Michael McGarrity - Under the color of law

"Nope," Sloan said.

"He saw that his office door was open, walked in, and got clobbered."

"How is he?" Kerney asked.

"He's got a mild concussion," Sloan said.

"The EMTs are gonna transport him to the hospital for a medical evaluation. Except for a laptop computer he doesn't know what else was taken. But the file cabinet where he keeps his test exams wasn't tampered with, so probably a student didn't do this."

"He was laid out neatly," Molina added.

"From the bumps on his head I'd say he was tapped once to put him down, and given a second hit to put him out."

"Not something a typical college kid would know how to do," Kerney said.

He looked at the papers, telephone, and desk lamp that were strewn on the floor. A chair had been overturned, and some books had been pulled off a bookshelf.

"Okay, let's say the perp panics when Brother Jerome shows up, and knocks him out to avoid discovery. As far as we know, only a laptop is missing. Why trash the office?"

Sloan shrugged.

"Maybe the perp was looking for something else."

"Like what?" Kerney said, scanning the office.

"The perp has the laptop and there's nothing left in plain view worth stealing. Were any of the offices closer to the entrance entered?"

"Nope," Sloan replied.

"The burglar made a beeline for this one."

"Brother Jerome sponsored Mitchell as a resident scholar," Kerney said.

"I thought about that," Sloan said.

"Any thief with half a brain would have waited a few more hours until the campus was quiet before pulling a break-in," Kerney said.

"Unless he was desperate to get his hands on something important."

"Like something of Mitchell's that wasn't in his room the night of the murder," Sloan said, eyeing the mess on the floor.

"I'd love to make that connection, Chief. If we can tie this to the homicide, then maybe I can get a handle on a motive."

"Assume it for now," Kerney said.

"None of us would be here if Father Mitchell hadn't been murdered in his room less than fifty yards away."

"This has a completely different MO than the Mitchell homicide," Molina said.

"I agree, LT," Sloan replied.

"But the crimes could still be linked."

Kerney focused on Sloan.

"Where are you with the Mitchell case?"

"Running into brick walls, Chief. I've got a few more leads to chase down that don't look promising. I'll know if I've got anything in the morning."

Kerney watched the EMT take a still wobbly Brother Jerome to the waiting ambulance.

"As soon as he's able, have Brother Jerome inventory everything in his office."

"I've already got it on my list, Chief."

"Start interviews now. Talk to the brothers, campus security, janitors, library staff-anybody who is usually around after night classes end."

Kerney glanced at Sal Molina.

"I want you and Detective Sloan to head up this investigation. Pull in as many people as you need. Soft-pedal it as an aggravated burglary, not connected to the Mitchell homicide."

"Whatever you say," Molina replied.

"As a precaution, let's button down the Brothers' residence," Kerney said.

"Put a uniformed officer on-site around the clock starting now. Call me if anything breaks."

Molina held his tongue until Kerney had limped his way out of the building.

"This isn't the way I want to spend my time," he said.

"I think the chief may be onto something here, LT," Sloan said, rubbing his aching gut.

"Yeah, maybe, but I'd rather be working the Terrell homicide."

"That wasn't his call to make," Sloan said.

"Give the guy a break, he's doing the job."

"You think so?" Molina asked.

"I do."

"Well, he hasn't got my vote yet."

Fred Browning sat in a back booth of his favorite Albuquerque sports bar staring at his double whiskey. Televisions positioned throughout the dimly lit room, all turned to the same station, showed halftime highlights of a West Coast college basketball game while a color commentator blithered. Buff-looking college-age waitresses, dressed in skimpy workout shorts and tank tops, cruised through the crowd taking drink and food orders, with easy smiles and sassy prattle designed to loosen wallets for big tips.

Browning had planned to get slam-dunk drunk, but instead he'd been sipping the same whiskey for almost an hour, trying to sort out why he'd been laid off. A good dozen patrons waited at the front of the room to be seated, and his waitress looked longingly at the four-person booth he occupied as she passed by.

He ordered another double and some food, dropped a fifty on her tray when she brought it, and told her to keep the change. Placated and pleased, she walked away, toned buns twitching under her tight-fitting nylon shorts.

Browning's day had turned crappy real fast when the plant manager had dumped him from his job without anything more than bullshit explanation.

The promise of a nice severance package and a position with a Silicon Valley company hadn't done much to lift his spirits.

With two grown children and aging parents living in Albuquerque, Fred had no desire to leave New Mexico to move to a place that sucked big time-where a one-bedroom apartment cost over a thousand a month in rent and everybody worth less than ten million was considered poor.

He'd taken the severance pay and turned down the job.

He looked up from his drink and overcooked hamburger and saw Tim Ingram standing at his table.

"Hey, buddy, I've been looking for you," Ingram said.

"I heard what happened."

"Bad news travels fast," Fred said.

"Tell me what happened. I'd damn well like to know. Hell, I was doing the job. They had no cause to can me."

"Hell, no, they didn't," Ingram said, easing himself into the booth.

"Look, don't take it personally. This is the new world order. All it takes is a little downward blip in the market, a little dip in projected profits, and corporate America decides somebody has to go, loyalty be damned. You don't think management is going to cut back on their stock options just to keep regular guys like you and me working, do you?"

"That makes me feel a whole lot better about myself," Fred said sarcastically.

"I know it doesn't," Tim said, reaching out to snare a trench fry off Browning's plate.

"Did they give you any idea why you were downsized?"

"Just the usual bullshit about corporate restructuring."

"Why do you think it happened?" Ingram asked.

"About six months ago I started feeling out of the loop. We opened a new R-and-D production unit and a bunch of new programmers and technicians were shipped in from out-of-state to work on it. Me and my people were given no information, and told only to provide tight physical security for the unit."

"Of course, you challenged the decision."

"Big time. All it got me was a pat on the back for being dedicated to my job and an order to back off."

"What do you think is going on?"

Browning shook his head.

"I haven't a clue, but the visitors to the unit look like heavy hitters from back east."

"Heavy hitters?"

"Yeah, high-ranking government officials, research scientists-people like that. Best I can figure is they're designing and producing some sort of stealth chip."

Ingram laughed.

"A stealth chip. That's funny. What the hell is a stealth chip?"

"I'm guessing it's to instantly track hackers who break into networks and Web sites."

"How did you come up with that idea?"

"From snatches of coffee-room chatter I've overheard."

"Well, come to think of it, it makes a lot of sense."

Browning shrugged.

"Like I said, I'm guessing."

Conversation stopped while the waitress took Ingram's drink order.

"So what are you going to do next?" Ingram asked when she walked away.