Eddy's Current (18 page)

“Here, I’ve got the key,” Mrs. Hernandez said as she unlocked the door. “I’ll be in the kitchen, on the other side of the house. I just can’t take that smell.”

FBI agents were not permitted to keep FBI case files in their homes, of that River was certain. Behind the locked door there were four fireproof file cabinets, each of which was securely locked. Maybe these were private family files? Perhaps a side business? No, not really. Something was out of the ordinary, and River knew it. He could feel it. Still, he could do nothing about it unless he knew for sure.

River decided to plant the mini camera and microphone he brought with him. He made it appear as if the cleaning head on his carpet cleaner was coming loose. He bent over to fix it, then in one swift motion, affixed the mini cam and microphone securely to the underside of the desk. All future activity taking place at the locked file cabinets would be recorded on video for River now, and all discussions and other noise would be recorded. He hoped that he was able to attach the mini cam and microphone discretely. He finished his work, received Mrs. Hernandez’s cash payment — which he felt was odd — and left the home.

Agent Hernandez returned home from the office that day and performed his usual ritual of walking the perimeter of his property, then circling the house, staying close to the walls and inspecting them. He entered through the garage door, as he always did, and continued his ritual by inspecting the inside of his home.

“Why is my carpet wet in front of my office?” Hernandez called out to his wife. “Where is that stain?”

“The carpet cleaner was here today to clean up that stain. The stain had spread to the cabinet, and even under it slightly, so the guy asked me to open the cabinet door to make sure he cleaned the stain completely,” Hernandez’s wife responded.

“No one, and I mean no one is allowed in the cabinet, you know that,” Hernandez typed on the computer, messaging to his wife, as they both sat at the desk.

“Sorry, but I had to get this carpet done, and you weren’t home for me to check with so I unlocked the door for him,” she typed in response.

“You let him in? I suppose you also left him alone in the room. Why would you do such a thing?” Hernandez typed.

She typed back, “The smell was too strong from the cleaner he used. I couldn’t handle the smell. He’s fine. He’s okay; he’s just a carpet cleaner, a very nice man. Relax.”

“I’ll review the video tape to see if he did any snooping around while he was in there,” Hernandez pecked out on the keyboard.

“Look, look, what do you see on the tape that’s odd?” Hernandez typed.

“I don’t know. What is it?” his wife replied in type.

“He’s not the least bit interested. He’s so casual. That is not a normal reaction. An everyday service guy is going to take a second look at four locked fireproof file cabinets that are themselves locked behind a specially–built door.

“I’m telling you, he realizes that a video recorder might be running, so he’s remaining too cool. Any person who saw locked files and so on would be interested enough to at least look around. He acted as if he’s not even curious. Something’s going on. He’s too calm. He doesn’t want to draw attention to himself. Look, look! He’s bent over. He touched the underside of the edge of the desk. He’s up to something.”

“You’re paranoid, Fred.”

“I am? Let’s go in and check the desk.”

They went into the office. Hernandez ran his hand on the underside of the edge of the desk, and found the mini cam and microphone.

“What’s the name of the firm? Remember, no talking whatsoever. Not a word,” Hernandez typed.

“Hannah’s Carpet Cleaning Service; his name is Joseph Hannah,” she typed.

“Let’s go to a pay phone. We’ll call him from a pay phone,” Hernandez insisted.

The Hernandezes were running out of pay phones to use. Each time they needed to communicate with someone about a subject that was connected to Hernandez’s creative side job at the FBI, they sought out a pay phone that they hadn’t used before. This one was near the park they often went to, to discuss things related to his “side job.” Hernandez dialed the phone number and waited what seemed like an eternity for an answer.

“Joe Hannah, here. How can I help you today?” Hannah said, answering his phone.

“Mr. Hannah, I’m calling to see if you have a record of a cleaning job you did at my home earlier today,” Hernandez said.

“Name and address?”

“Hernandez. My last name is Hernandez. Just look it up under that name. Do you have a service order from today for that name?”

“Sir, you must have us confused with another carpet or floor cleaning company. Are you sure you had us out to do work for you? What about Victor Elm? Elm’s Carpet & Floor Cleaner? Maybe you’ve got us confused.”

“Thanks for your time,” Hernandez said as he hung up the phone.

Hernandez and his wife drove to the nearby park to talk. They said nothing to each other on the way out of fear that their car may have been bugged.

“We’ve got a real problem. Someone is onto something. It’s that simple. Someone suspects something,” Hernandez explained to his wife.

“Think about it for a moment. Someone goes through the trouble of intercepting our phone calls and posing as a carpet cleaning company, right down to the uniform and the name and logo painted on the sides of the service van. He comes into our home and into my private office and plants a bug. I’m telling you, someone is on to something. They’ve got me. I can just tell; they’ve got me.

“We’ve got to cover it up and we’ve got to cover it up now. Whoever it is that’s investigating us is determined to find out something big. They are not thinking that we cheated on our tax return by deducting a few extra dollars in charitable contributions or something. I’m telling you, they suspect us for what we did,” Hernandez said.

“We’ve got a clear picture of him on the video,” Mrs. Hernandez reminded her husband. “Take a freeze shot of his face into the lab and check the picture against your Face I.D. data base. We’ve got nothing to lose.”

“Brilliant. I use the Face I.D. program all the time. Many times I’m alone in the room. They’re really loose about the access rules. I could do it almost anytime. No one would ever suspect me. If this guy has ever been in trouble, or even if he’s an agent or any other known law enforcement officer, Face I.D. will identify him.”

Hernandez went into his office at the FBI, then directly to the computer used for the Face I.D. searches. He had a few cold case files with photographs that he said that he was researching. The agent in charge of the room, a rookie named Charles Sharp, took advantage of having a long–time agent in the room for an extended time.

“Hernandez, can I ask a favor of you?”

“Sure. Name it.”

“I know that this is a technical violation of procedure, but I would like to go out to run a few errands, only for about an hour. Your sign–in says that you plan to be here for around an hour. Would you be okay if I stepped out for forty–five minutes? I don’t really want to sign out, though. I just want to go and come back. You’ll be okay.”

“You got it. Take your time.”

Hernandez scanned the picture of River into the computer’s general memory. The computer went to work. Thirty–seven minutes went by and then a message flashed on the screen: “Face located. Access denied. Top secret. For access, please enter twelve–digit override code, otherwise select Abort or Cancel.”

Sharp had been gone nearly forty minutes. Surely he would be back within five minutes, Hernandez thought. But how could Hernandez convince him to enter the code and yet not look at the picture?

“Thanks so much for staying here while I ran out,” Sharp said upon returning to the room.

“No problem. I’m so glad to see you back. Can you return the favor?” Hernandez asked.

“Why? Do you want me to go do a job for you?”

“Not exactly, but I would like for you to grant me access to this face by entering your override code. I just don’t feel like going through the red tape and paperwork to get approval. I have got to get going on this. These are cold cases, and I have a ton of paperwork to do on each of them as it is. I don’t expect to solve any of them, but I have to do this each quarter and turn in a report. The boss is then satisfied and can brag about the fact that we’re keeping on top of cold cases. It’s political,” Hernandez explained casually.

“Here. Turn the other way and I’ll enter the code.”

“There. It’ll come up with your face in a few seconds. I’m going to get a cup of coffee. I’ll be right back.”

“Face: USFIA Agent River Warwick.” Hernandez quickly entered his code for the log he had signed in on. He erased his sign–in, and left the computer on for Sharp to clear upon returning to the room. Hernandez could claim, at least, that he was never officially in the room.

Hernandez’s palms were sweaty as he drove home. He was tense. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest and he felt his pulse rate racing in his neck, wrist and ankles. He sped into his driveway, stopped suddenly, exited the car without closing the door behind him, skipped his home inspection routine for the first time in years, and hunted down his wife.

His speaking tone was completely casual. “Let’s go for a ride, honey.”

They went to another park, and, after leaving the car for a walk, they began to talk.

“This is not a minor investigation. The carpet guy—he’s an agent for the USFIA. They’re after me, and I can’t do anything to stop them, except—” He stopped in mid–sentence.

”Except what?” his wife asked, though she really didn’t want to know.

“Listen to me. They know. I’m sure they know. Otherwise why would they go through this trouble. They don’t call in the USFIA unless they can’t handle it themselves. I have to cover things. I have to. You’re looking at a dead man unless I do something,” Hernandez said, exaggerating his immediate destiny, but perhaps not his ultimate fate.

Curiosity got the better of agent Sharp. He called up the previous face searches and found Warwick’s face and the computer’s message. Sharp realized that something very serious was wrong. He thought about calling his boss in to see the face and the message, but he remembered that he had left the room during Hernandez’s session, which was a clear violation of procedure that could result in his demotion or even termination.

Sharp also realized that Hernandez had erased his entry in the sign–in log. Sharp was responsible for the accuracy of all sign–in logs. An altered sign–in log could also result in his demotion or termination. Taken together, the two infractions would undoubtedly result in Sharp’s dismissal. He was doomed, then, so he was not about to talk. He erased the computer trail to the Face I.D. program.

Sharp could tell his boss, he reasoned. He could claim that he suspected something, so, he could say, he exited the room to allow the search, all the while planning to return to find out what happened. His boss might not go for this excuse, though, because it was a poorly kept secret that the access rules for Face I.D. were often broken — they were broken more often than not — and everyone in the office knew that the boss was livid about it. Sharp would make a great example for the boss to use to make his point about lax behavior regarding the rules in his office.

Sharp imagined how a confession to his boss might play out. He made up a fantasy conversation between him and his boss. “I screwed up, and I’m here to admit it because I don’t want this problem to get any worse.”

“Yes, you did screw up, but you admitted it and you did what was right. You are to be commended for that. There will be discipline. I will see to it that discipline is minimal and that your long–term standing here will not be compromised. You have my word on that.”

That assurance would prove to be a non sequitur, and Sharp knew it. Confession was not an option, then. Sharp would keep his mouth shut.

Sharp’s supervisor, agent Andrew Downing, was a lifer at the FBI. He graduated from high school at seventeen, enlisted in the Marine Corps, and served his four years of distinguished service there. He attended USC, graduated with his B.A. in business administration, attended and graduated from West Point while serving part–time at the FBI. Upon graduation from West Point, he attended and graduated from the FBI academy, then went to work full–time at the FBI.

He began his full–time career there before his twenty–fifth birthday. The FBI was his life. It was all he knew, and he knew it all very well. He kept a closer watch on Sharp than Sharp realized. Downing had access to all of Sharp’s computer files, including erased files. Downing figured out what had happened within five minutes of arriving at work the day after Sharp made absolutely certain no one would know what had happened. Downing would keep quiet about it to test Sharp’s ethics. He would deal with Sharp at a later time. Downing had more pressing concerns to deal with for the time being.

Downing loved his career. He could imagine nothing better. He was completely dedicated to the FBI. He was G to the bone. He had little use for the watchdogs over at the USFIA. Still, the rules were clear. He was required to inform them of a situation such as this. He had not known of USFIA’s suspicion of Hernandez. He was infuriated that he had not been told. He placed a call to Warwick.

“River Warwick, please; I need to speak to an agent named River Warwick right away,” Downing snapped.

“River Warwick here.”

“Agent Warwick, when will you hotdogs over there learn to work with us instead of around us?” Downing asked.

“What do you mean? Who is this? You are speaking to a federal law enforcement agent.”

“As are you, agent Warwick. This is senior agent Downing at the Houston office of the FBI. I was a federal agent before you got out of the fourth grade. Are you familiar with Face I.D.?”

“Yes, of course I am.”

“Ever clean any carpets, Mr. Warwick?”

“Okay, he had a camera running, froze an image of me and matched me to my face on your program. You got me.”

“Not very bright, Mr. Warwick.”

“Do you have any idea what this is all about, Mr. Downing?”

“No, I do not, Warwick. You neglected to inform me that you were conducting an investigation of one of my most trusted and skilled agents. Don’t you people ever get it over there? Just a minuscule amount of information communicated to us every so often—don’t you think that would be helpful, just a little bit, Warwick?” Downing said, his words saturated with sarcasm.”