Untraceable

FADE IN:

INT. SUBURBAN BASEMENT -- RAINY NIGHT. .

VIDEO CAMERA POV: held at hip level, jerking with each step,

we move in dim light past boxes of junk...a dormant furnace

.

...a rusty bicycle...shelves of Christmas decorations...and

bundles of Ethernet cable, running beside flashing state-ofthe-

art computers...around a corner into-

.

A WOOD-PANELED ROOM. Rain rattles the ground-level windows,

whose panes are covered with black soundproofing panels. A

.

folded-up Ping-Pong table leans against a wall. Ugly shag

carpeting has been stripped back from the cement floor.

.

A small, muted TV set, sitting on a cardboard box, plays a

prime-time hour-long drama. Thunder rumbles outside.

.

The CAMERA shakes as it is screwed into a tripod and pointed

to the cement floor. At the top corner of the frame, the TV

is visible.

Footsteps. Liquid pours.

A MALE HAND, long and slender,

lowers a saucer of milk to the floor.

More footsteps. A package is torn open. A glue rat-trap is

slapped to the floor a few feet from the milk. .

A canvas bag is unzipped. A tiny meow, then the tinkling of

a little bell. .

A man’s torso passes by, momentarily blotting

out our view.

A moment later, the CAMERA zooms tighter on the milk and the

trap. More meowing, as a KITTEN enters the frame, bounding

.

clumsily, adorably. It wears a handcrafted pink collar with

a bell.

It steps into the trap. It freezes, pulls and pulls, the bell

tinkling urgently, but it cannot free its paw.

.

Klieg lights flash on.

The kitty freezes, blinded.

EXT. SUBURBAN PARKING LOT -- RAINY NIGHT. .

.

Headlights blind us, as an SUV, wipers working, drives up to

a guard booth.

CAR RADIO DJ (O.S.)

--then once he’s raised a million .

bucks in donations, he’s gonna

.

shoot himself in the ass, live on

the Internet!

2.

Laughter from the radio. The YOUNG GUARD nods, smiles, and

waves the driver through.

INT. SUV -- MOMENTS LATER -- RAINY NIGHT.

The driver, whose face we cannot see, pulls into a parking

spot in the barely-filled lot.

CAR RADIO DJ:

And guess what his website’s

called. I am not making this up.

Gonnashootmyselfintheass.com!

Seriously!

Manic laughter from the radio, until the driver kills the

engine. As the driver unfastens the seat belt, we glimpse a

9mm Glock on the driver’s hip.

The driver reaches over and grabs a black umbrella, which lies

next to a half-clad Barbie doll.

EXT. SUBURBAN PARKING LOT -- CONTINUOUS -- RAINY NIGHT.

Emerging from the car, opening her umbrella, is JENNIFER

MARSH, early 30’s, beautiful and fierce, no make-up, wearing

a windbreaker.

.

FOLLOW MARSH, walking alone across the dark, rainy lot toward

a bland FOUR-STORY OFFICE BUILDING.

The closer she gets to the entrance, the higher the CAMERA

CRANES. By the time she enters, the CAMERA has reached the

roof, which is crowded with massive satellite dishes and

towering antennae.

INT. OFFICE BUILDING LOBBY -- SAME -- RAINY NIGHT.

RAY, 65, a security guard, smiles almost paternally at Marsh

as she jams her photo I.D. in and out of the electronic

reader.

INT. OFFICE ELEVATOR -- MOMENTS LATER -- RAINY NIGHT.

As the car ascends, Marsh stares at herself in the silver

doors. Her hair is wet, disheveled. She primps at it a bit,

then stops. What’s the point? Why bother?

INT. DIAL-UP ROOM -- MOMENTS LATER -- RAINY NIGHT.

Marsh walks down a row of beige cubicles under fluorescent

lights. In each carrel, a MALE WORKER clicks away at a

desktop computer.

3.

Over the workers’ shoulders, we catch glimpses of their

screens. Mundane stuff, mostly: chat rooms, newsgroups,

myspace.com, e-mails, etc....

But then a flash of hard-core pornography. And on the next

monitor, something worse. Are those naked children on the

screen? We’re moving too fast to know.

Marsh stops at a large desk, equipped with four large

monitors and two keyboards. She removes her Glock from its

holster, slips it into a drawer, and locks it.

EXT. OFFICE BUILDING -- LATER -- RAINY NIGHT.

Behind the rainy window pane, we see Marsh, typing quickly,

navigating the web, her screens flashing as pages open and

close.

INT. MARSH’S WORK STATION -- SAME -- RAINY NIGHT.

Seated closest to Marsh is GRIFFIN DOWD, 30, funny-looking,

bright, amiable, typing into a chat room. Despite the

intensity of their concentration, they manage to converse-

GRIFFIN:

I’m serious. It was the best first

date ever. She was amazing. She

looked exactly like her picture.

MARSH:

You’ll never see her again.

GRIFFIN:

How do you know?

MARSH:

Because you look nothing like

yours.

Griffin laughs. Marsh freezes, types something, hits a key.

On one of her monitors, a website appears. She reacts to the

little victory. Curious, Griffin wheels his chair over and

reads the screen-

GRIFFIN:

Tunethief.com?

MARSH:

For the next few hours, anyway.

Tomorrow, it’ll have a new name.

It’s taken me a week to isolate the

creep.

4.

She hits Enter and a nasty gangsta rap song blares from her

speakers. Other workers look over, startled and amused.

Marsh lowers the volume.

.

MARSH (cont'd)

He offers free downloads of pirated

music. Watch what happens to my

dummy drive when I accept his offer.

Marsh clicks on the download button. On one of the screens,

at lightning speed, we see a digital representation of files

being madly copied.

MARSH (cont’d)

He stole all my financial data...all

my passwords...which I just happened

to have conveniently gathered in a

file called “Passwords.” I also

threw in a keystroke recorder, so I

can follow him. He’s run up a half-

million bucks in fraud in the past

three weeks.

GRIFFIN:

What’s he into?

MARSH:

High-end tech and low-end porn.

GRIFFIN:

Are you sure it’s a guy? If it’s a

woman, she could be my soulmate.

Ping! A sixteen-digit number appears on the screen.

MARSH:

My dummy Am Ex. Let’s hope he uses

it.

The screen changes to ebay.com.

MARSH (cont’d)

Huh. I’m surprised he has the

patience.

The screen changes to the item page of a CONSERVATIVE, GOLD,

SWISS WATCH.

MARSH (cont’d)

Okay, it’s a “Buy It Now” item.

Fine, buy it now, a**hole.

(ping!)

Thanks.

5.

Marsh starts working her keys at a furious pace, her hands a

blur. Even Griffin, who’s used to it, watches in wonder. He

glances over and sees other workers glancing out of their

cubicles, watching, as well.

.

MARSH (cont’d)

I’ve got his IP address. Now I’ll

get his physical one.

Phone directories appear. Marsh, typing with one hand and

not even looking at the screen, begins typing on her second

keyboard.

MARSH (cont’d)

There it is.

A profile pop up: SANDRA HOBBS, 221 BAYSHORE BOULEVARD,

TAMPA, FLORIDA 33611.

GRIFFIN:

So it is a woman.

MARSH:

Fifty-six years old.

GRIFFIN:

Damn, a year past my cut-off.

MARSH:

An ER nurse. Lived there her whole

life. No priors. And no history

of on-line purchases.

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