"Typical upper-middle-class codeslinger/chip-jockey," Mott summarized.
Bishop nodded. "Except there was one problem. All the while he looked like he was Mr. Upstanding Citizen he'd been hacking at night and running cybergangs. The most famous was the Knights of Access. He founded that with another hacker, somebody named Valleyman. No record of his real name."
"The KOA?" Miller said, troubled. "They were bad news. They took on Masters of Evil--that gang from Austin. And the Deceptors in New York. He cracked both gangs' servers and sent their files to the FBI's Manhattan office. Got half of them arrested."
"The Knights were also probably the gang that shut down nine-one-one in Oakland for two days." Looking through his notes, Bishop said, "A few people died because of that--medical emergencies that never got reported. But the D.A. could never prove they did it."
"Pricks," Shelton spat out.
Bishop continued, "Holloway didn't go by Phate then. His username was CertainDeath." He asked Gillette, "Do you know him?"
"Not personally. But I've heard of him. Every hacker has. He was at the top of the list of wizards a few years ago."
Bishop returned to his notes.
"Somebody snitched on him when he was working for Harvard and the Massachusetts State Police paid him a visit. His whole life turned out to be fake. He'd been ripping off software and supercomputer parts from Harvard and selling them. The police checked with Western Electric, Sun, NEC--all his other employers--and it seemed he'd been doing the same thing there. He jumped bail in Massachusetts and nobody's seen or heard from him for three or four years."
Mott said, "Let's get the files from the Mass. State Police. There's bound to be some good forensics in there that we can use."
"They're gone," Bishop replied.
"He destroyed those files too?" Linda Sanchez asked grimly.
"What else?" Bishop replied sarcastically then glanced at Gillette. "Can you change that bot of yours--the search program? And add the names Holloway and Valleyman?"
"Piece of cake." Gillette began keying in code once more.
Bishop called Huerto Ramirez and spoke to him for a few moments. When they hung up he said to the team, "Huerto said there're no leads from the Anderson crime scene. He's going to run the name Jon Patrick Holloway through VICAP and state networks."
"Be faster to just use ISLEnet here," Stephen Miller muttered.
Bishop ignored the dig and continued, "Then he's going to get a copy of Holloway's booking picture from Massachusetts. He and Tim Morgan are going to leave some pictures around Mountain View, near the theatrical supply store, in case Phate goes shopping. Then they'll call all the employers Phate used to work for and get any internal reports on the crimes."
"Assuming they haven't been deleted too," Sanchez muttered pessimistically.
Bishop looked up at the clock. It was nearly 4:00. He shook his head. "We've gotta move. If his goal is killing as many people as he can in a week he might already have somebody else targeted." He picked up a marker and began transcribing his handwritten notes on the white-board.
Patricia Nolan nodded at the board, where the word "Trapdoor" was prominently written in black marker. She said, "That's the crime of the new century. Violation."
"Violation?"
"In the twentieth century people stole your money. Now, what gets stolen is your privacy, your secrets, your fantasies."
Access is God. . . .
"But on one level," Gillette reflected, "you've got to admit that Trapdoor's brilliant. It's a totally robust program."
A voice behind him asked angrily, "'Robust'? What does that mean?" Gillette wasn't surprised to find that the questioner was Bob Shelton.
"I mean it's simple and powerful software."
"Jesus," Shelton said. "It sounds like you wish you'd invented the fucking thing."
Gillette said evenly, "It's an astonishing program. I don't understand how it works and I'd like to. That's all. I'm curious about it."
"Curious? You happen to forget a little matter like he's killing people with it."
"I--"
"You asshole. . . . It's a game to you too, isn't it? Just like him." He stalked out of CCU, calling to Bishop, "Let's get the hell out of here and find that witness. That's how we're going to nail this prick. Not with this computer shit." He stormed off.
No one moved for a moment. The team looked awkwardly at the white-board or computer terminals or the floor.
Bishop nodded for Gillette to follow him into the pantry, where the detective poured some coffee into a Styrofoam cup.
"Jennie, that's my wife, keeps me rationed," Bishop said, glancing at the dark brew. "Love the stuff but I've got gut problems. Pre-ulcer, the doctor says. Is that a crazy way to put it, or what? Sounds like I'm in training."
"I've got reflux," Gillette said. He touched his upper chest. "Lot of hackers do. From all the coffee and soda."
"Look, about Bob Shelton . . . He had a thing happen a few years ago." The detective sipped the coffee, glanced down at his blossoming shirt. He tucked it in yet again. "I read those letters in your court file--the e-mails your father sent to the judge as part of the sentencing hearing. It sounds like you two have a good relationship."
"Real good, yeah," Gillette said, nodding. "Especially after my mom passed away."
"Well, then I think you'll understand this. Bob had a son."
Had?
"He loved the kid a lot--like your dad loves you, sounds like. Only the kid was killed in a car accident a few years ago. He was sixteen. Bob hasn't been the same since then. I know it's a lot to ask but try to cut him some slack."
"I'm sorry about that." Gillette thought suddenly about his own ex-wife. How he'd spent hours and hours in prison wishing he were still married, wishing that he and Ellie had had a son or daughter, wondering how the hell he'd screwed up so badly and ruined his chances for a family. "I'll try."
"Appreciate that."
They walked back to the main room. Gillette returned to his workstation. Bishop nodded toward the parking lot. "Bob and I'll be checking out that witness at Vesta's Grill."
"Detective," Tony Mott said, standing up. "How 'bout if I come along with you?"
"Why?" Bishop asked, frowning.
"Thought I could help--you've got the computer side covered here, with Wyatt and Patricia and Stephen. I could help canvassing witnesses maybe."
"You ever do any canvassing?"
"Sure." After a few seconds he grinned. "Well, not post-crime on the street exactly. But I've interviewed plenty of people online."
"Well, maybe later, Tony. I think Bob and I'll run this one alone." He left the office.
The young cop returned to his workstation, clearly disappointed. Gillette wondered if he was upset that he'd been left to report to a civilian or if he really wanted to get a chance to use that very large pistol of his, the butt of which kept nicking the office furniture.
In five minutes he'd finished hacking together his bot.
"It's ready," he announced. He went online and typed the commands to send his creation out into the Blue Nowhere.
Patricia Nolan leaned forward, staring at the screen. "Good luck," she whispered. "Godspeed." Like a ship captain's wife bidding her husband farewell as his vessel pulled out of port on a treacherous voyage to uncharted waters.
Another beep on his machine.
Phate looked up from the architectural diagram he'd downloaded--St. Francis Academy and the grounds surrounding it--and saw another message from Shawn. He opened the mail and read it. More bad news. The police had learned his real name. He was momentarily concerned but then decided this wasn't critical; Jon Patrick Holloway was hidden beneath so many layers of fake personas and addresses that there were no links to him as Phate. Still, the police could get their hands on a picture of him (some parts of our past can't be erased with a delete command) and they'd undoubtedly distribute it throughout Silicon Valley. But at least he was now forewarned. He'd use more disguises.
&
nbsp; Anyway, what was the point of playing a MUD game if it wasn't challenging?
He glanced at the clock on his computer: 4:15. Time to get to St. Francis Academy for tonight's game. He had over two hours but he'd have to stake out the school to see if the patrol routes of the security guards had changed. Besides, he knew little Jamie Turner might be feeling antsy and want to slip out of the school before the appointed hour for a stroll around the block while he waited for his brother.
Phate walked down to the basement of his house and took what he needed from his footlocker--his knife, a pistol, some duct tape. Then he went into the downstairs bathroom and pulled a plastic bottle from under the sink. It contained some liquids he'd mixed together earlier. He could still detect the pungent aroma of the chemicals it contained.
He returned to the dining room of his house and checked the computer once more. But there were no messages. He logged off and left the room, shutting out the overhead light in the dining room.
As he did so the screen saver on his computer came on and glowed brightly in the dim room. The words scrolled up the screen slowly. They read:
ACCESS IS GOD.
CHAPTER 00001110 / FOURTEEN
"Here, brought you this."
Gillette turned. Patricia Nolan was offering him a cup of coffee. "Milk and sugar, right?"
He nodded. "Thanks."
"I noticed that's how you like it," she said.
He was about to tell her how prisoners in San Ho would trade cigarettes for packages of real coffee and brew it in hot water from the tap. But as interesting as this trivia might be, he decided he wasn't eager to remind everyone--himself included--that he was a convict.
She sat down beside him, tugged at the ungainly knit dress. Pulled the nail polish out of her Louis Vuitton purse again and opened it. Nolan noticed him looking at the bottle.
"Conditioner," she explained. "All the keying is hell on my nails." She glanced into his eyes once then looked down, examining her fingertips carefully. She said, "I could cut them short but that's not part of my plan." There was a certain emphasis on the word "plan." As if she'd decided to share something personal with him--facts that he, however, wasn't sure he wanted to know.
She said, "I woke up one morning earlier this year--New Year's Day, as a matter of fact--after I'd spent the holiday on a plane by myself. And I realized that I'm a thirty-four-year-old single geek girl who lives with a cat and twenty thousand dollars' worth of semiconductor products in her bedroom. I decided I was changing my ways. I'm no fashion model but I thought I'd fix some of the things that could be fixed. Nails, hair, weight. I hate exercise but I'm at the health club every morning at five. The step-aerobics queen at Seattle Health and Racquet."
"Well, you've got really nice nails," Gillette said.
"Thanks. Really good thigh muscles too," she said with averted eyes. (He decided that her plan should probably include a little work on flirtation; she could use some practice.) She asked, "You married?"
"Divorced."
Nolan said, "I came close once. . . ." She let it go at that but glanced at him to gauge his reaction.
Don't waste your time on me, lady, he thought. I'm a no-win proposition. Yet at the same time he saw that her interest in him was palpable and Wyatt Gillette knew that it didn't matter that he was a skinny, obsessive geek with a year left on a prison term. He'd seen her adoring gaze as he'd hacked together his bot and he knew that her attraction to him was rooted in his mind and his passion for his craft. Which'll ultimately beat a handsome face and a Chippendale body any day.
But the topic of romance and single life put in his mind thoughts of his ex-wife, Elana, and that depressed him. He fell silent and nodded as Nolan told him about life at Horizon On-Line, which really was, she kept asserting, more stimulating than he might think (though nothing she said bore out that proposition), about life in Seattle with friends and her tabby cat, about the bizarre dates she'd had with geeks and chip-jocks.
He absorbed all the data politely, if vacantly, for ten minutes. Then his machine beeped loudly and Gillette glanced at the screen.
Search results:
Search Request: "Phate"
Location: alt.pictures.true.crime
Status: newsgroup reference
"My bot caught a fish," he called. "There's a reference to Phate in a newsgroup."
Newsgroups--those collections of special-interest messages on every topic under the sun--are contained on a subdivision of the Internet known as Usenet, which stands for Unix user network. Started in 1979 to send messages between the University of North Carolina and Duke University, the Usenet was purely scientific at first and contained strict prohibitions against topics like hacking, sex and drugs. In the eighties, though, a number of users thought these limitations smacked of censorship. The "Great Rebellion" ensued which led to the creation of the Alternate category of newsgroups. From then on the Usenet was like a frontier town. You can now find messages on any subject on earth, from hard-core porn to literary criticism to Catholic theology to pro-Nazi politics to irreverent swipes at popular culture (such as alt.barney.the.dinosaur.must.die).
Gillette's bot had learned that someone had posted a message that included Phate's name in one of these alternate newsgroups, alt. pictures.true.crime, and had alerted its master.
The hacker loaded up his newsgroup reader and went online. He found the group and then examined the screen. Somebody with the screen name Vlast453 had posted a message that mentioned Phate's name. He'd included a picture attachment.
Mott, Miller and Nolan crowded around the screen.
Gillette clicked on the message. He glanced at the header: From: "Vlast"
Newsgroups: alt.pictures.true.crime
Subject: A old one from Phate. Anyboddy have others.
Date: 1 April 23:54:08 +0100
Lines: 1323
Message-ID: [email protected]>
References: [email protected]> NNTP-Posting-Host: modem-76.flonase.dialup.pol.co.uk
X-Trace: newsg3.svr.pdd.co.uk 960332345 11751 62.136.95.76
X-Newsreader: Microsoft Outlook Express 5.00.2014.211
X-MimeOLE: Produced By Microsoft MimeOLE V5.00.2014.211
Path:news.Alliance-news.com!traffic.Alliance-news.com!
Budapest.usenetserver.com!News-out.usenetserver.com!diablo.
theWorld.net!news.theWorld.net!newspost.theWorld.net!
Then he read the message that Vlast had sent.
To The Group:
I am receved this from our friend Phate it was sixths months ago, I am not hearing from him after then. Can anyboddy post more like this.
--Vlast
Tony Mott observed, "Look at the grammar and spelling. He's from overseas."
The language people used on the Net told a great deal about them. English was the most common choice but serious hackers mastered a number of languages--especially German, Dutch and French--so they could share information with as many fellow hackers as possible.
Gillette downloaded the picture that accompanied Vlast's message. It was an old crime scene photograph and showed a young woman's naked body--stabbed a dozen times.
Linda Sanchez, undoubtedly mindful of her own daughter and her fetal grandchild, looked at the picture once and then quickly away. "Disgusting," she muttered.
It was, Gillette agreed. But he forced himself to think past the image. "Let's try to trace this guy," he suggested. "If we can get to him maybe he can give us some leads to Phate."
There are two ways to trace someone on the Internet. If you have the authentic header of an e-mail or newsgroup posting you can examine the path notation, which will reveal where the message entered the Internet and the route it followed to get to the computer from which you have downloaded it. If presented with a court order, the sysadmin of that initial network might give the police the name and address of the user who sent the message.
Usually, though, hackers use fake headers
so that they can't be traced. Vlast's header, Gillette noted immediately, was bogus--real Internet routes contain only lowercase words and this one contained upper-and lowercase. He told the CCU team this then added, however, that he'd try to find Vlast with the second type of trace: through the man's Internet [email protected] Gillette loaded up HyperTrace. He typed in Vlast's address and the program went to work. A map of the world appeared and a dotted line moved outward from San Jose--the location of CCU's computer--across the Pacific. Every time it hit a new Internet router and changed direction the machine gave an electronic tone called a "ping"--named after a submarine's sonar beep, which is just what it sounded like.
Nolan said, "This is your program?"
"Right."
"It's brilliant."
"Yeah, it was a fun hack," Gillette said, noting that his prowess had earned him a bit more adoration from the woman.
The line representing the route from CCU to Vlast's computer headed west and finally stopped in central Europe, ending in a box that contained a question mark.
Gillette looked at the graph and tapped the screen. "Okay, Vlast isn't online at the moment or he's cloaking his machine's location--that's the question mark where the trail ends. The closest we can get is his service provider: Euronet.bulg.net. He's logging on through Euronet's Bulgarian server. I should've guessed that."
Nolan and Miller nodded their agreement. Bulgaria probably has more hackers per capita than any other country. After the fall of the Berlin Wall and the demise of Central European Communism the Bulgarian government tried to turn the country into the Silicon Valley of the former Soviet Bloc and imported thousands of codeslingers and chip-jocks. To their dismay, however, IBM, Apple, Microsoft and other U.S. companies swept through the world markets. Foreign tech companies failed in droves and the young geeks were left with nothing to do except hang out in coffee shops and hack. Bulgaria produces more computer viruses annually than any other country in the world.
Nolan asked Miller, "Do the Bulgarian authorities cooperate?"
"Never. The government doesn't even answer our requests for information." Stephen Miller then suggested, "Why don't we e-mail him directly, Vlast?"
"No," Gillette said. "He might warn Phate. I think this's a dead end."
But just then the computer beeped as Gillette's bot signaled yet another catch.
Search results: