“Where’s the master drive?”
“On the Sun workstation that sits in the file vault.”
“Son of a bitch. She ran in there and plugged in the drive, then locked the vault?”
“Uh-huh. And one hour later, after Agents Moe, Larry, and Curly took up station at the vault door, I downloaded every byte of information through the fiber-optic cables that run out of a discreet hole in the floor of the vault. I exported them to a computer off-site, then remotely wiped out everything on the Sun.”
“Just like Brahma did in Dallas.”
“I didn’t blow it up, but I definitely put that puppy into Helen Keller mode. Great minds think alike.”
“Jesus, don’t say that.”
“Who’s Brahma?” asks Drewe.
“The guy who’s killing these women,” I answer. “That’s what Miles calls him. The FBI calls him UNSUB, for ‘unknown subject.’ ”
She gives Miles a look of distaste. “You name a serial killer after a god? I guess he’s your hero or something.”
“No. But I do admire his skill.”
“You look wiped out,” I cut in, stating the obvious in an attempt to head off useless squabbling.
Miles rubs both hands through his new flattop and sighs. “I’m as tired as a pair of jumper cables at a nigger funeral.”
Drewe and I gape at each other: this slur from the most liberal white boy who ever left Mississippi. But Miles is grinning under the Treflan cap. “Just practicing my cover,” he says. “I guess being a redneck is like riding a bicycle.”
“You were never a redneck.”
“My dad was.”
This easy reference to his father surprises me. “How long have you been awake?”
“Three, four days.”
“How did you get out of the EROS offices? Weren’t Baxter’s people all over the place?”
“It wasn’t hard. Just before the vault opened, I switched shirts with one of my longhaired assistants. Then I went into the bathroom with a pair of scissors and a Ziploc and lopped off most of my hair. When the vault opened and the shit hit the fan, my assistant made a break for the front door, just as I’d told him to. While they chased the longhaired guy wearing black, I slipped out through Jan’s private exit, got into a service elevator and
“You’re whacked, man. You’re nuts.”
“You want some chicken and dumplings?” Drewe asks with her usual practicality.
Miles laughs again. “Since I haven’t had any for at least ten years, I might as well. What I really need is some coffee, though. A whole pot. We’ve got a lot to talk about.”
His eyes wander toward the pantry. There are two cases standing by the door. One is an expensive briefcase, the other a large leather computer bag with multiple compartments.
“What’s all that?” I ask.
Drewe sloshes water into the coffeemaker.
“The whole stinking thing,” Miles says softly. “The whole case. As much as I could get, anyway. Police reports, FBI interview transcripts, e-mail, lab findings, you name it.”
“Don’t even tell me where you got that shit.”
“I’ve got to.” His eyes glaze with sudden desperation. “I need your help.”
“To do what?”
“To save myself.”
CHAPTER 25
Miles has already drunk two cups of coffee, Drewe and I one each. It took me that long to recount my experiences with the FBI, even with heavy editing. I dwelt mostly on the tragic raid in Dallas and played down Lenz’s plan of luring the killer to the Virginia safe house. Miles seems more concerned with the psychiatrist’s suspicion that he might be the killer. I admit that Lenz still suspects him, but before I can qualify my words, Drewe starts asking questions about the murder victims.
In answer, Miles opens his briefcase on our kitchen table. Inside are neatly banded stacks of laser-printed paper covered with the hieroglyphics of command-line communications between computers. In short, Drewe and I are looking at a cornucopia of the fruits of virtuoso computer hacking.
“I have a lot of information here,” he says, squeezing back into the narrow space between the table and the wall. “I started as soon as the deaths were confirmed. It’s not nearly everything, but what I have is color coded. Green for city police reports. Orange for crime lab findings. Blue for witness interviews. Red for general FBI stuff-”
“You’ve been into the FBI’s computer?” I interrupt.
“Computers, plural. Their acronym for the case is ERMURS-for EROS murders.”
“No wonder they want to arrest you. Have you broken into their personal e-mail system?”
“I’ve seen it. Got some printouts here. I’ve also been in the National Crime Information Center computer, and some new thing called NEMESIS. Stands for
“But why take these risks?” Drewe asks. “Can’t you just keep your head down until this is all over?”
“No. Because Baxter and Lenz aren’t going to catch Brahma any time soon. And in the absence of real leads, the great god Momentum will cause them to cast around for the most likely suspect. In their book that’s me.”
“But-”
“The only way for me to get these guys off my back is to catch Brahma myself.”
Something ripples through my chest, like a pebble dropping into a still pool miles from anywhere.
“Besides,” he goes on, “Brahma is fucking with my network.
“Have you figured out yet how he got in?” I ask. “How he got the master client list?”
Miles stares furiously at the table. “No.”
I find this almost impossible to believe, but I don’t want to press him in front of Drewe. “What about alibis? You must have alibis for at least some of the nights the killings took place. Hell, I can’t remember a night when you weren’t sysoping the network.”
He gives me a sidelong glance. “I don’t have to be at the office to sysop. You know that. All I need is a laptop and a phone connection. Beyond that, I don’t care to discuss it.”
Drewe and I share a look. She takes a sip of coffee and says, “Couldn’t you just turn yourself in and put up with whatever hassle they give you until the murderer kills again? That would prove you’re innocent.”
“It’s not that simple. If I’m arrested, Brahma could decide not to kill again for a while. Or if he kept killing, the FBI could say a copycat had joined the game. They could claim I was part of a group, and try to prosecute me on that basis.”
“But surely they can’t have enough evidence to prosecute you?”
Miles shrugs. “There are some lab findings that are consistent with my blood. There’s other stuff as well.”
“Not DNA?”
“They can’t have that,” he says sharply. “Not legitimately. But Brahma has successfully planted misleading physical evidence at every murder. I have to assume he knows who I am from EROS. Who’s to say he hasn’t planted something of mine that could give them a DNA sample?”
“That’s impossible,” Drewe says.
“Nothing’s impossible. And don’t think the FBI is above juggling samples to create DNA evidence against me, given enough pressure to close this case.”
