“Right.”
“And after he crumpled, she backed her vehicle over him.”
“Right. But she couldn’t have seen him. He fell directly behind that monster SUV. And . . . And everything happened so fast.”
Not the best defense against vehicular manslaughter or excessive use of force, I know, but you had to be there.
“To tell the truth, Agent Sinclair, I’m still amazed that Diane pulled it together and reacted as fast as she did. If Austin was after her, it’s a clear case of self-defense. She saved not only her own life but any number of innocent bystanders.”
“Judging by the headlines Agent Hurst showed me this morning,” Sinclair said dryly, “that seems to be the public consensus.”
“So tell me,” I countered. “Was Austin after her?”
I didn’t hold much hope of getting a straight answer out of him. Sure enough, he dodged the question.
“Sorry. I can’t reveal the details of an ongoing investigation.”
“Then tell me this. Why is CID HQ running this show? Why not Comb . . .” I caught myself just in time. Heroically, I managed to refrain from glancing at the sparse strands plastered across Andrew Hurst’s shiny dome while I covered my near-slip. “Why not the commander of our local CID detachment?”
Blue Eyes drummed his finger on the table again before doling out a reluctant nugget of information.
“Oliver Austin was the subject of another investigation regarding certain events that occurred while he was in Afghanistan. It’s my job to tie up the loose ends.”
Interesting. Diane had mentioned that Austin was intense. So intense she’d decided to ease out of any association with the man once she rotated back to the States. I figured she’d already made that point to the investigators, however, and kept my mouth shut.
“One last question, Lieutenant. Did Sergeant Roth give any indication that she knew the identity of the shooter before she took him out?”
“Absolutely not. He was wearing a ski mask and, as I said, partially obscured by the van. Neither she nor I got a look at him until one of the responding officers rolled his body over. When Diane saw his face, she went dead white. I thought she was going to keel over in shock.”
Blue Eyes considered that in silence for a moment before clicking off the recorder.
“All right. Thanks for your cooperation. Here’s my card. If you remember any other details you think might be pertinent to the investigation, give me or Special Agent Hurst a call.”
Nodding, I pocketed the card. “Will do.”
AFTER seeing the two agents off, I broke down and returned my boss’s call. Given the two-hour time difference, I figured Dr. J would have left for the day. Thankfully, I figured right. With any luck I’d have some positive—and very official—test results to distract him with by the time we connected tomorrow.
WITH that goal in mind, I dragged out of the CHU I shared with Pen just after seven thirty the following morning. It always takes me several nights to acclimate to her nocturnal snuffles and snorts. Consequently I wasn’t feeling my usual chipper self when I entered the D-FAC in search of breakfast.
“ ’ Morning, Geardo Goddess.”
That came from O’Reilly, of course. I grunted in return.
“Pen up?”
“She’s right behind me.”
The guys hastily gulped down their respective cups of coffee. My lips pooched when I saw they hadn’t left enough in the pot for me.
“Thanks,” I muttered, shooting them evil glares as Pen entered and promptly emptied the dregs to brew hot water for the infusion she’d steeped overnight. We all trooped over to the lab a half hour later with our taste buds shrieking from her special combination of chrysanthemum and the inner bark of the pau d’arco tree.
At my insistence, we’d put the NLOS system at the top of the agenda. I was determined to get it right this time and—oh, by the way—defuse any potential fallout from the unauthorized test.
Once the components were unpacked, Dennis duly recorded their specifications in our computerized test log. Meanwhile Rocky and Pen worked some kind of technical magic that would allow our instrumentation to capture and analyze the interactive signals. That left Sergeant Cassidy and me to scatter the sensors and conduct the test.
I kept a wary eye out for the king snake I’d spotted yesterday as I crunched over the hard-packed dirt to deposit the shiny disks behind the saguaro and stubby mesquite surrounding our site. Noel took his disks farther afield.
I don’t know if you’ve driven through or maybe spent a weekend camping in the Chihuahuan Desert. It stretches across more than two hundred thousand square miles from West Texas and Arizona to as far south as Mexico City. Those miles encompass dozens of different topographies, from blinding white gypsum flats to towering peaks.
Our site sits perched atop a dusty plateau cut by deep arroyos and punctuated by granite outcroppings the locals call “sky islands.” The upthrust granite, my team had collectively decided, would serve as obstacles for the NLOS system to see around, over, or through. Since I’d pretty much compromised my objectivity last night, I designated Noel to act as the test subject.
“Ready?” I asked when we’d scattered the sensors and he’d located the switch on the glasses.
“Ready.”
“Okay,” I radioed the others. “We’re good to go.”
“Fire ’em up,” Dennis instructed.
Noel flicked the switch to remotely activate the sensors.
“We’re receiving a signal,” Dennis relayed. “Make that several signals. What have you got at your end?”
“Nothing yet. Noel’s just putting on the goggles now.”
His massive shoulders hunching, Sergeant Cassidy squinted through the narrow slit.
“I don’t see anything except mesquite.”
“Wait.”
I had begun to worry that I’d somehow damaged the system when he suddenly yelped and threw up his hands as if to ward off an attack.
“Holy Christ!”
Staggering, he lunged backward.
“Noel, watch out!”
My warning came too late. He tripped over a clump of spiny creosote and went down. I was treated to some colorful and decidedly scatological Special Ops terminology as he whipped off the goggles and tossed them aside. Still swearing, he let me help him up. The tough fabric of our ABUs had protected him from the worst of the stickers. The rest I plucked out.
I have to admit removing stickers from an NCO’s behind was a new leadership experience for me. I’d never envisioned quite this set of circumstances when my instructors at officers’ training school had droned on and on about taking care of your troops.
It must have been a new experience for Noel, too, because he turned brick red and didn’t meet my eyes when he muttered a gruff, “Thanks.”
I let him recover while I retrieved the goggles. “Want to give it another go?”
He eyed the slender tube with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. “I guess so.”
“Select one image to focus on, then turn your head to follow that image.”
Easier said than done, he discovered in the frustrating forty-five minutes that followed. Noel gave it his best shot but gave up when he got so dizzy I thought he was going to pass out.
I took a turn with the goggles next. The first assault sent me backward, too. As it had the night before, a blinding kaleidoscope of images flooded my line of sight. So bright, the searing colors hurt my eyes. So intense, I instinctively ducked when a twisted branch covered with silvery green leaves seemed to fly right at me.
Despite my best efforts, I couldn’t seem to filter the images. I gave it up after a nauseating fifteen minutes and retreated with Noel to the lab.
The five of us stood around the table where I laid the goggles and retrieved sensors. Rocky brought over printouts of the data he’d recorded.
“I don’t understand it,” I muttered. “The system worked last night.”
“Could be due t
o different light spectrums,” Rocky theorized, pointing to sharp spikes in the data. “And different density of objects to see around or through. Granite would deflect signals with more intensity than a porous brick or concrete.”
I had to take his word for that. I chewed on my lower lip, reluctant to relinquish my hope that this system might contribute to Dr. J’s much cherished Urban Leader Tactical Response, Awareness, and Visualization Initiative. The basic technology was there. It had worked before. Sort of. We just had to figure out a way to compensate for variables and make it work in all different environments.
Okay, okay. I admit it. I still hoped to get on Dr. J’s good side.
“Can we measure the light, factor in the density of obstacles, and try this again?” I asked.
Rocky looked at Pen, who looked at Dennis, who looked back at Rock.
“We’ve got a spectrometer,” my test engineer acknowledged. “But for the kind of precision measurement you’re talking about we should really use an interferometer to check the properties of the light waves. And an autocollimator to measure angular deflections.”
He worked his mouth from side to side. I hoped that was a signal he was thinking hard and not just twitching his whiskers like a worried hamster. With Dr. Brian Balboa, it’s kind of hard to tell.
“I’m not making any promises,” he said finally, “but I’ll see what I can do.”
“Great! We’ll try again whenever you’re ready. Or whenever the light’s right.”
We documented the disappointing results and set the NLOS system aside to prep for the next item on our test agenda.
This was a handheld scanner that purported to harness C-band satellite imagery to locate near subsoil moisture in arid locations. The digging tool built into the scanner’s handle could then be used to extract potentially life-saving moisture. I reserved judgment until I’d seen the results. I would also refrain from sampling any such extractions until Pen had done a complete chemical analysis.
I learned that lesson the hard way after rubbing on some cream that was supposed to blunt the effects of ultraviolet rays. Took weeks for the resulting rash to disappear. Nowadays I don’t taste, sniff, or rub on anything until Pen gives it her bioecological stamp of approval.
MY cell phone jangled while we were reviewing the extractor’s specifications and finalizing our test parameters. I slipped my cell phone out of my pocket but didn’t recognize the number on the display.
I clicked “talk” and brought Diane Roth’s image up on the screen. Bandages still covered the left side of her face. She’d minimized their effect by combing her hair forward, giving her a peekaboo look.
“Hi, Lieutenant. This is Diane Roth.”
“Hi, Diane. How are the cuts?”
“Healing. None of them went deep enough to do any real damage.”
“That’s good to hear.”
“Listen, I was a little shook up last night.”
“Hmmm. I wonder why.”
“Yeah, it was pretty grim. But I don’t think I thanked you properly for staying with me and giving me a ride home.”
“Sure you did. Several times.”
“Still, I’d like to show my appreciation. To you and Agent Mitchell both. I thought maybe the kids and I could treat you to a cookout.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“We’d like to. Really. I owe you, Lieutenant. And the kids enjoyed ‘Mr.’ Mitch.” A wistful note seeped into her voice. “Joey doesn’t get to interact all that often with positive male role models. And I think Trish has a world-class crush on the man.”
“I’m not surprised. He’s eminently crushable.”
She cocked her head and looked at me from under the sweep of her hair. “Are you two serious?”
I hesitated. My relationship with Mitch didn’t fit into any of my previously defined categories. But then none of the jerks I’d dated—including the one I’d subsequently married—fit into Mitch’s category, either.
“I’m sorry,” Diane said when my hesitation strung out. “I didn’t mean to get personal. Listen, you mentioned last night that you were deploying out to a test site? When do you get back into town?”
“End of next week.”
“The kids and I really would like to have you and Mitch over. How about the Saturday afternoon after you get home?”
“I guess that would work. If Mitch is available.”
“I’ll check with him and call you back to confirm. Oh, and, Lieutenant . . .”
“Yes?”
“You might be contacted by an agent from CID headquarters. He’s investigating the incident last night.”
“I’ve already talked to him.”
“You have?”
“He drove out to the site this afternoon with an agent from our local detachment.”
Another short silence descended. Diane broke it with a wry observation.
“They’re sure not wasting any time.”
“No, they’re not.”
“Just as well. My commander has pulled my certification to carry a weapon and put me on administrative duties until the investigation wraps.”
“Is that standard procedure?”
“It is.” I could almost hear the shrug in her voice.
“The kids are happy, anyway. I’m on straight day shifts until this mess is cleared up.”
I had a feeling it might take longer to put this incident to bed than either of us had anticipated. Did she know Oliver Austin had been under investigation? Had the guys from CID talked to her about Austin’s “questionable activities” in Afghanistan? I started to ask but swallowed the question at the last minute.
I’m not sure what held me back. Nor could I know my silence had just put my life on the line when I nodded and agreed to a Saturday afternoon cookout.
CHAPTER SIX
THE remainder of our sojourn out at the test site was relatively uneventful.
I survived a stiffly polite phone conversation with my boss. Dr. J let me know—in person this time!—that he preferred not to hear from a third party that I’d been shot at. I assured him I hadn’t been hurt and promised to apprise him personally of any similar events in the future. I swear I heard him shudder. To my relief, he didn’t mention the NLOS system. I certainly didn’t bring it up.
I talked to Mitch a couple of times. He mentioned that Diane had contacted him about the cookout. He also mentioned that he’d checked with a buddy at the El Paso PD about the status of the investigation.
“You have?”
“Damn straight. You get shot at, I want to know why.”
“Awwwww.”
That gave me a warm glow. Perverse, but warm.
“So what does it look like from your perspective?” I asked him.
“Pretty much what it looked like at the scene. PTSD claimed another victim in Austin, almost claimed more in you and Roth and the others.”
Mitch had pulled a tour in the Navy before joining the Border Patrol. Enough combat-related stress in both of those fields to explain the gruff edge to his voice.
“What about this cookout?” I asked him. “Are you up for it?”
“If you are. I’m scheduled to work that Saturday, but I can switch shifts. I’ll swing by and pick you up.”
“It’s a date.”
BETWEEN all these calls, I worked my buns off. Metaphorically speaking, unfortunately. The team cleared much of the backlog that had built up while our lab was out of operation. Most of the items that had been submitted for our evaluation either (a) didn’t perform as promised, (b) didn’t perform at all, or (c) were slick as spit and fun to play with but didn’t have even the remotest possible applicability to military operations.
We tagged several items for further evaluation. One was the NLOS system. Another was an instrument the inventor had labeled an Olfactory Somatosensory Indicator.
The thing looked like one of those handheld credit card swipers a lot of restaurants and rental car companies use these days. The kind that spits
out a paper receipt on the spot. Only this one had a long, thin wand attached and instead of calculating credit card charges, it measured body odors.
I know, I know! I almost choked on my herbal tea when I’d first read the specs. But we’ve tested weirder inventions. The biologist who’d devised the olfactory sensometer—which we instantly rechristened the Sniffometer—claimed it would measure and categorize scents emanating from any living, secreting primate. Something to do with the proteins encoded in said primate’s major histocompatibility complex.
Pen tried to explain MHC but left me in the dust after, oh, thirty or forty seconds. All I got out of her lecture was that most living creatures emit unique odors. So unique that penguins can identify their chicks amid the thousands nesting in huge rookeries and blood-hounds can track an escaping convict for hundreds of miles.
Pen also stressed that these odors are situational. Fear, joy, untruthfulness, sexual arousal, physical exertion—any number of factors could alter our emissions. I certainly didn’t need a double PhD to tell me that. I emit situational odors in those instances, too.
Despite her explanation, I harbored distinct doubts about the Sniffometer. Yet I could see its potential for military application. If it could in fact differentiate and categorize body odors, it might aid in the interrogation of prisoners. Or identify workplace stress factors. Or allow a squad leader to assess a subordinate’s emotional state before, during, or after a mission.
Perhaps even predict an incidence of post-traumatic stress disorder among troops.
With Oliver Austin and the shooting incident still vivid in my mind, I had my team conduct a battery of tests. Pen, Noel, Dennis, and I all took turns as subjects. Rocky demurred, insisting he needed to remain impartial to record and analyze the results. I suspected he was worried he might get too nervous about having his body odors measured and cut loose with one of his world-class bloopers.
Pen went first. We wanded her at work, while she was attempting to make sense of the results of another test; at noon, while she was downing her organic kale, mushroom, and tomato salad; and at dusk, when she returned from her daily commune with nature. We even toted the Sniffometer into our CHU at night and wanded her in her sleep.
Now You See Her Page 6