not like I could get away with it. My number would be clearly displayed already. I was in no position to make an anonymous tip. I gave the police Sky's name and the office number. They put me on hold, and I settled back to listen to a Beatles tune whose teeth and claws had been removed. I didn't wait long.

Lieutenant Wallace was not immediately available, which meant they would page him if my call was sufficiently important. Could I explain myself?