15

Web said, “So far I’ve not hooked into a bank account or credit card info for Cho Martine. But—ta-da!—I got into the high school’s operating system.”

I said, “Piece a cake, right?”

“Our girl genius created her own transcripts. She got the school’s templates and gave herself all A’s.”

“Who else would do it?”

“Oh you can find hackers for hire, but they leave traces. She’d know better than to trust anyone, and she’d want to keep the back door open to feed the hidden documents into whatever she needed to.”

“I seeeeeee.”

“There’s a neat back door on the OS that’s got the school’s system administrators fooled. Back doors can be spotted if the school ever got a real software guy in there, but they cost too much.”

“Surely they’d have virus alerts?”

“Back Orifice, aka BO2k, isn’t a virus. Used for sinister purposes, it’s malware. It has legitimate uses for remote system administrators. They can control computers from remote locations. BO2k usually is blocked as malware by firewalls. You get these admin people—clueless about little more than script kiddies—that use BO2k because it’s easy, and if they get a malware alert that BO2k’s running, they ignore it, because they’re the one’s running it. However, BO2k operates silently. It will not warn the legit logged-on user that a secret user is having fun, or, in this case, creating a personal identity.”

“Don’t you use Linux systems?”

“I use several OSes and BO2k works very well with Linux, thank you very much. You might be interested to know that it was developed by a hacker group called The Cult of the Dead Cow. The code was written by Dildog.”

“Who’s that other hero of yours?”

“Ah, Sir Dystic.”

Webdog also works with an adhoc group of hackers (not crackers, who are thieves) in conjunction with a branch of the U.S. government to develop stronger encryptions.

I thought about the Hansel’s obsession with passwords and asked, “Wouldn’t she need a system password?”

“A good back door like BO2k stays live on the system. Our secret user has managed to log in without being logged in because she sneaked in a rootkit, possibly in the kernel, and that’s where she’s hiding the files she created. I see where she moved data around with the mouse and keyboard, but I can’t see the data. It’s there, just not visible to anyone without her personal pass code.”

“Can’t you break her code?”

“I can try a few tools, but they may be ineffectual and unsafe if the rootkit code is well-written and adaptable. A virtual memory dump could be performed, exposing the rootkit because it can’t hide itself, but that takes hardware interference. The best way is to reboot the OS to clean it and fetch the data for a forensic study.”

My brain seized up. “Fascinating. So the documents Cho created can be found.”

“Yes, although I don’t know that anyone can prove she created them.”

“Why not?”

“She’s either using a proxy or masking her IP.”

I’m not even going to ask.

He said, “The school system needs to get involved. UGA, too, on its end.” I perceived his hesitation. “Will the authorities be calling me?”

“Worried about illegalities?”

“Not with Lieutenant Lake. The state guy—he was curt.”

“Joe’s fine. The Athens PD guy wants to tear out my tongue and feed it to me. Let me ask you something before we ring off.”

“Shoot.”

“What do you know about art intervention?”

“Large subject.”

“Narrow it, Web, just for this pea brain.”

“Gee, where to begin. Briefly, it’s art acting upon existing art or space.”

“Space, huh?”

“Give you an example I saw this summer. You know that the city’s trying to build a running-walking-biking path along the old railroad right of way, don’t you?”

That perked my ears. “Ah ha.”

“This particular artist excavated a cavity amongst the roots of an old oak on Copenhill, which is part of an old railroad right of way by Freedom Parkway. He embedded his nude body in the tree as an offering to the success of the project and stayed there all night.”

“He picked the right time. Summer.”

“He wins awards. You know those gaily-colored animal statues in Decatur?”

“Know ‘em.”

“Some artist jerk painted over the ones by the courthouse. One they called The Black Sheep, and another was The Mad Cow. He got in trouble.”

“What’s the point?”

“Improving it. Another time a woman named Tracey Emin, who does confessional art, presented a work called My Bed. Two men jumped into it wearing only underwear. They renamed it, Two Naked Men Jump into Tracey’s Bed. They said they were improving Tracey’s work.”

“It get it, I guess.”

“Performance art and intervention are separate, but sometimes it’s hard to separate the two. You call yourself an artist and call nine-eleven a work of art and congratulate the artists who created it—those douches that flew into the towers.”

Web sounded really pissed. “Changing the subject before you blow a gasket, here’s something else to keep you busy.”

“When you find this Cho girl, send her here. I could use an assistant.”

I told Web that we weren’t going to find Cho. I was dead sure of it. “I want you to get into Damian’s email.”

“You got his ISP?”

I told him, and said, “The cops are taking control of the computer. Get on it.”

“Will do.”

“Hey, hey, before you pull a Portia and hang up on me, thanks for the info.”

“Yea!”

* * * * *

I met Doctor (I had been corrected) Ludlow Parsons on the fifth floor of Aderhold Hall, a big square brick building that houses the Education Department. A tall, thin man with butch hair going gray, he had an exacting way of bobbing his head. After he bobbed me toward a wooden chair, no padding on the seat, he sat behind a desk with just his name holder on it. He folded his hands precisely on the desk top. “I have talked to the police,” he said. “As I told you on the telephone, I don’t know that I can be as forthright with you, but as I agreed to speak with you about the missing student, Cho Martine, I’m at your disposal.”

My, my. “I appreciate it, Dr. Parsons.”

He bobbed and glanced at his watch.

“How often did you see and advise, Miss Martine?”

“I saw her countless time on campus, the halls, etcetera. I acted as her advisor twice.”

You’d expect a math professor to know an exact number. “What is your impression of her?”

“Quirky but brilliant.”

“With computers, too?”

He gave a short jerk of his head. “She had an accomplished grasp of computer languages and programming with ASP, PHP, JavaScript. She showed proficiency in web design and developing database with MySOL and SOL Servers.”

Web had viewed her work. “You said quirky. How quirky?”

“I’m not a psychologist, Miss Dru.”

“Moody quirky? Funny quirky?”

“Both.”

He had heard about her stalking charges against Baxter and had last seen her in the hall on Monday, but they did not speak. He said she seemed preoccupied, unlike her assertive self. He did not know either Damian Hansel or Arne Trammel, but was acquainted with Baxter.

“You said that the police have advised you that Miss Martine is an academic imposter. Did you have an inkling ...”

He raised his chin. “I told you on the telephone that I can’t answer that as I am not part of the admissions process.”

“I don’t understand why not.” His hands stayed rock solid on the desk top; the muscles in his face were just as rigid. “You were her academic advisor, the logical person in the university system that could or should have known her academic qualifications. I’ll ask this then. Is it the duty of advisors to review and investigate academic qualifications?”

“It is the duty of Admissions. I was not her initial advisor for registration. After that, she made an appointment with me. Our sessions were brief. Miss Martine did not ask questions. She was quite self-assured.”

“Did she seem mature for a freshman?”

“I formed no opinion.”

“Does it surprise you that she is an imposter?”

“Arrogant people pull off quite a bit, or try to.”

People like himself? Advisor and murderer? My mind goes astray occasionally. “A student is dead, Dr. Parsons, one who knew Miss Martine. Now she and another student are missing.

“I have been informed and have cooperated with the police.”

“Did you meet with Miss Martine’s parents during Orientation?”

He cricked his neck. “Parents of freshmen are not encouraged to accompany students to Orientation. There is a separate parent orientation that deals with their part of the process.”

“Which is?”

“Set up of a student account, certification of immunization and medical history, that type of thing.”

“Why are student accounts required?” My community college didn’t require one.

“UGAMyID is created for incidental billing such as placement tests, should they be necessary.”

“Is it silly of me to ask if Cho Martine took placement tests?”

“Her high school transcript and SAT scores exempted her from placement tests.”

“Except that they were forged.”

“That is not my problem.”

“Yet in math, one solves problems.” He didn’t think that clever at all. “Did Martine’s parents attend the parent orientation?”

“They were out of the country, I understand.”

According to Joe Hagan, the university deferred parent orientation until the Martines returned to the country.

I said, “It appears, Dr. Parsons, that Miss Martine created some very large cracks to slip through.”

He blinked, I think for the second time since our talk began.

And that was about it for Dr. Parsons.

I’d had my phone on mute while I talked to Parsons. Walking down the sidewalk against a headwind so fierce it almost hurled me off the sidewalk. So I ducked into lobby and checked my missed calls. Lake. Portia. Baxter.

Lake first. “Dru, where are you?”

“Just left Parson’s office.”

“Get anything useful?”

“He doesn’t like her, probably because she out-flaunts him. Web couldn’t find any financials on Martine.”

“Joe and Thomas have another meeting with university types this afternoon. I’m leaving Athens. You are, too.”

“Not yet. I want to ...”

“You should have gotten the call from Portia by now. There was a banger shootout on DD’s turf over a drug operation. Johndro Phillips has disappeared.”

“Johndro’s disappeared?” He was the twelve-year-old in the Devus Dontel Johnson drug trial. One who didn’t testify, thus ruining the case. “I’ll call Portia. What else can you tell me?”

“His aunt reported him missing. Child Protective Services came this morning to get him. His room was empty.”

“Slow down Lake. What’s he got to do with the banger shootout?”

“Though he denies it, Johndro was acting as a spotter and became a witness to a murder that involved Devus Johnson’s thugs. It’s connected to the Rave Club murder.”

“I thought the buy was on for the weekend.”

“Who knows why it was changed. Johndro already talked to detectives.”

“With a lawyer?”

“With and without. You need to get back there, Dru, and find this kid. Let the Athens cops and the GBI find the college kids. You belong in Atlanta.”

He was probably right, but I don’t give up before I find what I’m looking for, and I didn’t like the tone in his voice.

After a small silence, he said, “Let’s hit the road, Dru. We’re done here.”

“I’m not.”

“Baxter’s looking good to the authorities here. That’s what he needed when he hired you. Job well done.”

“I’m not leaving until I talk to Porsh.”

“Suit yourself. You need a ride, though.”

“I’ll take the rental and charge Bax for the drop-off fee.”

“See you in Atlanta.”