[Deborah Jones 02.0] Dark Waters Page 4

  Emmett nodded. ‘Name John Hudson mean anything to you, Deborah? His father’s a big-shot lawyer.’

  Deborah felt her throat tighten.

  • • •

  The color drained from Sam’s face when Deborah told him the news.

  ‘Are you sure?’ he asked.

  ‘Called the cops on my way over here. They confirmed the name.’

  ‘I see.’ Tears filled his eyes.

  ‘Sam, I’m sorry.’

  ‘John Hudson was my godson.’

  Deborah reached out and held his hand, squeezing it tight. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  He leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. ‘Bill’s gonna be crushed by this news. John was the apple of his eye. MIT. Had the world at his feet. Computer whizz.’

  ‘This hasn’t been made official yet, Sam, but it’s only a matter of time before this leaks out.’

  ‘What else are the cops saying?’

  ‘Off the record, they’re talking about suicide, or maybe a drunken prank on an airboat that went wrong.’

  ‘What do you think?’

  Deborah shook her head. ‘First a break-in at Bill’s family home, then his son winds up dead. Sam, I think John was the hacker who was trying to contact me.’

  10

  The medical examiner’s office in downtown Miami was all wood, fine carpets and brick. It looked more like a business headquarters than a facility that cut up dead bodies.

  A female member of staff escorted Sam down to the morgue, which was located on the ground floor below the toxicology lab. It contained three suites. The first was the teaching room where students could watch an autopsy. The second was the main morgue with twelve autopsy stations. Sam was shown to the ‘decomp’ morgue that handled decomposed corpses or bodies with infectious diseases like TB and hepatitis.

  Bill Hudson stood at the entrance with the Chief Medical Examiner. Bill’s eyes were red. He stepped forward immediately and gave Sam a hug.

  The Chief Medical Examiner introduced himself. ‘Doctor Brent Simmons.’

  ‘Sam Goldberg. I’m an old friend of Bill’s.’

  ‘Hard to believe it’s my boy in there. The gators must’ve…’ Bill’s face crunched up. ‘My beautiful boy.’

  ‘Where’s Kate?’

  ‘Back at the house. I didn’t want her to see this.’

  ‘Do you mind if I…?’ Sam asked.

  He was taken down a corridor into a small windowless room where he was given protective clothing, including a gown and mask, shoe covers and a clear plastic face shield.

  ‘You sure about this?’ Simmons asked.

  Sam nodded. Heart pounding, he was escorted down yet another corridor, past the autopsy laboratory, then anthropology, before they arrived at the huge steel door of the walk-in cooler. He shivered at the sudden drop in temperature. The brown floor tiles were polished to a deep shine.

  The metal storage racks were like huge filing cabinets.

  ‘Holds seventy-five bodies.’ Simmons pressed a button and an electronic forklift identified a rack, and a tray slowly emerged in front of them. Sam’s nose wrinkled at the whiff of decay.

  John’s right leg had been severed just above the knee. His pale blue eyes were open, glassy and empty.

  Had he tried to contact Deborah? Was he the one?

  ‘The dark blood that has pooled on the deceased’s face, chest and abdomen is because he was found face down in the water.’

  Sam noticed the ingrained dirt around John’s fingernails. But there was no number written on either palm. Had Deborah’s source made it up? Then again, had someone scrubbed of the number? But who would do that?

  ‘Have you seen enough, Mr Goldberg?’

  ‘Yes, thank you, doctor. Quite enough.’

  • • •

  Bill sat hunched in the passenger seat, head bowed, as Sam drove him back to his home in Coconut Grove.

  ‘A couple of days ago Deborah was contacted by a young man who didn’t identify himself but said he knew me.’ Sam had decided to tell Bill everything. ‘Apparently he had hacked into some sensitive government stuff. He wanted to meet up and talk. But he didn’t make it. Called off at the last minute, saying his life was in danger. Do you think it could have been John?’

  Bill said nothing, his eyes shut tight.

  ‘We will have to run with this story. I’m sorry. At this stage we’ll just say that a mystery surrounds the tragic death of a brilliant student. I’ll make sure it’s done properly.’

  ‘I want you to do me a favor, though, Sam,’ Bill muttered.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Find out what happened to my boy, do you hear me? What really happened? I need to know.’

  11

  The night air was like glue as Harry Donovan sat on an outside deck of the Miami Shores Country Club with his old newspaper buddy Ron Hershman from the Sentinel. They were shooting the breeze after a formal charity fundraising dinner for a journalism scholarship, organized on behalf of the South Florida International Press Club.

  ‘It ain’t like it used to be,’ Ron said, eyes twinkling, a large glass of red wine in his hand. ‘Water from the cooler, that’s all the kids in the newsroom drink now.’

  Harry was nursing a near-empty glass of single malt. ‘If they saw what we used to put away at lunch they’d run a mile.’

  ‘In the old days I’d get back to the Sentinel after a three-bottler, file my story, then have a little stiffener before going home. What’s happened to the world?’

  ‘It got dull and boring and bureaucratic.’

  ‘You remember that time I got my ass kicked when Edna Buchanan beat me to that double suicide in Kendall, just three doors down from my home?’

  ‘Man, she was good.’

  ‘Good? The best. Edna was, without a shadow of doubt, a goddamn legend.’

  ‘She still living in the city?’

  ‘Where else? She’ll never leave Miami. Bumped into her a few months back. Still as sharp as a knife.’

  Harry nodded. ‘Sam Goldberg reckons he learned more from Edna than he did from anyone at the paper.’

  ‘How are things between you two?’

  ‘Sam’ll never change, you know what he’s like. Law unto himself. But it’s nothing I can’t handle. The paper’s better than it’s ever been. But all the talk is about cutbacks and bottom line.’

  Harry’s cellphone rang. ‘Excuse me for a second, Ron‌—‌probably the new goddamn night editor. Feel like a fucking nursemaid sometimes.’ But it wasn’t Merle Sanger.

  ‘You having a nice night, Mr Donovan?’ The voice was strangely robotic, as if it had been electronically distorted.

  ‘Sorry who is this?’

  ‘Listen very closely Mr Donovan. Do exactly as I say.’

  ‘Excuse me, who the hell are you?’

  ‘There’s an envelope for you at reception. Pick it up. And I’ll call you back in five minutes. But don’t tell your fat friend sitting on the deck. Do it, check the contents in private, and return as if nothing has happened.’

  Ron smiled back at Harry and he forced a strained return grin.

  ‘Well, what are you waiting for?’ Then the line went dead.

  ‘I’m sorry, Ron…I’ll be back in five minutes.’

  ‘Anything wrong?’

  ‘Newsroom politics. I’ll be back in a moment.’

  • • •

  ‘Apparently you have something for me. Name’s Harry Donovan.’

  The young Hispanic woman on reception rifled in a bottom drawer and pulled out a white manila envelope.

  ‘This what you’re looking for?’ she said.

  ‘When was this delivered?’

  ‘I believe it was delivered by hand earlier today.’

  ‘What did the guy look like?’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, I have no idea. Just started my night shift.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Enjoy the rest of your night, sir.’

  Harry headed into a restroom next to r
eception and ripped open the envelope. Inside were some close-up pictures of him and Andrew on Crandon Beach.

  He took a few moments to compose himself. Then he placed the photos and the envelope in an inside pocket of his jacket and returned to the deck.

  ‘Everything okay?’ Ron asked.

  ‘Maybe it’s time I looked for another job,’ Harry said ruefully, picking up his Scotch.

  ‘Same old shit,’ said Ron, gazing off into the darkness.

  Harry’s phone rang again. ‘Are you sitting comfortably, Harry?’ said the voice.

  • • •

  The color drained from Sam’s face when Deborah told him the news.

  ‘I’m sorry, Ron – no rest for the wicked. Can you excuse me?’

  ‘I’ll be thinking in a moment that you’re having an affair.’ Ron patted his friend on the shoulder, then tapped the side of his glass. ‘Need a refill anyway. Same again?’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Ron weaved his way to the bar.

  ‘Okay, talk,’ said Harry.

  ‘All men have secrets, they say. Some darker than others. And I appreciate why you wouldn’t want your friends or colleagues to know what I know. The problem is that when people like me come calling, it makes men with secrets more vulnerable.’

  ‘What the hell is that supposed to mean?’

  ‘I assume that, as executive editor of the Herald, you heard about that tragic incident – body found in the Everglades?’

  ‘Look, I don’t know who you are or what—’

  ‘Call off the investigation.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t be a dumbass, Harry. Deborah Jones, your lovely investigations editor, was given the go-ahead by Sam Goldberg to look into this. She’s sniffing around. And we don’t want that. Is that clear enough?’

  ‘Truly, I have no idea what you are talking about, and that’s the truth.’

  ‘Then you’re being kept out of the loop.’

  Harry felt himself go hot. ‘Listen, even if there is an investigation underway, I can’t order it to be halted just because—’

  ‘You’re not listening to me, Harry. The investigation is causing the people I work for great displeasure. It needs to stop. Pull the plug. Now. Or else.’

  ‘Or else what?’

  A long silence elapsed. ‘Your wife doesn’t know about Andrew, does she, Harry? Or that one-night stand with your PA, Rebecca Sinez?’

  ‘I think we’ve talked long enough. I’m going to turn this matter over to the police.’

  ‘I’d think long and hard if I were you. The fancy house on Key Biscayne your wife – the heiress to an eighty million-dollar real-estate fortune – owns. You wanna give all that up? I mean, do you really?’

  Harry said nothing.

  ‘I seem to have got your attention at last.’

  ‘I will not be blackmailed, do you hear me?’

  ‘You’re not listening to me, Harry. You’ve got to make the right call. Or else this carefully constructed and ordered life that you have will disintegrate before your very eyes.’

  12

  Deborah took her laptop over to the kitchen table and logged onto the MIT website, checking out the computer faculty. Over the course of the morning, over numerous coffees, she put in calls to everyone and anyone. She started at the top of the list with the director‌—‌Professor Jon Weitners‌—‌then worked her way down.

  It was mind-boggling what they did there. Engineering technology based on biology, computer networks and data communication, algorithms for network application, the theory of parallel computing, intelligent interfaces and pattern languages for automated text-editing, genetic programming, sensor networks, quantum computing, real-time-oriented compiler technology.

  By mid-afternoon Deborah had exhausted all avenues there and was frustrated that no one had called her back. Then she remembered that John Hudson had mentioned the phrase ‘social engineering’. What did that mean, exactly? She decided to ask the Miami Herald’s own Marco Martinez whose specialty was technology issues. Sounding like a jaded teacher, he explained the term to her.

  ‘Everyone who uses a computer knows about firewalls, anti-virus software, all that stuff, right?’

  ‘I guess so.’

  ‘It’s designed to safeguard the computer or a computer network from attack from hackers, benign or malevolent. The basic aim of social engineering is the same as hacking, i.e. network intrusion, espionage, identity theft, whatever. You with me?’

  ‘So far.’

  ‘It’s really all about gaining unauthorized access from a person to information, be it files, passwords, e-mails, whatever, rather than breaking into a system. By impersonating someone, you can convince another person to disclose confidential information, like a password. Then there’s “dumpster diving”, some call it “trashing”, where information can be gained through potential security leaks in company trash. Printouts of passwords, source codes, memos. All these things can be exploited by social-engineering hackers. They will call up a help desk and pretend they’re from a phone company. There was one case where some hacker called up and said, “Hey, I’m from AT&T, I’m stuck on a pole. You mind punching in a few buttons for me?” He got straight into the company’s files.’

  Marco was getting into his stride now

  ‘You know a real favorite? Stealing the cellphone of a relative. Maybe a sister or brother or mother or wife of the target. If you’re smart enough, you can send a text message to the hack’s cellphone. Because the number of the relative is not viewed as a threat, the target opens the message and so activates a virus, perhaps a Trojan. So a remote user can then gain access to the target’s files. Once again, it is all about trust.’

  ‘I feel like I’m living in the dark ages, Marco.’

  He laughed. ‘Social-engineering attacks take time, perhaps days, sometimes weeks, tracking movements. A stolen smartphone can do all sorts of damage.’

  • • •

  Flamingo Park’s twenty-five-yard heated outdoor pool was empty as Deborah did some front-crawl power laps at the end of a frustrating day. She felt her shoulders finally begin to relax as she swam hard. The broiling sun was low in the sky. Nearby the sound of innocent laughter bubbled up from children as they played on the water slides, blissfully unaware that only yards from the children’s playpool Jenny Forbes‌—‌a brilliant Miami lawyer‌—‌had been raped and left for dead twenty years ago. It was also the place where her grandfather had exacted his revenge on Joe O’Neill.

  Deborah tried not to think about it. Instead, she focused on whether anyone at MIT would return her calls. On and on she swam, clocking up the laps.

  She felt herself shutting off. Physical activity, whether it was swimming, soccer or jogging, was the only way she had of coping with the stresses of her job. As she neared her thirtieth lap she felt the endorphins kick in, flooding her body. She powered on for another twenty, her heart now racing, feeling stronger and sharper.

  Afterwards, during the short walk back to her apartment, sports bag slung over her shoulder, her cellphone rang.

  ‘Miss Jones?’ It was a woman’s voice.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good evening, Miss Jones. Professor Levin. I’m senior research professor with MIT’s Computer Science and Artificial Intelligence Laboratory. You called about John Hudson.’

  13

  ‘Thank you so much, Professor, for getting back to me. I guess you must all be very busy, since you are the only person so far to return my call.’

  ‘Around eleven this morning, the director of the lab called us all together and instructed us not to speak to the media about this. We are not even supposed to confirm that John was a student here. But I for one will not remain silent.’

  ‘I’m grateful for that. Did you know John Hudson well?’

  ‘He was, quite simply, the most brilliant student I’ve ever worked with.’

  ‘Tell me more about him. And I don’t mean necessarily what his parents want to hea
r.’

  ‘Like I said, he was really smart, with a great future ahead of him. But his attendance record was terrible. The students who make it to MIT are the brightest of the bright, and we expect nothing but the best from them. But I think John had a real problem with authority. I gather he had got into hacking in a big way. Apparently he was obsessed with finding out about the twenty-eight censored pages in the Congressional Inquiry Report on the September 11 attacks. Does that mean anything to you?’

  ‘You mean the pages which were blanked out of the published report because they could be embarrassing for a foreign government‌—‌Saudi Arabia, wasn’t it? And because of our links to that regime?’

  ‘Exactly. The White House didn’t want us to know. John, like many of us, felt the report should be published in full.’

  ‘You think he might have hacked into a government computer to find out?’

  ‘Apparently, John was developing his own programs. He was part of an organization called the Cult of the Dead Cow‌—‌an elite group of hackers.’

  Holding the phone tight to her ear as traffic roared past, Deborah stood in the shade of some huge palms on Meridian Avenue.

  ‘He was also very interested in wireless free data communication. Through these Bluetooth-configured smartphones. I gather John had been spending a lot of time developing Trojan viruses. Your anti-virus program on your computer sweeps for them while you’re online. But smartphones are just as susceptible to hacking. It is technically possible for the data on a mobile phone which has been hacked to be cleaned out of the phone’s memory. Sensitive files, you name it.’

  ‘Can you explain in layman’s terms what exactly a Trojan virus does?’

  ‘Basically, it allows a remote user a means of gaining access to a victim’s machine without their knowledge. Then the user is free to browse the files to see if there’s anything they want. John Hudson was in a league of his own.’

  ‘Do you think John was the sort of person who would want to end his life?’ Deborah asked.

  ‘Never in a million years. He was outgoing; he was funny.’

  ‘Was there a girl?’