The Experiment (Book 3): Infectious Thinking

by Micah B. Edwards

  "Regina said you guys were probably brainwashed again, and needed someone smart to come sort you out."

  Regina calls down from upstairs, "I promise you, that is not what I said."

  "But she couldn't think of anyone like that, so she called me instead," Brian continues, unfazed. "So. Let's figure out dinner, and then how to dig up dirt on this guy so you can stop falling in love with him every time he walks by. Sound like a plan?"

  "What if he doesn't have any dirt on him?" I ask.

  "Then, good news! You've got the easiest nemesis ever. If he's actually out to improve people's lives, your entire job is just to stay out of his way, you know? Captain Couch Potato!"

  "I'll be honest, man. That sounds like a pretty nice change of pace."

  "So," Brian says, "prior to totally melding with the couch, what do you want to do about dinner?"

  "I don't know; let's get pizza," I say. Brian's eyebrows start to rise, and I add, "Dude, you just woke me up from a nap, and I don't even know what's in the house to eat."

  "I could tell you," Regina calls down from upstairs.

  "Also I want pizza! Is that so wrong?"

  Brian puts a hand on my shoulder consolingly. "Hey man, if you don't know how to work the controls on the oven, there's no shame in that. We're here to help you, not to judge."

  I shake his hand off. "Remind me again why we're friends?"

  "I'm just here out of pity, man. I'm an EMT. My whole thing is helping out the suffering, you know?"

  "Yeah, well, don't expect to be helping yourself to any of my pizza, is all I've got to say," I grumble.

  "Hey, I brought beer!"

  "All right, fine, you're in for dinner. But put that mask back in the trash."

  Over pizza, we discuss our options for doing research into any of Mr. Tanger's theoretically hidden activities. These options turn out to be fairly limited. Brian's already done some internet snooping, and not found much of anything. This makes sense, since unless the guy had a criminal record of some kind, it's unlikely that there'd be any mention of his illegal activities online.

  If any of us knew how to hack his accounts, we might be able to dig something up, but that's not exactly in any of our skill sets. Which is a shame, because hacking always looks pretty glamorous in the movies, and I'd really love to be able to say, "Yeah, I hacked into a guy's email; stopped him from wrecking the city. It's not a big deal."

  I don't know who I'd say that to. Probably just myself in the mirror. Still, I'd feel pretty cool saying it.

  Other unworkable plans include finding a police informant who happens to know something about Mr. Tanger's shady past, sending him an "I know what you did" note and watching his reaction, and kidnapping him and making him talk. These are discarded as soon as they're offered up for reasons ranging from "unlikely to happen" to "wildly illegal."

  However, by the time the pizza's gone, I'm starting to take a second look at a couple of them, because the only decent plans we've come up with are hiring a private detective to look into him, and going through his trash. And while the private detective idea sounds decent, none of us know how to hire a decent one, how much it would cost, or how to keep him from being corrupted by the invasive ideas that Mr. Tanger is leaving in his wake. Which leaves us with the "going through his trash" option.

  "Okay, here's what we can do," I say. "We'll stake out the building and wait until the janitorial service arrives. Once I get a look at them, I can grow a mask to match overnight, and tomorrow night, I'll go in his place. We can delay the actual guys by, I don't know, giving them a flat tire or something. Then, when I'm emptying the trash in the offices, I can check around for any incriminating documents in file cabinets or desk drawers."

  Regina looks skeptical. "Won't you need to know the guy's name to sign in with the guard?"

  "Yeah, and I'm sure he's got a keycard or master key to get into the offices, which you won't have," says Brian.

  "Plus if he was delayed for a flat tire, he'd probably just call over to let them know what had happened," Regina adds.

  "And there's gonna be more than one dude for an office building that size, you know? You'd never get through half of the offices."

  I throw up my hands. "Fine, my idea sucks! How would you guys do it?"

  "Well, there's probably a dumpster behind the building," Regina says reasonably.

  "It's probably locked, though. Or there are cameras. But yeah, fine, that's a much better idea."

  "Are you just mad that this plan doesn't involve growing a mask, man? 'Cause you can totally still do that if you want to," says Brian.

  "Maybe I will," I say.

  "When do you want to do this?" asks Regina.

  "Midnight?" I suggest. "Seems the right time for this sort of thing."

  "Midnight," agrees Brian. "So – movies until then?"

  "I'm gonna get some rest," I say. "I've gotta be at the construction site at dawn whether or not I'm out raiding my big boss's garbage at midnight, so I'd better grab sleep now. You guys wake me up when it's time to go."

  "Check, check," says Brian. "See you in a few hours."

  - Chapter Twelve -

  Far too soon, there's a knock on my door, and a call of "Wakey wakey, eggs and bakey!"

  I sit up and poke at my face in an exploratory manner. The numbed sensation tells me that my mask and gloves have grown in sufficiently, even in the shortened time frame I had to work with. I grin and swing my legs out of bed.

  Outside of my door, Brian is still rambling. "Or, you know, eggs and trash-hunting. Except without the eggs. So just wakey wakey, trash-hunting. Dude, I'll keep talking out here until you get up."

  On cue, I open the door, and watch with delight as Brian's face registers a moment of total shock, which quickly collapses into a sour look. "Oh ha ha ha, a mask of me? Very funny."

  "Well, they might recognize me on the cameras, but no one knows who you are," I tell him still grinning.

  "Yeah, great. And now they'll have two angles of me."

  "Dude, if they see two people with identical faces raiding the trash, they'll just figure we're using matching Halloween masks. It's a perfect disguise!"

  "I can't believe this," Brian says, turning away in disgust, and also I think to hide a smile.

  Regina's drinking coffee in the kitchen, and laughs out loud when I come in. "That's perfect! Did you make me one, too?"

  "No, but you can have this one when I'm done," I say. "Brian's got a narcissistic streak. He might be into that."

  Regina laughs again, and Brian just shakes his head. "I'm about to indulge my masochistic streak by punching you in my face," he says.

  "No, man, imitation is, like, the sincerest form of flattery, you know?" I say, doing my best impression of his voice.

  "I do not sound like that!"

  "Actually, I think that was pretty good," Regina says.

  "Oh, c'mon. Don't encourage this guy," says Brian, grinning despite his words.

  "Are your feelings hurt?" I ask Brian. "Don't worry, I'm an EMT. I can call the waah-mbulance."

  Brian turns to Regina. "Can we just get this over with? He's getting worse by the second."

  We pile into Regina's car and drive out to the Tanger building. It's dark for the night, but when we circle around back, the headlights shine on precisely what we'd been hoping to see: an industrial-sized dumpster. Regina stays with the car while Brian and I, flashlights in hand, walk over to the dumpster and clamber inside.

  "I already regret this idea," Brian says. He's wearing kitchen gloves, and I've grown my own, but neither of us have boots or anything like that on. The trash in here is all bagged up, but the dumpster still smells terrible. In fairness, it's a container for refuse that's sat out in the sun and gone unwashed for years, so this isn't a surprise. It's just still not pleasant.

  We dig for a little while, opening up bags of trash, but there's nothing to mark what office anything comes from and most of what I'm finding is discarded styrofoam cups and candy wr
appers. There's plenty of balled-up paper, but it's all boring inter-office memos. Frankly, I feel pretty lousy going through other people's stuff like this. If we were targeting one guy, then fine, but I'm just invading the privacy of dozens of people, and that makes me feel like kind of a heel.

  Brian holds up a fistful of shredded paper. "This is bad news, dude. If they're shredding documents, we're never going to find anything useful. This was a stupid idea."

  There's a sharp edge to Brian's tone that's unlike him, but he's got a point. I really shouldn't have dragged my friends into a half-baked idea like this. It's a disgusting way to treat people who I'm supposed to care about.

  "Ugh, this is disgusting," says Brian, shaking a glob of something unidentifiable off of his hand. His use of the same word I was just thinking sparks a sudden realization, and I look up at him.

  "Hey, Brian? How do you feel about me right now? No sugarcoating. This isn't for my ego. I need an actual answer."

  "I don't know. Sort of ticked, I guess? This is a stupid idea, like I said. I'm just kinda mad about that."

  "Would you say you think more poorly of me than you did when we started digging in here?"

  Brian pauses, seeing what I'm driving at. "You know – yeah. You think we're getting close to Mr. Tanger's stuff?"

  "It'd make sense. How do you feel about him running for mayor?"

  Brian frowns. "Pretty good, actually. I mean, I was never actually against it, though. I just wanted to know if it was a good idea."

  "Yeah, I think you're starting to catch his ideas. Let's keep digging."

  Navigating by emotion is about as unreliable as it sounds, so it takes almost another half an hour before we find a bag of Mr. Tanger's trash. A lot of it is shredded documents, and mixed with the used tea bags that are also in there, it's mostly a big papier-mâché lump. There's some balled-up notes on letterhead confirming that it's his, though, and in the bottom of the bag, we find a potentially huge prize: a discarded cellphone. I hold it up in triumph.

  "You think this is his?" Brian asks.

  "Dude, I can barely stand myself right now. It's got to be his; it's got his ideas all over it."

  I try turning the phone on, but the battery's dead. It looks intact, though.

  "Let's get this home, charge it and see if it works. Unless you've decided that you like dumpster living?"

  "I mean, it's got a lot to recommend it as a vacation spot, you know?" says Brian. "But I don't think I want to move in here."

  We haul ourselves back out of the dumpster, brush off as best as we can, and make our way back to the car. Regina wrinkles her nose when we get in.

  "You guys smell terrible," she informs us.

  I point at Brian. "Dan smells worse."

  "What? No, he's Dan!" says Brian, pointing at me. "And he's right, he does smell worse!"

  Regina rolls down the windows. "I don't care that it's freezing outside. I'm going to turn on the heat, let the smell blow outside, and hopefully not be able to hear you two over the wind."

  - Chapter Thirteen -

  Back at home, I dig up a charger for the phone and plug it into the wall. The LED comes on, which is a good sign; the phone was probably just discarded for a newer model, not chucked because it was broken. It's going to take it a little while to get up to a usable amount of charge, which is perfect, because it's going to take me a little while to get this garbage stink off of me.

  I peel off my mask and gloves, strip down and hop in the shower. When I get out, the bathroom smells faintly of dumpster, and I realize the smell is coming from my clothes. That stench is pervasive.

  Throwing on a fresh shirt and pair of pants, I bundle up my other clothes to take them straight to the washer. As I pass through the kitchen, Brian stands up.

  "Hey, mind if I grab a shower?"

  "Please do! I don't want you stinking up my kitchen. Need to borrow some clothes, too?"

  "Yeah, if you don't mind."

  "I don't love encouraging you to dress up as me, but it's better than having you sit around stinking."

  "Whoa, whoa. Which one of us was just wearing a mask of the other one?"

  "Oh yeah, I forgot that I was going to give that to Regina. Regina, you need the mask? It's just sitting on the bathroom counter right now," I offer.

  "Dude, I'm about to see my own skinned face sitting on your bathroom counter? This is some alternate-universe slasher flick stuff right here."

  "Sorry, I can't hear you past the visible stink lines rising off of you. Go take a shower."

  "See, this is what I'm talking about. You're basically telling me 'it puts the lotion on its skin' right now," Brian shoots back as he heads for the bathroom.

  I've got to be up for work in a few hours, so I should go to sleep, but there's no chance I'm doing that before I find out if this phone was worth the effort it took to get it. It's only at 5% charge so far, but that's enough to get it to power on. I turn on the phone and wait impatiently for the home screen to load.

  "How's it looking?" asks Regina.

  "Good, except – ugh. It's locked," I say, as the screen pops up with a grid of nine dots.

  "Aren't most people's phones?"

  "Yeah, I guess, but I was really hoping that he'd just be a slide-to-unlock kind of guy. Busy man on the go, maybe doesn't always have time for passwords. Woulda been nice to get a little break, is all."

  "We did find a fully functional phone that probably belongs to the guy we're investigating. I think we've gotten a break or two," Regina points out.

  "Nah, you're right. Still, one more break wouldn't've hurt my feelings." I stare at the phone in my hand for a minute, as if that will cause it to unlock. No miracle occurs, though, so I set it down with a sigh. "To the internet, I guess. We're gonna find out how hard it is to hack into a phone."

  Turns out the answer is: not very! As long as you prepared to do it ahead of time with any of a half-dozen tools. If you didn't do that, though, maybe because it's a phone you found in a dumpster, you're sort of screwed. It's not too hard to do a factory-reset on it, which'll clear out the lock screen, but as it will also clear out all of the rest of the data, that's sort of useless for my purposes.

  I'm still Googling answers when Brian returns from his shower. "How's the phone?" he asks.

  "Locked," I tell him. "I'm trying to find a way to bypass it. Can you see if it's got an SD card slot? I might have something here."

  "Yeah, sure," he says, picking up the phone. "What's your wifi password?"

  "2dozenpoorlifechoices. That's the number 2. Wait, why?" I look up, and Brian is typing something into the phone. "Did you get the phone open?"

  "Yeah, man. People are greasy. I just took a look at the marks on the screen and traced over the most obvious swipe pattern. It's left-to-right along the top row, then down the right side."

  "And that was still there after this had been in the trash for who-knows-how-long?"

  "Grease doesn't really go away unless you put some effort into cleaning it, you know? There, it's connected. Let's see if we've got anything good on here."

  Regina and I crowd around behind Brian as he scrolls through the app list. He clicks on the email icon and an inbox pops up, rapidly filling with messages.

  "Aha, jackpot! We've got access to his email. Now, what do you have to tell us, email?"

  Unfortunately, apparently not much. Mr. Tanger heads a large and successful business, and conducts a lot of it through email. We start out by just paging through it, looking for anything unusual, but a few minutes of reading about meetings his secretary has set up and golf games he's scheduled to play convince us that we need a more targeted approach.

  "What's a keyword likely to be in an incriminating email? Kickback?" Brian asks.

  "Grift," I say. "Or embezzlement."

  "Guys, who's actually going to write 'embezzlement' in an email where they're siphoning money?" Regina asks. "It would probably say something like 'transferring funds' if it said anything at all."

&n
bsp; "Okay, check for 'transferring funds' then," I say, and Brian plugs it into the search box. This returns a disheartening number of results, and as we start to flip through them, I realize that I don't have any way to tell if they're legitimate or not. They all seem reasonable to me.

  "Dead end," says Brian after a few minutes, having gotten all the way through the results. "What else?"

  We try a few more variations on the theme – "special consideration," "generous donation," and "offshore," among others – but nothing interesting surfaces. After half an hour or so, I reluctantly have to quit for the night.

  "All right, sleuths, I'm off to bed. Tired eyes on the construction site aren't good for anyone. Let me know in the morning if you find anything cool."

  "You got it, man," says Brian, typing 'embezzlement' into the search box. It returns no results.

  "See?" says Regina.

  "Well, I had to check!"

  I leave the two of them to it and close myself in my room. Despite this being the third time I've gone to sleep today, I'm out in no time. Naps are good and all, but nothing beats a long, uninterrupted chunk of sleep.

  Not that I have time to get that right now, as my alarm is waking me up all too soon. It's better than nothing, though, even if it doesn't feel like it as I drag myself out of bed and to the kitchen. The phone's sitting on the table with a note next to it reading, "Wake me up. I'm still driving you to work. Check out the email that's up on the screen. –Regina"

  Following the note's suggestion, I open the phone. The email reads:

  Mr. Tanger,

  I will be happy to arrange a demonstration at your convenience. I'm glad that you understand the opportunities that this influence could provide a man in your position. I will have the paperwork ready for you at the demonstration. Obviously, you will not be required to commit to anything, but I'm certain that you'll want to move forward with this as soon as possible once you've seen it in action. It really is quite an incredible advance in the power of suggestion.

  -A