“We’ve got to get moving on this. . . . Now we’re taking a two-prong approach to the case. Detectives Bishop and Shelton are going to be running a standard homicide investigation. CCU’ll handle the computer evidence—with Wyatt’s help here.” He glanced at a fax on his desk and added, “We’re also expecting a consultant from Seattle, an expert on the Internet and online systems. Patricia Nolan. She should be here any minute.”
“Police?” Shelton asked.
“No, civilian,” Anderson said.
Miller added, “We use corporate security people all the time. The technology changes so fast we can’t keep up with all the latest developments. Perps’re always one step ahead of us. So we try to use private consultants whenever we can.”
Tony Mott said, “They’re usually standing in line to help. It’s real chic now to put catching a hacker on your résumé.”
Anderson asked Linda Sanchez, “Now, where’s the Gibson woman’s computer?”
“In the analysis lab, boss.” The woman nodded down one of the dark corridors that spidered out from the central room. “A couple of techs from crime scene are fingerprinting it—just in case the perp broke into her house and left some nice, juicy latents. Should be ready in ten minutes.”
Mott handed Frank Bishop an envelope. “This came for you a few minutes ago. It’s the preliminary crime scene report.”
Bishop brushed at his stiff hair with the backs of his fingers. Gillette could see the tooth marks from the comb very clearly in the heavily sprayed strands. The cop glanced through the file but said nothing. He handed the thin stack of papers to Shelton, tucked his shirt in once more then leaned against the wall.
The chunky cop opened the file, read for a few moments then looked up. “Witnesses report the perpetrator was a white male, medium build and medium height, white slacks, a light blue shirt, tie with a cartooncharacter of some kind on it. Late twenties, early thirties. Looked like every techie in there, the bartender said.” The cop walked to the white-board and began to write down these clues. He continued, “ID card he was wearing said Xerox Palo Alto Research Center but we’re sure that was fake. There were no hard leads to anybody there. He had a mustache and goatee. Blond hair. Also there were several frayed blue denim fibers on the victim that didn’t match her clothes or anything in her closet at home. Might’ve come from the perp. The murder weapon was probably a military Ka-bar knife with a serrated top.”
Tony Mott asked, “How’d you know that?”
“The wounds’re consistent with that type of weapon.” Shelton turned back to the file. “The victim was killed elsewhere and dumped by the highway.”
Mott interrupted. “How could they tell that? ”
Shelton frowned slightly, apparently not wishing to digress. “Quantity of her blood found at the scene.” The young cop’s lengthy blond hair danced as he nodded and seemed to record this information for future reference.
Shelton resumed. “Nobody near the body drop site saw anything.” A sour glance at the others. “Like they ever do. . . . Now, we’re trying to trace the doer’s car—he and Lara left the bar together and were seen walking toward the back parking lot but nobody got a look at his wheels. Crime scene was lucky; the bartender remembered that the perp wrapped his beer bottle in a napkin and one of the techs found it in the trash. But we printed both the bottle and the napkin and came up with zip. The lab lifted some kind of adhesive off the lip of the bottle but we can’t tell what it is. It’s nontoxic. That’s all they know. It doesn’t match anything in the lab database.”
Frank Bishop finally spoke. “A costume store.”
“Costume?” Anderson asked.
The cop said, “Maybe he needed some help to look like this Will Randolph guy he was impersonating. Might be glue for a fake mustache or beard.”
Gillette agreed. “A good social
“Police?” Shelton asked.
“No, civilian,” Anderson said.
Miller added, “We use corporate security people all the time. The technology changes so fast we can’t keep up with all the latest developments. Perps’re always one step ahead of us. So we try to use private consultants whenever we can.”
Tony Mott said, “They’re usually standing in line to help. It’s real chic now to put catching a hacker on your résumé.”
Anderson asked Linda Sanchez, “Now, where’s the Gibson woman’s computer?”
“In the analysis lab, boss.” The woman nodded down one of the dark corridors that spidered out from the central room. “A couple of techs from crime scene are fingerprinting it—just in case the perp broke into her house and left some nice, juicy latents. Should be ready in ten minutes.”
Mott handed Frank Bishop an envelope. “This came for you a few minutes ago. It’s the preliminary crime scene report.”
Bishop brushed at his stiff hair with the backs of his fingers. Gillette could see the tooth marks from the comb very clearly in the heavily sprayed strands. The cop glanced through the file but said nothing. He handed the thin stack of papers to Shelton, tucked his shirt in once more then leaned against the wall.
The chunky cop opened the file, read for a few moments then looked up. “Witnesses report the perpetrator was a white male, medium build and medium height, white slacks, a light blue shirt, tie with a cartooncharacter of some kind on it. Late twenties, early thirties. Looked like every techie in there, the bartender said.” The cop walked to the white-board and began to write down these clues. He continued, “ID card he was wearing said Xerox Palo Alto Research Center but we’re sure that was fake. There were no hard leads to anybody there. He had a mustache and goatee. Blond hair. Also there were several frayed blue denim fibers on the victim that didn’t match her clothes or anything in her closet at home. Might’ve come from the perp. The murder weapon was probably a military Ka-bar knife with a serrated top.”
Tony Mott asked, “How’d you know that?”
“The wounds’re consistent with that type of weapon.” Shelton turned back to the file. “The victim was killed elsewhere and dumped by the highway.”
Mott interrupted. “How could they tell that? ”
Shelton frowned slightly, apparently not wishing to digress. “Quantity of her blood found at the scene.” The young cop’s lengthy blond hair danced as he nodded and seemed to record this information for future reference.
Shelton resumed. “Nobody near the body drop site saw anything.” A sour glance at the others. “Like they ever do. . . . Now, we’re trying to trace the doer’s car—he and Lara left the bar together and were seen walking toward the back parking lot but nobody got a look at his wheels. Crime scene was lucky; the bartender remembered that the perp wrapped his beer bottle in a napkin and one of the techs found it in the trash. But we printed both the bottle and the napkin and came up with zip. The lab lifted some kind of adhesive off the lip of the bottle but we can’t tell what it is. It’s nontoxic. That’s all they know. It doesn’t match anything in the lab database.”
Frank Bishop finally spoke. “A costume store.”
“Costume?” Anderson asked.
The cop said, “Maybe he needed some help to look like this Will Randolph guy he was impersonating. Might be glue for a fake mustache or beard.”
Gillette agreed. “A good social
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