I was about to graduate with a degree in psychology, but the university’s shut down because of the virus. Sitting home doing nothing was driving me stir crazy, and I needed some grocery money, so I volunteered to be a contact tracer. You know, talking on the phone to people who test positive for the virus, then calling everyone they’ve been in contact with to have them get tested. It was a stay at home job, but now, there’s this crazy person spreading a particularly virulent mutation of the virus around the city. It’s killing young men who have no discernible connection to each other, and it’s killing them fast. It’s got everyone scared.

My father is a cop working the case. Because of my studies in psychology and the fact that I’m of the gender and age range of the victims, he asked me to think about what sort of person I’d be susceptible too, without noticing who it is.

It’s not easy getting inside the head of an unknown person who’s gone crazy, but since it’s young men like me who are dying, I’m thinking the carrier is probably a girl. Mid-twenties, maybe, without any friends. Maybe a waitress, or working in an obscure business as a secretary or clerk. Probably laid off by now. Not much to lose, and a lot to gain in terms of her ego and sense of power. Maybe she got mistreated at some point, in high school, or at work, and now she sees an opportunity for revenge.

If it’s a man, I need to know how old he is, where he grew up, where he works, and whether or not he’s ever been in the military. Is he a man with a political cause? Does he have a wife and a family? Probably not. Maybe he’s mad about guns or about emigrants coming into the country to take his job. Maybe he’s mad about everything. A mass murderer who needs no gun.

The thing is, the killer will only be contagious for a few weeks, and it’s already been a week. The ammo will soon run out, but that doesn’t mean we don’t have to find them. With the speed at which this particular mutation of the virus spreads, I could save thousands if I can figure out who it is.

Let’s follow the girl. She’s got to have a certain charm that men like. A pretty smile. A willing look. Or maybe it’s a young man, who attracts young men. Maybe he’s like those Bug Chasers in San Francisco. No. It’s not about sex. It’s got to be revenge. The question is, did the killer purposely get the virus, or did they end up with it? If it’s the latter, that in itself could be a catalyst for the killing. But why is it so random?

I look at the contagion map on the computer screen. It’s a circular zone, about 20 miles across, with that illegal underground bar at the center. Problem is, my father said none of the victims ever went there. The killer has to be spreading it from somewhere else. But where?

I zoom in on the map. There’s a grocery store. Maybe the killer has taken a job as one of those shoppers. But that doesn’t make sense. It’s mostly the older folks that use shoppers, since they’re the ones who are in the most danger from the regular virus. It’s probably not a shopper.

So, where could the killer make contact without their victims having any knowledge of it happening? What sort of place is that anonymous?

I think of how it’s passed. Sneezing. Coughing. Droplets. The air stream behind runners or bikers? No that’s been disproved. Okay. How long does the virus last on different surfaces. Did the victims touch something they shouldn’t have?

Not likely, everyone’s been warned to wash their hands. To wash all surfaces. To not touch their face. Especially their eyes. It’s too well known for the murderer to get away with that. No something else. Go back to the girl.

She’s not plain, she’s pretty. Not too pretty, or they wouldn’t have made fun of her in high school. She’s gotten prettier with age. She has an effective routine. Something innocuous. But what is it?

Think again about how the virus spreads. Surfaces. How long does it last? This virus lasts longer than the other one, anywhere from several days to a week. Metal holds it best, but even paper can hold it for five days.

Imagine a pretty girl with blond hair, no make that strawberry blond with freckles, and a cute mask that covers a deformity on the bottom half of her face. Maybe a harelip or an extra large chin. She walks down the street looking for her next victim. When she spots him, she smiles with her pretty blue eyes and passes by, then she stops and runs back, saying, “Sir. Sir. Did you drop this?”

But what is it she shows him?

It has to be something she could get him to hold. A business card? No. A person wouldn’t take that in these times. Something valuable, like jewelry. Maybe a valuable watch, or a silver coin. A gold coin? Something big enough to hold a lot of virus. Something she could breathe on, or cough on, just before he turns around. She’d have to make sure no one else noticed. Maybe watch for a gap in the foot traffic before she chooses her victim. Make it quick. If the thing, whatever it is, is valuable enough, maybe he would claim it. Maybe that’s what she’s looking for. A person who wouldn’t mind claiming something that wasn’t his. Maybe because someone took something from her. The wedding ring her husband gave her, and now he’s dead from the virus, or maybe he was a soldier and died in the war. Iraq? Afghanistan? Maybe it’s that sort of revenge.

I’ve got a story now, but I don’t know how to find out if it’s true. None of the victims mentioned encountering a girl like that before they died. And no one confessed to taking whatever she offered. Maybe they were afraid. Maybe they didn’t want to give it up, even if they were dying. I’ve got to figure this out.

I get in my car and go downtown. I put on my N-95 mask and walk the streets starting at the illegal bar. I walk in one direction until it turns residential, then I go over to the next street and take it back to the center, methodically weaving my web. I keep walking for hours hoping to spot the girl.

I see a group of three girls, without masks, walking too close, flaunting their looks, flouting the law. They spot me. Smile. Give me that willing look. It’s not them. They’re too obvious. The victims would remember.

I go back to looking for my single girl. The one with the blue eyes, or maybe green. The one with a nice body, but something to hide.