Tainted Robes

by Joe Nobody

  Striking one of the clear plexiglass shields with a thud, the bottle shattered into a hundred pieces before a massive whoosh of ignited gasoline flashed red. Another Molotov cocktail splashed the line of shields, then a third.

  The police hastily dropped their burning bastion, exposing their ranks to hundreds of protestors with long guns. A battle erupted as Royce sought to crawl out of no-man’s land and back toward the safety of his lines.

  A SWAT team with heavy weapons appeared, rushing from a side street to flank the core of the violence. Their rifles tore into a group of men who were clearly shooting at the police. After only a few rounds, the black-helmeted response team found themselves outflanked as a charging mob of protestors hit them from the right. Before they could recover, four more policemen lay withering on the ground, along with twice that number of civilians.

  Despite more than 400 officers assigned to the rally, the cops had to retreat. Not only were they facing overwhelming fire, the number of innocent, unarmed civilians and press in the area made it difficult to concentrate their firepower. It was a battle in the same league as the darkest days of Iraq or Afghanistan.

  Less than five minutes after it started, the crawling, scampering detective heard a series of piercing whistles, and then watched helplessly as the friendly, blue uniforms began backing away.

  Bloodied, yet emboldened by their victory, several of the more aggressive demonstrators shouted, “Take city hall! Take city hall!” The stately building was situated just a block away.

  Royce went prone, joining at least fifty other bodies on the parking lot’s surface, all of them either dead, wounded, or playing possum to avoid further bloodshed.

  He watched with a grimace as dozens and dozens of pairs of boots stomped by, all of them heading toward the center of El Paso’s government.

  He knew they would take the building, and for a moment, wondered how many people would die before this was all over.

  Kit awoke in San Jose with bleary eyes and a stiff spine, both conditions due to spending most of the previous evening in the hotel’s business center, perched on an uncomfortable chair, staring at a computer monitor of questionable quality. When the screen finally froze without remedy, she had retired to her room, plopping unceremoniously on her less than fluffy mattress covered by sheets of questionable thread count. “I guess a $165 room in this neck of the woods doesn’t offer Egyptian cotton,” she moaned, rolling her pillow to support her neck, eager to catch her fifty winks.

  Despite several hours using her federal user ID and password to search a variety of databases, some systems had been inaccessible from a public location, even with Kit’s credentials.

  “No problem. That’s why I have an admin back at the office,” she mumbled, dialing the number on her room’s landline, hoping for a little more privacy from her internet stalker.

  From the moment she answered, it was clear from her admin’s voice that something was wrong.

  “A riot has broken out here. Silas McCann died in the hospital this morning under suspicious circumstances. The news anchors are reporting streets being littered with bodies, almost like we’re Chicago. We have been hearing a lot of gunshots all morning, and now El Paso City Hall is on fire.”

  “When… where… what the hell happened?” Carson asked, trying to locate the remote and see for herself.

  “The police and several thousand protestors butted heads, and somebody started shooting. That is all I really know. Turn on your TV; it’s being carried by all the national media.”

  The federal prosecutor managed to power-up her own set just then, flicking channels quickly until finding a news outlet. The first images she saw were of an empty lot, dozens of people lying motionless on the ground. What really struck her as telling, however, was the fact that no one was trying, or able, to help them. There were no ambulances or medical personnel, and that meant the fighting wasn’t over.

  “The governor is calling in the National Guard,” the nervous admin continued. “But everyone is saying it will take at least a day before they arrive in force. The police, according to one report, are barely holding onto their headquarters. The rioters have set up roadblocks on I-10 and other roadways, so not even the state police can get into town. Fort Bliss is on lockdown, the Army unable to help the city due to some law I’ve never heard of. Our boss here at the office has told us all to stay put. We have a handful of marshals and cops here, but I am shaking in my shoes. I cannot remember ever having been so terrified.”

  Between the horrific images on TV and her coworker’s narrative, Kit was absolutely stunned. After finally finding her words, she suggested, “I think hunkering down and waiting for things to settle is the wise move. For sure, you don’t want to be out on the roads at a time like this.”

  “Yeah. I guess. We’re staying away from the windows. At least you picked a good time to get out of town. I wish now I had gone along for a little time off.”

  The two women talked for several more minutes, Kit asking repeatedly if there was anything she could do.

  “No. We’ll be fine. But anyway, you called in for a reason. Something I can help you with?”

  “Oh, it’s not important,” Carson responded politely. “Compared to what you guys have going on, I’m embarrassed to even ask.”

  “Please, please give me something to do. I need the distraction.”

  “Okay. If you’re sure? I need you to check the priority databases for a Harold T. Sutherland and a Venkaiah Mahajan,” she explained.

  “Hold on a second,” the admin replied as she made a note on her screen, “keeping busy is the best medicine if you ask me.”

  It was actually more like five minutes before she came back on the line. “I faxed the info for Mahajan to you at the hotel. But Sutherland? Nadda. No hits. Nothing.”

  After double-checking the spelling, Kit sighed. “This guy doesn’t exist in the judicial system. Odd. Most people at least have a parking ticket, or have purchased a firearm, or something.”

  “Nothing under that spelling.”

  “Okay. Thanks, and be safe. Call me if there’s anything Marshal Storm or I can do.”

  “We’ll be okay.”

  Kit watched the television coverage of the looting, burning, and rioting in El Paso. There were a few images that reminded her of the Middle East after a major battle had been fought. It was disheartening to see the place she lived, a city in the United States, being torn apart from within.

  Shaking her head and switching off the television, she realized that it was time to meet Griffin for breakfast. She wondered if he knew. “He’ll probably want to head straight back and join the ranks,” she pondered. “In a way, I can’t blame him.”

  Indeed, Griffin had heard about the violence in their hometown, and yes, he had offered to fly home immediately. “I talked to my superior this morning. He told me to stay put. All of the airports are shut down, and the activists have set up roadblocks on the major routes in and out of El Paso.”

  After ordering from the hotel’s small café, Griffin wanted to know what Kit had discovered about Cyber Ace and the two men they had seen yesterday afternoon.

  “The first man’s name is Dr. Venkaiah Mahajan, born in India in 1994. He went to school at Cal Tech on a legit student visa and graduated with honors three years ago. He earned a PhD in Computer Science. He lives here in San Jose, no criminal record, pays his taxes, and became a US citizen 11 months ago. His tax return shows he makes $377,000 per year, is married, and has three dependents.”

  “Okay.”

  “The second man is far more interesting,” the federal prosecutor continued, the volume of her voice dropping low to draw Griffin closer. “His name is Harold T. Sutherland. I can tell you he was born in 1964, according to the driver’s license he used to rent a car four days ago in Los Angeles. Other than that, he is a complete mystery. No criminal record, tax returns, parking tickets, or even a record of Mr. Sutherland attending any school o
r college. The address listed on his driver’s license is an apartment complex in LA that the city purchased via eminent domain two years ago. And I can find no connection between him and Cyber Ace. For all I know, he was there trying to sell vacuum cleaners yesterday,” she sighed.

  Griffin immediately brightened, “Just like our disappearing Mr. Terret! I think you’re onto something.”

  Kit shook her head, “Actually, I think you might be on to something. I think you need to call your office back and ask about Mr. Sutherland.”

  Scowling, the marshal challenged, “Huh? Why?”

  “Because the last time I saw someone with a history this scrubbed, they were in your service’s protected witness program.”

  Nodding, Griffin understood, “I see. No problem, I’ll give the Washington office a buzz after we eat.”

  Their breakfast arrived, both wolfing down the expensive meal with gusto. “Why does traveling always make me so hungry?” Griffin asked.

  Scrutinizing what little remained of his three eggs, double order of bacon, and four slices of toast, Kit teased, “After watching you eat for the last few years, I have concluded that breathing makes you hungry.”

  “Ha. Ha. Ha,” he countered. “Not everyone can get by on bunny rabbit snacks and white wine. I’m carrying around a slightly larger frame than some people. That requires fuel.”

  “Slightly larger? Now wait just a minute, Inspector,” she protested.

  Griffin chose that moment to demonstrate his quickness afoot, snatching the check from the table and withdrawing to the cash register to pay the bill before she could continue.

  The two drove toward Cyber Ace’s offices mostly in silence, both worried about their coworkers back in El Paso.

  As they did the evening before, they circled the facility, this time noting a considerable number of cars in the parking lot. In fact, there wasn’t an open spot to be found. “That’s the problem with Cali,” Griffin grumbled, his head in constant motion as he searched for someplace to leave the rental. “Too damned many people.”

  “That must be a real problem for a guy with a slightly larger frame,” she quipped, trying to keep a straight face.

  Ignoring her verbal jab, Griffin continued his quest, finally finding a suitable spot almost two blocks away. “Sorry I couldn’t get closer. I hope you have enough energy to hump it from here,” he teased back.

  They exited the vehicle, Kit straightening her blouse and jacket as if she was about to interview for a position at the firm. “Let me do the talking, please,” she informed the marshal. “Your job is just to look mean and dim, which I’m sure won’t be a problem given your lack of wit.”

  “Who left a pea under your mattress, Princess?” Griffin countered.

  “I think it was something slightly larger than a pea.”

  They marched into the front lobby, greeted there by a young woman who couldn’t be more than 20 years old. “May I help you?”

  “Yes, we would like to speak with Mr. Mahajan, please. My name is Katherine Carson. I’m from the Justice Department,” the federal prosecutor stated plainly.

  Those last two words got the receptionist’s attention. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Picking up the complex-looking phone next to her station, the girl punched a three-digit number from memory. “Please tell Ven he has two visitors in the front office,” she informed whomever answered. A short conversation ensued, “No… I think he’ll want to meet them… in fact, I’m sure he will.”

  She disconnected the call and then peered back up at the two feds. “He’ll be here shortly. In the meantime, could I offer you something to drink? Coffee? Tea? Water?”

  “No, thank you,” they both uttered at the same time.

  “Okay, then please have a seat. I’m sure he’ll be here soon.”

  Two minutes later, a mop of dark hair appeared around the corner, a young man of Indian descent poking his head into the lobby. “What’s up, Wendy? Ven told me to come up and see what was going on.”

  “These two people are here to see him,” Wendy responded, clearly annoyed that the critical nature of her message hadn’t been communicated.

  The young man turned to Griffin and offered, “Is there some assistance I can offer? I’m Mr. Mahajan’s assistant. He’s not accepting any sales calls today, and in fact, has a very full calendar the rest of the week.”

  Having had enough of the polite approach, Griffin stood, made sure the young geek spotted his sidearm, and withdrew his badge. “I think Ven can spare us a few moments. Please ask him to squeeze us in… immediately.”

  The admin sheepishly withdrew after a mumbled, “Yes, sir,” again leaving them alone with Wendy.

  Leaning close, Kit whispered, “Down, boy. These are techies, not felons. You catch more geek-flies with honey than vinegar, you know.”

  “I just expected slightly more courtesy than what we’ve been shown so far.”

  Mr. Wad-of-hair returned a moment later, opening the door wide and motioning for the couple of feds to enter the inner sanctum. Neither Kit nor Griffin felt all that privileged.

  They were guided through a series of cubicles, most filled with pimple-faced youngsters that Griffin thought looked as if they belonged at a high school pep rally instead of working at an international business.

  Cyber Ace wasn’t all that large of an outfit, at least not in the states. Mr. Mahajan’s office wasn’t even as large as Kit’s humble government digs. But at least it had walls and a door in contrast to the other workers’ space.

  The oldest man in the building stood as they entered, coming around from his ‘neat as a pin’ desk and extending a handshake. “How may I help you?” he graciously offered, after working each fed’s hand and volunteering them business cards. Carson accepted, handing back one of her own while Griffin declined, scowled, and took a seat.

  Kit wasted little time. “Mr. Mahajan, we’re investigating a confidential, highly classified matter. During the course of our research, we encountered your firm’s software and while in San Jose, decided we would drop in and ask a few questions.”

  “Is Cyber Ace the target of this investigation in any way?” Mahajan asked, seemingly astonished at her disclosure.

  “We’re not authorized to comment on an ongoing investigation,” the marshal growled.

  “Then I would like to have our corporate lawyer present before I answer any questions,” the techie responded, rising from his chair as if the meeting was over.

  Throwing Griffin a look that said, “Be nice. Sit back. Keep your mouth shut,” Kit then smiled sweetly and poured on the charm. “Mr. Mahajan, I can assure you that Cyber Ace isn’t in any trouble. There’s no need for your attorney.”

  Now, their host was suspicious, his hospitality seemingly withdrawn, “I’m not so sure about that, Ms. Carson. Perhaps we can set up another time for the interview.”

  All business, Marshall Storm reached for his mobile device, thumbing the screen until a picture displayed. “Sir, this is an image I took after a failed raid a few weeks ago. The felon we were after was warned that we were coming and set a booby trap. Three innocent women were killed, burned to death inside of this structure.”

  The tech manager accepted Griffin’s phone with a grimace, wincing at the graphic picture of a burned-out residence behind three bodies lying on the ground, all covered with a white sheet. It was clear the fire had completely gutted the home.

  The prosecutor didn’t give the interviewee time to react, “We believe your software might have been the source of the leaked warrant. The district where it was issued was using your product. We merely want to discuss what security parameters are a part of your offering.”

  Handing Griffin his phone back, the executive sighed, “We are proud of our level three security apparatus, as well as an encrypted database key. Our product is as secure as any commercially available scheduling software in the world.”

  “Has there ever been any report of it bei
ng hacked?” Kit asked.

  “No. None. Not a single incident.”

  “Do your programmers leave a back door?” Kit asked, watching Mr. Mahajan’s reaction closely.

  His free admission surprised both feds. “Yes, of course we do. I can’t tell you how many times a customer forgets a password or has a hardware failure that corrupts the system. If we didn’t have a special way in, our clients would lose all of their data.”

  “How many people would know about this access method?”

  Nodding, Ven acknowledged, “Well, just me and a handful of our core engineers. But… and I must stress this point, we can’t gain access without the client being involved. We can’t just randomly log into any customer’s installation without their knowledge, permission, and assistance. That would be impossible.”

  “What about if someone who knew your product was at the customer’s site?” Griffin asked.

  “Yes, I suppose that would be possible, but besides myself, all of the engineers who could gain access are in India. We can log in remotely, but only if someone from the client is present to help us. All these support cases are carefully logged to avoid liability on our part. I believe it has only happened three times in the last two years.”

  “Have you ever remotely accessed your client in the federal district of West Texas?” Kit asked.

  “One moment, please,” Ven responded, spinning his chair to access the computer behind him.

  After several keystrokes, he returned to face the feds. “No. We have had one instance in New York and two in Denver. Our client in Colorado has had numerous hardware issues… a problem child, if you will.”

  Disappointed, Griffin flashed Kit a look that said, “Another dead end.”

  The prosecutor, however, didn’t want to let go.

  Now it was Kit’s turn to dig out her cell. Like her partner, she accessed her gallery and showed Mr. Mahajan an image. “Could you tell us who this man is?”