Untraceable Page #5

21.

INT. CYBER-DIVISION HEADQUARTERS HALLWAY -- LATER.

Marsh and Griffin stride quickly. Griffin says under his

breath--

.

GRIFFIN:

You know, just because you were

right and he was wrong, doesn’t

mean you have to rub his nose in

it.

Marsh’s smile does not reassure.

INT. BROOKS'S OFFICE -- MOMENTS LATER -- DAY.

Brooks leans back in his desk chair, frowning skeptically at

his computer screen, which shows Herbert Miller trapped in

the cement. Marsh and Griffin sit across from him. Griffin

reads aloud, summarizing from the report-

GRIFFIN:

Herbert Miller, 54. A pilot for

Liberty Executive Charter. Lives

in Bramford, ten minutes from here.

Friday after work, he called his

wife and said he had a great ticket

for the O’s game that he got from

an ad he placed on Craig’s List.

She never heard from him again.

BROOKS:

Does he have any priors?

GRIFFIN:

(confused)

Miller? I...I-

MARSH:

How is that relevant?

Brooks looks out the window, thinks.

.

BROOK:

Remember the snuff film that was

sent into the L.A. office last

year? Teenage geisha cut right in

two. Six weeks later, they found

her safe and sound, waiting tables

in Little Tokyo. Maybe Miller’s

involved somehow...maybe-

Marsh can’t believe what he is saying, but before she can

respond, Wilks appears at the open door-

22.

WILKS:

(pale, shaken)

Sir, killwithme, it’s--Well--I

think you should take a look-

Brooks, exasperated, hits his keyboard, awakening the screen.

Marsh and Griffin walk around the desk for a look.

Miller is slumped over, breathing hard, pouring sweat. The

Viewer counter, spinning much faster now, hits 1,120,000.

The Estimated Time Of Death has spun below 23 hours.

MARSH:

If those viewer numbers are real,

it’s a rate of increase that-

.

BROOKS:

It’s because they know it’s fake.

MARSH:

Or because they hope it isn’t.

(pointing)

That’s how he controls the time of

death.

A third heat lamp has begun to glow orange. Miller violently

bucks, crying out into his gag.

GRIFFIN:

What’s driving up the numbers like

that? It can’t just be word of

mouth.

EXT. MILLERS’ BRAMFORD HOME -- AFTERNOON.

TV NEWS VANS and SATELLITE TRUCKS are parked in the driveway.

The living room windows are illuminated by bright lights from

inside. COPS keep order among the neighbors, dog walkers,

kids on bikes, gathered outside.

An UNMARKED CAR drives up to the curb. JOHN BOX, 40, a

street-tough homicide detective, emerges, smoking a

cigarette. He is strong, self-assured, a touch world-weary.

A COP walks over to meet him.

BOX:

When did the circus hit town?

COP #1

Right after the clowns got tipped.

All of ‘em. Anonymously.

23.

Box shakes his head with dismay, and they head to the house.

The crowd parts. Box flicks his cigarette before he goes

inside.

INT. MILLERS’ BRAMFORD HOME -- CONTINUOUS -- AFTERNOON.

Under bright lights, MRS. MILLER sits on the couch, clutching

a ball of tissue, crying, talking to LOCAL TV REPORTERS.

MRS. MILLER

I don’t know this person. He calls

and says he’s killing my husband on

the computer! I can hear Herb

screaming!

Box enters and stops in the doorway to watch-

MRS. MILLER (cont’d)

What was I supposed to do? I had

to turn on the computer!

INT. STELLA MARSH’S BEDROOM -- LATER -- EVENING.

Sitting up in bed, Stella watches Mrs. Miller crying on TV:

MRS. MILLER (ON TV)

I wish I hadn’t! What do I tell my

girls!

ANNIE (O.C.)

Grandma, I can’t sleep.

Annie stands at the door, rubbing a knuckle into her eye.

STELLA:

Hold on, honey!

Stella quickly switches the channel. It’s Mrs. Miller again-

MRS. MILLER (ON TV)

Who would do this? Why?!

She switches it again.

MRS. MILLER (ON TV) (cont’d)

--never hurt anyone! He’s such a

good man!

At wit’s end, Stella snaps the set off and gets out of bed.

ANNIE:

Why was that lady crying?

24.

STELLA:

She’s what’s known as a sports widow.

Come on, I’ll read you a story.

They exit.

INT. DIAL-UP ROOM -- NIGHT.

THE CAMERA MOVES DOWN the row of agents and we see what they

are working on:
exactly what they were working on in the

film’s opening, and at the same measured pace. Nothing has

changed until....

WE STOP ON MARSH, driven, exhausted, typing fast, a finished

Chinese meal at her side. One small corner of her central

monitor shows Miller lying motionless, soaked, breathing

hard. Nine of the twelve lamps are blaze now.

.

The Viewer counter has climbed to 6,975,000, and the

Estimated Time Of Death had moved below 5 hours.

MARSH:

Interesting. The site blocks all

foreign users. Only US-based IP

addresses can get on.

GRIFFIN:

How patriotic.

(beat)

The e-mail offering Miller the

Orioles ticket, and the tips coming

into the TV stations, were all sent

from different mail servers, and

they were all shut down ten seconds

after the messages were sent.

MARSH:

No surprise.

Griffin wheels his chair over. He pulls the egg roll out and

reads from a note pad-

GRIFFIN:

I searched every newsgroup and found

the very first post that mentioned

killwithme. It appeared about thirty

seconds after the site went up.

(reading)

“A cat caught in a mouse trap. How’s

that for irony? It’s streaming live

on killwithme.com. It’s awesome.

Check it out.”

.

(beat)

(MORE)

25.

GRIFFIN(cont'd)

I traced it to a Georgetown

sophomore named Andrew Kinross.

But then I looked closer and saw

the post didn’t actually originate

from his computer.

MARSH:

Our guy got into his machine and

posted it from there.

GRIFFIN:

That would be my guess.

MARSH:

So let’s go after the originating

computer’s IP.

GRIFFIN:

It’s worth a shot.

Griffin wheels back to his desk. He is struck by the sight

of Miller on the screen, staring straight at him.

GRIFFIN (cont’d)

Too bad he wasn’t a Boy Scout. He

could blink Morse Code and tell us

where he is.

Marsh smiles and shakes her head at Griffin’s odd mind, then

begins to type.

INT. BASEMENT -- NIGHT.

Miller, cemented into the floor, is slouched over, his skin

burned violet, his lips and eyelids crusted, facing the video

camera. The air shimmies with the fierce heat.

Miller’s lifeless eyes slowly lift. Ten feet away, along the

dirty wall, lies the dead kitten -- a maggoty patch of dried

fur set in glue.

CLOSE ON A DIGITAL READOUT. When the Viewer counter goes

over 8,000,000, a hard drive flashes and the tenth lamp whirs

to life. Miller’s eyes widen and he moans helplessly.

INT. DIAL-UP ROOM -- SAME -- NIGHT.

.

Marsh and Griffin have fallen into a fast, efficient rhythm

together-

MARSH:

I’m trying to find a footprint on

Kinross’s box.

26.

GRIFFIN:

I think I see it.

MARSH:

Right.

GRIFFIN:

Got it.

MARSH:

I have it, too.

GRIFFIN:

Running trace-route. We'll get it.

It's been bounced through a relay-

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