<div class="floatleft">(http://img819.imageshack.us/img819/3311/filmnoir3.jpg)</div><strong>Drake Holland</strong><br/><strong>Age:</strong>35<br/><strong>Crime:</strong>Aggravated assault, torture, attempted murder<br/><strong>Location:</strong>New New York, Public Library<br/><strong>Tagging:</strong>Group 2<br/><hr/>Drake stomach dropped as each person in turn--first Sarah, then Natalie, then Tim--admitted to likewise hearing voices in their heads.  Phaedra was playing it cool, but her lack of surprise gave him a suspicion that she, too, was afflicted by them as well.   Either that, or she was in on the whole thing.  Was Phaedra in league with the shrink?   Drake gave her a cool look, studying her carefully.<br/><br/>On the one hand, it was something of a relief to find out that he wasn't going insane.  Check that: rather, it was something of a relief to find out that he<em>wasn't the only one</em>who was going insane.  It meant that whatever sickness he had was not his own, but that it was being forced upon him by an external agent.<br/><br/>On the other, however, it meant that someone, somewhere, was doing this to him.   He felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck, and he felt overwhelmed by a sudden wave of nausea.   He glanced at Tim, and actually felt a pang of sympathy for the big guy.  As ignorant and self-deluded as he was, it was easy to see why the man would misinterpret the voices as commands from God.  Who would fuck with a man's mind like that?  And why?<br/><br/>Drake found himself growing very angry.  He  found himself urgently craving a smoke, and shoved his hand into his coat pocket for his pack of cigs.  When it touched something hard and plastic he forgot, for a moment, what it was.<br/><br/>The shrink's tablet.  Drake had salvaged it from the trash after Sarah had set it on fire.  Suddenly, he found himself very much wanting to know what secrets it held.   "I've got to get home," he muttered to himself, turning to the doorway by which they had all entered.<br/><br/>Just as he did so, however, he heard the crackle of a police walkie-talkie in the alley outside, the dispatcher's voice relaying information on it.  "Shit," he swore.  Getting caught by the fuzz seemed now less attractive than ever.  Glancing at Tim and Natalie, Drake indicated, with his eyes, the staircase.    Perhaps if they were lucky,  the cops wouldn't notice the big gaping hole in the back of the store.<br/><br/>Quickly ascending the staircase, he found the blond woman who had yet to give her name in the studio office above, inspecting what appeared to be an obsolete computer.  It looked like someone could barely use it to access the Internet, and little else--if they were lucky.  Still, at least it seemed to have a micromemory stick drive, the perfect peripheral for accessing the data from a tablet PC.  Drake flipped it over, and scratched at the casing with his nails until he was able to open the back cover.  The memory stick was miraculously intact.  He pried it from the tablet,  put it in the card reader, and turned on the PC.  Impatiently, he watched as green walls of BIOS text ground past him.  At last, the system's OS initialized, a little indicator on the bottom of the screen indicating that he tablet's memory card was recognized.  Flushed, his heartbeat pounding in his ears, he double-clicked on the little icon.<br/><br/>And was promptly greeted with a password entry screen.<br/><br/>"Shit," he swore again.  "It's encrypted."