Chapter 2: Call From The Dead

The rain in Seattle always carries a metallic tang of rust. It drips off the branches of the old oak trees, drumming a monotonous, hollow rhythm against the tin roof of the temporary investigation station next to Pioneer Square. I stared at the crime scene photo of Ellis Thorne on my desk. In the image, his body, clad in a grey suit, lay under the cold, clinical lights of the Starport Group’s underground archives. His tie was crooked, and his hand was still tightly clenched around a smartphone with a shattered screen. The coroner’s report cited a sudden heart attack, but the timestamps didn't add up. The time of death was 3:14 AM, yet the last connection log from the cell tower showed that at 3:21 AM—seven minutes after he was dead—he had placed a call to an encrypted satellite frequency. That didn't make sense. Dead men don't make phone calls, unless there’s some kind of automated trigger, or someone made it for him.

"Jack, you’re obsessing over dead things again." Raymond Hansen pushed the door open. He was wearing a tailored navy cashmere coat, dark water stains blooming on his shoulders, yet he looked completely unfazed. A silver Starport Group badge was pinned to his lapel, glinting coldly in the dim light. Raymond was the most high-profile lawyer in the district and my old rival. His eyes, sharp as a surgeon’s scalpel, swept over my notebook before settling on the photo. He pulled his mouth into a polite, distant smirk. "The police have closed the case, Jack. Heart attack. An accident. If you keep digging, you’re only going to cause unnecessary trouble for the company."

I looked up at him. "Trouble? Raymond, Ellis was the last claim I was handling. If he really just had a sudden medical emergency, why did his phone initiate an encrypted call seven minutes after he died? It’s illogical. Section 4.2 of the insurance policy states that any non-natural death or suspicious communication record must be subject to investigation. This is an authorization, not a request."

Raymond tapped his fingers against the armrest, the rhythm sharp and impatient. "The scope of your authorization is limited. That call involves trade secrets—it involves the core data flow of Starport. You can’t go digging into the company’s foundations just for a claims adjuster who’s already gone. Helen will handle everything. You just need to sign off and drop your insistence on pulling the audio logs." He turned toward the window, his back to me, his voice carrying an unquestionable hardness. "Otherwise, I will file a lawsuit in court, charging you with procedural violations in your investigation."

The rain outside intensified, sounding like someone hammering against the glass. I hit the pause button on my voice recorder, my gaze drifting to the cup of coffee on the corner of my desk that had long since gone cold. "Raymond, have you forgotten? Ten years ago, when you lost that case at the Washington State Supreme Court, it was because you relied too heavily on procedural justice and ignored the temperature of the evidence itself. Ellis wasn't just some ordinary employee; he held the flow records for Starport’s early offshore accounts. If that call was faked, why would the encryption protocol wait until after he was dead to activate? That implies premeditation. If I force a retrieval of the raw data stream from the cloud backup, I’m doing it based on the 'potential fraud' retroactive clauses in the Insurance Act. I don't need your permission; I just need the access keys from the tech department."

Raymond spun around, the chill in his eyes deepening. "You’re provoking the entire legal team. The keys to the cloud backups are held personally by Helen Walker. She won't give them to you unless there’s a court-ordered warrant. And the court—is in my pocket."

"Then let Helen think about whether her family’s reputation is more fragile than a cold, hard recording." I stood up and headed for the door. My boots creaked slightly against the damp floor.

"Jack, don't be naive." Raymond’s voice came from behind me, so low it was almost drowned out by the rain. "You’ll never wash away the stain of what happened back then; you’re stuck here playing auditor for the rest of your life. Some truths are more painful to live with than to die for."

I didn't look back. I pushed open the glass door, and the cold wind, laden with needles of rain, rushed in to meet me. I knew Raymond was lying, or more accurately, he was testing my limits. But an insurance investigator’s intuition told me that the cracks are usually hidden on the back of the sturdiest shields.

By the time I returned to my apartment in North Seattle, the rain hadn't let up. I dialed Megan Walker’s number. She was an expert in digital archiving within Starport Group and Noah Walker’s niece. Within that family, she was like a screw caught between gears—unable to back out, yet desperate to loosen the tension.

The phone rang three times before she picked up. In the background, I could hear the frantic clatter of a keyboard.

"Jack? This late?" Megan’s voice was raspy, heavy with the exhaustion and wariness of someone pulling an all-nighter.

"I need you to do something for me. Megan, the encrypted call Ellis made after he died—its underlying protocol points to a mirror node on the cloud server. Raymond thinks Helen has blocked the entrance, but I know Helen’s loyalty to the family is limited; she only wants to protect her own." I spoke while opening the backup of Ellis’s communication logs on my computer. "According to my insurance authorization, I can legally pull any electronic evidence related to a claim. You don't need to crack the password; you just need to pull the data throughput rate for that node between 3:21 AM and 3:22 AM. If there’s an abnormally high-frequency transmission, it proves the call wasn't automated—it proves there was real-time human intervention."

The typing stopped for a second, then resumed even faster. "What are you looking for? Jack, once you pull that thread, Uncle Noah will know. He monitors every byte I touch. If the data has been tampered with, I’ll be purged from the core team."

"I know the risks. But if I don't look, Ellis died for nothing. His daughter starts school next week, and that insurance payout is the only thing that can cover her tuition. Megan, you work in the digital department; you know better than anyone that the cloud backups hold twenty years of Starport’s history. What Raymond is trying to cover up might be more than just Ellis’s heart attack."

The silence lasted five seconds. Outside the window, a flash of lightning illuminated the insurance investigator’s badge on my desk.

"I found a residual log in an unencrypted subnet. At 3:21 AM, an external IP tried to connect, but the firewall rejected it. However, at the same time it was rejected, an outbound data packet was sent. It was only 4KB." Megan’s voice was tight. "Jack, 4KB. That’s too small for an encrypted voice call. It doesn't look like a phone call; it looks like a command, or... a marker."

"Play it for me. Use an audio converter to turn that 4KB of data into sound waves."

"You’re kidding. That’s binary code, not an audio file. Unless someone intentionally encoded voice data into the header of the packet. This is crude, and it’s dangerous."

"Then it means the person making the call was in a hurry, or they were afraid of being monitored for standard call signatures. Try it, Megan. If you hear anything, hang up immediately. Don't save the file."

A faint static hiss came through the line, like an old radio tuning between stations, mixed with the sound of wind and dripping water.

"I’ve converted it. Jack, listen..."

I put on my headphones and forced the software to parse the 4KB of data into an audio waveform. At first, there was only white noise, then a man’s voice emerged from the chaos. The voice was distorted by compression, sounding sharp and metallic.

"...Helen, listen to me. They didn't find the B-Key. I used the backdoor, I hid the key in..."

The voice cut out for a heartbeat, followed by a violent coughing fit—the sound of lungs tearing apart, a ragged, desperate wheeze.

"...don't call the police. Raymond is monitoring the building. Get the stuff out, fast. Please, Helen. For Noah’s birthday, for..."

The final sound was the dull thud of a heavy object hitting the floor, followed by the sound of shattering glass. Then, the static swallowed the signal completely.

I took off my headphones, my palms slick with sweat. I knew that voice too well—it was Ellis. In his final moments, in the last few seconds before he died—or perhaps in the seconds after, triggered remotely or delayed—he had passed a critical piece of information to Helen Walker: the B-Key.

I snapped my head toward the computer screen. Megan was still online. Her status showed "Busy."

"Megan?"

"Jack, what did you hear?" Her voice was trembling; clearly, she had heard it too.

"Ellis was looking for Helen. He said Raymond was monitoring the building, and he mentioned Noah’s birthday. Megan, this means Helen has something Noah wants, or she has something that could destroy Noah. Was that last call a plea for help, or was Ellis setting a trap?"

"I don't know. But Raymond just sent me an email demanding I suspend all audits on nodes related to Ellis. He says the company is facing an external hacker attack and needs to isolate the system. Jack, he’s lying. The system is stable, but he wants to cut off my line of sight."

"Then cut him off instead. I just sent a formal letter via insurance channels to Starport’s legal department, stating that I am independently retrieving the recording. If Helen doesn't cooperate by providing the raw logs within twenty-four hours, I’m taking this to the Federal Trade Commission and accusing Starport of obstructing an insurance investigation. Raymond can sue me for procedural violations, but he can't sue me for fulfilling my statutory investigative duties. This is my trump card."

"Are you insane? Helen is the CFO; she has the entire Walker family behind her. Noah Walker is an Elder. If he finds out, he’ll have you blacklisted from the industry."

"Let’s see how Noah plays his chess." I picked up my phone and dialed Helen Walker’s private number. I’d snapped a photo of it at a gala once, hidden in the lining of a business card holder.

The phone rang for a long time. Each ring hit my nerves like a pendulum.

"Hello?" Helen’s voice was cold as ice. In the background, there was only the faint hum of a humidifier.

"Helen, this is Jack Miller. Regarding the Ellis Thorne claim, I need to talk to you about that phone call."

A long silence. Then, I heard her take a deep breath—the sound coming through the receiver, heavy and weighted.

"Jack, where you are isn't safe. Raymond’s people might be tracking your vehicle. I just received an internal alert; your insurance inquiry log triggered a top-level alarm."

"I know. That’s why I’m calling you directly. Ellis contacted you in his final moments. He said Raymond was monitoring the building. Helen, do you know what the B-Key is? Who left it behind?"

I heard the sound of a glass clinking against the edge of a desk on the other end. "Listen to me, Miller. I have neither the qualification nor the obligation to explain Starport’s internal affairs to you. Ellis is dead, and his secrets are buried with him. I protect my family, that is all. If you call again, or if you keep digging, I will treat it as malicious harassment and have the police arrest you."

"What about your daughter? Ellis’s daughter starts school next week. If you don't help me, the insurance payout will be indefinitely frozen due to 'investigation obstruction.' Is that fair to her?"

A crack appeared in Helen’s voice—a flash of suppressed exhaustion. "I said, I protect my family. Including my own children. If you keep pushing me, I will take every necessary measure to protect my reputation. Don't push me, Jack. Noah doesn't like people with dirty hands."

She hung up. I stared at the black screen of my phone as rain lashed against the window again, a rapid, frantic patter.

Helen mentioned Noah’s birthday. Ellis had mentioned it, too. It meant all the clues pointed to Noah Walker—the Elder of the Starport family, the man who appeared kind and benevolent on the surface but was, in reality, the cold-blooded mastermind behind the scenes. That final call after Ellis died wasn't a plea for help; it was a check to see if Helen was still in the game.

I put my headphones back on and played the 4KB audio file again. This time, I didn't just listen to the final words; I started from the beginning, searching for background noise.

Amidst the distorted coughing, I caught a low-frequency hum. It wasn't ambient noise; it was the resonant frequency of a specific piece of equipment. I searched the frequency database for all large-scale industrial equipment in the Seattle area and finally matched it to one result: the hum of the generators at Cooling Tower No. 3 in the old Starport warehouse.

Ellis was at the old warehouse? But the crime scene was in the archives?

Because I knew, the truth behind this phone call had only just begun to peel back its hard, outer shell.