A Sense of Justice

by Jack Davis

  “Before I hired on as an agent, I spent a year and a half as a level-two help desk technician for Apple. It was amazing how much you learn in a short period of time. I actually learned to do coding—limited—but enough to show me that I didn’t want to do that for the rest of my life. I tell you, it takes a certain mindset to be able to do something that mundane day after day, year after year.”

  Lublin felt himself get hot and his face flush. It was an insult of the highest order. It was everything he could do to not scream at the agent. “To do it right takes a tremendous amount of skill and can be very rewarding…it’s not for everyone.” He knew the sarcasm and condescension was not lost on the target.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to insult you; it’s obvious you’re a coder. I just meant looking at code all day and then applying mindless formulas and waiting to see if the computer spits out the desired outcome, it just wasn’t for me.”

  “Mindless formulas? I guess you really don’t understand the intricacies. It’s often compared to art. Great coders are born, not made. You can teach only so much; then it’s up to an individual’s ability to think freely and find solutions others missed.”

  “Coding is all if/then and then the users beta test the result. Most of the coding checks come from the poor users who find the flaws when the code is released to the public. I’m sure that’s not how it is for you, but you have to admit most coders are sloppy because they know that between the beta testers and first-time users, any mistakes will be found for them.”

  “If it is done well, which most isn’t these days as can be witnessed by release after release of Microsoft products, the users won’t be doing any beta testing. It is part art and part science, and without both pieces, you have sloppy code. I guess having millions of lines of code working seamlessly is easy? Is that what you’re saying? Just because you didn’t have a knack for it doesn’t make the fact that some people do any less impressive. So, because you can’t…” Lublin struggled for an analogy “…can’t paint, you can say that Van Gogh wasn’t talented.”

  “I think comparing writing code to painting like a universally regarded master is stretching it.”

  “Did Van Gogh ever paint anything he hadn’t seen? Did he have to make things up out of thin air? No! He painted what he saw. How much talent does that take? A good coder designs his code from nothing.”

  “Not nothing, he has to have a system for it to run on, and a purpose. No one writes lines of code just for grins. They’re given a task, they’re told what the code is supposed to do, what os it has to run on and everything else. Then they sit down and ‘paint by numbers’ to get the customer the results he wants.”

  “When we started the interview, I had hoped that one of the two of you had a little background knowledge, but no one with any knowledge could make such an asinine statement. Coding—good coding—is too far above either of you for you to really understand what I’m talking about. We might as well just move on.”

  “Your good friend Mihai, is he good at coding?”

  In that split-second, Lublin realized the intelligent agent had played him. If he said Antonescu was a good coder, he would have to explain how he had gotten to be so good in such a short amount of time if it were so difficult. The other alternative was to say he wasn’t a good coder, in which case they would know that he hadn’t written the hacking codes. He had been set up. He tried to stall for time.

  “I must admit Mihai and I’ve never talked about coding. I’m not sure how much of it he has done.”

  “So, you didn’t teach him any coding?”

  Lublin was locked in. “No.”

  “Did he take classes that you were aware of in coding?”

  “No.” Lublin’s headache was starting to build.

  “It just seems odd, you being his only friend and mentor no less, and you also thinking so highly about writing code, that you didn’t recommend it to him, or maybe even teach him some, or set him up with a SANS or Global Knowledge course.”

  Lublin could only reply, “We are very busy.”

  “Sort of like too-busy-to-write-commendation-letters busy?”

  Difference of Perspective (10/18/09, 1718 hours)

  When the interview was finally over, Lublin had another migraine, Kruzerski was confused, and Swann was sure Lublin was guilty of something.

  Lublin was a wreck, physically and mentally. After cleaning and sanitizing the kitchen wastebasket and the living room, he took four extra-strength Excedrin tablets and lay down. He replayed the whole interview—at least the parts he could remember—again and again. It made him madder every time. They were no better than thugs, barging into his house without a warrant, manhandling him, and threatening him with arrest. Lublin’s indignation was complete. He needed to retaliate, but couldn’t.

  “Doc, why so many questions about coding?”

  “This whole case revolves around intricate computer code. It was used in the credit card data hacks, the hacks of the state system computers, the hacks of the porn sites, and Alvaro’s computer.”

  Kruzerski nodded, but his brow was still furrowed.

  “There’s no indication anywhere that Antonescu can write code.”

  “Could he have gotten it from someone in Romania? They have some good hackers, don’t they?” asked Kruzerski.

  “They do, but the code we’re looking at was written by a native English speaker.”

  “Do you think Lublin is smart enough to write code like that?”

  “Hard to tell. I’d have to see some of his native code in the wild to tell you for sure.”

  As the two drove to the PD, they set out their tasks. Kruzerski would start contacting the various airline security POCs to get verbal confirmation on accounts and dates of travel for Antonescu.

  Swann planned to check Antonescu’s machines for signs he had written any code. He was going to look through all the seized material to see if there were any books or manuals on writing code. Swann had written enough code to know that even people who were proficient at it kept reference books on hand. The author of the code Swann and Posada had dissected was definitely good enough to work without help, but if he did, he’d be the only one Swann had ever known. Once that was resolved, he and Kruzerski would brief Morley.

  After that, Swann resolved to sit quietly and figure out what bothered him about the interview with Lublin.

  62 | Would You Like a Receipt?

  Johnson City, New York, 10/18/09, 1749 hours

  Since Kruzerski and Swann were still in the process of interviewing Antonescu’s boss, the standard 1700 hours briefing was postponed and then combined with dinner.

  At the recommendation of Agent Scott, and with full agreement of the detectives, the menu for the evening would consist of local fare, craft beers, and “spiedies” from Lupo’s.

  Spiedies, as the out-of-town agents found out, are bite-sized pieces of meat; normally either chicken or venison. The meat is marinated for hours in a special sauce, grilled, then served on a piece of fresh Italian bread. The delicacy is native to parts of upstate New York and Pennsylvania and well known to anyone from the area.

  A patrol car was able to deliver the beverages prior to the food arriving. So, as the team awaited the food delivery everyone had started their first drink; the tone was set for Morley to announce, “The Bureau is on board.”

  The response from Swann was immediate, “So we should expect some type of statement from the courthouse steps on the ten o’clock news?”

  Greere hopped in, “Keith, that’s not right. I can’t believe you think the Bureau would do something like that. It’s too dark at ten. They’ll wait ’til the morning news cycle so their faces aren’t washed out by the camera lights. Natural lighting is much more flattering.”

  “Are you two about done? Some of us would like to actually have a meaningful discussion.” Morley kiddingly brought the meeting back around to the case. “The Bureau is on board, and the ASAC has put out discreet inquiries to all of their
offices and checked their databases. We’ll have something from them in a day or two either way.

  “Per INS, our defendant came to the US on a student visa from Romania about twenty years ago. He was able to get a work visa after college and has his US citizenship.

  “Jaime is running checks with INTERPOL, EUROPOL, and any other POL he can find, but the results won’t be available for at least two days, if we’re lucky.” He shrugged.

  The rest of the meeting went along the same lines. Each individual took turns briefing, the results of the day’s efforts. Everyone felt the day had been a turning point in the investigation but that the next few days could be even more important.

  That Sunday evening all were happy, enjoying good company, excellent beer, and looking forward to great food, exhilarated in the belief they had taken a serial killer off the street. They knew there was as much work ahead of them as behind, but there was nothing more they could do that evening.

  That was until after Morley paid the bill.

  63 | Primary Jurisdiction

  Johnson City, New York, 10/18/09, 1906 hours

  Greere’s comment about handing the case over to the FBI at the briefing had struck home with Morley and solidified his belief he needed to tread carefully if the Service was going to maintain the lead in the investigation. It was a once-in-a-career investigation for everyone involved, and the thought of getting to this point and handing it over to someone else for “the easy part and all the glory” didn’t appeal to anyone. The team was emotionally invested and rightfully possessive. They all wanted to see the case through to the end. They felt they deserved it; Morley agreed.

  The problem was the Secret Service didn’t have jurisdiction to investigate murders and certainly not serial murders; that was unless they were tied to one of their core violations. Even then, based on the fact that the Service didn’t investigate homicides, the agents would normally work the case jointly with a task force member, a local law enforcement agency, or sometimes the dreaded FBI.

  The hesitance in working with the FBI was institutional and based on the decades old rivalry between the two agencies. Morley’s friendship with his counterpart in New York notwithstanding, the relationship—sometimes flaring into outright animosity—was long standing and had as much to do with the pride of the men and women in charge of the agencies as it did with fights over budget dollars and criminal jurisdictions.

  Ever since the FBI was created by taking twelve operatives from the Secret Service in 1908, the jurisdiction of the Service had dwindled. At the same time, the fledgling agency within the new Department of Justice had grown, as did the rivalry. With the successes against organized crime and a supremely powerful director for almost half a century, the Bureau surpassed the Secret Service in size, power, and scope. By the turn of the century, the startup dwarfed its parent in budget, manpower, and criminal jurisdiction.

  Both agencies had good reason to believe they were the best criminal investigators in their field, the elite in federal law enforcement, and some of the best in the world. As with any good sports rivalry, this brought out the best, or worst, in both sides.

  Morley had seen both sides of the coin, and in his friend Henry Shaw, knew he had someone he could trust to do the right thing. Still, once the case became as big as it potentially was going to be, it would be taken out of their hands. Headquarters from both agencies would get involved and things could get ugly. It would become political to the agencies. For the headquarters staff, it would be as much about publicity, budget, and jurisdiction as about solving or prosecuting the case.

  While the Service had sole ownership of the federal computer crime statute when it was enacted in 1984, as computers became more prevalent and part of criminal activities, the Bureau was written into the statute after the fact. Since then, there were several attempts by the FBI to have the Service stricken from the statute in order to “help the general public avoid confusion regarding where they should report computer-related crimes.” High-profile cases tended to bring out the long knives in both agencies.

  Morley could foresee DOJ stepping in and demanding primacy in this case due to jurisdiction over the major charges to be filed. He knew that was correct, and that the important thing was the monster responsible for the murders was off the street. He also knew if interagency rivalries flared up, it could jeopardize the case. Morley would include the Bureau no matter what ASAIC Brown tried to do.

  Morley’s hope was to link the killings to the hack via a solid piece of evidence. The Service would be on equal footing with their rivals and could effectively maintain at least co-case agent status throughout the rest of the investigation. If they turned it over with only the circumstantial evidence they had now, the Bureau would have every right to say, “Thank you very much; we’ll take it from here.”

  To avoid this, Morley was going to pin his hopes on handwriting. Having cut his teeth on fraud cases early in his career, he had used handwriting analysis to solve dozens of cases. The Service had the oldest and by far the best program of its kind in the world. Morley knew if he could get the experts in FSD handwriting from Antonescu, they would be able to tell him positively if it matched that found on the hotel registration or car rental forms in Savannah and Cleveland. With that piece of solid physical evidence, the Service would be able to stay in the game.

  Morley called the FSD SAIC at home and brought him up to speed.

  “You get me handwriting from your suspect, some native if you can,” referring to handwriting not written while the suspect knew he/she was under suspicion, “and I’ll tell if he’s your man.”

  “I’ll have him writing exemplars as soon as we get back to the PD and we’ll get some native text from his res too. We’ll fax you everything tonight and have the originals to you by afternoon tomorrow. You should already have the reg cards and car rental forms from Cleveland and Savannah.”

  “I’ll probably need to examine the originals to give you a positive, but with the faxes, I can do a seventy to eighty percent.”

  “That’ll be good enough at this point. Thanks, talk soon.”

  Antonescu’s Handwriting (10/18/09, 1957 hours)

  Antonescu was sitting on his cot, head in his hands, as Morley and Greere approached. He looked up as he heard the footsteps.

  “Mihai, do you still want to help us?”

  “Yes, Agent Patrick. How Mihai help?” The prisoner stood and moved toward the bars.

  “We need you to write some things for us. Is that okay?” asked Morley.

  He could see confusion on Antonescu’s face, but in a second, it was replaced with a smile. “Yes, Agent Patrick. Vhat Mihai vrite?”

  “We’ll show you.”

  Morley handed Antonescu a pen along with a form. The form had the letters A-Z, upper and lower case, and numbers 0-9. “Copy the letters and numbers in the space below each. Then sign at the bottom.”

  The speed with which Antonescu filled in the form satisfied Morley that the Romanian wasn’t trying to disguise his handwriting. When he finished, Morley handed him another identical form. “You’ll have to fill out about five more of these.”

  Antonescu nodded and went to work.

  As Morley handed Antonescu the fourth form, he said, “Mihai, print them this time.”

  Once these forms were complete Morley handed Antonescu a seventh form and asked him to fill it out with his left hand. This took much longer. By the second left-handed form, Morley was confident Antonescu couldn’t write with that hand.

  Next, he handed him a blank sheet and asked him to write Dr. Peter Dalton ten times. Antonescu happily complied, as he did for the four sheets with the name on the Cleveland hotel registration form.

  “Unless he’s the best actor since Sir Laurence Olivier, he’s never seen those two names before,” Morley whispered to Greere.

  The tedious process took another forty minutes. The whole time Antonescu complied without uttering a sound.

  When all the forms were dated and initi
aled, Morley faxed them to FSD.

  The minute he hit send, Morley was on the phone with Sean. He listened as the youngster joyfully regaled him with the adventures of the weekend, in particular, the football game. By the end of the call, half of Morley’s guilt was somewhat assuaged.

  Hanging up, he dialed Pencala to work on the other half.

  It was close to ten by the time Morley and Pencala were able to say good night.

  Turning on the TV to see the football scores, Morley started to relax. He sat on the bed, laptop open, planning out the tasks for Monday. He stopped briefly and reflected on the twist the case had taken that day. The team had done a great job but there was a lot left to do.

  His phone started to buzz.

  Part Thirteen

  64 | An Unwanted Phone Call

  Hoboken, New Jersey, 10/18/09, 2157 hours

  Jaime Posada was in no mood for more calls by Sunday evening. He’d worked twenty-one straight days and gotten home shortly after eight. His wife, who had spent her entire week putting together a rush proposal for her job had gotten home shortly before seven. On the way home Posada stopped at their favorite Thai restaurant and picked up takeout. He was looking forward to a relaxing, romantic evening. With all the action taking place upstate, he had every reason to believe he’d be able to do just that.

  The first two calls were from unidentified long-distance numbers. Since he and his wife had finished their meals ten minutes prior and made their way upstairs, Posada ignored them. Less than five minutes later, he was even less inclined to answer the phone, but saw that it was the NYFO Duty Desk. Reluctantly, and with his wife still kissing his neck, he tapped his BlackBerry to take the call.

  Posada’s initial annoyance disappeared when the dispatcher explained the office had just received a call from an individual claiming to be a Customs and Border Patrol agent. The CBP agent said he had a “gangbanger and his whole extended family” trying to cross the border into the US at Brownsville, Texas. The Mexican said his name was Alvaro Lopez. He had Posada’s business card, and refused to answer any questions, insisting instead the CBP agent call Posada who would answer all the questions.