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Tonight we delve into the case of the tragic loss of SparkleFairy, as uncovered by a legion of volunteers and obsessive geeks.
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118 - Dig: a Collective Detective Chronicle, Part 1 of 1
[music] Welcome to FlashPulp, episode 118. Tonight we present Dig, a collective detective chronicle, part one of one. [music] This episode is brought to you by Mr. Blog's Tepid Ride. It's sort of like Seinfeld, but angrier. Find it at http colon slash slash bmj2k.wordpress.com [music] Sunday is gloomy, my hours are stumbled. Give it the shadows I live with are stumbled. [music] [music] FlashPulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age. Three to ten minutes of fiction brought to you Monday, Wednesday, and Friday evenings. Tonight, we delve into the case of the tragic loss of sparkle fairy, as uncovered by a legion of volunteers and obsessive geeks. Dig, a collective detective chronicle, part one of one. Written by J.R.D. Skinner, art and narration by Opoponax, an audio produced by Jessica May. [music] 14-year-old Harris Baker was losing patience with his mother. Look, it'll take like 20 minutes or something. The sight of her son, with something as low tech as a shovel in his hand, had set the woman on edge, and she'd refuse the request for a ride outright. "I'm not interested in helping you with your silly internet games," she replied. "This isn't a game, sparkle fairy is a missing persons case, and we've been months doing the work on this. Me and like 50 other people have spent hundreds of hours. If there are so many of your friends involved, one of them can go. That's what I'm trying to tell you, Mom. I'm the closest. I need to be the one that goes." "Sorry." "I'll level with you. You can give me this ride, or you can expect an afternoon running through the classic repertoire of the statesmen of industrial music Trent Reznor." "How dare you threaten me, young man?" "I'm not, Mom. I'm letting you down gently. A threat would involve me accessing the online storage in which I backed up last summer's vacation pictures." "Not summy of tummy?" "Yes, Mom. The summy of tummy. All over Facebook." He attempted another run in an explanation as they drove. Well, remember how the NSA under the Bush administration was tapping the entire internet? "No," Harris winced. Well, it was. AT&T stored a copy of everything that crossed over their pipes, and then they accidentally opened access to their archives for ten months. It was basically an open secret, and although I don't think any one person has a complete copy, there are three major repositories currently in existence that, as a whole, contain everything that went up or down. Yeah, that was right. Everything that went up or down the tubes for six years. Huh. So we dig through it. A few months ago, a guy named Masadonicus put together a software suite that links up chat accounts, email addresses, and anything else he can figure the protocols for, with no cold case files outstanding with law enforcement. He threw the front end on the web under the banner of the collective detective, and a few high-profile links later, he found he had a whole volunteer workforce. Is that you? I'm one of many. I'm doing a little better than the average noob, though. I'm an editor, one of the council's trusted worker bees, not just some flaky contributor. Council? Yeah, suits mostly. The project is too big now, so someone has to handle the business end, and the legal stuff. Should I be concerned that you're up to something illegal? Heck no, I'm here to fight crime, Harris replied. He tightened his grip on the shovel. The break had come when another of the editors, an OCD-wielding nerd named Mitch Slapp, who Harris considered a candidate for Asperger's syndrome, had found an alternate email account on one of Sparkle Ferry's registrations for a forum she used to talk with friends while in the school library. Tracking back to the new inbox, they'd found a message from someone that hadn't appeared anywhere else in their search. The address had provided an IP number, and six days of obsessive digging through that destination's traffic had led the crew to an anonymous comment buried under 10,431 replies to a CNN article regarding the missing girl. It said simply, "She's under the oak tree on the west side of the Franklin train depot." At the time, the response had either been ignored as the raving of a troll, or simply gone unseen in the sheer volume of chatter. Whatever the case, none of the other users could have known about the cheap pot the same individual had offered to sell the missing girl in the hidden mailing. Once the collective had a lock on the source of his connection, however, his life was an open book that read like the work of a man who loved high-powered rifles, blamed delinquents for the world's woes, and refused to stay on his meds. Those involved in the investigation had since wasted hours staring at his house via street view in morbid curiosity, but they couldn't move forward, not without proof. It had come down to Harris to find that proof, at the abandoned station itself buried under deep layers of graffiti paint. He'd assured his mother that he was violating no laws and trespassing, but since leaving her on the open pavement and jumping the short fence, he was beginning to have doubts. He'd spent a long while inspecting the location via Google Maps, but now he was there, and it was cold. Following his phone's GPS to the spot the online maps indicated was likely Sparkle Ferry's resting place. He located the tree, just as he'd seen it in the satellite view, and just where the original damning comment had said it would be. There was a decent-sized rock nearby, so he set his phone down, with the camera set up to stream video of his work, and began digging. He hadn't expected how hard it would be, or how much muscle it would take. The chat that accompanied the feed began to fill, long-standing members were dragging in people who'd never even heard of the collective detective, and words spread like brush fire through the real-time social networks. The room was soon at its maximum capacity, and those bloggers who'd managed access took to writing up events as they happened. After 30 minutes, Mrs. Baker began to lean on the horn. With an embarrassed glance at the camera, Harris held up a finger and walked out of frame. The gathered observers broke into a chaos of mockery, uncertainty, and speculation. A moment passed, however, and the boy reappeared, now redoubling his efforts. He thought he'd found her at the two-foot mark, but wasn't sure. Picking the phone up, he focused the camera on the dirty shape, and his thumbs became a blur of communication. "What is this?" he asked. "I don't want to call the police and discover it's a moosebone or something." Hundreds of Wikipedia windows opened. Specialists reached for thick tomes they hadn't referenced since their school days, and Encyclopedia Britannica found itself with a sudden spike in user registrations. Mrs. Baker's shadow drifted into frame, and Harris turned to his mum's approach. He pointed to the bone. She returned to her vehicle without comment. "It's a human humorous bone," typed fifteen people at once. Somehow, Harris' brain had difficulty absorbing the information. Seconds ago, Sparkle Ferry had been an abstract data point to chase. But now, the indictment had come down. She was human. The loneliness of the place, and the terrible thing that had happened there, hit him hard in the stomach. But he took some comfort in knowing that, although a single person had seen her laid in the ground, a thousand pairs of eyes had witnessed her unearthing. For the first time in his life, Harris dialed 9-1-1. Flashpulp is presented by http colon slash slash skinner dot FM, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons attribution non-commercial 2.5 license. Text and audio commentaries can be sent to skinner@skinner.fm, or the voicemail line at 206-338-2792. But be aware that they may appear in future Flashcast. Many thanks to Wood of Highland of Wood for the intro bumper. You can find their podcast at bothersomethings.com. And thanks to you for listening. If you enjoyed the show, tell your friends. ♪ ♪ Some day as gloomy in my hours, I stumble left. ♪ ♪ Give it the shadows I live with our number left. ♪ ♪