25. December 2009 by admin.

Previous Chapters

Preface
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10

David Garfunkel, Garf, emerged out of the subway station in Braintree.  He took all possible measures to shake the people who were following him.  He looked around and saw nothing out of the ordinary.  He crossed the street, waiting patiently for the “Walk” signal to show up.  He was walking slowly, enjoying the fresh air, looking around for trouble.  He was wearing a baseball cap now.  Not that he was a fan of the Boston Red Sox, but he figured blending in would cause no harm.

Garf walked into a small pizza parlor a few blocks away from the subway station, said a lazy “hi” to the attendant and walked to the back.  He knocked on a door and it was quickly opened and closed behind him.  They hugged, kissed on the cheeks, and then on the lips.  The polite hello became very passionate very quickly.  Garf pushed his friend gently.  “Please save that thought, we need to talk first”.  The disappointment wasn’t hidden very well, but his friend was anxious to hear what was going on.

Garf knew Alfredo Bello from his undergraduate studies in MIT.  Garfunkel was very task oriented and goal directed.  He started his engineering classes right away, cheated on most of his pre-requisites, particularly the literature, arts, and “light sciences” classes.  He never attended, nor did he ever bother to complete his homework assignments and papers.  He traded everything for computer programs he wrote easily.  On a few occasions, he modified some test results on the school computers.  He didn’t think it was a capital offense.  Freddie took his time.  He wasn’t really sure what he wanted to study.  Since he never really had to work for living, he decided to have some fun in school.

While it took Garf three years to complete a four year engineering program, Alfredo, or Freddie took eight to graduate with an Electrical Engineering degree, not before he finished a full blown pre-med program.  They both graduated with honors, Freddie on both programs.

Freddie was a fellow hacker, who unlike Garf didn’t stop at redirecting satellites and probes, or cracking open government websites.  Freddie was a “computer criminal” by all standards, a convicted felon, who already did time for stealing credit records from a major bank.  If they only knew, Garf thought, what Freddie was really up to.

Freddie Bello, was out on parole, and was keeping a low profile.  He was pretending to be working at the family business, a small Italian restaurant.  The Pizza Tower, a cool name for a pizza place, was probably the only legitimate family business of the large Bello family.  The family, although not identified with the Mob, the Italian Mafia, was a very organized business.  It had hierarchy, rank, and plenty of shady businesses around town.  Freddie grew up as an outcast in the family, as he was the first and only one who actually liked going to school.  He didn’t smoke cigarettes or anything else, didn’t drink, and didn’t pay attention to girls.  He was always leaning towards men.  For an old school Italian family, being homosexual was shameful.  Obviously, he was not the only gay Italian man.  But quite possibly he was one of the most vocal ones.  Freddie and Garf were dating a while back.  In retrospect, it was way more than dating, they had a relationship.

Freddie wasn’t always welcome by his immediate or extended family.  He had a college degree, he was a scholar, and he was gay.  It was quite an uncommon combination.  One day, a relatively senior member of the Bello clan got in serious trouble with the police.  Alberto was charged with laundering money.  The main evidence in the file was some off shore bank records.  Freddie overheard a discussion between Alberto and his lawyer.  He went back to his computer, and an hour later, miraculously, the records were gone.  The case closed a few days later.  The official reason was lack of public interest.  The Bellos were happy and for two good reasons.  Alberto was off the hook, and Freddie was uncovered as a possible asset to the family.  The lazy bastard with the college degree was after all very useful to a family living on the edge of the law.  He gained respect, and the jobs and money followed.  The police followed as well.  Alfredo Bello was marked as a key member in a crime family.  It was somewhat inconvenient, but as Freddie knew already, it wasn’t all bad.

Garf sat down and so did Freddie.  While they both knew there was some unfinished business to take care of, they consciously put it aside for the time being.  Each of them, in their own special way was professional.  And in their lines of business, different as they were, professionalism was everything.  Their friendship went way further than their relationship.  They looked at each other.  Garfunkel spoke first.  He told his friend that to the best of his knowledge, some Federal Agency was after him.  He wasn’t sure which one.  He also told him about Arthur Lewis, showing him the front page of the paper.  He spoke openly and freely.  He told his Freddie that the deceased guy had paid for his services decoding some strange patterns of letters.  He said that he had a strong feeling that something was going on.  He had no idea what.

Freddie listened quietly, occasionally asking questions.  Garfunkel described the first meeting with Arthur Lewis, the

Finally, when Garfunkel was done, Freddie asked to see the patterns.  Garfunkel took a laptop out of his backpack, waited patiently for the thing to go through the boot sequence, entered some complex number-letter combination as password, and put the disk in the drive.  The drive was making the usual whirring noise at the end of which the operating system brought up dialog box apologizing for not knowing to read the disk format.

Garfunkel opened a terminal window, and typed a few commands.  He mounted the drive and used some hacking program to bring up the contents.  Slowly, nicely, in order, long sequences of letters showed up on the screen.  They consisted of four letters, four letters only.  A, G, C, T.  It was meaningless for Garfunkel.  But for Freddie Bello the meaning was very obvious.  His eyes widened.  He looked at his friend and said: “I don’t know what we have here, but one thing is for damned sure”.  He took a deep breath, looked closely at his fingernails, and continued: “it may cause some really powerful people to come after you”.  Garf sighed and said “I think they are on my tail already”.

Freddie suddenly became cheerful.  “Enough work”, he said, “time for food, drinks and fun”.

They left the small room and entered the pizza joint.  Freddie mentioned that the menu was an American menu, but the chef, if we can call him that, was actually Italian from the Old Country.  Alfredo whispered a few words on the chef’s ear.  A minute later he was holding a six pack of Birra Moretti on one hand, and Garfunkel’s hand on the other.  The two friends headed to the booth farthest away from the door.  There was a lot of catching up to do.  Strange letter sequences were not discussed.  It was well after midnight when the two friends were finally exhausted.  The beer and the good home-made Italian food, made them both forget the reason they were together.  Freddie was the one who touched down first.  “You are sleeping over of course”, he said as a matter of fact.  Garf was way too tired and scared to go home.  He was grateful that he had someone to share his problems with.

They went home, which was a couple of blocks away.  It most certainly was one of the safest places in entire Boston that night.  Freddie, just before leaving the restaurant had told his father’s right hand that extra security is needed for the night, and that his friend was a fugitive from the Feds.  Phone calls were made, friends were asked to come over, the perimeter around the Bello residence was extended to four blocks on each side.  Garfunkel thought it was kind of funny to use his friend’s Family to avoid the law.  Then again, he thought, it wasn’t that funny.  In the guest room, in clean sheets, wearing fresh clothes, Garfunkel finally fell asleep.

Freddie took the pack of disks and left for his study.  There was a lot of work ahead.  He wasn’t about to waste it on sleep.  He was a trained biologist and a computer hacker.  Freddie knew that he had a reasonable shot at cracking open the coded combinations of DNA he saw on the disks.  He went over to the study and sat in front of the computer.  The terminal window was still open, still showing the sequences they were looking at the night before.  Freddie started to look at the combinations.  The first step, he thought, was to look at the defining frameworks.  He looked around using complex parsing algorithms, and realized that the data was clearly divided to individual segments.  Each segment had a unique beginning, and the end was denoted by the beginning of a new one.  Each segment had multiple occurrences, each of the later occurrences contained all the earlier ones, and a newly introduced additions.  The sequences were clearly describing history in the sense that each “story” included all previous ones.  He concluded that he was looking at multiple organisms at different points in time.  Freddie had no means of understanding how significant was that conclusion, and how true.

And then, on a hunch, he realized what he was looking at.  Junk DNA, or whatever it was called these days, was a sequence of nucleic acids not responsible for synthesizing protein, and hence, had no part in defining life.  Junk DNA was a relatively esoteric scientific area.  Few grants and second class scientists took part in understanding that area of the DNA.  It was assumed that since it took no part in the creation of life, then it wasn’t an interesting topic.  It was correct, thought Freddie, until now.

It was almost morning.  Freddie made himself a double espresso and had a day old bagel with it.  He picked up the morning paper from the front lawn, while cursing the paper boy for throwing the paper into the thorny rose bushes, again.  He opened the paper and saw a large picture of an unfamiliar guy.  Dr. Michael Moore, the headline suggested, was missing.  The DNA researcher was missing following the murder of his friend and colleague, and the police had asked the public to help finding him.  The body of the article spoke about Michael Moore, his area of expertise, his past and present research projects and his accomplishments.  Freddie’s heart stopped for a split second.  Junk DNA was written all over the place.  He went to wake Garfunkel up.  A person was missing, and they had to get to him before the police do, and before anyone else does.

Garf was groggy and tired.  He didn’t sleep well on the unfamiliar bed.  He needed a coffee, a cigarette, and a shower.  Well, the coffee and cigarette were arranged rather quickly.  The shower would have to wait.  The computer was on, DNA sequences flashing.  Freddie quickly told Garf about his discovery, the historical junk DNA sequences on the disk he was analyzing.  He then mentioned the missing scientist Dr. Michael Moore.  He then searched the web for Dr. Moore.  He found quite a few entries.  Most of the entries were about his past researches, his professional associations, grants and prizes.  But on the second page of results there was a mention of the Annual Computer Hacker Convention where Arthur Lewis was giving the keynote address.  Strange, thought Freddie, where’s the connection?  He copied the link for the convention and then went to investigate the link between Arthur Lewis and Dr. Michael Moore.  Google suggested there was one.  It was not readily obvious, but in one document, they were both mentioned in connection to a grant they were given to research Junk DNA.  What do you know, thought Freddie, Google has the answer to everything, all you need is some common sense and a typing finger or two…

“There you have it” said Freddie to Garfunkel.  Let’s think about our strategy for tonight.  We are going to town.  Many people will be there.  Many don’t like me, many are looking for you, some may have killed Arthur Lewis, and some will be looking for Dr. Michael Moore.  Some may want to have a terminating conversation with him.  We must find him first.

Posted in History of the World | 1 Comment »

18. December 2009 by admin.

Previous Chapters

Preface
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9

Fire, fear, enemy, predator, cold, cave, full moon.

The sun was up, and the city of Boston was waking up to a new day.  The street was getting busy with workmen.  Newspaper distribution people, people who needed to report to work early, joggers, grocery carrying trucks.  It was busy enough for nobody to pay attention to the lonely man, shivering just outside the Nova Research and Exploration Laboratory.  The man was reading the morning paper paying close attention to the front page.  He was looking around to see any activity.  He knew he wasn’t much of a spy or detective, so he was trying to describe to himself what he would expect if there was some kind of activity that would jeopardize his plan.  Police cars, marked and unmarked, parked around would be a good indication.  There were none that he could see.  Most of the parked cars were empty, and those that weren’t, were commercial, being loaded and unloaded.  People that were out of place or out of context could be another indication.  He couldn’t spot any.  He even looked up to see if there was anything suspicious.  Again, there was no indication of any activity.  He calmed down a little.

The lab main gate was shut.  He walked over and used his badge to get the door open.  The door buzzed gently and the lock was released.  He pushed it in and walked into the hallway.  He made sure the door was shut behind him before he disarmed the alarm system.  He forgot to do it a few times, and knew how awkward it would get if the private police called and started asking for passwords.  One time, shortly after that password had been changed, he forgot to disarm the alarm system coming in.  When they called and asked for the password, he gave the old one.  Ten minutes later, the place was swarming with private police officers and uniformed cops.  He certainly didn’t want that to happen this morning.  The door shut behind him, the alarm system disabled, and no apparent activity, he was on his way to the place he spent most of his time in the last ten years almost.  He knew that his time was short, but he also knew that chances are that this would be his only chance to get anything out of the lab.  He wanted to be in and out quickly, and at the same time he wanted to take everything he needed.  One more thing, he thought.  His visit at the lab should not be readily obvious.  Of course, he knew, his badge registered, and so did the disengagement of the alarm system.  Still, he knew, if nothing else was suspicious, nobody would dig into the badge reader logs or the security camera files.  At least not anytime soon.

Michael Moore walked in, and was immediately flooded with a feeling of familiarity.  He quickly looked at the coffee corner, the Xerox machine, and the small kitchenette.  He looked around and realized that he was going to miss this place a lot.  Fifteen seconds later he was at his office.  He unlocked the door.  The computer was irrelevant, he thought.  All of the files were on the server and its attached storage array.  Just recently, the lab bought a brand new an IBM Blade Center, and attached to it a Dual Rack XIV system.  It was a state of the art configuration.  But Michael was a particularly meticulous researcher.  He had all his files backed up on disks.  External hard disks and DVD media were his preferred choice for back up.  The reason was simple.  It was always easier and took less time to recover from data loss using media.  There were two small disk cabinets next to his bookcase.  He took all the disks into his bag, and right away replaced them with brand new media.  A first glance would suggest that nothing was touched.  Obviously, further investigation would yield that all disks were empty.  But, he thought, hopefully by then, he would be far away.  Michael turned his computer on.  Months ago, Art told him that he had to have means to delete all the data off the servers and the storage arrays.  Michael had no idea how one would go about ensuring the deletion of data from network attached servers and storage systems.  Art didn’t know either.  The difference between the two was that Art knew how to get it done.  He never mentioned a name, but one day he showed up and told Michael to install a script on his PC.  The script, Art said, would look for all the files related to his experiments and delete them.  It will delete them in a very pervasive way, ensuring all bits were set to zero, on the server, on the storage array’s primary data bank, and also on the secondary data banks if any existed.  In fact, the script was smart enough to install itself on the network, and identify the set of files even if they were introduced to the network in the future.  Michael brought up a terminal window and typed “delete -911 –all –exp*.*”.  The local disk drive started to rotate.  Michael hoped that Art knew what he was doing.

He looked around, and decided to leave all his diplomas, prizes, framed published papers behind.  Screw it, he thought, dead people don’t need recognition.

There was one other thing he didn’t want to leave behind.  Roger was a rabbit, but he was also some kind of pet, and even a friend.  But he knew that taking Roger would provide a very clear clue to whoever might come after him.  Roger would have to stay.

Michael shut the light, locked the office door, and went over the hallway to the main gate.  He armed the alarmed system, open and shut the front door and was gone into the morning sun.  Nobody was after him, nobody seemed to care.  It looked like his mission was accomplished.  He wanted to call Barbara and see how she was doing, but they agreed to not use cellular phones altogether.  He hailed a taxi and headed to the Marina.  If all goes well, Barbara, the girls, and Mrs. Mitchell will be there to meet with him soon.  He started thinking about his experiments.  Mike was sure that his experiments didn’t uncover anything worth killing for.  Or did he?  He started thinking about it.

He tried to separate fact and speculation.  It wasn’t as easy as he thought it would be.  Junk DNA wasn’t junk after all.  That was a fact.  Junk DNA was changing overtime.  That was a fact as well.  Modified junk DNA found itself in sperm cells, and moved on to descendants.  These were all facts.  Speculating about how the changes occurred and the contents of the changes was clearly speculation.  Michael was after all a scientist.  He was trained to look at data, and try to understand what was the evidence buried in the data.  Sometimes, he knew, it leads to nothing.  But other times, it was a gold mine.

Michael Moore tried to organize what he knew so far.  He was good at making lists, so he made one in his mind.

1.    Organisms are born with a certain amount of DNA that takes no part in synthesizing proteins.
2.    Junk DNA of an organism contains all patterns of its father before conception.
3.    Junk DNA changes over time.
4.    Some information is recorded in junk DNA over time.
5.    Based on the last experiment, the one Michael communicated to Art, trauma was registered in DNA very quickly.  In fact, it took less than two weeks for certain cells to show the modified DNA throughout the body following the trauma.

He thought about it.  If there was a way to interpret the data recorded in the DNA, it would provide a peek into the experiences the organism went through during the course of their lives up until the moment the DNA was extracted.  Michael continued to think.  It was established, that organisms carried a precise copy of their father’s junk DNA, and that the experiences split afterwards.

There were so many questions to ask.  How long of a history is recorded?  What kind of events is recorded?  How does one go about interpreting the patterns?  That would take plenty of computer work, he asserted, and then he figured something out.  He remembered that Arthur, his flamboyant friend asked him to prepare disks with data he was able to collect, before and after trauma.  He never asked Art what he was doing with the disks, and who was looking at the data.  Michael knew that there must be somebody out there who was familiar with the data.  He knew that a certain person have an idea of how to interpret the patterns.  Someone who is probably in danger, and who can probably help a lot in understanding what was going on.  Michael had to find this person and talk to him.

Mike took a deep breath, but the next thought took out all the air in his lungs in a gasp.  Yes, he thought, if this speculation was even close, it was worth killing for.

The possibilities were vast.  Was it possible DNA has developed a way to register events and experiences?  Assuming that this was indeed the case, there was a lot of work ahead trying to interpret the kind of events registered, how they were expressed, and the mechanism to encode and decode them.  Should we expect really old events to be registered in the DNA?  How old?  What if, Mike thought to himself, there was a two billion years worth of historical record written in our DNA?  What if we could actually see evolution history in words or pictures?  What if the human genome was the minor part of the DNA exploration?  What if we put resources in trying to understand our origins inside our bodies rather than outside the Solar System?  What if?

Mike was so overtaken by those thoughts that he almost missed the unfamiliar car that pulled over across the street.  Barbara, her mother and the two girls came out of the car.  He was about to step out of his hiding place when he saw a strange man coming out of the car.  They all crossed the street and headed for the marina.  Mike had no idea who the man was, and whether it was safe for him to follow them all to the boat.  He was weighing his option and then he saw Barbara signing with her right hand.  She was making an “O” sign with her right hand, connecting the thumb and the index finger, spreading the other three fingers like a peacock tail.  He was pulled back ten years.

He knew they were safe.  He knew the man could be trusted.  He walked silently behind them.  They entered the marina and walked over to the north side where “Lady” was parked.  They were carrying two small bags.  Michael waited for them to board the boat. He waited for five minutes, looking frantically in all directions.  A man was unloading the day’s catch from a small boat; another was cleaning the deck of a large yacht.  All activities around him seemed to be in context and unsuspicious.  A flock of seagulls crossed the sky at low altitude struggling with short and cold gusts of wind.  He looked around one more time and started to walk to the boat.

Walking slowly, looking around on occasion, Michael made his way to Lady.  The ramp was short and steep, he climbed it carefully.  At the top of the ramp he stopped, looked around one more time and went onto the deck.  There was nobody there.  He was surprised.  He was sure he’d seen them board the boat.  He checked again, but “Lady” was certainly printed on the small rug at the end of the ramp.  Michael has only been on this boat only, and he wasn’t very familiar with the ins and outs of the vessel.  Then Michael heard a short whistle.  He turned around, his heart beating fast.  A small opening on the floor revealed the face of Barbara.  He went over, the opening fully opened, and he stepped into a staircase leading down to the engine room.  The cover closed and Barbara led him to the main cabin.  It took a minute for his eyes to get used to the dark.  He squinted, and when he opened his eyes again, he saw Barbara, her mother, and the girls.  Stephanie and Diane were obviously very excited.  Barbara and Michael hugged each other, the girls; giggling, joined the family hug.  Beatrice Mitchell was standing close to her daughter’s family.  She let out an audible sigh and joined the family hug.  At that moment, she felt after many years, that her son-in-law was a family man.

Michael couldn’t speak for a while.  He was pale and unshaven, and he looked shaken.  He sat down on a sofa and said: “some tea would be really nice”.  Beatrice, who knew the boat very well, turned around and put up an electric kettle.  Soon enough they were all sitting around the breakfast area having tea and biscuits.  The girls were watching a DVD in the main cabin.  There was some tension in the air.  The two women looked at each other, and Barbara started.  “Michael, please repeat everything you said to me for Mom”.  She added “Mom knows some really powerful people around town and elsewhere, and we need some help here”.

Michael started to tell the two women all that happened to him in the last day or so.  This time, he was telling the long version.  Beatrice Mitchell’s were wide open when he was talking about Arthur Lewis, and then even wider when he was talking about his discovery and its possible implications.  When he concluded Mrs. Mitchell said that for the time being, he should stay off-shore.  She said she needed to make a few phone calls.  Michael looked at his wife for a second.  She responded by saying that Mom was using a “dead” phone, and that there’s no way that phone would be traced.

Michael and Barbara went to the main cabin and watched Dora with the girls.

Michael was reflecting on the last twenty four hours.  He was never a hero, never a fugitive.  He never got in trouble with the police, not even with the IRS.  In twenty four hours, his friend and colleague were murdered, he had to run away from his own lab and then break into it.  In the last twenty four hours, he had lost access to his home, and so did his wife and children.  His life turned from certainty to complete chaos.  He wasn’t sure what he needed to do next.  He did know that he needed some time and possibly some evidence before he could go to the police and convince them that he had nothing to do with his Arthur Lewis’s murder.  He was shaken, he was tired, and the only good thing was that he was reunited with his family.  Although, he thought, one never knew for how long.

He then remembered that Arthur was supposed to speak at the Massachusetts Convention Center that night.  The Computer Hacker Convention started the evening before, and Art was giving the keynote address.  Michael Moore knew right away that he would have to attend.  He was hoping that among all the participants, one would shed some light on the death of Art Lewis.  He told Barbara about his plan.  Barbara as expected said that he was out of his mind.  She said that the convention itself, even under different circumstances, was a bad event to attend, given most of the attendees were in trouble with the law anyway.  She added that the police would also attend undoubtedly, and that various organizations who had any knowledge of the research would show up trying to either put their hands on the results, recover some of the investment, or try to get rid of anyone standing in their way.

Michael had to agree with her.  But she caved when he said that this was his only way to be exonerated.  She didn’t like it, but had no other suggestion.  He agreed to go in disguise, and he also agreed that she would go with him.  Also in disguise.

Posted in History of the World | 3 Comments »

5. December 2009 by admin.

Previous Chapters

Preface
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8

Ocean, hunt, danger, predator, clan, hunger, fight.

Michael Moore ordered a full stack of pancakes.  Barbara had the Western Omelet.  She always thought that sweet things tasted sweeter when preceded by some salty food.  Michael didn’t care much for sweets, but Barbara couldn’t live without it.  That did provide some explanation why Michael looked in shape while he never worked out at all, and why Barbara looked a little chubby even though she spent hours at the neighborhood gym.  He had a black coffee, which he could compare to absolutely nothing.  Mike was a coffee connoisseur, who had his own espresso machine at home, and a coffee dealer who was selling him only the “best beans in the Northern Hemisphere” or so he said.  He knew people who were saying that coffee is mainly taken for caffeine, and that the flavor was irrelevant.  “Nonsense”, he would exclaim.  “Flavor is everything”.  Following this statement he would go for a thirty minute lecture about the history of coffee, the origins, the chemistry, traditions, and folklore.  That particular coffee tasted worse than the one served at the student lounge in the local community college.  The pancakes, though, were absolutely spectacular.  The sleepy waitress wasn’t very excited when he asked for more maple syrup, as the small can of that sweet sticky substance was almost finished.

Barbara was pecking at her omelet, separating the red from the green peppers, putting the green aside.  She ate a little, only enough to move on to what she was really after.  The short stack was short, but more than sufficient.  She knew that too much sweet would really present a challenge to her reasonable figure.  She had orange juice, and finished off with coffee.  She didn’t like coffee at all, and rarely drank it.  But she knew that she would need to be on her feet for some time, and she that she needed to stay fresh.  She gulped it down, and poured some more.  She didn’t use sweetener at all.  She figured sugar was out of the question, and the aftertaste of the artificial sweetener was terrible.  On occasion, she used honey to sweeten tea, but coffee really had no cure.  It was bitter, concentrated, tart, and not so pleasant on the taste buds.

They were sitting across from each other.  She noticed it, because when they started dating and long after that, they always sat next to each other in restaurants.  Both Michael and Barbara were very physical.  They exchanged hugs and kisses during dinners, and on occasion even touch each other under the table.  She remembered some times when they left the restaurant in a hurry, and completed what they started at home.  That morning, she knew, was no time for fooling around.  They both knew it of course, but she was still wondering what had happened to the fun loving couple they used to be.  But then she remembered that when they met, he wasn’t fun loving at all.  It took her weeks and months to change him from an individual into a half of a couple.  She looked at him.  He was cold and unshaven, a wrinkle formed on his forehead.  He was obviously missing a coat.  In this weather, a man without a coat would look suspicious.  This must be fixed as soon as possible.  He was a handsome man, in his own special way.  She felt the three months old ball in her stomach melt.  Was it possible that she could have been more attentive?  Should she have listened more?  Should she have insisted on him sharing his thoughts and discoveries with her?  Was he lost?

The tears were coming up to her eyes.  She knew she wouldn’t be able to keep from crying.  Michael lifted his eyes up and saw the tears forming in her eyes.  Large, wet teardrops were going down her cheeks.  She was sobbing.  “Hey baby”, he said.  “What’s up with that?”  It took her a minute to get herself together, and all she could do was to whisper: “I’m sorry”.  He got up, sat beside her, moved the hair off her forehead, wiped the tears off her eyes, kissed he passionately on the lips and said “it’s all my fault”.  They looked at each other and without a word, hugged and kissed.  They both realized that they had each other, and that was good news.

Many things needed to be done.  Many things needed to be done soon.

Barbara was the one who started to speak.  She first looked around, made sure that there was nobody in listening range, including that shabby looking waitress, and then started making her points.  She started with the facts.  A person was killed, she said.  That person was Michael’s friend and colleague.  He was killed minutes after Michael broke the news to him about the latest results of his research.  The girls were with their grandmother, at their home, and they must be out of there quickly.  Barbara had a plan.  She looked Michael in the eyes, and suggested that she would go to the house; get the girls, some clothes, passports and some stashed away money.  Michael will wait downstairs in disguise.  If something suspicious happened, he was to warn Barbara, but not with a cellular phone call.  She suggested a simple pattern Mike was to blow the car’s horn with, in order to sound the alarm.  If something goes wrong, Michael was to drive to the summer home without her.  She would stay behind and take care of the girls.  If all goes well, they will drive in two cars to the summer home.  Grandmamma will stay with the girls in Vermont, while Barbara and Michael come back to Boston to understand better what was going on.

Michael listened intently and silently.  He looked disturbed.  He only had a couple of problems, he said.  He didn’t like the idea that she would put herself and the girls at risk, while he would stay free to wander around.  She dismissed it and said that he had the best chance of solving the puzzle and resolving this mess.  He knew his research and the people involved.  He had access to all the computers and networks and to the results.  He was in a much better position to get the family out of this.  Michael concurred.  There was no arguing with Barbara at that point in time.  She had won this debate, and he knew it.  Two changes, he said, needed to be made.  The summer house is known to be a family asset.  It was also two hundred miles far.  Instead, he asserted, they could use the yacht.  It was new, just recently bought, and the paper trail will probably not lead to them at least for some time. The boat was well equipped with food and drink, had plenty of room, plus it had another very significant benefit.  Mrs. Mitchell was a certified skipper.  If need be, they could take off on minutes notice.  The other change was that they had to go to the lab too.  He said that once the police would make the connection between Arthur Lewis and the research, they would show up at the lab and take everything.  Mike needed to save the data, copy it, and have it available, so they could continue the search for the truth.

Barbara looked at him with a strange spark in her eyes.  That spark existed many years ago, but hadn’t showed up for months, maybe years.  “You know”, she said, “I needed to be reminded why I married you”.  “You may have just done that”.  She smiled at him, and said: “I missed you”.  He didn’t have to answer.  But he said it anyway: “I missed you too”.

Barbara suggested that Mike would go to the lab right away, while she would go home and fetch the girls, her mother and the other things they needed.  They agreed to meet at the marina three hours later.

Barbara asked for the check, calculated the tip and left a little more.  She tried hard to not be remembered.  Leaving no tip or a ridiculously large one made people remember.  They looked around to see they haven’t forgotten anything behind, and left the restaurant.  They drove quietly to the motel, and entered the room.  They showered, together, laughing and teasing each other.  It’s been a long time since they had any physical contact, but they seemed to have remembered all the moves and touches.  Soon enough they were in bed, kissing, touching.  Each remembered why they fell in love with each other.  Each regretted the months of separation, both accepted that if they want to survive this, they have to stick together.  Together to the point that only a couple with children knows how.  Two people who share the most precious possession together, realizing that this possession was in danger.  It wasn’t said out loud, but they both felt that their bond was renewed.  It felt as if they renewed their vows in church.  In a way, it felt stronger than their first wedding.

When it was all over, Barbara looked at her husband’s eyes, and he looked back at her.  After the physical part, the mental one followed.  They were in love and they needed to be reminded of it.  They had a purpose and they had lots of things to do.  They realized that without the commitment, they stand no chance.  They haven’t yet realized what the danger was, but they did know that it was something a lot bigger than what each one of them could handle separately.  They knew that together, their chances of surviving this were tenfold.

“Off we go”, said Barbara.  “Lets”, answered Michael.  The Moores kissed and were on their way.  Michael hailed a taxi, Barbara took her mother’s car.

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3. December 2009 by admin.

Previous Chapters

Preface
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7

Enemy, territory, hunt, safety, home.

Detective Jones knew he was missing something.  He just finished going through every single piece of paper confiscated at the home of Mr. Arthur Lewis.  Utility bills, magazine subscriptions, one wedding invitation, credit card bills, bank notes, driver’s license renewal form.  There was a large box of what seemed to be some scientific research notes and results.  There was nothing out of the ordinary.  One more pass and he knew what he was looking for.  A VIP invitation for some computer hacker convention was stuck to a magazine subscription.  The convention started the day before at the Massachusetts Convention Center.  Arthur Lewis was the keynote speaker; his speech was planned for tonight.  Detective Bradley Jones had no idea who would make the speech in his stead, but he knew that that person would be a good lead for this investigation.

The autopsy report was on his desk.  Jones was thinking about the results.  There were no surprises there.  Or were there?  Arthur Lewis died of massive head injury followed by brain hemorrhage.  It was a quick, yet messy way to die.  The entry wound was small, the exit wound large.  In fact, it left quite an amount of grey matter on the carpet and the wall behind.  The killer shot him once.  No cartridges were found.  The single bullet was found stuck in a painting frame on the wall across the hallway, and was determined to be home made.

The gun model was relatively uncommon.  The Glock 38 45GAP Semi Automatic, was the preferred handgun for concealed carriers, the Glock was light, accurate, and not bulky.  He was wondering if this gun was already in the databases, but had a hunch that it would come up clean.  Whoever this guy was, he was a professional.  Someone who took the time to pick up the cartridge, clean up after himself and disappear into the night was no amateur.  Jones thought that perhaps the person had a history in some law enforcement agency, the military, or worse, with the Feds.  All in good time, he reminded himself, all in good time.

A junior uniform came in and handed him the ballistics analysis of the gun.  He sighed as he realized that he had guessed correctly.  The gun was clean.  There was no record for this gun.  It was as if it was never made.

He looked again at the box, hoping that something will get his attention.  There was nothing.  Then he saw something shining at the bottom of the box.  It was a disk.  Jones took it and put it in his computer.  After some whirling and rotations, the computer declared that the disk was formatted in an unfamiliar way, and it was spat out of the drive with no further notice.  An empty disk was not a great find.  Jones knew better.  He took out his phone, speed dialed a number, and two minutes later a young looking guy, with round glasses and an earring walked in.  He took the disk and walked away without saying as much as a single word.  Jones didn’t expect him to.  But both knew that if there was a byte written on that disk, it will show up in no time.  Boris Lazofsky was a young, brilliant and lazy enough computer wizard, that working for the police force was a reasonable substitute for the thrill of a startup.  Jones thanked his lucky stars for sending him this unmotivated genius.  Boris needed lots of management attention, and at times, mostly Mondays, management needed to look the other way.

Detective Jones was always a policeman.  His father and his two brothers were on the force also.  One of his sisters in law was on the payroll as well.  Being a detective was his childhood dream.  His father tried really hard to open up other areas of interest for him.  Bradley, or Nicholas, as his father called him using his middle name, was good in math and sciences, and he was a good athlete as well.  He graduated high school with honors and won a scholarship for undergraduate studies.  He chose criminology as his major, and added psychology as a minor.  He always thought that in order to be able to catch criminals, one needed to think like one, to feel like one.  He thought that evidence without motive doesn’t get convictions.  He thought he would change the world.

Once he joined the force he realized that changing the world was indeed ambitious, and quite possibly impossible.  He decided to change the Boston police force, and then, a couple of years later, he decided to concentrate on the detective department, in his own precinct.

He was familiar with computers.  He thought that everyone living and working in the twenty first century must be acquainted with computers.  In fact, he thought, inability to understand how computers work, what software could do, was a disability, a handicap.  In his team, there were staff members who developed a computer phobia.  They insisted that a good police officer needed a good mind, a notepad, and a sharp pencil.  He disagreed.  When Jones took command over the detective department of the Boston 12th precinct, he made sure that all staff went through mandatory computer training and workshops.  He insisted that all case reports and summaries are submitted printed neatly in hard copy and in soft copy as well.  A mutiny was underway, but Detective Jones defused it by an all hands meeting in which he committed to the department staff that using computers would significantly enhance the department’s accomplishments and capabilities.  He asked them to give him six months.  He promised that if after six months they came to him and said that their work is not benefited by the use of computers, he would reverse the change.  He promised that after six months, nobody would be forced to use computers..

What happened was nothing short of a revolution.  The rate of solved crimes shot up in less than a month.  The average time necessary to solve a crime was reduced significantly.  The department was commended by the mayor, on multiple occasions, and even the news media was supportive.  And supportive media is quite unusual indeed.  The staff came to him long before the six months were up and told him that he had their blessing to continue his small transformation.  He didn’t need more than that.  He went and hired Boris, who was perfect for the job.  Boris was making a reasonable salary for a reasonable effort.  Given his background and capabilities, financial stability with predictable hours were something close to heaven.  Boris was a startup refugee.

Until he was hired by the Boston police department, Boris was a junior programmer with a computer startup company owned by a computer whiz who thought he could change the world with his invention.  He was articulate enough to sell his ideas to a couple of venture capitalists who trusted that the man will bring them billions of dollars in return.  The company never took off, although its founder did indeed.  He drove a Lamborghini, owned a house in Cambridge, and was always surrounded by top models.  He certainly had the good life.  Boris felt as though he was working his ass off, so that Mr. Lamborghini there could enjoy a new lifestyle.  When the offer came from the Boston Police Department, he didn’t think twice.  He quit that same day, and joined the force.  Thankfully, he didn’t have to wear uniform, but he did have to go through basic training, holster a gun and a badge.  Boris was a good cop, and with Detective Jones’ plan to revolutionize the Detective Department of the 12th Precinct of the Boston Police, he was finally in the right place on the right time.

Lazofsky adored Jones.  When they met, Lazofsky was very close to giving up altogether.  Years of software development in startups made him bitter.  Having to send a large portion of his salary overseas to help his family, the endless work, the late nights and weekends, the angry customers, all that made him ask the big question: “where was this leading?  When will it end?”

Lazofsky was ready to leave it all behind when he literally ran into Detective Brad Jones.  Jones was investigating a murder case in a downtown businessmen lunch joint.  The kind of joint where very busy businessmen come and pretend to have a quick lunch and rush back to the office to continue pretending to be working hard.  One of the waiters was murdered one morning, during lunch rush.  The police showed up really quickly, and closed the area hermetically.  Boris happened to have been there, grabbing an ordered lunch for himself and three co-workers.  He was holding his bag of food, heading for the door when he heard a few gunshots, followed by a short scream and a commotion.  He was pushed hard by someone wearing a capuchin.  Boris didn’t see the guy’s face; in fact he couldn’t even tell if he was a male or a female, black or white.  He could tell that he was about 5’8” and slim build.  Question by Detective Jones yielded that data three minutes into the interview.  But Jones saw something else.  He saw a young man, unshaved, long curly hair, glasses, and a really sad look.  Jones asked Lazofsky where he lived, and what he was doing for living.  Lazofsky was vague at first, but very cooperative shortly after that.  Jones saw an opportunity.

Jones described the department for Boris.  He told him about the work – trying to find patterns where none apparently exist.  He described the satisfaction felt when a case is cracked open.  He explained that done right, computer software can and does contribute immensely to police work.  Jones could see that Boris’ eyes lit up.  At that point, Jones took out a business card and told Lazofsky to sleep on it, and to call him when he was ready to talk business.  The call came the next morning.  The rest was history.  Lazofsky became the computer guy with the detective department of the Boston Police Department.

Jones had plans for that night.  He was attending a convention.  He had to go air out his good suit.

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