Chaos. Patricia Cornwell
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“Which brings me back to the same question. Was there anything familiar, anything you noticed about the voice you just listened to in the nine-one-one call? Anything that struck you?” Benton looks down at his phone, but the screen has gone to sleep and there’s nothing to see but a glassy black rectangle.
He unlocks it and the displayed video file reappears with its frozen PLAY arrow.
“Beyond how arrogant and hateful the person sounded?” I’m thinking hard. “Nothing struck me, not really.”
“It sounds like you’re not sure.”
I look up at the plaster ceiling and replay the 911 audio clip in my head. “No,” I decide. “It’s unfamiliar, just a normal pleasant voice. I’m not sure what else to say about it.”
“And you’re equivocal again.” Benton’s not going to tell me why he thinks that.
It’s not his style to lead the witness even if the witness is his wife, and I take another drink of water as I think for a moment. He’s right. I’m uncertain, and then it occurs to me why.
“It’s too uniform, too homogenous,” I explain what I’ve been picking up on but couldn’t identify. “There aren’t the variations I might expect. There’s something stilted and unnatural about it.”
“In other words it sounds artificial or canned. Fake, in other words,” he says, and I wonder if this came from Lucy. “We can’t tell if it’s synthetized.” He answers my unspoken question about my niece. “But Lucy agrees that it’s strangely consistent from one comment to the next. She says that if it’s been enhanced or altered—”
“Wait a minute. If you got the audio file from the police, then how could it have been altered?”
“Lucy introduced the idea of a voice changer similar to what gamers are into. There are a lot of these apps on the market, although not the quality of whatever this person used. The typical voice disguised by software tends to sound obviously fake like a poor animation. It’s within the realm of possibility the caller has proprietary highly sophisticated software that changes your voice as you speak into the phone—”
“And it sounds different from your usual voice but normal to whoever’s on the other end.” I finish his thought because I already know what’s next.
Benton asks if I think it’s possible that my cyber-stalker Tailend Charlie is the one who called 911 and lied about me.
“Indicating this individual is stepping things up,” my husband adds. “Escalating whatever his game is, and we know without question that Tailend Charlie is technically sophisticated.”
“Let’s hope that’s not who placed the nine-one-one call because it would suggest he was in close proximity to me today,” I reply. “And I’ve been hoping whoever the cyber-bully is he’s not in Cambridge. Preferably he’s on the other side of the planet.”
“It strikes me as a little too coincidental that you began getting the e-mailed threats only a week ago, all of them altered audio clips. And now this,” Benton says.
“So tell me, Mr. Profiler.” I press my leg against his, and the fabric of his suit is smooth and cool against my bare skin. “What do you have to say about someone who calls nine-one-one to report your wife for being a C-U-Next-Tuesday?”
“Male. And not old. But not young,” Benton says. “I doubt it’s a student unless we’re talking about a mature one.”
“As in a graduate student?”
“Don’t know, forties at least,” he replies. “Older but not so old as to preclude this person from moving about freely in all sorts of weather. More like someone from the homeless population around the Square but that doesn’t mean it’s what we’re dealing with. He’s educated but could be self-educated.
“He probably lives alone, probably has a psychiatric history. And he’s intelligent, way above the norm. He’s antigovernment, which means anti-authority, and yes, I’d say there’s genuine hostility toward you. He’s the sort to overidealize relationships and even assume ones that don’t exist.” Benton ticks all of this off like a grocery list.
He doesn’t even have to think about it.
“Could it be someone I know?”
“Yes. But it’s more likely you don’t. Possibly you’ve never met.”
“Marino thinks this person was using a prepaid phone, a TracFone, something that isn’t traceable,” I reply. “And that makes sense if you don’t live the sort of life that involves monthly phone bills, et cetera. But how does that fit with using some sort of voice-changing software that has to be installed?”
“It would seem to me that you could install software on just about any type of smartphone and still use it with prepaid cards.”
“Yes. And we associate such things with homeless people but there’s something else I’m sure you’ve considered …” I start to say, but the waiter is back with our sparkling water and lime.
Benton raises his hand to signal we’ll fill our glasses ourselves. When the waiter drifts away I mention the Obama Phone, a rather irreverent reference to a government program for low-income people that provides a free cell phone with unlimited minutes, texting and all the rest.
“That’s typically the sort of device we’re talking about in the homeless population we find in area shelters and out on the streets with their cardboard signs,” I explain as Benton listens. “But you have to apply and register for an Obama Phone, for lack of a better word. And I would think that if the person who called in the bogus complaint about me was using such a thing, then the number would trace back to the carrier.”
“SafeLink,” Benton says, and I can tell he’s already thought about it. “It’s one of the biggest and most popular noncontract cellular services.”
“But if the phone is part of a government program?”
“That would be the difference. You have to be registered. You have to enroll to qualify, and you have your own account.” He picks up the bottle of water and refills our glasses.
“That’s exactly what I’m getting at,” I reply with a nod. “So Lucy possibly could have traced the phone that made the nine-one-one call if the person were part of this program.”
“Yes she could,” Benton agrees.
“Then the witness who’s such a fan of mine wasn’t using an Obama Phone,” I summarize, and Benton just stares at me.
He knows that I’d rather the crank caller was using an Obama Phone, and that’s the bigger point. I’d prefer to take my chances with someone who truly might be a regular at the Square, perhaps some disenfranchised person who’s unpleasant and unstable but not harmful. What I don’t want is to be on the radar of an experienced criminal. Especially one sophisticated enough to create software that sends all of us down the wrong path.
If we can’t recognize evil, then we can’t say for sure it’s not in our midst. Whoever made the call, whoever Tailend Charlie is, even if they’re one and the same? The miscreant could be right in front of us. And there’s no thought much scarier than that. It would be devastating to learn that the person who lied about me to the police is someone I know. It would be worse if whoever is sending me death threats in Italian is someone I care about and trust.
“Who called you about the nine-one-one recording?” I ask Benton. “How did you get involved by the way?”
“Well I’m married to you. Start with that. But Bryce called me as I was finishing up a meeting and about to head out of the office. The lamb or the halibut? You decide.