Fragmented

by George Fong

  “Yeah, it’s me,” he sang. “I got your man.”

  Jack stood by the side of his vehicle, the engine running with the air conditioner blasting. Jack had called Hoskin to run Monroe’s name and was soon informed he got a hit. Still outside of the church, Jack took notes on the hood of his car, jotting down the information Hoskin provided.

  “You said his last known address was in West Covina?”

  “That’s it,” Hoskin replied. “At least that’s where he was last registered. I’m guessing it’s dated and he’s moved on.”

  “What about his criminal history?”

  “He’s got a pretty extensive rap sheet.” There was a pause as Hoskin scanned the report. “Got him a couple of years ago for kidnapping, assault. Most of the charges were dropped for lack of evidence. The only thing he was actually convicted of was possession of child pornography, a misdemeanor. For some reason, there’s nothing indicating he had to register as a 290 sex offender.”

  “No registration means I am going to have a hard time finding him.”

  “Maybe not. Monroe was ticketed for a moving violation here in Butte County. Looks like he was cited last month on the twenty eighth.”

  “Does it show what vehicle he was cited in?”

  “Commercial plate for a pickup.” As he read the plate, Jack felt the eeriness of déjà vu. It was the truck plate he glimpsed fleeing Petroski’s residence. He scribbled the citation report number and hung up.

  Jack grabbed his papers and called out to Colfax, who stood in the middle of the street, hands on his hips, staring down the road at nothing. Colfax lumbered back toward the car.

  Jack handed Colfax the note he wrote. “We might have a pretty good lead. CLETS shows Klaus Monroe was cited for a moving violation last month here in Butte County. My guess is he’s left his former residence of West Covina for the good life in your county. Do you think we can find the officer who wrote the ticket to see what he remembers?”

  “Yeah, I think we can find the guy.” He grabbed his radio off his belt and called in to dispatch. It took a minute for dispatch to inform Colfax of the officer’s name.

  “Officer’s name is Jessie Cambridge. I know the kid. We call him Jessie James. Young and eager to become a detective. Always looking to catch a big fish.” He called back on the radio to find out Cambridge’s shift and learned he was on duty. “He’s in service, Jack.”

  “Let’s get him back to the station. In the meantime, could you have your office pull up Monroe’s DMV photo and criminal history? Find out the current registered owner of the truck.”

  “My guess is he paid cash for the truck and neglected to worry about re-registration. Probably still in the original seller’s name.”

  Jack took a deep breath and held it for a moment. He knew Colfax was right. “Run it out anyway. It’s just time and paper. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

  Jack made his way around to the driver’s side and entered the cool interior, escaping the climbing outside heat. The blowing air conditioner gave Jack a quick shiver. Colfax climbed in and secured his seat belt. Jack threw the car into drive and pulled away from the curb, heading in the direction of the Chico Police Department, while Colfax called out on his radio for Officer Cambridge to be ordered back to the station. Time was precious.

  22

  Wednesday – 12:14 p.m.

  Officer Cambridge sat in the conference room, staring at the DMV photo of Klaus Monroe. Next to the photo was Alvin Cooper’s inmate photo. Placed next to each other, the pairing was a poster for birth control. Cambridge stared at each picture, his eyes darting between the two. Jack and Colfax sat on the other side of the table, patiently waiting for a response from the officer.

  Cambridge tapped at the photo of Monroe with his right index finger. “Yeah, I remember this fellow. Nervous type.”

  “What do you remember about this guy?” Jack asked.

  Cambridge looked up at the ceiling and sucked in air, his chest expanding and making the ballistic vest under his uniform creak. “I pulled this guy over for not coming to a complete stop at the intersection of Davenport and Main.” He glanced over at his notepad and nodded. “Yeah, that’s right. I get out, get his license and registration. R/O doesn’t match his DL so he tells me he’s borrowing the vehicle and then says he didn’t realize he didn’t come to a complete stop. Says he’s visiting a friend in the area and that he’s from SoCal. I remember that because he doesn’t exactly fit the profile of a typical Southern California resident.”

  “Did he mention who—or where—his friend was?” Colfax asked.

  “No, but in looking over my notes, I see I wrote down a phone number. Can’t remember why, or if it’s even his. I jot down a lot of stuff. Could be from another contact.” Cambridge turned his notepad around and slid it in front of Jack.

  Jack wrote down the number and returned the pad to Cambridge. “Why didn’t you list Monroe’s telephone number on the citation?”

  “Said he didn’t have a number. I think that one was to his friend’s house. That’s probably why I didn’t list it on the ticket.” Cambridge frowned and tipped his head down. “Guess I messed up.”

  The number had a 530 area code, which covered Butte County, not Southern California. “Don’t worry about it, Jessie, you got a number and that may be a big help.” Jack handed Cambridge his business card. “If you remember anything else or if you see the truck again, contact me right away.”

  “This guy kidnap a young girl?” Cambridge asked.

  “Unsure at this time,” Jack replied. “The kidnapper might actually be using Monroe’s identity to conceal himself.”

  “This guy Monroe would let someone do that?”

  Jack shook his head. He looked out the window at a park across the street. “Not voluntarily.”

  Harrington moved his index finger a bit to the right, pushing away a bundle of cables, which were blocking a port to plug into. A spark popped between his finger and the casing, causing Harrington to jolt out of his seat. His hand hit the casing hard enough for the entire computer to start rocking, ready to tumble onto its side.

  “Damn it!” He stuck the shocked finger in his mouth and sucked on it. Harrington took a deep breath and slowly exhaled, trying to gather his composure. He grabbed the bundle, looped it over a parallel line and reached for the set connected to the Bureau’s analysis unit, then twisted in his swivel chair and scooted back to the bench. His hands passed over the top of buzzing equipment and he could feel the temperature was at least four or five degrees hotter. He started to type on his keyboard, the same one that he used to draw up the chopped pictures of Jessica Baker. With Alvin Cooper identified as their main subject, Harrington continued typing, sending programs to attack the computer believed to belong to Cooper, gathering fragmented pieces that may consolidate into good leads.

  The tumbling hourglass, now replaced with an icon of the Starship Enterprise, spun for a moment before a tree of folders materialized listing hundreds of files, more than likely filled with smut. Folder 127T5aa, 9978a, 5004.tha….

  Harrington stared at the screen, studying the tree, following the branches with his eyes, like driving a car along a winding road. His eyes darted down a long branch that passed a known folder, the one with Jessica’s picture. Further down, Harrington saw a hidden folder buried in a field of junk and system program files. The folder was marked “BTrip.” He clicked on the folder, causing it to expand, listing a dozen subfolders. Harrington puckered his lips and rubbed his chin. He scrolled down the list, stopping on one marked “12251989.” Harrington raised an eyebrow. “Christmas Day, 1989,” he whispered. He clicked on the sub-folder finding fifty .JPG files listed in a neat row. He continued to slide the arrow down the list of files, launching randomly on the fifth one down. A second passed before a message popped up: Error. Your viewer is unable to recognize this file.

  Harrington slammed his fist on the bench, a tech agent’s way of throwing down the gauntlet. No doubt, the files were corrupted. Har
rington would have to work for a finished product. He wondered why Cooper wanted these pictures destroyed more than the others. Images of bound and gagged children were bad enough, and yet several of them were left intact. Revealing photos of his last travels to the Baker residence were also retrievable. These images in BTrip, however, were intentionally placed on a higher priority for destruction. The images in this folder needed to be pieced back together. More software programs were called into play and Harrington started sifting through millions of bits trying to find the proper fit for each piece. Launching and re-launching, the programs gathered the fragmented data, placing them in a strand before attempting to view the finished product. Finally, the first set of images appeared in a row like a proof sheet from a roll of 35mm film. He scanned the small images before launching the first one. Rows of pixels scrolled across the screen, revealing thin slivers of the images riddled with black spots where data could not be found. More pixels coalesced until Harrington could make out two smiling faces of teenagers standing near a river by an old ornate bridge.

  Two large squares partially covered one of the faces, leaving only one eye and the left side of his visage captured. The other one was complete. Harrington picked up a booking photo of Alvin Cooper and stared at it for a second, then back at the recovered photo. Even though one of the faces was partially blacked out, Harrington recognized him. He just imagined a few more years on that face and he knew who it was.

  Harrington turned toward a laptop on a separate table. It was his Internet computer. He logged on and Googled bridges. He filtered through photos of bridges around the world, comparing them to the one recovered. It was only a few minutes before he landed on a match. Harrington looked back at the image on Cooper’s computer and clicked his tongue. He stretched his arm out and grabbed the telephone receiver, dialing Jack Paris’ cell phone number.

  “I got something here you may want to see,” Harrington said when Jack picked up.

  “What is it?”

  “A picture of your Alvin Cooper. He’s with an UNSUB standing next to the Chain Bridge in Budapest, Hungary.”

  Jack paused. “As in over the Danube?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “I remember Cooper traveling to Hungary. Helped prove his role in his family’s murder. The photo must have been taken when he was touring after high school. Any others?”

  Harrington felt a little miffed, thinking that his quick identification of the Chain Bridge was significant enough to warrant a better response from Agent Paris, not to mention finding another person who might be able to provide information about Cooper. “I’m still working on the rest. Should have some results by the time you get here.”

  “I’ll be there in fifteen.”

  By the time Jack got to the office, Harrington had already pieced together a series of photos contained within the fragmented folder. The photos were printed and lined on the workbench for Jack to review. Many were only partials, some better than others. Jack stood over the brightly lit table, scanning them for clues.

  “Nice job, Jimmy.”

  Harrington smiled. “I think I can tell you where these photos were taken.” Harrington punched his fingers on two partial photos.

  Jack looked at the pictures. A young man stood next to a frail elderly lady, her eyes sad, her face without a smile. Another of the same man in front of a bar with a sign reading “Blackie’s by the Beach.” Overcast skies and a sandy beach, obviously near the ocean. In the background, motorcycles crowded the parking lot and men with large guts and leather vests stood by the entryway.

  “That’s in Newport Beach,” Harrington said. “I was there a few years back with some friends.”

  Jack gave Harrington one of those inquisitive looks. He knew the place as well. “Doesn’t seem like your kind of place.”

  Harrington leaned back, pointing a finger at himself. “I can be cool.”

  “My mistake.”

  “So, when do we go?” Harrington said.

  “We aren’t going anywhere.”

  Harrington’s bottom lip folded in a classic display of disappointment.

  “Look, Jimmy, I need you here to put those pictures back together. The more you find, the better our chances of finding our girl.”

  Harrington huffed. “Fine.”

  Jack pulled a pen and a Post-It from a desk drawer. He jotted down the directions, even though he knew the way. He worried how much time he would have to divert from his search but knew he had to go. The flight down and back would take maybe a day, hopefully less. With Hoskin working with Colfax, and Marquez searching the Internet, Jack knew that it was best to cover all bases.

  Whoever this person was, a contact could lead to Cooper’s whereabouts. Jack folded up his notes and stuffed them inside his coat pocket, then turned and shuffled backwards. He lifted a hand of gratitude to Harrington. “Keep building those files. I’m counting on you.”

  Harrington nodded and threw Jack a quick salute.

  A second later, Jack was out the side door and in his car. The drive to the airport was about thirty minutes. Precious minutes, wasted.

  23

  Wednesday – 3:16 p.m.

  United Express flight 328 touched down at John Wayne International in Orange County right on time. Before the wheels chirped on the tarmac, Jack’s cell phone registered seven missed calls. The exit door was pushed open and passengers began shoving their way forward like a cattle round-up. Jack cycled through the calls as he shuffled in the middle of a tight pack, clearing the crowd at the terminal gate, hustling to the Hertz counter. He considered calling the Santa Ana Resident Agency for help but didn’t want to wait for an agent to come out this late, never mind the time he’d lose having to brief them. By the time Jack explained everything, he could be back on the plane and on his way home. He knew this was not the proper protocol; he’d deal with the fallout later.

  He handed the Hertz representative his Bureau credit card and she handed over the keys to a bronze-colored Pontiac Grand Prix. The shuttle shipped him to the Hertz lot and a sea of Grand Prixs—all bronze. He pointed his clicker, pressed the unlock button, and scanned the parking lot for blinking lights. It was the seventh car down.

  The outside temperature was a comfortable 79 degrees and the smell of the ocean air gave Jack a moment of pause. He transferred out of the FBI office in Los Angeles for several reasons, one being the death of a partner, the other to salvage a trashed home life. Jack’s world had taken a left turn when it should have taken a right. Three months ago, he’d moved out of the house, his wife Emily being the one who made the request—okay, more like a demand. Even though things were getting better, his work kept creeping in and taking control. Like an infectious disease. Aside from the prodding he got from Dools the day before, Jack hadn’t thought of the separation, too preoccupied with the kidnapping, with work. Between the job and his train wreck of a personal life, Jack started to believe his existence was nothing but two choices: bad marriage and bad people. He took a deep breath and tried to clear his head, twisted the key in the ignition and the Grand Prix fired up with a low growl, idling like a racecar. He punched the gas pedal, quickly accelerating out of the lot, heading north onto PCH toward Blackie’s.

  The sky over the Pacific Ocean was crystal blue straight to the horizon line, what a true Californian would refer to as “SoCal blue.”

  Jack drove north along the Coast Highway. Traffic was light but he found himself darting through pockets of cars moving barely above a crawl. He pulled out the Post-it note from his breast coat pocket and glanced at the directions.

  Fifteen minutes later, he was off the PCH and onto the 55 South, heading toward the beach. As he crossed the bridge that took him into the heart of Newport, Jack stared at the rows of sail boats, yachts and coastline cruisers whose values totaled more than a small country’s GNP. Small shops neatly stacked along the main thoroughfare. Surf shops, trinket boutiques, and art studios were the primary attractions for the tourists. He entered the heart
of the business center, nosed the Grand Prix to a stop at a four-way intersection, before pulling into a half-filled parking lot lined with rows of coin meters. In the nearest stall, Jack removed a small placard from his briefcase and tossed it on the dashboard: Department of Justice, Federal Bureau of Investigation, Official Business. He started toward a strip of old wooden buildings with large glass windows facing the ocean.

  It was a short walk before Jack saw a hand-painted wooden sign hung high above one building that simply read, “Blackie’s.” As Jack approached the bar, the music grew louder, the noise of clinking glasses and falling beer bottles becoming more prevalent. It all came rushing back to him, the evenings spent with his squad mates, draining more than a couple of tall beers at the counter, blending in with the SoCal crowd. Back when it felt good to be something other than a cop, back when he felt normal.

  Entering, he was greeted by curious eyes. Blurry stares and glances by the patrons, before they turned back to the bartender, signaling for more to drink. Jack ordered an Amber on draft, pulled the photo from his jacket nonchalantly and glanced at the picture of Cooper with the unknown friend before placing it face down on the counter. The bartender brought over his beer and Jack tossed him a twenty. As the bartender reached for the bill, Jack pointed down at the photo. The bartender stopped, eyes drifting down toward the counter. Jack leaned forward, trying not to attract attention. He slid his creds from his coat pocket. “Listen, I don’t want to disrupt your business but I was wondering if you know these individuals.” Jack curled the end of the photo so only the bartender was able to see.