Breach of Protocol

by Nathan Goodman

  “Yes, ma’am. Absolutely.”

  Kyle said, “We should approach slowly. We don’t want to step on any evidence.”

  “There’s not going to be any,” Cade said.

  “Leave it alone, Cade,” Jana said.

  A tractor-trailer rumbled by and the vibrations under their feet were only paralleled by the blast of wind that accompanied it.

  “Kyle,” Jana said, “look at that.”

  “Look at what?”

  “Over there, right underneath the hole in the wall. How come all the grass is green except for that one spot?”

  “And look at the wall itself, down at the base,” Kyle said. “It looks stained or something.”

  Jana walked closer to the wall but stayed to the side. She leaned forward, wanting to avoid destroying any evidence underneath her feet.

  “That looks . . . burned. Well, not burned exactly.”

  Cade said, “Looks like something burned by acid.”

  “Even the wall,” Jana replied. “Look at the cement. Something dripped down and etched the cement. What would cause that?”

  But it was only a moment later when it caught her eye. A tiny glint just at the base of the burned grass. Jana looked at Cade. “Not going to find any. Is that what you said?” She looked toward Virgil. “Virge, I think we’re going to need that crime-scene team to get back out here. We may have something.”

  An hour later, one lane of traffic had been blocked off and the roadside swarmed with official vehicles. FBI vans filled with crime-scene technicians had driven in from New Orleans. The local crime-scene techs were also on scene but had been not-so-politely told to stay out.

  The FBI had a long-standing reputation of treating local law officials poorly, then taking credit for solving a case. It was a reputation Jana would take no part in. So when she overheard the FBI’s crime tech supervisor speak rudely to the acting sheriff, it sickened her.

  She yanked the shoulder of the supervisor and spun him around. “Look,” she pointed over to the sheriff’s deputies and local crime-scene techs. “Those people are to be treated with respect. Three days ago they lost their senior-most in command. He was a highly respected member of law enforcement. You may think we have jurisdiction, but that’s only because there are more of us than there are of them. If they want to get nasty, the attorney general of Louisiana will show up and hand your ass to you in a paper bag. Murder is a state crime, not a federal one. We are here by invitation, is that clear?”

  The man glared down from his six-foot-three-inch frame, sizing her up. “I don’t take orders from you.”

  “You do today!” With that she snatched his ID card from the chain hanging around his neck and studied it. “Out here, I’m in command,” she barked. “This is my investigation and my responsibility. As far as you know, I might as well be a supervisory special agent in charge. You got that?” She dropped the ID on the grass at his feet and walked away.

  “Jana, what was that all about?” Cade said. “You’re losing your temper. I’ve never seen you like this.”

  “I know, I know. But that kind of crap pisses me off. To these people, they lost the same thing as we did with Director Latent, and I won’t have them treated like that. This sweltering heat isn’t helping anything either.”

  Kyle shook his head. “Man, I hope I’m not around when you really get pissed off. I hate to say it, but you need to get a hold on that temper. Carrying a firearm and having a hair-trigger temper don’t go well together. No pun intended.”

  “Very funny.”

  A crime-scene technician dressed in a white fiber-proof jumpsuit and face mask yelled out, “I’ve got something strange over here. It’s some kind of a small bead, but everything is covered in acid.”

  Jana, Cade, and Kyle walked to the edge of the crime-scene tape. Jana said, “Acid?”

  He replied, “It’s just like I said. There’s a glass bead down there, but there’s acid all over it. The acid is what caused these scorch marks on the wall, and burned the grass.”

  Cade looked at Kyle. “Why would you cover a glass bead with acid?”

  “I have no idea. But I can think of someone who might.”

  Jana asked, “Yeah, you going to call our hazmat guys? Agents Fry and Keller? Weren’t they the guys we’ve worked with a couple times before?”

  “The very ones. They specialize in crime scenes that involve nuclear contamination, but they’re both hazmat trained. If anyone knows the answer to this, it would be them.”

  Kyle wasted no time in calling FBI headquarters in Washington and getting the two agents on the phone.

  “Put them on speaker,” Jana said.

  Kyle described the situation at the crime scene to them.

  “So the question is, if you were a criminal and wanted to leave a piece of evidence at a crime scene on purpose, why would you cover it with acid?”

  It was agent Keller who responded. “Well, it would be a brilliant way to cover up any trace evidence. I can’t say that I’ve ever heard of a case with this actually happening, but, then again, criminals almost never leave behind evidence on purpose.”

  Jana said to Kyle, “But the glass bead recovered from the scene of Director Latent’s assassination wasn’t covered with acid. This doesn’t make sense.”

  “Well,” Keller said, “it was raining that night. Given enough time and rainwater, the acid could’ve easily been washed free. But now that we know what to look for, it might be possible for the lab to pick up a trace of it on the rooftop.”

  “Wait a minute,” Cade said. “Maybe that’s why the lab said there was no trace evidence found on the glass bead at Director Latent’s assassination. Maybe it was covered with acid as well, but the rain washed all of that free, making it nearly impossible to tell.”

  “Starting to see the connection now?” Jana rubbed.

  Agent Fry piped up. “I’ve looked at the lab reports. I think you are right. We never expect to find a piece of evidence like that at the crime scene and yet find absolutely no trace evidence on it. That would be consistent with the glass bead at Latent’s crime scene having been doused with acid as well.”

  Jana yelled back to the crime-scene tech who was now removing the glass bead with a pair of metal tongs.

  “Can you tell what kind of acid is present?”

  Without looking up he replied, “Portable chromatograph preliminarily identifies it as sulfuric. Sulfuric acid. But it’ll have to go back to the lab to confirm.”

  Fry and Keller overheard the response. “Well, if it is sulfuric acid, there certainly would be no trace evidence left on the glass bead. In fact, it won’t do us any good to try and track down the manufacturer of the sulfuric acid itself either. Sulfuric acid is sulfuric acid, there isn’t any difference between one production facility and another. All contaminants introduced at the facility would be burned up in the acid.”

  “And,” Agent Keller added, “from what I’ve read about the lab reports on the glass bead found, the bead was certainly homemade. Not something that can be traced to a manufacturer. In fact, both glass beads were. It’s a hell of a way to cover up any evidence of where the glass beads were made.”

  “What do you mean, both glass beads?” Jana said. “Until this moment, we only had the one glass bead found at Director Latent’s assassination. How would you know that this one was homemade as well? We haven’t even seen it yet.”

  “The first one was at Director Latent’s site. The second was just pulled out of the body of the victim in Spain. Apparently, the killer stuffed it inside her open wound after he stabbed her with a sword. That makes three glass beads. I am sorry, Agent Baker.”

  Cade put his hand on her shoulder.

  “I’m sorry about Gilda, Jana.”

  But Jana’s face hardened. “I’m going to kill that son of a bitch myself. And something else, it’s time we go have a talk with the coroner here.”

  “The coroner?” Cade said. “You mean bodies on a slab and stuff? Oh great, tha
t will be another first for me.”

  Kyle said, “And what do we want to talk to him about?”

  “You’re assuming it’s a him,” Jana said.

  “My, my. We are sensitive, aren’t we?”

  “You have no idea.”

  26

  A NEW DIRECTION

  Monterrey, California

  Rafael pulled into the side entrance of The Bayhouse Lodge and parked against the one-story building. The hotel sat within view of the Monterrey Bay, a touristy stretch of California’s Pacific coastline. The area, adored by visitors as the place that inspired the novelist John Steinbeck, is also home to several military installations including the Defense Language Institute.

  But it wasn’t the history, presence of military activity, or the hotel itself that Rafael was interested in. It was the public Wi-Fi connection spilling through the walls of the aging hotel. If Rafael was to stay below the NSA’s radar, he had to blend in with the masses, and accessing the Internet undetected was critical. To accomplish this, his method was to hide in plain sight.

  The process was simple. Pull a car close to most any midpriced hotel, and an Internet connection was available for the taking. No hotspot login, no password, and no questions.

  Rafael watched as hotel guests made their way around the back of the hotel, past the pool, and toward a large barbecue pit. The hickory smoke wafting from the fire reminded him how hungry he was. He laughed as he thought about what it would be like to witness the reactions of these vacationers as they were being told another nuclear device had detonated within US borders. But when his eyes landed on a well-tanned young brunette sunning herself at the pool, his focus sharpened. He picked up a pair of binoculars and watched as a man lying beside her sat up, said a few words, then walked toward the barbeque pit. Rafael’s eyes traced the curves of her trim form.

  He booted the laptop and after logging in to the Gmail account, found a new message from Jarrah waiting in the draft folder.

  After reading the brief message, he closed the laptop and stared ahead. A fresh coat of beige paint on the aging hotel’s plank siding shined back at him. His eyes then wandered back to the pool.

  The message from Jarrah detailed the next assignment—one that would prove most challenging. “This assignment will not be easy. But there is plenty of time,” he said.

  The young woman picked up a towel and walked toward the hotel. “Yes, plenty of time. But whatever am I to do? Well, perhaps I can think of something.” His grin widened as he got out of the car and followed the woman’s path into the back side of the hotel, and down the hallway. Once there, he pretended to be distracted, as though he was searching his pockets for his hotel room keycard. As she unlocked her door, he grabbed her from behind, his hand stifled her screams, and he pushed her into the room.

  When he was done, Rafael walked outside, backed his car out and took Route 1 toward Highway 68 as though he didn’t have a care in the world. When he reached the town of Salinas, California, the birthplace of John Steinbeck, he turned south on Highway 101.

  The Internet access had proved most valuable. And now that he understood his new assignment, he knew why Jarrah had sent him to Monterrey Bay.

  In the message, Jarrah described Rafael’s new mission as one that would take place in two stages. In the first, Rafael would be required to procure the necessary equipment. To do so, he would wait until late at night, then break into the storage areas of a chemical-manufacturing plant owned by Hayland Industries. The plant sat just six miles away from his current location on Highway 101.

  According to intelligence provided by Jarrah, the chemical manufacturer had recently been involved in a top-secret government project; one conducted at the behest of the Central Intelligence Agency.

  The second stage of the mission would prove far more dangerous and Rafael began a series of mental exercises; he was running through all possible scenarios. To him, this would be the most exhilarating assignment he had ever undertaken. The risks and danger were overwhelming, yet the reward . . .

  With Rafael’s Cayman Islands bank account again flush with cash, and his sexual appetite quieted, his thoughts recentered on one thing: serving his employer, and serving him well.

  27

  HIDDEN

  Office of the Coroner, Saint Tammany Parish

  As the three friends walked into the coroner’s office, Jana turned and jabbed Kyle in the stomach.

  “Ouch, what was that for?”

  “I told you not to assume it was a man,” she said as she pointed to a sign on the wall. The sign read,

  St. Tammany Parish

  Office of the Coroner

  Rosa M. Canray, MD

  “Okay, you were right. It’s a woman. You know when I said “him,” I wasn’t trying to be a bigoted, racist, segregationist womanizer, right?”

  “Hey,” Cade said to Jana, “remind me not to piss you off any more than I already have, okay?”

  “Just trying to keep you boys in line.”

  Kyle said, “You think all this superhero FBI-agent stuff is going to her head?”

  “I’m not going to touch that one,” Cade said.

  “What, are you scared? She doesn’t hit that hard,” Kyle said.

  Jana grinned as they open the door. “I didn’t hit that hard because I didn’t want to dent your delicate sensibilities, Kyle.”

  “Who told you I had delicate sensibilities?”

  “I did,” Cade said.

  Jana flashed her credentials to the receptionist.

  “We would like to see Dr. Canray, if she has a few moments.”

  The receptionist did a double take at the credentials.

  “Yes, one moment.” A minute later she was back. “Yes, you can go through that door, she’s in the middle of an autopsy, but you are welcome to speak with her.”

  “Autopsy?” Cade said. “I’m not going into any autopsy.”

  “Oh come on,” Kyle said. “You big baby.”

  “Yeah,” Jana said. “You think we enjoy this? Come on, it comes with the territory.”

  Cade threw up his arms but kept walking.

  “Comes with the territory? It might come with your territory, but there’s nothing about being an NSA analyst that includes being overwhelmed with the smell of formaldehyde.”

  Kyle pulled him through the door. “Don’t worry big guy. I’ll catch you in case you faint. And as a special treat, we’ll go out for fried-oyster po-boy sandwiches later. I get so hungry after these things.”

  “Hungry? I doubt I’ll want to eat for a week,” Cade said.

  Upon entering the lab, the smell hit them head on. The odor was a mixture of formaldehyde, rotted chicken, and a stale McDonald’s Quarter Pounder with fries. Cade stopped cold.

  “Come on, buddy,” Kyle said.

  The doctor’s back was to them and her hands were wrist-deep in the chest cavity of a deceased male whose pasty-white skin was offset against the ebony of hers.

  “Dr. Canray, we are with the—” Jana started.

  “FBI, I know,” the doctor said without looking up. “What can I help you with?”

  Cade’s eyes fixated on the ghostly white corpse.

  “We really do hate to disturb you,” Jana said. “We’re here investigating the murder of Sheriff Chalmette.”

  “Murder? Since when does the FBI get involved in murder? Are you with behavioral sciences?”

  “No, ma’am. Ma’am? Can we speak confidentially?”

  For the first time the doctor looked up.

  “What do you think I am a . . . of course we can talk confidentially.” The doctor continued her work then said, “You’re that FBI agent, aren’t you? The one that stopped the bomber in Kentucky.”

  Jana did not answer.

  The doctor continued. “Your mother raised you to be very direct, didn’t she? My mother was tough as nails, she was. And what other way to be is there?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I was raised to be direct. My grandfather saw to that.”


  “And this one standing behind me,” she said, referring to Kyle. “A real lady killer I bet. But that one over there, he doesn’t look so good.”

  Jana looked at Cade. “Well you’re right about Cade. He’s turning a lovely shade of green. Not exactly accustomed to this type of thing. But Kyle here? No, ma’am. He’s not a lady killer. Instead, he reminds me of an old hand that worked on my grandpa’s farm.”

  “How so?”

  “He’d been kicked in the head by a mule, twice,” Jana said.

  Kyle shook his head. “I’ll not grace that with a response.”

  “What we’re interested in is any ballistic evidence that was recovered. We understand the shell casing was found at the scene, but was there a bullet as well?”

  “Will Chalmette and I had worked together for years.” She stopped a moment. “I hated doing that autopsy. In my job, I enjoy the luxury of almost never knowing the people I work on. No, no bullet was recovered. Will was shot in the head. The shell casing found at the scene indicated a caliber of 7.62 mm. But we were unable to make a match against any known crimes. A bullet like that travels so fast, it just passed right through.”

  The color retreated from Cade’s face and he put his hand over his mouth.

  “Believe me,” the doctor said, “they searched high and low for the bullet that struck him, or any fragments. But found nothing.”

  “Don’t you find that strange?” Kyle said. “It would seem unusual that they couldn’t locate any part of the bullet.”

  The doctor did not look up from her work. “Yes, I would’ve expected those baby-blue eyes of yours to ask that question.”

  Jana shook her head. “But you barely glanced at him. How did you know Kyle had blue eyes?”

  “Don’t know. I’ve always known things about people. I guess he just sounds like he has dreamy blue eyes. Like this guy on the table here, Calvin Johnston, age seventy-eight. Found him in his house. No one really knew how he died. That’s where I come in. But I could’ve told you he had brown eyes before I checked. Anyway, getting back to the bullet, the forensic investigators will tell you that sometimes a bullet changes direction after it strikes its target. The bullet could have angled off its initial trajectory. It likely angled up and flew past the sheriff’s department, off into the woods. It could be a quarter mile from the scene. No, I’m sorry. We’ll never find that bullet. I might have something that can help you though. But now that we’re on the subject, tell me why you’re so interested in the bullet in particular. After all, finding the shell casing was a lucky break. Lucky in that the killer left it behind, that is. That shell casing amounts to a fingerprint of the firearm. I’m assuming you had hoped that if we recovered the bullet, we could match it against another murder?”