Retiree 2.0 Page 14

  Brett stood where he was, deliberately refusing to make eye contact with Alana, his face several shades darker than normal.

  Alana said, “I spoke with Chief Bennett on the way back from cleaning up Maggie’s drawers. Starting tomorrow morning, I’m going to be on another case, with a full task force. I don’t think I’ll have much time to mentor you on the Veedock case.”

  Brett replied, “Veedock and Robertson, ma’am.”

  “You’re still convinced that Veedock killed Robertson on purpose?”

  “Even more so now than before. Even though the probability seems low, when you start doing the math, it’s actually rather high.”

  Alana shrugged her shoulders, “As long as you can defend the case in front of the DA and a grand jury...” she let her words trail off before beginning anew, “Do you have a motive?”

  “I’m still working on that. It’s early in the investigation. Do you have time to look over what I have to see if you spot something I’m missing?”

  Alana looked at her internal clock, and saw that despite her day being crammed with activity, it was still only just after 10 PM. She said, “I can give you about an hour before I need to start prepping for my own work.”

  Brett shrugged as well, “An hour’s an hour.” He walked back to his desk, returned his chair to its proper place, and deposited his posterior atop the seat. “Come on over when you’re ready,” he motioned.

  Alana joined Brett at his desk, and her charge began showing and telling all that he had covered thus far, from examinations of public records to his ballistics lessons. Alana took over after Brett had covered most of the basics, asking him very relevant questions, most of which Brett had answers for. For those questions for which he did not have a good reply, he took notes, taking advantage of the Chief Inspector’s extensive experience.

  About forty-five minutes into her tutelage, Alana said, “In difficult murder cases, one of the most important things you can do is to get to know both the victim and the suspect at a deeply personal level. In Robertson’s case, I do see something that makes me especially curious. Can you tell me what it is?”

  Brett loaded several documents from Robertson’s past and arranged them on his desktop. He scrutinized them closely, but did not see anything new. He shook his head, “No, ma’am.”

  Alana double-tapped one of the documents and it enlarged, filling the center of the screen. It was Phil Robertson’s college transcript. “See it yet?”

  Brett first looked at the end of the transcript, with its credit hour totals, grade point average, and summary of his official extracurricular activities and honors. Then he started from the beginning and read it thoroughly, but nothing stood out. He surrendered, “Nope. Nada. Tell me what I’m missing.”

  Alana scrolled to the penultimate page of the document, and pointed at a block of text, “In between the first and second semesters of his senior year, Robertson transferred from Boston College to Boston University.”

  Brett looked up at Alana, “Lots of people change schools. Boston University is still, if I recall correctly, reasonably prestigious. It might have even been an upgrade. What’s the issue?”

  Alana said, “First, he transferred with only one semester remaining before graduation. Second, Robertson’s grade point average for his last semester at Boston College was almost a full point lower than in the first semester, and the drop was across all his classes. Third, Boston University has no baseball program.”

  “Maybe—”

  “Let me finish.” Alana double-tapped the transcript, shrinking it, and then she enlarged a sports journal report of college draft prospects. She pointed to where Phil Robertson was number nine on the list of a hundred college baseball players. “If Robertson was aiming for a career in baseball, why would he stop playing just before the senior season began?”

  Brett said, “Interesting catch, but what does it have to do with Greg Veedock?”

  Alana said, “Who knows? It jumped out at me as being an anomaly in his records. It’s probably something simple like a financial issue or a transportation issue. Since Robertson’s been resurrected, you can just ask him when you get around to interviewing him. Or you can ask his parents if you can’t catch up with Robertson. If you have to ask the university, you’ll probably need to get a warrant first.”

  Brett was unconvinced that it was important, but he made a note in his casebook.

  Alana returned to her desk and began manipulating documents.

  Brett asked, “Anything else?”

  Alana said, “No, that’s all I could think of. You might be onto something. You’ll just have to ferret out a motive. If you have more questions going forward, email them to me and I’ll get to them as soon as possible.”

  Brett stood and retrieved his suit coat from his locker, “Just one more thing. Is it possible to hack a retiree?”

  Alana said, “In theory, no. Why?”

  “Since I could not dig up a clear motive, I was just looking for alternative explanations for Veedock’s problematic suicide. How about robots? Can they be hacked?”

  Alana nodded, “Well, that happens a lot. But robots are designed to be operated remotely, as puppets, if they need to be.”

  Brett said, “Back when we were first working together, when you were hard-killed by that hand grenade, didn’t you say that your body was being remotely controlled from somewhere else?”

  Alana cocked her head to one side, “Yes, I did. That was different though. Aaron Stone had replaced my brain with a standard robotic brain. Cyborgs aren’t wired the same way as androids and gynoids.”

  Brett squinted, “Are you sure?”

  Alana tilted her head to the other side, “You’re correct. I cannot say with absolute certainty that the subprocessors are different. I believe them to be, but that’s not a fact. Maybe you can get Wendy or Srinu to help you find out?”

  Brett nodded, “I think I will. How are you getting home tonight?”

  Alana said, “I’m not. I’m going to recharge where I sit. I brought a change of clothes, and I’ll shower downstairs before I go into the lion’s den.”

  Brett said, “You seem... different than I’ve seen you before. Anything you want to share?”

  Alana stopped typing and grinned as she looked Brett in the eye, “This warehouse chop shop case is turning into a really big deal. I haven’t had one of those since we met. The Aaron Stone case was important, but the investigation was small. This time, I’ll be heading up a full task force. There’ll be arguments and sleepless nights, and by the time it’s over, I’ll have screamed at half the people on my team and pissed the other half off to the point where they’ll want to shoot me. But when the dust settles, some truly deserving sons-of-bitches are going to jail. That’s what I live for.”

  Monday, 10 July, 10:00

  Alana entered Situation Room One and hung her now immaculate khaki mackintosh on the freestanding coat rack nearby. Murmurs within the room first softened and then trailed off into silence as she closed the door with an amount of force deliberately designed to be loud enough to be heard throughout the room, but well short of a slam. Alana strode to the long side of the conference room and sharply spun ninety degrees, using a parade ground move she learned in her Army career. She stood before the assembled team in her black pumps, black knee-length skirt, and royal blue blouse. Her C-cup undergarment took up any slack and erased any folds. Her white necktie was knotted several inches below her collar. Her identification badge was clipped onto the waistband of her skirt with a retractable tether.

  None of the three chairs in the situation room was from the same set, having been shuffled from room to room as needed over the years and never returned to their starting places. All of the detectives seated in them were men. One female administrative officer sat at the back of the room near the coffee and water dispensers. All were either in awe of her presence, for she was indeed attractive by any standards, with her deepest brunette hair in an uncharacteristically well-groom
ed bob hairdo, or were cowed by her reputation as a cold, unfeeling slave driver.

  “Good morning. My name is Detective Chief Inspector Graves. You may call me Chief Inspector Graves or ma’am. I believe all of you know me, or at least know of me. I have a reputation for being a hard-assed boss, and while you are working for me, you will all learn that it is well-deserved. The other thing I am known for is getting results. However, those results are only possible through your hard work and dedication, which I both expect and respect. So as long as everyone does their job, and what I tell them, we’ll make sure that the officers who fell in the early stages of this case did not do so in vain.” After a long moment of silence, Alana said, “You don’t need permission to breathe. Before I begin the briefing, are there any questions, bearing in mind that if I had the answers, I would have already arrested the suspects and handed them over to the DA for prosecution?” One shorter moment of silence later, Alana continued, “Then I’ll proceed with the briefing. Everyone should have had time to read the fact sheet I put together at midnight last night, and since I was up past midnight working on it, no one has an excuse not to have done so. But I’ll go over the salient points again anyway.”

  Detective Rhys wanted to plant his forehead in his palm at Alana’s dramatics, but he kept his head up straight and his eyes open. She always started cases off this way. She most often ended them this way as well, which made her style somewhat trite, having worked with her over four years. DI MacGruder may have been imperfect, and was apparently a cyberphobe, but when it came to operational issues, he was very easy to work with and willing to accept, even dependent upon, input from his underlings.

  Alana continued, “Last week, our precinct busted a cyber chopping ring down at the Port of Los Angeles. Since that action, it has been determined that there is a much wider network involved, and we are going to bring it down. Once we know what is going on, of course.

  “The first item on the agenda is the anonymous tip I received that got this whole thing started. I need to know where that tip came from, where the informant got their information, and why they asked for me by name when they called.” Alana pointed toward Detective Taggart, the newest investigative officer in their department. “I’m giving this task to you. I don’t think it should be too difficult to track down. We’ve already traced the phone to a prepaid gift card, so all you need to do is follow the money. There is a separate case number opened for this task, and it’s on your fact sheet. You can find the details on the file server. Dismissed, and call me when you have something.”

  Taggart, his nose peeling from sunburn and his freckly face receiving no respite from the southern California summer sun, rose from his chair and bolted out of the room, his gait giving the impression that he wanted to remove himself from the room as quickly as possible.

  “Next up. All three of the suspects we apprehended at the port raid were taken into custody by Security Division, and they have denied us access to them.”

  A round of murmuring erupted from the audience.

  Alana said, “Yesterday, DI MacGruder was able to take one suspect into custody before SD could spirit him away. He is currently in the special ICU at Long Beach Memorial Hospital under twenty-four hour guard. I need someone to watch him like a vulture. The second he wakes up, get the nurse to get the doctor and get clearance to interrogate him ASAP. Washington, you take that task.”

  The middle-aged detective with skin of dark sienna asked in a raspy baritone, “What do we know about the suspect, ma’am?”

  “We do not have a positive ID yet. His DNA test says he’s probably from somewhere in East Africa. He has a tattoo on his arm that links him to a counter-terrorism unit of the Madagascan Army, but we’ve not had time to confirm that. Get as much information out of him as you can. If Security Division swoops in before then, you’ll have to cooperate with them, but don’t do so any more than you have to. Dismissed.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Detective Washington said as he stood and walked toward the door, deliberately, but without the urgency with which Taggart fled. Alana had worked with Washington before, and she could tell that he, like Rhys, was old enough to know that Alana’s drill sergeant personality was her friendly side, and that if she were really angry, the entire building would know.

  “Oh, and Washington,” Alana stopped him at the door, “The suspect is not a retiree, but he has a cybernetic forearm and some other implants. Make sure he’s properly restrained and treat him as an escape risk. Also make sure his buddies don’t try to spring him.”

  Washington asked, “Permission to draw lethal firepower under the circumstances, ma’am?”

  “At your discretion,” Alana nodded. Turning to the rest of her audience, she added, “The same goes for anyone on this case. The suspects have thus far proven to have been both trained and equipped with military grade hardware, including armor-piercing ammunition, high-grade IEDs, and a mini-mech battle suit—”

  Rhys cleared his throat loudly several times until Alana got the message.

  Alana feigned embarrassment, “Oops. SD said I wasn’t supposed to mention the mech. Make sure you don’t leak it to anyone else, and I’m serious about that.” The last thing in the world she intended to do was cooperate with Security Division.

  Moments after the door had closed behind Detective Washington, there was a knock. Alana yelled, “Come in!”

  The door cracked open. Brian Comerford, from the forensics department, peeked inside, “I’ve got some information for you, Inspector. This a good time?”

  Alana waved Comerford inside. He was carrying a notepad with him. He walked directly to Alana and whispered in her ear before activating his notepad and helping her navigate through the data. Alana’s cybernetic jaw only dropped halfway, but it was farther than Rhys had ever seen it plummet from a revelation. Alana asked, “Are you absolutely certain about this?”

  Comerford nodded, “I triple-checked it to be sure. Explains why SD’s all over this case, eh?”

  Alana pointed to the notepad and asked, “Can I keep this for a while?”

  Comerford nodded again, “Just remember where you got it.” He departed, leaving Alana to review the notepad’s contents and the rest of the room wondering what could be on the device that would rattle the ‘iron maiden.’

  Alana held up a finger and said, “This changes a few things. Everybody take five.” She finished her first perusal of the notepad’s contents. Then she copied the files over to her local system. She then copied the files to her current case folder.

  While the team members took bathroom and coffee breaks, Rhys approached Alana and asked, “What’s so important?”

  Alana asked in return, “You said that mech was Chinese, didn’t you?”

  Rhys nodded, “Yes, and I wish you’d kept that secret.”

  Alana’s face showed some kind of emotion that Rhys could not readily identify. He had never seen her worried before. Perhaps that was it? She whispered, “I’m glad I didn’t. That car that was blown up in the warehouse yesterday was also Chinese. The black box ID’d it as registered to the Chinese consulate. I think we’re on the leading edge of a major diplomatic incident.”

  Rhys rubbed his synthetic chin, “What do you think we should do about it?”

  “Take this notepad and follow up on this as your priority task. Contact the ambassador and get some answers.”

  Rhys said, taking the notepad in hand, “This could be sensitive. Are you sure you don’t want to do it yourself?”

  Alana shook her head, “Let me share my clarity of perspective on this issue. You said that thousands of cyborgs were chopped up in the warehouse. The last time an Asian country caused that many American casualties in a sitting, we nuked Hiroshima. I’d rather someone with a better knack for diplomacy handled it. I might start a war. I’ll keep it on the QT until I hear the results. Return the notepad to Brian downstairs the instant you’re done with it. I don’t want that floating around the station.”

  Rhys accepte
d the notepad, faux-saluted, and said, “Yes, ma’am.” He opened the door and departed.

  Alana was pulling up images and evidence from the warehouse chop shop thread of the case when those officers who had taken bathroom breaks returned, joining the ranks of the coffee drinkers among their seats, absent the three of their members whom Alana had already put to task. She asked, “Is everyone ready to resume?”

  The meeting dragged on for the rest of the morning. Alana made prodigious use of the wall-mounted video monitor to present and organize the disparate facts in a manner that the other detectives would be able to comprehend and perhaps even contribute to. She assigned the four remaining detectives in her task force to the job of identifying the victims whose brain cases had been stacked for shipment inside the warehouse they had raided on July 4. The sheer volume of cyborgs that had been kidnapped was overwhelming, and her men would have to notify the emergency contacts of those who were unable to be resurrected, including working with the coroner’s office to issue death certificates. Then they would have to get both warrants and permission to interrogate the surviving brains to gain more information about how they were kidnapped. Then they would have to coordinate with a social worker for each victim to ensure that their insurance covered their body replacements, or, if needed, their resurrections.

  Inspector Alvarez, the most senior of the team, pleaded in his moderately thick Mexican accent, “Chief Inspector, it might take well over a month to finish this, even working full time. Five men won’t be anywhere near enough given the volume of work we’ll be doing.”

  Alana glanced at the gray carpet. It was the first time she’d noticed that there was a checkerboard pattern. Her precision optics told her that each square was exactly five centimeters across.

  “Chief Inspector?” Alvarez prodded.

  Alana broke her momentary reverie, “Do the best you can. Assign two of your team to work with the deceased and use the rest to work on getting some of the victims questioned. It’s critical that we know how they were kidnapped ASAP. I’ll ask Chief Bennett for more resources—”