Postmortem(104)

She got into SQL by typing in System/Manager, and executed a connect/resource/DBA command on the user name “Deep” and a password she made up— “jumble.” The grant was connected. It was the new DBA. With it she could get into any of the office tables. It was powerful enough for her to do anything she wished.

It was powerful enough for her to alter data.

It was powerful enough, for example, for someone to have altered Brenda Steppe’s case record so that the item “tan cloth belt” was listed in the “Clothing, Personal Effects” field.

Did he do this? He knew the details of the murders he’d committed. He was reading the papers. He was obsessing over every word written about him. He would recognize an inaccuracy in the news accounts before anybody else would. He was arrogant. He wanted to flaunt his intelligence. Did he change my office data to jerk me around, to taunt me?

The break-in had occurred almost two months after the detail was printed in Abby’s account of Brenda Steppe’s death.

Yet the data base was violated only once, and only recently.

The detail in Abby’s story could not have come from the OCME computer. Was it possible the detail in the computer came from the newspaper account? Perhaps he carefully went through the strangling cases in the computer, looking for something inconsistent with what Abby was writing. Perhaps when he got to Brenda Steppe’s case he found his inaccuracy. He altered the data by typing “tan cloth belt” over “a pair of nude pantyhose.” Perhaps the last thing he did before logging off was to try to pull up Lori Petersen’s case, out of curiosity, if for no other reason. This would explain why those commands were what Margaret found on the screen.

Was my paranoia running off with my reason?

Could there be a connection between this and the mislabeled PERK as well? The cardboard file was spangled with a glittery residue. What if it hadn’t come from my hands?

“Lucy,” I asked, “would there be any way to know if someone has altered data in my office computer?”

She said without pause, “You back up the data, don’t you? Someone does an export, doesn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“Then you could get an export that’s old, import it into a computer and see if the old data’s different.”

“The problem,” I considered, “is even if I discovered an alteration, I can’t say for sure it wasn’t the result of an update to the record one of my clerks made. The cases are in a state of constant flux because reports trickle in for weeks, months, after the case has been initially entered.”

“I guess you got to ask them, Auntie Kay. Ask them if they changed it. If they say no, and if you find an old export that’s different from the stuff in the computer now, wouldn’t that help?”

I admitted, “It might.”

She changed the password back to what it was supposed to be. We logged off and cleared the screen so no one would see the commands on the OCME computer in the morning.

It was almost eleven o’clock. I called Margaret at home and she sounded groggy as I questioned her about the export disks and asked if she might have anything dating back prior to the time the computer was broken into.

She offered me the expected disappointment. “No, Dr. Scarpetta. The office wouldn’t have anything that old. We do a new export at the end of every day, and the previous export is formatted, then updated.”

“Damn. Somehow I’ve got to get hold of a version of the data base that hasn’t been updated for the past several weeks.”

Silence.

“Wait a minute,” she muttered. “I might have a flat file . . .”

“Of what?”

“I don’t know . . .” She hesitated. “I guess the last six months of data or so. Vital Statistics wants our data, and a couple of weeks ago I was experimenting, importing the districts’ data into one partition and spooling all the case data off into a file to see how it looks. Eventually, I’m supposed to ship it to them over the phone, straight into their mainframe—”

“How many weeks ago?” I interrupted. “How many weeks ago did you spool it off?”

“The first of the month . . . let’s see, I think I did it around the first of June.”

My nerves were buzzing. I had to know. At the very least, my office couldn’t be blamed for leaks if I could prove data were altered in the computer after the stories appeared in the papers.

“I need a printout of that flat file immediately,” I told her.

There was a long silence. She seemed uncertain when she replied, “I had some problems with the procedure.” Another pause. “But I can give you what I’ve got, first thing in the morning.”