Carolina Crimes

by Karen Pullen

  In VIC, he was in complete control, but tomorrow he would have to do Martin’s bidding.

  * * * *

  The next morning, Sam arrived at work later than usual, delaying the inevitable for as long as possible. He paused outside the lobby and squared his shoulders, taking one long, slow breath. Primed, he strode through the entryway and called out “Good morning” to the receptionist. She shook her head and gestured toward the lobby’s waiting area.

  Two men rose from the couch and walked toward him. Both were fiftyish, both dressed in slacks, white button-down shirts, and sport coats.

  The taller man spoke. “Sam Breske? I’m Detective Rob Cresslar of the Raleigh PD and this is Josh Moore of the SBI’s Computer Crimes Unit. May we have a word with you, somewhere private?” They flashed their badges, their faces serious. Too serious. Was his team playing a joke on him, and at the worst possible time?

  Sam led them to a small conference room on the lobby floor. “What’s this about?”

  “Martin Harrison died last night in his home. Apparent heart attack,” Cresslar said.

  Remembering how triumphant he’d felt standing over the VIC Martin’s body, Sam felt shameful, almost guilty. “Oh my God, that’s awful.”

  “Mr. Harrison’s death occurred while he was playing VIC,” said Moore. “Seems the simulation was too realistic for him. Something your software was supposed to detect, right? Shut the game down and signal for help? Thing is, emergency services never received a distress call from Harrison’s address.”

  Sam shook his head. “That doesn’t make sense. We’ve never had reports of issues with the HMC.”

  “We had his game unit checked out,” said Moore. “It was the current version with no signs of tampering. We also found he was in Group Play mode with you when he died. Want to tell us about that?”

  Alarmed, Sam started to protest but stopped himself. He glanced from one detective to the other, searching their faces. “I don’t think I should answer any more questions without my lawyer.”

  Cresslar raised both hands as if to protest. “Relax, you’re not under arrest. Martin had a bad heart and his HMC seemed to have a glitch. How the glitch happened is the question no one seems to be able to answer. We thought it might have been hacked, but you built a firewall around the HMC to prevent that, didn’t you? You’re free to go unless there’s something you want to tell us.”

  Sam shook his head no, hoping his calm expression didn’t betray his conflicted feelings: guilt mixed with curiosity. Whatever happened to Martin’s HMC?

  * * * *

  After his exchange with the police, Sam went back to work on his current project, carefully avoiding conversations with his team about Martin’s death. Sam couldn’t be sure where the project or his team’s future lay, so he thought it was best to carry on until he heard differently.

  The next day, Bryce summoned Sam to Martin’s office. As Martin’s heir, she had taken over the privately held company. He found her sitting behind the oversized desk, intently flipping through documents. He knocked politely on the open door.

  She looked up from her papers and smiled. “Hi Sam, come on in.”

  “Sorry to hear about Martin.”

  She nodded. “Thank you. It was a shock.”

  “I wasn’t expecting to see you in the office so soon.”

  “I’d rather be here. SimTech was Martin’s baby. I want to take care of it for him.”

  He shifted from one foot to the other, nodding to show he understood. “I don’t know what could’ve gone wrong with his HMC. Maybe if I take a look at it, I can find out.”

  Bryce fidgeted with the documents in front of her. “Listen, it was a glitch. It happens, even in the best software. Don’t blame yourself. I tried to warn him about the violence in VIC, but he wouldn’t listen.”

  Sam remembered their argument he’d overheard two days ago, the day Martin died. Ironic, that VIC was both Martin’s greatest triumph and the cause of his death. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

  “Yes. I’m still going to bring the green team on board and I need you to get them up to speed on your current project.”

  His heart sunk. She was no different from Martin. “Damn it, Bryce. My team’s the best asset this company has. They’re not replaceable by a bunch of twenty-year-olds.”

  “Hold on. I know Martin wanted to let your team go, but I think that’s a mistake. I have a new assignment for your team I think you’ll find much more challenging.”

  She wanted to save his team? “That’s fantastic. What is it?”

  “I want to replace the violence in VIC with simulated sex play. Your team will develop a full body skin suit to go along with it that’ll increase the intensity of the action within the game.” She grinned. “Can you imagine? Players can have simulated sex with anyone they choose. All they need is a photograph or a willing Group Play partner.”

  Sam’s first instinct was to defend VIC, but given the circumstances of Martin’s death, he thought better of it. Later they could discuss the viability of making both games available to the public. “Given the lucrative business of porn, it would sell, that’s for sure.”

  The smile on Bryce’s face spread wider. Sam found her cheerfulness the day after Martin’s death odd, but her enthusiasm about the new project was catching, and he couldn’t help but grin in return.

  “Exactly what I was thinking. And I know you tested VIC’s earlier releases with Reggie, but if you’d prefer a different partner, given the type of sim play we’re talking here, I’d be glad to volunteer. We’ve worked well together in the past, don’t you think?”

  Sam felt heat rise to his cheeks. “We’d still have to worry about over-stimulation of the gamers.”

  Bryce burst into laughter. “Oh, right. But we’d still utilize the HMC, just in case.”

  At the mention of the HMC, his embarrassment waned. “About that—we need to figure out the bug in Martin’s game. If there are more cases, it won’t matter what we come up with next.”

  Her merry expression faded. “I don’t think there will be more cases. It was just a one-time glitch. With preparing the newbies and getting your team started on the sim-sex game, you’ll have no time to look into a singular problem.”

  How could she be so sure it would never occur again? Then it hit him. Bryce knew the HMC as well as he did. “Still, Martin’s death should have been prevented by the software we both worked on. I can’t have that hanging over my head without knowing what happened. Can you?”

  Bryce’s smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Martin always said you were too honorable for your own good.”

  Sam kept his voice even. “I’m sure he didn’t mean it as a compliment.”

  “No, he didn’t.” Her voice was neutral but her expression was cold.

  “Then I’ll research the bug myself, on my own time. The others can start prepping the new project. By the time we’re ready to hit the ground running, I’m sure I’ll have it all worked out. Let’s make sure VIC is safe.”

  A chilly silence. Then Bryce said, “All right, Sam, if that’s how you feel. When are you going to start?”

  “Tonight.”

  Bryce leaned back in the black leather chair and made a tent with her fingers. Just like Martin used to do. Maybe it was a CEO thing.

  * * * *

  That night, Sam slid into his simulation chair and maneuvered into his equipment. With the head-mounted display in place, he set the scenario to return to his previous game, still in Group Play mode. Inside the game, he could enter Developer mode and review the processes that had been called earlier.

  On his screen appeared the code for the mansion scene where Martin died. He quickly found where Martin had entered the game in Group Play. Sam reviewed the code line by line until he noticed calls to an unfamiliar procedure. Sensate. Martin’s HMC had been hacked. “What the hell is Sensate?” he whispered, enlarging the phantom screen.

  He focused so intently on searching VIC’s code for t
he rogue procedure that he almost didn’t hear the front door open. A new player had entered his game. Bryce. Sam wasn’t surprised to see her. He had begun to suspect that she had altered the HMC code, and she’d known he was studying it.

  “You found it,” she said.

  “Yeah, but what does it do?”

  Bryce beamed. “Sensate will be fantastic in the new sim-sex game. I used medical theories behind the phenomenon of phantom limbs, where patients who’d lost limbs could still feel them, even years later. I’ve been able to recreate that effect through software. It fools the gamer’s brain into not only visualizing the action, but feeling it.”

  Sam recoiled in horror. “You mean Martin felt everything that happened in our game last night?”

  “I wanted to give him a taste of the pain that VIC had caused others. Teach him a lesson. I never meant for him to die.”

  “VIC doesn’t cause pain, but your new coding does. And worse, it kills.”

  “Martin’s death was—”

  “Collateral damage?”

  “I’d say an accident, maybe for the best. He would never have let us reduce the violence in VIC. Once we use the game to promote love instead of hate, crime rates will go down, and everyone wins in the long run.”

  “You’re talking about lust, not love. You’re substituting one base impulse for another.”

  “I wish you’d left this alone, Sam. I thought we were going to be great together, just like the old days.” She drew a 9 mm pistol from her jacket and pointed it at Sam. “Before I entered your game, I inserted Sensate into it. I’m sorry it’s come to this.”

  Bryce’s hand shook as she squeezed the trigger and the bullet only grazed Sam’s shoulder. As he felt its bite turn into a slow burn, he was amazed. How was it possible that Sensate-enhanced VIC could trick his brain so completely, so convincingly? The pain was real. Agonizing.

  But he was in control, in Developer mode. Before Bryce could fire again, Sam shut the game down. His pain vanished. Astonishing.

  He had enough to take to the police. But what could they charge her with? Being a fucking genius? And a madwoman, who’d converted virtual death into murder.

  As the game faded, his head-mounted display turned dark and a single message appeared. “GAME OVER. WOULD YOU LIKE TO RESTART?”

  Maybe tomorrow, after Bryce was arrested. He was eager to tinker with VIC. If Sensate’s brain probes or stimulants—whatever they were—created actual pain in a gamer’s mind, what possibilities existed for pleasure!

  Bryce was a genius. A realistic sim-sex game could take over the world. He smiled, realizing the irony. He’d have to test it with a different woman.

  Computers weren’t allowed in prison.

  WITCH HUNT, by Tamara Ward

  The day after fire gutted The Pleasure Chest, the regulars at John’s Pub & Grill stopped by the bar for a witch hunt, though if John asked them they’d deny it and say they came for a celebration. But he knew it was a witch hunt, even though his patrons downed drinks and spread smiles and slapped each other’s backs like the time three years ago when the town’s high school football team beat the boys from the big city.

  Breaking a sweat as he filled glasses from behind the bar, John knew he ought to feel grateful for the boost in revenue; spring business typically dragged. Instead of allowing his customers’ mood to buoy him, instead of soaking in the smell of draft beer and used dollar bills, he concentrated on maintaining his mask of benign indifference, on playing his role of aloof bartender. His jaw ached from clenching.

  “So what do you think about the arson?” Nattie asked for the third time, still poking at him, trying to get the perfect opening quote for her article in the South Wake Herald, the local newspaper, which came out every Tuesday afternoon and consisted of exactly one section—usually eight pages, but on special occasions up to twelve. “What alerted you to the fire?” She pushed an incompliant curl behind her ear with a stubby finger. Everything about Nattie seemed stubby today—her double chin, her pale powdered nose, her muffin-top belly insufficiently contained by her skirt’s elastic waistband. “It’s my understanding the fire began at about 3:30 a.m.,” she said. “Don’t you think it’s miraculous Darrel wasn’t hurt?”

  John stifled a groan. Nattie’s questions mirrored those repeated by everyone in the pub—“When did the fire start?” “How did you notice it?” “Who do you think started it?” Even the town’s one police detective dropped by John’s Pub & Grill, asking John more of the same questions, before ordering a diet coke and hunkering in a back corner. The detective was getting an earful, liquor loosening tongues as the townsfolk mined each other for information to determine who set the fire while pretending to celebrate the demolition of The Pleasure Chest. No one knew anything helpful, or if they did they kept it quiet. But somehow, they all knew it was arson and they all knew John had been the one to call in the fire.

  Even though John’s customers claimed to disapprove of Darrel’s carnal merchandise, quite a few had shopped there. But admitting their patronage would ignite their own social lives and livelihoods. The Pleasure Chest was like a Venus fly trap. In a town where so much depended on image, no one could afford to be caught inside Darrel’s store, even as so many found it irresistible.

  The Pleasure Chest had opened half a year ago, causing immediate uproar throughout the community, and not just because Darrel was the first man of color to open a business in the downtown strip. A sex shop in the historic downtown? How could the board of commissioners allow it to happen? And the store’s merchandise—was it even legal to sell?

  It was, and the commissioners scrambled to add language to zoning ordinances effectively banning any further such blights inside town borders. But Darrel’s shop, grandfathered in, remained open despite the clamor.

  “Did you see anything?” Nattie asked. Again.

  “I’m charging you for every one of those you order.” John jabbed his finger at the half drunk rum and coke, one of a steady stream she’d been gulping since she arrived. Nattie had been working the room, returning sporadically to John for more drinks and questions, but she’d finally settled herself at the bar and seemed to have turned her focus on John, her grand finale to the interviews, he supposed.

  “Don’t tell me you’re sad Darrel’s shop went up in flames,” Nattie said.

  “It’s the third time you’ve asked me the same questions in as many hours,” he said. And the first time she’d been in the pub since they’d broken off their relationship several months ago. John had given Natalie her nickname, for the way she constantly buzzed around people, not quite irritating enough for bug repellent, too springy to be swatted. But that was back when he hadn’t wanted to squash her like the pest she was. Back when he’d known no better than to assume Nattie’s loving was the best he’d get. Before he’d met Darrel.

  “You want a different question?” Nattie asked. John shook his head, but she pressed on. “Because I’m not stopping until I have something to print.”

  “I’ll give you something to print,” said Miss CeeCee, pushing her saggy-skinned elbow against Nattie, two drinks over her usual order and no lipstick left to smudge the rims of her Bloody Marys. “You can quote me: the blight is burned to cinders! Peace downtown is restored.”

  Miss CeeCee was right, John supposed. With Darrel’s shop gone, downtown would again be virtually indistinguishable from any other old small-town downtown in North Carolina, dotted with quiet brick storefronts selling the same quaint souvenirs and necessary wares, cars parallel parked on the gray, cracking pavement.

  Miss CeeCee, head of the women’s club and leader of historical preservation initiatives, had a past crammed full of contention, way back to her bra-burning days. She was always rallying against something. When Darrel’s store opened, she organized a letter-writing campaign to the state legislators and newspaper. But John had seen her sneak into Darrel’s store at least twice, furtively emerging with new bulges in her handbag.

  “Do you thi
nk it can be salvaged?” Nattie asked Miss CeeCee. “The building, not the business.”

  “Why would anyone want to?” Miss CeeCee waved her age-spotted fingers so close to Nattie’s face the reporter leaned back. “Didn’t match the rest of the storefronts, and just look at it now.”

  John glanced out his big front window, across Main Street to the soot-stained cinderblocks of the squat building. A hole in the roof gaped as wide as the storefront’s bay window—now shattered, revealing a blackened interior that used to be filled with intriguing merchandise. John, like Darrel and a few other downtown shop owners, lived in the same building as his business. Except John’s living quarters were above his pub, and Darrel’s, a room behind his store.

  “We’re finally free of that pustule!” Miss CeeCee said. “The eyesore building is now utterly impossible to save.”

  “With Christ, anything is possible,” Pastor Clyde said, rearranging his lanky body on a stool on Nattie’s other side. His gangly limbs elongated in the striped shirt and black slacks, Pastor Clyde reminded John of a heron—awkward curves and unexpected bends.

  Pastor Clyde had entered the pub earlier with a “Hallelujah!” that echoed off the aged brick walls. His church was within view just up the street, the white steeple scraping the boundless blue sky. After The Pleasure Chest opened, Pastor Clyde frequented John’s pub, scouting for souls drifting into temptation. He’d even organized picketers on Sunday afternoons to march in front of the store. A protest without teeth, since the downtown stores all closed on Sundays.

  “Christ,” Miss CeeCee said. “Christ wouldn’t be interested in resurrecting that store. He’d have it burn in hell, along with its owner.”

  John shook his head, but only Nattie noticed the gesture. Her eyes sparked—she’d found what she sought, a weakness to probe.