Hunting Savage

by Edlund, Dave;

  “It’s okay,” Peter said softly, gently, and he placed his hand on Kate’s. She sniffled and regained enough composure to continue.

  “She was in the kitchen, next to the refrigerator. It was open. The door couldn’t close because…” she forced back tears. “Because Emma was blocking it.”

  “Emma was killed when she walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator.” Peter was imagining the scene. “But if she let the killer in, and then opened the refrigerator, she must have been engaged in a conversation. Why would she open the refrigerator? Maybe to offer a drink to her visitor?”

  Kate looked at Peter with puffy eyes. “I don’t understand. Why is that important? Who cares why she opened the refrigerator.” Her voice had an edge of irritation.

  “Because I don’t think this had anything to do with a burglary.”

  “Well, that’s what I know—what I told the police.”

  Peter thought about the laptop, why anyone would be so interested in a student’s computer that they’d kill for it. “Did Emma have any secrets?”

  That triggered a short chuckle from Kate. “Like I said, she was a terrible liar.”

  “Did she receive any odd or threatening emails, or phone calls?”

  “No. What are you thinking?”

  “It sounds to me that this was planned. Which means someone had a reason for murdering your roommate. And that reason has something to do with her computer. My guess is the answer might be in her email.”

  Kate was calmer now, hopeful that Peter may be able to find the killer.

  “Do you have the password to access Emma’s email?”

  She shook her head. “But maybe the police can help.”

  “Maybe. If not, I know another way.”

  “You’ll let me know if you come up with anything?” Kate asked.

  Peter nodded.

  She wrote something on the napkin she’d been resting her glass on, then handed it to Peter. “Here’s my number. I’m creeped out staying here, so I’m moving in with a friend tomorrow.”

  Chapter 6

  Bend, Oregon

  April 17

  “Detective Colson,” she said as she answered the phone.

  “Detective, it’s Peter Savage. Do you have a minute?”

  “I’m surprised to hear from you. Look, if you’re going to tell me you’re lodging a complaint with the department, save your breath. Our review of your records was by the book, and I’ve already briefed the chief.”

  “No, actually, that’s not why I’m calling. Have you considered the victim’s email?”

  “Look, Mr. Savage. I am not at liberty to discuss this investigation with you. You’ll be hearing from either myself or Detective Nakano if we have any questions for you.”

  “Yeah, I get it.” The friendliness was rapidly leaving his tone. “So I won’t ask you any questions. But here’s a suggestion. I was talking with Kate Simp—”

  “Now you listen here,” her voice was hard, threatening. “You’d better stop poking your nose into my investigation, or I’ll book you into jail myself!”

  “Calm down. I’m not interfering with your investigation. And there’s no law against me talking to Kate.”

  “You’re walking on a razor’s edge, Mr. Savage.”

  “Look, all I want to suggest is that there may be something of importance in Emma’s email. Think about it. This wasn’t a random burglary, and you know it. This was planned. Why would the killer be after the laptop?”

  “Stay out of this investigation before you muck it up!”

  “I’m not in your investigation. Just tell me you’re going to check into her email account.”

  Ruth Colson debated for a moment before replying, “We already have.”

  Peter was surprised. “Okay. And?”

  “I shouldn’t tell you this, but it’s not important to the case anyway. Nothing, okay? We found nothing.”

  “What do you mean? She didn’t have any emails?”

  “No…” Ruth replied irritably. “What I am saying is that there was nothing—no messages sent or received—that in anyway were out of the ordinary.”

  Peter felt deflated. After his conversation with Kate he was certain he was on to a useful lead—something that would help explain how a magnetic impulse weapon had made it into the hands of a murderer.

  “We’ve questioned Kate Simpson at length. We’ve gone at this from every angle. Trust me on this—we’re not a bunch of dummies. I’ve been a detective for close to 15 years. I know what we’re dealing with, and it’s not a standard burglary. Now, if you have something useful, let me know. But I’m warning you for the last time: stay out of this.”

  Richard Nyden—alias Agent Barnes—was enjoying the crisp, clear morning. This was his first visit to Bend, and he felt it suited him well. Nestled on the eastern slope of the Cascade Range, he had a panoramic view of snow-capped peaks from his hotel on the bluff overlooking the Old Mill District. He was well into a 10-mile run—working off the culinary indulgence from the previous evening—when his phone rang.

  He stepped off the trail paralleling the Deschutes River to answer the call. “Did you read my report?” he said, already knowing the other party by the caller ID code name.

  “Yes. That was smart, planting a bug in the house. I trust you hid it well?”

  “Well enough,” Nyden said. “Plus, there’s no reason for anyone to suspect listening devices were planted, so no reason to search for them. Got three of ‘em: in the living room, kitchen, and bedroom.”

  “Just the one meeting?” he heard the voice say.

  “That’s right. And the police don’t seem to have any clue—no pun intended.”

  “What is the probability that this guy—Savage—will find something you missed?”

  “Zero. I didn’t miss anything. We accessed her email account and deleted the emails. Done. End of story. They’ve already gone through a backup cycle, so even if someone got overly suspicious, there’s nothing on the backup server either. But, if you’re losing sleep over this, I can take care of it.”

  The other party on the call knew exactly what Nyden meant. He was an accomplished killer. Trained by the Marine Corps, battle hardened, resourceful, and intelligent. Richard Nyden had planned to complete at least 20 years with the Corps, then retire and go into the private sector—corporate security, hired gun with few questions asked.

  But that plan evaporated one day when he shot an entire Afghan family. Three generations, dead. All because Nyden snapped—that was the diagnosis from the base shrink. For three weeks the Marines had been taking heavy casualties from sniper fire and IEDs. One of Nyden’s buddies was killed and two more severely wounded when a roadside bomb was remotely detonated as the patrol passed. Despite three to four patrols each day, the Marines were never able to catch the insurgents or get the villagers to identify them. So, following a tip, Nyden took care of the problem himself.

  His fellow Leathernecks refused to testify against him. They had all said the Afghan elder had a rifle, but none was found during the investigation. With only circumstantial evidence, and it being a war zone, Nyden was acquitted of murder and manslaughter. The best the Court Marshal could do was convict Nyden of conduct unbefitting a Marine, and he was out. Seventeen years of honorable service wiped from the records.

  Upon returning home, Nyden was unemployed for less than a month. He soon learned that there was an underserved market for a man with his particular skills. He was hired by a secretive organization known as the Guardians, although exactly what they were guarding was never clear. He usually worked alone, other times in a small team of two or three. Orders came from encrypted email and phone calls. Money was wired into one of several accounts in each of his aliases. He was almost always travelling and had no need for a permanent address.

  The money was extremely good, especially since he didn’t file a tax return—Nyden didn’t believe in paper trails. He liked living off the net, using different aliases so there were
no records of his existence. He was an apparition; at best, a distant memory in the minds of family and friends he had once known.

  “No need to get heavy handed; not yet anyway. I’ve got a contact at the Cyber Crimes division of the FBI. He’s at the Portland office.”

  “And what’s he gonna do?” said a skeptical Nyden.

  “Don’t worry. He’s not in your league. But for a few thousand, he’ll open an investigation into Peter Savage. Hacking government databases or something. He’ll create a credible story to support the allegations; enough so, anyway, to get the local Bend police interested. Maybe even arrest Mr. Savage.”

  “What good will that do? We both know the charges won’t stick—unless you’re also planning to fabricate incriminating evidence.”

  The voice didn’t answer right away. Nyden assumed the other party was contemplating doing just that. “No, too much time and possible links that could expose us. I think it will be sufficient to implicate Peter Savage on multiple federal offenses. He’ll be so busy trying to clear his name that he won’t have time to probe any deeper.”

  Nyden listened. So far this was interesting but irrelevant to him.

  “I did some research on Mr. Savage,” the voice said. “He owns a business that makes special weapons. Something you might be familiar with—they call it a magnetic impulse firearm. Sound familiar?”

  Nyden smiled at the irony. The inventor who manufactured his preferred assassination weapon was about to be falsely implicated for hacking government databases. All to cover up a crime committed with one of his guns—the gun itself being illegally acquired by the Guardians. Brilliant!

  “Orders from the Department of Defense will dry up as soon as word gets out—and I’ll be certain the FBI issues a press release and internal memos right away accusing Peter Savage of identity theft, wire fraud, espionage… I’m sure my contact will produce a long list of allegations.”

  “So what do you want me to do?” Nyden asked.

  “For now, stay glued to that bug you planted in the house. Let me know immediately if there are any more conversations between Peter Savage and Kate Simpson. If Ms. Simpson gets curious and starts sticking her nose in our business, you know what to do. Oh, and when the police take a renewed interest in Mr. Savage, I’ll want your report without delay.”

  Chapter 7

  Bend, Oregon

  April 17

  “Hey Gary,” Peter greeted his childhood friend. “Say, I’ve got a bit of a problem here. Turns out to be more serious than I had thought, and I could use your help.”

  “Do I have to fry in the desert, get pummeled by genetic mutants, or shoot anyone?”

  Peter chuckled briefly. It was good to hear that his friend could now joke about their expedition to rescue Ethan, Peter’s son, from the Sudan—an expedition that nearly cost everyone their life. “None of the above.”

  “Okay, I’m in. What do you need?”

  “Some computer forensics.” Peter spent the next 30 minutes laying out the details, including his conversation with Kate and the many exchanges with the detectives.

  Gary and his wife, Nancy, ran a cyber-security business from their home in the foothills just east of the California capital. He and Peter became fast friends in their teens, growing as close as any brothers could be. With his curly blond hair, easy attitude, and quick wit, Gary Porter often left the impression that he was interested in little more than riding the next wave. But underneath that veneer was a sharp, analytical brain. Peter was absolutely confident that if there were any clues to be found in the email of Emma Jones, Gary would find them.

  “Easy enough to peruse through the email account. Emma Jones, right?”

  “Yeah, but I don’t want you doing this from your office. Since I don’t know where this is going, there shouldn’t be any connection to you. If Detective Colson discovers what we’re doing, I have no doubt she’ll arrest me. And I’ll need you out on the street to figure out what’s going on, who’s doing it, and why.”

  “Gee. And I thought you were going to say you didn’t want me to get arrested, too.”

  “Well, yeah,” Peter added quickly. “But that goes without saying. Look, if I do get arrested they won’t hold me for more than a couple days, but I don’t think it will happen. The detectives seem to be convinced there is nothing of interest in the victim’s email account.”

  “Compared to my usual weekly challenges, this is child’s play. I can do this from your office—”

  “No,” Peter cut him off. “From my home. I don’t want any connection to EJ Enterprises either. The police have already taken copies of our manufacturing and sales records. Even the slightest suspicion and they’ll be back confiscating our computers, and I’ll be shut down for a long time.”

  “Either way—makes no difference to me. I’ll book the first flight from Sacramento and text the schedule. You can pick me up at Redmond Airport.”

  After ending the call with Nyden, Angela Meyers called her contact at the Portland office of the FBI.

  Andrew Shooks answered on the third ring. “Long time, no hear,” he said. “I was beginning to think you didn’t appreciate my services or something.”

  “Relax. I can do without the snark,” Meyers answered. “I’ve got a job. Should be pretty easy for someone in your position.” She quickly explained what she wanted, and when.

  “The usual arrangements?” Although Shooks was confident that the phones were not tapped, he could still be overheard by his colleagues.

  “Ten grand. Small bills. Same drop as last time.”

  Ten thousand dollars of unreported income for a couple hours of computer work. Not bad, Shooks thought. He went to work setting up a false investigation report naming Peter Savage of Bend, Oregon, as the suspect. He entered it into the Cyber Crimes database, and forwarded a copy to the Bend police department, where he knew it would be forwarded on to Detectives Colson and Nakano.

  Agent Andrew Shooks leaned back in his chair and folded his arms behind his head. Closing his eyes, he was already thinking about the new drift boat he would buy with the payoff.

  Gary met Peter at the curb in front of the terminal shortly after 9:00 p.m. The regional airport at Redmond, Oregon, was not large, and only six other cars were there to pick up passengers. Gary tossed his duffle bag on the back seat and set his briefcase on the floor.

  Leaving the airport behind, Peter headed south on Highway 97. Traffic was light, and the drive back to Peter’s house on the floors above EJ Enterprises went fast. He used the time to answer a string of questions Gary had about the crime, the potential tie-in with the victim’s email, conversations Peter had with the Bend Police Detectives, and other curiosities. By the time they arrived, Peter felt that Gary had a complete understanding of the background.

  When Peter opened the door he was greeted by Diesel, his 70-pound red pit bull. Peter had rescued the dog as a six-month-old puppy from the Humane Society. The puppy had been taken from a dog-fighting ring, more dead than alive; the scars on its neck and muzzle, still fresh and festering, were ample evidence of the fate awaiting the bait dog.

  Although the scars on the dog’s face had faded with time, Peter still vividly recalled his first meeting with the pit bull pup. It was inside the kennel area—an indoor enclosure with concrete floor and block walls. There were no windows, no natural light. Chain fencing separated the dozen kennels. The air smelled of bleach and dog excrement despite the best efforts of volunteers to keep the area clean.

  One of the staff members introduced Peter to the puppy amid the near constant barking. The ravaged dog approached with its head lowered, ears back, crouched, and tail tucked between its trembling legs. When the dog lifted its head, its eyes met Peter’s. In those eyes he saw fear and innocence and instantly made his decision: he would nourish the dog back to health and give it companionship and love—a life in stark contrast to the terror and pain that had dominated the puppy’s short existence.

  Peter and Diesel immediately
connected, and the bond between man and canine grew exceptionally strong. With Peter now an empty nester, Diesel was his constant companion.

  The dog knew Gary from past visits, and waggled up to him, tail swinging from side to side. Gary reached down and rubbed Diesel’s ears and neck. “Hey there, boy.”

  Peter returned from the spare bedroom after dropping off Gary’s bag. “Hey, I know it’s late, but if you’re hungry I’ve got some pulled pork in the refrigerator. Can warm it up in a few minutes.”

  “Thanks, but I had a salad in Portland. Coffee would be good though.”

  “Make yourself comfortable by the fireplace and I’ll get it brewing.”

  Diesel followed Gary as he plopped into one of the overstuffed leather chairs facing the stone hearth. He settled at Gary’s feet, then rolled onto his back and began snoring. Gary chuckled. “So much for the image of a fierce guard dog to protect you and your castle.”

  “He knows you. If he didn’t, might be a different story,” Peter replied from the kitchen.

  Gary was staring at the glowing embers when Peter returned with two mugs of coffee. Peter poked the coals and then tossed in some more firewood. Shortly the flickering yellow light from the flames illuminated the room again.

  The massive fireplace and rough-hewn timber mantle dominated the wall. The fire crackled and popped, and Gary sipped the coffee as he readied his laptop. He spent the next 15 minutes laying out his plan: he would hack into Emma Jones’ email account using standard tools—programs written to either identify passwords or bypass them—and see what was currently on the server. Then he would use programs he’d written to find and recover deleted messages. That was the plan, but with deleted messages there was no guarantee they would still be intact. He estimated an hour or two and they’d have all the current emails plus whatever fragments remained of deleted messages going back three months.

  “I’m in,” Gary announced several minutes later.

  “Was it easy?”

  He shrugged. “The password she’d selected was not a word in my password dictionary—”