Blood of Others (26 page)

After Reed
finished the Folsom feature on bad
cop Donnie Ray Ball, he massaged his neck. Something about the Las Vegas murder
gnawed at him as he scanned his desk, cluttered with newspapers, notebooks,
unopened mail, reference books, cassette tapes and the files Carla Purcell’s
mother had given him. Something about the case. A key thread of information he
had read in one of the files. Sifting through the chaos, he couldn’t find the
page, or remember the details. The documents were jumbled, gathered hastily in
his Las Vegas hotel because he had overslept, nearly missing his return flight.

No one knew the real reason he
went to Las Vegas. The trip was a gamble that paid off with a few bits of new
data. Now, he wanted to secretly dig into the Las Vegas murder. Check its
similarities with Iris Wood’s case. Both victims were the same type. In both
cases their corpses were posed. The bridal shop in San Francisco. The statue in
the Las Vegas church. The
Pieta.
Maybe there was something there. What
was the thing that had slipped his mind? Flipping through the Purcell files of
anti-death penalty brochures, printouts of e-mails with friends, day-care
schedules, his frustration mounting as he snapped from one page to the next. It
could be the key to breaking the story wide open. A fragment he suspected the
Vegas cops missed.
Think.
He was reading the files in his Las Vegas
hotel room. Did he read something before falling asleep? Or had he dreamed it?
Where was it? What was it?

“So, Tommy. How was prison? Make
any new friends in the big house?” Wilson said.

“Sure. Donnie Ray and I are an
item now.”

“I’m happy for you.”

Wilson’s bracelets clinked as she
began going through her notes for a story. Reed turned to his computer,
concentrating on researching the
Pieta
on the Internet and his Las Vegas
files.

“Hey, Tom,” Wilson dropped her
voice to a confidential level. “Brader called me at home last night. Asked me
how I was doing. Tried to make small talk. Weird huh?”

“Weird.”

Before leaving Las Vegas, Reed
had stopped at the Church of Mary the Compassionate Virgin, where Carla
Purcell’s corpse had been found with the
Pieta,
in an alcove to the
right of the altar. Reed had gone there to see the statue, a copy of
Michelangelo’s
Pieta
in Rome.

“So what should I do about it?”

“He’s a pig. Stay away from him.”

According to the church pamphlet
Reed picked up, its
Pieta
was glazed plaster, an exact replica made from
protective shipping casts taken from Michelangelo’s marble original decades ago
when the Vatican had allowed its treasures to be shown for a few years around
the world. It was the only time in some 500 years the great work had left Rome.

“He’s not my type but he’s kind
of cute.”

“He’s married. He’s got two
daughters. He just wants another notch in his belt.”

“Maybe I want another notch in
mine.”

Reed stared at Wilson, her eyes
twinkling, flashing one of her
just-kidding
grins.

“Molly. Stay away from him.” Reed
shook his head, returning to his work, clicking through Web sites about
Michelangelo. The
Pieta,
known as the “pity or sorrow,” stands nearly
six feet tall, depicting Mary with her son, the dead Christ, in her lap moments
after he was taken down from the cross. It is one of the world’s greatest
representations of eternal love. Commissioned in the late 1400s by a French
cardinal to immortalize his gravesite.

But why was Carla Purcell, a
lonely Las Vegas daycare worker, put there? Why pose her like that? Was this a
signature? It had to be the same guy who posed Iris Wood in the bridal shop?
Maybe. Maybe not. If so, what was the link? Where was that document? That page
he thought he’d read? Maybe the answer was there?

His line rang.

“You’re back,” his wife said.

“Ann, I was just going to call
you. Brader ordered me to the newsroom directly from the airport to finish the
feature. He pushed up the deadline. It’s going tomorrow, I’m just wrapping up.”

“So you can make it tonight?”

Reed hesitated.

“The banquet, Tom. Remember?”

“Sure, right.” Reed saw Brader
approaching, gripping that yellow legal pad, patting his hair, stealing
glimpses of Wilson, whose top had a plunging V-neck. “What time are we
leaving?”

“Soon. Could you be home in an
hour?”

“You bet.”

Reed hung up. Brader had leaned
over Wilson’s shoulder, reading her story on her monitor, inhaling her
fragrance.

“Tom,” Brader said without
looking at Reed. “I’d like to see you in my office now please.”

In his office, Brader sat before
his computer and displayed Reed’s story on Donnie Ray Ball.

“What did you do in Las Vegas?
There’s nothing in here about his family.”

“I got stood up. Couldn’t find
them.”

“The story’s flat. There’s
nothing in here that we discussed. Nothing about breaking the thin blue line,
stressed cops losing control, turning on the citizenry, committing murders.
Nothing contextual. Frankly, this is cow dung. You didn’t even hook the damn
thing on your witness and Iris Wood’s case.”

Reed rolled his eyes. “It could
be a city editor.”

“Excuse me?”

“Wood’s killer could be anybody.
I told you it’s not a cop but likely a guy posing as a cop. Clyde, you had an
imaginary story in your head and wanted me to find imaginary facts to support
it.”

“Reed, your work confirms that
you’re not an investigative reporter. You couldn’t break wind, let alone news.”

“You know what’s weak?”

“Careful, Tom. I’ve got your job
by a thread here.” Brader’s jaw muscles tightened. He loosened his tie. “What
did you do in Las Vegas?”

“Worked on my assignment.”

“Have you got a gambling
addiction?”

“What?”

“Visit a dude ranch? Are you
dysfunctional in any way? First step to recovery is admitting the problem. I’ll
help. I’ll have the business office check your receipts. We can offer
counseling.”

“I don’t believe you.” Reed held
his tongue. “My story’s done. I’m going home.”

“Reed, if you misled me. If you
misrepresented the paper, or spent its money without authorization, it’s a
firing offense. So watch what you’re doing.”

“Clyde. You’d better watch what
you’re
doing.” Reed said, making sure Brader’s attention followed his to the pictures
of Brader’s wife and two daughters.

Ann was wearing a black
knee-length skirt and a silk top. Reed thought she looked stunning.

“Hi. Can you zip me? How was
Nevada?”

Reed dropped his bag on the bed,
pulled up her back zipper. “Hot. How’s Zach doing?”

“They’re still working on the
list and his tests.” She put pearl studs in her pierced earlobes. “Could be
asthma, or allergies. Melody took him to the park. Better hurry. I’ve set out
your blue suit.”

In the shower, in the cab
downtown, during the small talk over cocktails at the banquet, during the
dinner, Reed was haunted by Carla Purcell’s case. When Ann squeezed his hand
during the evening’s speeches, it hit him. Full force.

“Ann, I’ve got to go.”

“But why, Tom? Are you ill?”

“No. It’s urgent. Something I
just remembered on the story.”

“Call the paper.” She glanced at
her watch, well aware of the
Star’s
deadlines.

“No.” He pushed his chair back.
“I have to go.”

“Tom,” she whispered, “do you
really have to go,
now?”

“Yes, I have to go now.”

“I don’t like this.”

“Ann, I’m sorry.”

“I can feel this story wrapping
itself around you.”

Ann turned away from him to
applaud the speaker. Reed walked silently on the padded carpet to the hotel’s
lobby.

I better be right about this.

He felt his stomach quake, and he
began trotting.

The hotel doorman
summoned a taxi for Reed. At
the
Star,
he didn’t have to show his ID to the night security officer
who buzzed him in.

“Hey, Tom, you’re working late.”

In the city newsroom the night
crew, putting the final touches on the next day’s edition, didn’t even notice
Reed at his desk, in his suit, his tie loosened, tearing through the files. He
found the lost page, seized it, then punched an extension on his phone.

“Computer room.”

“Sebastian there?”

“One sec.” Reed heard the drone
of the
Star’s
entire computer system as someone shouted.

“Tan here.”

“Sebastian, it’s Reed in the
newsroom.”

“What’s up Tom, got a problem?”

“Can you help me with something
computer related. Just between you and me?”

“What is it?”

“I’ll have to show you.”

“Sure, come on down. It’s quiet.”

The
Star’s
computer system
was housed on the building’s main floor, three floors down from News and one up
from the pressroom. Banks of computers hummed on linoleum floors, used to keep
dust and debris to a minimum, in the brightly lit labyrinth of glass-walled
sections.

It was the brain and nerve center
of the newspaper, its entire system drew its life from here. Every computer
terminal in the plant, advertising, the presses, circulation, all editorial
departments, every network, every keystroke, were all ensured here from the
techs in the control room, who rolled from server to server on wheeled chairs.

Sebastian Tan was the top night
tech. He kept the system clicking worry-free at warp speed. Tan, the silent
type, had gone to MIT, Stanford, worked in security for several Silicon Valley
companies, sold his own Internet firm a few years back, and came to the
Star
because he was bored. Tan wore khaki shorts, a Crypt Kicker T-shirt, and some
acne cream. He was twenty-five.

Late one night when Reed came
down to get a laptop fixed, he had befriended Tan. The younger man confided
that when he was fifteen, he got into trouble with the FBI for intruding on
some national security systems. Tan’s dad had pulled some strings in Washington
and managed to keep it quiet. Tan boasted with dead seriousness to Reed that no
system existed that was impenetrable, that he secretly ventured into restricted
areas to test his skills.

Reed needed those skills tonight.

“Please Sebastian, would you just
give it a quick try?”

Tan was looking at the page Reed
had given him.

Dear CP:

I just have to know, if you
found the right man, could you forgive him the sins of his past life?

Tan and Reed were alone in the
computer room office. Tan studied the data atop the message. He chewed on the
corners of his plastic security swipe cards, his laminated
Star
employee
ID, which hung on a chain around his neck.

“What are you looking for exactly?”

“I want the sender’s name,
current real physical address. Everything you can get me on him.”

Tan tapped his chin with his
cards.

“Can you do it, Sebastian?”

“Just between you and me?”

“Absolutely.”

“Come on.”

Tan took Reed into a smaller
office. Three of its walls were glass. The other had file cabinets,
bookshelves, and a large poster of Superman. The large desk occupying the room
had Tan’s computer terminal. “Shut the door, Tom.”

Tan began entering commands on
his keyboard. He went on-line, working for over fifteen full minutes in
silence, Reed standing behind him, arms folded, watching patiently as Tan tried
a number of scenarios. Screen after screen of codes, numbers, swam by. Reed was
seeing things he’d never seen before, a world unknown to him of computer
language, matrixes, programs. He was lost.

“So what is this, top secret
stuff, Tom?”

“Just between you and me, the
receiver was murdered in Las Vegas. I suspect the sender is her killer.”

Tan looked at Reed. “Cool.” Tan
continued working, his computer beeping, trilling. Tan’s phone rang. He ignored
it. “Ned will get it.” Tan blinked thoughtfully, studying his screen, which was
frozen. He tried something.

“Odd.”

“What is it?”

“Very strange ML. I’ve heard of
some leading edge in development. This is wild, exotic.”

“I’m afraid you lost me, buddy.”

Tan resumed typing. “All right.
I’ll try this. Seems I underestimated this system. It’s deceptively
sophisticated. Like a work of art, really.” Two lines on his phone rang at
once. “Ned!” Tan shouted to the outer office, then got one of the ringing
lines. “Tan here. Yes. Correct. Bring them back on-line.”

Reed noticed through the glass a
series of red, green, blue and yellow lights began strobing among the banks of
big computers in the large computer area. Tan left his computer and went to a
keyboard in the outer section, entered a few commands. The blinking lights
stopped.

“Presses will start soon,” Tan
said, returning to his computer, resuming his attempts to intrude on the system
that sent Carla Purcell the short e-mail.

“What makes you think the sender
is the killer?”

“A calculated hunch.”

Tan studied his screen. His
computer began beeping rapidly.

“Holy cow!” Tan lifted his hands
from his keyboard. “How did that happen? I’ve never seen!--”

“What is it?”

Tan started working faster on his
keyboard “No. No. Oh no. Stop.” Tan’s worried eyes shot out to the bank of
computers. His line began ringing.

“What the hell is this, Reed?”

“What is it?”

Tan punched an extension on his
line. “Tell everyone to save and shut down immediately!”

Tan punched a number of commands
on his keyboard. His chair spun as he rushed to the large computer room,
pressing keypad codes. Two other techs emerged and Tan gave them frantic orders
to join him. Reed remained transfixed in the small office, studying Tan’s
monitor. It went black, then white, then fuzzy. Strange things were happening.

“We’re getting error messages.
Tell the pressroom to delay. It’s not safe yet!” Tan shouted into a cell phone
pressed to his ear.

Reed watched Tan’s monitor act
like a TV receiving a strange signal through a snow blizzard while Tan was
shouting into his phone.

“Save and shut down immediately!
Everything! I think it’s malevolent! Unplug everything. Power down.” Tan
shouted to Reed. “Tom, unplug my system now!”

The computer room phones ringing,
Reed reached to unplug Tan’s system but he froze, his eyes widened.

“My God!”

Tan’s monitor came alive with a
clear image of some kind of home movie. The perspective of someone in a church.
The Las Vegas church -- walking toward the
Pieta
walking slowly, the
camera shaking a bit, blurring a bit. The camera turned down, gazing at a
sleeping woman -- red paint spilled all over her face -- Reed knew that face --
Carla Purcell -- being carried to the
Pieta
-- not sleeping not paint --
blood -- now being placed atop the dead Christ in the lap of Mary someone
speaking. “Mother of God, pray for us sinners” A hand in a latex glove. A
finger extended, dipping into her blood, and touched Mary’s face, making a
bloody tear under each eye of the Blessed Virgin. My God, my God. Reed’s
gooseflesh rising with the tiny hairs on the back of his neck, not realizing he
had been pressing the print screen button -- before the monitor went black.

Reed collapsed in Tan’s chair,
thrusting his face in his hands. Swallowing hard, he regained his composure as
the printer near him came to life, spitting out grainy frames from the horror
he had witnessed. Three pages. Reed grabbed them, folded them, and tucked them
into the breast pocket of his suit. Unplugged everything just as Tan returned,
talking on his cell phone.

“Yes. I want two minutes. Two,
then reboot. We should be okay.”

Tan switched off his phone. “I’ve
never seen anything like that Reed. This stays between us.”

“What happened?”

Tan was silent, studying the
e-mail, then going through a worn notebook in his back pocket. “Some kind of
overwhelming malevolent system. I’ve never encountered anything like it. It
launched an attack on us for simply knocking on its door. It went through
firewalls, gunning for the mail server, routers, all our internal systems. I’m
baffled at how it could do what it was doing. How I caught it just in time.
Reed, it would have melted our entire system.”

The line rang. Tan took it. “Up
and running. Everything’s saved. Tell everyone to power on, reboot.”

Tan hung up and glared at Reed.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, Tom, but don’t ever ask me to do anything like
that ever again.”

Reed nodded, then left the
building thrusting his hands in his pockets to keep them from shaking.

After several blocks and
constantly checking to make sure he had the three printout pictures, he hailed
a taxi home.