He had managed to partially rip her clothes off, and as he prepared to enter her he relaxed his grip over her lips. Michelle opened her mouth wide, but instead of screaming, she bit down hard with all the strength she had in her. Her young teeth cut through flesh and bone as if she was biting into a slab of butter, severing his pinky finger clean off. She spat it back into his face while he screamed in agony, blood cascading down his hand and arm. Before running out of the house and into the night, she grabbed a baseball bat and swung it right between his opened legs so hard and with such precision that it made him vomit. She never went back.
Three days later, after hitching four different rides, Michelle arrived in Los Angeles. She lived on the streets for several days, eating out of trashcans, sleeping under cardboard boxes and using the shower and facilities at Santa Monica Beach.
It was at that same beach that she met Trixxy and her boyfriend, two heavily tattooed surfers who told her that she could crash at their house if she wanted to. ‘A lot of people do,’ they explained.
It was true. Their house was always full of people coming and going.
Michelle soon found out that Trixxy and her boyfriend weren’t only surf lovers. They were part of one of the first generations of Internet hackers. Back then the Internet was still taking its initial baby steps into the commercial world. Everything was new, and security was flawed.
It didn’t take Trixxy and her boyfriend long to find out that Michelle was a natural with computers. No, ‘natural’ wasn’t really the right word. Michelle was an absolute genius. She was able, in minutes, to work out and write the correct code procedures to overcome problems that would take Trixxy and her boyfriend hours to do, if not days. In no time she was hacking into all sorts of web servers and online databases – universities, hospitals, public and private organizations, financial institutions, federal agencies, international enterprises . . . Nothing was off limits. The more secure they were supposed to be, the bigger the challenge, and the better Michelle became. She even broke into the FBI and the NSA databanks twice in the same week.
Like every hacker in cyberspace, Michelle gave herself an alias – Thrasos, the Greek mythological spirit of boldness. Very becoming, she thought.
In cyberspace the possibilities were endless, and Michelle was just starting to have fun. That was when she found out that her mother had passed away after ingesting half a box of sleeping pills and washing them down with a bottle of bourbon.
Michelle cried for three whole days, a combination of sadness and anger. She soon learned that only a few months before, her stepfather had convinced her mother to make a will, leaving the house that they lived in, which had been bought by her real father, and everything of any value she still had to him. With that, Michelle’s anger mutated. Her stepfather had transformed her mother into a drunken junkie, and then stolen everything she had. When Michelle checked, she found out that he had already put the house up for sale. That was when the angry monster inside her started screaming – REVENGE.
Within a week her stepfather’s life had taken a turn for the very worst. Through the Internet, Michelle started wrecking his life. All the money in his bank account went mysteriously missing, seemingly due to some internal computer error that no one could track down. She ran up absurd gambling debts in his name, maxed out his credit cards, suspended his driver’s license, and modified his internal revenue tax declaration in such a way that it would be only a matter of time before the IRS came asking questions. She left him broke, unemployed, homeless and alone.
Three months later he stepped in front of a train.
Michelle never lost a second of sleep over what she did.
It was an ex-boyfriend, after being arrested for possession of drugs with intent to distribute, who, in exchange for a deal, tipped the cops about Michelle. The cops, in turn, escalated the tip to the FBI Cybercrime Division, who’d already been looking for Thrasos for some time. With the information the ex-boyfriend had given them, it took the FBI less than a week to set up a monitoring operation. The arrest came a few days later. Four agents blasted through her front door, just as Michelle had broken into the WSCC database – the interconnected power grid that distributes electric energy to the entire west coast of the United States. She had just restructured their rates system, giving everyone, from Montana down to New Mexico and across to California, electric energy at dirt-cheap prices.
By then, cybercrime and cyber terrorism had already become a major threat to America and its way of life. The government of the United States understood that someone with the kind of expertise Michelle Kelly possessed had the potential to become a tremendous asset and an ally in their new fight, rather than an enemy. With that in mind, the FBI offered her a deal – carry on hacking, but on this side of the law, or a very, very long stint in prison.
Michelle took the deal.
She soon realized that she didn’t really miss her old life. She wasn’t a hacker because she liked to break the law, or for monetary gain. She was a hacker because she enjoyed the challenge and the thrill, and she was brilliant at it. The deal she was offered took none of that away; it just made it all legal.
Not surprisingly, the FBI played its cards perfectly. Knowing that the reason why Michelle had run away from home had been her abusive stepfather, they acclimatized her to her new role by making sure that every case she dealt with throughout her first year with the Bureau involved a cyber-sex crime – more precisely, pedophilia. Michelle’s anger and disgust toward such offenders were so intense, she buried herself in work, making every case a personal issue.
She was so good at what she did that within four years she was heading the Los Angeles FBI Cybercrime Division.
Michelle shook the memory out of her head now before turning her attention back to the footage of the woman locked inside the glass coffin again. She watched the recording one more time from the beginning, her eyes searching for any sort of missed detail, but once again she failed to pick up anything.
‘What the hell are you looking for, Michelle? There’s nothing here,’ she said to herself, while rubbing the palm of her hand against her forehead.
She took a bathroom break, refilled her coffee cup and returned to her desk. She wasn’t ready to give up just yet.
Her next step was to slow the footage down 2.5 times, and, with the help of a ‘color and contrast’ application, to enhance the images using a color saturation method. The over-saturation tended to heighten small details, things people wouldn’t pick up on otherwise.
Michelle sat forward on her chair, placed her elbows on her desk, rested her chin on her knuckles and started from the top again.
The reduced speed made watching the footage almost mind numbing. The color and contrast saturation tired the eyes faster, straining the ocular globes. Michelle found herself taking short breaks every three to four minutes. To relax her eyes, she would refocus them on something at the opposite end of the room for a moment, while massaging her temples, but she could already feel a headache gaining momentum right behind her eyeballs.
‘Maybe I should’ve accepted Harry’s help,’ she murmured to herself. ‘Or better yet, maybe I should’ve just gone with them, because right about now I sure as hell could do with a drink.’
She had another sip of her coffee before letting the footage play again, and checked the time counter in the bottom right-hand corner of the screen. She had just over a minute to go.
As her eyes returned to the screen, Michelle swore she saw something flash past.
Not a tarantula hawk.
‘What the hell?’
She paused the recording, rewound the images back just a couple of seconds and hit ‘play’.
Adrenaline rushed through her body.
Once more Michelle rewound the images, but this time she zoomed in on a specific section of the screen and shut down the color and contrast saturation program. Instead of allowing the footage to play, she manually advanced it frame by frame.
And there it was.
‘We ran a UV test against the bed sheets, the bed covers and the pillowcases,’ Brindle announced, guiding both detectives toward the bed. ‘No traces of semen anywhere, but there are tiny bloodstains, mainly on this corner of the bed covers. The lab will tell us if the blood belongs to the victim or not.’ He indicated the location before turning the UV light back on. ‘Have a look.’
One simple and quick way to detect bloodstains on dark or red surfaces was to use an ultraviolet light. It provides enough contrast between the background and the stain to allow the stain to be visualized.
As soon as the UV light came on, four small, smeared bloodstains became clearly noticeable on the dark blue bed cover. But they were minimal, and totally inconclusive. A small razor nick from shaving her legs in the shower could’ve produced them.
Brindle knew that too, but he wasn’t finished yet. He turned off the UV light and handed Hunter and Garcia a small clear plastic evidence bag. Inside it was a woman’s diamond Tag Heuer watch.
‘I found that under the bed, near the wall.’
Still neither detective looked impressed. The room was an absolute mess. Objects of all shapes and sizes had been knocked over and kicked across the floor in all directions. The watch could have been on the dresser to start with, but ended up under the bed.
‘That’s not all,’ Brindle said, noticing the skepticism on both detectives’ faces. He showed them a second clear plastic evidence bag. It contained three tiny items. ‘I also found these under the bed. Here, use this.’ He handed them an illuminated magnifying glass.
Hunter and Garcia studied the items in the bag for several seconds.
‘Fingernail chips,’ Hunter said.
‘Torn fingernail chips,’ Brindle clarified. ‘They were stuck to the floorboard grooves.’ He paused, giving Hunter and Garcia a chance to digest what he was saying. ‘It looks like the victim was hiding under the bed. The perpetrator found her, and I’d say he pulled her out by the legs. The dislodged dust from under the bed created a smeared pattern, which is consistent with something heavy . . . like a person, being dragged from under it.’
Instinctively Hunter and Garcia took a step back and tilted their heads to one side, as if trying to look under the bed.
‘With nothing to hold on to,’ Brindle carried on with his theory, ‘it looks like she clawed at the floor, trying to resist the drag – that was when her fingernails chipped and broke off. Once he got her out from under the bed, she frantically reached out for whatever she could grab.’ Brindle paused and looked at the bed covers again. ‘And that’s how I think the blood got onto them.’
Everyone’s attention returned to the bed covers.
‘You see,’ Brindle explained. ‘An extracted nail will cause the nail bed to bleed as much as a cut to the finger, but a chipped and broken nail will cause bleeding only if it manages to nick the tip, or the sides of the nail bed. And even if it does, there might be no bleeding at all. If there is any, it should be minimal. Just like what we’ve got here.’
Hunter and Garcia considered it for a moment.
‘I also found these stuck to the underside of the bed’s box spring.’ He showed them one last evidence bag. Inside this one, four blond hair strands. ‘Her head most certainly bumped against it while she was being dragged from under the bed.’ He let out a concerned breath. ‘Looking at the state of the room, I’d say she fought as hard as she could, kicking and hitting all the way, until she was completely subdued.’
Thoughtful silence.
Garcia spoke first.
‘That all makes sense except for hiding under the bed. That implies that she knew someone was coming for her.’ He looked at the glass sliding doors and then back at the bed. ‘Why hide under here when she could’ve escaped from the house through the patio doors?’
As if on cue, Dylan, the forensics agent who was dusting the glass sliding doors, announced, ‘I’ve got prints here.’
Everyone turned and faced him.
‘The lab will confirm it, but by just looking at them I can tell you that the patterns are all the same. I have no doubt they all come from the same person. Small fingers. Delicate hands. Definitely a woman’s.’
When it came to fingerprints, Dylan was as good as it got.
‘How about the lock?’ Brindle asked.
‘The lock isn’t broken,’ Dylan said. ‘We’ll have to remove it and take it for analysis, but this is a standard pin tumbler lock. Not very secure. If the perpetrator entered the house through this door, he could’ve easily bumped it. No sweat.’
Lock bumping was a lock picking technique for opening pin tumbler locks where a specially crafted bump key was used. A single bump key would work for all locks of the same type. There were several videos over the Internet that could teach anyone how to bump a lock.
Hunter was still looking at the three evidence bags Brindle had handed him. He agreed with Garcia. Hiding under the bed made no sense under the circumstances.
‘Mike, where exactly did you find this watch?’ he asked.
Brindle showed him.
Hunter lay down on the floor and looked under the bed, his eyes studying the location where the watch had been found, his mind rushing through possibilities. Still nothing made sense.
Garcia walked across the other side of the bed and positioned himself just in front of the floral curtains, at the opposite end from where Dylan had dusted the glass door and lock. That distracted Hunter, and for a second his attention refocused on Garcia’s black shoes and socks that he could see from under the bed.
Hunter’s body tensed. His thought process went from A to Z in just one second. ‘No way,’ he whispered, his gaze locked on his partner’s shoes.
‘What?’ Garcia asked.
Hunter got up. All his attention had now moved to the curtains just behind Garcia.
‘Robert, what did you see?’ Garcia asked again.
‘Your shoes.’
‘What?’
‘I saw your shoes across the floor from under the bed.’
Confusion all round.
‘OK, and . . .?’
Hunter lifted a finger, indicating that he needed a moment, before walking in a straight line over to the curtains and slowly pulling them open. He kneeled down and carefully studied the floor for a little while.
‘I’ll be damned!’ The words oozed out of his lips.
‘What?’ Brindle asked, moving closer. Garcia was just behind him.
‘I think we’ve got dust-shift,’ Hunter said and indicated with his index finger. ‘Probably created by a footprint.’
Brindle kneeled down next to him, his eyes scrutinizing the floor area. ‘Holy shit,’ he said a moment later. ‘I think you might be right.’
‘That’s what I think Christina saw,’ Hunter said, looking at Garcia. ‘Her killer’s shoes. I don’t think she was hiding under the bed. I think she probably got under it to retrieve her watch, but while she was under there she saw him. She saw her killer. He was the one who was hiding.’