by Mike McKay
Chapter 19
After his adventures at the 'Fill, Mark needed quiet time. He arrived to the Station at few minutes past seven, shut the glass door of his tiny office and started digging through his personal landfill – the paperwork. About two hundred unanswered e-mails – nothing of true importance, just the usual garbage.
He completed the scene investigation report. Typed into electronic forms, Amelia Khan: her full name, her date of birth, and so on, – was sent traveling over fiber-optics to an unbeknownst FBI server in Washington, DC. Not much left of the girl: a pile of fresh dirt at the cemetery and few kilobytes of data at the server. Mark's case number sixteen was now officially suspended and added to the fifteen in the Butcher pile. What new had they learned? Very little, Mark decided. They established the serial killer was a well-built man, about the size of Alex, and that he had a black balaclava and a small black backpack. Plus, not to be ignored, a first-witness reconfirmation that the killer had a pair of dark-color canvas sneakers, polka-dot work gloves, and a standard-issue Army knife. Better than nothing, but not enough, and by far.
Alex was of a perfectly average height: 5-9.5. If the killer had been of the same height, give or take an inch, around one quarter of adult men would be a perfect match. They were not even sure the killer was a male. Naturally, a female was far less likely, but they found no biological evidence. Thinking all the animal steroids, still widely available in Houston, a five-nine woman with well-developed muscles, dressed in a dark outfit, could pass for a man. Take Liz, the Mesa Drive Beat deputy. Give her a loose-fitting black jacket and a balaclava, who can tell she is a woman, especially in the night, from several hundred feet away?
Yet another possibility, Mark contemplated. What if the Butcher was not from Sheldon-Res? As an extreme, what if he lived about thirty miles from here: around Dairy Ashford on the west or Dutton Lake at the east? How would he travel thirty miles to make his kills? Must be by bicycle, what else? Cars and riding horses were far too obvious, the public motor-bus service had been in decline for the last two years, and omnibuses did not operate in the night. Thirty miles on a bike, with a couple of rest stops, about four or five hours. Was it far-fetched? If the killer lived in the downtown, or even farther west, he must be a trader, which traveled back and forth through their districts, bringing sea products from the Gulf ports to the in-land. This meant their killer had some version of a cargo bike and had to stay overnight. In his diary, Mark made a note to ask the beat deputies to check all the guarded parking lots and traders' guest-houses.
He needed to come up with innovative ideas for the investigation plan, or else the FBI experts in Washington would rip him and Ben an extra hole in the butt during the next teleconference. Or worse: send Mark to his early retirement. Sadly, the innovative ideas did not come easy. In the past twenty-two months they had tried more or less everything.
Mark turned his chair towards the map and stared at the color dots. He started putting these goddamn pins after the murder number six. The FBI experts in Washington insisted that eventually the pins would form a doughnut pattern. Presumably, the serial killer did not commit his crimes close to home. On-foot, he could reach a radius of ten, maximum fifteen miles, so the crime scene locations would indirectly point to perp's own home. One expert suggested a special computer program, which compared the travel times along each possible route to the crime scenes. Mark remembered Ben asking the expert how many more people need to die before the pattern emerged. The answer followed that the statistics algorithms worked reliably only for number of cases above twenty. Another expert pointed out the suggested program was excellent for analyzing movement of motor vehicles, and along paved roads. But in the modern Houston, people moved on-foot or on bicycles. Shortcut dirt paths were everywhere. According to the second expert, eyeballing the map was better than using pre-Meltdown software.
Now, after the case number sixteen, the pattern on the map was anything but the expected doughnut. The case dots peppered a ten-by-twenty mile area between the McCarty Road Landfill on the west and Muleshoe Lake on the east. To the north, one case was reported at the corner of Sam Houston and Lockwood. In the south, two victims were found at the former Texaco Country Club, half-way between Crosby and East Freeway. The only observable pattern was that the kills always happened in the woods, in-line with the killer's modus operandi.
Anyway, why not to try the female perp idea, as crazy as it sounded? Mark started a browser and typed the Armed Forces' Career Office database URL in the address field. After entering his e-mail for login, he struggled to recall the password. The access rights took him two full days of bureaucracy paperwork, but strangely enough, he used it just twice since, relying on the CSIs to do the searches. Last time, Frederick mentioned the Pentagon was now after the girls, did he? I must check, Mark decided, if my daughters got in here somehow, and if I should start worrying.
Because he had a read-only access, the interface was very simple. He clicked the Female checkbox under Gender, typed ‘P*’ in the surname field, and clicked Search button. Two seconds later, nineteen hits popped on the screen. Palmer, Panini, Parno, Peabody… ‘Pendergrass’ was not in the list. Thanks God, not yet. How many females had been registered? He deleted ‘P*’ in the form and clicked Search again. After a little delay, the server replied: “1,492 record(s) found.” He expected more. Obviously, the mass-registration of female conscripts had not yet started, and the database contained only volunteers. Unlike in the North, the girls in Texas were not very keen to make career in the military forces.
The names had been neatly arranged in pages, one hundred names on each. He mindlessly scrolled the first page, and a familiar surname caught his eye.
Bowen, Aleisha S.
05/23/09, volunteer, US Navy, 08/26 – present, Active Duty.
Bowen, Wanda
02/17/03, volunteer, US Navy, 08/20 – 08/25, Reserve-USN.
He would probably have missed it, if not for the ‘volunteer’ and the ‘US Navy’ in the table. Kate Bowen, the new girlfriend of Deputy Kim, served in the US Navy as a volunteer, but was not listed in the database!
Intrigued, Mark clicked the Male checkbox. This time it took the server full two minutes to reply. “Sorry. In the current form, the search returned 338,521 result(s). This number is too large to be displayed. Please narrow your search by providing more details in the search form field(s).” Tom the CSI once said, this database only covered the eastern side of Houston, slightly over a million of total population, Mark recalled. We might try this. Mark cleared the Female checkbox, typed Pendergrass in the surname box and searched again. The server quickly responded: “3 record(s) found.” Pendergrass was not a common surname, after all.
Pendergrass, Mark M.
09/10/82, registered, NA, NA – NA, Reserve-S.O.
Pendergrass, Michael D.
03/11/13, conscripted, US Infantry, 04/2030 – present, Active Duty.
Pendergrass, William M.
01/29/11, conscripted, USACE, 10/2028 – present, Active Duty.
Mark scratched his head. The first two records – as anticipated. Mike just passed his medical yesterday and was on his way to a boot camp. Naturally, AFCO had updated Mike's record. Mark had never served in the armed forces, but was listed in the ‘special orders’ reserve. In case of a global war, the FBI agents would be called to fill the ranks of Military Intelligence and Military Police. But the last record was wrong: William, being an amputee vet for over nine months, with his discharge papers and now even with his yet unpaid disability compensation, – was still listed as an active duty! The discovery was so significant, Mark could not sit still.
Tom, the resident database geek, was at his desk, typing a report. “Can I interrupt our busy CSIs?” Mark asked.
“Sure. Any service for the FBI! I am assigned to investigate bootleg gas! Shite! As if nobody knows all real gasoline in Houston is stolen from the Army…”<
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“Can you open the AFCO database for me?” Mark quickly explained the issue, and within seconds the CSI had the same result reproduced on the screen. “See: here. My son William is still listed as at active duty, but he has been a vet for over nine months.”
“A stale record, nothing special. People often assume computers know everything instantly. In reality, somebody has to tell the database your William had been discharged.”
“Back in August, William got his papers at the Dumpster… Sorry it's the Santa Lucia, a floating hospital. For sure, somebody had updated his status. Besides, he just got his disability compensation letter. So the computers must know, do they?”
“Yes, but that's the Joint Military database in the Pentagon. The local AFCO database is a different system on an entirely different server. The AFCOs' databases are decentralized, in case of the real, I mean – thermonuclear, war.”
“And how does AFCO know somebody is discharged? Or killed in action?”
“They don't. For the Career Office, it's only important to keep track on those who may be called in. Once somebody returns from his last deployment, he reports to the local AFCO. It's a Federal Law: you must report to AFCO within a month of your arrival. No big hassle, – over the Internet. Just log in with your full name for the user name and your SSN for the password. But the webpage only works for the personnel listed in reserve.”
“And why the disabled vets can't register online?”
“Before – they could. Ten years ago, they provided a special webpage, to add a medical report in PDF. But after a little while some smarty-pants figured out that PDF might be faked. So, you served for three years and then registered yourself as a disabled vet. Bang, and AFCO did not bother you anymore! So, AFCO decided the disabled had to register in-person: show your photo ID and your missing leg.”
“Great! Imagine: somebody returned on crutches and must walk ten miles to update the stupid database.”
“When they canceled the mandatory vets' registration, they justified it exactly this way. The real reason was different. It turned out at any given time there were cripples in front of each AFCO. A show of crutches and wheelchairs was detrimental for morale.”
“Whose morale, the vets?”
“Who gives a damn about the cripples' morale? The morale of new draftees! I remember how I came to AFCO for my medical. There was a whole gang, six vets, and each – without a leg. Frankly, I was on the brink of deserting, even before the doctors… Anyway, eventually AFCO announced the vets could skip the registration.”
“And so, the vets are still listed as at active duty?”
“Correct. Once a year, the local system administrator makes a list and sends to a sysadmin in the Pentagon. If somebody is discharged in reserve, but neglects to register, the local AFCO starts sending letters, makes phone calls, or asks us, the Police, to go and check the last known address.”
“What happens if the Pentagon replies that a soldier is disabled or killed?”
“They're called ‘purged records.’ Nobody needs them anymore, so they're removed from the base.”
“Got it,” Mark said. The idea that his William firmly belonged in the ‘purged records’ category was somewhat disturbing. “Now, can you list all the females in the database?”
Tom obliged, and the list appeared on his computer screen. “Who are you after?”
“She's not in the list. Deputy Kim, in GRS, got a girlfriend. She was a volunteer in the Navy. You see, here, Bowen and Bowen, both are the Navy volunteers. The girlfriend's name is Katherine Bowen, so she must be in-between.”
“Failed to register in AFCO. That's a criminal offense.”
“Doesn't need to. Katy has no legs.”
“No legs? Deputy has rather unusual taste for girlfriends!”
“Nothing as such: Kate is Kim's very first and very-only girlfriend. She is cool. Helped us on the Butcher case. Back to the DB, if what you have told me is right, she should appear, listed at active duty. The same as my William.”
“Ah, she must be from a different area! Is she?”
“She is from Detroit, Mich.”
“That's why she is not listed! The DB is decentralized, as I said. Miss Bowen is still in her home database – in Detroit.”
“I thought so.”
“Then, I don't understand why you're asking.”
“Remember how we compiled a list people with the special forces' training?”
“Sure. Standard operational procedure. I took the local AFCO base and selected all discharged between 2024 and 2028. Slightly less than sixty thousand names… Oh shit!”
“Exactly! This morning, I just thought our perp may be a female and started checking the DB. But now I am thinking: we've included only the men listed in reserve. What if somebody left the service as a disabled vet, and did not register in AFCO? Those stale records! Or our man is a vet and has been, as you call it, – purged from the database.”
“You're right, sir! A person may have two arms and two legs, but still medically unfit for the military service. Like having an internal injury: missing a kidney, or having a shrapnel fragment in the lung. Or infected with MDSV.”
The HIV vaccination, introduced back in 2015, helped to control the nasty virus, but enthusiasm from the medical victory was short-lived. The new sexually-transmitted disease – Muscular Dystrophy Syndrome Virus, appeared out of nowhere few years ago. As deadly as AIDS, it had no vaccination and no cure. The drug-resistant TB was another scare, although in Texas it was still infrequent, unlike in the northern States.
The Government had no money for microbiology research grants. Hey, they hardly had enough resources to produce enough of the well-developed vaccines! The USA had been polio-free for good fifty years. Now the outbreak reports here and there followed in rapid succession. In their immediate neighborhood, two boys lived with paralyzed, twisted limbs – a grisly reminder of the major epidemic Houston experienced in 2024. Back then, Patrick and Pamela were not vaccinated! Mark and Mary spent that year in constant fear, and obtained the precious polio vaccine only after the main outbreak had ended. Not even sure if their kids had been infected, but just got lucky not progressing into a full-blown disease. Now, little Davy had been on the vaccination waiting list, and with no vaccine in sight.
Mark nodded. “Let's hope our serial killer is not contagious! We must repeat our last-year search, but include all the disabled we had missed. How fast can you do it, Tom?”
“By the official channels, – a month or two.”
“Why so long?” Shit, Mark thought, I don't have a month!
“We must fire a request to our liaison officer in Washington. She will forward to her Pentagon contact…”
“Why can't you search the Pentagon database yourself? You have access rights, do you?”
“Yes, but I can only use a dick!”
“What?”
“DIQ. Direct Identification Query. You must supply the person's full name and his SSN. Both can be found on the standard military ID-tag. The database returns you a single record.”
“What if you type wrong SSN or misspell the name?”
“No such person.”
“What if you got fingerprints, but no name?”
“Oh, yes, these are called BIQ, or Biometric Identification Queries. I can type a fingerprint code, all these loops and deltas, and the DB will return me all the matching records. Dactyloscopy is an art, not a science! We seldom do such magic ourselves and trust this to the Identifications ladies, at the Travis Street HQ. To be complete, there are also BIQ queries for DNA codes and for iris scans. That's all.”
“But you cannot search by a service status, can you?”
“Nope. These are called DLQ, Direct Logical Queries. To them, we have no access – for the national security reasons. In the military itself, many have DIQ access, but only a handful of people who have the DLQ level. See, with logical
queries, you can easily figure out the size of the Army, where the people are deployed, and so on. A spy's heaven.”
Mark sighed. “OK. Fire your request to Washington, and let's wait for two months. Better late than never.”
Tom hesitated. “I think, I can do it faster. But… it's a hack.”
“A hack?”
“Yes. With my DIQ rights, I can roll a pseudo-index. Something I invented between cutting corpses and tracing bootleg gas. From the local AFCO, I get a list of names and SSNs. Then, I feed it into my Python script. It goes name-by-name and extracts the corresponding records from the Pentagon DB. Exactly as a human would do, dick one record at the time. The Pentagon server imagines I sit here all night and type the names and the SSNs, like mad. In reality, I go to bed, and the software robot does all the typing for me. You can start it on Monday evening, and by Wednesday morning you have several thousand military records sitting in your local folder. At this point, I use another script: is reads each record and puts the information into MySQL database. So I mirror the Pentagon server content, even if it's not entirely legal.”
“Neat. You are a mighty hacker, Tom. I wonder why the NSA is not after you yet. OK, OK, I'm not telling them!”
“After that, I use MySQL to perform my own searches. Look for the Special Ops, Navy SEALs, Paratrooper Courses, and such. The same as the Pentagon can do, but in few days instead of several weeks.”
“Sounds promising!”
“I have to warn you upfront not to expect much. We already have a list of people with the special ops training. My new search will add two dozen disabled vets, that's all.”
“Besides, you said it's not fully legal. Should you risk your badge for it?”
“I do it anyway. Out of my personal interest! First, I want to sharpen my hacking skills. Second, it's a welcome diversion from the bootleg gasoline case. The last but not least, I have a good excuse to visit our local AFCO: the purged records are not available online, so I must get them directly from the backup disks. Meanwhile, I can check if one sysadmin girl is as cute as sounds on the phone…”
“Good deal. Can we look into the last-year list?”
“Done,” Tom clicked his mouse, opening the right file.
“How many are between five-eight and five-ten in height?”
Tom's fingers ran over his keyboard. “Three hundred and eighty-seven records. For the special ops, the distribution doesn't follow the general population bell curve. Those who are too short – cannot run…”
“…And those who are too tall – probably, cannot hide? OK, send me those records. I ask Ben to spare me two deputies. With a bit of luck, we can convince Washington we're doing something useful. But all my hopes – with your pseudo-index.”
“Already on it, sir…”
Mark returned to his office disappointed and deflated. Three hundred and eighty-seven names they had checked once, plus twenty or so disabled vets Tom might locate eventually. Not even sure the Butcher was ever amongst them. A slim chance.
Should they listen to Washington's suggestion and call in volunteers, just to show the FBI brass something being done? Not very promising, and downright dangerous. How did Russian Bear put it another day? After having few drinks too many, the spectators climb to the stage. Enough volunteers will come, no doubts, but can they keep their heads cool? Inevitable mistakes. Not bad if vigilantes catch and beat a petty criminal, but they might kill someone – an innocent person. Even worse, the Butcher may realize the opportunity and volunteer himself! Patrolling the woods, learning what the Police knows, and preparing his new kills! Besides the managerial clowns, there are real experts in Washington. They've uniformly expressed the same opinion: whatever you do, volunteers will be out of control in a week, maximum two.
