“That's okay,“ the chief said, quickly. “I think I understand it now.“
“I'll take care of it,“ Jack said.
Frankie retreated to the stairway, looking crushed. Jack and the chief sized each other up.
“Ever played any computer games?“ Jack asked.
“No,“ the chief said. “Seen my granddaughter play one where this little cartoon character on the screen kills trolls and dragons.“
Jack nodded.
“Same thing,“ he said. “Instead of trolls and dragons, we've got lawyers, but it's pretty much the same.“
“My granddaughter spends hours on that fool thing,“ the chief said. “She'd play all night if we didn't make her stop.“
“That's typical,“ Jack said.
“And people do this for fun,“ the chief said, musing.
“Millions of them, yes,“ Jack agreed.
“Takes all kinds,“ he said, shaking his head. “Why don't they just go to law school if they're that interested in trials?“
Jack shrugged.
“That takes three years and a pile of money,“ I said. “You can buy the basic Lawyers from Hell game for thirty-nine ninety-five and learn how to play it in an evening. In three months, if you really work at it, you can become the game equivalent of Clarence Darrow.“
“I still don't see how it's fun,“ the chief said.
Obviously the chief was not a potential customer.
“So what does it look like, anyway?“ he asked.
“We can show you,“ Jack said. “If we can go to one of the computers, that is.“
“Please,“ the chief said, holding open the side door and nodding to the officer loitering inside.
Jack and I followed, and out of the corner of my eye I saw Frankie scuttle out of the stairway to trail after us. I led the chief to the nearest cube and leaned over the computer to start Lawyers from Hell. Every computer in the office had the game on it, of course – some of them had multiple versions, including experimental prototypes of proposed new features. When the welcome screen came on, I punched the key combination that would run the demo – a little awkwardly, since I had the mouse in my right hand and had to use one of the fingertips that protruded slightly beyond the bandage on my left hand. Then I stepped aside so the chief could see it.
“This is what it looks like in the trial phase,“ I said.
He watched for a few minutes. One eyebrow went up, and his eyes widened. Ffankie's head and shoulders popped into sight over the partition that separated this cube from the next. From the height he'd achieved, I suspected he was kneeling on someone's desktop.
“Pretty strange,“ the chief said.
I leaned over so I could see the screen and winced.
“Oops,“ I said. “I typed that wrong; I'm still awkward with this hand. That's not the real version. It's an unauthorized version someone cooked up. Nude Lawyers from Hell.“
“Oh, great,“ Jack muttered.
Frankie snickered.
“Yeah, they're nude, all right,“ the chief said.
Tiny, naked cartoon figures filled the screen. A portly, naked, anatomically correct defense attorney was jumping up and down, waving his arms. The twelve nude jurors variously slept, yawned, or sat with crossed arms in mute condemnation of his speaking ability. They were also anatomically correct, at least as far as one could see over the top of the jury box. The nude judge – mercifully, only his bare shoulders showed above the judge's bench – frowned and toyed with his gavel in a way that boded ill for the defense attorney the next time the cartoon prosecutor made an objection.
“Let's try that again,“ Jack said, stepping over to the keyboard.
“Sorry,“ I said. “Everyone's been studying that, trying to figure out how they did it and how to stop it. This is the real version.“
Jack started the legitimate Lawyers from Hell demo. The chief watched impassively as the same courtroom scene played out, this time with the characters decently clad.
“Other one's more interesting,“ he commented.
“If you like looking at naked cartoon characters.“
“Funnier, anyway.“
“Apparently everyone in the world thinks so, too,“ I said. “The guys have figured out that there's a program called X-ray that you can download from the Internet and install on your machine, and it removes all the clothes from your Lawyers from Hell characters. They're still trying to figure out how to prevent it.“
“You mean they can't figure out how to get the little cartoon clothes back on?“
“No, that's easy,“ I said. “If you delete the X-ray program, the clothes come back. What they can't figure out is how to prevent the X-ray program from working in the first place.“
“If you can undo it, what's the big deal?“ he said.
“The big deal is that we have irate parents all over the country, screaming at us that Lawyers from Hell is corrupting their little darlings,“ I said. “They've been threatening a boycott if we can't prevent nudity in our software.“
“Good Lord,“ the chief said. “I still don't see what the big deal is. I can't imagine anyone would get mat much of a kick, watching naked cartoon characters. Unless maybe they hadn't ever seen the real thing.“
A distinct possibility, I thought, for many of the fans. And maybe some of our younger programmers, too.
“It's a big deal because it's an inside job,“ Frankie piped up from his vantage point atop the partition.
“Inside job?“ the chief echoed. “You mean someone who works here did the nude version?“
Jack opened his mouth and then shut it again and settled for looking daggers at Frankie. I'd noticed that the nude version was a touchy subject with Jack. Maybe he was getting some heat for not having uncovered the culprit. He clearly wasn't happy to see Frankie airing our corporate dirty laundry in front of the chief.
“Someone who works here, possibly; or maybe someone who used to work here,“ Frankie answered, ignoring Jack's frown. “But we've been around so short a time, mere haven't been a lot of people leaving. So it's almost sure to be someone who's still here.“
“But what makes them think it's an inside job?“ I said. “I mean, I thought all it did was replace one set of graphics with another.“
“That's what everyone thought at first,“ Frankie said. “But I've spent a lot of hours playing the nude version – “
“And you're actually willing to admit it,“ I said. “That takes guts.“
“For my job,“ Frankie said with injured dignity. “To help find a fix. And if you play it long enough, you figure out that it's not just the graphics that are changed. The program plays differently. The characters do… different things.“
“I still say you're imagining that,“ Jack said.
“What kind of things?“ the chief asked.
“Play it and see,“ he said, snickering. “But the program behaves differently, anyway, and you know what that means!“
“No,“ the chief said. “Tell me.“
“They have the source code!“ Frankie exclaimed, throwing his hands up like a magician displaying the finale of a particularly showy trick. He then disappeared, with a thud, behind the partition – from which I suspected he had been perched on one knee and had managed to knock himself off balance.
The chief waited a few seconds and then looked at me for a translation.
“Imagine that Lawyers from Hell is a food,“ I suggested. “Some special dessert. And no one can make it but us. Unless, of course, they know all the ingredients, including the top secret sauce, and every detail of the recipe, in which case, not only can they make it just as well as we can, but even we can't tell the difference.“
“Yeah, that sort of explains it,“ Frankie said, appearing over the partition top again.
Sort of explains it? I thought it was a pretty damned brilliant analogy, myself.
“So this naked lawyer thing is an inside job,“ the chief said. “You think it might have something to do with Corrigan's death
?“
Frank, Jack, and I looked at each other. Frankie shrugged. Jack shook his head.
“Good question,“ I said. Obviously the chief thought it might, or he wouldn't be wasting time on it.
“There's a rumor going around that when they figure out who did the naked version, they're going to can him,“ Frankie said.
“Well, that's interesting,“ the chief said.
“If they figure it out,“ I said.
“It'll come out, sooner or later,“ Jack said, shaking his head.
“Maybe,“ I said. “But I don't think whoever did it is going to step forward with a rumor like that going around.“
“So you think maybe the nude programmer killed to keep Ted from revealing his secret?“ Frankie exclaimed. “Whoa!“
“Keep it to yourself, will you?“ the chief said. “Was there something you wanted?“
“It's really hot outside, and we were just wondering if you knew how much longer we all have to stay down there in – “
“No,“ the chief said. “When I know, I'll tell you. Now scoot.“
Frankie nodded and left. Jack took this as a signal to make his own exit.
“He won't, you know,“ I said. “Keep it to himself, I mean.“
“No, I don't expect he will,“ the chief agreed. “What do you think?“
“I think he's already blabbing down in the parking lot.“
“I meant what do you think about this nude program having something to do with the murder?“
“Since we don't know who programmed Nude Lawyers from Hell or what, if any, connection there is between it and Ted – who knows?“
“Someone thinks he's going to get fired – that could be a reason to kill in this job market.“
“Yeah, except that anyone who really knows Rob knows better,“ I said.
“Knows better how?“
“I doubt if Rob wants to fire whoever programmed the nude version,“ I said. “He thinks it's a hoot. He could sit there for hours watching it and giggling.“
“Might change his mind if it starts hurting his company,“ the chief said.
“Maybe,“ I said. “Then again, Rob's not too practical.“
“So let 'em all blab about the naked cartoon characters having something to do with the murder,“ the chief said. “If it's true, maybe our killer will get scared and do something stupid. If it's not true, maybe he'll think he's gotten away with it and get careless.“
He stared at the screen on which the Lawyers from Hell demo was still running. After about a minute, he shook his head and roused himself.
“How the hell do you stop this fool thing, anyway?“
I reached over and pressed the escape key to exit the demo.
“Thanks,“ he said. “Why don't you come down with me to the parking lot?“
I suspected that meant he was through picking my brains for now and wanted to deposit me safely with all the other suspects, witnesses, and seemingly innocent bystanders.
Down in the parking lot, chaos reigned.
August isn't a month when you want to spend much time outdoors in Virginia. The temperature and humidity were both hovering in the high nineties, and would probably stay that way until the daily thunderstorm hit in the late afternoon. Walking out the door was like entering a steam bath when you already had a high fever. I could feel my feet sinking slightly into the liquefying asphalt, not to mention the first breath of almost liquid air starting to leach away my wits and my temper.
An ambulance was parked in the handicapped space right beside the building entrance, but nobody seemed to be paying any attention to it. I could see a dozen programmers or therapists talking on their cell phones, most with their heads cocked toward their phones, backs to the crowd and their free hands over their unoccupied ears. Several others were playing Frisbee with the eight or nine dogs who'd come to work today. Or trying to play. The dogs were mostly lying in the shade, panting, and watching the crazy humans leaping, about on the hot asphalt.
The rest of the staff was attacking the pizza and beer.
I noted, with a sigh, that a vegetable rebellion was brewing among some of the younger programmers clustered at one side of the parking lot.
They were all standing about, eating slices of pizza, but they didn't look happy. Some were chewing, stoically, as if half expecting to be poisoned at any moment. Others were prodding their slices with cautious fingers, perhaps hoping to find that the broccoli and green peppers on top were actually a strange new species of sausage. Others had picked up the green pepper strips between thumb and forefinger and were holding mem up at eye level, inspecting them with the same expression of outrage and disgust that I'd be wearing if I'd found an earthworm perched on my sausage and mushroom with extra cheese.
“You'd think they'd never seen vegetables before,“ I muttered. And for that matter, I suspected some of them hadn't since whenever they'd last lived at home with their mothers cooking for them. That was the reason I always added broccoli and green peppers to the toppings of any pizza I ordered for the office. I suspected the broccoli and green peppers Rob ate on pizza might be the only green vegetables he saw from one week to the next since he'd moved to Caerphilly.
If he ate them at all; I saw several guys picking off anything green and feeding it to Katy the wolfhound, who didn't seem to share their disgust for the vegetable kingdom. No wonder she was such a healthy, growing girl. And since the Mutant Wizards staff always seemed to imitate whatever Rob did, I expected both their melodramatic disgust at the vegetables and their method of disposing of them were modeled on Rob's antics.
Elsewhere in the parking lot, other staff members were eating their vegetables obediently enough, no doubt because they had concentrated their rebellious energies on reenacting The Great Escape. Every few minutes the police would intercept one making a break for the street or the office door. Or a few would approach an officer – presumably, from the officers' expressions, to make some annoying, unreasonable, and oft-repeated request.
I spotted Spike's crate under a tree just outside the door and bent down to check on him. The ungrateful little monster lifted his lip in a snarl before curling up with his back to me.
“Fine, be that way,“ I said. “I guess you don't need a walk, then.“
“He's had a walk.“
I looked up to see Jack hovering over me.
“You actually took Spike for a walk and escaped unscathed?“ I said. “I'm impressed.“
“Not exactly unscathed,“ he said. “But I'm not bleeding any-“
“Sorry,“ I said, wincing. “He's had his shots, in case you were worried.“
A sudden hush fell over the parking lot, and I stood up to see what was happening. Dad was standing outside the building entrance, holding one of the doors open for the two men wheeling out the gurney.
I scanned the crowd, trying to observe people's reactions. Not that I expected the killer to jump up and confess or anything; I just found it interesting to see how differently people reacted. Some people stood, heads slightly bowed, as if watching a formal funeral procession. Some stood, frankly staring. Quite a few pretended to be absorbed in conversations or reading papers, but you could tell they were watching4>y the angle of their heads.
The chief spoke briefly with Dad and the ME, both of whom pointed several times at their throats. Explaining exactly how Ted was strangled, perhaps.
It was as if someone had pressed the universe's pause button – everything stayed on hold for the few minutes it took the EMTs to load the gurney into the ambulance, Dad and the ME to climb aboard, and the ambulance to pick its way out of the parking lot. And then, as the ambulance gathered speed and disappeared, the noise level returned to normal.
I glanced over to see what the chief was up to. He was still surveying the scene. So was I, for that matter. I don't know what he was looking for, but I was trying to spot the news media when they showed up, so I could make sure they talked to the right person, like Liz. Or the CFO. Or even me. An
yone, in fact, but Rob.
“How's it going?“ I heard the chief ask the nearest officer.
“What is this, anyway, some kind of cult?“ the officer said. “More than half of these people have the same address.“
“Let's see that,“ the chief said. “Five thousand South River… Why does that sound familiar?“
“It's the Whispering Pines Cabins,“ I said. “Given the housing shortage, it was about the only place a lot of the guys could find to live.“
“Glory be,“ the chief muttered under his breath.
I could understand his reaction. Before Caerphilly's housing crisis, the Pines had been a hot sheets motel. Its transformation into an overpriced residential hotel had been accomplished without any detectable renovation or redecoration. The more discriminating residents usually chose to provide their own bedding, though a card on the back of each room's door still displayed the price of requesting clean sheets at times other than the maid's daily visits.
The door also carried notices sternly instructing motel guests that they were required to open the door immediately if requested to do so by the police, and forbidding them to entertain unregistered male visitors. Since most of the current guests were young men in their late teens or early twenties, living four or more to a room, this last part of the notice was largely disregarded, and the place had taken on much of the rustic charm of a fraternity house.
Another frazzled officer hurried up to the chief. “Don't these people understand that we have a murder here?“ he exclaimed. “They keep demanding that we let them back into the building or bring their computers out here.“
As if on cue, several members of the staff spotted me and rushed over.
“Meg, how much longer are they going to keep us here?“
“Meg, can't you talk to them? We have deadlines!“
“Meg, make them listen – “
“Meg, this is crazy; we can't – “
“Meg, why are they –?“
“Quiet!“ I shouted, and when they all shut up, or at least changed from shouting to muttering, I continued.
“I realize how important meeting your deadlines is,“ I said. “But stop and think a minute. We've had a murder here! A fellow human being – one of our own staff – has been brutally murdered! You can't expect things to just start back up in five minutes as if nothing had happened.“
Crouching Buzzard, Leaping Loon Page 5
