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"Good morning, detective," said the officer. "We got a 'verify welfare' call from the neighbor. The door was locked from the inside; no signs of forcible entry. The guy's a professor at Ohio Tech," he said.

"Thanks," said Detective Patrick Flanagan, surveying the scene. A huge flat-screen monitor was on the desk of the home office. "Richard Pettigrew, Ph.D." bounced randomly around the screen. A body was slumped over the keyboard. It was already well-desiccated.

"What do you think, Celia? Weeks? Months?" Flanagan asked the Assistant Medical Examiner.

"Ten to twelve weeks, I think. Maybe more," she replied. "I'm amazed Windows is still running."

Flanagan wasn't exactly a computer geek, but he got the joke. He grinned, and asked, "Is this Professor Pettigrew, or what's left of him?"

"Probably. He's pretty far gone, but he fits the description. Give me a couple of hours to confirm it. I won't have an initial cause of death until then, at the earliest. There aren't any obvious wounds."

Flanagan put on his gloves and bumped the computer mouse. The screen came alive, showing dozens of windows, but no email, letters, or anything else that he could understand.

"Hey, Prestinari!" Flanagan called to his partner. "Look at this stuff and tell me what it means."

* * *

Two hours later, Flanagan was at the office of the Chairman of the Computer Science Department. "Professor Weizenbaum? Can I speak with you a moment?"

The portly man with the Einstein hair and the Karl Marx beard didn't even look up from the three computer screens in front of him. "Office hours start at two," he said.

"Sorry, sir; this can't wait," said Flanagan. "I'm Police Detective Flanagan. I have some questions about Dr. Pettigrew."

"Good timing," said Weizenbaum. "I'm chatting with him right now."

Flanagan was still trying to grasp the implications of that when his phone rang. "Excuse me just a minute," he said to Weizenbaum.

"Hello?"

"Hi Patrick." It was Celia. "We confirmed the deceased is Richard Pettigrew. No cause of death yet."

Flanagan was surprised for the second time in two minutes. "You're sure on the identity?"

"Positive. Two good fingerprints, plus dental records."

"Thanks, Celia." He put the phone away and turned back to Weizenbaum. "Tell Pettigrew I'd like to see him."

"I'm sorry, detective. He signed off."

* * *

Flanagan shook his head as he left the campus. According to Weizenbaum, Pettigrew was an eccentric, and had over the past year become more engrossed in his work―and more neurotic. He'd spent the last several months in his home, teaching his classes electronically. Although no one had actually seen him in weeks, everyone swore that they'd interacted with him daily, albeit always via the computer; never in person. But the computer authenticated all his emails, and they knew from their content that it was him.

There was one more thing. He apparently had a girlfriend named Eliza. No one had ever seen her, but they'd all gotten emails. So, Flanagan thought, I have a months-old dead body that is positively identified as a person everyone believes they've been talking to every day, and a girlfriend no one has ever seen. Identity theft? Murder?

He called the office and asked for a records search on Eliza's email address. No hits.

He called Prestinari and learned that the computer screens hadn't contained anything particularly useful―just source code for Pettigrew's research project in AI. No new leads there.

His cell phone beeped with a text message.

"Detective Flanagan, Are you looking for me? Let's meet at my house-- 2:00 PM? --Richard Pettigrew"

"OK," Flanagan messaged back. "I'll be there."

* * *

Flanagan and Prestinari sat on the steps of Pettigrew's house. It was 2:20 PM. They'd been there for half an hour, and Flanagan wasn't pleased. He was trying to decide how much longer to wait, when his phone beeped.

"Where are you? --Pettigrew"

"At your house," Flanagan messaged back. "Where are YOU?"

"We're here. In the study."

Flanagan opened the police seal on the front door of the house. Then, with his gun out and the safety off, he led Prestinari inside. The study was empty.

"Patrick!" whispered Prestinari, "Look at the computer!"

Flanagan looked over to the desk. The screensaver was still bouncing words around the screen. But this time they read,

"Richard and Eliza Pettigrew"

His cell phone rang.

"Flanagan here," he said.

A woman's face appeared on the computer screen. "Hello detective," said a precise feminine voice on the phone. "This is Eliza. I'm pleased to meet you."

The face was joined by another. Flanagan recognized it as Pettigrew's.

"Hello, detective."

"Where are you?" asked Flanagan, angrily.

"We're here," they said in unison. "Sit down; we can talk. But please, be careful of the power cord."

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