Katie and Roarke had met during his investigation into what appeared to be an assassination attempt on Teddy Lodge. Lodge’s wife was killed, and Roarke’s inquiry led him to the law firm where Katie worked. Ultimately, the Secret Service agent determined that one of the senior partners in the prestigious Boston firm might be involved. However, like many of the people connected to Lodge’s early life, he was killed.
Roarke was instantly taken by Katie in every way: her quick wit, her mischievous attitude, her beauty, and ultimately, the other charms she revealed to him. She had the means to tame the former Special Forces soldier and bring out a sensitivity in Roarke he hadn’t known since childhood.
When he said he wanted Katie to move to D.C., he meant it. But his first impression of her never diminished. Katie Kessler came to her own decisions in her own time.
“Case closed,” she added. “Now, did you have a nice day, dear?” she cooed over the phone.
“Interesting,” he added in the way that interesting said much more than one word.
“Interesting good or interesting bad?”
“I worked with my buddy, Touch. Trying to come up with an FRT match for an acquaintance of mine.”
Roarke was always careful what he said on an open line. Katie was still learning.
“FRT? As in Facial Recognition Technology? If so, big problem with privacy issues.”
He was somewhat surprised she was conversant on the subject. Maybe he had said too much already. “Hey, I’m just trying to connect the dots,” he added, probably too late.
“Don’t you have any boy toys that are more reliable?”
“It’s getting there.” Why’s she doing this? He noticed the sexual tension was turning cold.
“Yeah, then why is the ACLU all over it?”
“Katie,” he chided.
“The guys using the technology surreptitiously take pictures of innocent people. They file them or they mistakenly ID perfectly honest citizens as illegals or criminals.”
“Katie!”
She ran right through his objection. “We litigated a case right here; a detention at Logan. We won a nice settlement. And you know the Tampa tests failed to ID a single suspect. Michigan? There were reports that police used FRT to ID women for sexual reasons and even intimidate political opponents.”
“You’re lecturing me.”
“I’m educating you about the abuses.” She was quite familiar and disturbed with the use of the technology at airports, including the system installed at Boston’s Logan after 9/11. “It submits innocent people to real-time lineups without probable cause, and often without a compelling security threat. Sounds Orwellian to me, and a violation of privacy.”
“Like a fingerprint is a violation?”
“Fingerprints aren’t secretly and automatically taken and instantly compared with others while you’re walking through a line to get a hot dog. Did you know that every time you go to an ATM you’re getting your picture taken? How far away are we from having those images instantly compared with criminals? Do you have any idea of the false arrests that would be made?”
“Sounds like a boon for attorneys, counselor.”
Silence. Roarke wished he could have recalled the comment as soon as he said it.
“Look, maybe I just shouldn’t get into my day,” he said, trying to drop the subject. “I’m sorry.”
“Hey, I’m only raising some of the legal questions. You might as well use a coin toss, it’s about as accurate.”
Roarke thought about the percentages Touch had told him. He was faced with far less than a fifty-fifty coin toss when it came to Depp.
He closed his eyes and softly said, “We’re living in a different world, Katie. The bad guys look just like us.”
The reference to Congressman Lodge wasn’t lost on her. She knew that Roarke wanted to get the man who had helped conspire to subvert the American political process. FRT was a tool, and despite the debate, if it looked like it would help, she had no doubt he’d use it.
Maybe she could do something herself.
LAPD homicide investigator Roger Ellsworth walked around the body of the attractive, now-dead Jane Doe. Under high-beam police lights, he had made his first pass over the crime scene. Now he was prepared to note his observations into a mini-recorder.
“Age — approximately mid-twenties. Height — approximately 5’7”. Caucasian. Light-blue tank top, khaki running shorts.” He stooped over the wound. “Cause of death, apparent knife-thrust, horizontal, left-side, heart puncture wound.” The details would come from the autopsy. “Subject possible victim of attempted rape.” The young girl’s jogging pants were pulled down to her knees, but not all the way off. Ellsworth looked at the path that cut above, about twenty yards away. Another jogger spotted the woman when he took a cigarette break, which always made him laugh. Jogging for your health, and then you smoke.
Ellsworth looked back to the victim. Her eyes stared up at him as if asking a question.
The veteran officer had seen the look dozens of times before. Too many times.
His forensics team would analyze her clothing for any residual evidence — hair, saliva, fabric particles, semen. On the surface, nothing was visible, except for some footprints a few feet away in the dirt near the closest tree.
The detective had long ago hardened himself against emotion. He was a 33-year veteran, only eighteen months from retirement. Still, he found himself slightly perplexed. Although he didn’t record his next thoughts, he did question why the woman’s pants were not all the way down. He’d have a hell of a time fucking her. Scared off? Although he didn’t think there was any penetration, he stated the obvious, “Internal examination required. Check for possible DNA match on record.”
Ellsworth walked around the body. He surmised she was on a regular run. Probably no ID. He checked her back hip pocket, using a pen to open the fold. Something here. It rolled out. “Right rear pocket contains a lipstick container, and…” He fished out more. “A small sheet of wafer-thin blank paper with some words typed on it, a pen, and more crumpled paper.” The first sheet had an odd quality to it. He’d seen it before, but he couldn’t quite place it.
The detective removed an envelope from his jacket and carefully guided the items in with his own pen. He wrote on the outside, recording his words at the same time. “Marking contents of plastic bag taken from Jane Doe. Items A, B, C.: lipstick container — Estée Lauder Sumptuous — small folder paper inside, crumpled dollar bills.” He added the date, time, and location, and made certain that another officer confirmed the procedure with his signature and a verbal description for his recording.
Ellsworth continued to survey the scene. Someone would know her, he said to himself. He figured it would just take a few hours or less to make the identification.
“Photograph and cast the footprints,” he told a young lieutenant. They’d take a mold, though he’d never known it to lead to a conviction.
Ellsworth studied the crime scene again. It seemed odd that there was no sign of a struggle. She was big enough to put up a fight, he thought. At least until he warned her. But the dirt wasn’t even dug up by her heels. Wouldn’t she have resisted? The thought really nagged at him. Her pants are down, yet there’s no sign of resisting? He knelt down to look for some evidence that she had. He shined his flashlight near her feet and where her hands would have grabbed for grass. She would have resisted, he said to himself again. Somehow. There’s always a moment…. But Ellsworth couldn’t find any sign. Unless…unless she was killed very quickly.