Playing With Death

by Simon Scarrow

  The crime scene manager leads them to a table where the victim’s personal effects are neatly tagged and laid out. Rose’s attention is caught by an open smartphone wallet with the WS logo. The glass is shattered and she knows the smartphone will be next to useless.

  She surveys the other paraphernalia that is being left out to dry: Maynard’s mud-stained glasses, wallet and keyring.

  ‘How about the satnav?’ she asks.

  ‘It might be possible to access the log. Hang on.’ The manager has a brief exchange with a lank-haired technician who is packing away some equipment. He unpacks his laptop, cranes his neck into the crushed driver’s compartment.

  ‘If we take the panel off I should be able to access it.’

  They pop the surrounding plastic trim and remove the built-in screen. The technician hooks some cables up to his laptop. He types in a few commands.

  ‘We’re in. It’s corrupted as fuck, but we’ve still got the most recent journeys.’ He leans slightly to one side so Rose can see the screen. Some of the addresses are filled with nonsensical numbers. But by scrolling through, Rose sees a consistent address, twenty miles away. She suspects it’s the destination Maynard never made it home to that evening.

  The technician searches through more of the data and pauses. ‘Hello . . .’

  Rose lowers her head. ‘What am I looking at?’

  ‘That’s the phone log. Seems our man was on his cell at the time of the accident . . .’

  49.

  Rose is sitting in the IT department at the J. Edgar Hoover Building, Pennsylvania Avenue in Washington. It’s probably the most famous of the FBI buildings, but its brutalist, square design and visible deterioration makes it also one of the ugliest. In a drab, musty-smelling office, she has been given her own temporary workstation while she waits for Baptiste to clear a search on the address in Maynard’s satnav.

  Rose replays the CCTV footage on the bridge. It shows the sudden loss of control on Maynard’s vehicle as the vehicle flies out over the river and plunges into the darkness.

  Maynard’s accident could just be that, but what if he was hacked? The satnav shows evidence of corruption, but that could just be water damage. There’s a ping from her phone; it’s a message from Owen.

  You’d better see this: KKillKam.com

  The page fades from black to a backdrop of tall forest redwoods in front of a night sky, presumably viewed from Koenig’s cabin. On top of this are links to various files, still images and videos. There are three recent videos.

  Three? Baptiste said two earlier.

  There’s a title: ‘Just in!’ The counter reveals that the file has already had over six hundred views. So much for keeping it off the radar. The most recent file appears to be shot inside a car, from a cellphone. It’s badly framed, and Rose can only see the driver’s face for a moment. It’s Maynard . . . Her bloods chills as she watches Maynard staring wide-eyed, presumably at his dashboard screen just above the phone. He looks terrified as his windows whirr down a fraction and he pumps the brakes. ‘No!’ he says, gripping and wrestling with the steering wheel. He tugs on the locked door handles and scrabbles down to pull the smartphone from its dock. He sees the front-facing camera is on, recording him.

  ‘Stop this!’ he shouts.

  The images go crazy as the car strikes the barrier and then tumbles towards the river. The smartphone jitters and shakes as it smashes around the car, apparently landing in the footwell as the car plunges into the current. The video flitters and shorts as the car fills with water, finally ending on a frame of Maynard looking down. Rose stares at the image.

  There’s no doubt. Koenig’s behind Maynard’s death too. He hacked his car, and killed him.

  She scrolls down to some of the viewer comments beneath the clip.

  sozlol: awesome hack man!

  666dev: sick. Gotta try dat

  sikboy: yeh, just for the lols.

  Rose watches the other two video files.

  The next one is of Shaw. The footage is taken from the camera built into the lid of his laptop. Shaw shakes his head and moans: ‘Don’t . . . Please don’t hurt me.’

  Rose considers another angle. Koenig may have an accomplice. Maybe that is Iris? Jesus, if there’s two of them then the Bureau’s problems have just got twice as bad.

  She hears a splintering crack somewhere off screen. Shaw’s jaw opens in a scream that distorts the speakers. Rose turns down the volume and slips on some headphones.

  Shaw is getting crushed. But how?

  Shaw howls in agony, gritting his teeth, gulping for air. He shakes his head from side to side, as pressure is applied to his body. There’s a ripping and splitting sound as blood pours from his eyes, mouth and nose. Rose pauses the clip.

  Jesus.

  She clicks the third video on the list – Coulter. Much shorter, this has the same view as Shaw’s but smoke obscures some of the images. Coulter screams as black rubber melts around the edge of his face, singeing his fleshy jowls. The camera view sags and warps, just as flames lick across the frame, a brief vivid mess of black rubber and fire. The clip cuts out at the apex of another shrill scream.

  Rose takes a deep calming breath.

  No one should have to die in these ways. The only good consequence of these videos is they are sure to accelerate the application for a search warrant on Maynard’s home. She calls Brennan.

  ‘Brennan Bamber, acting head of—’

  ‘Brenn, it’s Rose.’

  ‘Rose, I take it you’ve seen Koenig is back on the block. There’s been several crank calls and tip-offs already. Where you at? Somewhere secure?’

  ‘The Hoover Building, watching the videos now. There’s one of Maynard.’

  ‘I just saw. Baptiste is here right now.’

  ‘Good, can you put me on speaker?’

  ‘You’re on.’

  ‘Baptiste, hi. Maynard’s death was no accident. He didn’t lose control of his car. Looks like it was taken control of by a third party.’

  ‘You sure of that?’

  ‘I’d bet my next paycheck on it. I’ve had an idea, Brenn. If this is Koenig’s announcement that he is back in the game, then we have to find out how he knew the three of them were linked. Might be worth searching the dating sites. See if that’s the common thread.’

  ‘That could take a while,’ Brennan says.

  ‘I know, but there’s got to be some way Koenig could link his victims.’

  ‘I’ll give it a try.’

  ‘Thanks, Brenn. Baptiste, the clips shows Maynard’s car was hacked. Once the tech guys here confirm that then we are looking at murder. So tell me you can get that goddam search warrant.’

  ‘I hear you, Rose. Still going to need a court order issued by a federal magistrate and a sworn oath by you—’

  ‘OK, sure. But I can’t help thinking about all this time we’re wasting and knowing Koenig’s still out there. We can’t let him get away again.’

  ‘We won’t. Not this time,’ Baptiste says. ‘Sugar, listen. I know that by getting Koenig you think you can get some part of yourself back, I understand that, I do. But we need to keep cool heads. We need to show that the facts of the case support a search of Maynard’s home. These videos will help. Hang in there. I’m working as fast as I can.’

  50.

  Two hours later, Rose is finally given the court order to search Maynard’s apartment in Temple Hills. It is an expensive neighbourhood, as she had anticipated. The kind of place where the bigger wheels of the nation’s political elite stay during the week before heading off to their New England mansions for the weekend. The Koenig connection pushed the application to the top of the pile. Rose insists on going inside alone, so there are no distractions, and Caviezel reluctantly complies, provided he is cc’d in on any evidence found for us
e by the local office. Caviezel waits in the car.

  Rose is wearing rubber gloves and uses the keys found on the body to gain access. She steps into the apartment. The heating is on and it feels warm and cosy. There are photos hanging on the walls and a coat rack in the entrance hall. She continues into a large open-plan living room and kitchen. By the curved TV she notices a small drinks stand with a bottle of single malt whisky. There are photos of Maynard with his arms around the shoulders of two teenage girls, who Rose assumes are his daughters. Moving through some glass partition doors she enters a home office, furnished with a dark wood desk and a large desktop monitor, keyboard and mouse. She taps the space bar and the monitor fades into a login screen, prompting her for a password. She gives a frustrated sigh.

  She peers beneath the desk. There is a heavy-duty black shredder. Its receptacle is empty.

  She exits the apartment to check in the shared utility area. There’s no sign of shredded paper.

  Heading back into the apartment, Rose enters the main bedroom and slides open the wardrobe. Inside is an extensive range of two-piece suits – black, navy, charcoal, pinstripe – and below, several pairs of shoes.

  There has to be something here. She sits down in Maynard’s leather office chair, tries to see the room from his point of view. Through the window she can see the street below, and she peers over to look. As she moves, her eye is drawn to a gap between the back of the desk and the radiator. There seems to be a suit carrier folded in half, wedged down the gap.

  She pulls it up and lays it on the table. She’s pretty sure she knows what it is. It’s a good six feet long, and whatever is inside feels flexible. She unzips the crumpled carrier and inside, on a hanger, is a fully intact Skin – like Coulter’s, like Shaw’s.

  A working prototype might reveal plenty of useful information and leads.

  Rose calls Baptiste to arrange the transfer of evidence into San Francisco’s custody for the time being.

  When she finishes the call, she notices a tiny green light glowing next to what appears to be a small built-in camera on Maynard’s desktop computer monitor. She isn’t sure if it was on earlier, and she shivers at the thought that someone is watching her. Maybe it’s time to leave.

  As she is about to exit the apartment, the ring of a telephone shatters the stillness. Rose flinches.

  The phone continues to ring on the kitchen sideboard and she stands still but her mind is racing.

  Should I answer it?

  She reaches out her gloved hand, picks up the receiver. There’s silence.

  ‘Hello?

  ‘Hello,’ she repeats more firmly. ‘Who is this?’

  There is faint electronic static.

  ‘You . . . sound . . . afraid,’ a voice says so softly it is hard to know if it is male or female.

  Then the line goes dead.

  Rose listens to the buzzing of the dial tone for some time before replacing the handset.

  Suddenly she wants to be anywhere but here. She zips up the suit carrier and leaves the apartment, locking the door behind her.

  ‘Did you find what you were looking for?’ Caviezel asks, before he notices the plastic bundle under Rose’s arm. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘You’ll know soon enough.’

  Returning to the Hoover Building, she signs out Maynard’s Skin to process at the San Francisco office, promising to keep Caviezel updated. He offers to drive her to Ronald Reagan Airport. In the back of the car, Rose rests her head on the corner of the window, dead beat. Rain streaks the glass. Her smartphone pings.

  It’s a text from Baptiste.

  Koenig’s site – new activity is going public. Guess one of his subscribers felt the urge to make the thing go viral.

  Shit. The case is about to get a whole lot worse.

  51.

  Jeff finishes putting the plates from the evening meal in the dishwasher. His preparations for the next TV debate are on track, and he’s got a frantic round of last-minute fundraisers to attend in the next week. He is secretly pleased that Rose is away in Washington. It gives him time to try out his new toy, which arrived first thing that morning. When the dishwasher is set, he commands the downstairs lights off and heads up to the bedroom. Peering round Robbie’s door, Jeff sees his son sitting on the bed reading a paperback, the lamp by his desk on. Jeff raps on the door.

  ‘Hey, Robbo, whatcha readin’?’

  Robbie holds up the book. ‘Something about dreaming androids. It’s pretty cool, actually. Ms Steiner said I should read it . . . I’m trying to do good, Dad.’

  ‘I know, son . . . I’m just gonna be in the study for a while. Working. Try not to disturb me, OK?’

  Robbie nods, shifts his eyes back to the book.

  Jeff quietly paces further down the hall into the main bedroom. On the floor is the WS package. All over the United States he knows there will be millions of people eagerly trying WadeSoft’s latest wonder. He feels guilty that he went ahead and ordered it, but puts that thought aside.

  Rose will find out eventually. But I’m allowed a little fun, aren’t I? A chance to be better than real?

  Jeff takes the package, heads into the study, closing the door behind him. He feels like a kid on Christmas Day. He slits open the adhesive seal.

  That new smell, of mysterious plastics, greets his nose and he stares down at the one-piece body suit, shrink-wrapped and neatly nestled in grey protective foam. Next to it is the head sock and visor, also placed in designated slots, along with charging unit, Skin drive and two cables. Jeff runs his fingers over the Skin, marvelling at its unique texture. It is firm, but more pliable than a wetsuit, able to adapt to the user’s body size.

  He lifts it out, placing it on the back of his leather chair. He strips down to his boxer shorts, unzips the U-shaped zipper on the back. He slides his right leg down the pant leg and into the right foot. The suit feels strangely cool on his skin. He slides his left foot in, pulling and sliding the pant up to his waist. Then he stoops his head to push it through the narrow neck hole. It closes in perfectly around his neck. Very comfortable.

  He eases into the rest of the suit and pulls the U-zipper. It’s a little tight at first but he gradually tugs it round. Excitement tingles in his veins. The uncertainty, the expectation, the anticipation, the adrenalin – a volatile cocktail of sensory overload. He hopes this new technology will not be like the cruddy versions of VR that have gone before and leave you feeling cheated.

  His gloved fingers pick up the separate head sock – like a ribbed balaclava – and he slides that over his face. He lifts out the Sight, a lightweight aluminium visor with black tinted glass that covers the eyes, with ear buds on each side. He slots the visor on and inserts the ear buds. There’s a note in the packaging that states the suit arrives fully charged and with no instructions to read – the system tutorial is all that is needed. Jeff taps the tiny button on the top of the Sight. The screen of the glasses flickers on and blue text appears:

  WadeSoft Developments Present

  Innovation. Design. Integration.

  Welcome to the Skin.

  Please turn Skin drive on.

  You idiot.

  Jeff feels mildly stupid clad in this black rubber suit. He unpacks the small black Skin drive. There’s a cable from it that presumably must be connected to the suit somehow. He remembers seeing an interface slot on the back of the head sock and pushes the cable plug in. He presses the power button on the drive and powers up his home computer. It’s a simple procedure to make the Bluetooth connection.

  Interfacing with Skin drive . . .

  Jeff watches as the Sight clicks into a high-definition crystalline focus that doesn’t quite seem real. It looks clearer than real life and the lenses adjust to Jeff’s own short-sighted optical prescription. He can now see the whole of his study in perfect focus: the clutter
ed dark oak desk, the view from his window down the avenue.

  Interfacing with Skin drive . . .

  The suit quivers and ripples, adjusting to sit as close to Jeff’s body as possible. It’s disconcerting at first, but soon it feels like a cool film sitting on top of his skin. He’s barely aware of it.

  Interfacing complete.

  Awesome.

  The boot sequence continues in the background as the corporate logo rotates in front of him. Then biometrics detailing his heart rate and focal lens prescription flash onto his heads-up display. It feels like the menus and screens are inside his eyes.

  Log in to StreamPlex? You can use voice commands.

  ‘Yes,’ Jeff says clearly.

  Sign in with Facebook?

  ‘Yes.’

  Create user name?

  ‘Yes.’

  A translucent blue keyboard appears in midair. Jeff moves his gloved hand towards it, impressed. He pauses, then types JeffRules.

  Confirmed.

  Set password?

  Jeff adds in the additional details. A lengthy Terms and Conditions screen appears, which he ticks without reading. Next is a health check, which presumably hooks up to some database. After a few minutes, Jeff clears this section and is presented with an options screen.

  Enable adult streams?

  He taps Confirm.

  Please remain still.

  Final Skin sync in progress . . .

  The suit creeps with life. Jeff can feel all the sensors making contact with his skin and his own receptors deep in his body. He feels his body flash cool and then warm all at once. There’s a sudden tingling sensation; a bright flare of blue light, a blast of white noise and the unexpected taste and smell of salty air.

  Welcome to the Entry Pool.

  Jeff blinks, his momentary disorientation readjusting to awe. He sighs at the pleasing, cool sensation. He is no longer in his study. He is standing on a sandy beach. He can feel each grain of sand nestling under the soles of his feet. Looking up, he can see a perfect blue, cloudless sky. He can even feel the sun warming his cheeks. He stoops down, scrapes up some sand from the beach, spreads it across his fingers. He can feel every particle of grit. He takes some steps towards the ocean. The cool rush of the surf laps at his feet, his shins, his waist, further and further. A shiver of pleasure shoots through him, his body sinking into the cool sea.