Buzzworm (A Technology Thriller): Computer virus or serial killer? by Theo Cage Page B

universe. It had it’s dragons, trolls, shamans, monsters, and maidens in distress. And a lot of cannon fodder.
    That same afternoon, his new life began with a simple bloodless game of BW’s invention. Born out of boredom more than malice. Simple manipulation. Something that would grow until it was impossible to control anymore.
    The heating and air conditioning system in the CIA complex had been completely modernized and computer-controlled years before. BW wondered then if he could change the temperature in the building without drawing attention to himself.
    He went in and looked at the control code. No one had thought to protect the systems that controlled temperature inside the building from staff. So it would be easy.
    But just because it was doable didn’t mean it wouldn’t be monitored. If he went in, someone could track the day and time and who he was.
    So he needed an identity, an employee that didn’t exist. Which as it turned out wasn’t that hard. Two years before a retired analyst by the name of Tonkin had retired. Some techie on the help desk had forgotten to close his access to the computer network.
    So BW took a deep breath and cranked up the heat in the Administration group by twenty degrees. Mr. Tonkin was going to bake those little ladies in administration.
    And he wouldn’t even be around to enjoy it.
     

CHAPTER 9
     
    I work with the dregs of society. And I don’t just mean criminals. I’m talking about the rest of the Homicide team.
    One of the lifers in our group, from the third floor, is Emile Tantoon. Acadian stock, he would say. Although I guess he is less sure of who his parents are — than he is of who shot Jack Kennedy.
    Emile is tall and dark and wiry, with eyebrows that meet across his nose; one long dark fuzzy line like a misplaced hunk of pubic hair. Besides being hard and knotted like a junkie in withdrawal, he’s known in the department for his collection of rattlesnake skin cowboy boots. I always tell him it’s bad luck to be walking around in the skin of dead animals, especially ones that weren’t smart enough to get out of the way in time.
    "So Emile, why does a diabetic computer programmer who’s about five years from a fat government pension, off himself with a screwdriver?"
    Emile shrugged, touched the toe of his boot with the long fingers of his right hand. He loved to touch his boots, loved the touch of snakeskin. "Cause he's handy?"
    I stared at him. Emile stared back, two dark eyes under that hard line of his unibrow. "Speaking of handy, if I had a pair of pliers right now, I'd help you with that eyebrow problem."
    Emile lifted one cruel lip. "You know that new shrink we have down in HR? Ms. Green? She warned me when guys like you get older they get fixated on their tools.”
    I closed my eyes. I couldn’t help but grin. "Speaking of tools how's your sisters new boyfriend?”
    Emile jumped. He was a jumpy guy all the time, except when it mattered. In the clutch, this guy was colder than a tomb. Some loved him, some hated him, but they all wanted him close by if they were walking into a firefight.
    Emile looked me over. "Sorry, Greggy. She's not interested in some half-breed Swede pumped up on steroids and Twinkies."
    "Now you're making me hungry." I was picturing her. She liked black and looked good in it. Thank God, she wasn't like her brother, a skeptic with side arms and a twitchy finger. I also had about as much chance with her as a Pee Wee Herman did with Miss Universe. And just the thought of Emile as a brother-in-law, made my testicles hike up and disappear.
    I opened my file folder. Sure, the new guys would be flipping out their CrackBerries. But then I’d need to wear reading glasses every time I used it too. Wouldn’t work for my hard-ass image.
    My SOP was a handwritten list covering the crucial steps in a murder investigation. Ipscott called it the Hyde Method. I’d been using it for years without modification. First page in the case folder, no