Amy Redd is a fictional character, who discovers how individual data is collected, stored and used in our everyday life.
This is a work in progress, leave your comments, ideas and thoughts – they may be added to the story.! It is possible for the story plot to evolve and/or adjust as I continue writing the remaining chapters.
Enjoy and come back often; updates and new chapters will be released regularly.
INTRO
A Digital Forensic Analyst is a specially trained professional who works to retrieve information from devices and platforms.
The amount of digital data collected each day grows exponentially, think about how often you leave a digital footprint during your typical day, cell phone GPS, social media, credit card transactions…
It is estimated that in 2018 the world created 50,000 gigabytes (GB) of data a second. Compared to 1992 when it was estimated that 100 GB of data were generated each day.
Today, a VR device (Virtual Reality), tracks six head and six hand movements (left and right), equaling 18 movements. And at a speed of 90 times a second. Twenty minutes of activity equates to almost 2 million data points about a body.
Chapter 1
That’s Patrick, dripping wet with a towel around his waist standing in my bathroom doorway.
“I love your water pressure,” he yelled. The sound of a wet dog shaking could only mean there will be water on the mirrors and window.
We are friends, sort of, and currently co-workers. Patrick is in his late forties and has been separated and getting a divorce since the day we met a year ago. Despite his quasi-marital status, I find him attractive. Recently, he has been couch surfing at his parent’s one-bedroom apartment, finding more time to hang out at my place. I like his high energy, a trait you don’t find in single men past their late thirties. Today he got up at the crack of dawn and ran the four miles between his doghouse and my bathroom. At precisely 6:55 am, he rang my doorbell and phone text simultaneously, waking me up.
Now out of the shower, Patrick was creating puddles in the shape of footprints on my living room floor. “Put on something nice.” I heard the fridge open. “Got anything to eat?”
I was still in the same sweatpants that I slept in, disappointed I was awake before my alarm. “Well, here’s a first, a naked guy asking me to put clothes on,” I mumbled under my breath.
I stepped in two of the wet footprints. “Why are you here again?”
“I needed to take a shower, and I’m hungry.”
“Shower at the gym. Eat at McDonald’s. Simple problems, simple solutions.” I replied. Patrick belonged to the cross-fit gym a half a mile down the road.
“Gross. All those men in that tiny locker room.”
I could see an upside to having access to the men’s locker room.
My name is Amy Redd (pronounced “red” like the color). I’m single but looking. But the more I online date, the more I hate it.
By the time I finished getting dressed, Patrick was frying an omelet. Still, damp from the shower but dressed. Not exactly what I’d call “something nice.” He was wearing a t-shirt and frayed jeans. Ironically, him barefoot, making me breakfast, put a smile on my face. #mycookingskills consisted of sliced oranges and toasted bagels. I got half of my wish, a hot breakfast at home.
“I found green peppers and mushrooms. And some cheese, but I think it has seen better days”. Patrick danced in front of the gas stove to his own beat. He continued “I put the cheese back in the drawer.”
“Thanks for not throwing it out.” My eye-roll was as loud as my sarcasm. “I’m not sure the mushrooms are good either.” I threw my hair into a ponytail holder and pulled the mane through the hole of my Tiger’s cap. I caught a glimpse of my outfit in the living room mirror, neutral and comfy.
Patrick is a lawyer where I work we hold on retainer. Our friendship started a year ago, when I hired him on a personal job to help me with a simple prenup,I never used. After my fiancée and I broke up, Patrick showed up at my door once or twice. “Just a friend checking-in on a friend.” Lately, we have been hanging out, outside of work. I’m lonely. He is fun.
Buzz, buzz, buzz.
Text alerts saved me—in fact, multiple alerts. As if the day could get any stranger, I was receiving security notifications from the office. Fire, power, and motion sensors were all activated. Each sensor was set up to send an alert to a set of phones each time it was tripped. The alerts continued to appear.
I’m currently the solo marketing/IT department at a company called Gram and Granhom. They hired me to help install new software and kept me on to do odd jobs. I’m also responsible for promoting the business on social media. It’s a little dull, but I learn a lot about technology and personal and digital security.
The new alarm system was installed only two days ago. I helped with the installation and set up the online alert system. But, Bob was the director of operations and was the one in charge of security. It was his job to make sure the office is safe and secure.
Checking my laptop, I logged on the website to see our security/camera system. Technically, I shouldn’t have access to the cameras anymore. My role at the company didn’t need it, but I still had my access from testing. It was like having a key to a private door, and nobody knew.
Where I should have seen a video, I saw a red blinking “offline” error message. Another indicator displayed that the “smoke detector activated-2 minutes ago.”
“We have to go to my office now. There might actually be a fire.” It takes a lot for me to panic, but I was close.
“Won’t the alarm company contact 9-1-1?” Patrick wasn’t interested in the alarms.
“We are the alarm company. Bob should have received the same messages, and I’m sure he is doing whatever he needs to do, but I should check it out.”
I thought about calling my boss, Mr. Gram. He was old and old school when it came to technology. I was sure the alerts had him worked up. Last month when everyone in Oakland County got an Amber Alert, it took two conversations for him to understand the difference between an alert and a text message. Mr. Gram is seventy years old.
I found my purse and put on my tennies.
Patrick cutup the omelet and scooped it into two red solo to-go cups. He opened the silverware drawer and found two forks.
“Please,” I begged “use the disposable forks in the drawer. I’m already missing a couple of spoons from my set.
He shut the drawer with the silverware in hand, grabbed my car keys. “I’ll drive.”
I wasn’t sure he looked for the disposable utensils.
The offices are only a mile from my house as the crow flies; we could walk faster.
Flying out of the subdivision a little faster than the speed limit, we could see clouds of black smoke ahead. As we turned left onto Square Lake Road, the emergency lights flashed in our direction. An EMS truck rolled into the parking lot in front of us join two fire trucks.
Afraid to park in the middle of the chaos, we parked next door in the strip mall. Still able to watch, we finished our to-go omelets in silence. The glow from spinning red lights whirled around, reflecting off the windows of buildings. The traffic on Square Lake rubbernecked as drivers headed to work. The firemen (or firewomen, it was hard to tell the difference with their fire-resistant gear) moved with grace, hooking up the hoses.
“Well, this got really interesting.” Did I say that out loud?
I remembered Mr. Gram. At least now I had something to tell him. Flames were shooting out of the windows, holes in the roof. I still didn’t know what caused the fire. An explosion? Old electrical? Bad wiring on a crockpot?
The phone rang twice before he answered. “Hello, Mr. Gram. It’s Amy from the office.”
“I know this is Amy. I saw the caller ID!” Mr. Gram barked. It was obvious he was already worked up.
“Well, um … about those texts, um … alerts on your phone. There’s been some kind of … of fire at the office. I’m in the office parking lot, and there are fire trucks here. It’s bad Mr. Gram.”
I’m not sure he comprehended the repeating alerts. He’s the kind of guy that can leave the house without his cell phone and not turn around to retrieve it. Up until recently, he’d insisted on using a landline in both his home and his office.
It was a milestone day when we set up his voicemails from the office directly to his cell phone, now in one place—a small step forward into today’s wireless technology and a big step for him.
Mr. Gram was saying something, but I could barely hear him. I think he pulled the phone away from his ear while he tried to look at the messages.
“Mr. Gram?” I yelled into the phone hoping he would stop tapping buttons and listen to me. “I think it is important that you get here quickly. Don’t worry about the text messages. I repeat the whole building is on fire. Mr. Gram, can you hear me?”
“Emily get your purse. There is a fire at the office!” He was shouting at his wife.
“Mr. Gram, can I get an Uber car to pick you up? I think it’s going to be a hectic day.” There was silence on the other end.
“Mr. Gram? You know, like we used for the Christmas party? I can call them right now, and they can be there in fifteen minutes.” I installed the Uber app on his smartphone and activated his account. He’s never used it. I could just as easily order it for him. A couple of clicks on my iPhone and the car would be on its way. “Mr. Gram? There will be a blue Ford sedan in your driveway in twenty minutes. His name is Jimmy.” I hung up the phone and returned to the chaos in front of my eyes.
Patrick was videotaping the commotion. “This will be the coolest video on Facebook. I bet it will go viral.”
I moved out of the frame, “are you streaming live?”
“No, I don’t know how.” Patrick concentrated on capturing the full landscape of the burning building, turning his shoulders and arms in a careful, steady motion. “I’ve never seen a fire like this.” Neither had I.
At least a dozen people in yellow fire-resistant suits took control of all sorts of equipment. One of the officers had a remote controller, powering a drone, high above the flames. Water sprayed down on it all. Clouds of steam and smoke rose into the sky.
I knew our township had been testing a drone program for traffic emergencies last year, but I hadn’t seen one in action. I was eager to talk to the operator.
I could see Bob talking to the Fire Chief. He pointed at us, and the Chief looked in our direction. Moments later the Chief approached us with a clipboard. He asked us a couple of question about work and the building. Neither Patrick nor I had much information to offer. I explained about the security alerts and ensured the officer that our presence was a correlation and not causation. I didn’t explain why we were together.
The fire department was concerned about an empty vehicle in the work lot. It was in jeopardy of getting scorched from the flying embers. No-one recognized it. But that didn’t mean it didn’t belong to an employee. Over 300 guys worked in the field for G&G. Some guys carpooled to save on gas.
No one, thankfully, was found inside or hurt. If there was someone inside the building, chances are, they were dead. The Fire Chief didn’t give us too much information. He had to “wait for the fire investigator to determine the cause.”
Obtaining permission from the Chief to “disturb” the drone operator, I was giddy to see the bird in action. Bird’s-Eye footage projected onto a monitor sitting on a portable table. A total of four cameras broadcasted on his screens. The drone, two body cameras, and a camera mounted onto a ladder.
We continued to watch the firefighters work their magic on the flaming beast.
The wind blew smoke into my face and stung my eyes. I wondered how much of this will stick to my outfit. Like a bonfire, the smell never totally goes away. Unlike the smell, I wondered who much of my job will remain.
Chapter 2
All unneeded emergency vehicles left the G&G parking lot. We watched the building burn for two hours. The fire team working the whole time. The steam and smoke blended together releasing large puffs of clouds into the air.
Desk and chairs were scattered around, dripping wet. Metal filing cabinets remained standing, they containing archived paperwork, probably destroyed by water if the fire didn’t burn the contents. Mr. Gram had acquired decades of paperwork, we never intended to convert the history to digital backups. I wondered if that was a mistake.
The police created a barrier to prevent the gawkers from approaching the fire. Unlike burning buildings on TV, no news reporters were on sight taping live footage.
Patrick and I walked back to my car. “I need to find a rental property for the boys and me.”
Without thinking, I asked, “what happened?”
While Patrick couch surfed at his parents, his kids were all staying with their stepmom. “The ‘ex’ found cigarette butts around the hot tub this morning. The kids said she had a screaming fit before they left for school today.” He sighed. “I got to get those boys some relief.”
He’s afraid of breaking-up his Brady Bunch family. His current wife, whom he refers to as “the ex,” refuses to divorce. And from his description, she has never heard of the phrase “more bees with honey.”
My opinion is that any teenager smoking is a no-no in any household. But I assumed that Paddy at thirteen years old was provoking his stepmom.
Over time, I learned that Patrick’s version of being separated was a yo-yo of moving out and back in a week later. The “ex” accused him of being a crappy husband. He accused her of being mentally ill and manipulative. They may be crazy, right, and both wrong all at the same time.
Heading south on Woodward during the morning rush hour, vehicles were bumper to bumper, even at fifty miles an hour. Patrick, unable to relax, weaved through the lanes, speeding up to sixty, only to hit on the brakes at the next stop light.
“Are we late?”
Patrick honked the horn, attempting to signal a driver in a red Buick Regal that he was an idiot, making an illegal left turn at the intersection. “Michigan plates too.”
“Why do we have to take my car?”
“Just in case someone recognizes my car.”
I sighed “Oh, so your ass is covered while mine is just out waving in the wind?”
“That’s something I’d like to see.” He grinned. “I just had a case where a real-estate agent had recorded all the license’s plates during the open house. Later it was used as evidence for an alibi for one of the suspects.” He weaved between vehicles. “It could go both ways. The agent qualified her actions for tracking the visitors ‘in-case something was stolen.'”
We veered off of Woodward Avenue into the quaint downtown Birmingham area. Patrick pulled MLS listings out of his pocket. Although the rentals were not in the same school district, it was an easy commute to the high school. Patrick’s four youngest kids were all in the same school. His two stepdaughters would stay with the mom, and the boys would live with Patrick.
We parked on the street in front of a duplex. “For rent” hung next to “under construction” on the fence. Behind the open door, a women, mid-twenties welcomed us. Patrick extended his hand and introduced himself “I believe we have an appointment with you.”
“Come on inside. Are you familiar with the town?”
We entered the house, he gave me a tight squeeze around my shoulders. I turned my head and rolled my eyes.
Surreal. I was pretending shopping for a pretend home with my pretend husband.
The agent was droning on “… values were sure to go up. Blah, blah, blah. A small deposit of $5,000. It will be ready in four weeks.”
“Honey, what do you think? Will the three-bedroom be big enough or should we look for something bigger?” Patrick asked.
“Honey,” I mocked him. “Do you think you can wait four weeks to move?”
Sarah took the hint. “And Patrick, if you are looking for office space for your business, maybe I can offer you a two for…” She put her hand on his arm.
Was she flirting with him or trying to make a sale? For Pete’s sake, his fake wife is standing right here.
We walked out, and again Patrick draped his arm around me.
“Don’t do that.” I shrugged out of his hold.
“Don’t do what?” Clueless, his puppy dog eyes fixed on mine.
“Pretend we are a couple.” I inhaled for four-seconds in the nose and out the mouth for five. I was never going to find a real date if I was always on a fake one.
The second rental was a tiny nine hundred square foot home built in the 1950s. Not enough room for three males filled with raging testosterone. It was more for the yuppie that insisted on walking into town every day for yoga and seven dollar coffees. A Starbucks sign marked the end of the residential street and the start of the retail district. “Want anything?”
We walked in, and I sat in a leather seat facing the construction cranes outside. Just when you think there’s no more room they squeeze in another block of high rises. This isn’t a cheap rent district. There were rumors that Madonna, the singer, owned property in town. It is possible; she graduated high school somewhere nearby.
Patrick added sugar to his coffee and handed me a bottled water. “Are you still mad?”
“No, I just don’t know what I’ll be doing tomorrow.”
“What do you mean?” Patrick started clicking on his phone, connecting to the free Wi-Fi offered by Starbucks to check his email.
“Do you think I will still have a job tomorrow?” It was a rhetorical question. Mr. Gram had an archaically run business. He should have retired and moved to Florida long ago. “I bet he still writes contracts on the back of a dinner napkin.”
Patrick laughed. “I remember a time when they were.” Most of the G&G contracts ran through Patrick’s office.
“Come on. A couple more houses to see. When we finish, we can get a fro-yo.” As if a chocolate and vanilla twist with sprinkles for lunch, solves problems.
I was already bored but didn’t have anything better to do. We continued looking at properties.
*******
When we arrived back at G&G, the barriers were still up, and small fire crew was working to ensure no embers were still burning. The building now looked like a teardown. A burning smell lingered in the air. From where we parked, I could see my PC monitor upright on my desk. The webcam melted into a blob on top.
The Grams and Bob were talking with the Police Chief. It was already a long day, and it wasn’t even noon. I pictured a meme caption above the Grams saying, ”oh, dear.”
I texted Bob, asking him if they had lunch? He looked up at me and shook his head “no.”
I quickly sent another text.
Bob looked up again, giving me two thumbs up.
Sometimes at work, they called Bob, my work husband. We didn’t hang out socially, but we shared an office, partnered together on many projects, and ate lunch together more times than not. Bob warned me that Patrick was going to be my next “freak magnet.” I can’t say he was entirely wrong.
Bob, divorced in his forties, was tall with thick pre-mature silver hair. His kids were young adults. He was a homebody that didn’t date. The height difference between us, sixteen inches, made me look standard size and he looked like a towering giant.
With the Jimmy John’s app on my phone, I clicked on “past orders,” tapped “reorder.” And ta-da. Order placed and paid for by the G&G petty cash credit card.
Not more than a couple minutes later a Jimmy Johns’ employee head our way with bags of sandwiches, chips, cookies and bottled water.
“Freaky Fast.” The delivery guy announced as he handed over the bags and winked at the same time. He must say that a hundred times a day, probably helps with the tips. “We saw the firetrucks this morning. When we got your order, we knew you must be starving.”
The G&G team attacked the food. I grabbed one of the remaining sandwiches. I wasn’t picky, I was hungry.
Patrick’s phone beeped. “Let’s go. I have to get back to the office to pay Ya-Ya.” Ya-Ya is Greek for Grandma. Patrick and his grandma are both Polish.
To get back to my house, we had to make two Michigan left turns. I nagged Patrick on the virtuous of mobile banking. “… your life could be so much easier …”
“I don’t trust banking over the Internet.” Patrick is not the only one that believes that your mobile phone is less secure than swiping your credit card at Home Depot.
I repeated my rebuttal, “It just as secure as your office Wi-Fi. You use passwords, right? If you don’t use passwords, you leave the door unlocked.”
He was silent, I pictured him creating a mental list of his wireless devices and passwords.
“Passwords and backups. Amy’s laws, number one and two.” This wasn’t my first lecture on digital security.
“Okay, how about this approach. Your time is money, right?” I waited for him to nod. “A guy like you charges by the minute. The number of steps to transfer money on your smartphone to your grandma’s account is like using a rotary phone instead of a smartphone. You download the app, set up your account, click. Hashtag paid.”
“And Ya-Ya…” Patrick was looking for another excuse.
“All she has to do is go to any ATM and ta-da.” Expressing my magic trick with jazz hands. “I’ll help her too.” #stopprovidingfreeservices
“Please, please, please come to the digital age,” I begged. “Eliminate fax machines from your life. No more checks.”
When he didn’t respond, I continued, “you paid me to set up Quickbooks for you three months ago. I bet you still haven’t made one entry.”
“I forgot my password,” Patrick snickered.
I had suggested Ya-Ya learn Quickbooks since she had an accounting clerk background from her younger days. The software is easy to use, someone just needs to make the entries. Patrick’s grandma, eighty-eight years young, works part-time for his law firm. She only works when she wants to and gets paid when she wants to go to the casino, which is often. Her responsibilities include tidying the office, keeping the plants alive, and answering the phones.
If Ya-Ya was sharp enough to play poker in a weekly game at the casino, she could undoubtedly learn a few new computer tricks at work. I was starting to sound like a commercial. “You get extra security with mobile. Set up alerts. Or text, or email, or whatever you want.”
Patrick winked, he was listening.
Back at my house, Patrick unlocked the front door and followed me in. “When are you getting a security system? Or a dog?”
“Are you going to use mobile banking?” I don’t have any contingencies for the security system. In theory, living by myself, a security system would be smart. #thingstogetaroundto
Patrick went straight to the refrigerator as if someone had stocked it after we left this morning. “A security system would let you know if your house is on fire.”
“My smoke detector does that. Would a security system stop you from coming over at 7:00 am and raiding my fridge?” I rolled my eyes.
“A dog might.” Empty handed, he shut the refrigerator door and opened the freezer. “Did I tell you the kids got a rabbit? Now I have to buy rabbit food.”
I don’t have the patience or time for a pet.
“If the fire at G&G was no accident, who knows what else might happen?”
Patrick’s comment surprised me. It didn’t occur to me that the fire may have been intended to harm someone.
“I’ll call AT&T this week and check out their security packages.”
The type of security G&G provided was for protecting high valued items or buildings. I don’t own any precious items, except Moi. #loveyourself.
I don’t know what I would do if someone broke in while I was home. Fake news or not, there are crazies out there. My DIY security included sleeping with my smartphone and car keys. In lieu, of a house alarm, a car alarm would get someone’s attention.
My pocket vibrated. The theme from Sex and the City rang.
(text message)
12:05 pm
FROM: ICE/Sweet Sissy/De
Dinner at 5:30 at moms.
Bring dessert.
Just enough time to chill and shower.
It occurred to me Patrick had no way to get back to his office. “Are you going to run home? You can take an Uber.” He would never Uber. He is too frugal.
“Can I use your bike? I’ll bring it back later, maybe tonight,” he asked.
“Drop it off in the back yard. I’ll be at my parents for dinner.” I pushed Patrick out the door. He strapped his bag into the front basket.
I imagined once Patrick got to his office, he would then go to the bank, park the car, and go inside. Inside the bank, he would fill out a withdrawal slip, stand in line. When it was his turn, he would interact with a teller. At the teller window, he would enter his debit card into a card chip reader, enter a pin, show his ID … eventually withdrawing cash.
I think he secretly liked handing a wad of cash to Ya-Ya. It was his way of repaying her for all the quarters and dollars she slipped his way when he was younger. He paid her well, and often give her a little extra.
I kicked off my shoes and saw the dirty pans from this morning. Damn, where are my forks?
“Alexa?” My Echo responded. “Turn on NCIS on Netflix.”
I spotted Patrick’s towel from this morning on the floor. NCIS turned on.
“Okay.” The Echo responded.
****
I noticed the time on my phone. “Oh shit! Dinner.” I jumped into the shower.
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