Chris Jordan - Measure of Darkness

Teddy looks startled. “Correct. Something to do with developing a quantum computer, which as far as I know is pretty much still theoretical. The stuff on the Net is very vague, mostly PR postings about the founding of the company. If we want more specifics on what exactly they’re working on, or how far they’ve gotten, I’d have to get into the DOD.”

Naomi’s eyes glint. “You will absolutely not attempt to hack into the Department of Defense, is that understood?”

“Oh yeah, understood,” Teddy says, without really backing down. “I understand I could do it, but you don’t want me to.”

Naomi says, “A quantum computer, theoretical or not, would be of interest to any number of covert agencies from any number of countries. It’s probable that’s what Shane referred to as a top-secret project. We’ll come back to that, but for now let’s stick with the victim’s bio. You say you found no mention of Professor Keener being the father of a five-year-old boy?”

“No,” Teddy says. “Not by the students or the staff. They pretty much peg him as an SWG. That’s, um, Single White Geek in eval shorthand. Professor Keener’s biweekly deduction for the university medical is for a single plan, and there are no births registered naming him as a father in any databases. From what I can tell this kid is so missing he doesn’t exist.”

“Sounds like your shoe leather might be useful after all, Jack,” Naomi suggests. “Who were his parents, how did they die, what was his experience in foster care? Maybe somebody from his past would know about personal things, like having a child out of wedlock.”

“I’ll get on it,” he says, making an entry in his notebook.

“Let’s move on to Randall Shane,” Naomi suggests.

The photo of the victim is replaced by a recent snapshot of Randall Shane, seen from the waist up and looking very purposeful and muscular. Teddy says, “This was posted on the Facebook page of a woman whose daughter was recovered by Mr. Shane, and who was effusive in her praise. He’s camera-shy and asked her to take it down, which she did, but it wasn’t deleted from the cache.”

We learn that Shane, 46, graduated from a public high school in East Hampstead, Long Island, and eventually from Rochester Institute of Technology in Rochester, New York, with a degree in computer science. While at Rochester he met the woman he would eventually marry. Recruited as a civilian software engineer by the FBI to help modernize their fingerprint database, he’d eventually applied to and been accepted as a special agent, in which capacity he continued until the deaths of his wife and daughter, after which he resigned from the FBI.

“That’s the standard bio on the guy,” Teddy says. “There’s more, of course.”

“Hold on, cowboy,” Dane says. “Are you telling us that bad boy is a computer geek? With those guns?”

“Guns?” Naomi asks, puzzled. “He was unarmed.”

“Muscles, silly.” Dane poses, cocking her right arm. “Biceps.”

“Ah,” says Naomi, satisfied. “Continue.”

Teddy is new enough to the team to still be made uneasy by the frequent, challenging interruptions, encouraged by boss lady, who believes that banter and peer pressure create what she calls “free thought radicals.” The back-and-forth is all part of her method, which can be difficult for a person as naturally shy as Teddy. He swallows hard, takes a deep breath, finds his place. “In those days Shane was kind of a geek at heart, if not in appearance. That’s how the FBI used him, too. He spent about half his career testifying or lecturing on methods of forensic identification, not out in the field. He was basically an expert with a cool badge. They still use his program for the fingerprint database.”

Naomi interrupts, as is her wont: “Jack? Does that accord with your personal knowledge?”

“Yep,” says Jack, adjusting the crease of his slacks. “The kid has it right.”

Naomi’s attention returns to Teddy. “Continue.”

He takes a breath, nods. “So everything changes one rainy Sunday night in New Jersey. Shane and his wife and kid are driving back from D.C. to New York. Mr. Shane at this time works out of the FBI field office in Manhattan.”

“They’re in Washington why?”

“Um, school project for the daughter. Visiting the Smithsonian.”

“Keep going.”

“Jersey Turnpike. Shane’s feeling sleepy, so his wife takes over the driving. He nods off, and at some point the vehicle is sideswiped by a freight truck. When he wakes up in the wreckage, wife and daughter are both dead. As you might expect, the man himself was a wreck for a while. He resigns from the Bureau and eventually establishes himself as a legendary finder of lost children, but he retains a number of key contacts who still work for the FBI, including the current Assistant Director of Counterterrorism.”

“A-Dick,” Jack says, smiling, throwing it out there.

“What?”

“That’s what they call an assistant director. An AD or A-Dick. Not necessarily a term of affection.”

“As I was saying,” Teddy says, elbowing his way back into the conversation, “there’s some indication that Assistant Director Bevins is a friend with benefits.”

“They sleep together?”

“Past tense, if it happened. But they’re still close.”

“Jack?”

“A matter of speculation,” he admits with an indifferent shrug. “Nobody knew for sure and they certainly weren’t saying.”

“Okay. The counterterrorism connection is interesting, given what’s happened,” Naomi points out. “Let’s keep that in mind as we move on.”

“How did he first get in the business of rescuing kidnapped kids?” Dane wants to know. “Was that part of his purview at the Bureau?”

“No. Later, after the accident, while he was undergoing therapy for a sleep disorder. An acquaintance asked for help, he managed to recover the child and found a new calling.”

“Back up there,” Naomi says. “Sleep disorder?”

“Yeah. I don’t know if it’s weird or ironic or what, but ever since he woke up from the accident, Mr. Shane has suffered from a peculiar, possibly unique sleep disorder. Like they’ve studied him, written articles about it.”

“Ironic would not be the correct term,” Naomi suggests. “Tragic would be the correct term. Is that agreed?”

“Great song, though,” Dane interjects airily.

“Nuts,” Jack says, suddenly animated. “If you don’t know what ironic means, don’t use it in the lyrics. Rain on a wedding day isn’t irony, it’s bad weather. It sucks, but it isn’t ironic.”

Naomi interjects, “Enough on the golden-oldie lyrics. Back to subject, please. Teddy?”

“A death row pardon two minutes too late is definitely ironic,” Teddy points out, in a small, hesitant voice.

“Teddy!”

“Okay, okay. Took a while to separate the facts from the legend, but despite or possibly because of his sleep disorder, which means he sometimes stays awake for days at a time and eventually hallucinates, Randall Shane is considered to be among the best solo operatives who specialize in child recovery.”

“Not among,” Jack says, arms folded. “The best, period. Randall Shane is the last of the real kid finders. They broke the mold.”

Teddy shrugs his narrow shoulders, as if to concede the point. “Unlike many in the field, which can be pretty shady, monetary gain does not seem to be his primary motivation. For him it’s a calling.”

“Most of his cases are pro bono,” Jack concedes.

“Seventy percent,” Teddy says.

“Whatever, Shane ain’t about the money. He can’t even afford to drive a decent car,” Jack says.

Teddy suddenly has a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Current ride, a five-year-old Townie, previously registered to John B. Delancey of Gloucester, Mass.”