still. From a surveillance camera, almost certainly. It was of poor quality, very grainy, smeared a little by movement and a cheap CCD camera and fluorescent light and a low-bit digital recording. But the eyes were clearly recognizable. And the mole was there, in the same place, perfectly positioned, as unique as a barcode or a fingerprint, and as definitive as a DNA sample.
“From where?” Sorenson asked.
“The rental counter at the Denver airport,” the technician said. “The victim rented the Mazda himself, just after nine o’clock this morning. Now yesterday morning, technically. The mileage on the car indicates he drove straight here with no significant detours.”
“That’s a long way.”
“A little over seven hundred miles. Ten or eleven hours, probably. One stop for gas. The tank is low now.”
“Did he drive all that way alone?”
“I don’t know,” the technician said. “I wasn’t there.”
A cautious guy, old school, data driven, and possibly a little bad tempered. Night duty, in the winter, in the middle of nowhere.
Sorenson asked, “What’s your best guess?”
“I’m a scientist,” the guy said. “I don’t guess.”
“Then speculate.”
The guy made a face.
“There’s no trace evidence in the back of the car,” he said. “But both front seats show signs of occupation. So he might have had asingle passenger from Denver. Or he might have driven in alone, in which case the passenger seat trace would come from the two perpetrators using the car to get from the crime scene to this location.”
“Yes or no?”
“I would say he probably drove in alone. There’s more trace on the driver’s seat than the passenger’s seat.”
“Like the difference between a seven-hundred-mile drive and a three-mile drive?”
“I can’t specify a ratio. It doesn’t happen that way. Most trace gets rubbed in over the first minute or two.”
“Yes or no? Real world?”
“Probably yes. The driver’s seat shows heavy use, the passenger’s seat doesn’t.”
“So how did the two guys get here? Wearing suits and no winter coats?”
“Ma’am, I have no idea,” the technician said, and walked back to the car.
“I have no idea either,” Goodman said. “My guys have seen no abandoned cars. That was one of the things I told them to look for.”
Sorenson said, “Obviously they didn’t abandon a car. If they had their own car, they wouldn’t have had to hijack a cocktail waitress. And we need to know where the fourth guy came from, too. And we need to figure out where he was while his pals were busy in the bunker.”
“He sounds distinctive.”
Sorenson nodded. “A gorilla with its face smashed in. Anyone should remember a guy like that.”
Then her phone rang, and she answered it, and Goodman saw her back go straight and her face change. She listened for thirty seconds, and she said, “OK,” and then she said it again, and then she said, “No, I’ll make sure it happens,” and then she clicked off.
A straight back, but she had said OK , not Yes, sir .
Not a superior from her FBI field office, therefore, or from D.C.
Goodman asked, “Who was that?”
Sorenson said, “That was a duty officer in a room in Langley, Virginia.”
“Langley?”
Sorenson nodded.
She said, “Now the CIA has got its nose in this thing too. I’m supposed to provide progress reports all through the night.”
Chapter 23
It was technically challenging to take out a guy in the front passenger seat while driving at eighty miles an hour. It required simultaneous movement and stillness. The driver’s foot had to stay steady on the pedal, which meant his legs had to stay still. His torso had to stay still. Above all, his left shoulder had to stay still. Only his right arm could move, which would dictate a backhand scythe to the passenger’s head.
But it would be a relatively weak blow. It would be easy enough to fake a lazy cross-body scratch of the left shoulder, and then launch the right
“From where?” Sorenson asked.
“The rental counter at the Denver airport,” the technician said. “The victim rented the Mazda himself, just after nine o’clock this morning. Now yesterday morning, technically. The mileage on the car indicates he drove straight here with no significant detours.”
“That’s a long way.”
“A little over seven hundred miles. Ten or eleven hours, probably. One stop for gas. The tank is low now.”
“Did he drive all that way alone?”
“I don’t know,” the technician said. “I wasn’t there.”
A cautious guy, old school, data driven, and possibly a little bad tempered. Night duty, in the winter, in the middle of nowhere.
Sorenson asked, “What’s your best guess?”
“I’m a scientist,” the guy said. “I don’t guess.”
“Then speculate.”
The guy made a face.
“There’s no trace evidence in the back of the car,” he said. “But both front seats show signs of occupation. So he might have had asingle passenger from Denver. Or he might have driven in alone, in which case the passenger seat trace would come from the two perpetrators using the car to get from the crime scene to this location.”
“Yes or no?”
“I would say he probably drove in alone. There’s more trace on the driver’s seat than the passenger’s seat.”
“Like the difference between a seven-hundred-mile drive and a three-mile drive?”
“I can’t specify a ratio. It doesn’t happen that way. Most trace gets rubbed in over the first minute or two.”
“Yes or no? Real world?”
“Probably yes. The driver’s seat shows heavy use, the passenger’s seat doesn’t.”
“So how did the two guys get here? Wearing suits and no winter coats?”
“Ma’am, I have no idea,” the technician said, and walked back to the car.
“I have no idea either,” Goodman said. “My guys have seen no abandoned cars. That was one of the things I told them to look for.”
Sorenson said, “Obviously they didn’t abandon a car. If they had their own car, they wouldn’t have had to hijack a cocktail waitress. And we need to know where the fourth guy came from, too. And we need to figure out where he was while his pals were busy in the bunker.”
“He sounds distinctive.”
Sorenson nodded. “A gorilla with its face smashed in. Anyone should remember a guy like that.”
Then her phone rang, and she answered it, and Goodman saw her back go straight and her face change. She listened for thirty seconds, and she said, “OK,” and then she said it again, and then she said, “No, I’ll make sure it happens,” and then she clicked off.
A straight back, but she had said OK , not Yes, sir .
Not a superior from her FBI field office, therefore, or from D.C.
Goodman asked, “Who was that?”
Sorenson said, “That was a duty officer in a room in Langley, Virginia.”
“Langley?”
Sorenson nodded.
She said, “Now the CIA has got its nose in this thing too. I’m supposed to provide progress reports all through the night.”
Chapter 23
It was technically challenging to take out a guy in the front passenger seat while driving at eighty miles an hour. It required simultaneous movement and stillness. The driver’s foot had to stay steady on the pedal, which meant his legs had to stay still. His torso had to stay still. Above all, his left shoulder had to stay still. Only his right arm could move, which would dictate a backhand scythe to the passenger’s head.
But it would be a relatively weak blow. It would be easy enough to fake a lazy cross-body scratch of the left shoulder, and then launch the right
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