Bullseye pulls the computer nearer.
“Log files,” he says.
I sip my Anchor Steam while Bullseye deftly lets himself into my laptop’s innards. He opens the browser, goes into the “View” tab, then clicks on a menu item called “Source.” Hundreds of lines of computer code appear on my screen. The language looks to me like random strings of numbers and letters. Bullseye scrolls slowly down the list, stopping at one point halfway through, cocking his head to the side, and then scrolling down again.
“What time did you see the obituary page?”
I consider it. “Last night. Ten-ish.”
He closes the file and the browser. Then he clicks on the file menu on the top of my main screen, scrolls down the menu and opens “System file.” Another list appears of hundreds of lines of equally incomprehensible code. Bullseye scrolls down slowly, pausing at a couple of points. I’m struck that his intensity and manner come across much like the ED doctor looking dispassionately at my brain images.
The jukebox finally starts playing “Werewolves of London.”
Bullseye scoots the cursor over to the left side of the screen, prompting a vertical menu to appear with my various programs, like Skype and iTunes. He clicks on the icon for “Google Desktop,” which searches the computer the same way plain-old Google searches the Internet. Why hadn’t I thought to do that?
He enters “Sandy Vello” into Google Desktop. The search engine returns no results.
“Hmm,” he says.
“Let’s hear it.”
“There are three possibilities. One is that someone hacked into your computer and loaded a fake web page onto it. When you Googled this woman’s name, a program directed you to a file kept locally.”
“Rather than to the public Internet.”
“Right.”
“So is that local file still on my computer somewhere?”
“I suspect not. Any decent programmer would be able to program the file to delete itself after you looked at the web site.”
“Which is why you didn’t find it?”
“The second possibility is that someone was remotely controlling your computer and directed your search for Sandy Vello to a non-public web site.”
“What do you mean, ‘remotely controlling’?”
“They logged on to your machine while you were logged on to it, and at the right moment, inserted a link to a private web page that looked to you like it was on the public Internet. Do you use a Wi-Fi network at your office?”
“Yep. It’s secured. Password is Isaac’s birthday.”
He shakes his head. “C’mon, Nat. Really?” This type of simplistic, easy-to-hack password is just the kind of thing that really gets Bullseye’s goat.
“Sounds like a sophisticated attack.” I know this may well not be true, but one of the most basic journalistic techniques is to play mildly dumb and put the responder in a position of authority.
“Sophisticated enough.”
“You said there were three possibilities. What’s the third one?”
He doesn’t respond. He’s looking at the TV again.
“Bullseye, what’s the third possibility?”
“That you imagined the whole thing.”
“How do you mean?”
“You saw a web page that doesn’t actually exist. You’ve finally gone completely nuts.”
“You’re serious?”
“Not remotely.”
“You’re making a joke.”
“I can be very funny.” He almost looks me in the eye, then turns to Jessica the Bartender. “Can’t I be very funny?”
“Not in my experience.”
He turns his attention back to me. “I think I’ve got proof that it’s one of the other two possibilities.”
He opens the system file again and scrolls down the lines of code. About two-thirds of the way down, he stops at a line that has no code on it at all.
“This spot probably corresponds to activity that took place on your laptop this morning.”
“But the line is empty.”
“Which is what’s odd. It looks like something’s been erased.”
We stare at it in silence. Then he scrolls halfway up the page-to another blank line of code. “This probably is the activity that took place last night.”
“So there are anomalies in my computer at the time I looked for web pages. It seems circumstantial.”
“Not to a computer person. This is pretty direct evidence of anomaly. Whoever did this is pretty good but either was in a hurry or sloppy and didn’t totally cover their tracks.”
“Would I find the same thing on my phone?” I ask. I remind him that I found the obit on that browser too.
He shrugs. “I don’t know much about the phone system.”
He takes a swig of beer and I do the same.
“What should I do?”
“Sleep is good.”
“How does that help me find who did this?”
“Sam says you need to get some sleep. She says you’re having trouble coming to terms with your. .” He pauses-“with your personal life.”
It’s another unusually social thing for Bullseye to say, bordering on caring. I’ve suspected for a while that he’s missed my regular visits to the Pastime and he blames not just Isaac’s birth but also the struggles I’ve had dealing with Polly. I’m about to remark on his newfound empathy when my phone rings. I look at the phone and see a blocked number but I answer anyway.
“This is Nat.”
“This is Faith.”
She’s speaking in a deliberately low voice, affecting the same tone that I used earlier.
She laughs. “You sound so serious when you answer the phone. Is that part of the journalist aura?”
I feel a slight rush, the neuro-chemical dopamine telling me this voice means something to me.
“Prepare to be grilled.”
“You’ll want to hear what I have to say first. I’ve got good info.”
“Really?”
“About that big guy who fell on you.”
“What about him?”
“I’ve seen him before.”
12
I put up my finger to Bullseye, indicating I’ll be right back. I stand, experiencing a head rush that is too strong to have resulted from a pint of Anchor Steam. I let it pass as the song “Night Moves” by Bob Seger and the Silver Bullet Band starts playing. Someone boos. I start walking to the front of the bar.
“Nathaniel?”
“You talked to the bum at the turnstiles. You gave him money.”
“What?” I can’t tell if she doesn’t understand and can’t hear me.
I push through the Pastime’s thick and bruised wooden door and feel brisk wind when I walk out onto the desolate sidewalk.
