Soul Blind

By Michael Ermitage

When a new smart phone app enables users to view your soul, Tim Manning finds himself labeled soul-less. Saddled with the burden of sudden pop culture sensation, Tim swears revenge on the maker of the app, cherubic faced Webster Sparks. The entrepreneurial Webster ignores Tim to concentrate on a larger problem - the apparent kidnapping of his daughter, a low-soul scorer herself.

Both Tim and Webster learn that the app is being used by a new breed of serial killer intent on eliminating low soul scores.

Soul Blind examines the bounds of human technology, the desire for ever-lasting life and the gullibility of us all.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael Ermitage
• Release date: May 11, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301749751

Michael Ermitage

I write technology thrillers. My writing examines the bounds of technology and how it affects our daily lives. I love good writing. My inspiration was John McPhee's A Sense of Where You Are. It combined my love of sports and prose so eloquently. Franzen, Eugenides, Russo, Murakami, and more - there's literally not enough time in a day to get to all. Sometimes I wonder how there are enough readers for all the great books that are published. It's encouraging to know that so many people find it so rewarding despite there being no reality show dedicated to its practice.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Webster gently pushed open the door to his daughter's bedroom. The silhouette of the anime character featured on the poster on her closet door challenged his presence with two drawn swords. His daughter's oversized military boots, black leggings, and black hooded sweatshirt dotted a path from the door to her bed. He followed it and spied her heaving outline against the glowing night light and mouthed an inaudible I love you. He walked down the second floor hallway and stopped at his son's bedroom door and admired the crudely drawn dinosaur taped to the outside. The rays of the sun in the picture extended nearly to the ground. The dinosaur sported an ear-to-ear grin. A lilting lullaby from the CD player on the dresser welcomed Webster as he peeked his head inside and whispered I love you. He hurried down the twisting stairs, clip-clopping against the hardwood, and almost knocked over his wife as he entered the kitchen.

Whoa - don't worry - the office isn't going anywhere, she said.  

Today is a big day Wendy.  

Sounds like business as usual to me.

No, today is a whopper because it's time to stop business as usual. It's time to shake Pansophic Inc. from its doldrums. It's time for a new idea!  Webster dropped two pieces of bread into the toaster and assembled a line of fruit in front of the blender.  

Ok, then, what's the idea? she asked.

I don't know.  

You don't know? I think that's the first time I've ever heard you utter those words. How do you not know?  

I employ smart people, Wendy, and I'm going to get them together and we're going to come up with a great new idea together.  

Does this mean your last great idea is no longer great? Wendy yelled over the grinding sound of the blender.  

The last great idea was my idea and that was selfish. I thought I could assemble a great team of web designers and companies would be knocking down our door. But they don't want quality - they want cheap Indian labor. We're offering Ferraris and the world wants Yugos.  

Wendy put her arms loosely around the waist of her stocky husband. She leaned back and looked up into his nut brown eyes.  

Yugos?

Yeah, I'm old.  

The short-by-Chicago-standards-25-minute-commute provided Webster with what he liked to call windshield time. It was then that he organized his thoughts, took voice notes into his phone, and gulped coffee like his throat was on fire.

Webster had chosen the sprawling fourth floor loft on the near West side for his office space six years ago for many reasons. The short commute from the Western suburbs where he lived, the cheaper rent in a rejuvenated neighborhood, and the proximity to numerous new and established bars and coffee shops piqued his initial interest. But it was the massive board room that convinced him to sign the lease. He imagined a room full of gray-templed, suit-wearing professionals laughing as he presented from his elaborate projected Power Point, and then shaking his hand over a signed contract. The boardroom is the window to a company's soul, he always said, and this room was immaculate. He outfitted it with state-of-the-art technology including an HD projection system, high-speed cable Internet connections, and video conferencing via a mounted flat panel. Dali prints hung on the walls stirring the creative subconscious of the room inhabitants. His Invisible Man painting rested next to the projection screen daring occupants to choose where to look. The deep-red mahogany conference table sat 16 and was highlighted by a Waterford crystal vase refreshed daily with flowers. Their scent sneaked past the 12-foot double doors begging visitors to enter.  

Webster stood near the projection screen as his employees filtered into the room. He smiled and nodded, and occasionally offered a ‘hello’ as they entered, some doing a better job of masking their anxiety about the mysterious meeting than others. Webster cleared his throat and stepped to the center of the room silencing the soft murmur of the full boardroom. The crowd of 25 employees all stared at him. He clicked the button on his pointer and the overhead projection system hummed. The screen showed a blank white image.

Does anyone know what this is?  

Silence.  

C'mon, give it a guess. Anybody?  

Silence.  

Snow? said a pony-tailed man sitting near the front of the conference table.

Isn't it a polar bear playing in snow? another asked.  The room filled with laughter.  An albino doing cocaine, another said.  Now the room burst out in an unadulterated chorus of giggles.  

Good, good, Webster said. I love the creativity. But it's not an albino polar bear doing cocaine in the snow. This, my friends, is a blank slate. By the end of this meeting, we will have the next great idea in the evolution of this company. We all know Pansophic has struggled lately but we're too smart to be rendered obsolete. Our expertise is creating web sites and applications that engage the public. But instead of providing the next one to our clients according to their specifications, we're going to make one according to ours. We're going to own it. We're going to market it. We're going to monetize it. So, give me your ideas. Nothing is too farfetched.  

The laughter turned to chatter then turned back to silence as Webster spoke. Those around the boardroom looked at each other, at the tables, and at their laps. Webster adjusted his tie and failed to suppress his nervous smile.

I have an idea, said a woman near the back of the room. I was working on a project with one of our clients that required us to make a trivia game related to their industry. I think we should make downloadable trivia games that are industry specific. You know, like one about manufacturing or one about pharmaceutical products.  

Webster walked to the side of the room as she talked and wheeled out a giant white board. He wrote the word IDEAS in blue and next to a bullet wrote Industry-specific trivia games as he said it out loud. It wasn't a good idea for a number of reasons, not the least of which was that it bored him even upon hearing it for the first time. It had no punch, no panache. But it did set a low bar for entry, and for that, Webster continued to smile.

Great. Thank you for getting us started, Jane, is it?  

Yes, Jane. You're welcome.

I have one, said a bespectacled man near the front. You know how when you go to the grocery store, the deli line is always a mess? Sometimes they do the take-a- number thing and sometimes they don't, and you have a hard time telling what's on sale because there are people and carts blocking your view. And then it's finally your turn and you don't want to ask for the half pound of Lorraine cheese even though you really want it because the woman with the next number has been given you the crook eye every time you order a new thing. I was thinking we should build an application that ties into your local grocery's deli system so you can order remotely and then just pick it up.  

Great, great idea, Webster said over the squeak of his marker against the white board. I think there are some logistical issues with that one, Josh, but certainly something worth researching.

The ideas began to drip and then pour as the meeting progressed. Webster scribbled each one to the white board and when it was full, he pressed a button to take a picture of the board and then wiped it clean with the sleeve of his white shirt. The meeting fulfilled Webster's wildest fantasies about the boardroom when he had first walked through it with the leasing agent. He’d even told the woman, Denise, he never forgot a name, that this will be the epicenter of a great think tank. He remembered her reaction, all dressed up in her gray pants suit, high heels, and blonde up-do, when she politely smiled that red lipstick smile and said, I'm sure it will be.

That's the thing about greatness, he told himself; few get there because few have the imagination. No imagination and department store suits are how you end up leasing the building to the man with the ideas rather than being the man with the ideas. While she's chasing three percent commission, he was one hundred percent owner of his destiny. He wanted her to stroll in now to see this room buzzing with innovation. There was, however, something missing. With each idea he added to the white board and with each darkening shade of blue of his shirt sleeve, he began to realize none of these ideas were what he had hoped to hear. None of them were world changers. Few were even original. There were ideas to build web sites for at-home mothers that linked them with employers seeking freelancers. There were phone applications that worked as pedometers and calorie counters. There was even one brave young man that suggested they build a search engine dedicated to porn. Even Josh's deli idea, the best one of the day, had been tried and failed. He couldn't ask these people to come up with a great original idea on the spot any more than he could ask Yo-Yo Ma to write and play his next great concert in a moment’s notice, he told himself.

The meeting lasted 6 hours. Webster ordered in pizza for everyone, and he let them know they could leave at any point. They left, usually in pairs, after discussing in hushed voices. By meeting's end, Webster was alone, having just dismissed his Vice President of Marketing, with yellowed pit stains reaching down to mingle with his blue sleeve. The shirt, long untucked, lie against his wide waist. He gathered up the pages of notes and walked down the well-lit hallway to his corner office. As he approached, he saw his lead accountant waiting by his door, and his stomach clenched at the sight of him. A tall man with an obnoxious comb-over, he held a three-ring binder.  

Hello Frank.  

Good evening Webster.  Webster opened his office door and placed his notes on his desk.

Have a seat. What do you have? Webster asked.

Well, I've got the numbers, care to review?

I don't suppose I can say no.

No. Certainly not. Our revenue dipped another seven percent last month. We have a limited amount of work booked for this month, so I anticipate another drop in revenue. As you know, I've been on a crusade to cut costs. I formed a cost cutting group, and we have taken some measures revolving around reworking our shipping contracts, limiting employee travel, and cutting back on some of our more experimental marketing efforts. There are other cuts to be made but to be honest, as you will see from these reports, we're still a far ways off from balancing this budget. Webster, you have to cut staff, or we're going under in six months.

Webster stretched his arms above his head and released an elongated yawn. He rested his chin on his left hand and began patting his lips with his two chubby forefingers. Clip-clap, clip-clap, clip-clap. Finally, he sighed.  

I'm not going to do that.  

Fine. Frank closed his binder and turned towards the door. You've just decided to end this company. You may not care if you have a job but I do.  

Frank turned his back on Webster before he could see the reaction on Webster's face.

Frank, how did you get to the office today? Webster asked just as Frank reached the door.

What?  

How did you get here today?

I drove, he said turning around.

No, I know you drove, but what streets did you take?  

Webster sat back in his chair, his legs stretching under his desk.

I took the Eisenhower like I always do.

Why didn't you just take 83 south? Webster asked.

Because the Eisenhower is usually faster.  

Have you ever taken 83 South?  

No. No, I haven't. What's your point? Frank asked, slumping his shoulders in resignation.

My point is if you had ever taken 83 South, you'd pass this great big apartment building, not sure what burb it's in, and on the side is this interesting graffiti with this beautiful picture of the sun illuminating the Chicago horizon. It really is art. It just lifts you.

Graffiti is not art, and I still don't get it.  

There's a lot of ways to get to the office, Frank. A lot of ways.  

Frank stood blank-faced, opened his mouth, but said nothing before exiting. Webster started to flip through the pages of notes from the meeting, hoping to uncover a great idea he had missed. The page flipping, however, served as a token gesture to his subconscious wont of a great idea because Webster didn't actually read many of the words. Eventually, he left them in a jumbled pile on his desk and leaned back in his office chair. The conversations of the day floated in and out of his head, starting with his wife's observation that his last great idea failed and ending with Frank's insistence on cutting staff. Webster knew Frank's narrowed eyes peeking past his thick hair would be an image stamped on his brain for quite some time. Frank had been his first hire for the company. Webster knew he needed a quality numbers man for any business venture to work, and Frank's resume had shouted professionalism. Frank had arrived at the initial interview in a neat, conservative blue suit with a full briefcase of financial projections. He’d made Webster see the dollars and feel them slide across his fingers like silk. The key to the interview for Webster had occurred when he’d asked Frank what he did outside the office. Frank had replied, I paint - mostly impressionist stuff. There was a Frank McClatchy original hanging on the West wall of Webster's office - a dolphin just barely breaking the plane of the ocean, sending quiet ripples away from him. The moon shined faintly on a distant horizon. He wondered what kind of paintings Frank painted now.

Excuse me, boss man?  Frank whirled in his chair to face the door. There stood a man whose name did not immediately jump to his lips. Strange, Webster thought, given the man's somewhat slovenly appearance, complete with torn jeans, a coffee-stained t-shirt, and unkempt curly black beard.

I'm Salvatore - one of your developers.  

Salvatore! Damnit, he knew that.  How can I help you Salvatore?

You can call me Sal. I was at the meeting today with all of the other cubicle-dwellers, and I have an idea I think you will be interested in hearing about.  

Please share Sal.

Sal walked behind Webster's desk and motioned with his head towards the computer. Webster nodded. Sal leaned over the keyboard and began typing. The web browser loaded a map of Webster's home town, covered in hundreds of white dots of varying brightness. He drew a square on the screen with the mouse, and a new page loaded inside the square. Sal drew another square and then another as Webster watched, his eyes narrowing with each successive zoom, until the image on the screen showed a solitary familiar house.

That's my house. Webster said.

I know.  

Clever. How do you know where I live?  

That's not hard to figure out.  

I can’t wait for you to tell me why my house is on this computer right now. Webster stood up and straightened his jacket. He wiped away sweat on his brow.

It's my idea. Can I show you?  

It better be good.  

It is. I have a question for you. How would you describe your family? By that, I mean, is your wife a woman that loves life? Is your son depressed? Is your daughter in love? Tell me about them.  

Webster paced about the office, and finally rested his hands on the desk while he stared at Sal. He studied Sal’s bushy eyebrows and deep-set eyes searching for honesty on his face.

Sal, I love my job. I love innovation. I also love my family. I hope this application is as great as you seem to think it is. My wife is an eternal giver. She's promised so many charities money and time that she can't keep track anymore. My son smiles when there is no reason to smile. Like his dad, he’s an eternal optimist. My daughter is somewhat brooding, sure, but she's a teenager after all. Why?

As Webster talked, Sal continued to work on the computer, drawing squares around each of the three dots within the house. Each square opened up a new window of data. The name of each of Webster's family members appeared at the top of the box.  He highlighted a constantly changing number within each of the boxes.

What's that number, Sal, and why is my daughter's so low?  

Sal looked up at Webster and allowed a short half-grin to escape.

You're not going to believe me but it's her soul.  

Chapter 2

Tim Manning hurried down the hallway of his condo building. Tim hoped to disguise his worst intentions from his neighbors, and was careful not to let his quick-step walking turn into a full-fledged run. Once he passed through the stairway door, he bounded down the interior stairs two at a time chasing the quick pitter-patter of the feet ahead of him. A child’s shadow slipped into the 1A condo just as Tim reached the first floor landing. Tim delivered a couple of heavy knocks on the six-panel door. A wispy woman wearing an over-sized sweatshirt tied around her waist and a little girl wrapped around her waist opened the door.

I need to speak with your daughter, Tim said before the door was fully open.

What’s the problem Mr. Manning?

This is not a problem that involves you. Please let me speak to your daughter.

If it involves my daughter, it involves me. She’s eleven, the woman said.

I saw your daughter rifling through my garbage. She ran before I could confront her. I don’t want her handling my personal property and I want her to give back whatever it is she took. Tim glared down at the girl and she hid her face behind her mother’s back. See, this is what happens when children, little, senseless children are allowed to run free to…

Enid, the woman said. Did you touch Mr. Manning’s garbage?

Enid shook her head.

She lies! She lies like a prostitute to St. Peter!

Mr. Manning! Please! The woman pulled her daughter off her leg and bent down to look in her eyes. Tell the truth, did you touch Mr. Manning’s garbage?

Again, she shook her head, her dark hair falling into her eyes.

She’s a filthy liar, Tim said. Enid ran from her mother’s side and disappeared into the darkness of the apartment.

Mr. Manning, I don’t appreciate the way you are handling this. My husband and I will talk to her and get back to you.

With all due respect Miriam, Tim said with a shallow smile, Fuck you and your shit parenting. And he stomped up the stairs.

Fucking woman, Tim muttered under his breath. It’s a miracle she was even at home. Who asks a child if they committed a transgression? Morons.

Tim put the garbage back in his overturned garbage can and returned it to its spot outside his door. He made a mental note to call his chief custodian to tell him to pick up the garbage early in the morning from now on. 

Inside Tim’s condo was nary a speck of dust. The floor-to-ceiling bookshelf facing the door didn’t have one book sticking out nor one book tilted in the available space. The adjacent office was similarly pristine. A laptop computer and a wireless printer sat on a large oak desk. Filing cabinets covered the west wall, each drawer affixed with a neat, white label. 

Tim sat in his office chair and sifted through a pile of newspaper clippings. Each clipping was an obituary. Tim scanned the brief articles and placed the clippings on to one of three piles. The first pile was clippings where the family of the deceased never consulted any of his funeral parlors to host the service. The second pile was clippings where the family of the deceased considered his funeral parlors but decided to have the services elsewhere. And the third pile was clippings where the family of the deceased did have the service in one of his funeral parlors. One obit caught his