Invasion of Privacy
and
Other Short Stories
by
Jim Liston
Copyright 2013 Jim Liston
Table of Contents
Invasion of Privacy
The Tourist Attraction
A Novel Murder
The Doctor’s Pet Fly
The Show
Carl and Tabitha
Tag, You’re It!
Before They Come Back
Justin’s Love
Ronnie and the Smoke Bomb
About the Author
Invasion of Privacy
If you’re the person who murdered my wife and think you’ve gotten away with it, think again. I’m looking for you, and I’ll eventually find you.
1. Losing Diane
“This is my last job, I’m just waiting for the computer to reboot and then I’ll run a quick scan,” I say to my wife, Diane, while working in a client’s home. “I should be back in less than an hour. Have you been very busy?”
“There were several customers earlier,” Diane says, “but it’s been quiet for a while now. I’m thinking about locking up and calling it a day, but I’ll wait until you get back. What do you think about going out to dinner tonight? I’ve been hearing about a new restaurant— I’ve got to go, someone just came in. See you soon, love you, bye.”
Arriving at the store about an hour later, I sit in the parking lot a moment. I still get a thrill when I look at the small business we’ve created. It might not look like much, but I remember it without the new windows added to the front. There’s a customer walking out, carrying a laptop. Trying to be friendly, I say, “Hi, how’s it going?” He doesn’t respond and quickly gets in his car and leaves but not before I get a good look at him. He’s about my size, just under six feet, with long brown hair. There’s nothing unusual about him except he has a spider tattoo on his face, just under his right eye.
“Diane, I’m back,” I say while walking in the door. I’m surprised she isn’t at the front counter since a customer has just left. She’s probably in the backroom. I notice the X-770 laptop is gone. Spiderman made a good choice, I think while walking past the display of new computers. There’s a pile of papers lying on the floor, as if they’d fallen from the counter. It isn’t like Diane to let something like that go; I’m always teasing her about her compulsive neatness.
I’m starting to get a bad feeling; something doesn’t feel right. “Diane, where are you?” I hear a noise coming from behind the counter and rush over to look. Diane’s lying there on the floor, bleeding.
“Diane,” I scream, “What happened?”
There’s blood everywhere … so much blood. I grab her and press my hand against the wound on her neck to try and stop the bleeding. The warmth of the blood and the sticky wetness of it, surprises me.
“You’re going to be fine,” I say, trying not to panic, “It’s OK, I’m here, don’t worry.”
Her eyes are closed, but they flutter open briefly, looking at me. The vacant look in her usually bright blue eyes frightens me. She’s trying to tell me something.
“Don’t try to talk,” I say while dialing 911.
“911, what is your emergency?” the young woman calmly asks.
“My wife is bleeding, please send help.”
“What is your address, please?”
“738 Harrington, Jim’s Got Web, the computer store, please hurry.”
“Sir, I’m contacting the medical dispatchers. Are you with your wife right now?”
“Yes… Please hurry. I’m trying to stop the bleeding—there’s blood everywhere.”
“Sir, an ambulance is on the way. I need you to stay calm. Can you tell me what happened?”
“Someone stabbed her—the man with the spider on his face—please hurry.”
“Spider? Sir, what are you talking about? Sir?”
I drop the phone so I can use both hands on Diane.
“Diane, please… You’ll be fine—you’re ok. The ambulance is on the way. No, please, no…”
She’s trying to talk again. I put my face against hers and faintly hear, “I’m sorry … I love you.”
“I know. I love you too. Diane, listen to me. You have to hang on. I need you. Diane, please … Don’t leave me.”
I’m trying not to think about losing her. What would I do? Keep pressure on the wound, I tell myself. I can’t believe how much blood there is. The metallic smell and the sight of the blood is starting to make me dizzy …
“Sir, can you hear me?” a voice in the distance asks, “Can you stand up? Let’s walk outside … Easy—take your time.”
The fresh air helps to revive me, “Diane,” I yell, remembering what happened.
“Your wife is on her way to the hospital. I’ll take you there. Are you feeling better?”
Diane's blood is all over me. I must have passed out. “Is she okay? Damn it, how long have I been out? I was trying to stop the bleeding. I can’t believe I fainted … Please, take me to her.”
When we arrive at the emergency room, I run up to the desk, “Where’s my wife?”
“Sir, please have a seat, I’ll get someone to talk to you.”
A young doctor walks up to me, obviously uncomfortable. He doesn’t have to say anything; I can see it on his face. The only thing I hear him say is, “I’m sorry …”
The police officer waiting for me says, “I’m sorry for your loss, sir, but I’ll have to ask you to come down to the station with me to answer a few questions.”
I don’t remember the ride to the police station. It’s as if I’m in a nightmare and I can’t wake up. I’m seated at a small table with the officer across from me. Looking around the room, I notice a large mirror on the wall. I wonder who’s watching us from the other side.
“Mr. Gotweb, where were you when your wife was attacked?” the officer asks.
“I was on a service call.”
“Can anyone verify that?”
“You can ask the customer. The work-order with his address and phone number will be on my computer.”
“OK,” he says, while glancing at the mirror, “We’ll contact him to verify that. Now, can you describe what you saw when you arrived at the scene?”
“I saw a man leaving the shop, carrying a laptop. He had a tattoo of a spider on his face.”
“Did you see anyone else there? Someone that can back up your story?”
“No,” I say, “there wasn’t anyone else.”
“Now, just for the record, were you and your wife having any problems?”
“Problems?” I ask, “What do you mean?”
“You know, how was your relationship? Are you having financial difficulties? Were you arguing a lot lately? Those type of things.”
“No … What does that have to do with anything? Wait,” I say, suddenly realizing what he’s getting at, “Are you accusing me of murdering my wife? This is ridiculous! I told you who the murderer is.”
“Right, the man with the spider tattoo. Yeah, I’ve got that. Can you tell me anything else about him?” the officer asks.
“Anything else? Are you kidding me? My wife is dead. I’m covered in her blood. Her murderer has a tattoo of a spider on his face, how much more do you need to know? I can’t believe this. How many people have a tattoo like that? Why aren’t you out looking for him?”
“Sir, we know what we’re doing. I’m just trying to get all of the facts straight. That’s all I need from you right now. Let me know if you think of anything else.”
2. Taking My Life Back
The past few weeks are a blur. I can’t believe Diane’s gone. How can I possibly go on without her?
Why should I? I can’t even bring myself to go home; the thought of walking through the door and Diane not being there is too much to handle. I’m living in a cheap motel on the edge of town. I haven’t even been back to the store since her murder. I spend most of my time sitting in bars, trying to drown my grief with alcohol. Somehow, the smell of stale beer and the haze of cigarette smoke is comforting. As I sit in the dark bar, staring at the small patch of sunlight on the floor sneaking in through the darkened window, I hear a conversation.
“Did you hear what happened to Bob’s wife?” the bartender asks the man sitting at the end of the bar.
“No, you mean Bob the insurance guy?” the man asks. “What happened?”
“She came home from work and found a man sitting at her computer. He attacked her. He stabbed her and left her for dead.”
“Jeez, is she okay?”
“Yeah, she’s going to be fine. Luckily, Bob came home early and found her. He barely got her to the hospital in time.”
“Man, that’s terrible. Did she get a good look at the guy?”
“Well, not really, it happened so fast. But I guess she told the police the guy had a tattoo on his face. She said it looked like an insect or spider or something.”
Am I dreaming? I can’t believe this. It has to be Diane’s murderer, and he’s still in the area. Why am I sitting here, in this stinking bar? I can’t let him get away with this. I don’t know how, but I’ve got to find this guy.
The first thing I have to do is go back to my store, Jim’s Got Web. It’s a play on my name, Jim Gotweb. It’s not a large store; we only sell a few computers a week. I mean, I do; I can’t believe she’s gone. She was my best friend and the only family I had. I’ve never been very good with people, probably because I’ve spent so much time alone, working with computers. She dealt with the customers and ran the store while I worked in the back, installing hardware and troubleshooting. Now, besides dealing with her death, I have to figure out how to keep the business running on my own.
Walking into the store, I immediately walk to the spot behind the front counter where I found Diane. Someone has cleaned up her blood. But it doesn’t matter; the sight of her lying there in a pool of blood will always be with me. Walking around the small showroom, looking at the computers lined up on the display shelves by the front window, I think about how her death has shattered our dreams. Diane loved children. We’d planned to start our family once the store was more established. We often talked about our kids running around the shop and laughed about them becoming computer geeks like their dad. It’s going to be impossible to spend any time here without thinking of Diane; everything reminds me of her. I find hand-written notes about tasks to complete, newspaper clippings of articles she liked, and a coffee cup with her lipstick on it. The smell of her perfume is still in the air.
It’s not as bad in the backroom. Diane didn’t spend much time back here so there aren’t as many things to remind me of her. There are few computers still sitting on the workbench; I’ll have to figure out who they belong to and apologize for not returning them. As I begin working on them, I can feel myself relaxing for the first time in weeks. I’ve always enjoyed computers; everything about them makes sense to me. Even when the problem isn’t obvious, I know the answer is there; I just have to look at it logically to find it.
I need to get back into programming. Writing code has always helped me think clearly. Before Diane died, I was working on a program to remotely access customer’s computers to diagnose their problems. That way, I could repair them without leaving the shop. If I’d had that program working, I’d have been here instead of on a call; maybe Diane would still be alive.
I have a few customers who have given me permission to access their computers to test my program, so I connect to one now. While scanning the files on the remote computer, I accidentally connect to the webcam. I see my customer sitting at her desk, reading. I immediately disconnect. That was weird. She didn’t know I was there, watching her, but it sure felt creepy.
I wonder … The news report says the killer was using the woman’s computer when she came home, and he stole a laptop when he killed Diane. I don’t know what he’s up to, but it seems to be connected with computers. He’s probably somewhere nearby, sitting at a computer right now. Theoretically, if I could get access to enough webcams on home computers, it’s possible I’d find him.
3. Big Brother’s Watching You
I’ve spent the past few months writing a program I call ‘Big Brother.’ When it’s on someone’s computer, I’m able to remotely access it and watch people in their homes through their webcams. Then it notifies me, the computer is added to my network, and the program emails itself to all of the user’s contacts. Finding the murderer this way is a long shot, but I don’t care; at least I’m doing something. I’ve installed the program on all of the computers in the shop; the new ones up front and the computers I’m working on. It’s amazing how easy it is to access someone’s webcam without them knowing it. The difficult part is getting the program installed on their computer.
I’ve installed Big Brother on flash drives and I plan to scatter them around town. I’m counting on people finding the drives and being curious enough to plug them into their computers to see what’s on them. I’ve also added a few songs; while they’re listening to the music, my program installs itself.
I’m sitting at the food court in the mall, looking around to make sure I’m not being watched, and set one of the drives on the table and walk away. Standing near a kiosk, pretending to look at the sunglasses for sale, I watch a group of teenage boys sit at the table.
“Hey, look what I found,” one teenager says, while picking up the drive, “I wonder what’s on it.”
Without any hesitation, he plugs it into the laptop he’s carrying and starts playing the music I’ve installed. This is going to be a lot easier than I thought. I spend the rest of the day dropping the infected drives in public places, and then I go back to my shop and wait.
I know it’s pathetic that I’m sitting at my computer in the backroom of my shop, watching people. I feel bad about sneaking into their homes, invading their privacy. I know it’s wrong to be spying on people. Everyone has the right to expect privacy in their homes. I try to be discreet and only watch long enough to see if the killer is there and then move on. Sometimes I can’t help myself and watch a little longer than necessary. Being able to see what goes on in other people’s home is addictive.
I have to admit there are a few homes that I visit regularly. I pretend they’re family; I guess it makes me feel as if I’m a part of their lives. That’s probably why reality shows are so popular on TV; they help people feel connected to something, when really they live a boring, lonely life. The Harris family’s one of my favorites. I like watching them while I’m sitting in my shop, eating my TV dinner.
“How was school today, Johnny?” Mr. Harris asks his son at dinner.
“Fine,” Johnny says, “We’re going on a field trip to the planetarium tomorrow.”
“That sounds like fun, Johnny,” I say. They can’t hear me, but I join in the conversation anyway.
After dinner, I check in on my other pretend relatives. I see that my “aunt” Lucy isn’t doing very well with her Farmville game on Facebook. She’s forgotten to harvest her crops again, so I do it for her before they wither and die. Then I drop in on my “cousin” Terry. He’s looking at porn sites again instead of doing his homework. I put a temporary block on his internet and send him an official looking message reminding him that there’s a math test tomorrow.
After a while, I come across a family in the middle of a big fight. I mean, it’s really getting out of hand. The dad is drunk and verbally abusing his wife and son. I look up the home’s address and call the police. I tell them my neighbors are having a fight and to send someone right away.
“Harry, you should go to bed,” the wife says, “You’re drunk and you don’t know what you’re saying.”
“Oh yeah, you think I’m so drunk? Well, can a drunk do this?”
He reaches out, grabs his wife, and throws her into the next room like a rag doll. His son runs over to him and starts hitting him in the stomach, screaming, “I hate you, I hate you!” Then, his dad grabs him and tosses him on top of his mom.
“To hell with the both of you!” he says.
Without thinking, I turn on my microphone, “No, to hell with you!”
He’s the only one in the room and is obviously confused by the voice coming out of his computer speakers.
“Who’s there?” he slurs, as he looks around.
“This is the police,” I say in a deep voice. “We have the house surrounded. Come out with your hands up.”
“How did you get in my computer?”
“We’ve been watching you,” I say, “We know you don’t want to hurt your family. Give yourself up peacefully and we’ll make sure you get help.”
As he stands there thinking, the police arrive and his wife lets them in.
“I do want help!” he cries as he walks towards the police with his hands up.
As I watch the mother hug her son and talk to him about his father’s problem, I realize I don’t have anyone to talk to. Diane and I can’t dream about our future and talk about our plans to have kids. I’ll never be able to watch them grow up and share the experience with the one person in my life who mattered to me. Diane's killer took all of that away from me. Is that fair? Is it wrong for me to try and find the person who ruined my life, even at the expense of stealing a few moments of someone’s privacy? Where do one person’s rights end and another’s start? If I invade a person's privacy without them knowing it, what’s the harm?
I guess it all comes down to the question of whether I’m willing to risk the consequence of going to jail if I’m caught. I am. What do I have to lose? My life has come down to sitting here alone, watching others live theirs. What kind of life is this? I hardly leave the backroom anymore. But there are many people out there who need help. I think about all the abused children, the homes getting broken into, and who knows what else that’s going on. I could help a lot of them by contacting the police or sending them information to get help. Maybe that would give me a reason to go on.