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Gillespie flicked his fingers together with nervous energy. "I mean, he's finding data. Collecting it."
No comment about the fact that people had been murdered. Was this an act? The real killer might have feigned horror and sympathy.
Sachs asked his whereabouts on Sunday and he too had no alibi, though he launched into a long story of code he was debugging at home and some role-playing computer game he was competing in.
"So there'd be a record of when you were online yesterday?"
A hesitation now. "Oh, I was just practicing, you know. I wasn't online. I looked up and suddenly it was late. You're so nod, everything else kind of disappears."
"Nod?"
He realized he was speaking a foreign language. "Oh, I mean, like, you're in a zone. You get caught up in the game. Like the rest of your life dozes off."
He claimed not to know Myra Weinburg either. And no one could have gotten access to his passcodes, he assured her. "As for cracking my words, good luck--they're all sixteen-digit random characters. I've never written them down. I'm lucky I've got a good memory."
Gillespie was on his computer "in the system" all the time. He added defensively, "I mean, it's my job." Though he frowned in confusion when asked about downloading individual dossiers. "There's, like, no point. Reading about everything John Doe bought last week at his local grocery store. Hello . . . I've got better things to do."
He also admitted that he spent a lot of time in the data pens, "tuning the boxes." Her impression was that he liked it there, found it comfortable--the same place that she couldn't escape from fast enough.
Gillespie too was unable to recall where he'd been at the times of the other killings. She thanked him and he left, pulling his PDA off his belt before he was through the doorway and typing a message with his thumbs faster than Sachs could use all her fingers.
As they waited for the next all-access suspect to arrive, Sachs asked Pulaski, "Impressions?"
"Okay, I don't like Cassel."
"I'm with you there."
"But he seems too obnoxious to be Five Twenty-Two. Too yuppie, you know? If he could kill somebody with his ego, then, yeah. In a minute . . . As for Gillespie? I'm not so sure. He tried to seem surprised about Myra's death but I'm not sure he was. And that attitude of his--'pianoing' and 'nod'? You know what those are? Expressions from the street. 'Pianoing' means looking for crack, like your fingers are all over the place. You know, frantic. And 'nod' means being drugged out on smack or a tranquilizer. It's how kids from the burbs talk trying to sound cool when they're scoring from dealers in Harlem or the Bronx."
"You think he's into drugs?"
"Well, he seemed pretty twitchy. But my impression?"
"I asked."
"It's not drugs he's addicted to, it's this--" The young officer gestured around him. "The data."
She thought about this and agreed. The atmosphere in SSD was intoxicating, though not in a pleasant way. Eerie and disorienting. It was like being on painkillers.
Another man appeared in the doorway. He was the Human Resources director, a young, trim, light-skinned African American. Peter Arlonzo-Kemper explained that he rarely went into the data pens but had permission to, so that he could meet with employees at their job stations. He did go online into innerCircle from time to time on personnel-related issues--but only to review data on employees of SSD, never the public.
So he had accessed "closets," despite what Sterling had said about him.
The intense man pasted a smile on his face and answered in monotones, frequently changing the subject, the gist of his message being that Sterling--always "Andrew," Sachs had noticed--was the "kindest, most considerate boss anybody could ask for." Nobody would ever think about betraying him or the "ideals" of SSD, whatever those might be. He couldn't imagine a criminal within the hallowed halls of the company.
His admiration was tedious.
Once she got him off the worship, he explained that he had been with his wife all day on Sunday (making him the only married employee she'd talked to). And he'd been cleaning out his recently deceased mother's house in the Bronx on the date Alice Sanderson had been killed. He'd been alone but imagined he could find someone who'd seen him. Arlonzo-Kemper couldn't recall where he'd been during the times of the other killings.
When they had finished the interviews the guard escorted Sachs and Pulaski back to Sterling's outer office. The CEO was meeting with a man about Sterling's age, solid and with combed-over dark blond hair. He sat slouching in one of the stiff wooden chairs. He wasn't an SSD employee: He wore a Polo shirt and a sports jacket. Sterling looked up and saw Sachs. He ended the meeting and rose, then escorted the man out.
Sachs looked at what the visitor was holding, a stack of papers with the name "Associated Warehousing" on top, apparently the name of his company.
"Martin, could you call a car for Mr. Carpenter?"
"Yes, Andrew."
"We're all together, are we, Bob?"
