Untraceable Page #6

MARSH:

Except it isn't just masked -- it's

encrypted....

GRIFFIN:

...using a DOD encryption program.

Interesting. Not a problem.

As Griffin types, his screens flash with graphics and data

streams. The two work and relay information in perfect sync.

GRIFFIN (cont’d)

Okay, I’ve unencrypted the originating

IP. A couple of duplexers,

a firewall. A major firewall, as

good as ours.

MARSH:

I just burned it down.

GRIFFIN:

Maybe he’s not as smart as we

thought.

MARSH:

Maybe.

GRIFFIN:

I’m in his hard drive. I’ve got his

root directory.

MARSH:

Check out the recent activity.

What's he been up to?

GRIFFIN:

Reading about his own site. I’m

sorry, but that’s just tacky.

27.

MARSH:

Let’s I.D. him. Any commercial

transactions?

GRIFFIN:

Got the four-by-four digits of a

credit card. First digit is a 5.

.

MARSH:

Mastercard. I see it. Cross-

referenced with an on-line receipt

from...Chang’s Three Rivers?

She glances at the Chang’s Three Rivers bag right next to

her. Her expression changes. Griffin is oblivious.

GRIFFIN:

He’s got good taste.

MARSH:

Orange Chicken, brown rice, and

four egg rolls -- that’s exactly

what we ordered. Except we got two

egg rolls.

This gets Griffin’s attention. He looks at Marsh and,

without breaking eye contact, slides open a desk drawer to

reveal two more egg rolls. Marsh sits back, pissed.

MARSH (cont’d)

He routed us right back to our own

computer. Sh*t!

GRIFFIN:

So he’s not as smart as we thought.

He’s smarter.

They sit for a moment, breathing hard, a bit spooked.

GRIFFIN (cont’d)

He’s in our network, you know.

MARSH:

Not for long. Internal Ops will-

An alert on her screen starts to flash red.

MARSH (cont’d)

There. He’s purged.

Marsh’s Treo vibrates. She looks down, hits a key. On the

screen, the text message is nothing but a field of random

numbers.

28.

Before Marsh can react, she notices Brooks striding down the

hall with Detective John Box. Brooks holds open a conference

room door and gestures for Marsh to join them.

GRIFFIN:

Maybe that’s the profiler you asked

for.

MARSH:

(getting up)

Not unless Quantico’s changed its

dress code.

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

Marsh enters a bit warily. Detective Box stands, exhausted,

looking out the window, sipping coffee.

BROOKS:

Jennifer Marsh -- Detective John

Box. Baltimore PD’s got him on the

Miller abduction.

Box turns to face her. A charged moment. Some chemistry.

Maybe even a flicker of recognition. They shake hands.

MARSH:

A pleasure.

He smiles. Slightly awkward beat.

MARSH (cont’d)

So, you’re on the team? You’ll be

joining the task force?

BOX:

No team, just me.

BROOKS:

And we won’t be using the task

force until we have a better idea

of what we’ve got here.

Marsh stares him down for a beat.

MARSH:

Well, that’s idiotic.

BROOKS:

(amused, to Box)

What’d I tell you?

29.

BOX:

(with a smile)

It’s a wonder the State Department

hasn’t come calling.

MARSH:

If you’ll excuse me-

BROOKS:

No, I will not. Get back in here.

Marsh reluctantly obeys.

BROOKS (cont’d)

It’s past John’s bedtime -- give him

what you’ve got, and he’ll do the

same for you, then you can both go

home.

MARSH:

Now? I still have-

BROOKS:

I’m switching you to days.

MARSH:

(sharply)

Why? I’m on this schedule because

of my daughter, so-

BROOKS:

You play nice now.

Brooks exits, shutting the door behind him. Tense silence.

Marsh exhales heavily and sits, resigned-

MARSH:

You first.

.

BOX:

We found Miller’s car parked three

blocks from Camden Yards. No

prints but his own. The stadium

cameras caught nothing. We’re

asking the public for their help.

(beat)

What else? Oh, yeah, I talked to

his wife.

Still holding his coffee cup, Box uses his other hand to flip

open his notebook.

30.

BOX (cont’d)

Patty. She’s a wreck. Doesn’t

know why anyone would do this to

him.

He flips the notebook shut. That’s it. Marsh can’t help but

smile.

MARSH:

Thorough.

BOX:

What can I say? Miller’s a good

guy. A veteran. Coaches Little

League. Church every Sunday.

MARSH:

Then why’d the subject pick him?

BOX:

“Subject?” What is this, science

class?

.

MARSH:

What would you prefer?

BOX:

How about the “piece of sh*t?”

MARSH:

Why’d he pick Miller?

BOX:

I don’t know. Maybe it was random.

Marsh thinks for a few beats.

MARSH:

What about the guy who owned the

kitten? You talk to him?

BOX:

Hickman. Yeah, he’s a jackass.

Box slaps down a Baltimore Sun with a picture of a spike-

haired, chubby malcontent in an orange-and-yellow uniform.

BOX (cont’d)

He just wants the collar back.

It cost him twelve bucks on ebay.

That’s a lot when you’re an

assistant manager at Burger King.

31.

Marsh settles into thought. Box is intrigued by her

intensity.

BOX (cont’d)

What’ve you got for me?

She looks at him, assessing. Then speaks softly-

MARSH:

There’s no such thing as an

untraceable website...but now I’m

not so sure. Killwithme is like

nothing I’ve ever seen or imagined.

As long as the prime-upload site is

a ghost, this guy can kill Miller

...or anyone else he wants...he can

invite the whole world to watch and

join in...and there’s not a thing

we can do to stop it.

BOX:

On your end.

MARSH:

That’s right.

BOX:

Guess I have some work to do.

Box rises from his chair. She watches him go.

INT. DIAL-UP ROOM HALLWAY -- MINUTE LATER -- EVENING.

Emerging from the room, Box goes one way and, moments later,

Marsh goes another. Marsh walks back to her desk, begins

packing up her stuff. She speaks to Griffin-

.

MARSH:

Wynn’s switching me to days.

When she doesn’t get a response, she looks over and sees

Griffin sitting motionless. She walks over. Looks.

A terrible sight: All twelve of the lamps glow red. Miller

lies dead, his skin a deep purple, cracking and peeling, his

hair smoking.

The Viewer counter is spinning like a slot machine, moving

above 11,056,000, and the Estimated Time Of Death has stopped

at 00:
00:00.

32.

GRIFFIN:

(whisper)

There was time, but then the

numbers...they just exploded.

The text banner appears: ROTFL...TYFAYS...MTC...ROTFL

TYFAYS...MTC...ROTFL...TYFTAYS...MTC.... Marsh reads,

thinks, then translates-

MARSH:

Rolling On The Floor Laughing.

Thank You For All Your Support.

More To Come.

Angry but stoical, she goes back to her desk. She unlocks

her drawer and jams her Glock back in her holster. She grabs

her jacket. On her way out, she murmurs-

.

MARSH (cont’d)

We’ll see about that.

FADE TO BLACK.

FADE IN:

EXT. WASHINGTON D.C. MALL -- EARLY MORNING.

The sun rises on the vast expanse of green. And so begins a

SLOW VISUAL TOUR OF WASHINGTON D.C. at DAYBREAK -- the

museums, the parks, the monuments, historic Georgetown, the

White House....

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