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ACTIVITY REPORT FOR 773-555-2151

MESSAGE SENT: 29 November 2009 8:03:49 PM

RECIPIENT: Jason Thurston, 773-555-7523

SMS: Your problem is solved.
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I really hate getting text messages.

First off, most of them are totally devoid of anything of value. Sure, people use them sometimes to pass along information like where to meet someone or something like that, but I can get that info just as easy from a call. The rest of the time, text messages are loaded with scintillating conversations like: “How r u?” “Fine.” “Good.” “Ok.” I’d rather shoot myself in the face than engage in that type of conversation.

Plus, I really hate typing with my thumbs. It’s slow, cumbersome and annoying, particularly when the message is basically pointless.

And I hate hearing that damn tone that blares every time someone sends me a stupid message anyway. I’ve tried changing it, but something is wrong with my BlackBerry and I can’t get a new tone or even set it on vibrate. It’s killing me!

But some text messages are worse than others. Like the one I got this evening. It reads simply:


It came from a local phone, right area code, but it came from 555-2151, a number I’ve never seen before. I look through my phone book, no luck. Try a look-up online. Nothing. Even call it back to see who it was. Get the familiar “We’re sorry, the number you are trying to reach has been disconnected.” WTF?

So I text back:


Simple problems often call for simple solutions. Most of the time. Not this time. It doesn’t help at all.

Oh, I get a response, but it isn’t particularly useful:


Further messages go unanswered.

Thing is, I don’t really think I have too many problems, so I’m not sure what the hell the anonymous texter is talking about.

Okay, let’s see. I haven’t had a date since Mary dumped me. I had been thinking about asking her to marry me, but she obviously didn’t see things that way. I’ll check my e-mail, texts, phone calls, voice mail and all the rest. Nope, no messages from the ladies telling me it’s time to go out on a date, that problem appears not to have been solved.

Last time I checked my bank account, I was down to $23 and some change. I’ll check my account online. Balance is only $23.07. That problem is certainly not solved.

There’s also that leaky pipe behind the washing machine, but if the landlord hasn’t gotten to it in the three months since I first reported it, then I doubt he got to it today. Besides, his number is programmed into my Berry and the message certainly didn’t come from him.

My family is fine. My mother is a big-time judge and dad is retired. They are in good shape and living happy. No problem to solve on that front.

Hey?! How can a disconnected phone number send me text messages?

That’s about it on the problem front. I’m gainfully employed by Soh-Tap Industries as an accountant. Don’t have any problems at work, but I guess I could check in the morning. This text has to be some kind of joke. I’ll tell anonymous as much:


That’s enough of that nonsense. Maybe I’ll pick up a movie before I hit the house. Isn’t there a new Tarantino movie out?

* * *

That movie was pretty damned good. A little long, but Tarantino’s always a bit long. Funny stuff, though, particularly the part with Brad Pitt trying to do an Italian accent. Priceless. Should check my Berry before going to bed.

Ah, another message from anonymous. This one is a photo. It’s loading. Loading. Loading.

Oh.

That problem.

Seems I neglected to mention that whole thing about me embezzling money from Soh-Tap Industries to pay off that shady loan to that shady guy to pay for that shady procedure for Mary. I try not to think about that. In fact, I thought it was over with, I didn’t even know it was a problem anymore. Unless somehow the cops were to find out about it, it’s all good, right?

I guess at this point I’ll have to see what’s going on at work in the morning. See if anybody’s on alert for anything. But if the problem’s solved, then what’s to worry about?

* * *

Damnedest thing. I get to work and what has happened? Some kind of virus has erased everything on the company network permanently. All files, all transactions, any possible record of anything I did. It wasn’t me. Don’t know how it happened, but can’t say I’m upset. Especially since the boss told us that there had been some kind of investigation into someone having stole some money from the company. A federal investigation.

That’s when the damned ring tone went off. A new text message. From 555-2151. Another photo. Of an FBI document. With my name on it.

Another text right afterwards has an address in it. I look it up. It’s the address of a local FBI branch office. Why would anonymous send me that if it wasn’t for a reason? I guess that means I need to check the place out. Is anonymous setting me up? How does that solve my problem? I need to be careful.

* * *

Wow. I don’t know what to say. I need to find out who this anonymous texter is and why they are “helping” me.

The FBI office in question is no more. It burned down. I’m guessing that someone burned it down. All of it. There’s nothing left. And it looks like nothing can be salvaged. Certainly not any evidence of any shady activity on my part.

Wouldn’t you know it? Another text from 555-2151. Another photo. Some guy I don’t recognize. Another text:


Another text. Another address. I looked it up. It was unlisted. Following the pattern, though, I think I’m supposed to drop by the address of some guy named John Craft.

* * *

Remind me not to fuck with the anonymous texter if I ever find out who he is. He likes fire. A lot. Another address. Another place burned to the ground. All of it. And, based on the murmurs I overheard in the crowd of bystanders, John Craft was inside when it happened. Which means he won’t be testifying to anyone about anything. And my guess is that any copies of any evidence he had burned with him. I guess my problem really is solved.

I guess I really should feel bad about all this. Seems like some people died. Maybe even some good people. But it really was a case of me or them, you know? If they had gone on, I certainly would’ve ended up in prison. And what do they do to accountants in prison? Nothing good. It’s not like what they do to child molesters and rapists, but I would’ve ended up as somebody’s bitch and I wouldn’t have been able to take it and I would’ve died. So if John Craft had to die so that I didn’t, then I’m not too broken up about it. It’s not like I did it. Or asked for it to be done. Or even knew about it. There is no evidence that I had anything to do with anything. Mainly because I didn’t. Nope, no shady business from me. I’m completely innocent. I don’t have a guilty conscience at all.

* * *

Did I ever tell you how much I hated text messages? I haven’t gotten one in about a month or so. Most of my friends and co-workers know how much I hate them, so they don’t send them to me. I occasionally get a message from someone I’ve recently met, but they don’t keep sending them to me for very long. I make it clear how much I can’t stand them early on. Keeps my messages light.

But some text messages are the worst. Like those that come from 555-2151. Like the one I got tonight, New Year’s Eve. This is the worst text message ever.

At first I don’t even realize who it is. I had kind of forgotten all about my previous anonymous texts from the anonymous texter. They didn’t have any direct connection to me anyway, just telling me about some shady things that someone else did. I don’t have any idea who did them and I don’t even much care.

But when I read the cryptic message and see the number, things come back to me:


I don’t like the sound of that. I mean, hey, all of my personal problems are pretty much solved. I’ve been dating a cute little number from Kansas the last two weeks. Man she is a cyclone in the bedroom! My bank account is looking up. Current balance is over $500, which isn’t too shabby. My mom is up for some kind of big appointment from the president. The job at Soh-Tap is going great. Hell, even that leaky pipe finally got fixed! And, as anonymous texter already knows, my shady problems are problems of the past. So I know I don’t have any problems of my own to solve.

That means he wants me to solve somebody else’s problem. And I remember how my shady problems were solved. I don’t like the sound of this at all. Not one bit. Crap.

But what can I do about it? Who do you tell about things like this? The police? Obviously not. They’d think I was crazy. And anonymous already showed me a picture that would bring to light some of my shady past, so I can’t go to the police. Who else is there? Batman?

Another text. Another address. The cycle continues.

* * *

The address is unlisted. Now that I’m here, I know why. It’s an abandoned warehouse in an abandoned part of town. Nothing shady about that.

I park the car a little down the road from the building. Just in case. You never can be too careful these days. That’s when I get a text. Crap.


I grab the little flashlight out of the glove box and find my way around the place. It’s quite dangerous. Nobody cleaned the place up when it closed. Loaded with dangerous looking junk. And no lights. Until I get to the second floor. I can see the proverbial light under the door.

Three texts come to me in quick succession. The gist of the whole thing is that there is a girl in the office. She’s tied up and blindfolded. Her name doesn’t matter. She met the wrong man, a congressional candidate named Robert Contee. She’s pregnant. He’s married. He’s a Republican. His district is loaded with churchgoers. My job is to fix the problem whatever way I can.

I can’t do this. I saw how they solved my problems. I’m not that kind of guy. I can’t kill some girl just because she got pregnant. I’m leaving.

Another text. This one links to a video. A very bad video. A video that shows a whole mess of evidence of me stealing money from Soh-Tap. A video showing that evidence being loaded into a large envelope with the address for the FBI on the front.

Dammit. Dammit. Dammit.

I can’t do it, though. I’d still rather go to prison and take my chances than to kill some pregnant girl and her baby. I’m not that kind of sicko.

Another text:


The old question of whether or not you would do something evil if you knew you wouldn’t get caught, eh? Obviously, anonymous texter knows how I’ve answered that question in the past. Not this time, though. Not this.

I start to leave. Another text. Are they watching me? This text has another video. Another really bad video.

The video shows a close-up of a computer screen. On the screen, you can see someone is accessing a fingerprint database. They are accessing my fingerprint. They are making a copy of it on some kind of special paper. They are placing it on a gas can. The gas can is being placed outside the FBI office in the first shot or near John Craft’s house in another shot. The video shows a close-up of my phone records. There are calls identified on the list as the FBI office and John Craft’s phone. They are showing eyewitness affidavits from nearly a dozen witnesses placing me at both crime scenes. Apparently my problem isn’t as solved as I thought it was.

I send them back one simple text:

Another text. This time a photo. It’s a close-up of the front page of the New York Times for January 1, 2010. A big headline in the center column reads:


Crap. Crap. Crap. That’s a low blow. Another text. Another photo. Another New York Times. January 10, 2010. Headline:


* * *

I open the office door and walk into the well-lit room. I don’t know what I expected, but this wasn’t it.

Before me is an operating table made for a woman. She’s on the table. Tied down. Blindfolded. Gagged. Legs in stirrups. There is an operating table to her right, covered in shady-looking instruments. To the left is a wooden table. On it is a piece of paper and a revolver I can’t identify.

I walk over and pick up the piece of paper. It reads: “Convince her or kill her.” At the bottom of the paper: “Dr. Skelton, D&E/D&C, 555-2822.” I put it back down.

I pull the gag out of her mouth. I ask her if she knows where she is. She doesn’t.

I ask her if she knows who did this to her. She doesn’t.

I ask her if she knows why I am here. She doesn’t.

I ask her if she knows Robert Contee. She answers hesitantly. She knows him.

I ask her if she knows who he is. She does.

I ask her if she knows how far along she is. She says 17 weeks.

I ask her if she wants to keep it. She does.

I ask her if she’s sure. She is.

I ask her if she knows why I am here. She still doesn’t.

I ask her if she could possibly change her mind about keeping it. She says she doesn’t want to go to hell.

I ask her if she knows what the alternative is. She says she thinks she does, but it doesn’t matter.

I ask her what I should do. She says I should let her go.

I ask her if she knows what will happen to my family if I let her go. She cries.

I put the gag back.

I pick up the gun.

* * *

I don’t know what to do. Can I really kill this girl? Should I kill myself instead? Does that solve the problem? If I kill myself, will they kill my parents? Will they still kill the girl anyway? Does any of this matter? How will I live with myself if I kill this girl or if my parents are killed because of me? How will I live with myself? Yeah, right, my problem was solved. Bastards.

I point the gun. I pull the trigger.

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ACTIVITY REPORT FOR 773-555-2151

MESSAGE SENT: 1 JANUARY 2010 6:43:21 PM

RECIPIENT: Robert Contee, 773-555-0063

SMS: Your problem is solved.
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