Blood List

by Patrick Freivald

  January 7th, 8:00 AM PST; Conference Room 4, Front Street FBI Building; San Diego, California.

  Carl spent the next day directing the team as they compiled massive amounts of information: birth and death certificates, driver's licenses, passports, and medical and dental records. The organizations that required subpoenas to release information were hacked by Sam. They could get warrants later if they needed them. With Renner's confession to murder one on tape, no one cared if they invalidated some of this evidence.

  Newspaper articles, alumni lists, high school and college transcripts. Fingerprints, military service records, library cards, credit records, and business records. Resumes, online forum posts, blogs. All of these things were found, copied, scanned, collated, annotated, and packed into tidy electronic files for each victim.

  By midday, Paul was pitching in, feeding file after file into the insatiable scanner. He looked bored out of his mind. Carl walked by him and chuckled. "Lucky you, Renner. Now you get to see how glamorous and exciting real police work is."

  Paul returned Carl's grin. "I hope this isn't the fun part."

  "Not even close," Carl said. "Next we set up bulk classifications to assign each piece of data to, then spend hour after hour doing the assignments. The computers can do some of it for us, and they'll be instrumental once it's all scanned in, but this sort of thing comes down to a person seeing something that makes a connection. That's the only reason you're here. Something might jog in your memory when you see the data classified and organized properly."

  "Great," Paul said without enthusiasm.

  By six-thirty that evening, every possible document for each victim had been scanned. Sophisticated optical-character-recognition software went to work converting pictures of documents and hand-written letters into computer-readable text.

  "Everyone take your gear with you tonight," Gene announced. He stood and grabbed his brand-new pair of crutches. "Our plane leaves at oh-nine-forty. Get there early. We have to pass through normal airport security. This is a commercial flight, not Bureau."

  A chorus of groans answered. Airport security in San Diego was bad enough for civilians. Gone were the good old days when an agent could flash his badge and walk around the detectors. Now there was paperwork, lots and lots of paperwork, and all of it had to be perfect to allow weapons through security.

  Marty gave Paul a smug look, which Renner seemed not to notice.

  Despite Paul Renner's unwelcome presence, Carl felt pretty good. They had a massive amount of data, and it felt like they were glutted with clues and leads. It was a pleasant change of pace.

  At dinnertime most of the team called it a day. While the others went out to eat or to their hotel rooms for some shuteye, Carl stayed behind. He worked with Sam to create bulk classifications for the data. After ninety minutes, Carl yawned and looked at the clock. He hadn't done anything productive in two minutes.

  "Hey, Sam?"

  "Yeah, babe?"

  "I think I'm going to cut out, grab a bite, call my wife, and get some sleep. It's been a long day."

  "No worries. We're about past where I need you anyway. I'll wrap the rest of this up in the next couple of hours. Should give you a lot more to do on the plane tomorrow."

  "Sounds good. Goodnight, Sam."

  Sam giggled. "Goodnight, Ralph."

  Ralph? Carl thought. Whatever. He shut down his computer and headed out in search of food.

  * * *

  January 8th, 10:20 AM CST; Central Air Flight 1551; Somewhere over the continental United States.

  For all the whining, Paul thought they'd made it through security in no time. The small jet was neither crowded nor cramped and had reasonable legroom even for people using laptop computers. Gene sat in the front, with the most legroom possible to accommodate his swollen feet, the seat next to him empty except for his crutches. Paul found it a little strange how none of the paper files followed the team to D.C. The entire kit and caboodle was now digital. Soon everything everyone has ever known will fit in a wristwatch, he thought.

  Not a fan of plane travel even without cracked ribs, Paul had dressed for comfort—elastic-banded jogging pants, an overlarge T-shirt in nondescript gray, and a comfortable pair of tattered Reeboks. He looked more like someone out for a morning run than traveling across the country on a plane stuffed with federal agents.

  The team spent their time doing data classification, which to Paul seemed a lot like turning a needle in a haystack into thirty needles in thirty haystacks. Only in this case haystacks are called "bulk classifications." Apparently there were computers in D.C. that automated much of the process, but it still looked like a never-ending pile to Paul. The manual boredom of the previous day became digital boredom.

  After an hour of click-drag-drop ad nauseum, Paul stood to stretch his legs and rest his eyes, if only for a moment. A mini-fridge sat at the front of First Class, right next to the cockpit door, so he grabbed himself a can of Coke, flashing his eyebrows at Gene as he slid past. Jerri looked up when he popped the tab, and, as Paul slurped his first taste, she signaled for him to bring her one.

  He grabbed a second can, ignored the look of reproach from the stewardess, shut the fridge with his foot, and walked to the back of the cabin. "Thanks," Jerri said as she took the offered beverage. Paul noted that she didn't look at him with the disgust or disdain of the past few days. At least for this fleeting moment, he had evolved in her mind from pond scum to guy-who-grabbed-her-a-Coke. Looks like I'm moving up in the world.

  He sat next to her and looked at her screen. She was working on the same thing they all were, sorting data and shoving it into piles. Click-drag-drop. More as a reason to forestall a retreat back to his own private click-drag-drop hell than to start a conversation, he said, "How long is this step supposed to take?"

  "Oh, I don't know," Jerri said. "As long as it does. I hope we're done before we land, but probably not. Not too long after, anyway."

  "What was that?"

  Jerri looked from her screen to Paul's face. "What was what?"

  "You just looked at my hands, shuddered, and looked away. Why?"

  "I—" She paused. "I probably shouldn't get into it."

  "Does it have something to do with why you asked me about the Burnhardt job?" Paul could tell he had hit a nerve.

  "Mr. Renner—"

  "Call me Paul."

  "Mr. Renner, you strangled a man to death with your bare hands." Her shudder was more pronounced this time. "Frankly, I find your hands to be positively creepy."

  "Why?" Paul asked, holding them up for examination. "They're just hands. Just like yours, or Gene's, or anyone else's."

  "Look, even if I found myself in a position where I was going to kill someone, I could never choke the life out of them. It's too…personal."

  Paul grunted as his ribs shifted. "I told you yesterday that was a CIA job." He leaned in a little, almost too close to her. "Let me educate you a little about my industry." He tried not to sound patronizing. "There are three types of contracts. Dead, looks-like-an-accident dead, and CIA dead. Most CIA jobs are just another version of the first two types, but sometimes they insist on a certain method. Daniel Burnhardt was one of those cases." Jerri opened her mouth to ask a question, but he kept talking. "I don't know why, I don't ask why, and Langley doesn't tell why.

  "Besides," he said, standing, "I didn't choke the life out him with my bare hands. If it makes you feel better, I wore gloves. It doesn't make me feel any better about it, but if it helps you at all, more power to you. I'll let you get back to your work."

  Paul headed back up to his seat. He noted with passing interest the look of pure venom on Martin Palomini's face. What did I do now? Paul wondered.

  He sat back down, picked up the laptop he'd been assigned, and went back to work. Click-drag-drop, click-drag-drop.

  * * *

  January 8th, 5:52 PM EST; Dulles International Airport; Washington, D.C.

  Just short of six PM Eastern Standard Time, the pla
ne landed at Dulles International Airport. The team exited down a portable flight of stairs to twin government sedans waiting on the tarmac. The vehicles were stereotypically black, with tinted windows and "US GOV" on the license plates.

  Gene, Doug, and Paul loaded into one while Marty, Jerri, and Carl took the other. They were awash with new car smell and looked to Doug like they had never been ridden in. The drivers were non-descript Bureau employees, paid to drive safely, observe and react to everything going on outside the vehicle, and ignore everything inside.

  Doug continued to click-drag-drop from the passenger seat as the cars started rolling. Even after hours of nausea on a plane, somehow when he worked in a car it didn't bother his stomach. Carl had confiscated Paul's laptop before they left the plane, and Paul looked down at Gene's laptop sitting at his feet. "Not going to work on the way?" Paul asked.

  "No," Gene said. "I'm fine in a plane. In a car it just gives me a headache." He favored Paul with a puzzled look. "Why didn't you pack a bag?"

  "I'm not going to reveal where I have bags to pack, Gene. I'll buy what I need here or have one of your guys do it," Paul said. "Speaking of which, it's probably not a good idea for security at the FBI building to find this." A small pistol appeared in his hand from out of nowhere.

  Gene had frisked Paul before they'd entered the airport and was positive he was clean. Paul held the gun out to him.

  Gene took the pistol while Doug stared with his mouth open.

  "Paul, this is completely unacceptable. Surrender all other weapons on your person, immediately, or the deal is off and we're remanding you to custody. Now." Unseen by the others, Doug slid his pistol out of his holster and fingered the safety.

  Paul smiled sheepishly. "That was it. Frisk me. I have no other weapons." They pulled over the car and Doug frisked him, with as much attention to detail as he'd ever put into a search. He was rougher this time and took his embarrassment out on Renner.

  "One more stunt," Gene said, "and you're done. One. Got it?"

  "I got it," Paul said. Doug gave Gene an I-told-you-so look. They got back into the car.

  "How did you get this through airport security?" Gene asked.

  "Lots of Special Forces troops are trained to do it. Sometimes with much bigger guns."

  "Is that where you learned to do it?" Doug asked.

  Paul looked out the window and smiled. "Something like that."

  "Your prints don't match any military records," Gene said.

  Paul's smile widened. "True."

  Forty-five minutes later at the J. Edgar Hoover building, Paul Renner experienced the single most thorough frisking he'd ever been through. It didn't include a cavity search, but he still felt that the guard owed him dinner and flowers by the time he finished. He was then subjected to a metal detector and an X-ray. "I suppose I have you to thank for the extra attention," he said as he walked up to Gene.

  "Absolutely." Gene's tone was businesslike, a Special Agent in Charge at the FBI Headquarters sort of voice. He gestured for Paul to follow him down one of the warrens leading into the massive complex and started off on his crutches. "The Assistant Deputy Director who approved our arrangement wants to make sure a confirmed freelance assassin isn't roaming his halls armed. That's what the ankle bracelet is for.

  "In addition, the guards have all been issued your photo, and the badge you're wearing gives people permission to shoot first and ask questions later. It's equipped with RFID and a tiny heart rate monitor, just to make sure you keep it exactly where it's supposed to be, so we know where you are at all times. Removing either it or the ankle bracelet will trigger an immediate manhunt, and security won't be concerned with sparing your life.

  "You will be escorted by a member of my team at all times, though you shouldn't have any reason to leave our section. As long as you're in this building, the only thing you're free to do is exactly what you're told. Anything else will be viewed as a hostile action and will be responded to in kind." Gene stopped and looked him in the eyes. "Have I made myself perfectly clear?"

  "Crystal," Paul said. He wasn't sure he believed all that, but he didn't want to test it.

  "Good, because I meant every word," Gene said. He gestured forward, then started off on his crutches. "Let's go find the man who hired you, shall we?"

  By the time they reached Gene's section, Paul felt like a tiny mouse in a gigantic maze. There were no colored lines on the wall, no friendly and well-lit directories with "You Are Here" printed on them. On this level there weren't even exit signs. Paul knew that wasn't legal and was sure it was intentional.

  Gene's section consisted of a large meeting room, three offices, a single-seat unisex bathroom, and a small kitchen complete with a full-sized fridge, coffee pot, and microwave. A short, fat girl in neon-green stretch pants and an oversized Toby Keith T-shirt walked out of the kitchen nook, her brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. She carried a freshly opened pint of Ben and Jerry's Chunky Monkey ice cream, the first spoonful already in her mouth. She stopped and looked Paul over from top to bottom. "I thought you'd be taller," said Sam Greene's familiar voice as she waddled her way to a doorway, swiped a key-card, and disappeared into the darkened room beyond. The door shut behind her.

  Paul raised an eyebrow at Gene, who motioned him to the large meeting room. A huge, dark-stained table dominated the room. A single desktop computer sat in the middle with adjustable wheeled office chairs around the outside. Circling the table were nine individual desks against the walls. On each desk sat a large stack of papers, a computer monitor and keyboard, and a folded-paper plaque, each with a separate victim's name.

  "Listen up," Sam chirped over the COM. A large projector in the middle of the ceiling lit a wall nearly the size of a movie screen. "Data classification will be complete within the hour and we'll start matching. Each station has physical and digital copies of all data compiled for each victim listed. When you're done with your last bit of data, feel free to start rooting. It goes without saying that all files on a desk stay on that desk. PPD has been combing through this data and will add their findings in real-time.

  "Keep an eye on the match lists. The converters won't be done until morning, so you can force priority if you want. There's a link in all this data somewhere. Go find it." Sam's voice cut off.

  "Does anyone want to translate that into English for me?" Paul asked no one in particular.

  "I will." Carl motioned Paul closer so as not to disturb the rest of the team. "PPD is the VICAP Psychological Profiling Department. They've gone over most of this with a fine-toothed comb, and they'll help us create data matches with what they can figure out about victim correlations and a profile on the guy who hired you.

  "As the computer finds information that's the same for other victims, it creates a match which it will display on that projection there. We're looking for high-numbered, irreconcilable matches. That is, matches that aren't automatically explained by another factor.

  "For example, we're going to get a Match-7 on males, but that's automatically reconcilable because the other two are by default females. So we know these victims weren't killed because of their sex. Hence, sex will be discarded and will come off the screen. Sam will be poring over matches as the data shows up, flagging them as reconcilable or irreconcilable.

  "The converters change non-computer-recognized text into computer-recognized text. That's just a fancy way of saying it turns handwriting into computer-readable text. A separate but similar program converts photos of text. That is, everything we could only get paper copies of and some of the file-types for the electronic stuff doesn't show up like a web page or a word processor document. Imagine having to re-type every one of the documents we scanned yesterday. Yeeesh."

  Paul shuddered at the thought. Scanning alone had taken hours. Carl was way too excited about the process.

  "Yep," Carl continued. "It's a lot of boring work, but because we did it, what would take weeks or months will be done tomorrow. The really cool thing is that Sam wrot
e both converters. I don't think your buddies at Langley have anything anywhere near as good. Commercial OCR's have come a long way in the past decade, but they still haven't caught up to her stuff. The really un-cool thing is that she wrote the code on Bureau time, so instead of being able to patent it and sell it, it's proprietary to the FBI.

  "Anyway…," Carl moved back to the topic at hand, "forcing priority means you can put something in front of the others for the computer to dig for matches on. So, if we see that five of the nine people went to Rutgers University, we can tell the computer to complete all of the alumni-record conversions first to see if that's our link. It'll drop everything and try that, then go back to what it was doing before.

  "Ideally, when it's all said and done, we'll have one and only one irreconcilable Match-9."

  "And that means?" Paul asked with raised eyebrows.

  Carl stopped his lecture to explain the term. "Irreconcilable Match-9 would mean that all nine people have something in common, a perfect coincidence. It's doubtful we'll get one, but if we do, we have a massively high chance that that's our link, odds at least in the high 90th percentile. Does that all make sense?" The little man was actually smiling.

  "It does," Paul said. "You're an extraordinarily nerdy man, you know that?"

  "All I'm missing is the pocket protector," Carl said. He turned back to his computer. Paul noted that although Carl didn't have full range-of-motion with his injured arm, he could type with blinding speed.

  "How's your arm?" Paul asked.

  "Not so bad anymore," Carl said and rotated his shoulder in a practiced stretch. "I had to have a couple surgeries to repair some tendons, but with a few more months of physical therapy, it should be good as new." He grinned. "Fuck you very much."

  Paul chuckled. "I'm glad it's healing okay," he said and turned back to his work. He started looking for matches as the grin faded from Carl's face. Carl rubbed his arm self-consciously and turned back to his computer. Poor guy, Paul thought.