Pac-Man-like proteinase bit into the lactalbumin molecule and tore loose a large chunk, which floated away from the molecular victim like a dismembered body part after a shark strike. The proteinase continued cutting slices loose from the lactalbumin molecule, which shrank with each attack. “In the end,” McKean expounded, “proteinases reduce the milk protein to its component parts, which are amino acids, rendered here in fine atomic detail by my, er, late colleague, Kyle Smith.”
At his mention of the dead man’s name we fell silent, watching the proteinase complete its molecular murder, rendered by Smith in such fine, high-definition detail that I felt I’d been reduced to atomic size to witness the event.
“I’m impressed,” Stanwood said, “but I don’t see anything that looks like a clue to Smith’s murder.”
“Nor do I,” McKean agreed as the film ended and reverted to the desktop image. He leaned near the computer and eyed the screen along his straight, shepherd-dog nose for a moment and then murmured, “Now, what’s this file?” He pointed the mouse arrow at an icon representing a movie canister with a coil of film hanging out. It was named, simply: “Yamani.”
McKean doubled clicked and when the film segment started, we all caught our breath. At a podium, lecturing reproachfully in Arabic was the too-familiar bearded and robed figure of Osama bin Laden.
“Bingo!” exclaimed Stanwood. “Evidence is going to want to see this.”
As if on cue, a voice came from behind. “We’re here.”
Two cops, one male and one female, entered the room, making the small place so crowded that McKean and I were obliged to step outside. Our curiosity about the video clip was frustrated as the trio of officers shut down and unplugged the computer and packed it into a large clear plastic evidence bag.
Minutes later, as they were leaving with Smith’s computer in hand, Stanwood said, “That’s it, gentlemen. If we need anything else from you, we’ll be in touch.”
Watching the three cops troop down the hall to the elevator, I said to McKean, “That may be all they need from us, but I want to see the rest of that bin Laden tape.”
“I can cure your frustration, Fin,” McKean responded with a mischievous glint in his eyes.
“How?”
“Let’s call for backup.”
Mystified, I followed him down a hall to his office, where he summoned Terrence Wimple, ImCo’s Information Technology geek. A small, round-shouldered, unprepossessing guy with coke bottle glasses, Wimple sat at McKean’s computer and keyed in commands to retrieve backup copies of Smith’s files from ImCo’s main computer. Smiling smugly, the way IT guys do when showing simple tricks to the uninitiated, he said, “If you need anything else - ”
“We’ll call,” McKean completed the thought, and Wimple got up and gave back his seat. A moment later, Wimple was gone and bin Laden was sternly lecturing on the screen. “I recognize this video,” McKean said. “It’s the one that appeared two days before the presidential election in 2004.”
“I remember it too,” I exclaimed. “The terrorists were trying to hurt George Bush’s chances of re-election.”
McKean shook his head. “I subscribe to the theory that the video helped re-elect him by creating fear in the American public, causing them to vote for the status quo. Probably helped a number of other incumbent candidates as well.”
He clicked on a toolbar, freezing bin Laden in mid-sentence. “Look here,” he remarked, pointing at a line written in a data table at the side of the image. “File Source: Ali Yamani. That’s interesting.”
He used the computer’s search engine to find another file with Yamani in its name and clicked it open. It was an email from Yamani to Kyle Smith. It read:
Professor Smith,
If anyone questions you regarding that video, I warn you to deny knowing anything about it. Otherwise, your life will be in danger. - Ali Yamani
“An
At his mention of the dead man’s name we fell silent, watching the proteinase complete its molecular murder, rendered by Smith in such fine, high-definition detail that I felt I’d been reduced to atomic size to witness the event.
“I’m impressed,” Stanwood said, “but I don’t see anything that looks like a clue to Smith’s murder.”
“Nor do I,” McKean agreed as the film ended and reverted to the desktop image. He leaned near the computer and eyed the screen along his straight, shepherd-dog nose for a moment and then murmured, “Now, what’s this file?” He pointed the mouse arrow at an icon representing a movie canister with a coil of film hanging out. It was named, simply: “Yamani.”
McKean doubled clicked and when the film segment started, we all caught our breath. At a podium, lecturing reproachfully in Arabic was the too-familiar bearded and robed figure of Osama bin Laden.
“Bingo!” exclaimed Stanwood. “Evidence is going to want to see this.”
As if on cue, a voice came from behind. “We’re here.”
Two cops, one male and one female, entered the room, making the small place so crowded that McKean and I were obliged to step outside. Our curiosity about the video clip was frustrated as the trio of officers shut down and unplugged the computer and packed it into a large clear plastic evidence bag.
Minutes later, as they were leaving with Smith’s computer in hand, Stanwood said, “That’s it, gentlemen. If we need anything else from you, we’ll be in touch.”
Watching the three cops troop down the hall to the elevator, I said to McKean, “That may be all they need from us, but I want to see the rest of that bin Laden tape.”
“I can cure your frustration, Fin,” McKean responded with a mischievous glint in his eyes.
“How?”
“Let’s call for backup.”
Mystified, I followed him down a hall to his office, where he summoned Terrence Wimple, ImCo’s Information Technology geek. A small, round-shouldered, unprepossessing guy with coke bottle glasses, Wimple sat at McKean’s computer and keyed in commands to retrieve backup copies of Smith’s files from ImCo’s main computer. Smiling smugly, the way IT guys do when showing simple tricks to the uninitiated, he said, “If you need anything else - ”
“We’ll call,” McKean completed the thought, and Wimple got up and gave back his seat. A moment later, Wimple was gone and bin Laden was sternly lecturing on the screen. “I recognize this video,” McKean said. “It’s the one that appeared two days before the presidential election in 2004.”
“I remember it too,” I exclaimed. “The terrorists were trying to hurt George Bush’s chances of re-election.”
McKean shook his head. “I subscribe to the theory that the video helped re-elect him by creating fear in the American public, causing them to vote for the status quo. Probably helped a number of other incumbent candidates as well.”
He clicked on a toolbar, freezing bin Laden in mid-sentence. “Look here,” he remarked, pointing at a line written in a data table at the side of the image. “File Source: Ali Yamani. That’s interesting.”
He used the computer’s search engine to find another file with Yamani in its name and clicked it open. It was an email from Yamani to Kyle Smith. It read:
Professor Smith,
If anyone questions you regarding that video, I warn you to deny knowing anything about it. Otherwise, your life will be in danger. - Ali Yamani
“An
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