Game of Death

by David Hosp

  ‘It’s impressive, isn’t it?’ Tom says. It takes me a moment to realize that he’s talking to Killkenny, not me.

  ‘What are they doing?’ Killkenny asks.

  ‘Programming,’ Tom replies.

  ‘Programming what? The system’s finished, isn’t it? It’s up and working.’

  Tom lets out a little chuckle. ‘The system’s never finished. Not if we want it still to be relevant six months from now. Technology moves at light-speed, and no one who wants to survive can sit still. Our competitors are out there right now, trying to come up with something even more impressive than NextLife; something that will blow it out of the water. We have to beat them to whatever that is. If anyone is going to make our current technology obsolete, we want it to be us. We learned that from Steve Jobs. At most companies they’ll kill any new project that cannibalizes their most successful product lines. At Apple, they encourage it. It’s what keeps them fresh, keeps them sharp. We’re trying to emulate that here.’

  I can see Killkenny scanning the room, and his eyes light upon a large desk at the center of the room. It’s twice the size of any other desk, and it’s raised up so that the man sitting behind it can survey the entire room at a glance. The man in the chair is in his mid-fifties, with dark skin and thin, close-cropped gray hair. He has a serious, studious expression on his face as he scrutinizes two giant computer screens on his desk.

  ‘Who’s that?’ Killkenny asks.

  ‘That’s the Doc,’ Tom says. ‘Dr Santar Gunta. He’s the technological genius behind all of this.’ From a distance, Tom looks at Gunta with something like awe. ‘Do you want to meet him?’

  ‘I guess I have to,’ Killkenny says.

  We walk over to the center of the room. Next to the raised desk, nearly connected to it, is a smaller workstation. Sitting there is a strikingly attractive young man in his late twenties. He watches us as we walk toward them. He is thin, with dirty-blond hair and bright-blue eyes. He’s looking at us, seeming to evaluate each one of us.

  Gunta doesn’t look up from his work until we are standing next to his desk. I see that the desk actually rests on a platform nearly a foot off the ground. As a result, even seated, Gunta is almost looking us in the eyes when he turns and regards us with evident surprise.

  ‘Tom,’ he says, nodding to the company’s head of Revenue Generation. He looks at me with suspicion. ‘Nick.’ When his eyes fall on Yvette I can sense a hint of disgust at her presence. ‘What are you doing here?’ he asks us. His voice is quiet and self-possessed and has the gentle lilt of the small village in India where he was born and raised.

  ‘Doc, this man is with the police,’ Tom says. ‘Nick and Ms Jones are helping him with an investigation, and they need some information from you. Can we have a moment of your time to talk?’

  Gunta’s voice remains quiet, but I think I can sense some hesitation. ‘I have a great deal of work to do today,’ he says.

  ‘It won’t take too long, I don’t think,’ Tom says, trying to put Gunta at ease. The scientist doesn’t look convinced. ‘It’s important,’ Tom presses.

  ‘I have an office.’ He nods to the far corner of the floor, where there is a span of three doors. He stands and steps down from the platform where his desk sits. He’s a man of short stature, and stepping off the platform has a transformative impact. From his perch he seemed authoritative – imposing, even. Now he seems intimidated. He walks over to one of the doors, opens it and walks in. Killkenny, Tom, Yvette and I follow.

  Gunta’s office has a strange feel to it. The floor is the same bright tile as the main lab, the walls whitewashed, the windows framed by white, industrial treatments. His desk, though, is antique with elaborate inlay and a leather top. Behind it stands a matching credenza that reaches almost to the ceiling. Scattered throughout the many shelves are mementoes from the Far East.

  Gunta walks to the far side of the desk and sits. He waves toward the pair of metal and plastic chairs on the other side of the desk. Tom sits in one, Yvette in the other. Killkenny and I remain standing.

  ‘How can I help you?’ Gunta asks. I think I hear a slight quaver in his voice.

  ‘As I said,’ Tom begins, ‘Detective Killkenny is with the Boston Police Department. He’s investigating a murder.’

  ‘Three murders,’ Killkenny corrects Tom.

  ‘Yes, right,’ Tom agrees. ‘Three murders.’

  Dr Gunta’s expression changes only slightly. He seems less surprised than one might expect. ‘What do these murders have to do with me?’ he asks.

  ‘Nothing,’ Tom reassures Gunta quickly. ‘It’s just that all three victims seem to have a connection to NextLife. It could be a coincidence, but the police need to look into it, you understand.’ He seems almost apologetic in his approach to Gunta, and the computer genius stares back at him without expression.

  ‘We’re not sure it’s a coincidence,’ Killkenny says flatly.

  Gunta looks at me, and then at Yvette. ‘And what is your involvement in this?’ he asks us.

  ‘Nick and Ms Jones were the ones who discovered the connection. They did the right thing and notified us,’ Killkenny says.

  ‘Did they?’ He takes a breath. ‘Should Mr NetMaster be involved in this?’

  ‘He’s been informed, and I’m keeping him in the loop,’ I say. It’s only a partial lie. ‘I also spoke with Josh, so he’s fully aware of the situation.’ My tone is neutral, but my glare at Gunta is sharp. I respect the man’s abilities, but I’ve never fully trusted him. He returns my look with a sour expression.

  ‘Still, it might be better if he were here,’ he says. He picks up the phone on his desk and presses a button. ‘Michael, will you please have Mr NetMaster found and sent to my office?’ He hangs up quickly. The room is silent for a moment.

  ‘If it’s helpful, we can do this down at the station,’ Killkenny says. It’s clear that he is intent on reasserting control over the situation.

  ‘No, no,’ Tom says, ‘that’s not necessary.’ He looks at Gunta with a pleading expression. ‘We’re just looking for a little background. Dr Gunta will be happy to cooperate, right?’

  It takes a moment for Gunta to nod slowly. ‘What connection do these women have to NextLife?’ he asks.

  ‘All three were prototypes from our original sessions,’ Tom says. ‘I wasn’t involved in the process, other than that I signed the contracts, so I thought it would be helpful to have some background from you.’

  Gunta looks at Killkenny. ‘What is it that you would like to know?’

  ‘Well, first of all, what the fuck is a prototype?’

  ‘There’s no need for swearing, Detective,’ Tom says sharply.

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ Killkenny shoots back. ‘Three girls are dead. Seems to me that justifies some choice language.’

  ‘It is okay, Tom,’ Gunta says quietly. He looks at Killkenny. ‘A prototype is a model we used as a baseline for creating our library of avatars for the system.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ Killkenny asks.

  ‘It means exactly what I said.’ Gunta is quiet for a moment and then rolls his eyes slightly. ‘Computers only function based on the information that is fed to them. No one would be able to create a convincing avatar from scratch; the computer would have no effective frame of reference. Oh, if you were skilled you could create the kinds of avatars they have in video games – those that look somewhat lifelike and mildly realistic. But that has never been our goal. Our goal has always been to create a world that is virtually indistinguishable from reality. To do that, we had to begin with detailed photographs mapping the exteriors of various subjects that served as models – what we call prototypes.’

  ‘Detailed photographs?’ Yvette, who hasn’t said a word since we entered the lab, stares at Gunta. It is as though the cadence of a woman’s voice has never been heard on this floor. Gunta glares at her, his mouth drawn down in embarrassment. ‘How detailed?’

  It takes a few beats for him to answe
r, and he averts his eyes as he speaks. ‘Very detailed.’ He looks at Killkenny. ‘It was part of the process. All of the models gave releases, and all of them knew what they were being asked to do. They were well compensated. There was nothing improper done.’

  ‘Of course not,’ Tom says. ‘No one is suggesting that.’

  ‘No,’ Killkenny agrees. ‘I’m not suggesting that there was anything improper about the process. But three of them have been murdered, so I need to have a sense of the process. How did it work?’

  Gunta shrugs. ‘This was very early in the company’s existence. Even before Nick joined us. We put ads in some of the local papers, explaining that we were looking for models for a computer simulation. You understand, we had more people volunteer than we could even use. Literally thousands sent in pictures. It was quite remarkable.’

  ‘How many did you use?’

  ‘To start out, two hundred. Over the past few years we have expanded the database, but we started with a manageable number.’

  ‘All women?’

  ‘No, seventy-five percent women. That ratio has held even as we have expanded the database of prototypes.’

  ‘Why the disparity?’ I ask, genuinely curious.

  He fidgets behind his desk, as he starts to answer. ‘We have found—’ He stops talking, as though he’s searching for words. ‘Our customers . . . men generally–’ He cuts himself off again.

  ‘What?’ Killkenny pushes.

  His sinks toward his chest and looks up hesitantly at Yvette. ‘It is indelicate,’ he says.

  She smiles at him, and I wonder whether he can tell that her look is one of pure condescension. ‘Don’t worry about it,’ she says. ‘I’m indelicate.’

  He frowns, but continues. ‘Men tend to be more visually demanding,’ he says. Yvette barks out a laugh, which clearly makes Gunta even more uncomfortable. ‘To be clear, we have found that men have more particular tastes, and have a wider variety of interests in the way women look. Both with respect to their facial appearance and parts of the female anatomy. As a result, we provide a wider baseline of the female form.’

  ‘I’m guessing very few men are looking for a wider baseline when it comes to the female form,’ Yvette cracks.

  This, at least, draws a wry smile from Gunta. ‘You’d be surprised.’

  ‘So, basically, you needed a bunch of hot women to entice men to the site, is that it?’ Killkenny says.

  Gunta shakes his head emphatically. ‘No, Detective, that is most certainly not it. Do you know what this technology was originally developed for?’

  Killkenny shakes his head. ‘No. I assumed it was for the company to use on its website.’

  ‘The company has funded the expansion of the technology – the commercialization of it. But I developed this technology for the criminal-justice system. The original concept was to use this technology to train convicted prisoners to deal with real-life situations before they were released, and to pre-screen for recidivism to aid the parole board in determining who was ready to be out in the world.’

  ‘I never knew that,’ I say.

  Gunta nods. ‘It is not something the company publicizes widely, though I’m not sure why. It will ultimately be of great benefit to society.’

  ‘How does it help?’ Killkenny asks.

  ‘You must understand,’ Gunta begins, ‘prisoners – particularly those who have been incarcerated for an extended period of time – have lost all sense of how to behave in the real world. They have been isolated, and they have learned to function in accordance with a very different set of rules and behavioral norms – one that often rewards violence. If we can begin giving them some experience in more normal situations, even if they are computer simulations, it can help them relearn appropriate behaviors. It also allows us to observe their responses to stimuli. It can test them to see whether they will react with violence; by seeing whether they are capable of resisting baser instincts – how they react to women, for example – we can start to determine who really presents a risk upon release.’

  ‘Has it been implemented?’ Yvette asks.

  ‘Only in testing over the past several years.’

  ‘Has it helped?’ I ask.

  Gunta purses his lips. ‘I believe it has. It is, of course, difficult to track on a scientific level, and there are those who say the evaluations are inconclusive, but I believe it has been helpful in many instances.’

  ‘Is this testing done in connection with NextLife?’

  Gunta nods. ‘The company has been very generous in allowing us to use the facilities. The technology that you use, Nick, in tracking our customers was originally designed to give us visibility into our experimental subjects’ actions – so we could observe how they reacted to different situations and actually feel what they were feeling.’

  ‘When the models were hired, was it for the company, or for your experiments?’

  ‘Both,’ Gunta says. ‘At that point we were working on parallel tracks. What we learned on the technology side, we implemented in both systems.’

  ‘Who was involved in the hiring process?’ Killkenny asks.

  Gunta looks at him, his eyes narrowing slightly. ‘As I said, we were a very small company at the time.’

  ‘Which means you were personally involved,’ Killkenny says. It’s not a question.

  ‘Yes, I was.’

  ‘Were you involved in the photo sessions as well?’

  ‘I don’t understand what you are implying!’ Gunta protests. His voice is raised at least an octave.

  ‘I’m not implying anything,’ Killkenny says smoothly. ‘As I’ve said, I’m trying to get the facts. And, in particular, I need to identify anyone who had actual contact with these women. Were you involved in the photo sessions?’

  ‘It was necessary!’

  ‘I’m sure it was.’ Killkenny takes out a notebook and smiles as he makes a few jottings. ‘Who else was involved? There was a photographer, presumably?’

  Gunta is flustered, but seems more relaxed as the discussion turns away from his involvement. ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Was he someone from the company?’

  ‘No. We hired a professional photographer. I don’t recall his name, but I am sure we have his contact information somewhere in our records.’

  ‘That would be helpful,’ Killkenny says. ‘Who else was involved?’

  ‘We had two assistant programmers at the time. They had some contact with the models, but very little.’

  ‘I’ll need their names as well. Anyone else?’

  ‘Not that I can recall.’

  ‘Was Josh involved?’ I ask the question without thinking; it just seems very odd that at that stage Pinkerton would have relinquished complete control. And, frankly, he seems like the kind of a man who would have trouble forgoing an extended photo shoot with a series of beautiful women.

  Gunta glares at me as though I’ve transgressed.

  ‘Was he?’ Killkenny asks.

  ‘Yes,’ Gunta says, his eyes still on me. ‘He was.’

  ‘Anyone else?’ Killkenny presses. ‘Anyone at all?’

  Gunta shakes his head.

  ‘Have you had any contact with any of the models since their photo sessions?’

  Gunta looks offended. ‘No! Why would I have?’

  ‘None whatsoever?’

  ‘No, Detective. None whatsoever.’ Gunta’s voice has turned cold, and he is no longer fidgeting in his chair. He now looks straight at Killkenny, his eyes clear.

  ‘Do you know Amanda Hicks?’

  ‘I’ve never heard of her,’ Gunta says. ‘Who is she?’

  Killkenny pulls out the photograph of Amanda Hicks on the coroner’s slab, puts it on the desk. Gunta looks at it, flinches slightly and looks away. ‘As I said, I don’t know her,’ he says.

  Killkenny pulls out the pictures of the other two dead women, puts them on the desk. ‘How about Janet Schmidt or Patricia Carnes?’

  Gunta keeps his eyes averted. ‘I don
’t know them.’

  ‘Maybe you could look at them, just to be sure.’

  It takes a moment for Gunta to turn his head and glance briefly at the images. When he does, it’s as though the pictures burn his eyes and he turns away almost immediately, his fist going to his mouth. ‘I don’t know them!’ he says. ‘I told you!’

  The room is silent for a moment. Killkenny, Yvette and I are staring at Gunta. Tom is staring at the floor. Suddenly the door swings open and we all turn to see NetMaster standing at the threshold, scowling. Michael is standing, barely visible, behind him, looking protectively at Dr Gunta. ‘Why wasn’t I informed of this interrogation?’ NetMaster demands in his thick Dutch accent.

  No one says anything for a moment. ‘It’s not an interrogation,’ Killkenny says at last. ‘Just a friendly conversation.’

  NetMaster’s eyes narrow as he looks at Killkenny. ‘I know you, no?’

  Killkenny nods. ‘Yeah, we’ve met. I organized security on the police side for a corporate party the company had a little while back. Name’s Killkenny. Detective Killkenny.’

  ‘Yes, Detective. I remember now. You were paid well, yes?’

  ‘I was paid the going rate.’

  ‘The going rate is more than you make for the police?’

  Killkenny doesn’t reply.

  NetMaster scowls at me. ‘Nick Caldwell, you were to keep me involved in all aspects of this . . . cooperation . . . we are providing. Why was I not informed that you would be talking to Dr Gunta?’

  ‘It wasn’t on our schedule, initially,’ I reply honestly. ‘We were talking to Tom, and he suggested a conversation with the Doc. I had no idea you wanted to know every time we talked to anyone.’

  ‘I must know everything,’ NetMaster says. ‘Everything’

  ‘I’ll keep that in mind, now that I know.’