The Carma Klown

The Carma Klown 5

z119z (z119z2000@yahoo.com)

© 2013 by the author

Chapter 10

Wednesday, ca. 10:00 p.m., June 9, 2010

It was regrettable, of course, but you could never predict how people would react. The police were hushing it up. There had been nothing on the TV news and only brief mentions in the online versions of the Times and the Post of Milowski's suicide. A "high-ranking" source in the Police Department "familiar with the case" ("speaking anonymously," of course, "because he was not authorized to make a statement") said that Milowski had been distraught over his failure to advance beyond ordinary patrolman. It was implied that an assignment to the court system was the department's tacit way of handling officers who weren't quite suitable for the streets. Neither paper mentioned the video. It apparently hadn't come to their attention yet.

The video had been posted on several sites, but as yet the identities of the cops weren't widely known, and no one appeared to have drawn the link between the cop shown in the video and Milowski's suicide. The comments sections appended to the video were uniformly enthusiastic. His fans applauded the police as victims. They were, if anything, disappointed that he hadn't forced the two officers to do more. Some of their suggestions were quite inventive, almost worthy of The Carma Klown himself. Some were a bit too inventive—who knew what evil lurks in the hearts of men? Well, he was learning. He had to admit that it was upsetting to find that viewers were focusing on what he was doing, not why he was doing it. Really, he must find a way to make his message clear. Obviously the next video would be crucial to his campaign.

The one thing he had found encouraging was the response of the police, both locally and throughout the country. The cops' internal email system and the online websites for police officers had been filled with outrage and anger—the things they were threatening to do to him when they caught him were barbaric. He shuddered to think of them. Fortunately there was no chance that the police would ever get that close to him.

Chief Bronson had felt that the video deserved a response and had sent a message to everyone on the force pledging to spare "no effort in the hunt for this maniac"; at least that's what the original message had read. He had been able to intercept it before it reached anyone and changed the passage to read "spare no effort to find and reward The Carma Klown for his help in showcasing the fine efforts of these two sterling officers. It makes you proud to be a pig"—a much more suitable statement, even if he did say so himself. The resulting brouhaha had somewhat overshadowed the video for a time and might even lead to Bronson's resignation. As satisfying as that had been, however, he would have to avoid similar interventions in the future. The Police Department might take steps to increase the security of its internal communications system. Not that that would stop him, but it would take time to restore his access, and he had much better things to do.

And it would cause a momentary delay in his tracking of the activities of The Carma Klown Task Force. It helped to keep abreast of what they were doing so that he could, should it prove necessary, intercede and misdirect them in a timely fashion. Not that he expected to have to do so. He was happy to note that the "clues" he had left the police were working just as he had planned. Like this report giving the results of the "tox screens" on samples of Rossiter's and the two cops' blood. "High levels of metabolites characteristic of prior ingestion of flunitrazepam (other names: Rohypnol, Narcozep; street name: `roofies') were present in all three blood samples. The levels are consistent with intake of a compound in the benzodiazapine family twelve to thirty-six hours before the samples were taken. Further analysis should reveal the exact drug administered."

Well, he had given each of the men a dose of Rohypnol at the end of the sessions, but the purpose was not to make them more acquiescent and cooperative (they had already been ready and willing to accept all his instructions). Rather, it was to mislead the police about what he was using to make them so docile. Also, it helped to mask the compounds that he was using. According to Professor Stephens, the drug regime was untraceable, but one could never be sure. Better to give the police an easy answer than to create a mystery.

It had been a stroke of luck that he had happened across Stephens's government research project seven years ago. As an undergraduate, he had been investigating government contracts, especially those from the military, given to professors; his intent was to publish an exposé that would force the university to stop the research. His report on his findings did succeed in embarrassing the university temporarily. His talents in hacking computers had allowed him to read all the professors' reports. Then he had hacked the college newspaper's computer and arranged for the story to be printed on the front page. The feds had shut the paper down while they investigated the source of the report—an investigation that came to nothing, not that the government could admit that. In the end, they made an example out of the editorial staff of the student paper. The last he had heard, a couple of them were still in prison somewhere for releasing classified information.

But he had held back the information on Stephens's work. Initially it had attracted his attention because of its ultra top secret classification, the highest given any of the projects on campus. Once he had read Stephens's reports and looked at the test results on an unwitting group of student-subjects, he knew that he could put these "suggestibility enhancement and compliance augmentation" (SECA) compounds to better use than the military. And Stephens had become so cooperative about supplying him with the drugs. He didn't even suspect that he had become another test subject. Even now, years later, he was only too ready to provide what was needed. In the unlikely event that the coroner's office succeeded in identifying the chemical composition of the drugs, the military could step hardly step forward and admit their role in the creation of the SECA drugs and supply the police with information that might help them track him down.

And now the participants in the next video had been selected. Friday during the day he would administer doses of the first drug appropriate for men of their weight. Then later, his chosen stars would receive the second drug. The camera and the set and the tattoo machine were ready, and the next clue for Chang and his helpers was prepared and waiting to be incorporated into the new video. He still had to record the instruction tapes for the participants to listen to, but there was plenty of time to do that tomorrow or Friday.

Thursday, ca. 12:30 a.m., June 10, 2010

Jeff sat in front of his computer screen, not really seeing the words he had typed there an hour earlier. I should know better by now, he thought. I should know not to let Michael see that I worry about him. He hates that. It's bad enough that everybody in that oversized family of his takes every opportunity to tell him that he's wasting his talents. His father lectures him every chance he gets. So what do I do, I come along and start in on him about how dangerous his job is. It makes him think that I think he can't take care of himself. And I had to do it on a day that started with me losing my temper at him.

Jeff scowled at the screen and then closed the program without saving the file. It had been a waste of effort, anyway. He carried his mug into the kitchen, poured the cold tea into the sink, rinsed out the mug, and set it in the dishwasher. Time to bite the bullet and apologize, he thought. Oh, bad choice of words. Forget bullets. Anyway, time to apologize and make up.

The bedroom was dark. Michael lay on his side of the bed, facing the wall. When Jeff walked in, Michael stiffened and moved closer to the edge of the bed. He was pretending to be asleep, but no sleeper was ever that tense. Jeff sat down on the foot of the bed, next to Michael's legs. He put a hand on Michael's calf. "Hey."

There was no response. Michael wasn't even breathing. His body was rigid and unmoving.

"For what it's worth, I'm sorry. I behaved like a bitch today."

This time a noise came from somewhere in the vicinity of Michael's chest. The "hmph" could be taken as either an acknowledgment that Jeff had spoken or agreement with what he had said—or both.

"I'm not trying to justify or excuse what I said. I was wrong. But I can't help worrying. I don't know what I would do if you were . . ." Jeff caught himself before he said killed. ". . . injured or hurt. I depend on you so much. For so many things. I need you in one piece, and it frightens me to think about living without you. So rather than deal with my fears, I take it out on you. If you haven't figured it out already, I'm not perfect. I know you can take care of yourself. It's just that I wish you never had to do so. Or rather, that I never had to worry about you doing so. I can't help it. I worry."

The silence lasted for several beats. Finally there came a muffled "Come here" from somewhere near the location of Michael's head.

"What?"

"Come here." Michael rolled over on to his back, pushed the covers down, and reached out his arms. "No, don't take off your clothes. Just come here. Right now."

Jeff crawled onto the bed and lay down beside Michael. Suddenly Michael's arms were around him, grasping him tight. "You're not the only one who worries. I worry about all those monsters and evil wizards you have to deal with. It keeps me awake nights."

"Yeah, right. I've noticed you tossing and turning and not being able to sleep. But it's not the same. My monsters aren't real. Yours are."

"There as real as the monsters you think I face. Look, I'm not a patrolman. I don't walk a beat. I don't go on high-speed car chases or get in shoot-outs with the bad guys and get fired at fifty times from a gun that can only hold six bullets. It's not like television. I deal with white-collar criminals with expensive lawyers who never let me get close to their clients—physically. The closest I get to criminals is a computer screen. I may end up knowing a lot about them, all sorts of secrets they never imagined would see the light of day, but I deal with pixels and emails and financial records and phone records and GPS logs. I don't even have to testify in most cases. I find the evidence and somebody else takes it from there and confronts the criminal. I know I complain about being left out of investigations, but I am. Most of the time I sit in my cubicle. The biggest danger I face is the stale coffee in the breakroom. And the more successful I am at using computers to find evidence, the more the department will make me do that kind of work, and only that kind. They've got plenty of guys who can make arrests. They don't have lots of people with my knowledge and skills, and even the department isn't going to misuse me by letting me out from behind a computer. So you don't need to worry."

"But in a few hours you're going to be at this Syswide."

"I'll be part of a team. It's a tech company. No one's going to be shooting. As soon as we serve the warrant, they'll be on the phone to their lawyers. We hope that they will cooperate. If they don't, the department will threaten them with the cancelation of its contract with them. They get a lot of money from the department, not to mention other city departments. They run the library computer system too. They're not going to jeopardize their business with the city. It's as much in their interest as in ours that they find the problem and fix it. We're just looking for a few specific records. We won't be there for long. At worst a few people will start shouting and making threats, but there's no danger. I can guarantee that."

"Okay."

"You don't sound convinced. I'll tell you what. If I get shot, I'll buy you dinner tomorrow night at the Milano. You can order tortellini in that butter and cheese and cream sauce that you like, and I won't point out that your arteries are hardening just from the smell alone."

"Don't joke."

"I'm not joking. You're more likely to die from eating rich food like that than I to be shot `in the line of duty.' Now, it's my turn to apologize."

"For what?"

"For overreacting. I know I'm too sensitive about working for the police. You know how much I've had to hear from my parents about that. So I push back when I think that I'm being criticized. Especially when I think you're criticizing me. I can deal with my parents—they spent my entire childhood giving me practice in how to deal with them. I can listen to them complain, but then I can leave and come home to you. But I'm closer to you, and that makes it more difficult to distance myself. Mainly because I don't want to distance myself from you. I try to tell myself that you wouldn't worry if you didn't love me and need me. So in a way your worries are a sign that you care about me. But I still get mad sometimes. Because you do know that you have better ways to get my attention and show that you care for me."

"What do you mean?"

"This. . . . and this . . . and I especially like this."

"Mmm. It's one of my . . . ohh."

"Are you all right?"

"Oh, you know I am. Better than all right. Stop teasing. Maybe I should take my clothes off."

"No, let me do it. Undressing you is like unwrapping a special gift."

An hour later, both settled down to sleep, their bodies comfortably entwined in one of their customary arrangements. Jeff's head was cradled on Michael's chest, with Michael's left arm clasped around his back and holding their bodies close. It had, Jeff thought, been better than usual make-up sex. Not great, but better than usual. We were both too tense and too self-conscious that we had to be careful. We couldn't relax enough to let go and be wild. But the right things had been said, the right things had been done. We'll be able to continue as usual. But it hadn't solved the problem. It's like we're using sex now to paper over our differences and hoping that the fun and excitement will help us forget that we had an argument. I will still worry about Michael's safety. I just have to find a different way to show him that I need him to remain safe and whole, that I love him and support him but . . . but what? That I don't want to have to take care of him if he gets injured? That I don't want to have to be noble? That I'm a selfish bastard who wants him always to be what he is now? Am I that shallow? What am I really afraid of?

Chapter 11

Thursday, ca. 10:00 a.m., June 10, 2010

Syswide Technology was located in an old five-story brick building in what had once been an area of small manufacturers and warehouses along the East River in Brooklyn. Gentrification had yet to reach the area. A sign painted on the outside wall of one end of the building had faded and grown unreadable beneath the decades of soot and grime that covered the bricks. On the street side of the building, each floor had several large windows made of up smaller panes of glass enclosed in a metal framework. Several of the windows on the upper floors had been opened to let in the cool morning air. The lights were on, and people could be seen working and moving about.

Michael stood on the sidewalk waiting for the other two members of his "team" (a word Michael had already used several times that morning). He and Ellen Corwin and a patrolman named Vince Pascoe assigned to Midtown Major Crimes had arrived together in one car. Pascoe had driven. He was scheduled to take the detective exam in a few weeks and was anxious to get as much experience as he could on record before his case was reviewed by the Promotions Board. Michael suspected that he would easily win promotion. He also, Michael had discovered, knew a fair amount about computers. More important, unlike Michael and Ellen, he was in uniform, and that sometimes helped intimidate civilians. He looked like a cop in a way that Ellen, who was wearing a black pants suit with a plain white blouse and flats, and Michael, who had on the male equivalent—dark trousers, a white shirt with a dark blue tie, and a sports coat—did not. All three were carrying cases containing laptops and briefcases with more files than they needed—hefty stacks of police files spread across a tabletop helped to deliver a message.

When the other two members of the team arrived, they entered the building together. A private security guard had been watching them through the front doors and moved to intercept them before they were a few feet inside the building.

"Can I help?" The guard's voice hovered between a show of bravado that signaled a desire to assert that he was in charge here and an acknowledgment of his awareness that he was outgunned, so to speak.

All four detectives pulled out the wallets holding their ID and badges and displayed them. "We're here as part of an investigation," said Michael. "We'd like to speak to the person in charge."

"That would be me." A casually dressed woman approached the group. She looked to be about twenty-five years old. Her hair was cut in a Mohawk and what remained was dyed orange and green. A small metal ring pierced her left nostril. She wore elaborate earrings that looked as if they weighed a pound each. "I'm Jo Manning, the day shift manager. Is there a problem?"

"Is there somewhere we can discuss this more privately?" asked Michael. He didn't bother to indicate the curious crowd of Syswide workers that was gathering. Manning had to be as aware of the onlookers as she was of the five police officers.

Manning didn't reply immediately. She scrutinized the group of cops carefully and then stared out the window at the street for fifteen–twenty seconds while she weighed her options. "Okay. Sean, escort the officers to the conference room and see if they want coffee or anything. I'll be with you in a few minutes. I have to check on something first."

You have to talk to your boss to see what to do next, thought Michael.

Manning kept them waiting for about ten minutes. When she walked into the conference room, she found it transformed into a police squad room. The five officers, now seated around three sides of the table, had taken over the room. Michael was seated in the chair in the center of the long side facing the door. On either side of him were Ellen and Pascoe. The other two detectives were seated at the ends of the table, leaving open to Manning only the chairs along the other long side facing Michael. Before each detective was an open laptop with the screens angled so that would not be visible to Manning or any other of the many people who were finding a reason to saunter past the room and look in. Each had as well placed a stack of files with multicolored tabs near to hand. The Police Department logo was prominently visible on each.

Michael stood up as soon as she entered. "We have a warrant authorizing us to access certain records." He slid it across the table toward the seat directly in front of him, as if to indicate that that was where Manning should sit.

Manning blanched. Before she could speak, Michael continued, "In July 2002, as part of the response to 9-11, Syswide set up a department-wide alert system for the Police Department. At that time and with the department's knowledge, you installed a backdoor that allows Syswide to access the system for repairs and updates. Yesterday at 8:59 a.m. someone used that backdoor illegally to upload a video and distribute that video to every policeman in this city. You may have seen references online to a new Carma Klown video involving two of our officers. We have traced the intrusion to Syswide. The warrant specifies that we are to be allowed to examine all materials pertaining to Syswide's dealings with the Police Department and all computers with access to the Police Department communications system."

Michael had worked with Sophia White to get the widest possible access at Syswide. They had counted on the fact that the judge who would issue the warrant knew little about computer systems. As Michael had explained to White, every computer at Syswide was undoubtedly networked to every other computer at the company nationwide, and "all computers with access to the Police Department" effectively meant every computer at the company. According to Sophia, the judge had only skimmed that section of the warrant and signed it without questioning the language.

Michael could tell that Manning immediately comprehended the sweeping nature of the access granted by the warrant. She pulled out her phone and quickly called her boss. It took about half an hour but at the end Michael and his team had Syswide's full cooperation. Michael and Ellen were soon closeted with the Syswide technician who supervised the alert system. They poured over the automated records of company activities for the previous day. The other two detectives and Pascoe began interviewing the employees of Syswide, one by one, concentrating on their activities around the time of the intrusion. Syswide's employee monitoring system was so exact that most of them could reconstruct what they had been doing the previous day and when. It was nearly 2:30 p.m. by the time they finished.

Thursday, ca. 3:30 p.m., June 10, 2010

"You should have seen Michael, Sarge. He handled them perfectly. They were ready to do whatever he wanted."

The Syswide team of officers had entered the squad room together, and Jerry Baker had stopped them and asked how things had gone. Michael had said, "Pretty good," and was about to elaborate when Ellen Corwin interrupted him.

"The day shift manager was this Goth-Biker-Chick wannabe, and Michael psyched her out and had her running around arranging things for us. He's not in-her-face aggressive, but he's like, okay this is what is going to happen, and this is what you're going to do now, and she's saying Yes, Detective Chang. Right away, Sir.' Then we go off to talk to the technician who handles our communications system, and suddenly Michael's this big nerd and the two of them are flinging around jargon and it's like they've been friends and colleagues for years. Then the big boss, a guy named Brady Wilson, walks in and he's prepared to be angry and What the fuck you guys think you're doing?' But before he can start in, Michael's like `We're here to help you find the guy who hacked your computers and breached the department's security. If we can't find out how he did it quickly, then we're going to have to sever Syswide's link to the Police Department.' And you can see this guy thinking that this is going to cost him money and there's going to be bad publicity and suddenly he's taking off his jacket and pulling off his tie, and rolling up his sleeves and now there's this group of Syswide managers standing around trying to figure out when and how the Klown got into their system. And Michael's in charge and they're all looking to him for orders. We don't even break for lunch. The boss orders in sandwiches and drinks for everybody. And when we finally find out how, everybody's thanking Michael for his help, and the boss wants to meet with him after this is all over and talk about beefing up their security."

Michael felt a hand clasp his shoulder. "It sounds like you guys had a good day." There was a brief silence as everyone realized that Captain Altmann had been standing there. Ellen Corwin suddenly looked worried that she might have said too much. "Good work. All of you, really good work. This is the type of effective police work that I like to see. I'm looking forward to reading your reports." Altmann nodded at each of them in turn and then said, "Michael, I need to talk to a couple of people first. But drop by my office in about fifteen minutes and give me a quick overview of what your team did." He squeezed Michael on the shoulder again and walked off.

Everyone waited till the Captain was out of earshot before reacting. "Jesus, Mike, you don't often hear the Captain saying things like that. For him, that's enthusiasm." Baker looked almost put out by Michael's success.

Michael had a hard time keeping himself from being visibly too happy. "Your team." The Captain had said it again. There was now a computer group team, and he seemed to be in charge of it. And his prospects of making detective sergeant sooner rather than later suddenly seemed much stronger.

The other four members of the Syswide group broke into smiles. All of them looked at Michael almost with gratitude for being such a good leader that everyone had won praise from the Captain. They followed Michael as he walked toward his cubicle, excitedly discussing the day's work and planning their next steps. All of them, however, noted that the Captain was expecting their reports, and each broke away upon reaching their desk.

Michael was waiting outside Altmann's office when the Captain returned. He was carrying his laptop and a file with several printouts. The Captain motioned him to take the chair in front of his desk. "So what have you got for me, Mike? I assume it's not the identity of The Carma Klown, or you would have told me by now."

"Not yet. But we do have a list of everyone at Syswide with access to our system, including former employees. It's not a long list, and we were able to eliminate about half the names on it. Syswide tracks every keystroke of every employee, and most of the current employees are accounted for. They were busy doing other things when our system was entered through the backdoor. Brady Wilson, he's the president of Syswide, is convinced that one of their former employees left a key that allows him to get into the system. Of course, they want to believe that. We still haven't ruled out all the current employees yet, including Wilson. He's one of the few people working at Syswide now who was there when the system was installed in 2002. But we didn't tell him that. We're letting him believe that all current employees have been cleared. We were able to determine when Syswide's system was entered and when the link to the backdoor in our system was opened. But the employee ID number attached to these entries doesn't match any current or former employee. Syswide found the illegal access key in their system. They're eliminating it now. Meanwhile, they've unlinked their systems and ours until they solve the problem. So The Carma Klown won't be able to use the alert system again. That's the good news. The bad news is that he's not using Syswide's access to the Police Department to upload the videos. So this won't stop him."

Michael paused and took several sheets of paper from the file folder. "These are the names of all the employees that are still possibilities. There are nineteen names on the list. I've printed out what information we have on them as well."

"Both past and present employees?"

"Yes. Syswide has fairly complete personal information on their current employees, but we're verifying their backgrounds independently and checking them for priors in our system and in the national data bases. Syswide's information on previous employees usually ends when they leave the company, and we're trying to update their records. We're uploading all the information to the central case file so that you can assign people to look into them."

"Good work, Mike. So you think the Klown has to be one of these guys? Are they all men, by the way?"

"There are two women on the list. We couldn't eliminate either, and current voice production technology can easily change a woman's voice to a man's. As for the identity of the Klown, it's possible that he's one of the names on the list. But we can't be sure. Syswide is confident that their system is secure, that no one can hack it. They have a large group that does nothing but fend off attacks from outside. They're doublechecking that. Of course, their entire business is built around supplying `secure' systems to companies. They wouldn't want it to become known that they've been hacked. They don't want it to become known that a current or former employee is running amok either, but of the two possibilities, they prefer the latter because it implies the systems are safe from outside tampering."

"Ah, just the two men I'm looking for."

Both Michael and the Captain looked up. Sophia White placed a sheet of paper on the Captain's desk.

"Yesterday I sent that Star in Your Own Porn website an email message asking for their help in uncovering The Carma Klown. I made an appeal to their sense of civic duty and the public interest, not to mention their profits and reputation. I didn't expect it to work, but at least then we could tell a judge that we had tried to get them to turn over the information willingly and hence now needed a warrant to compel them to do so. But, much to my surprise, they sent back a reply."

The Captain picked up the sheet a paper and looked at it for a few seconds before handing it to Michael. "Do you know what these are?"

Michael glanced at the message. "This number at the top appears to be an account number at Star in Your Own Porn. It must be the Klown's account, since that's what Sophia was asking about. The other numbers are IP addresses cross-referenced against a list of times and ID numbers. I'm guessing that the ID numbers are those assigned by Star in Your Own Porn to videos. Note that they get larger over time. They probably just give each new video uploaded the next higher number. And all the times are less than an hour earlier than the time each Carma Klown video appeared at 9:18. Did I tell you that we found out that when you upload a video there, you can specify when it is to be released? We're working on the assumption that the time has some significance for the Klown, but we're still trying to figure out what it is. Captain, can I use your computer for a second? I can check the IP addresses and see what they are."

***** Thursday, ca. 7:00 p.m., June 10, 2010

"Mmm. What did I do to deserve that welcome? I want to make sure to keep on doing it." The moment Jeff had walked into their apartment, Michael had grabbed him and begun kissing him. Five minutes later they had made it as far as the couch in the living room, where Jeff was pinioned beneath Michael and the object of an enthusiastic assault that had left him moaning with pleasure and with a hard-on.

"Some public-spirited citizen, whom we won't name, sent us a list of the IP addresses The Carma Klown used to upload his videos. So this is my way of thanking this unnamed benefactor."

"Well, I appreciate it, but I wasn't the person who sent them. I mean I tried to find out the information for you, but I didn't get very far. Sorry."

"Oh, shit. I thought the list came from you." Michael sat up and pushed Jeff to one side. "This means another problem."

"Hey, don't stop. Resume thanking me. I'll take the credit."

"Oh, sorry." Michael put an arm around Jeff's shoulders and pulled him close again. "You see, Sophia White—she's the ADA assigned to this case—she gave us this piece of paper with the text of an email that she said was from the website that The Carma Klown's been using to post his videos. It had a list of IP numbers and times and dates. She assumed that it was from Star in Your Own Porn, the website. She had emailed them and then got this email back. I asked her to forward the original so that I could add it to the case file. As soon as I took a look at it, I knew that the header was off. It wasn't a direct reply to her email—it didn't have her original text or the routing information for her email. It had been sent through the remailing service you use, and I just assumed it was from you."

"No, honestly, Michael. I didn't send it. I wish I had, but I didn't. And anyway I wouldn't have known to send it to White."

"Oh right. I didn't think of that. Damn. Now, I'll have to try to track the source down."

"Perhaps it came from the website. They would have lots of reasons to use a remailer."

"Maybe. But it means it could be false information. When I thought it was from you, I assumed it was accurate. Damn, this just means a lot more work, and just when we thought we had another solid lead." Michael leaned back and closed his eyes and groaned theatrically. "Plus now, I have to explain to Altmann and White why the information may not be as solid as I thought earlier."

"We each need a beer," Jeff said. As he was walking into the kitchen, he said, "Assume for the moment that the information is accurate. What did you learn?"

Michael told him.

"So they were all public computers?" asked Jeff.

"Yeah," said Michael. "Instead of narrowing the possibilities to six possible users, it increased them enormously. The problem is that now we have to investigate all of them. Do you want another beer?" He stood up to go into the kitchen.

"No, I'm fine. Is there anything that links them?"

"Well, there were two schools—one computer is in a business skills classroom and gets used by dozens of students every day. The other is the head secretary's computer in the office of a primary school. She thinks she's the only one person who uses it. As far as she knows, no one else has the password. Another one is in a branch library out on East 57th—supposedly it connects only to the library's online catalogue. But anyone who's in the library can use it. One is in the Water Department. It's set up to monitor water flow and usage. Apparently nobody goes near it unless an alarm sounds, and that happens maybe once a month. The fifth one is part of the building management system at City Hall. A number of people have access to it. It's never turned off. Other than the fact that they are all linked to the Internet and they all belong to public agencies, they have nothing in common. They're all over the city. There's no obvious reason that a person who had access to one would have access to the others. So it's kind of a mystery."

"You know who might have access to all of them, or at least to the systems they're part of?"

"Who?"

"Syswide or a company like that. A lot of places contract with outsiders to provide computer maintenance and repair. It's cheaper than maintaining their own staff. I told you that's what Carson and Will used to do when they were students and worked for Syswide. They seldom even went into the Syswide office. They would get a phone call or receive an email with a list of places to service. And then they would go out, work on the computer, and then send an email to the office describing what they had done or what they couldn't do, and move on to the next place on their list."

"It could be Syswide. They're very active and have lots of maintenance contracts with the city. I know they have a contract with the libraries."

"There are lots of companies like that. And nobody would notice a computer repairman. They come in, you exchange a few words, you tell them what the problem is, they get down to work, they check a lot of screens and run files. Then they finish up and tell you that you're all set or that you need to get a new computer. You sign their charge sheet and then they're off and you never see them again. The guy could easily install a backdoor, and who would notice? Most people just use a computer. They're not going to check it to see if there's some odd subroutine lurking somewhere. And those guys are always inserting CDs or flashdrives and running diagnostics. The guy doing the repairs might not even know that he's installing a program. The company supplies the diagnostic programs he uses and maybe he's just an unwitting accomplice."

"You're right, but this isn't going to make our work simpler. I'll have to think where we can begin."

"Start by finding out who services the computers. If different companies are involved, see if maybe the same person has worked for them."

"That's good. What else?"

"Well, have you ever looked for earlier appearances of the Klown? Maybe under the correct spellings of the two words or one or the other? What was he doing before he began posting the videos? He may have used the name or some version of it before? You know, like his screen name in one of the online games or for an email address or as a member of some other site."

"These are great ideas. I am so lucky to have you around."

"Yes, you are. Now, maybe you would like to resume showing your appreciation for my efforts."

"Hmmm. What about dinner? Aren't you hungry?"

"Why don't we work up an appetite first?"

Much later, they made do with an old jar of peanut butter they found in a cupboard. They didn't want to get dressed again to go out. However, not all of the peanut butter ended up being spread on bread. There was much experimenting with surfaces of one partner's body as vehicles for conveyance of peanut butter to the other person's mouth. They found the amount of licking involved worth the effort. Both agreed that Michael's smooth, hairless body was generally a better platform than Jeff's hairy one. Still, Michael was able to find several satisfactory places on Jeff's body.