Authors: George Fong
Fragmented (13 page)
21
Wednesday –
Dispatch operator
Mike Escobar stared intensely at the monitor, ignoring the sound of the radio calls that filled the overhead speakers. The agents in the office nicknamed him Batman because he primarily worked at night. He was pulling a back-to-back shift at the FBI’s
Sacramento
office. Although he preferred the quietness of the
hours, the bustling action during the daylight was a nice change of pace.
The dispatch room was full of life. Along with the FBI channels, dispatch monitored the local Police Departments as well. The PD radio dispatch operator boomed over the loudspeaker.
211 Silent
. . . Man reporting shots fired in the vicinity of Stockton and Fruitridge.
One after another. It never stopped. After listening to the handful of dispatch centers calling in at the same time—an event nothing short of a calamity—Batman had attained a Zen level of tuned-out, unless an officer was in need of help.
After a few expletives, he continued to check and then re-check each function on his computer. Agent Hoskin called only fifteen minutes ago, requesting a run through every database he could muster to locate Klaus Monroe. Should be an easy task, he thought. How many Klauses can there be? Giving an age span of thirty to forty years old, he focused his attention as the system began spewing DMV checks. After an electronic sputter, the California Law Enforcement Terminal System, also known as CLETS, returned with its results: 125 Matched Criteria on L/N F/N.
Batman slid his hand through his hair, shaking his head in disbelief.
He ran it a second time, just to make sure. Same information. 125 matched by last name and first name. Since CLETS only supplies the amount without giving up any details, the only option was to have all 125 pulled and forwarded to the office for review.
“Screw this,” he shouted from inside the closed room, which was separated from the rest of the dispatch center. He knew the request would take too long for a response. He decided to take matters into his own hands. Start limiting the field. New DOBs, middle initials, cities of origin. Anything that would get him a list. It would then be up to him to take those names and filter them himself. He ran through the alphabet, guessing at ages, three years up, three years down. Potential cities Agent Hoskin had provided. Streams of responses, “No Match for this Criteria” and “Invalid” popped up, making his anxiety soar higher than the outside temperature. A bead of sweat slowly trailed down his brow, meandering to the bridge of his wire-rimmed glasses. He continued to punch at the keys, now on a mission. He crammed the next series of commands and slammed the Enter key. The hourglass tumbled for a second before a license appeared. Batman’s eyes widened and his jaw jutted toward the screen. He raised a brow and said through a broad grin, “Yeah, baby, that’s what I’m talking ’bout!”
With a push of his foot, his chair sped backwards across the floor on squealing rollers toward the radio board. He made a fist and thumped the bottom of the telephone receiver, launching it into the air, catching it in mid flight. His fingers danced on the dial pad as he elevated his feet onto the consul. It took several rings before the person on the other end answered the call.
“Yeah, it’s me,” he sang. “I got your man.”
Jack stood by the side of his vehicle, the engine running with the air conditioner blasting. Jack had called Hoskin to run
Monroe
’s name and was soon informed he got a hit. Still outside of the church, Jack took notes on the hood of his car, jotting down the information Hoskin provided.
“You said his last known address was in
West Covina
?”
“That’s it,” Hoskin replied. “At least that’s where he was last registered. I’m guessing it’s dated and he’s moved on.”
“What about his criminal history?”
“He’s got a pretty extensive rap sheet.” There was a pause as Hoskin scanned the report. “Got him a couple of years ago for kidnapping, assault. Most of the charges were dropped for lack of evidence. The only thing he was actually convicted of was possession of child pornography, a misdemeanor. For some reason, there’s nothing indicating he had to register as a 290 sex offender.”
“No registration means I am going to have a hard time finding him.”
“Maybe not.
Monroe
was ticketed for a moving violation here in
Butte
County
. Looks like he was cited last month on the twenty eighth.”
“Does it show what vehicle he was cited in?”
“Commercial plate for a pickup.” As he read the plate, Jack felt the eeriness of déjà vu. It was the truck plate he glimpsed fleeing Petroski’s residence. He scribbled the citation report number and hung up.
Jack grabbed his papers and called out to Colfax, who stood in the middle of the street, hands on his hips, staring down the road at nothing. Colfax lumbered back toward the car.
Jack handed Colfax the note he wrote. “We might have a pretty good lead. CLETS shows Klaus Monroe was cited for a moving violation last month here in
Butte
County
. My guess is he’s left his former residence of
West Covina
for the good life in your county. Do you think we can find the officer who wrote the ticket to see what he remembers?”
“Yeah, I think we can find the guy.” He grabbed his radio off his belt and called in to dispatch. It took a minute for dispatch to inform Colfax of the officer’s name.
“Officer’s name is Jessie Cambridge. I know the kid. We call him Jessie James. Young and eager to become a detective. Always looking to catch a big fish.” He called back on the radio to find out
Cambridge
’s shift and learned he was on duty. “He’s in service, Jack.”
“Let’s get him back to the station. In the meantime, could you have your office pull up
Monroe
’s DMV photo and criminal history? Find out the current registered owner of the truck.”
“My guess is he paid cash for the truck and neglected to worry about re-registration. Probably still in the original seller’s name.”
Jack took a deep breath and held it for a moment. He knew Colfax was right. “Run it out anyway. It’s just time and paper. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
22
Wednesday –
Officer Cambridge
sat in the conference room, staring at the DMV photo of Klaus Monroe. Next to the photo was Alvin Cooper’s inmate photo. Placed next to each other, the pairing was a poster for birth control.
Cambridge
stared at each picture, his eyes darting between the two. Jack and Colfax sat on the other side of the table, patiently waiting for a response from the officer.
Cambridge
tapped at the photo of
Monroe
with his right index finger. “Yeah, I remember this fellow. Nervous type.”
“What do you remember about this guy?” Jack asked.
Cambridge
looked up at the ceiling and sucked in air, his chest expanding and making the ballistic vest under his uniform creak. “I pulled this guy over for not coming to a complete stop at the intersection of
Davenport
and
Main
.” He glanced over at his notepad and nodded. “Yeah, that’s right. I get out, get his license and registration. R/O doesn’t match his DL so he tells me he’s borrowing the vehicle and then says he didn’t realize he didn’t come to a complete stop. Says he’s visiting a friend in the area and that he’s from SoCal. I remember that because he doesn’t exactly fit the profile of a typical
Southern California
resident.”
“Did he mention who—or where—his friend was?” Colfax asked.
“No, but in looking over my notes, I see I wrote down a phone number. Can’t remember why, or if it’s even his. I jot down a lot of stuff. Could be from another contact.”
Cambridge
turned his notepad around and slid it in front of Jack.
Jack wrote down the number and returned the pad to
Cambridge
. “Why didn’t you list
Monroe
’s telephone number on the citation?”
“Said he didn’t have a number. I think that one was to his friend’s house. That’s probably why I didn’t list it on the ticket.”
Cambridge
frowned and tipped his head down. “Guess I messed up.”
The number had a 530 area code, which covered
Butte
County
, not
Southern California
. “Don’t worry about it, Jessie, you got a number and that may be a big help.” Jack handed
Cambridge
his business card. “If you remember anything else or if you see the truck again, contact me right away.”
“This guy kidnap a young girl?”
Cambridge
asked.
“Unsure at this time,” Jack replied. “The kidnapper might actually be using
Monroe
’s identity to conceal himself.”
“This guy Monroe would let someone do that?”
Jack shook his head. He looked out the window at a park across the street. “Not voluntarily.”
Harrington moved his index finger a bit to the right, pushing away a bundle of cables, which were blocking a port to plug into. A spark popped between his finger and the casing, causing Harrington to jolt out of his seat. His hand hit the casing hard enough for the entire computer to start rocking, ready to tumble onto its side.
“Damn it!” He stuck the shocked finger in his mouth and sucked on it. Harrington took a deep breath and slowly exhaled, trying to gather his composure. He grabbed the bundle, looped it over a parallel line and reached for the set connected to the Bureau’s analysis unit, then twisted in his swivel chair and scooted back to the bench. His hands passed over the top of buzzing equipment and he could feel the temperature was at least four or five degrees hotter. He started to type on his keyboard, the same one that he used to draw up the chopped pictures of Jessica Baker. With Alvin Cooper identified as their main subject, Harrington continued typing, sending programs to attack the computer believed to belong to Cooper, gathering fragmented pieces that may consolidate into good leads.
The tumbling hourglass, now replaced with an icon of the Starship Enterprise, spun for a moment before a tree of folders materialized listing hundreds of files, more than likely filled with smut. Folder 127T5aa, 9978a, 5004.tha….
Harrington stared at the screen, studying the tree, following the branches with his eyes, like driving a car along a winding road. His eyes darted down a
long branch
that passed a known folder, the one with Jessica’s picture. Further down, Harrington saw a hidden folder buried in a field of junk and system program files. The folder was marked “BTrip.” He clicked on the folder, causing it to expand, listing a dozen subfolders. Harrington puckered his lips and rubbed his chin. He scrolled down the list, stopping on one marked “12251989.” Harrington raised an eyebrow. “Christmas Day, 1989,” he whispered. He clicked on the sub-folder finding fifty .JPG files listed in a neat row. He continued to slide the arrow down the list of files, launching randomly on the fifth one down. A second passed before a message popped up:
Error. Your viewer is unable to recognize this file.
Harrington slammed his fist on the bench, a tech agent’s way of throwing down the gauntlet. No doubt, the files were corrupted. Harrington would have to work for a finished product. He wondered why Cooper wanted these pictures destroyed more than the others. Images of bound and gagged children were bad enough, and yet several of them were left intact. Revealing photos of his last travels to the Baker residence were also retrievable. These images in BTrip, however, were intentionally placed on a higher priority for destruction. The images in this folder needed to be pieced back together. More software programs were called into play and Harrington started sifting through millions of bits trying to find the proper fit for each piece. Launching and re-launching, the programs gathered the fragmented data, placing them in a strand before attempting to view the finished product. Finally, the first set of images appeared in a row like a proof sheet from a roll of 35mm film. He scanned the small images before launching the first one. Rows of pixels scrolled across the screen, revealing thin slivers of the images riddled with black spots where data could not be found. More pixels coalesced until Harrington could make out two smiling faces of teenagers standing near a river by an old ornate bridge.
Two large squares partially covered one of the faces, leaving only one eye and the left side of his visage captured. The other one was complete. Harrington picked up a booking photo of Alvin Cooper and stared at it for a second, then back at the recovered photo. Even though one of the faces was partially blacked out, Harrington recognized him. He just imagined a few more years on that face and he knew who it was.
Harrington turned toward a laptop on a separate table. It was his Internet computer. He logged on and Googled bridges. He filtered through photos of bridges around the world, comparing them to the one recovered. It was only a few minutes before he landed on a match. Harrington looked back at the image on Cooper’s computer and clicked his tongue. He stretched his arm out and grabbed the telephone receiver, dialing Jack Paris’ cell phone number.
“I got something here you may want to see,” Harrington said when Jack picked up.
“What is it?”
“A picture of your Alvin Cooper. He’s with an UNSUB standing next to the Chain Bridge in
Budapest
,
Hungary
.”
Jack paused. “As in over the
Danube
?”
“That’s the one.”
“I remember Cooper traveling to
Hungary
. Helped prove his role in his family’s murder. The photo must have been taken when he was touring after high school. Any others?”
Harrington felt a little miffed, thinking that his quick identification of the Chain Bridge was significant enough to warrant a better response from Agent Paris, not to mention finding another person who might be able to provide information about Cooper. “I’m still working on the rest. Should have some results by the time you get here.”
“I’ll be there in fifteen.”
By the time Jack got to the office, Harrington had already pieced together a series of photos contained within the fragmented folder. The photos were printed and lined on the workbench for Jack to review. Many were only partials, some better than others. Jack stood over the brightly lit table, scanning them for clues.
“Nice job, Jimmy.”
Harrington smiled. “I think I can tell you where these photos were taken.” Harrington punched his fingers on two partial photos.
Jack looked at the pictures. A young man stood next to a frail elderly lady, her eyes sad, her face without a smile. Another of the same man in front of a bar with a sign reading “Blackie’s by the Beach.” Overcast skies and a sandy beach, obviously near the ocean. In the background, motorcycles crowded the parking lot and men with large guts and leather vests stood by the entryway.
“That’s in
Newport Beach
,” Harrington said. “I was there a few years back with some friends.”
Jack gave Harrington one of those inquisitive looks. He knew the place as well. “Doesn’t seem like your kind of place.”
Harrington leaned back, pointing a finger at himself. “I can be cool.”
“My mistake.”
“So, when do we go?” Harrington said.
“
We
aren’t going anywhere.”
Harrington’s bottom lip folded in a classic display of disappointment.
“Look, Jimmy, I need you here to put those pictures back together. The more you find, the better our chances of finding our girl.”
Harrington huffed. “Fine.”
Jack pulled a pen and a Post-It from a desk drawer. He jotted down the directions, even though he knew the way. He worried how much time he would have to divert from his search but knew he had to go. The flight down and back would take maybe a day, hopefully less. With Hoskin working with Colfax, and Marquez searching the Internet, Jack knew that it was best to cover all bases.
Whoever this person was, a contact could lead to Cooper’s whereabouts. Jack folded up his notes and stuffed them inside his coat pocket, then turned and shuffled backwards. He lifted a hand of gratitude to Harrington. “Keep building those files. I’m counting on you.”
Harrington nodded and threw Jack a quick salute.