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CRANKYBLANCA
CHAPTER EIGHT: "Round up the usual suspects."
RBB [voiceover]: Something was wrong. I could feel it -- in the pit of my stomach, in that place just behind the eyes where every headache I've ever had comes to rest, in that bend in the throat where things you can't swallow stick and make you want to gag.
Whatever effect the Merlot had had on me had dissipated almost instantly with the news of Bulworth's death, and things only got worse as I began to go over whatever leads we had.
First, I checked the cleaning service that Cranky used for the cafe.
RBB [on phone]: Is this the Charlton Casino the Second Cleaning Service?
CHARLTON CASINO 2D [on phone]: Yes, what can we do for you? Need posters tabulated? Odds figured? Futures estimated? Balance sheets drawn? Premises cleaned?
RBB [on phone]: No. I need information. I'm calling on behalf of Jason Cranky, and I need assistance with the names of your employees who cleaned his casino and support facilities tonight.
CHARLTON CASINO 2D [on phone]: Do you have the customer password?
RBB [on phone]: Yes [sigh] ... yes, I do. It's "HOTTT CHIXX!"
CHARLTON CASINO 2D [on phone]: You are correct, Sir .... Yes, I have his name right here. Do you have pencil and paper handy?
RBB [on phone]: Yes.
CHARLTON CASINO 2D [on phone]: It was a new employee. His name was Richard B. Buttfucker. Wait a moment. That can't be right.
RBB [on phone]: Damn straight it can't.
CHARLTON CASINO 2D [on phone]: He switched W2 forms on me. And his employment application is gone from our files, and his payroll records ... [sound of clicking computer keyboard] ... I will be damned. Someone hacked in here and erased his entire file. He left one thing behind -- a note. Nice graphics, too.
RBB [on phone]: What does the note say?
CHARLTON CASINO 2D [on phone]: It says -- [embarrassed pause] -- "Fuck you RBB, and Mr C can suck your cock."
RBB [on phone]: Don't touch anything. We're sending someone over to check out your system.
RBB [voiceover]: I hung up the phone and stared bleakly at it. This guy was getting better and better at getting past us. It was almost as if he was superhuman -- or more than one person.
RBB: Princess.
PRINCESS OF PMS: Yes, Richard?
RBB: Is it possible that we're not just dealing with one guy?
PRINCESS OF PMS: It could be....
RBB: I think we need to get together on this. All of us.
RBB [voiceover]: I know that some of you read mysteries. The old-fashioned kind, with an elegant detective who in the 1930s would be played by William Powell or Ronald Colman, in the 1950s by David Niven, and in the 1990s by Hugh Grant. At the climactic moment, he'd gather all the suspects in the library and confront them and at the height of the showdown he would unmask the murderer after a feast of witty repartee. Well, if you're expecting a scene like that, you can just forget it. This one played out damned differently from that.
We assembled everyone who had a stake in catching the Cranky killer. Mr C had a conference room abutting his office, and we filed in there. It was an impressive place -- wood paneling, though of a lighter shade than the basement; costly artwork emblematic of the Crankyland atmosphere framed on the walls (I recognized a Brueghel, and a signed original of Edvard Munch's THE SCREAM, and a few phantasmagoric sketches by Goya, and some signed M. C. Escher prints -- the infinitely complicated geometric ones), a massive walnut table surrounded by comfortable and elegant chairs. We all filed in and took seats.
Lieutenants JYD and zeppo were there; JYD's craggy features looked suspicious and exasperated, and zeppo's normally dapper demeanor was fraying at the edges. Doc Rochelle, whom we had called in after Dr. Shakesmear had absolutely refused to take part (swearing that nothing would keep him from his Tuscan vacation), looked a bit tired and frazzled, and her hands kept toying with the cellular phone she carried to keep in touch with her husband and her three girls; even so, she shot Princess and me a wry grin and crossed her eyes. I smiled in spite of myself.
A newcomer, representing the Crankyland D.A.'s office, was Assistant Executive D.A. Roy_Foltrigg. He looked harassed and sorrowful; his wiry frame was slumped with fatigue and overwork, and his hair needed combing, but not the way he was doing it, by running his hand through it. He wore wire-rim glasses and had thick, though neatly trimmed, eyebrows. He looked like the kind of guy who had seen too much and who was trying not to let it eat his entire digestive tract away, but without too much luck.
I insisted on taking the seat at the head of the table, and Jason Cranky took the seat on my right. Next to him was Hans, who had gimmicked the website so that nobody could post for the duration of the meeting. Without his favorite command chair and keyboards, he looked lost and unhappy. He kept folding intricate origami figures, scattering ducks and rabbits on the table before him.
Veruca Salt, her spectacular figure heaving with emotion, sat next to Hans, but the way he was reacting she might as well have been a Beanie Baby. Chica sat next to her, her hands caressing her prized flute. In the more muted light of the conference room, her hair turned out to be dark brown rather than black, but everything else still held true. Next to her was Wolfman, looking at once dignified and extremely dangerous. I wondered how Cranky's was doing without him to keep order.
I'd also requested a few old friends and adversaries from previous investigations to sit in. I figured that we'd need all the help we could get.
HairHead sat next to Wolfman, his thick sandy hair contrasting nicely with the enforcer's shaggy grizzled mane of hair. He no longer wore the all-knowing smirk I'd come to know from previous cases; the death of Namagomi-chan had hit him hard, and in some ways had improved him. I knew what it was like to pass through an ordeal of loss, and I nodded at him, an eighteenth-century greeting that he returned with aplomb.
Philm Phan was next. Her bearing was regal and republican at the same time, as befitted someone who admired both the Prince Regent and Charles James Fox. Clad for a change in late twentieth-century clothing, a black suit with touches of lace at collar and cuffs and a subtle maroon pinstripe, she looked for all the world like a prospective Justice of the Supreme Court staring down a hapless Senate Judiciary Committee. She was younger than any of the Justices, of course; she looked about ten years younger than her age, like a young Jennifer Jones or a slightly older Cate Blanchett (without the cigarettes that broke my heart in the Blanchett profile in VANITY FAIR months before).
Ivan_Leopold was there as well. Tall, saturnine, he was clad all in black -- black sports jacket, turtleneck, slacks, socks, and shoes. His dark hair cut short like that of George Clooney, he stared around the table, hiding his feelings behind his usual inscrutable mask of grim efficiency.
I wanted Wulfgar there, but it had taken a lot of persuasion to get him to sit in on a meeting. He always wanted to go out and find the perpetrator and kill him, which was admirably direct but somehow was not going to be of use to us. Should we get any ideas, however, I knew that he'd be the man I'd want at my back. His tall frame dominated the table, and his close-cropped hair was blond, with faint touches of gray. He wore dark glasses, and he still stared resentfully at Hans, who had swept a metal detector over him and disarmed him thoroughly before the meeting.
Next to me was Princess of PMS, slim, tall, graceful, brilliant, and deadly. Some people insisted that there was something going on between us. There had been, once upon a time, and I didn't know whether it might happen again. Lots of water had flowed under the bridge, and I knew that in such cases one should expect anything and nothing.
There we all were, trying to figure out our next move. I decided to begin the meeting.
RBB: OK. I've found out that our guy is a computer hacker. The cleaning service is still trying to figure out how he got into their system and erased his payroll records and left the name of Richard B. Buttfucker.
WOLFMAN: Hardly an original joke -- whatever this person's skills, humor is not one of them.
IVAN: I know a good man, almost as good as I am. Badtz Maru.
RBB: Will he do it?
IVAN: He wants to, and if he wants to he can.
RBB: Let's send him over there and tell him to be as thorough as he can.
HANS: I also think that the killer is an accomplished hacker. I do not know how else to explain what I have found.
RBB: What is that?
HANS: There is some sort of ghost in our system. It echoes what we do, the forums we set up, the threads we keep and the threads we delete -- everything I've been able to check. It has been in existence for about a month, and the only way I knew it was there was when I knew to look for something. If I had clung to my usual assumption that our system was hackerproof, I never would have found it.
JASON CRANKY: Does this have anything to do with the MickieT problem?
RBB [voiceover]: At the mention of the name, Hans glowered in anger, and so did several other people around the table. MickieT had started out to be a minor troll -- and, after he had violated various fundamental rules of Crankyland, Hans had deleted his account. The problem was that he kept coming back, creating different accounts, and each time he got more and more offensive and angry -- till he had begun threatening Jason Cranky himself. Hans had kept slapping countermeasures on the case, and each time it looked as if MickieT's harassment was over, only to begin again on another front and with increasing aggressiveness. It was starting to consume Hans's time, and he was angry about it.
HANS: I think not. It is coming from a ... I am not sure how to describe it ... a different direction, as it were.
JASON CRANKY: Excellent. We now have two hacker threats to Crankyland. And you, my dear Hans, are having trouble keeping up with one.
HANS: You could do no better, and probably would do much worse. Nobody can do as good a job as I can. That is why you hired me. I created Crankyland for you.
PHILM PHAN: Gentlemen, please! This is exactly what our adversaries want us to do -- bicker amongst ourselves.
WULFGAR: Aye, just as happened wi' ScotsIntel.
RBB: Enough about ScotsIntel. This is a different kettle of fish entirely. Hans, can you tell us anything more?
HANS: Not yet. We are still checking. I -- [reluctant pause] -- I *could* use some help with this problem.
RBB: Ivan, have Badtz Maru report in as soon as he checks out the Charlton Casino the Second Cleaning Service.
IVAN: Yes, Professor.
RBB: Anything else?
DOC ROCHELLE: Yes. I re-examined the 'Bulworth' body...
RBB [voiceover]: I heard the quote marks around the name and tensed.
RBB: It wasn't Bulworth, was it?
DOC ROCHELLE: No, it wasn't. It was someone else, though the resemblance between Bulworth and the corpse was remarkable. I found something ... something on the body that was not on the doctor's records we got from Bulworth's physician ... a tattoo of a fist, on his butt.
HAIRHEAD: Damn.
ROY FOLTRIGG: Who the hell...?
HAIRHEAD: Fisty McGee. It must be.
ROY FOLTRIGG: Enlighten us.
WOLFMAN: Fisty McGee was a poster till a few weeks ago. He was a borderline troll.
WULFGAR: He was an abusive chiel, an' a nasty one to boot. I'd heard rumors that it was Bulworth using another name, but now ... Doctor, was he a clone?
DOC ROCHELLE: I don't think so. Just because he has a startling resemblance to Bulworth doesn't mean that he is a clone of Bulworth. But I'll do what I can to find out.
RBB: Wait a moment.... Did Fisty McGee ever announce his departure from Crankyland?
JASON CRANKY: No. I think not.
HANS: No.
WOLFMAN: But Bulworth did.
HANS: Yes.
RBB: So where the hell is Bulworth, and why did Fisty McGee get whacked?
PHILM PHAN: Perhaps to deceive us ... to make us think that Bulworth was the victim.
RBB: Then that means -- what? That Bulworth is involved? Who would want to fake his death but the man himself, and for what purpose other than something unkosher?
JYD: Unkosher? Would you pass the pork rinds?
RBB: Here. But you derailed my train of thought.
zeppo: Bulworth faked his death -- we think.
RBB: Ivan, get on that.
IVAN: If he can be found, I will find him.
PRINCESS OF PMS: But be careful, my friend. You should take Wulfgar with you. Each of you watch the other's back.
WULFGAR: Aye ... but can I rearm myself before we go? [darting murderous look at Hans]
RBB: Of course, damnit. We also have to identify any other posters who have departed from Crankyland and thus might be targets for the killer. Hans -- any luck on that?
HANS: We are still reviewing posts on the website. There are thousands to be searched and reviewed. The software cannot proceed any faster than it is proceeding.
RBB: When will it be done?
HANS: Tomorrow.
PHILM PHAN: We need to do something distracting....
RBB: I have it.
JASON CRANKY: What?
RBB: I said it before to Princess. When in doubt, steal from the best.
JYD: Steal?
HAIRHEAD: From the best? From me?
RBB: From the best movies. Does the line "Round up the usual suspects" mean anything to you?
JASON CRANKY: But who *are* the usual suspects?
RBB: Who are the most annoying trolls in Crankyland?
RBB [voiceover]: For once, I had sparked an animated and humorous discussion. The names started flying, but they soon narrowed down to a sensible list: grundle, X-MAN, MickieT, InternationalHero, Mr_Wonderful, and half a dozen others.
RBB: Fine. Arrest them. Round up the usual suspects and announce progress on the case.
ROY FOLTRIGG: I don't like it, Richard. What about claims of false arrest?
RBB: Roy, you're a skilled prosecutor. For one thing, you and the Lieutenants here can come up with real charges against all of them, can't you?
zeppo: If we can't, it won't be for want of trying.
HAIRHEAD: Will the press swallow this? They *have* noticed that people are turning up dead, though how they found out is beyond me. And someone has already floated the phrase "Cranky killings."
RBB: The press is preoccupied with geodesy's bid for the Presidency -- the first Crankyland candidate for President of the United States. That should keep them busy for quite a while; thus, they'll be grateful for any handout we can give them. I'd suggest that you draw up some sort of statement, suggesting that we've narrowed down the identity of the Cranky killer. That way, we admit that there is a Cranky killer and suggest that the problem is well under control. That should give us time ... and maybe it will piss the guy off. He almost made a mistake tonight. Maybe we can get him to make a few more.
JASON CRANKY: But he has promised twelve killings, and he has killed six people. He's halfway to his goal.
HANS: And he wants to bring down Crankyland, too. How close is he to doing that? I still think that there may be a connection between MickieT and the Cranky killer.
RBB: We'll check it out. We'll check everything out. But at least now we have some sort of plan.
RBB [voiceover]: I sounded more confident than I felt; I only hoped that the plan would work.
[...to be continued...]
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