Coding Isis

by David Roys

  Michelle thought back to the email she’d gotten earlier today. She thought of the single line of text that had come from an unknown source.

  How well do you know him?

  Was this just a co-incidence or was someone trying to warn her that her husband was screwing around? It didn’t make any sense. If someone wanted to blow the whistle on Chris, they should just come out and say it and not send cryptic messages. If someone was trying to turn her against him, it wasn’t going to work. She loved him and would stand by him. She believed in him.

  Bob returned with his briefcase from which he pulled a stack of papers. Michelle thumbed through them and read. Taking her time, she tried to be analytical and not emotional. Bob had always thought she would make a good lawyer and he had tried to convince her to go to law school so that she could work with him. He could think of nothing better. Instead she’d gone to England and studied medicine. He didn’t mind so much, he was happy with her becoming a doctor too. But she’d left before finishing and had returned with her new boyfriend. At the time he was furious, but she’d managed to convince him that medicine was a mistake for her and that she needed some time to figure out what she was going to do. In a way he was pleased. There was a chance she might go into the family business after all.

  Michelle dropped the stack of papers on the table. She said, ‘It just doesn’t add up Dad. I know I’m biased, but it doesn’t seem like Chris. Have you seen what he’s been working on? He hasn’t had time for fooling around. Also these emails that are meant to be from him? They don’t sound like him at all. How much do we know about this girl Jasmine? It seems like she was not quite all there, if you know what I mean?’

  Bob smiled, ‘OK honey, I can understand why you don’t want to believe it. But you need to face facts. These came from her computer and there were matching emails on Chris’s computer. These really happened, so even if she was making it up, Chris would have written back and asked her what she was up to. But he didn’t.’

  Michelle looked resolute. ‘I’m telling you Dad, he isn’t fooling around.’ She pushed the stack of papers away and turned to her dad. ‘I need you to do something for me,’ she said.

  ‘Anything, Michelle. Just name it.’

  ‘I want you to represent Chris. I want you to believe in him, and I want to you to fight for him with as much passion and determination as though you were fighting for me. Can you do that for me Daddy?’

  Bob knew that he had to trust his daughter and if she was sure that Chris was innocent then he had to do everything he could to help him, because that is what she wanted of him. Besides he couldn’t resist when she called him Daddy.

  Bob looked at his watch, it was gone midnight. ‘He’ll be asleep now,’ he said, ‘but I’ll head over there first thing tomorrow. There should be a preliminary hearing and I expect we’ll be able to get Chris out on bail. This is a first offence, he’s a respected member of the community, being a university lecturer and the evidence against him is circumstantial. I’ll get him out honey. Now try to get some sleep.’

  THIRTEEN

  Hadley Andersen was a crime scene investigator, and at this moment he wished he was anything but. Rather than chasing around D.C. in cool SUVs and solving crimes, he found he often got the most tedious, most boring grunt work he could possibly imagine. Currently he was sweeping a metal detector across a three-by-three search square, looking for a metal object that weighed less than an ounce. Finding a bullet in a forest is similar to finding a needle in a haystack. Given enough time and the right resources, it’s possible, but it’s not going to be fun. The CSI team had given up on the hands-and-knees search which so often pays off immediately following a shooting and had switched to metal detectors and a marked-out grid. One of the problems they faced was that the bullet could be anywhere including being embedded in one of the trees, essentially giving a three-dimensional search grid. The search was slow and tedious, but that was part of the job. Patience was the main attribute needed by a junior CSI, patience and the ability to stay alert when the task ahead was mind-numbingly boring.

  The problem so far had not been a lack of finds. The problem had been that they were continuously finding metal objects which slowed the whole process even more. They had found three sets of keys, a mobile phone, a wedding ring. Bizarrely enough they had found two bullets, neither of which had any human DNA, something that would certainly be present on the bullet that had passed through the head of Jasmine Allan. Each object found required that the search stopped, and that the location was mapped on the search grid and properly stored. For the bullets this meant paper envelopes, and a swab for DNA. The trees were scanned with a special hand-held metal detector, like the devices used in airport security. They were sensitive enough to detect a bullet that had buried itself up to nine inches in wood. The team had been at this for two days now, and there was a strong possibility that no bullet would ever be found. It wouldn’t be the first time, in fact for homicides that occurred in wooded areas, it was actually rare to find the bullet. Given the nature of this particular murder, and the lack of any other evidence, the investigating detective, had given strict instructions that the efforts were to continue until a bullet was found. And so the team searched on.

  Hadley swept the grid square, slow and steady, making sure he covered every inch. The detector squawked. What would it be this time, he wondered, another set of keys? Or maybe a body piercing from someone’s nose, or another body part. Gross. He raised his hand and the team stopped searching and turned to look his way. A sample box and evidence kit was brought over. The area was marked, photographed, and then excavated. He used a tiny trowel and brush to scrape away the top soil, all the time looking for the metal object. What he found filled him with joy. Not because he wanted this case to be solved (although he did) but because he was sick of standing in these damned woods waving a twenty-pound metal detector back and forth. He was looking at a tiny round piece of metal, about half an inch in diameter. He photographed it once more, and then removed it from its hole. Now to the important part, the one that he and, he was sure the whole team were waiting on with baited breath. The test that could mean the difference between a long hot shower and a chance to see their wives and kids, and another ten hours of tedious searching. The swab was dampened with sterile water and rubbed slightly on the side of the bullet. It was then sprayed with luminol, a chemical that would reveal the traces of human blood when subjected to ultra-violet light. A positive result would require further analysis at the lab to confirm it belonged to the victim, but it was the first step on the road to completing this arduous task. The bullet was dropped into a paper evidence bag which was labeled and stored. Then the spray was applied to the swab. Everyone was watching now, anticipating their afternoon at home. He switched on the UV light and breathed out. At last. A positive match. A chorus of cheers came from the team. The end was in sight—maybe. The swab was dropped in the swab box and the supervisor took the bullet, swab and camera from Hadley. He left a replacement camera and then patted him on the back. The back pat was the only praise he received. It said, good work Hadley. Now keep going. He stood and carried on with his sweep, covering each inch of soil, slowly so as not to miss a thing. All the while he hoped that soon he would be back at home and this evening his team mates would be buying him beers.

  Michelle parked in Chris’s spot at the university; she locked the car and walked towards Frank Myers’s office. The students were making their way between lectures or lounging around on the grass at the center of the courtyard, she felt the stares of the students as she walked across the square. Some of the students shared knowing looks, others were less discrete. To hell with them, she thought, let them have their scandal. She was here to sort things out for Chris. There must be something that idiot detective had missed, some proof that Chris had been here working.

  The door to Frank’s office was shut but she could see movement through the frosted glass in the window of the door. She knocked once, but didn’t wait fo
r a reply. She walked in to find Frank sitting at his desk with a pen in one hand and a sheath of papers in the other. He looked up over the top of his reading glasses and his face immediately changed from that of annoyance to compassion. He let down the paper and pen and stood to greet her. He held his arms wide and offered a hug. Michelle didn’t need a hug. She looked at Frank and waved his affection away with a raised hand.

  ‘I’m OK Frank,’ she said, ‘really, I am.’

  Frank looked relieved. He lowered his arms and settled against the edge of his desk. ‘I’m so sorry Michelle,’ he said. ‘If there’s anything I can do?’ He seemed genuine enough. Frank had been close to Chris, he’d even been over for dinner on more than one occasion. They’d talked shop for most of the evening but, from what Michelle had seen, he was a good man, he had integrity and he liked Chris. He offered a seat to Michelle and she took it; he sat beside her. The chairs were there for those times when Frank wanted to make a student feel more comfortable, a time when he didn’t need to assert his authority quite so much.

  ‘Chris has been arrested,’ she said.

  Frank fidgeted. This was an awkward conversation, he tugged on the seams of his flannel pants, as though trying to straighten them, and then ran one hand to his neck where he rubbed. He looked tired. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘That detective, the one that was using my office, called me. He said they found some new evidence that points to Chris. He had lots more questions.’

  ‘He didn’t do it.’

  Frank put his hand on Michelle’s forearm and gently squeezed it. ‘I know,’ he said.

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘I don’t believe he could have done it,’ he said, ‘not Chris.’

  ‘And what about the affair?’

  Frank reddened and shifted uncomfortably. ‘So you know about that?’

  ‘I know it’s bullshit. Chris loves me. Me and these damned computers, there’s no room for anything else in his life, he wouldn’t fool around with a student, no way.’ She looked at Frank, trying to see through his expression, trying to read his thoughts. He had his doubts, she could tell. ‘I want to talk to the students,’ she said.

  Frank took his hand back from Michelle’s arm. He stood and walked around the desk to the window that overlooked the courtyard, he made a pretense at looking out the window. ‘Chris is a brilliant man you know?’

  Michelle waited, she didn’t want to get drawn by Frank’s segue; if he stepped over her requests, she would keep throwing them at him. She could keep this up all day. ‘I want to talk to the students,’ she said.

  Frank turned from the window and faced her, he seemed smaller somehow, as though he was trying to shrink away from an awkward situation. ‘I cannot allow that,’ he said. He gave a smile, only slight, or maybe it was just his eyes. ‘You can go into Chris’s office and collect his things if you like. You may meet some of his students along the way, but I can’t allow you to interview them formally, do you understand? I’m sure they’d be happy to talk to you, Chris was well liked.’

  ‘He’s not dead Frank.’

  ‘I’m sorry that came out all wrong,’ he said. He looked embarrassed.

  ‘Relax Frank,’ Michelle said. ‘This whole thing’s a mess, no one knows what to say, maybe there isn’t anything you can say. I just want to get it straightened out. There’s no way Chris was screwing that girl, I’d have known. I’m here to find something, some proof that will show there’s no way he could have killed her.’

  ‘I hope you do,’ he said.

  FOURTEEN

  Ben Naylor walked into the Washington D.C. gun club. The reception area was spacious and decorated in a modern style. In the center of the room stood a high reception counter, semi-circular with wooden panels that ran horizontally between brushed aluminum strips. The counter was topped with black marble and behind it sat a pretty young receptionist who was busy at the computer, although he doubted her activities were work-related. She looked up as he entered and flashed a smile, it was warm and welcoming. Ben looked around the room before walking over to the counter. The stylish décor, reception desk, and glass trophy cabinet gave the club the air of a gentleman’s squash club, it didn’t look like any gun club he could afford and it was poles apart from the shooting range at the station. He guessed the Washington glitterati demanded a more sophisticated experience, even if they simply wanted to let loose a few rounds. The university salary must pay pretty well for Chris to afford this place. Or maybe Chris was getting money from somewhere else.

  Ben flashed his badge to the girl behind the desk and he watched the smile slide from her face. ‘Detective Ben Naylor, Washington Metro PD,’ he said. ‘I have a warrant that entitles me to search the locker of one of your members, a Mr. Chris Sanders.’

  The girl was not fazed. ‘Certainly Detective,’ she said, ‘I’ll just call someone who can assist you. Please take a seat.’ She gestured to a group of stylish and over-designed chairs. Each chair looked like the bottom part of an egg shell, crafted from white leather. He guessed that the furniture was deliberately retro-chic rather than simply old. The chairs didn’t look too comfortable. He stood at the counter and waited. The girl made a phone call and then looked up to Ben once more with that amazing smile.

  ‘Mr. Case, the duty manager, will be with you shortly,’ she said. ‘Can I get you a coffee or a tea, Detective?’

  Ben declined the offer and walked over to the trophy cabinet. There were half a dozen trophies for target shooting, one of which he noticed had Chris’s name on it.

  A voice came out of the office from behind him, ‘As you can see, Detective, our members take their shooting rather seriously.’

  Ben turned to see a man in his mid-forties, well dressed in a smart pin-stripe suit which was well-tailored and expensive-looking, no doubt Italian, or some other import. The man was smiling the uniform welcoming smile; his right hand was extended and open, waiting to take Ben’s hand as though he was a long-lost friend. Ben figured that whoever owned this place had not only read the book on outstanding customer service, they’d probably helped to write it. ‘I see Chris Sanders is one of your trophy winners,’ Ben said as he shook hands.

  ‘He sure is. Chris is a fine shot; I believe he trained in the British Army. He scored a perfect round to win that trophy, quite amazing, although he tells us that pistol shooting is really only a hobby. Unfortunately we don’t have the facilities to allow rifle shooting here, otherwise we could see what he could really do.’

  Ben nodded and waited for the silence to open up. The man started to look a little uncomfortable, like he was busy and was itching to get on with other things.

  The man said, ‘When it comes to firing a pistol, I can tell you he’s the best shot I’ve seen and I’ve been running this club for more than twenty years.’

  Ben nodded. The guy wanted to make small talk, so he needed to get to the point, this man was way too professional to let something slip about one of his clients. Ben pulled the warrant from the inside pocket of his sports coat. The manager didn’t look surprised. He gestured towards his open office door, ‘Please Detective,’ he said, ‘let’s carry on this discussion in the privacy of my office. We don’t want to make a scene that may upset our other members.’ The man smiled and gestured Ben to the office, like a Maître d’ showing him to his table.

  The office had an air of elegance. The large windows looked out over a small lake and woodland surround. Towards the end of the room stood a large oak desk, its surface was clear but for a speakerphone and laptop computer. There were two chairs for guests and a third behind the desk and in front of another large window. The chairs were upholstered in green leather and looked old, possibly antique. Expensive. Everything in this damned place looked expensive, and Ben was starting to feel he was making it look untidy.

  ‘This is a nice office you have here Mr. Case.’

  ‘Thank you Detective. Please, call me Julian.’

  ‘So tell me Julian, what do you make of Chris Sanders?’

&
nbsp; ‘As I said, he’s a great shot. He’s a nice guy; friendly. I understand he’s a bit of a whiz kid with computers—he’s helped me out a couple of times with my email. I gather he’s a university lecturer? But I imagine you know this already?’

  ‘Have you ever seen him lose his temper? Get into a fight?’

  ‘Chris?’ Julian looked amused, ‘No I’ve never seen that, and I can’t imagine him in a brawl. He doesn’t seem the type.’

  Ben was amazed at this. Chris was an ex-soldier, trained in multiple armed and un-armed combat techniques. Ben had pulled the army records from immigration; it wasn’t a complete record, which in itself suggested that some of the action Chris had seen was highly classified. The part that he had seen told him that while Chris didn’t seem the type to get into a brawl, you certainly wouldn’t want to find out first-hand.

  ‘I’d like to search his locker now,’ said Ben. He held out the warrant.

  Julian Case took the warrant and pulled a pair of reading glasses from his suit pocket. He read the details and then appeared shocked; he took the glasses off his face and stared incredulously at Ben.

  ‘It says that you suspect Chris of murder?’ he said.

  ‘I know. Don’t tell me, he doesn’t seem the type.’

  Julian walked around to his desk and sat in the leather chair. He pulled the laptop towards him and swiped an access card across the front. He clicked a few times, then started to type. ‘We have state-of-the-art security here, Detective. Our lockers are computer controlled and every time one is opened the date and time of access is logged. Each member has an eight-digit PIN known only to them and an access card that grants entrance to the range and the lockers.’

  ‘If I knew how, could I pull the PIN and get into another member’s locker?’ asked Ben.

  ‘I’m afraid not. My access card is a master, and I have the facility to reset a PIN, but the member would be immediately alerted. An email is automatically sent to their account notifying them that their PIN has been reset. As I said Detective, state-of-the-art security.’