A killer app, p.3
A Killer App, page 3
“Have you heard?” Connie Beck’s huffing like she’s finished a marathon. Since she’s in street clothes, I surmise exercise isn’t the cause.
“Andy Fyke’s in the hospital,” she wheezes. “Heard sirens and ran right over when I saw an ambulance parked outside the clubhouse. They found Andy at the bottom of those back stairs. Fell and crashed like a ton of bricks. Conked his head and broke bones. Who knows how serious the internal injuries are at his age?”
I want to whoop for joy. It appears J.T., my AI-guided human experiment, acted on my suggestion. I order myself not to smile. Need to show concern, compassion.
Had to be J.T. Would be too coincidental for Fyke to accidentally trip and tumble this very morning. Wish I could have seen it. Wonder how closely the scene resembled my rehearsal video?
“That’s horrible. An awful place to trip,” I comment. “Those stairs are steep. Has the gentleman talked? Did he say how he fell?”
Connie shakes her head. “The EMTs spirited him away before I got there. I only have headlines, no details.”
I work hard to keep a neutral, concerned expression. How long before I find out what happened? Did pillow-soft J.T. plow into Andy’s spindly legs? I envision the impact in cartoon style—a roly-poly bowling ball hitting a human sweet spot for a strike.
I’m dying to text J.T. or check to see if she texted me. Impossible. I did away with that temptation by erasing the existence of my crippled alter ego. The phone used by my avatar to egg J.T. on to violence is toast, and all my fake’s social media accounts have been closed.
Must admit erasing social media accounts takes persistence. Am amazed how often I’m invited to wish happy birthday to an online friend whose ashes were scattered two years ago.
Continued contact with J.T. would be beyond stupid. What if Andy did see who shoved him? If J.T. is ever identified and alleges she had an online accomplice, the authorities will find no video evidence to back up her claims thanks to my Mission Impossible zeal. They’ll simply assume J.T.’s another Looney Tunes character with imaginary voices telling her what to do.
Yet I do need to find out what Andy thinks caused his fall. Does he know he was pushed? While I’ve never met the old man, there’s plenty of paper to document we’re adversaries. No way for me to gin up an excuse to make a bedside sympathy call.
Social media chatter should tell me all I need to know. Andy’s injuries will be a hot topic on the Lowcountry’s most popular chat site—The All-Seeing Ear—better known among locals as Earful. Homeowners rely on Earful to spread gossip, post selfies and grouse about vendors, neighbors, and their HOAs. Spreading conspiracy theories is a competitive sport.
The All-Seeing Ear promotes itself as the only trustworthy source of community information, since the local app lets neighbors share unvarnished, unfiltered, and uncensored opinions. The heavy conspiracy component has been a godsend. It’s helped me recruit a half-dozen individuals into what I think of as my personal ROTC—Reserve Officer Training Corps. I’ve carefully groomed these minions. They view me (whoever they think I am) as more than a friend. I’m their wise mentor. With the right triggers, I can activate these reservists to help me accomplish a variety of goals.
Connie touches my arm. “You here for Tai Chi?” Her question brings my focus back to the here and now.
Since Connie’s reported her breaking news, she’s ready to reenter her retirement regimen—prunes, Wordle, and Tai Chi. The combo keeps her poop moving, exercises her brain, and helps her bend over far enough to pull up her dowdy, elastic-waist britches.
“No, only using the fitness equipment today,” I answer. “Have fun at Tai Chi.”
After I finish with the weights, I set the treadmill incline to ten degrees to increase the burn and keep my mind off Andy and J.T. Need to give the gossips time to post. There will be plenty to see in an hour or two.
I’m confident I left no virtual fingerprints. J.T. was molested as a child and hasn’t been able to jettison her emotional baggage. That primed J.T. to buy my tale of a perverted Andy, who regularly gives in to sinful impulses. I also whispered the man finances all manner of evil. Took me almost an hour to create a deepfake video clip that purports to show Andy proclaiming kiddie porn as a First Amendment right. Made that video disappear, too.
I smile. Does anyone really make such First Amendment claims? Who cares? I also doubt the real-world Andy, a tightwad, has ever given a dime to any cause, liberal, conservative, or out-in-left-field.
Though Andy escaped death this morning, it should be weeks, if not months, before he can traipse door-to-door with his stupid anti-rental petitions.
Now, I can concentrate on other matters. I want my new app ready to market by fall. I’m counting on holiday sales to make a killing.
I smile.
A killing. Yep, it’ll be a true killer app.
Chapter Six
Grant
Thursday, Lunch Hour, June 29
Mimi suggests Delisheeyo for our lunch break, and I go along. I can tell Aunt Kylee is less than enthusiastic, given Delisheeyo’s menu is strictly vegetarian. Whenever Kylee gets to pick a lunch spot, she makes sure it offers either cheeseburgers or Reubens. Hey, they’re two of my favorites, too. But Mimi’s talked me into eating at Delisheeyo before, and it’s okay.
Once we’re seated, I watch Aunt Kylee frown as she studies the menu.
“Why don’t you order the Acai Bowl,” I suggest. “You’ll like it.”
Mimi quickly endorses my recommendation. “It not only tastes good. Acai berries are loaded with antioxidants. The dish is good for your whole body. Not sure if it can erase wrinkles, but I’ve heard Acai berries help old people look more youthful.”
Mimi’s cheeks color, turning almost as red as her hair, as she glances at Kylee, who never tries to camouflage the wrinkly creases around her eyes. Mimi’s remark prompts a wry smile from my aunt. Oops.
“Oh, Kylee, I didn’t mean to imply you should worry about wrinkles,” Mimi fumbles. “You look great.”
My aunt laughs. “Afraid I lost my epidermis battle decades ago. In my teen years, I couldn’t wait to start a tan as soon as spring arrived. No sunscreen. Lots of sunburns. Especially the summers I worked as a lifeguard. But let’s talk about Rand Creek, so I won’t be fibbing when I write this off as a Welch HOA business lunch. How did the photo shoot go?”
“Like you suggested, we stayed together,” I say. “Started at the clubhouse, scouting for appealing interior shots.”
“I took lots of pictures but without people,” Mimi adds. “I brought along model release forms, but the clubhouse was deserted. To my mind, photos of empty rooms are sterile. After we pick the best locations, can we invite models? Would certainly make the place look more welcoming, if we showed people actually using the facilities.”
I chuckle. “Jocelyn would want veto power over who you photograph. I’m sure she’d nix anyone overweight, wrinkled, frail, or too ethnic-looking.”
Aunt Kylee pauses between bites of the sweet Acai Bowl and waggles her spoon in agreement.
“You’re right on the money, Grant. Maybe we shouldn’t bother Jocelyn with recruiting or approving models. After all, she did let us know how terribly busy she is. Ted knows several owners. Bet he can suggest willing models. If the resulting photos are unveiled at a full board meeting, it’ll be tougher for Jocelyn to disparage her neighbors’ looks.”
“Good thinking,” I say. “I already have most of the drone photos. Captured great aerial overviews of the clubhouse and fitness center. They show the condos, townhouses, and single-family homes fanning out from the center like spokes on a wheel.”
“We went inside the fitness center,” Mimi adds. “Had to laugh. Six men, squeezed into exercise spandex, were sitting at a table between the racquetball court and a room stuffed with exercise bikes, treadmills, and weight machines. The men were snarfing down snacks and playing poker. Wondered if they poured themselves into spandex to hoodwink their wives about how they spent the morning.”
Aunt Kylee smiles. “Could be. Haven’t been inside the fitness center. Is it nice?”
“It is,” I answer, “and we did spot two jock types playing a spirited game of racquetball, as well as one woman running on a treadmill like she had a pack of wolves on her heels. My guess is they were all near the fifty-five-minimum age. They’d win Jocelyn’s approval as models.”
Mimi wiggles in her chair. “Kylee, before we split up this morning, you promised to tell us why you think that old man was shoved down the stairs.”
I’m as curious as Mimi. “Do you still think someone pushed Andrew?”
My aunt nods. “My gut says yes.”
She explains how the closed door at the top of the stairs made her realize how odd it was for the stairwell lights to be off when we found Andrew.
“I paid a visit to Sherry LeRoy, another Rand Creek director, to see if someone other than Jocelyn thinks Andrew’s a troublemaker,” Kylee adds. “I asked Sherry if she thought Andrew was likely to sue Rand Creek.
“She pooh-poohed it. Sherry likes Andrew, but admits he has enemies. He’s been collecting signatures to force a covenant change that outlaws the rental of any Rand Creek properties. Since Jocelyn owns rental units, she wants to nip his initiative in the bud.”
I pause between bites, wondering if Kylee plans to share her suspicions with the authorities.
“What’s next? You’d be loco to tell the Sheriff’s Office you suspect a crime. They’d show you the door before you could finish a sentence.”
Kylee shrugs. “Agreed. Maybe Andrew’s memory will come back, and he’ll recall what happened in excruciating detail. Meanwhile, I’ll drop you two back at Rand Creek to finish the day’s photo shoot. Mimi, if you’re looking for a condo that screams style, call Sherry LeRoy and ask if you can photograph her unit.”
“We have one more chore,” I add. “Jocelyn is sure to check that we documented the stairwell’s pristine condition for the insurance company.”
I turn to Mimi. “How long do you think we need to finish today’s photo list?”
Mimi tilts her head as she goes through a mental list. “Maybe two-and-a-half hours.”
“You going to hang with us?” I ask Kylee, though I figure I already know the answer. Standing around playing observer isn’t compatible with her DNA.
“Nope,” Kylee answers. “I’ll find something useful to do.”
I grin. “Where do you plan to start snooping?”
Kylee treats me to an eye roll. “Never you mind. Let’s meet back in the parking lot at four-thirty.”
Chapter Seven
Kylee
Thursday 2 p.m., June 29
Hilton Head Hospital is relatively small. For that reason, it seems more friendly and welcoming than urban healthcare complexes. I tell the front information desk volunteer I’d like to visit Andrew Fyke.
She checks a patient roster. “I’m sorry. We don’t have a patient by that name.”
“The paramedics brought him in this morning,” I explain. “He fell down a flight of stairs. He definitely had a compound fracture of his wrist. I could see the bone protruding. He also may have had a concussion and a broken jaw.”
“Oh,” she answers, “that explains it. After evaluation in the ER, he was probably transferred to Beaufort Memorial for multiple surgeries. We don’t have all the surgical specialties.”
“Would you mind calling Beaufort Memorial to see if he’s there?” I ask.
“No problem.”
Minutes later, I get my answer. The patient’s still in surgery. They operated on his wrist first, now a plastic surgeon is tackling his broken jaw.
“The anesthesia will probably keep him under or groggy for quite a while post-surgery,” the volunteer adds. “Doubt you’ll be able to see him today. Hospital visiting hours end at six o’clock.”
I thank her and return to my car. Now what? I retrieve my cellphone to call Sherry and let her know Andrew’s been transferred. As a matter of principle, I keep my cell switched off until I need to phone or, heaven forbid, text someone. Once I power on, I find Robin Gates, Welch HOA Management’s IT guru, has left me a voicemail. Robin knows better than to text me, given that Mom and I share top honors as Welch HOA’s reigning communications dinosaurs. We only send and receive texts under duress. I listen to Robin’s voice message:
“Kylee, log into The All-Seeing Ear. There are at least two dozen Earful posts about a Rand Creek accident at the clubhouse. Since you’re there, you may already know someone was injured, but you need to take a look at the wild conspiracy theories it’s generated.”
I heed Robin’s suggestion. Welch HOA Management monitors posts on what we cynically agree is an “earful of crap” to see what information—or, more likely, misinformation—the jungle drums are pounding out.
If a client HOA becomes the target of Earful misinformation or slander, Ted informs the HOA’s directors and recommends the best way to counter. Ted learned early on that replying to Earful posts only excites and encourages outrageous trolls. We only lurk. No member of the Welch staff ever posts or replies to a post—even if we’re the subject of personal attacks. And, believe me, I’ve been a target.
Scanning message traffic about Andrew Fyke, it’s clear he has both online friends and foes. A few friends suggest his fall may not have been an accident. They theorize one of Rand Creek’s rental property owners shoved him. A couple of the posts mention the “Ice Lady”—a moniker I figure applies to Jocelyn—and hint she could be the shover. Yet, so far, Fyke’s friends have refrained from sharing real names.
Andrew’s foes poo-poo the idea he was shoved. They paint Fyke as a mental case, who fell because he was raving about some renter’s pissant rules infraction instead of watching where he put his feet.
I phone Robin to let her know I got her heads-up.
“Hey, Robin, thanks for alerting me to the Earful posts. If you have time, could you scan the posts and make a list of Andrew’s presumed friends and foes?”
“Sure. Want me to see if Rand Creek has contact info for them in its database?”
“That would be super. I have the uncomfortable feeling I may need to talk to several of them. I assume Ted doesn’t know about the incident.”
“Correct, when he left this morning, he said not to bother contacting him unless it was a real emergency. Said you could catch him up on the rest at dinner.”
“Okay, thanks.”
Ted, the boss man, is in Atlanta. He and Frank Donahue, the company’s maintenance and construction expert, are meeting with an Atlanta structural engineering firm.
Frank recently found signs of serious structural defects at a client’s condo complex. The condo’s reserve funds are not even close to covering the cost of needed repairs. Ted and Frank are trying to negotiate the best remediation deal they can. The necessary special assessment will be very painful for owners.
With two hours to kill before I pick up Grant and Mimi, I know exactly where to head. Satin Sands. That’s if Donna Dahl is in. In my mind, I often think of Donna by the Freckles nickname Ted gave her when he described the HOA’s board members before I met them.
Donna answers my call on the second ring. Doesn’t even give me a chance to say hello. Caller ID makes it hard to surprise anyone these days.
“Hey, I didn’t call you about some new dust-up,” Donna says. “That means you must want something. It’ll cost you the usual. Meet me in the clubhouse and buy me a drink.”
I laugh. “I’ll buy. But only if you can deliver a Cliff Notes summary of Lowcountry HOA conflicts related to rental property.”
“Better plan on two drinks then, or maybe I should order a pitcher,” Donna answers. “See you in a few.”
Chapter Eight
The Chameleon
Thursday Afternoon, June 29
My killer app will need a sales pitch. Something that makes it sound fun and therapeutic. “Irritating people getting you down? You need this delightful Artificial Intelligence mood lifter.”
Or maybe: “Transform anger into joy. A mentally healthy, fun way to banish enemies.”
Okay, time’s a wasting. Need to quit daydreaming about how to promote my killer app and think about adding modules or spinoffs to broaden its appeal.
When the university canned me, I focused first on creating an app that made it easy to upload any face and substitute it in videos. When such apps became a dime a dozen, I enhanced my app to simplify uploading individual audio and video samples for Artificial Intelligence training. This lets my users create facsimiles of their enemies and prompt their creations to spew any nonsense they choose. The results come with appropriate facial expressions and gestures.
Of course, users can upload their own images and voices, too. This way, they can construct make-believe conversations in which they demolish foes with their superior intellect. The app lets them craft the perfect comebacks and put-downs. Things they could never dream up in real-time in the real world.
To help lazy users achieve maximum satisfaction with minimal effort, my customers can drop their enemies into their choice of several pre-set scenes. Initially, I favored porn-lite scenarios that debased or humiliated the customers’ deepfake enemies. However, once AI amateurs flooded the market with deepfakes of celebrities frolicking in crude porn, I knew the luster had gone from porn-lite.
When I asked myself how my app should evolve, I began work on my current project, a far more versatile and satisfying deepfake app—a real killer.
My app lets ordinary folks channel their anger and frustration into make-believe violence, thereby obtaining relief and staying out of jail. Users only need the ability to point and click on their computers or tap to select options on their smartphones. The app will do the rest, and it’ll cost less than an AR-15 style rifle.
Instead of slugging that next-door neighbor, who cranks up his leaf blower at seven a.m. every Saturday, my user can punish him virtually. Load an image of Mr. Blower Dude’s face—and his voice, if they wish—and use a drop-down menu to select gender, age range, and body type. Then, the user decides whether to watch his target die quickly or suffer over an extended period.
