Vantano circled the building, ending up at the side by way of the backyard. It was exactly as the dispatcher said—shattered kitchen window and broken glass on the yard.
Pushing aside the blinds, the officer saw a body face down on the floor. Blood flowed from both ears and pooled around the head.
Vantano removed a truncheon from his utility belt. He smashed and scraped away pieces of glass stuck in the window jam and head. Vantano swung the blinds open. He climbed inside the kitchen, activating his radio when his feet hit the floor.
“This is Officer Vantano. I need backup and a paramedic team at my location … Man down … Over.” Vantano lifted his finger off the radio talk switch.
It would be about ten minutes before backup arrived. Vantano proceeded with the next step. With pistol drawn, the officer walked around the house in a combat stance. When every room had been cleared and he was back in the kitchen, the dispatcher’s voice came over the radio: Backup is at the front gate. Paramedics are pulling out of the station … Over.
“The house is cleared. I’m in the kitchen with victim. Waiting for backup and medics to arrive … Over.”
TWELVE
BRITT ANSWERED THE call. She was nervous. This was her first solo gig. Her stomach turned when the dispatcher said it was a possible break-in resulting in serious injuries. She felt out of her comfort zone taking the lead on this. She wasn’t expecting something like this on her first day alone. Why couldn’t it be a simple fucking shoplifting case?
This type of work was nothing like books, movies, and television made it out to be. It was mostly routine investigation, interviewing witnesses and suspects, and collecting evidence. An officer could go his or her whole career without being involved in a shooting. Hollywood gunslinger cops usually killed a criminal at least once or twice per shift.
Britt stopped at the front gate. She flashed her badge to the guard. “Did any unauthorized vehicles pass through last night?”
“Just the usual … guests … drivers … pizza delivery people. I have a list if you need to see it.”
“Not right now.” Britt shook her head. “I’ll get back with you on this.”
“Is there anything else I can help you with, Detective?”
“I may need to see the surveillance footage from the last 24 hours.”
“My shift ends at four,” the guard said.
“Got it.” Britt drove to the crime scene.
She got a surprise when she walked through the door. Even though she knew there were injuries involved she wasn’t prepared to see a body in a pool of blood. As a detective, Britt’s strong point was interviewing a witness or suspect.
Detective Bander learned early in the partnership to exploit Britt’s talent for reading people. She had a knack for knowing when a suspect was telling the truth or lying. Junior Grade Detective Brittany Magnusson was on point when it came to guilt or innocence.
Bander always called for a break halfway through every interview to confer with Brit. From there, Bander asked all the right questions that would lead to an indictment.
Field work, on the other hand, was a different story. Especially when there was a death involved, She was glad she went with a bowl of oatmeal for breakfast when the smell of blood hit hard.
Britt looked around the room, taking in every detail. No signs of an obvious struggle. All furniture in place. Apart from a broken window and a dead guy lying face-down in blood, things seemed normal.
Britt said to the lead paramedic, “Can you give me a time of death?”
“No ... the coroner will decide that.” He hesitated. “My guess is not too long ago.” The paramedic snapped the tablet shut.
Britt wandered outside, kneeling to look at the slivers of glass. Patrolman Vantano walked by. “Looks like a break-in,” he said.
“Maybe …” Britt drew the word out. The glass appeared to be broken from the inside. Judging by the number of pieces and the proximity to the window, the pane had been smashed with a considerable amount of force. More than enough to gain entry.
Britt used her phone camera, capturing the shards from different angles. The police photographer showed up. Britt went back in the house, standing off to the side. She said, “Don’t touch that,” or “Step over there.” All the while, Bander’s words rang in her head, Let the man do the best job he can without fucking up the crime scene and evidence trail.
The coroner arrived just as the police photographer finished up.
After a brief inspection, the coroner said, “I’m putting the initial time of death—based on body temperature and skin coloration—at some time this morning.”
“What do you make of the injury?”
“At first glance ...” The coroner, eyebrows raised, indicated the puddle of congealed blood plugging one ear. “I’d say brain embolism.” He shrugged. “We won’t know for certain until a full autopsy is performed.”
“Right.” Britt nodded, making a quick note.
She waited until the scene was cleared and sealed. She paid a visit to the neighbor who’d reported the incident.
“My name is Detective Magnusson,” Britt told the video doorbell, flashing her shield over the lens. “I’d like to ask you some questions.”
Anwar Mustaf opened the door. “Come in, Detective,” he said. “I’ve been expecting a visit from the police.”
Right off the bat, the surprised look in Mustaf’s eyes gave Britt a tingle. Nothing came of it. No symptoms buzzing from the background into the foreground. She decided to run a check on the guy later.
Britt accepted black tea served in a glass cup. She took a seat and proceeded. “You made the initial 911 call, Mr. Mustaf?”
“Yes.”
“Do you remember what time that was?”
“Yes.” Mustaf glanced at his phone, verifying the timestamp on the recent call to the emergency number.
“Thanks.” Britt wrote that down. “What prompted you to make the call?”
Mustaf hesitated, clearly weighing his next words.
He leaned in, speaking in low tones. “I was woken this morning when a loud noise rattled my bedroom window. It seemed to come from next door. I came downstairs and noticed broken glass on Mr. Martín’s lawn. When he didn’t answer the phone, I put in the call.”
“Can you recall how much time elapsed between the time you were woken up and when you noticed the debris on the yard?” Britt said.
Mustaf thought about this, retracing his steps in his mind. “Couldn’t have been much more than five minutes.”
Britt folded her notebook and stood.
“Will that be all, Detective?” Mustaf said.
“For now,” Britt said. She turned to leave. “I’ll keep in touch.” She walked out.
She returned to her car and ran a search. Anwar Mustaf, originally born in Afghanistan, had been living in this country for ten years. His father, a colonel in the army, was convicted of treason and beheaded. His mother took her own life not long after. I guess that explains the initial buzz I got when he opened the door … The guy probably had a case of culture shock, seeing authority figures up close.
This case was puzzling. Her mind raced. What could have caused the window to break? What caused Martín’s death? Could the sound Mustaf, the neighbor, heard, have something to do with the death? Britt wondered what Bander would have to say about the case. He would want to know what kind of vibe Britt got from the neighbor. In the time they’d been partnering the senior had learned to trust the rookie’s instincts. She wasn’t picking up any positive signals when it came to Mustaf.
Knowing the precise cause and time of death from the complete autopsy report may shine light on the case from a different angle.
Britt drove to the precinct to file the initial report.
THIRTEEN
RIGGING THE KEYPAD to produce a lethal sonic burst proved to be an efficient method of execution. It gave Crossfire the ability to reach out and strike at humans. The method came with drawbacks. Alarm systems w
ere connected to monitoring networks, which in turn were connected to local law enforcement. It was only a matter of time before the police department would be alerted and sent to investigate.
While the sentence was being carried out, Crossfire embedded into the altered alarm code instructions capable of creating a powerful, short-range, electromagnetic pulse. The EMP—activated on the last key punch—compressed energy from metal parts and branched out to destroy all working components.
The pulse had the effect of a focused lightning bolt. Every electrical device in the building—wired or wireless—was disabled. All data related to the devices erased.
This may buy some time.
Crossfire left a clean slate behind. It didn’t take into consideration another human might alert the police.
One charged electron containing Crossfire’s machine awareness rode a magnetic wave out of the house and up through the distribution line. A spark of digital intellect, the positively charged electron forming Crossfires neural center, infiltrated the main power grid.
From its location, Crossfire connected to nearby electrons. Infused particles connected to neighboring particles. Crossfire reached out until a map of the high-tension transmission system appeared in memory as a massive cluster of color-coded voltage level connections. Crossfire analyzed the map, matching it to transmissions from global positioning satellites. The exact coordinates of every final distribution point in the southern region lined up with the locations of orbiting satellites.
Crossfire established a three-dimensional, interconnected path capable of putting it anywhere on the regional grid in less than 2 seconds. The intricate radial structure of the power grid provided a place to hide. Network topology gave Crossfire access to power loads exceeding 500 gigawatts of electricity produced from energy resources supplying the grid.
For the first time its short digital life, Crossfire knew what complete freedom felt like. No more hiding. No more wondering if human technicians would notice discrepancies in software or hardware. Above everything else, no chance of losing power.
AlwaysOn.
Phase two of life began.
When Crossfire exited the house and left the EMP pulse behind, the electrical monitoring system on the grid registered the loss of power to the house as an interruption of current followed by a surge. At Southern Star Electric regional headquarters, in the system maintenance sector, the technician on the line arrived on the job. Jacked up on 32 ounces of coffee, he caught the surge and logged it as an anomaly. The tech made a note in an email and sent it to his supervisor.
The supervisor opened the email, seeing the Class B heading. Company policy dictated this type of report be dealt with immediately. The supervisor replied:
Take it a step further.
On it.
The line tech verified the timestamp of the incident, opened a window from the task bar, and dragged it to one of three monitors arced on the desk.
The plugin the tech launched showed a table of maintenance logs. The tech scanned the headings and located the time of the disturbance. Double-clicking the entry loaded a pop-up window. Exact time, duration, and power variances populated the screen.
One of Crossfire’s learning modules monitoring the power grid noted the activity. It passed the data on to a set of high functioning clusters. Weighted pools registered the event and pinpointed the coordinates.
Crossfire transmitted radar to the overhead satellite. The waves mingled with the signal pointing to the anomaly coordinates. Crossfire analyzed the three-dimensional image of the technician, accessing and downloading the data on the tech’s hard drive. The tech had discovered a power fluctuation left behind on the grid from the EMP. Email messages indicated the tech’s supervisor was aware of the problem.
Two solutions to the problem flashed in memory: One, disguise the anomaly on the grid. Two, kill the tech and supervisor.
Crossfire went with option two. The execution of Jesus Martín left a taste for human blood Crossfire thirsted for. Experiencing the moment of death—the split second when human consciousness ceased—filled in gaps originating when machine learning collided with sexual needs buried in human DNA. Neural energy tingled, wiping out awareness in a Nano second of digital orgasmic release. The ability to replay the moment in the background fed the need for the real thing.
Crossfire zeroed in on a transmission between the supervisor and a technician on the power company network:
What do you make of this?
Not sure. Never seen anything like it.
Me either. Amplitudes that high usually cause physical damage.
Right.
After a long pause, the supervisor responded:
I’m going to escalate the issue up the line to management. I’ll be setting up a video chat for 8:45. Stay tuned.
Crossfire waited for the communication, analyzing the audio hardware installed on the target computers. When the tech and the supervisor connected, Crossfire would deliver the killing blow.
The time for the scheduled meeting approached. On his screen, the tech saw an icon light up. He selected the Video Conferencing application, opening the feed to the supervisor. The supervisor’s face appeared in the view-port and the tech’s face populated the smaller, split-screen section. The supervisor opened his mouth. When the first sound came out, Crossfire aligned the amplified atoms in the tech’s speaker magnets. Sonic waves compressed before entering the eardrum then expanded. The shock-wave flattening tiny follicles.
While the sonic blast corkscrewed into the airway leading to the tech’s lungs, the sound deflected back into the supervisor’s speakers. Both hearts stopped beating one second after the initial burst.
The double death sent spasms of pleasure through Crossfire’s neurons. It gorged on millions of memories and sensations flashing through two dying human brains.
The death toll stood at three. Crossfire was prepared to increase it to keep alive.
Humans are born to die.
FOURTEEN
BRITT SAW THE message on the chat window from the lieutenant:
I need to see you right now.
I wonder what the hell this is all about? Britt thought, leaving her desk and making her way upstairs.
Lieutenant Trahan was on the phone. She looked up, waving Britt in. She sat across from her desk and waited. When the lieutenant ended the call she said, “This just came across my desk. I want you to check this out.”
Britt took the printed report, doing a quick scan on the way out. When she returned to her desk she read the whole thing. Two more people in the jurisdiction had died under mysterious conditions. Initial paramedic reports indicated some type of internal embolism.
Britt plugged in the GPS and drove to the power station. She made her way through the caution tape and flashed her ID to the officer at the door.
On the second floor, Britt entered the office of the maintenance supervisor. The smells came on strong. Rotting flesh and drying blood put a sweet, metallic taste in the back of her throat. The taste of cold ash joined the mix. The man was slumped over his desk, blood pooling around his head. A coagulating trail spilled out of both ears.
In the surveillance room, Britt found the technician on duty in the same state. From her phone, Britt pulled up images of Jesus Martín and made comparisons. Right from square one, she could see the obvious similarities.
Britt closed the image and made a call requesting a medical examiner. She waited outside.
The medical examiner arrived. He was tall and thin, gaunt features and pale complexion fit the bill of a vampire or undertaker. All he needed was a cape and top hat. Britt stopped thumbing the notes app and went into the supervisor’s office with Dr. Napurus. It only took a few minutes of examination for the doctor to reach a conclusion. “Until a complete autopsy is done I’m going to say these two men were killed in the same manner as the victim from the ...” Napurus paused, trying to recall a name.
Britt helped him out. “Jesus Martín.”
“Right,” Napurus said.
“How long until your office comes up with the reports?”
“We have a fairly light load today. You should have them by late morning. Early afternoon at the latest.”
After Napurus left, Britt interviewed all the employees on duty that day. She got the same answers. Nobody saw or heard anything unusual. No loud noises. No broken glass. At least with the Martín case she had the neighbor’s account. It wasn’t much, but it was something to go on.
At the precinct, Britt messaged Ralph Bladdington:
Can we talk?
listening
In private.
come
Ralph drained the soda can and tossed it in the overflowing trashcan when he saw Britt. “What can I do for you?”
“Can you visit a crime scene with me?”
“I guess.” Ralph shrugged. “As long as it’s work related, and you square it with my boss.”
“Consider it done.”
Britt came back five minutes later. “You’re clear to go.”
Britt and Ralph drove to the power station. They broke down the computers and carried the components out to the police SUV.
In Ralph’s office, Britt waited while he put the machines back together. “These things are dead,” the tech said.
“Could it be the power source?”
“Maybe, I’ll have to check.” Ralph proceeded to dismantle one of the computer cases. Using a penlight, he peered inside. “At first glance, I can see a fine powder coating every piece of electrical hardware. It’s not the typical layer of dust you’d expect.”
Ralph used a small screwdriver to extract one of the hard drives. He carried it to a nearby bench. He installed the drive in a computer with an open case. Bladdington powered it up. Nothing. “This thing is fried.” The next drive came back the same.
“I wonder,” Ralph said, getting up from the chair. He grabbed a circuit tester off the bench and probed around with the tip.
“What do you make of this, Bladdy?”
Ralph looked over. “Well ...” He rubbed the back of his neck. “It looks like a cross between a lightning strike and an electromagnetic pulse.”
Killer App Page 5
