Ken Goddard - Chimera

The impact flung the watchman forward, his face and upper torso impacting the amazingly responsive air-bag with such force that his legs and lower body were driven back and then under the bag and steering wheel.

Stunned, the watchman was barely aware of being dragged out of the SUV, or of being sat upright a split second before a sharply-driven elbow slammed down into the space between his neck and shoulder joint; the resulting hydrostolic shock from the blow sending a mass of blood rushing into his brain and rendering him instantly unconscious.

Moments later, as he began to regain consciousness, the watchman was vaguely aware of being in a dark and enclosed space with his mouth loosely taped, his ankles taped together, and his wrists taped behind his back.

Minutes later, the watchman was fully aware that he was lying on his back; jammed into the rear seat floor of the SUV; effectively encased by the fully-backed-up and reclined front seats; and unable to get to his cell phone and pistol that were no longer attached to his belt.

Renwick was waiting as Bulatt drove the lab pickup back into its assigned space, got out, and then walked over to the Lab’s rear parking lot door.

“Sorry about the bumper,” Bulatt said. “Tell your boss I’ll file the accident report when I get back to the office, and arrange for a replacement vehicle.”

“I’ll tell him,” Renwick said agreeably, “but I have a feeling he’ll settle for a copy of the surveillance tape.”

“Steve and Linda tell you what’s going on?”

“Yeah, they filled me in,” Renwick said. “You special ops guys have an interesting approach to problem-solving.”

“I haven’t solved much yet, but I did learn something,” Bulatt said. “Did you know those assholes get to rent vehicles equipped with that Satellite Security system that can track their cars all over the U.S. — presumably in case they forgot where they left them — and even unlocks the damned things remotely if they lose their keys or lock them inside the car?”

“No, I didn’t” Renwick admitted as they walked down the hallway toward the criminalistics exam room. “Sounds like an expensive option. The Service makes us rent compact cars with no frills. God knows what we’d have to do if we lost our keys. Probably have to walk.”

“Exactly,” Bulatt said, nodding. “Which reminds me, do you remember that big case that one of our special ops agents — Henry Lightstone — worked last year? The one where we asked you to track back on the country and population source of a bunch of hairy-legged critters?”

“I think it’s safe to say the entire lab is aware of that case,” Renwick said, “mostly due to reoccurring nightmares.”

“You guys ever get the genetics worked out?”

“I don’t think so. Too many other higher priority issues; although I’ll bet if you took a vote amongst the lab staff — ”

“So they’re still here?”

“Every one of the damned things; in their own tanks, and locked securely in the bug room. Or at least we assume they’re all there. I seriously doubt that anyone’s gone back there to take a count, except for the university kid we hired to do the feeding.” Renwick gave Bulatt a questioning look. “Why, are you thinking about taking them with you?”

“Yeah,” Bulatt said. “That’s exactly what I was thinking about.”

Conference Room, National Fish amp; Wildlife Forensics Lab

Twenty minutes later, when Bulatt walked back into the lab conference room with a large cardboard box in his hand, he found Donn Renwick, Steve Hager, Juliana Ferreira, Linda Reston and her twin sons waiting for him. The boys were now sitting extremely close to Achara at the far end of the table, and pointing out something on a computer screen.

“Things are about to get interesting,” Bulatt said as he carefully placed the box on the floor and then sat down in the one empty chair.

“You mean more interesting than assaulting federal agents, and stuffing them in the back of a SUV?” Reston inquired.

“I think so,” Bulatt said, nodding.

“Before you tell us why that might be the case, maybe we should fill you in on a few things first,” Renwick suggested.

“Sure,” Bulatt said agreeably. “Go ahead.”

“I’ll start,” Ferreira said. “The tissue under the jacketing of that bullet is definitely from a Clouded Leopard. I confirmed that with the mass-spec a few minutes ago. I don’t know if it’s been genetically altered, like the other two; but I should know more about that by tomorrow afternoon.”

“And we’ve gotten three hits out of NIBIN on the cartridge casing,” Renwick said. “one out of Russia, one out of Alaska, and one out of South Africa; all within the last two years. No suspects, but a lot of scene evidence that we can try to link up.”

“Any hits on the bullet?” Bulatt asked.

“No, just the casing, so far.”

“Okay, that still fits the wealthy international hunting pattern,” Bulatt said, nodding. “Anything else?”

“Just one minor thing,” Hager said. “We got a match on the print.”

“You — what?!” Bulatt’s eyes widened in disbelief.

“Michael Hateley. Fifty-five year old Caucasian male, CEO of a major defense industry subcontracting firm in Denver, busted for drunk-and-disorderly and assaulting a police officer in Anchorage thirty-four years ago,” Hager said, reading from his notes. “That’s where the computer found a set of his prints. Based on his reported blood alcohol level, he probably didn’t even remember having his prints taken.”

“Are you absolutely sure about the match?” Bulatt said in a hushed voice.

“Ninety-eight percent confirmation by the system, which is as high as the software is programmed to go. I’ll have a copy of the original prints faxed to us tomorrow morning, so I can make the final confirmation under a glass; but, yeah, odds are extremely high that he’s the guy who put his thumb on that two-four-three casing. Unfortunately, I don’t think that solves your problem.”

Bulatt blinked in sudden realization.

“Shit, you can’t match the casing to the bullet with the Clouded Leopard tissue, can you?”

“No, we can’t,” Renwick said. ‘We would have some arguable degree of probability if there were bullets collected from those Russia, Alaska and South African scenes; but the only thing they submitted were cartridge cases.”

“But you can still link those cartridges — and therefore the scenes — to Hateley’s rifle, can’t you?” Bulatt asked hesitantly.

“Very possibly,” Renwick agreed, “assuming he didn’t buy it from some other internationally-traveling hunter, which is exactly what his lawyer is going to claim.”

“And even if we can prove he bought the rifle two years ago, and didn’t lend it to anyone, he still could have been hunting at each of those locations the week — or month — before; which is something else his lawyer is likely to claim,” Hager added.

“And you can’t tell when those cartridges were fired?” Bulatt asked.

The two forensic scientists shook their heads.

“Shit,” Bulatt muttered to himself. He stared down at the table, lost in thought for a few seconds. Then his head suddenly snapped back up.

“Can we get a copy of Hateley’s mug shot from that Anchorage arrest; or, ideally, an updated photo,” Bulatt asked.

“We’re already working on it,” Achara said, looking up from the computer. “The boys are digging into his Corporate website right now. If they can find something — ”

“Not ‘if’ — we will find something,” one of the identical twins said. “No doubt about it.”

“Yeah, absolutely no doubt,” the other confirmed.

“You two just be careful where you dig; you know your limits,” Linda Reston warned her sons, and received a quick pair of “yes, moms.”