The SoapBoxers

The day had finally arrived for Andrew McCormick.  Hours earlier, the sponsor of baseball’s All-Star game had officially announced what had been long rumored – they would be giving away free tickets, accommodations, and travel for ten lucky winners.

Andrew sent off an email that would reach millions of people across the country.

Dear Kosmopolitan Bank customer:

Earlier today, Kosmopolitan Bank, in partnership with Major League Baseball, announced a very exciting contest for our valued customers.  We are giving away sets of four (4) All-Star game tickets, hotel accommodations, and air travel to ten lucky winners!  The grand prize winner will throw out the first pitch at this year’s All-Star game.

To enter, simply visit the contest web site at www.kosmopolitanbankcontests.com.

On behalf of all of the employees of Kosmopolitan Bank, I would like to thank you for 75 years of patronage.  I hope to see you at the game!

Sincerely,

J. Robert Dobbs

CEO, Kosmopolitan Bank Holdings

The web site was not affiliated with the actual bank, of course.  Andrew had spent much time copying many visual elements from the bank’s actual web site.  Visitors to his site were greeted by a page that looked identical to the bank’s official site.  On the first screen, the visitors were asked for their mailing address (so that the tickets could be sent to them if they won) and their birthdate (must be 21 years old to enter).  After filling out the initial screen, they were directed to a second screen.  The second screen asked the visitors to verify that they were indeed a customer of Kosmopolitan Bank.  The screen asked for the visitor’s credit card number, but of course did not ask for the expiration date.  Asking for the expiration date raised too much of a red flag, and really, it wasn’t necessary.  It was child’s play to run the numbers against an authorization program to determine the correct expiration date.  After all, the number of dates was relatively finite.

Andrew sat down at the table and made himself a ham and swiss sandwich.  Certainly, it would only be a few minutes before the first numbers came dribble in, but he wouldn’t be able to project the extent of his harvest for at least an hour or two.  In his early days as an information broker, he would sit, transfixed, at his computer, waiting for the first couple of numbers to be sent to him.  He had gained much wisdom in his old age, however, and the twenty five year old Andrew had the patience to attend to other tasks while the process ran.

Andrew flipped on the TV.  COPS was on again.  It was one of Andrew’s favorite shows – he was amazed at how dumb some of the criminals were.  Andrew finished his sandwich and watched the law enforcement personnel put an end to the chase by surrounding the vehicle.  The guy staggered out – clearly drunk or under the influence of drugs – and suddenly found a dozen guns pointed right at him.  Andrew chuckled.  What a moron.

When the show ended, Andrew channel surfed until he found a baseball game.  He didn’t particularly care about either team, but one of the pitchers had a no hitter through five innings, so Andrew left the TV on the game.  It was bad luck to switch channels when a no-no was in progress.  The pitcher carried the no hitter into the eighth inning.  It was broken up by a clean single to center field – amazingly, the runner was then thrown out trying to stretch the hit into a double.  Andrew chuckled again.  The morons were out in large numbers tonight.

Andrew deserted the game and went back to his computer.  He already had 5,617 numbers.  This was a good yield.  Base on the trending analysis for his previous projects, he estimated that he would gather about 65,000 numbers before authorities shut the site down.

Andrew sent a coded message to his client.  They quickly negotiated a fair price for the numbers.  Andrew and the client had a great working relationship.  Andrew’s data always contained a very high percentage of valid numbers (because his sites looked very authentic), and the client accepted the fact that a certain percentage of the data would  be bogus – people who figured out the scam and entered false data.  Some guys could be a real dick about the bad data, but his client knew that it was the nature of the beast.

Exhausted from the day’s activities, Andrew crawled into bed and fell asleep – dreaming of newer and bigger adventures.

Tears streamed down the face of Beth Page, smearing her carefully applied makeup.  She stood by the side of her husband’s grave, the very picture of the grieving widow (although perhaps her black dress was a wee bit too low-cut for the occasion).

It was no surprise that she was convincing in her grief.  After all, she had practice.  This was the third husband she had buried.  With each death, a few more dollars had gone into her coffers.  The trick, of course, was to make the death appear accidental.

The death of her first husband, Zach, nearly was accidental.  Beth and Zach college sweethearts.  On their honeymoon, they decided to go scuba diving off the coast of Florida.  The couple were accomplished divers, and they took turns inspecting the equipment before each dive.  On the fateful day, it was Beth’s  turn to check the equipment.  She noticed a problem with Zach’s gear.  She very nearly pointed it out, but she was still a bit upset over a comment he had made the night before, so she kept her mouth shut.  Zach’s oxygen tank malfunctioned, and Poseidon claimed another victim.  The life insurance had been more than generous.  Even after paying Zach’s funeral expenses, Beth had a sizable pot of money to work with.  Beth kept a low profile for a year, before telling her friends and Zach’s family that she was going to pull up stakes and move back to the midwest, where her family lived.  Boston simply had too many memories of Zach, and she was overwhelmed with emotion.  That was her story, in any case.

Instead of going back to her non-existent family in the midwest, Beth spent the next few years lying on the beach, getting a tan, reading Danielle Steele novels, and flirting with cabana boys.  She also invested some of the insurance money in herself, using an augmentation to increase her cup size.

The breast enlargement turned out to be a rather profitable investment, netting her a second husband, Phil.  Phil was a Manhattan investment banker.  Beth had tired of Phil within a few weeks of meeting him, but she was intrigued by his collection of art, as well as his portfolio of stocks.  Her lust for his riches made it tolerable for her to consummate the marriage.  Soon after they were married, Beth began plotting against her husband.  In the end, it was not terribly difficult to kill him off.  The man was a slave to his cell phone, and she made a habit of calling him when she knew he would be jaywalking across busy streets.  She would intentionally draw him into arguments until her actions eventually had the intended effect.  A taxi cab hit a distracted Phil as it drag raced with another car, efficiently separating him from his precious cell phone and ending his life.

Beth spent another year among grieving family and friends before once again declaring that she was moving back home to be near her own family.  This time she had enough money for Maui.  Beth was carefully stalking her third victim within hours of landing in Hawaii.  Eldrick had more money than Zach or Phil – perhaps enough money to allow Beth to sustain a pampered lifestyle.

The bodies were starting to mount, so Beth had to excercise caution when killing off Eldrick.  This had to appear as an obvious accident.  She couldn’t risk a clumsy attempt such as cutting the brake lines in his car.  She eventually decided to engage an accomplice.  Beth ensured herself of an alibi by heading out to a night on the town with her friends at the same time that Eldrick was heading off to the course for a solo round of twilight golf.  It was the next morning when they found his body on the 9th green.  His death was ruled a cerebral hemorrhage.  The impact mark on his head indicated that he had been struck by a Titleist ball moving at a very high rate of speed.  Someone had neglected to yell “fore”.

Randall Baker stubbed out his cigar and stood to address the room.  He cleared his throat and eight eyes focused on him.

“Our people have been talking discreetly with the clerks.  It appears that if the panel were to rule today, we would lose by at least a 5-4 margin and possibly 6-3.  MacFarland is difficult to read, but there’s a strong chance that he would vote against us.”

“That’s not a surprise,” replied Harvey Colan.  “Nonetheless, it’s disturbing.  That would be a disastrous result.  It would cost our companies billions.”

“Disastrous” concurred Prescott Fitzpatrick.  He did not look well – his face seemed a bit green, as if the news was about to make him physically ill.  In truth, Fitzpatrick did feel a bit sick to his stomach, and he was pondering the question of whether or not he could make it to the bathroom if a fit of nausea overcame him.  Probably not.

“There is a possible course of action.”  Again, the men focused on Baker and he continued.  “The man in charge is sympathetic to our cause.”

“Fat lot of good that does us” piped up Colan.  “He can only fill vacancies, and it’s quite unlikely that a vacancy will occur in the timeframe we need.  Much less two vacanices.”

“Gentleman,” smiled Baker “We are men of action.  There are steps that can be taken to expedite the process.”

The five men huddled, and Baker shared his master plan with them.  The plan was expensive, and it carried an element of risk.  However, it was the best chance to win.  With billions of dollars at stake, the quintet reached a unanimous decision.

Three days later, the funds were in place, and Randall Baker retained the services of Bob Herndon.  Herndon enjoyed his work, and the plan unveiled by Baker greatly interested him.  It was interesting work, and the impact of his work would be felt across the country.  Herndon prided himself on professionalism and spent a considerable amount of time on the preparations for the project.  When the preparations were complete, he jumped into his pickup and headed for some hunting ground upstate.  It was deer season.

Herndon settled into a spot on the hill that overlooked the clearing.  When his quarry finally entered the clearing, he took a close look through his rifle’s sight and fired.  He aim was true and he scored a kill.  A man rushed into the clearing.  Herndon waited, and held his fire.  Two other men followed in quick pursuit.  Yes, the fat one, this was the man.  Herndon took careful aim and fired again.  He watched the man topple to the ground and slowly eased back into the woods to make his escape.

Randall Baker was settling in for a cup of tea and a plate of scones when the television broke in with a special report of the good news.

“Shocking news tonight” declared the vacuous (and physically attractive) anchor.  “Supreme Court justices Alfred Morris and Clarence Casey were fatally shot today while deer hunting at Casey’s farm in upstate New York.  Police believe that foul play may have been involved.”

Baker smiled.  There were now two vacancies on the Supreme Court.  The president’s nominees for the court would certainly be sympathetic to his client.  Herndon’s work would save the companies billions of dollars, and Baker himself would reap a generous bonus.

Bob Morris yawned and took a bite out of his grape jelly donut. It had been sitting on his desk since morning, and it was stale. Bob had barely made it to his desk when the call came in. A hiker had stumbled across two bodies in the woods. Bob had been at the scene all day, and was now buried in paperwork related to the murder/suicide.

Ann Marks was walking briskly toward Bob’s desk; she was clearly agitated about something.

“The ME is still working on the autopsy, but he noticed something immediately,” she said. “Although the stab wounds were made by very similar knives, they were not made by the same knife. “

“There is an imperfection in the blade of the knife we found on the scene,” she continued. “This imperfection is present in the girl’s wound, but not in the man’s”

“What are you saying, Ann? That he stabbed her with one knife, then stabbed himself with a second knife and then tossed it into the woods before he died? That seems rather unlikely.”

“Or perhaps the perp took the knife with him,” she responded.

Bob spit out his coffee. “The WHAT?” he exclaimed. “The guy’s hands were clenched around the bloody knife. It seems pretty unlikely that someone could have planted it there. Obviously he is the perp.”

“Oh, I agree that he killed the girl, Bob. I just don’t think he committed suicide. Doc also thinks the that trajectory of the wound would have been an unlikely path for a self inflicted stabbing.”

“Ah, shit” muttered Bob.  “This one seemed so nice and clean.  Sounds like his partner might have killed him after they stalked and killed the girl.  Sick bastards.  Heck, he probably did the world a favor by killing Hepner.  It hardly seems worth the effort to track him down.”

“The only problem with that, Bob, is that Hepner probably won’t be his last kill.”

“OK, we need to track down all the known associates of this Hepner asshole.  Maybe someone will have an idea who his accomplice might have been.”

“Hepner doesn’t have much of a criminal record, but I’ve also put in a request with the IRS.  The guys have a file on everyone.”

A short while later, Ann’s IRS contact got back to them.  Hepner had been a bit of a drifter – he had lived in eighteen cities in seven states in his life.  The IRS file contained information on a multitude of different employers over the years.  Bob sighed.  This day was about to get even longer.  He split the list with Ann and they began the tedious task of calling each employer to track down people who may have known Hepner, beginning with the most recent.  The progress was slow – Hepner had been a real loner with no close friends.  Many employers had difficulty remembering that he was employed at their business.

Hundreds of miles away, the lion was sharpening his claws and focusing on his next prey – another predator who was about to fall within his grasp.