Untraceable Page #2

GRIFFIN:

It’s not her.

MARSH:

It’s gotta be a neighbor, coming in

through her wireless router.

Marsh’s hands are a blur again. On one of her monitors, we

see a SATELLITE VIEW OF TAMPA. The shot tightens and

tightens, moving closer to Earth. With her mouse, Marsh

circles a house, seen from a 100 feet above.

MARSH (cont’d)

Okay, Sandra Hobbs lives here.

Continuing to work both keyboards, Marsh looks back and forth

among the screens. She circles another house.

6.

MARSH (cont’d)

Sam Barrow, age 39. Computer

programmer for the school district.

Moved in six weeks ago. A renter.

GRIFFIN:

That’s your guy.

Griffin wheels his chair back to his station. Marsh types

quickly. A mostly-filled-in application for a search warrant

fills a screen. She types in Barrow’s name and address.

On the other monitor, she brings up a list of Assistant U.S.

Attorneys. She points and clicks. We hear a dial tone.

Ringing.

WOMAN (O.S.)

U.S. Attorney’s office. Sally

Stiles speaking.

Marsh slips on a headphone and mutes the speaker.

MARSH:

Sal, Jennifer Marsh. Great, you?

Oh, that’s wonderful. Listen, I need

the name of an Eleventh Circuit judge

I can bother. Yeah, right now.

TIM WILKS, 20’s, clean-cut, wearing two hearing aids, walks

up, hands Marsh a Post-it, and whispers with a subtle speech

impairment--

WILKS:

From the Baltimore PD. They

weren’t sure what to do with it.

Marsh nods, takes it. It reads www.killwithme.com. Before

Marsh can react, Sally speaks, which sets Marsh typing--

MARSH:

Perfect. Do you have the fax

number, too? You’re the best.

Vouch for me, okay? Call him in

two minutes. Thanks.

She hangs up, tosses aside the Post-it. Types in a phone

number.

MARSH (cont’d)

Judge Lipson, sorry to bother you

at home. My name’s Jennifer Marsh.

I’m a Supervisor in the FBI Cyber

Division up in Riverton, Maryland.

Sally Stiles from the U.S.

(MORE)

7.

MARSH(cont'd)

Attorney’s office will be calling

you to confirm that.

Marsh types a fax number into the warrant application and

hits Send.

MARSH (cont’d)

A search warrant, your honor.

Multiple bank fraud, access-device

fraud, and fraudulent I.D.

.

(beat)

Thanks so much. The application

should be falling into the tray of

your fax machine any second now.

Marsh hangs up. On her screen, list after list flies past.

She points and clicks on FBI TAMPA. She waits. Someone

picks up.

MARSH (cont’d)

Hi. Jennifer Marsh -- a Supervisor

in the Cyber Division. I need you

to knock on a door for me.

EXT. TAMPA HOUSE -- HOUR LATER -- NIGHT.

Moonlight. Crickets. A bland house in a middle-class

suburban neighborhood. A host of FBI, SHERIFF, and POLICE

CARS, lights turned off, glide up and silently park.

A swarm of shadows, as AGENTS and OFFICERS silently emerge

and take up a perimeter.

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

More relaxed now, Marsh organizes papers on her desk.

Griffin, typing into a chat room, mutters bitterly--

GRIFFIN:

I’ve gotta get reassigned.

MARSH:

What’s the matter?

GRIFFIN:

This retired Army Captain is

offering to come over to where I’m

baby-sitting, only he’s got so many

chats going, he can’t keep his

names straight. He keeps calling

me Jill instead of Molly.

(beat)

Let’s see what his cellmates call

him....

8.

Marsh smiles, then abruptly notices the Post-it Wilks gave

her. She reads it again, frowns, then with one hand types

killwithme.com into a browser and hits Enter.

EXT. TAMPA HOUSE -- SAME -- NIGHT.

With his team in position, GRAY, 40, an FBI agent, strides to

the front door with ANOTHER AGENT. Gray knocks.

GRAY:

FBI, Mr. Barrow! Open the door!

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

Marsh watches as killwithme.com loads. The site’s home page

is empty, black. She waits. Nothing. Just as she is about

to close the window, creepy-cute theme music plays and an

oversized red emoticon struts out, smiling.

A red text banner crawls across the bottom of the screen:

Kill with me...Kill with me...Kill with me.... The emoticon

points to a blinking Command Button marked Enter. Marsh

clicks on it.

The page loads the video image of the kitten, caught in the

glue-trap.

intensity.

Now both front paws are stuck. Marsh’s eyes gain

EXT. TAMPA HOUSE -- SAME -- NIGHT.

Gray, still waiting, knocks again, louder. A DEPUTY runs

around from the back of the house, whispering urgently-

DEPUTY:

We’ve got movement in a back room!

GRAY:

That’s it, let’s breach.

(over his shoulder)

Gimme the ram!

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

On her computer screen, behind the struggling kitten, Marsh

notices the TV set. Using her mouse, she screen-captures it,

then magnifies it. She can see what’s playing on the set:

Live cable news.

.

INT. TAMPA LIVING ROOM -- SAME -- NIGHT.

The door splinters. Amid a chaos of flashlight beams, Agents

and Officers pour in, guns drawn. Nobody. Empty. They hit

the overhead lights. A rear bedroom door is locked. Loud,

angry rap music blares from inside.

9.

AGENT:

(banging on it)

FBI! Open up!

(to Gray)

It’s a f***in’ bunker!

Gray nods. The two agents use the ram, splintering the door.

AGENT (cont’d)

ON THE FLOOR! GET ON THE FLOOR!

KEEP YOUR HANDS IN VIEW!

The agents point their guns and shine their lights in. In

the criss-cross of the beams, we catch barred windows, a wall

of merchandise still in its boxes, and a huge plasma TV

showing a frozen image from a terribly violent video game.

A SHADOWY MALE FIGURE, clutching a hard drive still connected

by a couple of cords to the computer, sinks to the floor.

Gray steps in with his flashlight.

INT. TAMPA BEDROOM -- CONTINUOUS -- NIGHT.

Gray’s face changes when he sees the suspect. He lifts his

cell phone and dials.

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

Marsh, her face pained, studies the suffering kitten. Her

phone rings. She answers it with a computer click.

MARSH:

Jennifer Marsh. FBI Cyber Division.

GRAY (O.S.)

Paul Gray, FBI Tampa. We got ‘im.

Hard drive intact. Plenty of

contraband.

MARSH:

Good work. Let me guess, it’s a

teenager, right? Barrow’s got a

son?

INT. TAMPA BEDROOM -- SAME -- NIGHT.

Gray, speaking on the phone to Marsh, is amazed.

GRAY:

How’d you know that?

ANGLE ON AN ACNE-FACED BOY, 14, wearing pajamas, terrified,

crouched on the floor, being handcuffed in the beams of the

flashlights.

10.

MARSH (O.S.)

High tech and porn, then out of the

blue he buys a Swiss watch? How

come? Then it hit me. Sunday’s

Father’s Day.

GRAY:

(impressed)

Sweet dreams, Marsh.

MARSH (O.S.)

I haven’t had one of those since I

left the Academy-

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

Marsh stares at the kitten on her screen. Her smile fades.

MARSH:

--but thanks, anyway.

Marsh hangs up. Griffin, having wheeled his chair back to

her monitor, studies the kitten.

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