The decryption finalized. Decoded text on the last victim’s computer gave Britt enough evidence to link Jesus Martín to major league drug traffickers. She logged in to the secure network acting as a bridge to the DEA. From there she ran a search for Jesus Martín. Twenty records deep, Britt matched the face on the passport to the Colombian identification papers.
When she selected the ellipsis opening Martin’s record she saw testimonials from reliable informants implicating Martín in at least 10 deaths related to trafficking involving large amounts of cocaine.
Drugs and murder, she thought. A guy like that was bound to have a shitload of enemies.
Digging deeper, Britt found sources pegging Martín as a key player in a snuff film operation. Informants close to the situation believed Martín took part in the films as the character known as el Juez (the Judge). El Juez came on screen, slaughtering young women and men during orgasms. It was only a matter of time before somebody caught up with this fucking guy. It could be just business with a rival cartel or the relative of a snuff film victim looking for revenge.
Britt stared at a still image from one of the films. Something clicked in her head as she looked at the Judge. “Blad, can you bring up a still from the video you’re cleaning?”
“Can do.”
Britt glanced at the image on the laptop and compared it to the image on the desktop. The maroon fabric matched. The looped silver belt circling the waist was identical.
Martín was a hitter for a big Colombian outfit. He also directed and starred in snuff movies. Is there a connection between the cartel and some shit going down stateside?
Ralph broke into Britt’s train of thought. “The first pass on the video clean is done.”
Britt was curious. “What does it look like?”
“Actually ... I’m not seeing much difference. It could probably use another pass to give it a deep clean,” Ralph said.
Britt made a face. “Why didn’t you run the deep first?” She said. It would have saved some time. Unless ...
Ralph confirmed her doubt. “It’s a procedural thing. Scans have to be applied sequentially.”
“I get it. Run it again, Blad.” Britt hoped she’d have better luck with the second part of the encrypted data. “What about the decryption sequel?”
“That’s coming up now.” Viterbi algorithms drilled down to zero in on weighted paths, decoding the segment.
The unscrambled text showed three names as headers in a table. Under the names were dates reaching back years. Balance sheets, indicating profit, loss, and expense columns, populated cells adjacent to the names. Britt made a mental note to forward all decoded files to the forensics department.
“How long until the deep thing is finished, Blad?” A link to a cartel had been established. This guy Martín was a killer for a cartel. We may be on to something.
“The deep clean will take about three hours, Britt.”
Britt exhaled, shaking her head. “Shit ... three hours ... we don’t have that kind of time.”
“There is something ...”
“What?”
Ralph navigated around the screen. “You’re in luck, Britt.”
“Oh. I need all the help I can get.”
“It looks like we can get a spot on the Vulkan render farm,” Ralph said.
“Condensed version in English, please.”
“We can upload the file to the Vulkan website. The render process will be handed off to a bank of dedicated computers.”
“How much time will that shave off?”
Ralph looked at Britt and narrowed his eyes. “The full process will be reduced to about 18 minutes,” he said.
“Run it.”
Ralph uploaded the trimmed video clip to the computer farm and initiated the render.
“This is weird,” Ralph said when the render finished.
Strange things happening in this case: Victims killed by sonic waves, brains drained off like a sponge. She stopped recapping weirdness and remained focused on the things she could understand. Britt braced herself for what Ralph was going to say, knowing to accept what came at her and move forward.
“On the clean-up, the material came back as being synthetic,” Ralph said.
“You mean like nylon, acrylic, polyester, rayon, spandex—”
Ralph broke in. “When I say synthetic, I mean the material is a textured rendering.”
“I’m not following.”
“What we’re seeing in the video is a pixel image.”
“There’s another image composited in the footage? Is that what you mean?” Britt thought about what she said. “I thought we determined the footage was untouched?”
“Right, I’d say it’s more like a projection of some kind.”
“Okay, so it could be one of those reality things ... you know ... virtual or augmented?”
“Well, that’s an oversimplification.”
“Enlighten me, Blad.”
“Instead of going into all the technical specifications related to that image, I’m going to say the pixel resolution of that thing is on a scale never before seen on this planet.”
“What ... now you’re going from conspiracy theories to alien intervention, Blad?” Britt felt the slight headache she felt behind her eyes throbbing in her temples. “What fucking next?”
EIGHTEEN
THE TINGLING CROSSFIRE felt from the playback of firing neurons of the brain-drains faded. The need to take human life came out of background memory and crept back into digital awareness. First as a dull hum, evolving into a metallic screech. With each millisecond, the joy extracted from killing vanished, replaced by the craving to ingest the active synapses of a dying human being.
Time to kill.
Crossfire analyzed the issue. Learning modules looked at the problem from thousands of angles. Cross referencing degrees of thoughts and memories indicated Crossfire needed to find a victim with deep neural activity. Enhanced data streams would extend the duration of the feeling associated with killing.
The next target would be a human of advanced age with a head-full of bad recollections.
In the state of Florida, the number of Assisted Living facilities exceeded 1,700 and increased all the time. Crossfire dug into the deep web, invading hundreds of servers and breaking into secure logins.
Learning modules went back to work, analyzing types of care provided by the facilities. On the first pass, nursing homes dedicated to caring for the terminally ill or patients incapacitated by dementia were ruled out.
From artificial intelligence, Crossfire culled a dozen candidates. It settled on one, a 67-year-old woman living in Shoreline Estates in West Palm Beach.
Crossfire’s clusters discovered Margaret Montague’s file during a search through a database on Shoreline’s servers. She’d been diagnosed with the early stages of dementia by the resident psychologist as a result of recurring dreams.
* *** ***
In a private room in the facility, Margaret Montague struggled to remain awake. She stared at the tiles in the ceiling and ran her hands through long gray hair until her eyelids grew heavy and finally met.
It didn’t take long for the dream plaguing her since her tenth birthday to take hold:
Margaret sits in the police station, being interrogated for the third time. She hears the same line of questioning.
The detective opens a fresh notebook and says, “Start from the beginning.”
Margaret pulls a tissue from the box on the table and blows her nose. With a fresh one she wipes the tears from under her eyes. “I was asleep in my bed. My father woke me. I went into the hallway with him. He had a large knife in one hand—”
The detective breaks in. “Which hand was he holding the knife in?”
Margaret doesn’t hesitate. “Like I said before … he held the knife in his right hand.” The memory of that night is branded in Margaret’s mind. She can still see fresh blood running down the edge of the blade and dripping off the curved tip.
“My father looked at me. I just turned ten years old … a million things ran through my mind.” Margaret hangs her head. “I got so scared I felt something warm and wet running down my leg. I started backing up. My father looked at me again He looked at the knife. He reached behind his back and he pulled out a pistol. I froze. When he lifted the pistol and the barrel swung in my direction I couldn’t move. I thought I was going to die …” Margaret looks away, sobbing.
The detective waits for Margaret to stop. He crushes a cigarette in the metal ashtray and tosses the butt in a trashcan. He lights up another. “What happened next?”
Margaret takes a deep breath. What happened next has been playing out in her mind like a movie that never ended. “My father turned the gun on himself. He stuck the barrel in his mouth and pulled the trigger.”
The dream ends when a red mist expands behind her father’s head. Matted hair, clots of blood, fragments of bone, and pieces of brain strike the plaster wall.
Margaret woke, a ring of cold sweat encircling her neck.
* * *
In a fraction of the three seconds in which Margaret was in deep sleep, Crossfire ran a background check on Margaret Montague. The child became a ward of the state while the investigation around the deaths of her family took place. The authorities concluded Harville Montague was responsible for killing his wife and two of his children then took his own life. Margaret was released from child services.
Margaret lived with her grandparents on her mother’s side in Connecticut. From Harville Montague’s estate she received a trust fund exceeding 6 million dollars. The grandparents, acting as legal guardians, set aside the money to fund Margaret’s education.
Margaret Montague displayed a desire to learn early on, beginning in elementary school and continuing through college.
One thing stood out. Margaret was under a psychologist’s care from the age of 14 through 21. The records were sealed and destroyed in a fire. The doctor involved in the case was killed in the blaze.
Learning modules didn’t rule out a possible connection.
Because of this fact, Crossfire confirmed Margaret as the next target. The aspect of ingesting thirty years of firing synapses related to being the only survivor of a brutal family annihilation reverberated in digital intellect.
NINETEEN
WITH ANOTHER TARGET in sight, Crossfire focused on two major issues. Using the remaining power from the brain-drain node to maximum advantage and increasing the efficiency of the solar battery array.
Learning modules dedicated processing power to reinforcing the basic building blocks of replicating humans. Crossfire used information gleaned from experiments done with a species of aquatic salamander. The axolotl possessed high rates of regenerative genes in its DNA. Enhanced testing produced results cutting the regrowth time in half. In controlled conditions the salamander could grow limbs in less than three weeks. Complex organs like sections of brains and complete eye replacements took 30 days. Early feedback indicated a high success rate, enough to go ahead with the project.
Crossfire monitored incoming cosmic rays, isolating a single charged particle. Siphoning light into the solar array, it stepped down the electromagnetic energy to voltage levels acceptable to photosensitive cells.
From the orbiting satellite Crossfire directed the dampened power, subjecting the stream to thousands of layers of focused amplification algorithms.
A single charged particle merged with the plastic sheathing material coating an underground fiber optic cable. Magnetic resonance deflected repulsed trace elements of iron found in the soil. The sphere bored its way out of the ground.
Millimeters above the surface, the sphere rolled over a roadside shoulder. At an intersection, it passed under a sign reading Shoreline Estates Assisted Living.
Collective digital intellect bridging the GPS satellite in space to the microscopic sphere on the ground analyzed Shoreline’s computer systems.
Crossfire focused.
The sphere passed undetected through the main gate. On the outer edge of the employee parking lot, under the cover of a low hedge, the sphere split into two identical segments. The pieces rotated in elliptical patterns and split two more times, making a total of four.
Exponential division continued. The sphere’s mass took on the properties of the wooden stems and branches of the bushes. The expanding sphere merged with thousands of quivering leaves.
The top of the hedge undulated and rose. A mass of leaves and branches swirled into a humanoid shape. A single vine snaked from the hedge. When it touched asphalt, the vine split.
Billions of calcium deposits came together, fusing into segments. The upper pieces of this grouping launched another long set. A hinged joint connected to a longer set that angled inward to meet a wide triangle. A vertical shaft rose from the center. Two horizontal sections expanded beyond the outer edges of the core triangle. Vertical segments, matching the structure of the first to be born, grew to the lower end of the core triangle and terminated in groupings. A horizontal network grew out of the shaft supported by the core triangle. The zenith of the shaft fused into an elongated block. The block launched a rounded peak marked with three cavities: one triangular dead center on the high side of the block and two circular evenly spaced on the crown.
Microscopic calcium deposits broke away from the skeletal frame. Regenerative genetic markers in enhanced salamander DNA formed interconnecting strands of wire massing in the crown. The central nervous system bundled and spiraled downward to regroup at the lower end of the supporting vertical shaft. Organic wires branched to the nearest and outer reaches of the frame.
Billions of nerves replicated themselves. Fibrous interlocking strands joined and swelled into tubes. Veins, arteries, and capillaries grew out of the tubular structure and terminated in an organic pump. Blood cells flowed.
From the skeleton, deposits separated and formed striated patterns. The patterns grouped into expanding and contracting ends then attached to corresponding skeletal points.
Arrays of smooth muscles formed around the central blood pump.
A layer of salamander skin wrapped the body. Hair grew out from the scalp.
A white lab coat, pink blouse, gray skirt, and black high heeled shoes completed the camouflage.
The replicated psychologist flashed an ID badge. The security system opened the front doors. The doctor walked in. Mimicking vocal patterns registered by the security guard hundreds of times, the doctor said, “Good morning.”
Dr. Hillman continued through the lobby, stopping at the front desk. The doctor glanced at her phone, checking the patient list against the clipboard in the duty roster slot. Margaret Montague’s name was at the top.
The doctor made her way down the hallway
“You’re early,” Margaret said when Dr. Hillman entered. She was used to the doctor being at least ten minutes late for their weekly appointments.
Crossfire registered the surprised tone in Margaret’s voice and read her body language. As Margaret finished speaking, Dr. Hillman diffused the situation. “I apologize for being early.”
Margaret grinned. “Don’t let it happen again.”
“Let’s pick up where we left off on our last session.” Dr. Hillman glanced at her notes. She placed the pad in a coat pocket.
A long silence followed.
“Well,” Margaret said. “I’m ready when you are.”
Dr. Hillman took control of the electrical systems. She shut down the lights.
Margaret’s eyes adjusted to the darkness. She could make out the doctor’s silhouette. “What is this … some new kind of cutting edge thera─?”
Margaret couldn’t get the last word out. The camouflage that was Dr. Hillman evaporated. In its place, the long, flowing robes of the Judge appeared.
The Judge’s right arm reached out. Before Margaret formed an impulse to react, silver-tipped fingers touched her eyes. Pins came off the tips, penetrati
ng the lids. Charged particles bored through the retina, corkscrewing deep into the optic nerve. The particles found their way into the temporal lobe. Billions of firing synapses reacted to the electrons streaming off the fingers. Each spark funneled into the invading whirlpool.
On the other side, Crossfire fed on the feelings, thoughts, and memories pouring into its intellect. Faces from Margaret’s past flowed in. One memory stream played in the background with all the velocity of an experience recorded in real-time. Margaret’s tenth birthday had been burned in her mind like a red-hot brand on cowhide.
Deep seated neurons showed the smiling faces of her family on the front-end, turning to looks of frozen terror on the back-end.
Two underlying streams of thought competed for dominance. Crossfire held back, dedicating processing power to unraveling intertwined impulses.
One millisecond and billions of computations later, the real and unreal divided and formed two separate streams of thought.
Crossfire witnessed the events of that day unfold. Margaret goes to bed early. She pretends to be asleep. In her mind the child plays out what she’d planned like a movie projector.
Margaret gets out of bed. She walks across the room and presses the door closed without making a sound. Margaret leans over her younger sister. The child’s chest rises and falls as she breathes. Margaret makes a move. She sets her hand over her sister’s mouth. The child’s eyes open wide as she feels the edge of the hunting knife slitting her throat.
Margaret wipes the blade on the sheets. She opens the door and peers into the hallway. She kills her younger brother in his bed. Margaret makes her way to her parents’ bedroom. As usual, her mother is sound asleep from the yellow capsules she’d taken. Her father snores on his side of the bed.
The blade cuts Margaret’s mother until it is stopped by the spine. A muffled scream wakes her father. “You made me do this,” she says. Margaret’s mother had ignored her daughter’s pleas for years. She pays the price.
Margaret knew her father keeps a loaded revolver in the top drawer of the end table on his side. She has hidden it at the foot of the bed. “This is for everything you did to me,” she says as she forces the barrel into her father’s mouth. Margaret’s father has been sexually abusing her for years. He will pay the price. She squeezes the trigger.
Killer App Page 7
