“Well,” Starling said after a pause, “I’m working on a case narrative, and we’ve gone through most of the names on the new list and are trying to close that out. Maybe one of the last few will break it open, but even that seems-”
But she trailed off as the Robot came over, leaned in, and said, “Nick, if you want to use your office, go ahead, I’ll take a hike. I tried not to disturb anything; most of my stuff’s in the corner.”
“Nah, thanks,” he said.
The quasi-reunion, strained as it was by the necessity of avoiding commenting directly on what had appeared in the Times and what brought Nick here today, went on for a bit and then, when Nick glanced at his watch and saw that it was now five till, had to end. He joshed a bit, then by body language indicated it was time to slide and began to make his way to the door.
He was somewhat surprised to see a lurker in the hall, someone clearly waiting to escort him to the elevator to the Seventh Floor. It was Ray Case, of Arson-Robbery, a legendary gunfighter who with Nick served on the oversight board to the Sniper Rifle Committee. He’d actually taken it seriously. What was he doing here? Was it just coincidence?
But no, it wasn’t, because Ray made eye contact aggressively, followed by a little nod signifying a need for a quick chat.
Nick pulled away, gave a last broad good-bye to the team he had assembled, proud of them that they had done such a totally professional job and stayed on task despite all the political bullshit and the flamboyant crash-and-burn scenario enacted by their leader, and then headed to the door, the hallway, the elevators, and his fate.
Ray Case slid next to him.
“Baby, we’ve got to talk,” said Ray.
So Nick was a few minutes late to his beheading. Still, the director, who wasn’t the sort of man who cared about little stuff like that, welcomed him with warmth, considering the situation. They stood in the director’s office making idiotic small talk, then the director led him to his private conference room.
“Nick, I asked Jeff Neely and Rob Harris of Professional Integrity to drop by. Their report isn’t due yet, but I wanted them to give us their preliminary findings before you and I try to figure this thing out, so we’ll know just what’s going on here and I have something to say at this press conference I’m scheduled to address in”-he checked his watch-“fifty-one minutes.”
“Sure,” said Nick, nodding to the two headhunters, who nodded back behind tight, professional, noncommittal office smiles.
Everyone sat, the director at the head of the table, Jeff and Rob on one side, Nick on the other.
“Okay, fellows,” said the director, “you’re handling the forensic document examination of the items the Times ran.”
“That’s right, sir.”
“Now, Nick, just for the record, although you aren’t under oath, this meeting is being tape-recorded, and I want it acknowledged that you’ve so far forgone legal representation and are here without counsel or professional advice.”
“Yes sir,” said Nick, loudly, as if to help the tape recorders do their job.
“And, although I hate to say this to a special agent of your seniority and brilliant record, you understand that any misrepresentations can be considered perjury, and if in the opinion of prosecutors it is necessary and appropriate, you will be charged under statutes blah blah and yadda yadda if it can be shown you’ve willingly misrepresented.”
“Yes sir,” said Nick.
“So, for the record, you deny any trips whatsoever, either under your own expense or at their expense to Columbia, South Carolina, and the headquarters of FN USA, is that correct?”
“Yes sir.”
“And you maintain that these documents, which the Times uncovered and published, are some sort of fraud?”
“They’d have to be. Other than that I have no opinion on them.”
“So we asked Professional Integrity to run forensic document tests on them, to try to ascertain their authenticity. I’m speaking for the tape recorder: these are documents allegedly showing FN USA’s transcribed notes on Nick’s alleged trip to Columbia, as compared, for authenticity’s sake, to the proposal on their official stationery that accompanied their formal submission of their rifle to the sniper competition and was already logged in our files. You have compared them, to establish the authenticity of the notes, assuming the baseline authenticity of the submission. I’m about to learn their results. Okay, Nick?”
“Yes sir.”
“Okay, guys,” said the director, turning to the two internal affairs specialists. “Are they authentic or not?”
Jeff looked at Rob, who looked back at Jeff, who looked at the director.
“We have been able to ascertain that both documents were, as the Times reported, prepared on the same word-processing system and printed by the same printer. That is, we find corresponding letter eccentricities, imperfections, spacing issues, and misalignments in each document consistent with the same in the other document. I can show you our courtroom presentation exhibits if you want, Mr. Director.”
“I’ll take your word for it. So that means they’re authentic?”
A brief look passed between Rob and Jeff, which then fluttered to Nick, then back to the director.
“That’s what the evidence suggests, sir.”
“Suggests? Interesting choice of word.”
“Yes sir.”
“What would suggests mean, as opposed to proves?”
“Sir, it means that wherever that word processor/printer is, that specific one, a Hewlett Packard 960 with the capacity to print in a font called MacPhearson Business 3, that is the origin of the letter and the copied-over notes and comments. As for the receipts, all are photocopies in various hands, which might be authenticated later on, assuming there is a later on.”
“Hmm,” said the director. “So if I get this right, what you’re saying is that the two key documents were from the same typewriter?”
“Word-processing system software, printer hardware, sir.”
“But the same machine. The same physical object, right?”
“Yes sir.”
“I see. And the fact that one of the documents was an officially notarized and authenticated submission from the factory headquarters itself-you wouldn’t regard that as proof? I don’t understand.”
“Well, I hate to say this, sir, but it depends on the meaning of is. Yes, the documents are-present participle collective declination of is-from the machine. Yes, that machine printed out a document located in our files and thereby officially designated as having come from the gun company. However-”
“However?” said the director. “I hate however.”
“Yes sir.”
“Okay, let’s have the however.”
“However, as the document was kept in the files of the Sniper Rifle Oversight Committee, which is held under extremely loose security in Admin and Logistics-after all, remember, someone leaked a copy of it to the Times-there’s no way of authenticating that document. I should say, no way accessible to us at this point in the investigation.”
“Our next step, sir,” said the one called Rob, or maybe it was the one called Jeff, “would be to obtain search warrants from the federal district court in Columbia, and examine each word-processing system on FN property, and determine if one of them-presumably in the CEO’s office-matches up. Then you’d have a good case that the origin of both documents was the CEO office in Columbia, South Carolina. But absent locating that machine, and given the lax security in Admin and Logistics-”
“I think I saw a memo on that,” said the director glumly. “But if the documents aren’t from Columbia, South Carolina, then that would lead to a highly implausible scenario, right? I mean, what are the odds on it being fake? Pretty remote, right? I mean, for it to be fake, one of our own people would have had to sneak into the files, filch the submission document, take it out of here, reprint the company letterhead in some convincing way, recopy the submission letter, then type up the commentary, replace the faked submission document in our files where it could later be found, and leak the commentary to the Times reporter. Then the reporter would have to find somebody to leak him a copy of the submission document. Pretty elaborate hoax. Is that logical to assume?”