Markman’s overdue visit to the university brought interesting, though unsettling, news. The second-floor security office, usually buzzing with activity, was nearly deserted. A dispassionate secretary directed him to meeting room 201.
Room 201 was crowded. It had that somber atmosphere of group apprehension responding to leadership dissatisfaction. The man pacing at the head of the room paused at Markman’s entrance but quickly showed disinterest and resumed his motivational speaking.
“So let me review for you, Ladies and Gentlemen, since something so unbelievable deserves further reflection. An uncleared individual comes on to campus in the middle of the day and gains direct access to our main computer facility, and no one intercepts him or even sees him. He accesses dozens of classified records spends a good deal of time transferring them, and nobody notices him. He gets into finance, grades, interdepartmental communications, payroll, and nobody notices him. He downloads his special virus into the system, and nobody notices. I’m sure you can understand my astonishment when I’m told everyone was on station, but nobody saw anything. And when Ms. Faye finally walked in on this ‘invisible man’ and scared him off, she reports that he was a gray-haired old man who proceeded to jump out the third-floor window and take off running. Does anyone here share my frustration? Any comments of explanation? Okay, answer me this, were there any classified sites this individual was not able to get into right under our noses?”
The discussion seemed to be destined for longevity. Markman waited for the right moment when the speaker’s back was turned and quietly slipped out. Back at the security office, the terse secretary was so anxious to get rid of him he easily double-talked her into giving him a copy of the full report and sat in a deserted waiting area reading it.
Surprisingly the detailed description was much worse than the inspirational talk being given to the staff. The culprit had somehow accessed most of the locked-out files, including those related to bookkeeping and finance. Oddly enough, there seemed to have been no attempts at illegal transfers of funds. Instead, a peculiar computer virus had been left behind effecting disastrous social and professional results for some of the faculty.
The rogue program had apparently invaded every locked-out personal data file in the system and had subsequently displayed some of the most scandalous documents imaginable—on every active terminal in the school. The virus’ display format was designed to provide broad exposure of confidential files and used a comedy backdrop to do so. The unfortunate letters and diaries that were so revealingly printed onscreen were accompanied by classical music usually heard on Saturday morning cartoons.
Some items were of little interest, but every so often a particularly damaging revelation had come to light, such as the graphic letters written between the Dean of students and an associate athletics instructor, describing their torrid affair and methods of concealing it from their spouses. Another, even more controversial affair had also been uncovered. It involved Dr. Patricia Farley, the head of the psychology department and one of the stars of the girls’ basketball team. And, even more embarrassing, there were documents showing the occasional purchase of full-size inflatable love dolls by one of the sociology professors, who had justified the expense by describing it as, “anatomical research equipment.”
Had these runaway file displays been limited to personal matters there might have been some chance at controlling the resulting chaos. What followed, however, were matters that were certain to produce even more significant liabilities. As the monitor screens had continued, it had become obvious that some federal funds intended for student tuitions were being diverted to bogus companies owned by certain members of the board of directors. There was also a consistent pattern of lost property that was carefully listed and filed in places it should not have been.
The full ramifications of the expose’ were yet to be known, but an eerie silence had fallen over the faculty population since the first viral-imposed revelations had begun. In many instances the ongoing chaos of data was being hurriedly typed out on unrelenting printers, and in most cases no one seemed to be making an effort to shut them down.
The computer staff relegated to arrest this problem found themselves faced with a difficult dilemma. They had the choice of killing power to the system, which would destroy valuable and irreplaceable files and would not necessarily cure the crisis, or, they could allow the synthetic illness to run its course, and by design, operations would likely return to normal. It did not appear that any real corruption had been done to the resident data thus far.
Toward the end of the telling report, there was something else, something that made Markman sit up and take notice. It would have been easy to believe that some computer whiz student had managed to pull such a devious prank on the university. A hazing initiation would have been the perfect explanation.
Unfortunately, it was not so simple. The data processing secretary, who had inadvertently walked in on the culprit, had sworn that he had looked like Professor Cassell. She firmly insisted that the bogus operator had sprung from his seat, run out onto the balcony and jumped three floors to the grassy park below. Somehow, he had gotten to his feet and disappeared into the trees.
How a sixty-year-old man could survive such a jump, let alone get back up and run, was a scenario that required imagination to believe. Markman tapped one finger against his lips as he read and decided it was simply someone in disguise. What better garnish for such a prank, he thought, than to have it seem the transgressor had been one of the more eccentric faculty members.
Markman guided his black muscle car back to his small, duplex apartment. There was still a tinge of guilt about the agreement with Cassiopia. The glare of oncoming headlights became unwelcome recalls of the flashes from the artificial lightning created by the SCIP transformer. He had become secretly involved in potentially dangerous explorations of the unknown. Were anything to happen to Cassiopia, he would be forced to consider himself responsible. Cassiopia had become an unexpected distraction. Reluctantly, he backed off on the accelerator pedal and promised himself he would proceed with extreme caution in his dealings with her.
He arrived at the modest duplex development and pulled into a parking space directly in front of his darkened apartment. Immediately something amiss caught his eye. In the wash of his high beams, he could see the front door of his apartment ajar. He killed the engine and watched with the headlights still on as he unsnapped the Berretta and cleared the safety.
Slowly, he got out and circled around to approach the entrance from just outside the blinding beams of his headlights. Stopping next to the partly open door with his back against the wall he held the Berretta pointed upward. It was quiet inside. He kicked the door open the rest of the way and listened.
Nothing. The cool night air smelled clean and lacked any suggestion of an unwanted presence. Adrenaline pumping, he leaned partly around and flipped on the wall switch that was just inside the door. He spun inside and crouched, scanning the gun across his own small living room.
There was no one. Room by room, he carefully shadowed the trail of debris left behind by the anonymous invaders. The apartment had been systematically ransacked. In each room there were unpleasant signs of wanton destruction that suggested someone was earnestly searching for something. What that could have been, he had no idea. Probably money or drugs, he thought. Pillows had been cut, carpet torn up, drawers everywhere had been emptied. Even the refrigerator was face down on the kitchen floor. No room had escaped the mayhem. In the bath, the medicine cabinet had been torn from the wall and now hung by wires, and the toilet back cover lay broken in the fractured bathtub.
Most disturbing of all was the discovery of two ragged bullet holes in one of the living room walls. They fell chest high and were closely spaced, but there was no sign of blood or tissue anywhere.
The situation left him more flustered than angry. He found the telephone buried under torn pillows in the living room and picked up the receiver. By some miracle there was still dial
tone. He started to punch in 911 to call for police, but thought twice about it and hesitated. There would be an awful lot of distraction and inquiry if the police became involved. They might suspect he was involved in illegal activity. It was possible they’d pull his investigator’s license while they looked into it. They’d want to know what cases he was currently on. They might even trace him to Cassiopia. Markman hung up the phone. This was a terrible personal assault, but as bad as it was it wasn’t worth the imposition the police would bring, and in so many cases home break-ins went unsolved anyway. It was probably a gang thing. Frustrated, he gathered a few needed items, locked up, and left. There would be no relaxing at home tonight.
By the time he reached the Cassell place, it was getting late. Lights were still on. He rang the doorbell only once, knowing the infallible robot would hear it and alert its mistress. Several minutes passed before Cassiopia appeared in the hallway, staring apprehensively. Her expression brightened for a moment when she realized who was there, but then quickly changed into one of cautious curiosity. She quickly opened the door, let him in, and closed it behind them.
“Don’t just come walking up to the door like that,” Markman grumbled.
“Well, how else can I answer the door?”
“You go to the living room window first, and you stay behind the curtain until you know who it is.”
She stared back blankly.
“You pull the curtain slightly apart, but stay back so you can see them, but they can’t see you. Like this...,” he said, sounding dismayed, and he went into the living room to demonstrate. “Never show yourself at night until you know who it is.” After an awkward pause, he stuttered, “I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.”
“You wouldn’t?”
Their eyes locked. Markman flushed with embarrassment and quickly looked away. “Well...I’d be pretty helpless downstairs, wouldn’t I?” he stammered, but quickly regretted it.
“Oh. Well, why are you here, Mr. Markman?” She folded her arms in front of her.
Markman suddenly remembered why he had come, and wished he had been more diplomatic. He began to twitch nervously and stammered as he spoke. “Um...I was wondering, ah, it’s probably completely out of line—maybe I should just go.”
“Mr. Markman, what is it?”
“Could I possibly sleep on your couch—tonight?”
Cassiopia laughed. “Oh my, such tact. Let me get this straight. I’ve only known you for a few days. It’s been strictly a professional relationship, and now you want to spend the night with me under the same roof?”
“I’m sorry, really. It was stupid. I shouldn’t have asked. I’ll just go. It’s just that I’ve stayed in so many hotels that I’d do almost anything to avoid them. I, I….”
“Of course you can stay.” she interrupted, “but not on the couch. There is a spare room. It’s at the end of the hall—but why?”
“Someone trashed my apartment tonight. I’m guessing it was a local street gang looking for money for drugs, or something like that.”
“That’s terrible. I can’t believe how much crime there is these days.”
“My Aunt Margaret would agree with you.”
Cassiopia nodded understandingly. “Well, make yourself at home. I’m busy in the lab. I’ll be up very late. I always have trouble sleeping anyway. So don’t wait up for me,” she gave a tired laugh and left him.
Markman narrowed his stare and was not sure whether to laugh with her or not. Was she suggesting that intimacy with him was an instant joke? He watched her delicate figure disappear down the hallway toward the basement door.
With his male ego slightly bruised, he worked his way around the modest home, closing curtains and checking locks, mumbling to himself about the carelessness of the attractive lady with the high IQ. He retrieved his things from the car and locked it. It was a quiet evening in the middle-class neighborhood—a very neatly manicured residential area with the exception of the Professor’s place. Street lights glanced off the windshields of several economy cars parked along the curb. Lights had begun to go out in the homes nearby.
Inside he found a bedroom that seemed to be the spare. It smelled stuffy and unused. A picture of a much younger Cassiopia sat on a small stained-wood nightstand beside the bed. He dropped his bag, allowed himself to fall face first onto the soft, blue bedspread, and slipped quickly off into dreamland.
Chapter 12