nature of the text file itself?”
“Afraid not,” Vince said. “The disk’s standard PC format but the file has no OS signature: could have been written on anything from a supercomputer to a Palm V.Somebody downstairs is trawling through the directory structure but we don’t have a whole lot of optimism on that either. The disk was securely wiped before these files were put on. This is someone who knows about computers.”
“Which could be useful information in itself,” Monroe said.
“Absolutely,” Nina said. “It says he’s under fifty and lives somewhere in the Western world.”
Monroe cocked his head and looked at her. Nina decided it would probably be a good idea if she went home again soon.
“A copy of this is with Profiling in Quantico now,” Monroe said. “They should have some ideas soon.” His voice was a little louder than usual. He sounded serious, studious, professional, but there was a note of excitement too. That was to be expected: if you didn’t get a big buzz out of going after bad guys, you wouldn’t be in law enforcement. But ever since Nina had first worked with him, catching a killer called Gary Johnson who had murdered six seniors, all women, in Louisiana in the mid 1990s, Nina had been in no doubt that Monroe had other agendas. The crimes and their solutions were means to an end. She didn’t understand quite what the end might be—politics? having the biggest corner office in the Continental U.S.A.?—but she knew it motivated him more than any need to look the relatives of victims in the eye and say, “We got the guy, and he’s going down forever and a day.” Perhaps there was something not too stupid about this. On the few occasions Nina had been able to do something along those lines, the dull expressions on the faces of her audience had not seemed to change a great deal. Six mothers and grandmothers die before their time and in sordid ways; the guy responsible is put in a concrete box for the rest of his life. As a medium of exchange, it didn’t seem to really work. Sure, you don’t want to be in prison, and you sure as hell don’t want to be in prison in Louisiana as the murderer of two old black women, among others. You don’t want to get up off your narrow metal cot every morning wondering if this is the day when some headcase whostill loves his ma decides to enliven everyone’s day by taking your face off with a sharpened spoon. But Nina didn’t believe most of the killers felt the full force of incarceration, because they just didn’t understand things the way the rest of us did. Either way, they still got to live. They ate, slept, took a dump. They watched television, read comic books. They took courses and meandered through endless appeals that wasted everybody’s time and burned enough public money to build half a school. This was, of course, their right. What they didn’t have to do was lie, by themselves, in a hole in the ground, with nothing but the slow sound of settling earth to keep them company. They didn’t sleep, arms tight by their sides, in a box their children couldn’t afford and which they can feel beginning to get damp, starting to rot.
So yes, maybe Monroe had it laid out sensibly. Fight the good fight. Climb the ladder. Then go home to the wife, grab a healthy supper in front of the late news. Who knows—you might even be on it, saving the world. That would be nice. Bottom line was the FBI wasn’t directly mandated to investigate serial murder. Monroe got involved for reasons of career development. So what? What was her excuse?
“Go home again, Nina,” Monroe said. “Get some sleep. I need you functioning early tomorrow morning.”
Nina looked up, surprised by his voice, and realized she’d just zoned out for something like thirty seconds. Vince was looking at her a little curiously; Monroe without much affection. Only Olbrich had the grace to be looking elsewhere.
Monroe stood and started talking to Olbrich in a way that
“Afraid not,” Vince said. “The disk’s standard PC format but the file has no OS signature: could have been written on anything from a supercomputer to a Palm V.Somebody downstairs is trawling through the directory structure but we don’t have a whole lot of optimism on that either. The disk was securely wiped before these files were put on. This is someone who knows about computers.”
“Which could be useful information in itself,” Monroe said.
“Absolutely,” Nina said. “It says he’s under fifty and lives somewhere in the Western world.”
Monroe cocked his head and looked at her. Nina decided it would probably be a good idea if she went home again soon.
“A copy of this is with Profiling in Quantico now,” Monroe said. “They should have some ideas soon.” His voice was a little louder than usual. He sounded serious, studious, professional, but there was a note of excitement too. That was to be expected: if you didn’t get a big buzz out of going after bad guys, you wouldn’t be in law enforcement. But ever since Nina had first worked with him, catching a killer called Gary Johnson who had murdered six seniors, all women, in Louisiana in the mid 1990s, Nina had been in no doubt that Monroe had other agendas. The crimes and their solutions were means to an end. She didn’t understand quite what the end might be—politics? having the biggest corner office in the Continental U.S.A.?—but she knew it motivated him more than any need to look the relatives of victims in the eye and say, “We got the guy, and he’s going down forever and a day.” Perhaps there was something not too stupid about this. On the few occasions Nina had been able to do something along those lines, the dull expressions on the faces of her audience had not seemed to change a great deal. Six mothers and grandmothers die before their time and in sordid ways; the guy responsible is put in a concrete box for the rest of his life. As a medium of exchange, it didn’t seem to really work. Sure, you don’t want to be in prison, and you sure as hell don’t want to be in prison in Louisiana as the murderer of two old black women, among others. You don’t want to get up off your narrow metal cot every morning wondering if this is the day when some headcase whostill loves his ma decides to enliven everyone’s day by taking your face off with a sharpened spoon. But Nina didn’t believe most of the killers felt the full force of incarceration, because they just didn’t understand things the way the rest of us did. Either way, they still got to live. They ate, slept, took a dump. They watched television, read comic books. They took courses and meandered through endless appeals that wasted everybody’s time and burned enough public money to build half a school. This was, of course, their right. What they didn’t have to do was lie, by themselves, in a hole in the ground, with nothing but the slow sound of settling earth to keep them company. They didn’t sleep, arms tight by their sides, in a box their children couldn’t afford and which they can feel beginning to get damp, starting to rot.
So yes, maybe Monroe had it laid out sensibly. Fight the good fight. Climb the ladder. Then go home to the wife, grab a healthy supper in front of the late news. Who knows—you might even be on it, saving the world. That would be nice. Bottom line was the FBI wasn’t directly mandated to investigate serial murder. Monroe got involved for reasons of career development. So what? What was her excuse?
“Go home again, Nina,” Monroe said. “Get some sleep. I need you functioning early tomorrow morning.”
Nina looked up, surprised by his voice, and realized she’d just zoned out for something like thirty seconds. Vince was looking at her a little curiously; Monroe without much affection. Only Olbrich had the grace to be looking elsewhere.
Monroe stood and started talking to Olbrich in a way that
Similar Books
