“Sir, we can’t comment on odds. We don’t investigate odds. We can only prove that the docs came from the one machine. We need authorization to proceed, and while we have requested it, it is not forthcoming.”
“So basically, we have… nothing.”
“Not until we get that subpoena, find that machine. People think documents are magic, but the truth is, in cases of law their application is usually surprisingly limited. We need that application approved to get that subpoena.”
“I’ll see if I can’t shake it out of the tree for you,” said the director. “Okay, fellows, you can go. Good job.”
They smiled drily at Nick, collected their undisplayed exhibit, and trundled out.
“Well, guy,” said the director, “you dodged that bullet for a little while at least. I must say, I thought the Times had made a pretty convincing case, even without the photo.”
Nick nodded.
“Hmm,” said the director. “Well, let’s see what we can make of the photo itself. All right, Nick?”
“Yes sir.”
“All right, for the record, can I ask you to state categorically your position on the photo, which appeared today on the front page of the Times.”
“Yes sir. I have no recollection of ever having traveled to Columbia, South Carolina, and visiting the corporate headquarters of FN USA, not in 2006, not ever. I have no recollection of shooting a one-point-seven-inch three-hundred-yard group with what the caption identifies as an FN PSR.308 rifle at their firing range and no recollection of posing for a picture with any executives of that company.”
“Yet this photo exists that shows you doing exactly that. The photo has been authenticated by the newspaper.”
“Sir, let me point out, the photo hasn’t been ‘authenticated.’ It has been characterized by a photo lab as having ‘no fractal discrepancies suggestive of photo manipulation.’ It’s the same difference as the previous document situation. Lack of evidence doesn’t prove anything except lack of evidence. Photo interpreters and analysts, like document interpreters and analysts, don’t ‘authenticate’ in the pure sense; they only testify to the presence or absence of discrepancies and from that come to an inference, a best professional guess.”
“Noted. But again, for a photo to pass muster without discrepancies, it would either have to be authentic as stated or it would have to have been manipulated by technicians of such skill and with access to such sophisticated, not to say expensive, equipment that it is highly unlikely to be found in the private sector, right?”
“Sir, I have no opinion on that. I haven’t looked into what equipment is or isn’t available. It’s beyond my area of expertise. You’d have to get expert opinion.”
“Yes, I agree, and in fact, I’ve already started the process to obtain the original from the Times by subpoena and place it with top people in the field for a confirmation. I’ve also examined the reputation of the Times’s investigating entity, Donex Photo Interpretations, and it is top-rate. It’s bonded, gives frequent expert testimony in legal cases, and has a worldwide reputation.”
“Yes sir.”
“Nick, is there anything about this photo you want to tell me? This is the killer, you understand. I don’t know what I can do about this situation with this photo on the front page of the Times and leading every network news show tonight. The presence of the photo is pushing the action, and for the sake of the Bureau, I have to be ahead of the action, not behind it. If there’s anything, tell me now. If, for God’s sake, you made a mistake, tell me now. We can deal with it. A quiet resignation, a saved pension, recommendation to positions in the private sector. If I have to formally suspend you and Professional Responsibility files a complaint and it goes to formal hearing, there’s nothing I can do for you. Your record is so damned good, I’d hate to see it end like this.”
“Sir, I can only say, I have no opinion on the photo, and I have no recollection of ever traveling to Columbia, South Carolina. I didn’t do it.”
The director sighed.
“Okay, Nick,” he said, “then I have no choice but to-Nick, I have to say, you seem to be enjoying this. That’s what I don’t quite understand. I see, well, not quite a smirk, but a kind of look. Ace up the sleeve, I know something you don’t know, nonny-nonny-boo-boo, my class wins the Bible, that kind of look. A shoe waiting to drop look. Am I wrong?”
“No sir,” said Nick and then he couldn’t hold it anymore and started to laugh. The more he laughed, the more he had to laugh, until the laugh became a fit, almost a seizure.
The director adopted a look of benign condescension, let Nick go on and on.
“Okay,” he finally said, “you’ve enjoyed your joke at my expense, and I’ve heard you are a very funny fellow. But it’s time for the punch line. I’m due at a press conference very shortly and I’ve got to tell them more than ‘Special Agent Memphis is upstairs having a good yuk.’ ”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
“Go ahead.”
Nick thought.
“I just don’t see how I can be suspended for a picture of me at the FN USA shooting range in 2006 with a rifle that doesn’t exist.”
“I don’t know what-”
“It’s not even an FN rifle. It’s from their arch competitor, Remington. But not only is it a Remington rifle in my hand, it’s a
Remington rifle that didn’t exist until 2008.”
“I don’t-”
“That rifle hadn’t even been designed in 2006. It’s in their current catalog, but in 2006, it wasn’t even a dream in an engineer’s eye. So the picture’s a fake. It’s manifestly, self-evidently a fraud. I don’t know who did it, or why, or how. But not only that, whoever did it understood exactly what the Times knew nothing about and he took advantage of their congenital weakness, and the upshot is, he got them to publish a photo that twenty million people will instantly know is phony!”
The director looked at the picture.
“Well,” he said, “it looks like the joke’s on them, doesn’t it?”
“Yes sir.”
“Do they know yet?”
“If they don’t, they will soon enough.”
“Boy, would I like to see that.”
43
David Banjax decided to award himself the morning off. He knew no one would mind. He was the hero. He wanted to savor it. So instead of going to the bureau, he slept later, just wandered a bit on the streets of Washington, past the Post on Fifteenth and the garage where he’d gotten the original pack of documents, down K, past McCormick & Schmick’s, which had become a lunchtime favorite, down to Connecticut, then up it, past the square, past the Mayflower, past Burberry’s, up still further to Dupont Circle, then a deviation down embassy row on Massachusetts, all the great old houses from the gilded age converted to little bits of sacred ground of other nations, behind walls and hedges and largely Mediterranean architecture, giving this arcade in the capital city a Roman Way look to it.
I am Spartacus, thought David with a bit of a grin.
He felt as he always did of late when he’d landed the big one, the talker. He felt painfully self-conscious, aware that everybody was aware of him, that his few fans admired his success, that his competitors in the bureau resented it, as they hated it when someone stepped away from the pack and became an individual, a star, and got on TV and had calls from editors at S & S and Knopf and Chris at MSNBC and Bill at Fox and Larry at CNN and Scott at NPR and Charlie at PBS, even Jon at Comedy Central. He wanted to stretch it out, settle himself down, enjoy the day and the exquisite anticipation.