Firman said, “Mr. McCarty what we've established so far is that the virus originated here in this building.”
“You think someone here did this?” Ward asked incredulously.
“Obviously someone did this to damage the company,” Gene railed.
Firman asked, “Do you have any enemies, Mr. McCarty?”
“Flash Dibble has been trying to buy this company for six months,” Ward said. “I have refused to sell it. Maybe he figured if he couldn't have it, he'd destroy it to lower the price, or start another company using our pissed- off clients as his base. Yesterday I told his son I'd never sell to them. He threatened me.”
“Flash Dibble's son is trying to destroy your company? Okay, it's a theory,” Firman said, writing. “Our techs tell me that the images seem to be mostly Russian pornography. Is your Mr. Dibble a Russian mobster?”
“It makes as much sense as anything else,” Gene said. “The threat was veiled, but it sure sounded like a threat to me. Couldn't anyone with the knowledge create the virus? That is something that could be purchased. What about Trey Dibble? Who else would want to destroy a company that he can't buy? He's a malicious brat.”
“Destroying it would certainly be a lot cheaper than paying twenty- two million,” Ward said.
Firman reached into a sack and removed a glassine envelope with a padded envelope in it. Ward could read his own name on the front, above his home address, complete with canceled stamps. The return address wasn't one he was familiar with.
“We found this in your desk,” Firman said.
“I've never seen it before,” Ward said.
“My techs tell me that the CD inside this envelope was the source of the virus. Our techs have tracked the virus's point of origin to one desktop computer here, Mr. McCarty Yours.”
Ward felt as though he'd been hit in the chest with a sledgehammer. “That's impossible,” he protested, feeling suddenly nauseated.
“When someone put this disk in your computer, it infected your servers, and spread and sent e-mails containing the virus to the addresses in all of the computers in the building.”
“You can't think I did it?” Ward asked, stunned. “I didn't use my computer yesterday except to check e-mails, and I haven't put any CDs into it in ages.”
“Based on what we know, it's possible you did,” Firman said. “I don't say so, the evidence does. I'm sure whoever did it didn't do it on purpose. If you did it, you obviously didn't know when you looked at it that it contained a Trojan horse that waited some amount of time before it came to life. I strongly suspect you, or someone not yet identified, just wanted to look at the porn, but whomever you, or someone else, got it from played a dirty little trick on you, or them. I strongly suspect that you, or someone else yet to be identified, is a pervert who's going to spend some quality time in a federal prison.”
Ward said evenly, “I've never seen that envelope before.”
Gene said, “So even if Ward received the envelope-and who knows what was originally inside it-and inserted it into his computer, you can't prove he knew its contents. And he says he's never seen it before, so you have to prove that isn't the case. Anybody could have put the CD inside the envelope. You have no case against Mr. McCarty.”
“If he's never seen either, then your client's prints won't be on the envelope or the disk,” Firman said. “And naturally it doesn't have a label saying what it is. That would be a first. There will be more evidence, I suspect, and then we'll have more to go on.”
“Okay, Agent Firman. If it's true, and he knew, for argument's sake,” Gene said, “and it certainly isn't, why would he be stupid enough to keep that CD in his office?”
“I don't know, Mr. Duncan. I'll check with the Behavioral Science Unit. Maybe-theoretically speaking, of course-he thinks his office is safe. According to his computer logs, he's visited questionable pornography sites for the past year.”
“I've never visited any pornography sites,” Ward said.
Gene put his hand on Ward's forearm. “Are you placing my client under arrest?” he asked the agent.
“Not yet,” Firman said. “But we'll need to take Mr. McCarty's fingerprints for exclusionary purposes.”
“No problem,” Ward said, quickly.
“A polygraph would help to clear him,” Agent Mayes added.
“I'd be happy to,” Ward said.
“My client will not be taking any polygraph,” Gene said.
“Why not, if he isn't guilty?” Firman asked.
“Because it isn't admissible,” Gene said. “And we all know there's good reason for that.”
“You aren't a criminal attorney, are you, Mr. Duncan?” Agent Firman drawled.
Ward said, “I have absolutely nothing to hide.”
“Oh, Mr. McCarty,” Firman said, smiling for the first time since he'd come into the building. “It's pretty obvious that your lawyer doesn't believe that's the case.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
Watcher parked his truck outside a textile mill in Charlotte's south side that had been converted into lofts. He walked to a red door with the gold number 12 on it and rang the bell. He scanned the parking lot and was glad to see that it was deserted.
The peephole went dark and a second later the door opened. The young man who squinted out at Watcher was thin, stooped, and bald on the top of his head. The remaining halo of hair surrounding his pate was long and gathered into a thin ponytail. He wore a soul patch between his narrow lower lip and the weak chin beneath. The thick lenses held in heavy black frames enlarged his bloodshot blue eyes. He wore a soiled undershirt, and the boxer shorts he wore looked like they were going to fall off as soon as he exhaled. Obviously he'd been awake for a very long time.
“Hi, Bert,” Watcher said.
“Hey, man,” Bert said. “Come in. You know what the frigging sun does to vampires.”
After Watcher went in, Bert looked out and scanned the parking lot before he closed the door. Except for the bathroom, Bert's condo was one open space with eighteen- foot ceilings. The lower seven feet of the floor- to- ceiling windows, built to provide both light and ventilation to the workers in the cavernous weaving room, were covered by stained bedsheets. On a mezzanine, accessible by narrow stairs, an unmade bed was surrounded by piles of clothes and other flotsam from Bert's solitary lifestyle. The space smelled like a locker room after a football game.
The TV was on and Watcher was treated to a live report of the havoc wrought by the pornography virus. Watcher and Bert took a moment to watch and admire. Bert laughed out loud when a mother being interviewed started sobbing as she described the trauma to her young daughter the e-mail had caused. The report went from the woman to a minister who called for the arrest of the guilty party who'd perpetrated the unspeakable assault on human decency. The red-faced, gravel-voiced parson called further for the government to control the smut that was destroying the innocence of children and thousands of wholesome God- fearing families. “This is a war with Satan himself,” the sanctimonious minister bellowed. Before his segment ended, he managed to name his ministry and his dot- com address so Christians could send their dollars to help fund his antipornogra-phy campaign.
“Man, oh, man, I've never been a general in Satan's army before,” Bert said, barely able to contain his glee.
The damning evidence was purposefully circumstantial in nature. Watcher still knew that it was possible, though unlikely, that Ward would be arrested. Public outcry was too great. The authorities were under too much pressure. Watcher imagined the pressure on the McCartys and smiled back grimly at Bert.
A table made from a sheet of heavy plywood and set on sawhorses dominated the living room/kitchen. Five computer terminals lined the table. An expensive armchair on rollers was pushed up to one like a captain's chair. The screen of one computer held hundreds of lines of program coding, as undecipherable to Watcher as sheet music. The young man opened the re frigerator and took out a chilled bottle of beer. Except for a six- pack of
