by Fiona Quinn
I smiled. Tada!
I held off on the jazz hands.
They didn’t seem to have made the connections.
The men sent side eyes to their fellow officers to see if they picked up on some seed in that story that had relevance.
Seriously?
Finally, Casper pulled up his PowerPoint again and pointed at the image on the screen. “This guy is an only child. So while you offered up a cute story, it has no relevance here.”
“Are you sure?” I asked. There it was again, the essence of my parents. If I could explain the sensation, it was like they were both nodding their heads at me. “That’s right. Remember…” Again, it was like something out of a Harry Potter novel, and Harry was staring at his parents in that magic mirror, seeing them huddled behind him. It was as if my parents took this opportunity to pull a long-ago forgotten family story out of storage, shake off the dust, and hold it up to the light for inspection.
What could anything happening to me now have in common with my Revolution-era grandma?
Pay attention!
“No, we aren’t sure.” Casper leafed through his papers. “He was adopted.”
“An open adoption?” Cho asked. “Would we be able to track records? The birth mother? The hospital where he was born?”
“Foreign. The family moved here from Switzerland when the subject was still an infant. So I’d say access to those records would include a heavy ask from our allied country and might even show our hand.”
“How would they have found each other if they were adopted in a foreign country?” DiSarro asked.
Casper leaned forward. “Depends on the birth country’s laws, and if it were an open adoption, I would guess. We didn’t find familial DNA here in the U.S., but that doesn’t mean that someone didn’t initiate the tests in another country.”
I took another sip of water then set the glass on the window ledge beside me. “I was reading just the other day that a woman who had been adopted as a child found a paternal cousin through DNA&Me. She met up with the guy and asked for any information about her birth father. It turned out that her dad was wanted by the FBI.”
“No kidding?” DiSarro was perking up. “What did the dad do?”
“He had been FBI with high-ranking security clearance. He came home one day, agitated, and decided to kill his wife and four kids.”
“I’d say that was taking the definition of ‘agitated’ to the outer boundaries,” DiSarro said. “When you think of it, the mom putting that woman up for adoption probably saved her life.”
“Chilling,” Cho said. “And he’s still on the wanted list, which would make me want to keep that story to myself. Circling back to this crime.” He pointed at the screen. “Let’s assume for a minute we have two men—identical twins. What did you call them? Goats?”
“As a metaphor, yes,” I said.
“It’s possible,” Cho hooked a hand around the back of his neck, “they found each other. I suppose it’s possible they both liked crime. Though, I’m not really buying this theory.” He gave a shrug. “I guess we could try to rule it out.”
“You could rule it in by just paying attention to their photographs,” I suggested.
“Their. Plural?” Casper raised his brows.
“Identical twins,” I repeated. “Could you please put up the photos of the man at the coffee shop and then of the man on the park bench side by side?” I could feel Striker putting off warning vibes. And yes, I could hear my own tone. Irritation. It had little to do with this meeting; it had everything to do with Black…and maybe the CIA in general.
After a moment, Cho had them up.
I walked to the front of the room, standing in front of the screen, and pointed at the photos. “Same day. From the time stamp on the photos, we know that these are also an hour apart. At some point, this man left the officer’s line of sight. These men are not the same.”
“Come on now.” Casper flicked his pen onto the tabletop and leaned back in his seat. “Look at him. Hair, clothes, scuff on shoes, drip of coffee, identical.”
I rubbed my forehead, working to modulate my voice to sound professional. “Subject on the right has a mole growing in his left eyebrow.” I lifted my finger to point.
Cho played with the mouse and zoomed in.
“It is not in the eyebrow of the subject on the left.” I turned and lifted my other hand to point at the exact location on the other image’s photo.
The officers all leaned forward.
“If you’ll zoom back out on both images, please.” I waited. “Subject on the left has a white scar on his left index finger. It looks like it was from a burn. He also has that tear in his cuticle.” I caught Cho’s eye. “Can you zoom in on their hands?”
After he had the images adjusted on the screen, the officers in the room all shook their heads. “Son of a gun. Identical twins.”
“Hence when you picked up the cigarette butts, you got the same DNA sequence,” I said. “Though there are some instances when small variances in DNA show up in identical twins or triplets, this usually happens when the zygote splits into two very early. And it’s fairly rare. That’s why some identical twins develop hereditary diseases that their sibling does not. How they found each other and how they started this makes little difference. But you are dealing with identical twins unless, of course, they were triplets. But I don’t think that matters. All of the surveillance photos are of these two. They were always meticulous about not leaving any fingerprints, I noticed. They were not as careful about the DNA, one because it’s tough to move about without shedding DNA, but also, when they were involved in their crimes, they always made sure the other had a solid alibi. Yeah, I’m convinced that they smoked and left the cigarette butts to purposefully confuse you. And it’s worked for what…years?”
“Years,” DiSarro confirmed.
“That doesn’t explain how they get their crimes accomplished,” Casper said.
“Well, the rest isn’t that difficult. First, the conspirators used these two guys as goats, and the rest is based on probability.”
“We’re listening.” Casper’s voice took on the tenor that I had experienced so many times at work. They wanted to know the answer, yet…they knew when they heard it, they’d be embarrassed.
Oh, well.
Chapter Fifteen
“When I was growing up, my mother was bedridden,” I told the three CIA guys. “Some days when her head hurt her too much to entertain me, Mom would put on the game show with Monty Hall. I loved that show because of the clever costumes that people created. Are you all familiar with what show I’m talking about?”
I looked around as the men nodded.
“One of my favorite games was the three doors game. Basically, Monty Hall picked someone from the audience. When the curtain lifted, there were three doors. Behind one of the doors was a brand new car. Behind the other two doors, there were goats. At the time, I wanted very much to go play that game because I wanted a goat. And I had no need for a car.”
The men’s lips curled in. They were biding their time to hear something of significance.
Still, if you get to the reveal too soon, there’s no razzmatazz. I hoped they’d grow to appreciate my metaphor.
“Now the person had a one in three chance of picking the car, and it’s important to note, Monty Hall knew exactly where the car was hidden—the show didn’t want the player to win. Let’s say the player picked door number one. Monty would say, ‘Okay, you have door number one. Let’s see what’s behind door number two.’ Again, Monty knew good and well that there was no car behind door number two. He knew it would be a goat. The door opens. Goat says, ‘mah.’ Player knows that they started with a one in three chance to win, and now that the goat is revealed, they think they have a fifty-fifty shot at winning the car. What does Monty do?” I looked around for one of the officers to throw in an answer.
“He asks if they’d like to change their mind,” Cho said.
“Exactl
y, and they almost always stick to their original pick. Well, almost everyone does. It’s for psychological reasons that they stay with their original choice.”
“But they shouldn’t?” DiSarro asked.
“Statistically, no. Let me start with the psychology that’s got your field officers stuck, then I’ll explain the math. And this isn’t just a chance to talk statistics. It’s the strategy that these people of interest must have known in advance. They wanted to go on about their espionage, but they needed their chances of being caught to be statistically minimal. What that means is they wanted you to focus on the goats and lose the car. The goats in this metaphor are not committing acts of espionage. The car is. The goats are conspiring to keep you from noticing the car.”
The men shook their heads at me.
“Step by step then.”
Striker ducked his head to hide his grin.
“One, the psychology. Cognitive scientists have studied this phenomenon, and my mentor taught this to me because it’s such a profoundly held human reaction, and in my line of work as Iniquus puzzler, I can’t fall into the trap. When someone has made a decision, they stick with it. Here it is, ready?”
Head nods. Hand rubs. Worried faces. I could tell that it was dawning on these three that they were about to be grouped with the people who made bad choices based on applied psychology. And that would make them feel like fools, just as Striker had predicted.
Welp, here I go.
“Let me give this example a name. Joe Shmo. So Joe Schmo doesn’t like to feel bad about himself. If Joe makes some decision and loses, he feels awful. But if Joe were to change his mind and then lose, he feels much worse. Let me repeat that. If Joe sticks with the things that cause him to fail, that’s bad. If he had picked the right thing, to begin with, and switched to the wrong thing, worse.” I gave them a nod. “Put this information into the Monty Hall scenario. Joe picks door number one. The goat was behind door number two. ‘Would you like to change your guess, Joe?’ ‘Nope,’ says Joe. ‘I’ll stick with number one.’”
The men nodded.
“So door number one turns out to be a goat. Joe feels bad. But Joe would feel so much worse if when Monty gave him the opportunity to switch, and he switched. Following the new choice, Monty’s assistant opened door number three, the number Joe switched to, and Joe finds a goat. Had he stuck with door number one, he would be a winner. Hmmm. Are you following me? Stick to the original, fail, and feel bad. Switch and then lose, and you’ll be beating yourself up for a long time. That’s the psychology.”
“Let me see if I get this,” Cho said. “We have two goats—identical twins—showing up. Their job is to catch the attention of our field officers. Once our field officers decided to focus on the goats—”
“Right, but they perceived the two goats as one entity,” I clarified.
“But once they targeted the goats—twins—human psychology said don’t change your mind and look for anyone else.”
“Exactly.” I smiled. “Because if, in the end, the officers switched their attention onto someone else, and it turned out that the goats were the right target, they’d feel super bad. And that’s where the metaphor stops being useful. The car, the real spy, is taking advantage of the confusion. The confusion is created by the two men. These men pulled the eyes off the spy. Also, they confused the heck out of your officers by being in two places at once.”
The officers exhaled.
Casper asked in a small voice. “Did you happen to figure out who plays the car?”
I walked over to the screen and pointed at the woman with a baby carriage. “This is her getup that day. She’s very good at her disguises. But you can tell it’s her because she has this tattoo under her watch and when her watch moves, you can see it.” I pointed to the computer. “May I?”
“Sure.” Casper pushed his chair back out of my way.
I pulled up picture after picture, showing the woman in a variety of disguises. But in each instance, the tattoo was partially hidden under a watch or bracelet.
“Do you know what the tattoo is?” Cho squinted.
“Yes.”
“Care to share?” Casper’s nostrils widened like a bull snorting.
“No. Sorry. I recognize it. And I know what it symbolizes. But that’s classified with the FBI. I could ask them if it’s all right to share.” Hmm, maybe this was the leverage I needed to force the CIA to follow through with me. But was I the kind of person who would put my country’s classified information in danger because I wanted my life to be tidy?
“We play on the same team,” Cho said.
“True. And yet, I have rules governing my security clearance. Sorry.” Not sorry.
“Hey, Mrs. Sobado, can you finish with the statistics? The person who picked door number one should have switched when given a chance?” DiSarro asked.
“Right. Their chance of winning actually doubles if they switched their answer. But you’re not going to believe me until you see the stats play out for you. Just do an Internet search, and you’ll find sites that allow you to play. You can assess the odds for yourself.” I smoothed my hands down my skirt, drying my damp palms. “To conclude, gentlemen, the field officers were meant to put the focus on the twins. The twins weren’t committing espionage. They conspired to thwart the spy’s detection. The crime was committed by the car if you will. The woman who is spying knew that the chances of the officer settling their attention on her and solving the crime was the same probability as the game show contestants winning the car. I believe there’s a fourth person whom I haven’t identified today, playing the role of Monty Hall, who has manipulated the officers into thinking the twins were the prize and not the goats.”
All right, maybe that wasn’t the best way to present that information. But I was tired and distracted. And they were further along than they had been.
Interesting about the woman, though.
I’d bring it up over at the FBI if I saw Damian Prescott, who was working that case.
Striker stood. “Gentlemen, I believe this has been a productive meeting. Today you identified an issue. You wanted to assign culpability to a single man. Mrs. Sobado was able to identify that man as a set of identical twins conspiring against our government. She was able to identify the spy as a female with a wrist tattoo who is excellent at changing her appearance. I believe this information will help you move forward with your case. Mrs. Sobado is now due at the FBI, and we need to leave. Should you have further need of a creative way of assessing your crime picture, you now know that our Iniquus puzzler,” he held out a palm in my direction, “is an amazing talent. Thank you for your time.”
And he headed for the door.
I scooted after him.
Right outside, standing sentry, was Oliver. “I thought since there was that incident earlier that I’d escort you out. I don’t want you to have any trouble.”
“Thanks,” I said, falling in line with the men as we made our way to the elevator bank.
Down we went to the main entrance.
We followed the hall toward the front door.
Making his way through the metal detector, a man stopped with his hand resting on his briefcase. He looked me dead in the eye. “Mrs. Rueben?” he asked with incredulity.
I stopped in my tracks. It was like an icy fist squeezed down on my heart, and my whole system ceased functioning for a moment.
I recognized him.
Maybe I recognized him…
Maybe my mind was making a collage of my past as I remembered my dad’s accident and funeral.
But I could swear…
Spyder had asked me to hold the umbrella over my mom’s head as we left Dad’s internment. As I did, Spyder scooped up mom and made it over to the car. Stan drove the vehicle. Who took mom’s wheelchair? Who put it in the trunk? I could swear it was this guy.
“Mrs. Reuben? I’m sorry, I…”
“Mrs. Rueben was my mother. I’m Mrs. Sobado.”
He lifted his brie
fcase and walked toward me, his eyes unblinking.
“Lexi,” I said, reaching out my hand, hoping he’d mention his name.
“Seth Toone.” When his hand touched mine, a buzz radiated up my arm into my neck and jaw. It was like I’d whacked my elbow on a door frame. Painful and odd. How did he do that?
“You look just like your mother. It’s shocking, almost.” He was obviously flustered.
I wondered if he got the same zap I did.
“The last time I saw you, you were just a teenager.” He pressed his fingers onto his tie. “It was at your dad’s funeral.” He swallowed hard enough that I heard the phlegm galumph down the back of his throat. “I worked with your dad. He was an amazing man. It’s a stretch for a stranger to say this, but he would have been so incredibly proud.”
I smiled. Proud of what exactly?
“You are the spitting image of your mother. Crazy. How is she?”
“Dead.” But as I was saying that, my stomach clenched. It was a knowing. London Bridges Falling down. Falling down…
“I’m so sorry to hear. My condolences. Forgive me for intruding.” He gave me an odd little bow and walked away.
“Chica?” Striker’s voice sounded far away.
“Hmmm?”
“You okay?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“You don’t look okay.”
Oliver was watching the scene unfold with curiosity.
“Yeah, I just had a thought. Something I should research a bit.” It was an obfuscation, not a lie.
I could feel them, my parents, hovering there over my shoulder.
Their angst felt like handwringing. They were anxious.
My PTSD psychiatrist cautioned that I might have developed an enhanced knee-jerk reaction. Where I have a hyper response to a small stimulus. It’s relatively common for survivors of physical assault to flinch larger, cry out sooner, act as if the thing that’s happening to them is bigger, badder than it might have been perceived before the abuse.
