Fifty-Eight

I emerged from the glass obelisk that is the Government Center T stop. Looked up into the gray April sky to see low clouds scudding by, portending rain for tomorrow’s race. Heading across the plaza toward Mel’s office, I saw two things that stopped me in my tracks. Two people, really.

One was the self-styled Internet bounty hunter Billy Janks, who went by the name CapnMerica. The other was the senator’s hatchet-nosed fixer, Pat Turner.

What caused this unholy matrimony?

CapnMerica and Pat reached me at about the same time. Pat opened his mouth to speak but got cut off.

“Aloysius Tucker, I am placing you under citizen’s arrest,”
CapnMerica said.

Pat said, “Wait. What now?”

“I’m arresting Tucker.”

“And who are you?”

I said, “Pat, meet CapnMerica. CapnMerica, Pat.”

“Captain America?” asked Pat, looking Billy over. “You’re a little shit. Don’t you need to take a potion?”

“Shut up! I’m arresting Tucker.”

“Yeah? For what?”

“Murder!”

“How about I arrest you for being a dick?”

“He’s a murderer!” shouted Billy.

“It’s not polite to point, Billy,” I said.

“He’s working for me,” said Pat.

“I am?” I asked.

“Who are you?” asked Billy.

“I’m the guy who’s going to punch you in the face,” said Pat.

“You guys going to fight over me? That’s adorable.”

“I might punch you in the face too.”

“How about we tone it down,” I said.

“You’re supposed to be getting that video.”

“That’s why I’m trying to get to Special Agent Hunter’s office.”

“Then go!”

I took a step. CapnMerica, brandishing handcuffs, reached for me. Pat made good on his word, punching CapnMerica right in the face. I stepped around the fight. Walked away. Someone would definitely be video recording this baloney, and I had enough problems.

The shouting and scrabbling faded as I crossed the street and entered Center Plaza. Took the elevator to Mel’s floor.

Mel met me in a conference room. She had changed into a black turtleneck and jeans that flared into bell-bottoms. She caught me appraising her outfit.

“What? It’s casual Sunday,” she said.

“I just think you look nice.”

“Do you want coffee?”

“My hangover says yes.”

“It’s one o’clock. You’re still hung over?”

“Ah, youth.”

We moved to a break room, where Mel pointed at a Keurig machine. I operated the machine, got a mug of brown water that had been pushed through a little plastic cup.

Mel said, “We have a problem.”

“Yes,” I said. “These machines are taking over the landscape.”

“Not a coffee problem. An Internet problem.”

“Is the Internet broken? Because that would be great. I’ve kind of had my fill this week.”

“You’re not going to like it,” she said and walked out, expecting me to follow.

We sat next to each other in her office facing a Facebook page on her computer screen.

“You’ve been life ruined,” she said.

“What? I’m not even on Facebook.”

“You are now.” She pointed.

The page said Aloysius Tucker. The profile picture featured Angry Tucker wearing Guy Fawkes face paint, teeth bared in the altercation that happened in front of my house.

“I didn’t make this page,” I said. “How did I get a hundred and fifty friends?”

“I think they got a list of your Twitter followers and used them to do friend requests here.”

I scrolled down. “So what did I put on my page?”

A photograph of Earl’s head looked out at me, surprising me like a punch in the gut. “Jesus!”

“It gets worse,” said Mel.

“How can it get worse?”

“4chan.org had its usual shot of the body with Sic semper contumeliosis as the caption.”

“Okay, so we’re getting a pattern.”

“This particular shot was not the one from 4chan. It’s nowhere else on the Internet.”

“This is an original?”

“The killer was the only one with this shot.”

“And the killer took the time to life ruin me.”

“It’s definitely someone you know. And it gets worse.”

“Of course it does.”

Mel opened another window in the browser, headed over to Twitter. Did a search. The same pictures came up under @TuckerInB0ston. My Twitter doppelganger who had tweeted: Ima kill me some cops. Every tweet bore the hashtags #HackMaster and #TuckerGate.

I sat back in my chair, the double gut punch of the pictures and personal violation mixing with the remnants of my undying hangover to suck the energy out of me.

Mel said, “I’m running some searches, trying to see—”

“I’ve got to catch the HackMaster,” I said.

“Actually, I have to catch the HackMaster,” said Mel. “This is becoming an FBI case.”

“You’re going to take it from Lee?”

“We’re one short of an official serial killer. I’d rather not let it go that far.”

I drank some brown Keurig water. Sighed. “I don’t even know where to start.”

“I did some research,” said Mel. “Some Latin research.”

“It doesn’t mean ‘Thus ever to the insolent’?”

“It can. Latin doesn’t have that many words, so they do a lot of double duty.”

“What else could it mean?”

“‘Spiteful,’ for one.”

“‘Spiteful’? Shit. That could describe the entire Anonymous collective.”

“I don’t know. I’m still trying to figure it out.”

I reached for the keyboard. “Let’s bring up these—”

As I spoke, another picture popped up on the @TuckerInB0ston feed. The photographer had stood across the street from my house during the protest. He must have been wearing a Guy Fawkes mask and had snapped a picture just after the police sirens had sounded.

Five people clustered on the three steps leading to my front door as I worked the lock: Dorothy, Russell, Earl, and E holding my arm, beaming up at me. @TuckerInB0ston had modified the picture, placing a red X over Earl. The associated tweet told the rest of the story:

@TuckerInB0ston: One down. Three to go. #HackMaster #TuckerGate