The Sin Keeper

by Gary Winston Brown

  Hallier’s temper was beginning to boil. “Worse than two dead?”

  Han spoke calmly. “Sir, what if this was just a test? What if the true intention of this attack was to determine our level of vulnerability. Next time everyone in this facility could be dead.”

  A member of the security escort whose lapel nameplate read TAYLOR spoke. “Dr. Han, may I interject?”

  Han nodded.

  “Sir, the EVAC stations have submitted their head counts. All staff members except one are accounted for. Dr. Merrick hasn't reported into any of the marshaling areas.”

  “Are you sure?” Han asked.

  “Positive.” Sergeant Taylor opened a computer program on his tablet and showed it to Han and Hallier. “Every station on the DLS campus must report in during an emergency evacuation. A two-step process is followed. First, a biometric hand scan is taken of every employee the second they check into a station. Next, their medical status is assessed. See the names in green? Those are staff members who’ve checked-in and are fine. Names in yellow represent staff who are accounted for but are presenting with an acute medical issue. Could be a superficial wound, injured but conscious, that sort of thing. Names in blue are unconscious, unresponsive or require immediate transport to hospital by ambulance or LifeFlight. Names in black are VSA: vital signs absent. The deceased, Dr’s Grant and Fullerton, are so listed. Names in red have not reported in or are as yet unaccounted for. As you can see, only one staff member is red-listed: Dr. Jason Merrick, the director of this lab.”

  Colonel Hallier turned to Han. “Was Merrick scheduled to be in today?”

  “As far as I know,” Han replied. “But as lab director and project lead he’s free to set his own hours.”

  Taylor referred back to the tablet. “The card key log indicates he swiped in a few minutes before eight this morning then out fifteen minutes later. There’s no record of him returning to the campus, Colonel.”

  “Has he called in?”

  “No, sir. Telephony reports no inbound calls logged from any of his contact numbers.”

  “What about Extranet login or computer activity?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Is he being monitored?”

  Taylor hesitated before answering. He glanced at Han.

  “Don’t worry about Dr. Han, Sergeant,” Hallier said. “I need to know if Dr. Merrick is presently under surveillance. Is he the subject of an internal investigation?”

  “No, sir. We have no open file on Dr. Merrick.”

  Han suddenly looked uncomfortable. Perhaps he was wondering if he was being covertly monitored by DARPA agents.

  The Colonel checked his watch and turned to Han. “Would it be out of the ordinary for Dr. Merrick not to have checked in by now?”

  “Quite,” Han replied. “Dr. Merrick is rarely away from his lab and has a reputation for expecting the same level of commitment from the scientists on his team. To my knowledge, he hasn't taken a vacation in years. Not since he lost his wife and daughter. Very sad.”

  Hallier looked through the narrow mesh window into the lab. Two members of the Biological and Infectious Agent Response Team were collecting blood and saliva samples from the floor where the research scientists had fallen and died while others sprayed, scrubbed and carefully placed all exposed items into thick red disposal bags labeled ‘BIOHAZARD.’

  “Is everything in the lab accounted for?” Hallier asked.

  Neither Han nor Taylor responded.

  Hallier raised his voice. “Has BIART inventoried the lab since the campus went into lockdown? Is anything is missing? Equipment… files?”

  “No, Colonel,” Han answered. “The lab hasn’t been assessed yet.” He pointed to a red light flashing above the door. “All lab entrances are computerized and tied into Central Station Monitoring. This door will remain locked until BIART stands down and Red Door protocol is cancelled.”

  “What about video surveillance?” Hallier asked.

  “We record every square inch of the complex, except for the labs,” Taylor answered.

  “Why not the labs?”

  “DARPA never saw the need for it because of our enhanced security equipment and guard stations,” Han answered. “We also don’t permit recording devices of any kind in the labs.”

  “That includes phones?” Hallier asked.

  “Especially phones. Too much technology in one device. We prefer to eliminate the temptation for staff to take pictures, send texts or emails, or upload confidential information to the web. Besides, every lab entrance is equipped with an IntelliLock chamber. Once you step through the main entrance door to the lab the second door won’t open if the system detects any electronic devices on your body or in the chamber itself. The only exceptions are Pacemakers and artificial limbs or a Level Five authorized override.”

  “You’re telling me that being charged with treason for illegally disseminating secret government information isn’t an effective enough deterrent?” Hallier asked.

  “It’s a Dark Web world out there, sir. Unfortunately, some people can still be bought.” Han tapped his finger on a metal cabinet built into the wall outside the lab entrance which featured its own card key reader. “These are property storage boxes. All personal belongings must be locked in here before entering the lab.”

  “Can you open it, Sergeant?” Hallier asked.

  “Yes sir,” Taylor answered. “But, sir, the lab is still being processed. What if the contaminant made its way into the box? We could be exposed as soon as I open the door.”

  Hallier turned to Han. “Is that possible?”

  “No,” Han replied. “These units are triple sealed. There’s no threat of exposure.”

  “Then open it,” Hallier said.

  Sergeant Taylor removed the master card key from his pocket and slid it through the reader. The access light on the metal box turned from amber to green. The cover panel clicked open.

  The interior of the unit featured three separate key-locked compartments. The top compartment was labeled GRANT, the middle FULLERTON, the lowest MERRICK.

  “You have the keys?” Hallier asked.

  “Yes sir,” Taylor replied.

  “Open them.”

  Taylor opened each compartment. Despite Dr. Han’s assurance that they were not at risk of being exposed to an unknown lethal contaminant he took a few steps back nonetheless.

  Dr. Grant’s drawer contained the key fob to his Tesla, smartphone, watch, and wallet.

  Fullerton’s drawer contained his smartphone and the key to his Harley.

  Merrick’s drawer included three items. The first was a crumpled photograph taken at the base of the Eiffel Tower while on a family vacation in Paris. Dr. Merrick stood beside his wife and daughter. The picture had been taken long before the day yet to come that would shatter his world forever.

  Colonel Hallier removed the second item from the box: a thin metallic band.

  “My God!” Han said. “That’s the first-generation brain neural interface for Project Channeler. That technology is being developed specifically for DARPA. Under no circumstances is it to leave the lab.”

  The third item was an empty glass vial labeled LEEDA FIELD TRIAL. “And this?” Hallier asked.

  “LEEDA,” Dr. Han replied. “An injection technology developed to give our military an unprecedented advantage in covert warfare. If Merrick has misappropriated these technologies the consequences could be unimaginable... even catastrophic.”

  Hallier turned the photograph. On the back Merrick had scrawled three words:

  ‘ALL WILL PAY’

  The Colonel pocketed the items and turned to Dr. Han and Sergeant Taylor.

  “I’m ordering this facility to be placed on permanent lockdown. Until otherwise notified, Red Door protocol will remain in effect. Taylor, put your team on High Tactical Alert. Find Merrick. Have your people deep-sweep every square inch of this building and post guards at every entrance and exit. All Dynamic Life Sciences staff will be transported to
Joint Forces Training Base Los Alamitos within the hour. We’ll accommodate them until this matter is resolved. There is to be no discussion with staff about the reason for this action other than to say it’s protocol under these circumstances. Do I make myself clear?”

  Taylor saluted. “Crystal, sir.”

  Han nodded. “I’ll notify my people right away.”

  Colonel Hallier returned to his car and placed a call. The connection was made but no greeting provided. He spoke:

  “Pericles.”

  “Safe word?”

  “Copernicus.”

  “State your message.”

  “Situation Report, Dynamic Life Sciences. Channeler and LEEDA projects compromised. Requesting ALPHA ONE priority.”

  Silence on the line.

  The operator responded: “Pericles, you are green for emergency debriefing.”

  The call was immediately terminated.

  CHAPTER 7

  ON THE quiet cul-de-sac of multimillion dollar mansions where neighboring driveways proudly displayed fine automobiles from such luxury purveyors such as Maserati, Aston Martin, Porsche and Bentley, the Federal Bureau of Investigation’s Mobile Command Unit looked conspicuously out of place.

  Jordan and Chris climbed the metal stairs of the MCU and stepped inside. Several agents were busy conducting interviews with the Rosenfeld’s staff. Concerned for the welfare of the house’s personnel, Chef Hershoff had chosen to remain at the scene and assist the agents where needed. He was seated beside the house matron, Rosalia Cruz. Having arrived for what she had assumed would be another typical work day Rosalia was customarily attired in her black maid’s dress with crisp white collar and cuffs, white apron and black leather shoes. Hershoff held her hand and comforted her through her tears while the agent took her statement.

  Seated in front of his computer at the opposite end of the MCU, Forensics Lead Investigator Steve Reynolds gestured to Jordan and Hanover to join him.

  “Pull up a chair,” Reynolds said as he drew a thick curtain along its ceiling track behind them. The sound-dampening material offered privacy and muted their conversation.

  “I examined the flash drive you found on our victim,” Reynolds said. He opened the drive. “It’s not protected, no password or firewall. This file wasn’t intended to hide information. The killer wanted us to have full access to it.”

  The drive contained a single file labeled “AWP.” The document consisted of five alphanumeric lines:

  DM 14PFnFlenmalGdqFNkdGkajnsDh6JnrFks

  VT 29nRtHphyxnEnCGLbsMxfJhc

  RI 12pFbGsfxkhFgLFxkElndgsKv7E

  GA 36qHrLhdpfkDiTDHeiTfkduDn4Dqpr

  PM 28eKbTdibfoRvQWTskYfrnkDd4Whb

  HJ 26jTfdswrkIgBMFxoHftalDr7Puwm

  “Any idea what it means?” Jordan asked.

  “Not the foggiest.”

  “Could you lift any prints?” Chris asked.

  “No joy,” Reynolds replied. “The only contributions we’re going to get from this will be confirmatory blood and saliva from Dr. Rosenfeld.”

  “Anything unique about the drive itself?”

  Reynolds shook his head. “Just your run-of-the-mill generic flash drive. Retailers across the country sell thousands of these every day, not including online sales. What I can tell you is that the content was created two weeks ago and authored under the username “AWP.” It’s never been modified or revised.”

  The similarities between the murders in El Segundo and Long Beach paralleled the Rosenfeld killings. Was it possible that they were connected? So far Jordan and Chris were no further ahead than they had been earlier in the week. Their superiors were already looking for answers. The pressure to solve the case was on. Their newly-formed partnership was already under the microscope.

  Chris and Jordan thanked Agent Reynolds. “Let us know when you’ve figured out what it means,” Jordan said. The agents turned to leave.

  “Before you go, there’s one thing you guys should know,” Reynolds said.

  “What’s that?” Jordan asked.

  “The breakage pattern of the front door’s crystal inlay across the floor. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “What do you mean?” Chris asked.

  “Well, to put in simple terms, it’s wrong. I’ve investigated dozens of home invasions over the years where shattered glass was found at the point of entry. Perpetrators break glass in several ways. Pro’s usually tape it, break it, then peel it out of the frame. Amateurs just smash it using an object of opportunity; a piece of wood, a rock. But the one constant is cast-off. There’s a limit to the distance that a piece of glass can travel when struck by force. The longest cast off I’ve ever documented was thirty-three feet from point of impact. A violent break was needed to achieve that distance. But here we found pieces of crystal lying against the baseboard on the far side of the Rosenfeld’s vestibule. That’s a distance of eighty feet from the point of impact. That’s unheard of. The only logical means to achieve that distance of cast off is if the crystal insert had been framed with primer cord then detonated. We know that wasn’t the case here because we checked. No evidence of an explosive compound was found on the insert, door frame or the floor. Regardless, it was as if the glass had been simultaneously melted and blasted across the room.”

  “Blasted?” Chris said.

  “Don’t think I don’t know how crazy that sounds,” Reynolds said. “But like I said, I’ve been investigating crime scenes like this for a very long time. One more thing: The physical shape of the cast off was wrong too. Every piece we found in the vestibule, lobby and against the walls was tiny and round, like marbles. Furthermore, the channel that secured the glass within the frame was completely smooth, no breaks in it whatsoever. It was like the crystal had been raised to its melting point and then blasted right out of the frame. Scientifically, I can’t explain it.”

  “Thanks, Steve,” Jordan said.

  “You got it,” Reynolds replied. He turned his attention back to the cryptic information on the computer screen.

  Inside the Mobile Command Unit television monitors tuned to local stations reported on the tragedy that had befallen the citizens of the quiet street. The story was gaining traction, due in large part to the tony Hollywood Hills community in which the murders had occurred and the social and philanthropic prominence of the victims. News anchors shared the story with their viewers.

  Jordan and Chris watched the replay of an interview in which FBI Special Agent and public relations spokesperson Janet Lynch fielded questions from reporters. Following the live update on-air news personalities conducted roundtable discussions and speculated to extremes on the events that had transpired in the early hours of the morning: Who killed the Rosenfeld’s? Why had they been murdered? What could have been the motivation for the killings? Were they targeted simply because they were among the world’s super-rich, the one-percent? One reporter went as far as to propose the erroneous and unsubstantiated theory that this was a case of “murder-for-hire gone terribly wrong” and that the murder of the Rosenfeld’s might well be “the first of more to come” and “the start of a killing spree the likes of which Hollywood has not seen since the Manson murders in 1969.” The media’s desire to sensationalize the grisly murder details further disrespected the dead. A picture of the Rosenfeld home appeared beside an FBI booking photo of Charles Manson, the convicted leader of the murderous ‘family’ of the same name. Manson nor any of his deranged followers had anything to do with the death of the Rosenfeld’s, of course. This was pure sensationalism and an outright debasement of journalistic integrity, wholly motivated by the network’s desire to win the highest ratings share of the evening. They had already determined that the viewing public couldn’t possibly be satisfied with only the minimal details being spoon fed to them by the FBI. They knew their audience salivated for more.

  Chris listened to the lies being broadcast to the masses and offered a commentary of his own: “Assholes.”

  “That’s putting it mildly,” Jo
rdan agreed.

  The door to the Mobile Command Unit opened. A warm rush of incoming air brought with it the exquisite fragrance of frangipani from the dozens of red, yellow, white and pink flowering trees which flanked the driveway leading up to the mansion. Forensic Specialist Mike Coventry entered the vehicle wearing a white Tyvek body suit which covered him from head to toe and strained to contain his generous belly. On his hands he wore latex gloves. A pair of disposable slippers covered his shoes. He pulled back the hood of the suit. Beads of sweat streamed from his brow. He looked less like a crime scene expert than a snowman who had discovered too late that the climate in Southern California was hot, not cold, and was about to expire into a puddle. In his arms he carried two large boxes filled with evidence collection bags.

  “The first of many,” Coventry said, acknowledging Jordan and Chris with a nod. He set the boxes down on a work surface beneath the television monitors. The agent removed the bags, wrote down a description of their contents, and assigned each an item number. To ensure against the threat of evidentiary loss or contamination he taped each of the envelopes closed, initialed and dated the lot, placed them inside a plastic container marked SEALED EVIDENCE - DO NOT TAMPER, then locked the bin with nylon zip ties. Coventry then locked the box in the EVIDENCE STORAGE cabinet under the table.

  He nodded in the direction of the mansion. “We’re still processing biologicals, ballistics and trace. Weapons and computers have been boxed. We’ll run additional tests on them at the lab. Vic’s should be ready for transport within the hour.”

  “Good work, Mike,” Jordan said.

  Coventry nodded, turned to leave. “Gotta get back. We’ve still got a couple of hours of work in there.”

  “Find anything useful?” Chris asked.

  “As a matter of fact, yeah. You know the computer you found in the panic room? The password was written on the inside of the battery compartment. Brilliant, huh? Hawkins and I both thought that was a bonehead move for a smart guy like Rosenfeld. The doc had a couple of interesting files on there, labeled Account 1 and Account 2. Both were password protected. But you’ll never guess what the good doctor did.”