He had been wondering earlier why Guido hadn’t reported back, but now it didn’t matter. Clark and Labrowski had obviously taken his threats seriously.
Müller opened the attached file and glanced at it in triumph. LaForgue was going to be so pissed. He finally had it◦– Inertial Engines◦– A Practical Solution. He scrolled down to the illustrations, but they appeared to be complete psychedelic nonsense. Then he noticed some instructions underneath on how to unscramble them◦– ‘Import each illustration into Photoshop and remove the top layer’.
Having no idea how to use Photoshop, he called for one of the computer geeks to assist.
“Get out. Out of my office, now!” Müller screamed.
The geek, who had just removed the top layer of the first illustration, dropped Müller’s mouse and scurried out the office. He was laughing. Müller was bright red staring at a very clear image of himself behind his desk. His chair was wheeled back slightly, zipper undone with his right hand clenched tightly around his erect penis. Only moments away from a climax, his eyes were closed, and his mouth was slightly open. The rest of his face projected a ludicrous expression.
Superimposed on the top right of the image was a woman engaged in personal business on a toilet. Her face was blurred out. My God, Müller thought with sudden realisation. Someone knows about my private video surveillance of the female washrooms. His face went from red to white.
A message started scrolling across the bottom of his screen◦– Full video will be posted on social media today with the caption ‘NSA’s Joseph Müller has your tax dollars firmly in hand’.
Shocked beyond belief, Müller had absolutely no idea that while he was looking at still photos, the full video was already playing repeatedly on every computer at the NSA’s Fort Meade headquarters.
Müller swept his monitor off the desk in anger. It shattered on the floor. He then proceeded to kick his computer sitting under the desk. It had been years since all the surveillance cameras had been installed everywhere. He simply forgot about the one in his own office. He started pulling the few remaining strands of hair off his scalp.
He walked out his office not knowing what to do next. Everyone he passed looked or pointed at him and started laughing. Müller was convinced that the idiotic geek had already blabbed to the entire floor? He was wrong. Müller soon found out that the still image displayed on his own computer screen was nothing compared to that playing on everyone else’s computer.
For the first time in his entire life, Müller had lost control. There was nobody to hold accountable and no reason his conditioned upbringing could come up with as to why this wasn’t his fault. There must be someone he could blame. This couldn’t possibly be his fault.
And he was right.
It was his father’s fault for spending too much time away from home and not offering guidance to young Joseph. It was only right that no good son-of-a-bitch was now rotting in prison. This was payback for taking his political career more seriously than his family.
No wait, he reasoned, it wasn’t his father that was to blame; it was his mother. Yes, his mother. She shouldn’t have hired all those incompetent maids who made him peep through keyholes in his teenage years, leaving him with uncontrollable urges.
No. His mind switched thoughts again. It was definitely his father for making him take this job at the NSA. That’s it. His father was to blame. But J. Levin Müller wasn’t his father. Joseph looked nothing like him and instead was the splitting image of his mother’s older brother. So, it was his uncle that was at fault.
Father?
Mother?
Uncle?
Maids?
Himself?
For just a second, his mind opened itself to scrupulous clarity. He was accountable. Everything that had gone wrong in Joseph’s life was entirely his own fault.
Finally, Joseph Müller’s conflicting thoughts and emotions short circuited. He ran screaming from the building.
Chapter Seventy-Seven
Frank Harris was getting frustrated. “I’m telling you, Chief, you have the wrong man,” he said.
The police chief looked at Harris with a condescending smile. “Frank, we have our murderer, let’s leave it at that.” The chief had absolutely no intention of opening this investigation again. Worst of all, if Harris was right, it would prove such an embarrassment to his precinct that he’d be forced to resign. Something he had absolutely no intention of doing. Also, Harris had cautioned him to hold off for just a few days until all the facts were verified. Again, the chief had no such intention. He had put this entire affair to bed immediately.
“Frank, listen to me. You’ve been at this job now, what, thirty years? You’ve climbed up the ranks steadily and have proven yourself every step of the way. Why don’t you take early retirement? You only have a few months to go and your pension is very healthy. Spend the extra time with your wife.”
“While an innocent old man sits in prison awaiting trial?” Harris countered, heatedly. “There will be time enough to spend with my wife.”
“Frank,” the chief said, in a quiet menacing tone. “Let it go.”
Frank stormed out of the police chief’s office in anger. They had wrongfully arrested J. Levin Müller to have this case closed as fast as possible; to have the chief look good in the eyes of the public; to have sensational press coverage by that fucking Kendra Kentrel woman from CNN.
“Detective?”
Frank turned to the desk clerk in the charge office. “Yes, sergeant, what is it?”
“There’s a lady who would like to speak to you in private.” The clerk pointed to a woman seated against the far wall.
Frank walked over to her as she stood up. Judging by her clothes, or lack thereof, she was obviously working the streets in his district. As he got closer, he noticed bruising on her neck. “Ma’am, how can I help you?”
“Can we talk in private, mister?”
“Sure,” Frank said. “Follow me.” He led her to his desk in the open-plan area. It wasn’t the most ideal, but the best he could do. “Please, have a seat. Now, what can I do for you?”
“You know that politician they arrested? He’s the wrong guy.”
Frank was instantly attentive.
“The real butcher left me in our communal bathtub for dead,” she said with difficulty. “I stayed under until I heard him run out the door.”
“You’re a very courageous young woman,” Frank said. “How did you manage that?”
“I was in the synchro team at school,” she said. “You learn shit like that.”
Frank was well aware of the torturous breath-control synchronised swimmers had to condition themselves to. He immediately grabbed his pen and notepad and started writing.
“That piece of shit raped me, strangled me and then tried to drown me,” she said, with bitterness.
“Rape?”
“Yeah, rape, mister. He didn’t pay me.”
Frank, writing furiously, saw the irony. If it wasn’t for the seriousness of the matter, he would probably have laughed. She was more concerned about not getting paid than she was for her life.
“Listen, mister,” she went on. “I know what you’re thinking. In my line of work, we’re used to being treated rough. It’s just part of the job, but at least we get some money. But I didn’t get a penny from that psycho.” She ranted on for the next minute with various expletives.
Frank realised that this woman couldn’t have been more than eighteen. Jesus, he thought. What kind of future does this poor girl, and others like her, have to look forward to? “Ma’am, do you think you could identify the man who tried to kill you?”