“Probably he is,” Bernstein muttered. “But that’s not my worry.”
“I’ll ride point on this one, sir. Something goes bad, it can all come down on me. Nobody else at headquarters’s got to take any heat.”
Patricia Nolan joined them and said, “Captain, stopping this guy’s going to take more than fingerprints and canvassing witnesses.”
Shelton sighed. “Welcome to the new fucking millennium.”
Bernstein reluctantly nodded to Bishop. “Okay, you got the case. You’ll have full tactical and crime scene backup. And pick some people from Homicide in San Jose to help you.”
“Huerto Ramirez and Tim Morgan,” Bishop said without hesitating. “I’d like them here ASAP if you could arrange that, sir. I want to brief everybody.”
The captain called HQ to summon the detectives here. He hung up. “They’re on their way.”
Bernstein then broke the news to Susan Wilkins and, more perplexed than upset at the loss of the new assignment, she left. The captain asked Bishop, “You want to move the operation back to headquarters?”
Bishop said, “No, we’ll stay here, sir.” He nodded toward a row of computer screens. “This’s where we’ll do most of the work, I’ve got a feeling.”
“Well, good luck, Frank.”
Bishop said to the troopers who’d come to take Gillette back to San Ho, “You can take the cuffs off.”
One of the men did this then he pointed at the hacker’s leg. “How ’bout the anklet?”
“No,” Bishop said, offering a very uncharacteristic smile. “I think we’ll keep that on.”
A short while later two men joined the team in CCU: a broad, swarthy Latino who was extremely muscular, Gold’s Gym muscular, and a tall, sandy-haired detective in one of those stylish four-button men’s suits, dark shirt and dark tie. Bishop introduced Huerto Ramirez and Tim Morgan, the detectives from headquarters Bishop had requested.
“Now, I’d like to say a word,” Bishop said, tucking his unruly shirt into his slacks and stepping in front of the team. He looked over everybody, holding their gazes for a moment. “This fellow we’re after—he’s somebody who’s perfectly willing to kill anybody in his way and that includes law enforcers and innocents. He’s an expert at social engineering.” A glance toward the newcomers, Ramirez and Morgan. “Which is basically disguise and diversion. So it’s important that you continually remind yourself what we know about him.”
Bishop continued his low, unhesitant monologue. “I think we have enough confirmation to place him in his late twenties. He’s medium build, maybe blond but probably dark haired, clean shaven but sometimes disguised with fake facial hair. He prefers a Ka-bar as a murder weapon and wants to get close enough to his victims to inflict a fatal chest wound. He can break into the phone company and interrupt service or transfer calls. He can hack into law enforcement computers”—Gillette now received a glance—“excuse me, crack into computers and destroy police records. He likes challenges, he thinks of killing as a game. He’s spent a lot of time on the East Coast and he’s somewhere in the Silicon Valley area but we have no exact locale. We think he’s bought some items for his disguises at a theatrical supply store on Camino Real in Mountain View. He’s a progressive, lust-driven sociopath who’s lost touch with reality and is treating what he’s doing like it’s some big computer game.”
Gillette was astonished. The detective’s back was to the white-board as he recited all of this information. The hacker realized that he’d misjudged the man. All the time Bishop had seemed to stare absently out the window or at the floor he’d been absorbing the evidence.
Bishop lowered his head but kept his eyes on them all. “I’m not going to lose anybody else on this team. So watch your backs and don’t trust another living soul—even people you think you know. Go on this assumption: Nothing is what it seems to be.”
Gillette found himself nodding, along with the others.
“Now—about his victims . . . We know that he’s going after people who’re hard to get close to. People with bodyguards and security systems. The harder to get to, the better. We’ll have to keep that in mind when we’re trying to anticipate him. We’re going to keep to the general plan for the investigation. Huerto and Tim, I want you two to run the Anderson crime scene in Palo Alto. Canvass everybody you can find in and around Milliken Park. Bob and I didn’t get a chance to find that witness who might’ve seen the killer’s vehicle outside the restaurant where Ms. Gibson was killed. That’s what he and I’ll do. And, Wyatt, you’re going to head up the computer side of the investigation.”
Gillette shook his head, not sure he’d understood Bishop correctly. “I’m sorry?”
“You,” Bishop responded, “are going to head up the computer side of the investigation.” No further explanation. Stephen Miller said nothing though his eyes stared coldly at the hacker as he continued to pointlessly rearrange the sloppy piles of disks and paperwork on his desk.
Bishop asked, “Should we be worried about him listening to our phones? I mean, that’s how he killed Andy.”
Patricia Nolan replied, “It’s a risk, I suppose, but the killer’d have to monitor hundreds of frequencies for the numbers of our cell phones.”
“I agree,” Gillette said. “And even if he cracked the switch he’d have to sit with a headset all day long, listening to our conversations. Doesn’t sound like he’s got the time to do that. In the park he was close to Andy. That’s how he got his specific frequency.”
Besides, as it turned out there wasn’t much to do about the risk. Miller explained that, while the CCU did have a scrambler, it would only work when the caller on the other end of the line had a scrambler as well. As for secure cell phones, Miller explained, “They’re five thousand bucks each.” And said nothing more. Meaning, apparently, that such toys weren’t in the CCU budget and never would be.
Bishop then sent Ramirez and the GQ cop, Tim Morgan, to Palo Alto. After they’d left, Bishop asked Gillette, “You were telling Andy that you thought you could find out more about how this killer got into Ms. Gibson’s computer?”
“That’s right. Whatever this guy is doing has to’ve caused some buzz in the hacker underground. What I’ll do is go online and—”
Bishop nodded to a workstation. “Just do what you have to do and give us a report in a half hour.”
“Just like that?” Gillette asked.
“Make it less if you can. Twenty minutes.”
“Uhm.” Stephen Miller stirred.
“What is it?” the detective asked him.
Gillette was expecting the cybercop to make a comment about his demotion. But that wasn’t what he had in mind. “The thing is,” Miller protested, “Andy said he wasn’t ever supposed to go online. And then there’s that court order that said he couldn’t. It was part of his sentencing.”
“That’s all true,” Bishop said, eyes scanning the white-board. “But Andy’s dead and the court isn’t running this case. I am.” He glanced over at Gillette with a look of polite impatience. “So I’d appreciate it if you’d get going.”
CHAPTER 00001011 / ELEVEN
Wyatt Gillette settled himself in the cheap office chair. He was in a dim workstation cubicle in the back of the CCU, quiet, away from the others on the team.
Staring at the blinking cursor on the screen, he rolled the chair closer and wiped his hands on his pants. Then his callused fingertips rose and began pounding furiously on the black keyboard. His eyes never left the screen. Gillette knew the location of every character and symbol on the keyboard and touch-typed 110 words a minute with perfect accuracy. When he was starting to hack years ago he found that eight fingers were too slow so he’d taught himself a new keyboarding technique in which he used his thumbs on certain keys too, not just reserving them for the space bar.
He was weak otherwise, but his forearms and fingers were pure muscle; in prison, where most inmates spend hours lifting iron in the yard, Gillette had done only fingertip push-ups to stay
in shape for his passion. Now, the plastic keyboard danced under his hammering as he prepared to go online.
Most of today’s Internet is a combination shopping mall, USA Today, multiplex cinema and amusement park. Browsers and search engines are populated with cartoon characters and decorated with pretty pictures (plenty of those damn ads too). The point-and-click technology of the mouse can be mastered by a three-year-old. Simpleminded Help menus await at every new window. This is the Internet as packaged for the public through the glossy façade of the commercialized World Wide Web.
But the real Internet—the Internet of the true hacker, lurking behind the Web—is a wild, raw place, where hackers use complicated commands, telnet utilities and communications software stripped bare as a dragster to sail throughout the world at, literally, the speed of light.
This is what Wyatt Gillette was about to do.
There was a preliminary matter to take care of, though. A mythological wizard wouldn’t go off on a quest without his magic wands and book of spells and potions; computer wizards have to do the same.
One of the first skills hackers learn is the art of hiding software. Since you have to assume that an enemy hacker, if not the police or FBI, will at some point seize or destroy your machine, you never leave the only copy of your tools on your hard drive and backup disks in your home.
You hide them in a distant computer, one that has no link to you.
Most hackers store their stash in university computers because their security is notoriously lacking. But Gillette had spent years working on his software tools, writing code from scratch in many cases, as well as modifying existing programs to suit his needs. It’d be a tragedy for him to lose all that work—and pure hell for many of the world’s computer users since Gillette’s programs would help even a mediocre hacker crack into nearly any corporate or government site.
So he cached his tools in a slightly more secure location than the data-processing department of Dartmouth or the University of Tulsa. With a glance behind him now to make sure that no one was “shoulder surfing”—standing behind him and reading the screen—he typed a command and linked the CCU’s computer with another one several states away. After a moment these words scrolled onto the screen:
Welcome to the United States Air Force Los Alamos Nuclear Weapons Research Facility
#Username?
In response to this request he typed Jarmstrong. Gillette’s father’s name was John Armstrong Gillette. It was generally a bad idea for a hacker to pick a screen name or username that had any connection with his real life but he’d allowed himself this one concession to his human side.
The computer then asked:
#Password?
He typed 4%xTtfllk5$$60%4Q, which was, unlike the username, pure, stone-cold hacker. This series of characters had been excruciating to memorize (part of his mental daily calisthenics in prison was recalling two dozen passwords as long as this one) but it would be impossible for someone to guess and, because it was seventeen characters long, would take a supercomputer weeks to crack. An IBM-clone personal computer would have to work continuously for hundreds of years before it spit out a password this complicated.
The cursor blinked for a moment then the screen shifted and he read:
Welcome, Capt. J. Armstrong
In three minutes he’d downloaded a number of files from the fictional Captain Armstrong’s account. His weaponry included the famous SATAN program (the Security Administer Tool for Analyzing Networks, used by both sysadmins and hackers to check the “hackability” of computer networks), several breaking and entering programs that would let him grab root access on various types of machines and networks, a custom-made Web browser and newsreader, a cloaking program to hide his presence while he was in someone else’s computer and which would delete traces of his activities when he logged off, sniffer programs that would “sniff out”—find—usernames, passwords and other helpful information on the Net or in someone’s computer, a communications program to send that data back to him, encryption programs and lists of hacker Web sites and anonymizer sites (commercial services that would in effect launder e-mails and messages so that the recipient couldn’t trace Gillette).
The last of the tools he downloaded was a program he’d hacked together a few years ago, HyperTrace, which could track down other users on the Net.
With these tools downloaded onto a high-capacity disk Gillette logged out of the Los Alamos site. He paused for a moment, flexed his fingers and then sat forward. Pounding on the keys with the subtlety of a sumo wrestler once more, Gillette entered the Net. He began in the multiuser domains because of the killer’s apparent motivation—playing a Real World version of the infamous Access game. No one Gillette queried on the subject, however, had played Access or knew anyone who had—or so they claimed. Still, Gillette came away with a few leads.
From the MUDs he moved to the World Wide Web, which everyone talks about but few could define. The WWW is simply an international network of computers, accessed through special computer protocols that let users see graphics and hear sounds and leap through a Web site, and to other sites, by simply clicking on certain places on their screen—hyperlinks. Prior to the Web most of the information on the Net was in text form and navigating from one site to another was extremely cumbersome. The Web is still in its adolescence, having been born a little over a decade ago at CERN, the Swiss physics institute.
Gillette searched through the underground hacking sites on the Web—the eerie, Tenderloin districts of the Net. Gaining entry to some of these sites required an answer to an esoteric question on hacking, finding and clicking on a microscopic dot on the screen or supplying a passcode. None of these barriers, though, barred Wyatt Gillette for more than a minute or two.
From site to site to site, losing himself further and further in the Blue Nowhere, prowling through computers that might have been in Moscow or Cape Town or Mexico City. Or right next door in Cupertino or Santa Clara.
Gillette sped through this world so quickly that he was reluctant to take his fingers off the keys for fear of losing his stride. So rather than jotting notes with pen and paper, as most hackers did, he copied material he thought was useful and pasted it into a word-processing window he kept open on the screen.
From the Web he searched the Usenet—the collection of 80,000 newsgroups, in which people interested in a particular subject can post messages, pictures, programs, movies and sound clips. Gillette scoured the classic hacking newsgroups like alt.2600, alt.hack, alt.virus and alt.binaries.hacking.utilities, cutting and pasting whatever seemed relevant. He found references to dozens of newsgroups that hadn’t existed when he’d gone to jail. He jumped to those groups, scrolled through them and found mention of still others.
More scrolling, more reading, more cutting and pasting.
A snap under his fingers and on the screen he saw:
mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm
One of his powerful keystrokes had jammed the keyboard, which had often happened when he’d been hacking. Gillette unplugged it, tossed it on the floor behind him, hooked up another one and started typing again.
He then moved to the Internet Relay Chat rooms. The IRC was an unregulated no-holds-barred series of networks where you could find real-time discussions among people who had similar interests. You typed your comment, hit the ENTER key and your words appeared on the screens of everyone who was logged into the room at that time. He logged into the room #hack (the rooms were designated by a number sign followed by a descriptive word). It was in this same room where, as a young hacker, he’d spent thousands of hours, sharing information, arguing and joking with fellow hackers around the world.
After the IRC Gillette began searching through the BBS, bulletin boards which are like Web sites but can be accessed for only the cost of a local phone call—no Internet service provider is required. Many were legitimate but many others—with names like DeathHack and Silent Spring—were the darkest parts of the online world. Completely unre
gulated and unmonitored, these were the places to go for recipes for bombs and poisonous gases and debilitating computer viruses that would wipe out the hard drives of half the population of the world.
Following the leads—losing himself in Web sites, newsgroups, chat rooms and archives. Hunting . . .
This is what lawyers do when they paw through hoary old shelves searching for that one case that will save their client from execution, what sportsmen do easing through the grass toward where they thought they heard the snarl of a bear, what lovers do seeking the core of each other’s lust. . . .
Except that hunting in the Blue Nowhere isn’t like searching library stacks or a field of tall grass or your mate’s smooth flesh; it’s like prowling through the entire ever-expanding universe, which contains not only the known world and its unshared mysteries but worlds past and worlds yet to come.
Endless.
Snap.
He had broken another key—the all-important E. Gillette flung this keyboard into the corner of the cubicle, where it joined its dead friend.
He plugged in a new one and kept going.
At 2:30 P.M. Gillette emerged from the cubicle. His back was racked with pure fiery pain from sitting frozen in one place. Yet he could still feel the exhilarating rush from that brief time he’d spent online and the fierce reluctance at leaving the machine.
In the main part of the CCU he found Bishop talking with Shelton; the others were on telephones or standing around the white-board, looking over the evidence. Bishop noticed Gillette first and fell silent.
“I’ve found something,” the hacker said, holding up a stack of printouts.
“Tell us.”
“Dumb it down,” Shelton reminded. “What’s the bottom line?”
“The bottom line,” Gillette responded, “is that there’s somebody named Phate. And we’ve got a real problem.”
CHAPTER 00001100 / TWELVE
“Fate?” Frank Bishop asked.
Gillette said, “That’s his username—his screen name. Only he spells it p-h-a-t-e. Like p-h phishing, remember? The way hackers do.”
The Blue Nowhere: A Novel Page 10
