J. Bertrand - Pattern of Wounds

Hanford skims his finger over the trackpad, pulling down a menu, and suddenly the email converts into code.

“Okay,” he says. “Looking at the long header info gives us the IP address. That’s the easy part. I’m going to forward this to myself, if that’s all right.”

“Fine. What’s the hard part?”

“Castro says your vic’s laptop was stolen from the scene, is that right? So what you really want to know is whether this email is from the offender. Is he now using her computer to initiate some kind of cat-and-mouse game with the investigating officer?”

Cat-and-mouse game. I query Castro with a raised eyebrow- Is this guy for real? — and he replies with a nod of reassurance.

“That’s what I’m asking,” I say.

“Do you know your victim’s email address?”

“I can easily find out.”

“You might want to do that, then. If she was using this address prior to her death, then your first question is pretty much answered. As far as where he sent it from, that’s where things get tricky.” He opens a new web browser, types in an address, then pastes the IP number into a field. “I can do this more easily from my own computer, but let’s see what we can get for free.” The web page refreshes with a location map of southeast Texas, a thumbtack marking Houston. “So that tells us something. The IP is local, and there’s the provider. You have a good relationship with Comcast?”

“Does anyone?” I ask. “Don’t get me started on Comcast.”

Castro grins in sympathy. “They’re unbelievable. I tried upgrading to HDTV-”

“I’m just kidding,” Hanford says, without a trace of mirth. “What you need is a good relationship with a judge. I have some contacts over there, but I’m guessing they’ll want to see a subpoena before letting anything go.”

“What will they be able to tell us?”

Hanford seesaws his hand back and forth. “Sometimes they come back with a little, sometimes with a lot. Best case scenario would be that your killer sent this from his living room using his own network, and they come back with a name and address.”

“That’ll work.”

“Don’t hold your breath or anything. That’s a best case scenario, like I said.”

“Detective March understands all that, Quincy.” From Castro’s impatient tone, I can tell he’s anxious for his friend to make a good impression. “If the killer really is using her laptop, that means he’s mobile and time is of the essence.”

I check my watch. “It’s half past midnight, boys. Getting you two out of bed is one thing, but I’m not making any late night calls to a judge.”

“Tell you what,” Hanford says, rising from the chair. “Let me work on this and give you a call later on. Maybe I can make something happen through back channels.”

“Music to my ears.”

I usher them out with whispered promises to stay by the phone. As the door closes, Charlotte calls from the top of the stairs.

“Do I hear voices down there?”

“Just the TV,” I say. “I’ll be up in a little while.”

I return to my office, pull up a saved file to use as a template, and start typing up a subpoena for the cable company and a search warrant just in case, leaving the location and specifications blank.

Two hours later, Hanford calls my cell number with news. When he said he had contacts, the man wasn’t kidding. I can tell from the tautness in his voice that he’s outdone himself.

“This gets pretty complicated,” he says.

“We can cut to the chase.”

“It’s kind of impressive, though. They’ve got the email server set up to call a real-time blacklist service-a third-party spam blocker-and that communication actually gives us a snapshot in time. If you get a subpoena, you can have a look at that snapshot.”

“Okay,” I say, a little disappointed.

A tone of triumph enters his voice: “And when you do, here’s what it’s going to tell you. The static IP belongs to the router in the victim’s house. Dr. Joy Hill is the cable customer, and this message came through her router.”

“You really are a genius. I owe you one.”

“So what you’ll need to do is, get your judge to sign off on the subpoena and a search warrant for the premises. You can-”

“Thanks, Quincy. I can take it from here.”

Now he’s the disappointed one, but I don’t have time to comfort him. I get him off the phone with profuse thanks and dial Bascombe, and when he doesn’t answer I go for Hedges, whose home number is programmed into my phone. I get voicemail, redial, get voicemail again, and redial. When he answers, he doesn’t sound happy to hear from me.

“This is important or I wouldn’t have called.”

The deeper I get into the story-the email, the forensic results, Dr. Hill’s network-the more awake Hedges gets, and the more agitated.

“You’re doing this intentionally,” he says in a half whisper, half hiss.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“What part of ‘hold off on this’ did you not understand? Come Monday morning, you can do your worst, but-”

“Sir, I didn’t do anything. I received an email from my victim’s missing computer, and when a judge signs off on the paperwork, I’ll be able to prove it originated from Dr. Hill’s house. How am I not supposed to act on that?”

I hear his feet pounding, a door shutting behind him, and then he’s free to dispense with the whispers. “This is the story you want running on election day, March? Is that what you’re telling me? If this is your way of taking a shot at me, you better get one thing straight: when I hit back you’ll be down on the mat.”

“Election day. . I forgot about that.”

“Of course you did. And now that I’ve reminded you, I’m guessing it makes no difference. Wait one day and I’ll support you on this.”

“I can’t, sir. The longer I wait, the more time she has to dispose of the laptop.”

“Does this have to be adversarial? Couldn’t you just ask her for consent to search? You got the husband to consent without a warrant.”

“And if she says no, then what? The last thing I want to do is get on your bad side, but if I don’t follow this up immediately, I’m not doing my job. I promise you there won’t be any leaks to the media. They’ll have their hands full anyway staking out the polling places. This will not come back on you, sir. You have my word on that.”

He lets out a long sigh. “It better not, March.”

“Thank you, sir. I’ll email the warrant-”

“Don’t thank me yet. I’m gonna back you on this. I’m gonna make the necessary calls and if need be irritate some very important people. And if the end result is, you seize your missing laptop and charge a suspect, then fine. You rolled the dice and won. But, March, if you don’t charge a suspect, if you don’t close this case for good, then I’m gonna whip you like a dog until you beg for mercy. Understood?”

“Like a dog, sir. Understood.”

I slip upstairs to grab my coat, kissing Charlotte on the forehead before I go. The night air is cool and wet enough for the streetlamps along the road to have golden haloes. From the car I call Aguilar and leave another message for Bascombe.

Ten minutes later, I pull up just in front of the neighbor’s Maserati down the street from Joy Hill’s house, waiting for a green light from the boss.

In the dawn’s early light, I present a bleary-eyed and possibly hung-over Dr. Hill with the hastily printed and even more hastily signed warrant, hand-delivered a few minutes earlier by Lt. Bascombe himself. Aguilar is with us and so are Castro and Hanford, last-minute invites in case any technical challenges arise.

“You expect me to read this?” Hill says. “I’ll need my glasses.”