Country rubbed the back of his neck, then, rolled his head around. Freedom, albeit temporary, felt good in his bones. If he worried about going back to prison, it didn’t show. Truth be told, he really didn’t give it any thought. There were bigger issues to deal with. First things first, as the saying goes.
Off came the wool underwear. A metal sink and two matches later and the fibers sizzled as they curled into tiny, brown embers. “I don’t know how sheep can stand it,” he said and added, “Burn, baby, burn.” The bathroom next to the campus computer center filled with the lovely scent of mutton.
A fresh pair of silk skivvies adorned his nether regions, knitted for him by his ex-cellmate as a mildly awkward going away present. Country didn’t know what to give in return, so he left the rest of his deodorant stick and a pack of unused razors.
“In hindsight, I’m not sure that was a wise choice,” he told himself. “Well, nothing I can do about it now.”
He nestled his be-silked tush into the seat behind a computer and pressed the power button. Twenty minutes later, the welcome logo popped up. Another fifteen and the desktop display finally stopped blinking, disappearing, re-appearing, vanishing again, and settling down for proper use. Country noted the improvement and resolved to write a congratulatory letter to Bill Gates.
He clicked the keys, caressed the mouse, and scratched his armpit. Three windows popped up. Typing some more, a string of letters materialized, white script on a black background. He hit enter and waited for the lines to dance and jig and scroll upwards. When they finished, a small box with file names and a play button emerged. Repeating the process twice, but with different strings of letters each time, and computer files came into view. One of them contained his emails along with other information that pertained to him. The other files belonged to someone else.
The three original windows disappeared. Better to not let a different hacker get a glimpse at his infiltration program – a peeper, as he called it. His attention went first to his own emails.
Nothing interesting for the most part. A few with titles promising enhanced masculinity. They were quickly dismissed with a ‘no thank you’. Another one with programming opportunities at a company called Desilion a few hundred miles to the north in a place called Silicon Valley. It was set aside for later perusal.
An email titled ‘Golden Gate’ caught his attention, not because of the title, but because of the sender: NotHorHay. He read the first few lines.
The Bay Area is beautiful. Clean. Lovely. A needle and a pile or two of poo, but that’s to be expected in any city of this size. Snapped a picture of the Golden Gate bridge. Thought you might like to see where I’ve been. Best I could do under the circumstances. I attached it for you. Regards.
Country clicked on the link. The modem whirred and sputtered. Every few seconds, a single row of the picture came into view. While he waited, he pulled out a notebook and jotted down some ideas for his next project: The Falcon, a speed enhancement algorithm. He finished the jotting at the same time the last row appeared.
There was nothing seemingly unusual about the photo. Taken from below street level and looking up towards the road from the southern side, the first large abutments were the focal point. Reddish in color but switching to a grayish-orange near the base. Rising high into the smoky mist. The blurred profile of a man stood in the foreground. It was the man that NotHorHay wanted Country to look at.
He adjusted the settings in order to enlarge the photo. All he obtained was a larger, blurry photo. Not that he expected otherwise. Returning to the home screen, he opened a window and dragged the photo inside. The program knew what to do. Slowly, a crisper image emerged. Country set the image size to maximum and moved his face close to the screen. Even then, he couldn’t be sure. It certainly could be him. On the other hand, that part of the image could only be enhanced so much. Enough of the blurriness remained to cast reasonable doubt. Yet there was something about his demeanor, his posture perhaps, that caused Country’s heart to skip a beat or two.
“Mr. Haverford,” he said. “Is that you?”
The photo didn’t answer no matter how long Country stared. He set the photo off to the side of the screen. That investigation would have to wait. Another more pressing one waited in its place.
Country clicked on a window to bring it to the front. The display from a different computer emerged. He watched the display for a while, waiting to see if the cursor moved or keystrokes appeared, signs that a person sat behind the other computer. The cursor sat still, blinking on and off. Country checked the time. Fifteen minutes without movement. Normally, he waited for thirty to be sure, but his desire to know pressed him forward.
It had started with a plan to gather information on the investigation against him. Simple emails to everyone involved at the sheriff’s department promising free trips, beer coupons, anything to get the people to click on the included links. The one advertising a bobblehead convention did the trick. He had thrown it in as a joke, but it was the one that paid off. Once he had access to the first person’s email, the rest fell like dominoes, or like cowards in the midst of a surreptitious, internal takeover of their nation, more afraid of being called names than to speak out for what is right.
Sheriff Jeremiah turned out to be a good guy doing his job. It was clear he had doubts about the direction the investigation headed, the doubts growing stronger with each passing week. He made his thoughts known, albeit indirectly, to the deputy working the case. New to the force, starting a few days after Country arrived in Los Angeles, someone had pulled strings to get the deputy into the homicide division. His personnel file listed military experience as well as five years as a patrol officer and two years as an investigator in the major crimes unit in Philadelphia. A few phone calls and a look with the ‘peeper’ and Country knew the deputy recruit had never been employed there. He suspected the military experience had been falsified too.
Once Country discovered the fraud, he knew which thread to pull on. Deputy Davy Jones made it easy. Apparently for all his years at Harvard (a fact which did check out), he hadn’t learned to shut off his computer each night. Country already knew how to infiltrate and take control of a distant computer with his own. He had discovered how to do that during his months alone in Pittsburgh. Only recently had he figured out how to turn on the other computer’s power.
Admittedly, the emails were a little hard to decipher at first. Most of the exchanges were in a sort of code. A pre-planned doublespeak which, upon cursory inspection of a single communication, seemed innocuous, but when taken as a whole, brought forth a picture, an image emerging from a mosaic of words.
The first murder had occurred when Deputy Jones began working homicide. Re-reading the earliest emails, Country realized the conspiracy to link the murder to him had begun at the same time. Deputy Jones was Country’s primary suspect until later emails shifted him in a different direction. The deputy was involved, but he was nothing more than an accomplice, neither getting his hands bloody, nor directing the action. Just someone in a strategic location to help push the deception. Country got the feeling the hands-off approach was about to change.
The other players were more cautious, using fake names, routing their communications through false IP addresses. Country couldn’t tell how many others were involved. Somewhere between two and four, most likely, perhaps more. Multiple people said the same thing. Were they a group of different people or was it the same couple of people using different accounts? He had narrowed it down to someone on the movie set – the communications contained information that only a person involved with the production of the movie would have known – and someone who knew Genny. This last piece he discovered the night before he was arrested. If he had known prior to the arrest, he would have done more to protect her, perhaps not have been so angry over things which seemed so trivial now. She was a part of the conspiracy. An unwitting participant. A loose end which needed to be cleaned up. But someone who would not answer his calls.
Even though he had a few new emails to sort through, Country turned his attention to the other box, the last box, the one with the files and a play button. This part was new to him. The same lines that transmitted the computer data also carried phone conversations. For some reason, he had more difficulty than he would have expected tapping into the calls at the sheriff’s department. Only recently had he discovered how to do it. The first downloads occurred while he was in his cell at L.A. County Jail.
He clicked on the right-facing triangle and adjusted the volume control. Deputy Jones’ voice came through the speakers. He was ordering a turkey on wheat from the local deli. An argument ensued over the proper method of spreading the mayonnaise – Country didn’t pay attention to who instigated it – and ended with the deputy claiming superior knowledge based on his Harvard degree. Country moved the recording forward.
A few more conversations: requesting information from forensics on an unrelated case, another one to the auto shop, back to the deli for a final sandwich-making critique. Nothing useful. All the deli talk did make him hungry, though. He walked to the vending machine, always keeping an eye on the computer, and retrieved a package of spicy doodles. One package and a tongue removal of the red dust from his fingertips later and he returned to his seat.
The sound file ended without bearing witness to anything worthwhile. He did receive a passive-aggressive throat clearing from a nearby computer user, which Country took as a sign the woman wanted him to turn the volume down. Unfortunately for the woman, Country didn’t do either passive or aggressive. The woman took it as a sign to find a new seat.
On to the next file. He scrolled forward, dragging the time indicator notch along and stopping every few millimeters to hit play. About halfway through the recording, he hit pause and scrolled back. He let the call finish and went back one more time to find where the call started. The person on the other end of the line spoke in a way with Deputy Jones to convey the meaning without incriminating himself. The exact meaning was unclear to Country. But that didn’t matter.
“Is it done?” Deputy Jones asked.
“We had an issue weeth Goldy,” the caller replied.
“Is it going to be a problem?”
“Oh, I do not theenk so.”
“So, you’ve found a solution?”
“Our mutual friend has taken a personal eenterest.”
“Won’t that make things a little messy?”
“Een a manner of speaking.”
“Tell him to make sure it doesn’t come back on us.”
“I do not theenk he cares much what you theenk.”
“Watch your tone of voice with me. I went to Harvard.”
Scoffing. “Eez your subject een custody?”
“We had to let him go.”
“So eet seems you find yourself een a beet of a peeckle too.”
“Just take care of your business and I’ll take care of mine.”
“Tell heem, eet’s going to cost extra.”
“Hmm.”
The call ended. Country seethed. He used all his self-control to stay in his seat and continue listening. Genny wasn’t home anyway. In fact, he had no idea where she was. He only hoped that the ‘mutual friend’ didn’t know either.
The very next call was equally revealing.
“Yeah.”
“I spoke with Frenchie,” Deputy Jones said.
“I thought he was Korean.”
“Whatever. The point is he ran into a problem on his end.”
“Is it serious?”
“Our mutual friend is involved.”
Silence on the other end. Then, a series of dry, hacking coughs like those from a person regretting, too late, the three-pack-a-day habit. If the voice hadn’t given it away, the coughs did. Country clicked pause and rubbed his eyes. He let out a large puff of air and hit play. When Roger Ivel spoke again, his voice sounded more anxious.
“Did he say anything else?”
“Who?” Deputy Jones asked.
“Frenchie, or that Korean guy, whichever it is.”
“No. Well, except to say he was going to need a bit more money.”
“I pay him enough.”
“I’m just passing along the message. Although, truth is, I could use a little extra too.”
“Anything else?” Roger Ivel asked.
“He knows. Or at least he’s suspicious.”
“How’d that happen? I told you to be careful.”
“I was. I went to Harvard.”
“Yeah, you’ve told me.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“I’ll get back to you.”
Country had to go to the third sound file to find the follow up to the conversation.
“Hello?”
“Are you still wanting to make a little extra?” Roger coughed a few times.
“Sure,” the deputy replied.
“I need you to take out the garbage.”
A pause. “Are you sure?”
“Does it sound like I’m kidding?”
Another pause. “Can I keep his bobblehead collection?”
“I don’t care. Just so long as there’s a new sheriff in town come tomorrow morning. Get Frenchie to help you. And when you’re done, make sure Frenchie ends up in the same place.”
“Can do.”
Country looked at the time stamp. 7:32 that evening. He checked the clock on the wall. 9:14. He ran to the nearest pay phone. Finding the number for the direct line, he dialed. Three rings later and a woman on the other end answered.
“Sheriff’s department. How can I direct your call?”
“I’d like to speak directly with Sheriff Jeremiah,” Country said.
“He’s gone for the day.”
“Do you, by any chance, have his home number there with you?”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t give that out to you.”
“I understand,” Country said, “but this is an emergency.”
“If it’s an emergency, please hang up and dial 9-1-1.”
“It involves him directly.” Country hesitated. “Look ma’am. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t extremely urgent.”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t give out that information.”
Country slammed the receiver down. He stood by the phone with his hands folded in front of his face. Only one option came to mind. He ran back to the computer and scrolled through the final calls on the sound file.