Despite the inability of the mainstream press to distinguish between
the words "could" and "is" ("Mac users are just as vulnerable as PC
users because a worm or virus could be written that is as
destructive as Sobig.F"), a real question needs answering: Just where
are the Mac virus writers?
I mean, there must be a few of them, right? This needs
investigatin', and we here at the Lite Side are never averse to a
challenge (unless it involves actual research) so here are the results
of the Lite Side's
Case of the Missing Worm
Having followed several false leads in my search for a Mac Virus
Writer (see episode #39, The Case of the Unplugged CPU and episode #76,
A Loose Modem Cable Tells No Tales) I arrived at Snodgrass Typesetting
and Coffee Table design optimistic that my search was near its end.
Earlier that day I received a mysterious phone call at my tech
support hotline (555-PLUG) that said every computer at Snodgrass had
been infected and needed to be fixed ASAP. I went through the usual
litany of questions when I learned they were an all-Mac shop.
"You're sure you don't have any PCs?" I said.
"What's a PC?" said the voice on the other end. A voice that
suggested a beautiful face might be attached to it. Naturally, I was
intrigued - and a little concerned that they were, shall we say, a bit
limited in their Outlook.
I arrived at Snodgrass and quickly determined that every machine
was, indeed, a Mac. Furthermore, they were all displaying the same
annoying message on a floating screen: "Nyah Nyah Nyah, Even Macs get
blah."
The only way to stop the message was a forced restart, after which
the first attempt to access the company server triggered the virus
again.
If it was a virus.
I interrogated the owner, Melvin McMac. It turned out I worked with
his cousin Mike on a number of cases a few years ago involving
involuntary Switching (Episode #42, The Case of the Expanding IT
Department), and he remembered Mike mentioning me making Macs work.
"We don't even connect to the Internet except to send email," he
complained. "Too much work to do to play Solitaire or visit
www.vega$.com."
He was a short man, with too much hair in too many of the wrong
places.
"Has anyone outside the company had access to your server in the
past few weeks?" I asked. Over at the reception desk, Michelle McMac
(no relation to the owner) was dusting a coffee table covered with
sample font printouts.
As if I had given him a cue, McMac (Melvin) asked McMac (Michelle)
if anyone had come by to work on the computer. "Sure, Mr. McMac," she
said, giggling, as if she was still amused by the fact that they shared
the same last name but weren't related. "There was that fellow Norman
Blotsky, remembah? You told him you didn't want any toilets or
somethin', and he left in a huff."
With a name and a copy of a business card from McMac's Rolodex, I
was off in search of Blotsky. This is the part of detective work that
doesn't get into the papers. Unlike the Justice Department cooperating
closely with Microsoft to nab the notorious teenage script kiddie
through his publicly posted Web page, I had to pound the pavement and
follow leads to find Blotsky, who was last seen at a Blue and White
fleet ticket window at San Francisco's Pier 39.21.0.1.
The clerk remembered him. "Blotsky was carrying one of those Apple
video game machines," he said. "I remember, because it had a great
orange lid shaped like a toilet seat."
Tangerine first gen
iBook, I thought. Powerful enough to be useful even today - and
thick enough to stop a bullet if it had to. I'd always wanted a
tangerine iBook, but private investigators have to investigate someone
like OJ to earn enough to buy one of those outright.
By the time I'd saved enough, they'd been superseded by iceBooks,
which were faster and cheaper.
Luckily for me, Blotsky's ship came in just as I finished with the
clerk. He ambled off the boat and headed for a nearby Starbucks. I
followed him, easily evading his notice in the crowds jamming the
narrow pier.
I saw him sit on the sidewalk outside the shop and pop open his
iBook, a sure sign he was war driving for open access - or maybe he
already paid his fee to tap into Starbuck's WiFi network. In either
case, I stepped into the store and made my way to the window behind him
to watch him work. He checked his email, then surfed over to the
MacSurfer archives and checked the headlines for the past six
weeks.
Then he slammed his lid shut in frustration and disappeared before I
could pierce the triple-decaf mocha hairball line to follow him.
It was then I noticed a number of people wandering by all carrying
Apple laptops or wearing Apple shirts from the various websites that
sell partisan stuff (like LEM). Back to the Blue and Gold ticket guy,
who informed me (in exchange for a coupon for $5 off the Ripley's
Believe it or Don't museum) that a cruise filled with Mac Hackers had
just come in from an extended cruise. They were aboard the
ProtoCulture, a small cruise ship about the size of my backyard
shed.
Then I saw Blotsky standing in line at the Cold Stone Creamery,
watching the workers hack and slash a pile of Butter Pecan and Carmel
Ripple for the customer ahead of him. I decided to confront him.
"Blotsky!" I shouted from the door. "Let's step outside and have a
conversation."
"But I haven't ordered yet," he whined. The steel in my eyes must
have given him pause, however, because he shut up and stepped out
behind a street vendor selling invisible dogs on leashes made of
phosphorescent plastic.
"Tell me, Blotsky," I said, eyeing his tangerine toilet lid, "Did
you plant a virus at Snodgrass Typesetting and Coffee Table Design
before you took off on your little jaunt?"
He clutched the computer to his chest as he denied planting any
virus or worm. Then he paused and said, "Dang! I bet they tried to use
Remote Desktop again."
He danced from foot to foot, as if he needed to reformat his hard
drive in a hurry. "I told them not to mess with that software."
"What about your search for news of your virus on MacSurfer?" I
asked.
He seemed mildly surprised that I knew about that and glanced at his
computer again as he replied, "I wanted to see if they've released the
latest version of Aleph One while I was on my cruise."
I eventually figured out the guy was harmless at best, and no worse
than incompetent.
Soon everything was resolved at Snodgrass, and I had a fistful of
leads for tracking down a real Mac virus writer. Michelle waved to me
as I left. "Come back anytime, mistah," she said. "We don't get too
many visitahs, you know."
Riiiight.
I didn't let the door hit me in the butt on the way out.
