The Runouw.Com Connection

The Prologue



In the Middle of Portland, Oregon, in a one-person loft under the ruby red Broadway Bridge by the rustic Union Station, was a frequent online blogger. Owning a website for flash gaming, runouw.com, which was named after the alias of its owner, had evolved into a hangout space for preteens and young adults from all over the city. The odd thing being, none of them had met before.

Rob Stevens, better known online as Runouw looked as an online chatter, also known by the name Nin10mode, typed in the chat box "Hey, Runouw! Chat with us!"

Another, also known as blablob, cynically replied "Yeah, like that will ever happen. Runouw would rather die than chat."

Nin10mode responded with a "Yeah lol"

Stevens/Runouw thought "Well, I guess it wouldn't hurt me to chat just this once," and started to type "Well, guess I'm dead, then" and about his boring week while his brother was on a business trip... when a private message (or in plain English, a site e-mail) popped up on his computer. Rolling his eyes, Stevens clicked on his PM link, leaving his message in the chat unentered.

The Message was from the global moderator, which was similar to a site police officer. Online he was known as Superyoshi. The subject read "We found the fourth moderator!"

Stevens grinned as he was eager to appoint this mystery moderator. Having complete trust in his moderators, odds were he wouldn’t question their decision.

Right when he clicked on the link, a brute force slammed into the back of his head, leaving him slumped in the chair, dead.

The masked man, with Stevens still logged in as Runouw chuckled as if he was playing a game, muttered a “sucker”, threw Stevens out of the office chair and sat in it himself.

The next day, runouw.com was closed down. All topics were locked; all the users were banned, as well as the moderators and none of the users knew why Runouw would do that.

All but one. The killer.















Chapter 1-The Case Begins

(*Buffy’s Narrative*)

Penumbra Kelly Juvenile Hall. The home of many rebellious, depressed and even dangerous teens was also a classroom to young adults who longed to make a difference. Three, to be exact. One was loudly smacking approximately 1 foot of the 6 feet roll of Hubba Bubba, another whistling loudly to his Mp3 player, a third excitedly pace around. Their instructor (that’s me), not much older than them, looked at these three and thought to myself “I can’t believe this is the face of the future Portland Police Department.” Whether it was excitement or disdain, I couldn’t discern.

Nevertheless, I, Buffy Clark, continued.

“Felkis, Davis and Eastman.” I stated, in an attempt to look like a large authority among them, although in reality, Eastman was a half-foot taller than me. “I called you over here today because I have a test for you today, and for as long as it may take. This test will prove whether or not-“

“Excuse me,” Mic Davis interrupted, stopping his pace and peering towards the exit, “He’s gone now.”

I sighed in relief, since I realized my strict boss had made his exit. Usually he had required that I be strict with the interns, which I hate. “Okay, cut the commando crap. How many of you have ever heard of www.runouw.com?”

No hands went into the air.

I nodded. “Me either. So, from what I hear, this site is based in Portland, and it is an online forum that centers on flash gaming, more notably, the owner’s game called Super Mario 63. It’s an online fan game that has broken records and won actual awards. You gotta admit that’s impressive.”

Sam Eastman raised his eyebrows, and removed his headphones completely. “Ah, yes. I am actually a fan of that myself.”

My slight smile disintegrated at that moment. “Well, the owner’s name was Rob Stevens, online known as Runouw (don’t ask me where he came up with THAT name), and last night, he was found dead at Lovejoy and NW Station Way in his condominium by Union Station.”

Ema Felkis, who was in the midst of blowing a gum bubble, felt it pop over her face. Undaunted, she wiped it off and having rued the day they would be forced to solve an actual murder, said “A murder? That’s always terrible. I can’t believe it!”

“Exactly. But it gets more interesting.” I started to tap my foot, my habit when getting excited. “The killer actually used Stevens’ computer to shut down the website.”

Ema grinned, illuminated. “Which means, whoever killed Stevens could have been after something on the website?”

“Good Job!” I high-fived a beaming Ema. Even Mic and Sam couldn’t help but grin at her cheerful disposition, a staple for her. Sam liked to call her the team cheerleader.

Sam asked “Can I hack into the website? I want to learn more about this… Rinnow?”

“No, I think it is Ranova.” Mic replied.

“You’re both wrong,” Ema put in, “It’s Runowch!”

I laughed. “It is Rinouw- no, Ranwich- no, look; now you got me all confused!” I laughed hysterically for a couple of seconds, then took in a deep breath and composed myself. “It’s Runouw. And, yes, I did bring in a laptop. Now if we could just find a place we can get some dang Wi-Fi, you could sure try.”

Grinning, Sam cracked his knuckles. Hacking was a specialty of his. The Super Mario 63 he had said he had played, he beat by hacking into the game’s system and increasing Mario’s size until he could kick his enemies out of the way. And, yes, he programmed Mario to do that as well. As you know, hacking into someone’s personal life is illegal (read; don’t try this at home kids) but if the guy’s dead and you’re working for police, it magically becomes legal. Who knew?

A few fancy yet boring technological moves later, Sam was in under the alias of Runouw. “I’ll start with the PM’s.”

“PM’s?” Ema asked between chewing gum.

“Private Messages,” Sam explained. “Basically, if anyone wanted to contact him, send him hate mail, or give him details about the website, that would be the way to do it.”

Mic pointed to a PM with a caution mark on it. It read “Need You in Off-Topic Quick.” The Sender was an alias of blablob. “What, are all members authorized to down three large bags of sugar before you pick a name?” he joked. Sam chuckled. Mic’s wit and humor went unmatched. “Anyways, open it.” Mic continued.

Opening it, the message read the following:

“Runouw quick! The moderators are off and zebterestalala and Lrmaster132 are in a big flaming match! You can’t miss it! The topic is called “Lrmaster Sucks and Fails at Life! They’re clogging the chat with quite precisely chosen swear words, just do something quick! Ban them or something!”

“Yikes,” Ema said. “They’re sure spreading the hate.”

“Yeah, more funny names, too.” I noted.

Thoughtfully, in the search bar, Sam typed in “Ban.” Instantly, the ban log, the history of all those prohibited from using the website, came up. At the bottom were Lrmaster132 and Zebterestalala. The report, by Runouw, read

“Zebterestalala and Lrmaster132

1 month

Starting a full-fledged flame war.”

In a quote bubble, it read

“Zebterestalala wrote: Lrmaster I am sick of you! You suck, yo mama sucks, and you’re a big ‘bleeping’ loser! Leave this website, because no one likes you!

Lrmaster132 wrote

Yo zebterestalala you are a ‘bleep’! You can stick it where the sun doesn’t shine. I hate yo ‘bleep bleeping’ guts and you better get off this forum before I send you a virus!”

Ema was horrified. “My god, these seem more likely to kill each other than Stevens!”

“But these guys also have posted hundreds of times.” Mic pointed out. “They probably associated with friends here, and on the right day, could have been peed off enough to kill Stevens and shut down the whole website.”

Sam went back to the PMs. “Hmm… there’s his last PM before his death. It says ‘We found the fourth moderator!’”

“You would probably think I’m clueless,” Ema started, “But what’s a moderator?”

“Basically, another leader. Like a police officer.”

This Ema could understand quite easily.

He opened this message sent by a Superyoshi. Before Mic could quip on an actual name that made sense, Sam started to read.

“‘Hey Runouw. I know with all the spam bots’ Which, Ema, is people who are only on the website to advertise bullcrap, ‘that have been posting non-stop lately; I feel the need for another moderator is in order. Now, I know how bad Blablob wanted this, as he has been doing a lot of volunteer moderation lately, but I think that the guy has a tendency to overdo it, and may be a tyrant as a moderator, there, I said it. I do believe that Avolerators, however, would make a much better moderator, as he is friendly, well-composed and, well, just fit for the job. Blablob would probably be ticked, but, hey, he can’t hack into the computer or anything, so we’re set.’”

Ignoring the urge to impersonate Blablob back to Superyoshi, Sam shook his head. “I swear, if this nonsensically named blablob did kill Stevens, he obviously must have no life whatsoever. And does anyone else notice his ‘Prepare to Die’ topic? Suspicious.” That got me, too. Who makes a topic about people dying?

There was only one message left that intrigued me. It read “My departure,” from a Niklaw. Sam saw me eyeing it and decided to open it.

“Dear Runouw,” it read. “You’ll have to forgive me, but I have decided to leave www.runouw.com for a simple reason- it has really in my opinion become a mess, and so many of these people could very simply meet up in Portland somewhere, but are busy hunched over a computer, allergic to daylight. I think I would manage much better in face-to-face conversation. If you could give me your address, maybe we could organize something like that. Either way, I respectfully depart from the forum, with Avo as my replacement. Cheers! Niklaw.”

All four of us raised their eyebrows, well, except Ema, who did not have eyebrows, oddly enough born without them.

“This guy probably got Stevens’ address!” I hissed.

“So our main suspects so far are this blob guy, a zebra, the claw and some Lrmaster thingamajig?” Ema asked, rolling her eyes and adding “Only online.”

“Well,” Mic added, “We haven’t bothered to research family yet.”

I handed Mic a file. “Well, from what I got, the parents live in Charleston, South Carolina.”

Ema sighed in relief. “That’s good, because you all know how much I would hate to tell the family. I’d probably be the first to start bawling like a true professional.”

I sure knew that was the truth, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. “He lives with his brother, Rick Stevens, but that is a high impossibility that he did it. I called him and he’s in Tokyo on a business trip. He is an assistant executive of Intel, over on the west side of the city.”

“So back to the blob guy, the zebra, the claw and the thingamajig.” Sam said. “That can’t be all the people, I mean, there are about 2,700 members on the site, and any one of them could have done it.”

Mic and Ema both seemed to be thinking. Then, as if their minds had merged, Mic started.

“Well, think about it! How many of those 2,700 actually used the site?” Mic referred to the counter at the bottom of the page. “Only 50 on their best day.”

“And out of those 50, how many did you think actually really knew this guy?” Ema pointed out. “I don’t think Stevens is the type that hands out addresses to his place to random people. Only those he trusted. Like the Niklaw thing.”

“And out of the people he trusted, how many do you think actually had something against him?” Sam jumped into their vibe. “Maybe someone found out about Niklaw’s idea, or Niklaw himself hopped in and closed the website.”

“So, we are all in agreement that Niklaw is the first person we want to talk to, right?” I tried, totally loving it when I can get them thinking like this.

“Exactly!” all three said at once.

They paused and looked at each other.

“That was cool!” Mic laughed. Sam and Ema followed.

After further hacking, Sam discovered his name was Nicolas Locke and he lived at 91st and Ankeny. However, his school, Benson Polytechnic high school, was where he probably was at in the moment, as he was part of an after-school computer class. Rest assured the three would be waiting for him.

“So,” Sam started, shutting the laptop, relieved to have gotten enough of the crappy Wi-Fi signal to finish, “Are we ready to go?”

“Hold it!” I stopped Sam in his tracks. I was digging in the pocket of my Polo jacket and dug out four taser guns. “This guy could be volatile, so you should take some of these.”

Although Hesitant, the usually non-harmful Ema knew logic when she saw it, and picked a taser, delicately placing it in my jacket. Sam cautiously grabbed one himself. Mic, who had previously stated that he always wanted a taser, eagerly grabbed it from me and accidentally fired at Ema.

A half-mile away, a shrill noise scared all the ducks out of the pond at Laurelhurst Park.

“Oops,” Mic shrugged, sheepish. “Sorry.”

All Ema could spit out was “That HURT!”

I angrily snatched Mic’s taser away as Ema limped into a seat. “I better come along with you guys, before Mic, gee, I don’t know, happens to electrocute someone with the entire power system.” I shot him a dirty look that read “Idiot.”

Sam couldn’t help but quip “And let Ema scare away every bird in the tri-county area.”

Ema was the first to laugh at that.

(Narration of Sam Eastman)

Climbing inside of a Crown Victoria, I grabbed a map of the metro area and quickly calculated an easy route to Benson- Follow Burnside all the way down to twelfth, then hang a right and you’re there. Did I mention that as great as Ema is, she fails at directions? I sat next to her as she grabbed the wheel and asked “Would you like me to drive this time?”

She shook her head vigorously and focused on the road, replying “Nope. This is gonna be the day. I can do it this time.”

Mic rolled his eyes and said “Dear lord, we’re gonna end up in the next county.”

“You. Zip it.” Ema snapped. “It’s not like you can drive us here, so shut up or I’ll drop you on the side of the road and leave you there.”

Mic groaned and settled down for what could be a long drive. Buffy punched him in the shoulder and grinned. She was getting ready for the show, I could tell.

“So, where do I turn, Sam?” she asked me.

“Uhm, twelfth.” I replied, looking at my map to double-check. I smiled at her, in a gesture of friendliness, and added “Shouldn’t be hard.”

She pushed the hair out of her eyes and said “Well, wish me luck.”

I grinned and nodded.

About a half-mile down the way, she asked me “What was it again?”

Internally, I was shaking my head in frustration. “Twelfth.”

She nodded and readjusted her focus on the road.

About 3 minutes later, we approached 12th avenue. “Ema, there it is.” I told her. She didn’t seem to notice, blowing right through the complicated 6-way intersection.

I tapped her on the shoulder, and she swerved across a few lanes clumsily. Harried, she gasped out a “What?”

Almost afraid to answer, I replied “You missed it.”

She slammed her hand on the steering wheel, accidentally blasting the horn, surprising all of us. “DANG IT!” she yelled out. “Now what am I supposed to do?”

“Grand’s coming up.” I told her. “Just turn right there. Next light signal. And this time, turn, please.”

She sighed and actually turned right at the signal.

“Now next turn right at Lloyd Boulevard.” I told her.

Luckily, this time she didn’t overshoot it. On the downside, she undershot it and got us onto the freeway.

“Goddang it Ema!” I sighed, ready to pull my hair out.

“What, that wasn’t Lloyd?” she replied, frustrated.

“Jeez, Ema. We’re on the freeway. No freaking duh this isn’t Lloyd.” I grumbled.

“Well, what am I supposed to do now?” she replied.

“For Yah’s sake, Ema, you’re a detective. You figure it out.” I told her tersely.

“Well, I’m not going to just keep following this until my hair turns gray, which should be pretty soon if you keep talking to me.” She snapped at me.

“The only thing keeping me talking to you right now is the fact that if I don’t, we’re never gonna get there!” I shouted.

“Ema. Sam. Shut the living heck up.” Mic called at us. “I’m sick of getting ‘Traveling Soap Operas’ on the radio. Get a life, it’s a freaking drive, you don’t need to act like jerks over it.”

Ema turned to the windshield, and 20 minutes later, we were there. Absolute silence.

I didn’t know if I enjoyed it or dreaded it.

I stepped out of the car and walked over to the others. Ema kindly reached out to slap me across the face. “From now on, you sit in the backseat, you got it, jerk?”

I rolled my eyes and started to walk to the school. Uncertain, Buffy and Mic followed, hoping not to get in the middle of it. Opening the doors (and by opening them I mean slamming them against the wall in an effort to blow off steam, and at the same time really improving the police force’s image) I sauntered into the office and asked “Excuse me, Ma’am. I’m looking for a Nicolas Locke.”

Ema butted in and, gently pushing me aside, asked “Portland Oregon Police Department. We need to talk with him.”

The secretary raised her eyebrows and told us “Don’t know what you would want with him. He’s a great student.”

I decided to be blunt “A website owner was murdered last night, and he and Locke were very closely connected over the internet.”

The secretary gasped as Ema gave me her first dirty look I think I ever got from her. Ah, well, there’s a first time for everything, and I was glad to retaliate with one of my own.

Mic pushed us both apart. “Yeah, surprising, eh?” he told the secretary charmingly. “But don’t worry; we’ve got more suspects than a Law and Order episode. We just want to talk to him because he was the only one to get Stevens’ address. Is he here? Because we, uhm, hit some rush-hour drama along the way, if you catch my drift, so we’re a tad bit late.” The secretary laughed as I raised my eyebrows at Ema. Ach, who could stay mad when Mic started to talk to people?

“Well, young man,” the secretary replied, full grin on her face, “I do believe that the technology after-school class ended about 15 minutes ago, I’m afraid, so you’ll have to try again tomorrow.”

Ema groaned in frustration. We had just missed him, and we all know why that was.

“Ah, well.” Mic smiled, throwing his hands up in an “ah, well” gesture, and said “That we may do, ma’am. You have a nice day, you hear?”

“One more thing.” The secretary told Mic. “I do wish your companions had your kind manners.”

Mic laughed and gave her a thumbs-up as we walked out. I grimaced and told Mic when we were safely out of the school “You’re lucky she doesn’t know you in real life.” He smirked, rolled his eyes and said “Shut up, jerk.”

Ema ran across the street and angrily kicked the cop car and shouted a loud obscenity. So unlike her. But could you blame her?

“I am NEVER driving again!” she shouted as she launched her foot onto the door, causing a large dent. Not really caring, she proceeded to punch the hood, without hurting her hand, too.

I patted her on the back and told her “Hey, crap happens. We screwed up. So be it. Now we just try again tomorrow, eh?”

Smiling, she winked and added “You are so Canadian.” She loved to tease me like that.

I grinned and shook her hand. “Want me to drive this time?”

She nodded. “With pleasure.”

Mic couldn’t help but add “And so ends another thrilling episode of Traveling Soap Operas. Get in the car, fartfaces.”

“Can you believe this kid had so many manners in there” Ema asked me as we got in “And acts like a jerk out here?”

“Beats me.” I grinned as I started the car.

About a minute later, I honked the horn and shouted “DANG! I missed the turn!”

Ema just started to break out in laughter.