did he do? In a moment, the words faded out and were replaced by a grainy video image of a man. It was hard to tell his age or precise appearance due to the poor video quality. It was amateurish—poorly lit and off-center.
The man looked thin and pale—a condition emphasized by his standing against a featureless white background. He was completely bald and wore what looked to be a medical gown.
What the hell was this, some sort of FBI lab report?
It took Sebeck a moment to realize that the video was already playing. The man swayed unsteadily—his pixels adjusting like colored tiles. Then he looked directly into the camera and nodded as if in greeting.
“Detective Sebeck. I was Matthew Sobol. Chief technology officer of CyberStorm Entertainment. I am dead.”
Sebeck leaned forward—his eyes fixed on the monitor.
“I see you’ve been assigned to the Josef Pavlos and Chopra Singh murder cases. Let me save you some time; I killed both men. Soon you’ll know why. But you have a problem: Because I’m dead, you can’t arrest me. More importantly: You can’t stop me.”
Sebeck stared in stunned silence.
Sobol continued. “Since you have no choice but to try and stop me, I want to take this moment to wish you luck, Sergeant—because you’re going to need it.”
The image disappeared, revealing the e-mail inbox again.
Sebeck didn’t move for several moments. When he finally did, it was to forward the message to his sheriff’s e-mail address.
Chapter 8:// Escalation
“M r. Ross, help us understand this: You have no permanent address, and yet you’ve got nearly three hundred thousand dollars in liquid assets. Am I to believe you live with your parents?”
Jon Ross rubbed his tired eyes and tried to concentrate on the question—the same question they’d asked twenty different ways. The one they kept coming back to.
The taller FBI agent leaned in close. “Mr. Ross?”
“I’m a contract nomad. Ancient people followed caribou. I follow software contracts.”
The shorter agent stood next to a mirrored window and flipped through his notes. “You’ve been at Alcyone Insurance for what, two months now? Is that a long time for you?”
“Not particularly. Three or four is typical.”
“Your clients give us various physical addresses for your business. Kind of strange for a one-man corporation, isn’t it?”
Ross ran his fingers through his hair in frustration. “You contacted my clients ? Are you trying to destroy my business?”
“Why are you concealing information from your clients?”
“I maintain contact addresses legally through resident agents in several states. This is legal commerce. Why are you guys doing this to me? I was trying to help Hadi.”
“That doesn’t explain why you have a phony personal address.”
Ross sighed. “I had the fake address because society requires everyone to have a permanent home address.”
“Then why don’t you have one?”
“Because I don’t need one.”
Both agents were pacing again. The shorter one was the first to speak. “Single. No property. Do you pay all your taxes, Mr. Ross?”
“I’m a Delaware service corporation. I pay myself a reasonable salary, max out my 401(k), and take the remainder as corporate profits—minus travel and business expenses. And the corporation leases my car.” He hesitated. “Look, I didn’t do anything wrong. I was trying to help my client.”
The phone in the center of the table rang. The shorter agent grabbed it without saying a word. He listened. After a few moments he nodded slightly and looked at Ross with some surprise. “Understood.” A pause. “Yes.”
He hung up. “It looks like you’re off the hook, Mr. Ross.”
Neal Decker and three other FBI agents sat in the darkened training room of the Ventura County Sheriff’s headquarters intently watching a screen projection of Sobol’s MPEG video. Sebeck, Mantz, Burkow, and Ventura County’s assistant chief, Stan Eichhorn, watched alongside
The man looked thin and pale—a condition emphasized by his standing against a featureless white background. He was completely bald and wore what looked to be a medical gown.
What the hell was this, some sort of FBI lab report?
It took Sebeck a moment to realize that the video was already playing. The man swayed unsteadily—his pixels adjusting like colored tiles. Then he looked directly into the camera and nodded as if in greeting.
“Detective Sebeck. I was Matthew Sobol. Chief technology officer of CyberStorm Entertainment. I am dead.”
Sebeck leaned forward—his eyes fixed on the monitor.
“I see you’ve been assigned to the Josef Pavlos and Chopra Singh murder cases. Let me save you some time; I killed both men. Soon you’ll know why. But you have a problem: Because I’m dead, you can’t arrest me. More importantly: You can’t stop me.”
Sebeck stared in stunned silence.
Sobol continued. “Since you have no choice but to try and stop me, I want to take this moment to wish you luck, Sergeant—because you’re going to need it.”
The image disappeared, revealing the e-mail inbox again.
Sebeck didn’t move for several moments. When he finally did, it was to forward the message to his sheriff’s e-mail address.
Chapter 8:// Escalation
“M r. Ross, help us understand this: You have no permanent address, and yet you’ve got nearly three hundred thousand dollars in liquid assets. Am I to believe you live with your parents?”
Jon Ross rubbed his tired eyes and tried to concentrate on the question—the same question they’d asked twenty different ways. The one they kept coming back to.
The taller FBI agent leaned in close. “Mr. Ross?”
“I’m a contract nomad. Ancient people followed caribou. I follow software contracts.”
The shorter agent stood next to a mirrored window and flipped through his notes. “You’ve been at Alcyone Insurance for what, two months now? Is that a long time for you?”
“Not particularly. Three or four is typical.”
“Your clients give us various physical addresses for your business. Kind of strange for a one-man corporation, isn’t it?”
Ross ran his fingers through his hair in frustration. “You contacted my clients ? Are you trying to destroy my business?”
“Why are you concealing information from your clients?”
“I maintain contact addresses legally through resident agents in several states. This is legal commerce. Why are you guys doing this to me? I was trying to help Hadi.”
“That doesn’t explain why you have a phony personal address.”
Ross sighed. “I had the fake address because society requires everyone to have a permanent home address.”
“Then why don’t you have one?”
“Because I don’t need one.”
Both agents were pacing again. The shorter one was the first to speak. “Single. No property. Do you pay all your taxes, Mr. Ross?”
“I’m a Delaware service corporation. I pay myself a reasonable salary, max out my 401(k), and take the remainder as corporate profits—minus travel and business expenses. And the corporation leases my car.” He hesitated. “Look, I didn’t do anything wrong. I was trying to help my client.”
The phone in the center of the table rang. The shorter agent grabbed it without saying a word. He listened. After a few moments he nodded slightly and looked at Ross with some surprise. “Understood.” A pause. “Yes.”
He hung up. “It looks like you’re off the hook, Mr. Ross.”
Neal Decker and three other FBI agents sat in the darkened training room of the Ventura County Sheriff’s headquarters intently watching a screen projection of Sobol’s MPEG video. Sebeck, Mantz, Burkow, and Ventura County’s assistant chief, Stan Eichhorn, watched alongside
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