It made as much sense as anything. It was the first positive thing that had happened since the shooting started.
“I also want to hide this guy,” he said. “If they find him, it may piss them off and they may take it out on the hostages. They have about a thousand people down in the amusement park.”
“Yes sir,” she said.
“Hey, what is your name?”
“I am Lavelva Oates.”
“Well, Miss Lavelva. I say again, you did real good. If I had it, I’d give you a medal. Stand up to the killer with the gun. Not many have the sand.”
“Yes sir,” she said, secretly so very pleased.
Next she went back, got the kids out of the bathroom on the pretext of a new game: Creep down the hall. Be a kitty cat or a doggy. All fours.
By the time she got them organized, the body was gone, and so was the Chinese marine. And so was the AK rifle.
Bet he know how to run that, she thought.
It took a while before anyone at the Red Cross tent paid attention to Mr. and Mrs. Girardi, and it was not their personality type, either as individuals or as a couple, to demand notice. They simply stood there and watched while nurses bandaged the odd escapees from the mall who’d fallen and cut themselves, bruised, torn, twisted something, and handed out glasses of juice and cookies. Meanwhile, uniformed policemen moved among those on the cots or waiting to see a physician or a nurse to interview the escapees, hoping to pick up that one new piece of information that might matter. But it was a sloppy process, the cops were under great pressure to produce, and when witnesses turned out to have nothing, they were quickly abandoned, raising hard feelings and complaints. All this frenzy took place under the open-walled canvas structure lit by fluorescents, and enough insects remained to buzz and hum around the lights, which themselves were so harsh they showed everything in vivid clarity, the red of the many Red Cross insignias, the blue and gray of the police uniforms, the white smocks of the doctors.
Finally, a woman came to them.
“Have you been helped?”
“No, ma’am,” said Mr. Girardi. He was fifty-two, stooped, balding. He was an unimpressive man by any standards and in no crowd would he stand out.
“What’s the problem?”
“The policeman over there suggested you might have some information. Our son Jimmy, he’s fourteen, he went to the mall today by himself for the first time. We haven’t heard from him.”
“Ah,” said the woman.
“We wondered if there was any information. We thought they might have released a list or something. They might know who had escaped and where they were.”
“He’s small for his age,” said Mrs. Girardi. “I never let him go alone, but he was so insistent that he wanted to get his shopping done early.”
“Gosh,” the woman, a volunteer from an upscale suburb, said, “that’s a tough one. But no, I’m sorry, they haven’t released any information or names. We just really got set up a little while ago, and we’re really here to deal with seriously hurt people if and when there’s a battle and people need fast medical help. I can’t help you. I can get you a cookie and a juice. Does that interest you?”
“No, ma’am. Thank you very much.”
“You might try the media tent. It’s where all the reporters and TV people are. That’s probably where they’d release information.”
“Thank you,” said Mrs. Girardi. “You’ve been very kind.”
5:26 P.M.-5:48 P.M
The Geeks had spoken. That is, the first Behavioral Sciences report had come in, BeSci being the forensic psychology unit of the Bureau tasked with inferring personality of perpetrator from evidence, originally begun in response to various colorful serial killers of depraved sexual impulse, then glorified in novel, film, and TV. However, despite their glory, the boys seldom got out of the office, a bunker in a nondescript building on the FBI campus at Quantico. Since their duty was basically riding the net 24/7, putting together personalities from what they uncovered, and then offering their work product to whomever was interested, and not many were, they were known as the Geeks. They looked mostly like the excitable guys who try and sell you televisions at RealDeal.
“It’s a very interesting set of attributes,” said Kemp to his second in command as they both looked at the document just e-mailed to them. “The Geeks point out that he’s clearly got intimate familiarity with this mall, which, after all, isn’t just any mall. That means he’s worked here, he knows it forwards and backwards, and this thing began as a fantasy that became a temptation so overwhelming he couldn’t resist it. It’s probably been at the core of his secret life for three or four years now.”
“If that’s the core, I think we can assume further,” said number two Jake Webley, “he doesn’t have a real life. So I’m seeing some techno-nerd full of resentments and grudges, working alone in a little corner of the mall, probably convinced that no one gets how special he is.”
“Very good,” said Kemp. “So we have to find that guy. He’s probably been fired or he has a record of near firings, disciplinary problems, and everybody says, ‘Joey, you’re so smart, why on earth can’t you get along?’ and they don’t get that the reason he can’t get along is that Joey’s so smart.”
“Agh,” said Webley, who’d seen that dynamic in play more than a few times. “So our first move is to begin to search the records for that profile. I will get teams in contact with every corporate HQ of all shops who-”
“Wait,” said Kemp. “There’s more.”
“There’s always more,” said Webley.
“Ain’t it the truth? Okay, he’s got computer chops and has been able to take command of the mall security protocols. That means he’s penetrated several layers of obstacles, evaded several firewalls, avoided setting off countermeasures, all in all a world-class job of hacking, perhaps on a WikiLeaks level.”
“I hope our geniuses are smart enough to fight him. I hate the smart ones,” said Webley, “they make all the trouble in the world. They get so teched-up they think they’re supermen and we normal one-thirty-IQ drones have to clean up after them.”
Both men, all geared up in their combat style and decorated with automatic weapons and tear gas grenades, huddled a hundred or so feet from the big state police Incident Command trailer in their own recently arrived HQ, a smallish commo van, which put them in private contact with the Bureau and its assets.
“Okay,” Kemp said, “add to the profile a dense immersion in computer science. There must be twenty computer or computer game shops in the mall. They must employ a hundred bitter grinds. Maybe one of those guys got fired or disciplined or lost his girlfriend or something. And one of his buddies would know that. And that would lead us to him, and when we know who he is, we’ll have leverage of some sort on him.”
“I will inform our teams.”
“And yet, the Geeks also point out that despite his brilliance, he’s got some odd, perhaps revealing gaps in his knowledge. Even, possibly, subtler strategy. I’m talking about the phones.”
“It is strange. He could but he hasn’t cut off the cell phone usage in his little empire.”
“So… did he not do it because he’s stupid and didn’t think of it? Unlikely. Did he not do it because he doesn’t know how to do it? It’s pretty easy, actually. All you have to do is override the frequency with white noise and you could do that with a microwave oven. Or did he not do it because he knew that a major thing like this is going to produce megamultigazillion phone calls and he thought that would impact our communications big-time? And maybe he also wanted all the bad information, the chaff, that would produce?”
“Good question.”
“Then there’s the power,” said Webley, clearly on a riff, leaping through mental gymnastics with super agility, seeing things clearly for the first time. “He must have shut it down in the security office when he iced the place. But he left the main lines on. We haven’t shut ’em down because it’ll terrify the hostages. But we can shut ’em down easily, plus, maybe we’ll want to do that as a prelude to an assault.”