Quantico

‘Seven forty-one,’ Gerber said. ‘Nothing unusual. He was at the Bluebird Tall Stack, a truck stop. You passed it on the way here.’

‘We did,’ Rose said.

The reflecting tape between the lighted mobile cone barriers flapped in the early morning breeze. A patrolman waved through a small silver Toyota. It drove slowly around the scene, well clear of the rippling tape, its middle-aged female driver goggling.

Colonel Gerber was being straightforward and professional, and for that Rose was grateful. She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a WAGD, hiding most of it in her palm and up her sleeve, then swiftly uncapped it, bent over the open printer box, and ran the moist gel tip along the inside and across the printer carriage. She capped and pocketed the device, then moved on with Gerber.

Twenty yards further on, the patrol car was a blackened shell hunkered on the right shoulder and facing the wrong direction—east. It had been set on fire with gas siphoned from its own tank. The patrol car’s tires had burned to the steel belts. Melted aluminum traced shiny rivers down to the roadside gravel. Whatever onboard data—video, officer commentary, the contents of the patrol car’s orange box—that had not been transferred by satellite link from the car’s Infodeck had been destroyed.

A small grass fire had been extinguished by a quick light rain minutes after the wreck.

The officer’s body had been found on the north shoulder of the road, ten yards from the burnt-out patrol car. The body had been removed by the Pima County Medical Examiner but a silver marker line still recorded its outline. A rain-diluted smear of blood pointed in the direction of the cruiser, about thirty feet away.

In the center of the outline, a small spherical projector sitting on a hammered peg threw out grainy patterns of blue and red light.

‘Glasses?’ Rose asked.

Gerber offered a pair from his pocket. She unfolded the temple pieces and slipped them on. The officer’s body came into clear view, frozen in place and lit all around by multiple strobes. Legs straight, arms limp and angled.

‘The body was moved before we got here,’ Gerber said.

She walked around the projector and stooped. Patrolman Porter’s body looked perfectly solid against the black pavement. Had he been closer to the cruiser, he would have burned. Someone dragged him across the highway. A bystander? The killer?

Why have empathy for a dead or dying cop?

Projectors were good but the emotional assault of seeing an actual corpse always heightened her senses. Death so close, injustice everywhere. Still, the photographer had done a good job. The 3-D image was clean and sharp. In a few hours, no doubt, the ME and the CID would merge their data and she could call up the same projection and see a reconstruction of the officer’s stance, the lines along which the slugs had traveled, his reaction to the force of tons of accelerated mass hitting his shoulder, his chest, his neck.

The FBI evidence techs had fanned out along the road and were busy taking pictures, checking the interior of the truck’s cab, scraping paint and rubber off the road, setting up survey poles and lasers, repeating much of what Gerber’s people had already done.

‘You still haven’t told me why the feds are interested in a few hundred gray-market computer printers,’ Gerber said. ‘Obsolete models, too.’

‘We’re curious where the truck was going. Whether it had any escorts.’

Gerber flipped his hand at the International. ‘There’s no driver log, no valid license, no bills of lading or any of the records required for interstate transport. The truck seems to have been modified in Mexico and driven across state lines about two months ago—we have a video of a rig with that federal ID number crossing the border at that time, with all its papers in order. But the last registered owner claims he sold it in Mexico six years ago. Still, the truck had a Grit Mitt and seemed to be trying to meet current highway standards—other than Cop Block, of course. Nor are there any signs of these printers being a dummy cargo—our K-9s just looked bored. We’re still pursuing the trail…but backwards, not forwards. I have no idea where this rig was going, and if we don’t catch the second man, or woman, we’ll probably never know.’

‘Second man or woman?’

‘Just a possibility. Someone gave our perp or perps a ride. Between here and the next town it’s fifty miles of nothing. Long walk. We’ve looked. And no hospital here or across either border reports anyone with gunshot injuries.’ He rubbed a light stubble on his chin. ‘We’re done. Let us know when can we clear our highway.’

‘Thanks for your patience. I need another hour.’

‘Porter was a smart patrolman. Nobody could have just got the drop on him,’ Gerber said. ‘This whole thing is an awful mess.’

‘Amen,’ Rose said, getting back to her feet. She folded the glasses and returned them to Gerber. ‘Was Porter married?’

‘I don’t think so,’ Gerber said. He called to one of his analysts, a short, plump man with a dapper mustache. ‘Earl, was Porter married?’

‘No, sir,’ Earl said, glad to get in on the conversation. He had been checking out Rose. ‘Never married. Patrol was his life. Well, he liked to drive to Vegas once a year.’

‘Eager?’ Rose asked.

‘The best always are,’ Gerber said. He sniffed and peered around the highway and the distant hills. His irritation was about to break through. ‘As long as you’re here, I’d be fascinated to hear your take. I’m sure it’s filled with exceptional, FBI-level insight.’

Sometimes, cops let other cops reel out a little rope. Whoever went first was eager to jump to conclusions. Earl backed off and returned to his group.

Rose said, ‘I’m curious as to how your cruiser ends up spun around in front of a jackknifed semi.’

‘A curious situation,’ Gerber agreed.

‘You’ve had problems with escort vehicles that can interrupt communications. Are you looking for a jammer?’ Rose glanced up at Botnik, ten yards off. He could hear their conversation. He gave her a quick nod, out of Gerber’s sight.

‘Should we be?’ Gerber asked innocently.

‘There could have been two vehicles,’ Rose continued, ‘one traveling a few minutes behind the other. The first, our International and its trailer, must have attracted Porter’s attention. He decided to bird-dog the rig and look for an excuse to pull it over.’

‘Okay,’ Gerber said, and stuck his hands in his pockets. They were walking side by side now, the best of chums.

The WAGD was still quiet.

‘The second vehicle could have followed at a discreet distance,’ Rebecca said. ‘Porter lit up and pulled the rig over for inspection. Maybe the driver couldn’t produce the right papers. He called for backup but didn’t get a response.’

‘We received no request for backup,’ Gerber said, but he wasn’t disagreeing.

‘Porter’s Infodeck told him he was off the grid and he couldn’t make direct radio contact. His display told him he was being jammed.’

‘All right.’

‘With the rig pulled over, the occupant or occupants of the second vehicle decided to make a run for it. Porter suspected this was the jammer, got his wind up, ordered his first quarry to stay put, and took off after the second truck.’

Gerber looked thoughtful. ‘Evidence?’ he asked pleasantly.

‘Nothing, really,’ Rose said. ‘Unless we count tire marks a few miles back, two vehicles peeling out, not far from a long set of truck tracks in the gravel.’

‘Mm,’ Gerber said, and his smile broadened. She wasn’t ahead of him yet. He knew about those marks. ‘Jammers work for hire and don’t carry contraband. Porter knew the drill. He would have let the little one go.’

‘But you said he was a gambler,’ Rose said. ‘Right? Unmarried, eager, a Vegas kind of guy. Patrol was his life. For just a few seconds, he couldn’t think past the glory of making a twofer—of pulling over a rich cargo, and grabbing a jammer besides.’

‘Are we about to cast aspersions on an officer who can’t defend himself?’ Gerber asked. His face was professionally blank but his pupils had widened.

‘Not at all,’ Rose said. ‘Happens to the best of us.’

Gerber squinted. ‘Tell me, why would any driver risk a chase and the hoosegow for a load of old printers?’

Gerber had spent a lifetime figuring out what people were really interested in. Rose walked back toward the burnt-out patrol car. ‘Porter reacquired his perspective after a peek in the rear view mirror. He saw the rig get underway and quickly decided to give up on the jammer. He and the rig played a little chicken. Risky, but maybe not out of character. He got in front and tried to brake the rig to a stop—got tapped, spun out…and the rig jackknifed and flipped. Porter ended up by the side of the road, reversed.’

She stood beside the distorted, blackened curve of the cruiser’s driver’s side door. ‘Porter squatted behind the door and drew down on the truck cab. Based on chase maneuvers and the spin-out, his Infodeck would have automatically attempted to re-connect and call for urgent backup, and he probably surmised the jammer would soon be out of range.’

‘All right,’ Gerber said. ‘Now explain to me, how did he end up getting shot? Did the jammer return? Was he caught in a crossfire?’