MIND FIELDS (12 page)

  The article went on to explain that official United States Government vehicles were not equipped with the normal safety computer chips that restricted their movement and speed.  This was done to allow for emergency avoidance maneuvers in case of an assault situation, but, he added, these cars are driven by professional drivers.  None had ever been known to get into an accident due to the lack of a safety microchip.

This particular vehicle, the article continued, was transporting White House Chief of Staff Harold Bradley, who had suffered a serious head injury and had been flown to Walter Reed for a new nanobot treatment for brain injury developed by BNI.

“Oh, no.  No you don’t, Detective Kincade.”  Lara could see the gears grinding inside her husband’s head as he read the paper.  “Don’t you even think of it.  You are not going to ruin this glorious sunny day by going into the station.”

  “The station?”  Richie looked shocked, in a theatrical sort of way.  “The thought never crossed my mind, darlin’.”

  “Good.  Make sure you keep it that way.”

  “Of course, dear, of course,” Richie said without really hearing her words.  His mind was buried in the article again.

  The reporter went on to relate the irony that Bradley’s driver, the late Rocky Stankowski, had himself received the very same treatment less than a year earlier as one of the test subjects for the nanobots.  He wrote about Rocky’s injury and miraculous recovery.  The article told the storied history of Mr. Stankowski – dedicated Marine veteran, quiet introspective man, known by few and respected by many.  A decorated special-ops soldier in his younger days, Rocky had led a quiet life ever since he had retired at the age of forty.  Those who knew him, and there were not that many who did according to the article, described him as a fiercely loyal, indelibly honest man; each said without hesitation that they would trust him with their lives.

  The article described the incident in downtown Baltimore the prior year, when Rocky had been mugged for a measly thirty dollars in cash and a watch valued at seven dollars and fifty cents.  The incident had incensed Rocky’s friends and acquaintances; no one disliked the big man.  But as usual, Rocky had played the hero much to his chagrin, and had become the poster boy for a new medical treatment using miniature robots to repair the damage a baseball bat had done to his brain. 

  The story detailed the remarkable recovery that Rocky had made, and went on to briefly describe several other cases with similar results.  Using a series of basic diagrams, the article described in layman’s terms how the nanobot treatment worked.  This was followed by a short interview with Dr. Sandra Fletcher of Johns Hopkins University, considered by many to be the world’s leading authority on nanobots.  She described the theory and development of the nanobots, and how they were revolutionizing medical care in the twenty-first century.

  The reporter asked Dr. Fletcher about the renowned JT Anderson and the role of his company, BNI, in the development of nanobots.  Dr. Fletcher said as little as possible about both Mr. Anderson and his company, in a thinly veiled effort at diplomacy.

  Richard Kincade was fascinated.  “Hmm, BNI … which case was it I saw them in before?”

  “What was that, honey?”

  “Oh, nothing, darling.”  Richie sighed a bit, and reluctantly plopped the paper down on the table, making sure that Lara would take notice.  He couldn’t get the thought out of his head, he knew he had run across BNI in a case before, but there was no way he would let Lara find out how much this was eating at him. 
This is going to have to wait until Tuesday
, he thought with disgust. 
Get it out of your mind, Richard Kincade.  Get it out of your mind.

  “Great breakfast, hon. I’m gonna run up and shower.”  He glanced out the window.  “Looks like a great day to be outside.”

  Lara looked after him as he hurried up the stairs.  She knew when he was hooked on a case.  She knew him too well to fall for his feigned disinterest, but appreciated that he was doing it for her.  Lara decided to play along this time, at least for the day. Aware that she may not have his full attention today, she would take what she could get, and then maybe let him get back to work tomorrow.  Once he got his hooks into something, he could never really let it go until the mystery was solved.  This was Detective Richard Kincade.  This is what Lara had married.  She was darned proud of it, too.

___

“Hey, Richie.”  The guard at the door of the South Baltimore Precinct station waved as Richard Kincade came in.  “Have a good Labor Day?”

“Yup,” Richie said automatically without thinking as he walked by. He thought of the time that he and Lara had spent together over the weekend strolling in Druid Hill Park, dinner in Little Italy, an evening of romance that reminded him of feelings he’d almost forgotten, and a Labor Day barbecue with the neighbors.  He stopped a few steps into the building and turned.  “Yeah, Sam, I really did.  How ’bout you?”

The guard lit up.  Most folks who came through that door hardly noticed Sam.  Sure, they’d say “How ya doing” now and then, but they never really stopped for an answer.  They weren’t really asking, not the way that Richie was doing right now, staring at him with questioning eyes.  “Just fine Richie, it went just fine.  Thanks for asking.”  Sam was grinning ear to ear.

Richie nodded and headed toward the elevator.  The weekend had passed quickly.  He was surprised to find that he was able to forget about the terrible accident he had read about Sunday morning, the one that killed that poor bastard who spent his life shuttling the chief of staff around, but he
had
forgotten, at least for a little while.  He couldn’t remember the last time he felt so relaxed.  He had been with Lara – completely – for three whole days. He loved her very much and it was nice to remember why.

Monday night had come too quickly, and by the time dinner was finished, work slowly started to creep into his head once again.  As he slept, he remembered the seemingly innocent case of Lester Hanes, the young computer programmer from BNI.  Pulling the data files from that case would be the first order of the day.

___

The elevator stopped on the third floor, and Richie exited with an uncharacteristic lilt in his step.

Hank Holiday looked up from his desk.  “Well,” he smirked, “looks like somebody got some this weekend, eh?”

Richie stopped at Hank’s desk for a second, ready to stare down his lewd old friend.  It was those kind of remarks that gave guys the reputation they had to live down after working hours.  Richie hesitated, then decided it just wasn’t worth it.  He raised an eyebrow, smiled wryly, and walked on. 
What the hell,
Richie thought,
whatever makes his day.
Besides, at his age, he didn’t get to stare down a comment like that too often.

He walked back to his desk.  “Mornin’, Daisy,” he greeted his computer monitor.  Some of the guys thought he was nuts, but somehow, saying “computer, activate” seemed too mechanical.  He preferred to think of Daisy as his secretary.  After all, she took dictation, sent letters, answered his calls and did his filing.  “Pull a file for me, would ya, sweetheart?”

Hank glanced over at him.

“OK, OK, maybe that is a bit over the top, but cut me some slack here, Hank.  I don’t come in here to start the week in a good mood too often.”

“Just give me the details later, would ya.  I pulled the duty this weekend.  I could use a little vicarious holiday pleasure, you know?”

Richie shook his head.  “Not a chance, pal.”

Hank sighed.

“Which file do you need, Detective Kincade?”

Richie smiled at Daisy.  “Lester Hanes.  It was a routine traffic case, single vehicle fatality.  About a year ago, I think.”

“Accessing…On screen.”

Kincade marveled at how quick Daisy was.  “Thanks, hon.”

Hank squirmed in his seat.

Kincade poured over the report. He had filed it himself, and the details came back to him as he read.  “Bingo!”

Hank looked over.  “You gambling on company, time?  At least keep it down, would you?”  He motioned over to the chief’s office.

Richie shot him a puzzled look.

“Personally, I prefer BlackJack.com, but my wife’s a sucker for that Bingo site too.  I don’t have a problem with you playing a little on company time, but keep it down.  You’re gonna ruin it for all of us.”

Kincade nodded in the negative.  “No, no.  I mean, ‘Bingo’ as in ‘I found what I was looking for in the report.’”  He pointed at the screen.  “BNI – That’s the company that produced that new treatment they used on the brain of the driver…” Kincade skimmed over the article he had cut out of the paper about the Labor Day weekend accident that had killed Harold Bradley. “…Stankowski, that’s his name, Rocky Stankowski.  This kid,” he pointed at the report on his monitor, “Lester Hanes, was a programmer for BNI.  Single car accident, a de-chipped car and a sharp swerve to the right off an empty road...same M.O..  Could just be coincidence, but it doesn’t smell right to me.”

He looked over at Hank again.  “BlackJack.com?” 

“Shh!” Hank slinked back into his chair, glancing again toward the chief’s office.  “Come on, Richie.  Give me a break, would ya?”

Richie shrugged his shoulders and sat down at his desk.

“Say, Richie, try this one: OTTFF.”

“What?”

“OTTFF...what’s the next letter in the sequence?”  Hank loved word puzzles, anagrams, things like that.  Code breaking had been his favorite course at the police academy; Richie hated it.

“Come on, Hank, I got work to do.”

Hank threw his hands up.  “You’re no fun, man.”

Richie smiled.  “Sorry.”  He redirected his attention to the computer.  “Daisy, what’ve you got on the driver of that Lincoln that Harold Bradley was killed in this weekend?”

  “Accessing … Rocky Stankowski.  Purple Heart, 2031 Persian Gulf War.  Retired from US Marines 2036.  Secret Service detail for the Governor of Virginia 2037 through 2041.  Personal driver for Senator Harold Bradley 2042 through 2048, and continuing as personal driver for Chief of Staff Harold Bradley, 2048 through present … correction, through yesterday.  Deceased September 2, 2051.”

  Kincade sat, head in hands.  “Impressive.  Damned impressive.  Nobody could get to a guy like that.  No way would Stankowski have caused that crash for a payoff, even if he thought he’d survive it.  You just don’t buy a man like that; too much honor.

  Hank sat on the edge of the desk, handing a cup of coffee to Kincade.  “Talking to your computer again, aren’t you?”

  Richie took the coffee.  “Thanks.”  He took a sip from the steaming mug.  “At least she doesn’t give me any lip about how much caffeine I drink.”

  Hank smiled. It was somehow comforting to know that Richie’s weekend wasn’t
totally
perfect.  “Whatcha working on, Richie?”

  “Ah, that crash that killed Harold Bradley this weekend.  It just doesn’t smell right to me, you know?  You wouldn’t happen to know anything about BNI, would you?”

  “Nah.  I’m not into tech.  But this chick I dated a couple of years back worked there.  She loved the place, but got herself fired for snooping around.  Those techies are always full of secrets, you know?  Shelly was a bright kid.  They had her working on some kind of genetics project, but even she didn’t know what she was working on.  I mean, she knew
her
part of it, but not the big picture, you know?  She said it was like working on a giant puzzle and her job was to put one little section of it together without knowing what the whole thing was going to look like when it got done.  Drove her nuts; said she wanted to be damned sure she wasn’t helping somebody build a new biological weapon or something.  All the secrets made her paranoid.  One day she snooped into the mainframe to try and figure out what the project was all about, you know, to see what the various puzzle pieces were gonna make when the company put them all together.  The head of security at BNI caught her, and she was out the door the next day.  What a job, huh?”

  “Yeah.  Who the hell would want to work in a place like that?  Never knowing what you’re really building or what they’re gonna do with it.  Think I could talk to Shelly?”

  “Sure.  I’ll give her a buzz.  It’ll give me an excuse to call her.  Maybe I’ll get lucky.”  Hank winked at Richie.  He started to walk back to his desk, then stopped and turned.  “S,” he said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “S,” Hank repeated.  “The next letter in the sequence is S.  OTTFFS — One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six.”  He looked at the blank stare on Richie’s face.  He walked off, exceedingly proud of himself.

  Kincade shook his head and smiled.  Hank Holiday lived a very different life than Richie Kincade.  He envied Hank and felt sorry for him at the same time.

___

  Shelly Lange was happy to hear from Hank.  She was just recovering from a bad relationship, and in comparison, Hank didn’t seem so bad.  They agreed to meet for dinner. Shelly was anxious to talk to someone about BNI.  She still fumed over being fired, but knew she had no legal recourse; after all, she had been caught hacking into the company’s mainframe.  It was fortunate that all they did was fire her, and she knew it.  Just the same, the chance to tell someone like Detective Kincade what was going on at BNI was delicious to her.  The contract at BNI, like most high tech companies, had a confidentiality clause that kept her from going to the press, but she could spill her guts to a cop in the line of duty and BNI’s lawyers couldn’t touch her.  It would be a long overdue catharsis, and if she was lucky, Kincade may even nail the sons of bitches.  She jumped at the chance to talk to the detective, and agreed to meet him at the station that afternoon.

  “I’m impressed, Hank.”  Kincade said when informed Shelly had agreed to meet.

  “Never underestimate the charm of a Holiday,” he gloated.  Actually, he was a little surprised himself.   He and Shelly hadn’t parted on the greatest of terms, and he figured it would be a bit of a challenge to get over that little lack of fidelity thing she had gotten so steamed about.

  Shelly arrived at two PM, just as Kincade was finishing a Coke and a Polish sausage in a hotdog bun oozing with ketchup.

  “Into health food, I see.” 

  “Look, lady,” Kincade started, “I get enough …” his jaw dropped as his eyes fixed on a pair of long, shapely legs in sheer stockings, and followed them up past the hem of the dark gray dress that hugged the curvaceous figure of Shelly Lange.  He glared at her bright green eyes, speechless.

  “…grease to slide through the afternoon with that sandwich?” She finished his sentence.

  “Uh, that’s not exactly what …Are you Shelly Lange?”

  She nodded in the affirmative.  “Not what you were expecting?”

  Kincade stood without saying a word. 

  “Is that because I’m not what you were expecting to see when Hank said he was sending over some biotech geek, or just because you can’t picture me with the guy.”

  “Maybe a little bit of both.”  He motioned her to the chair at the far side of his desk.  “Thanks for coming in on such short notice, Ms. Lange.”

  “
Doctor
Lange,” she corrected.

  “Uh, sorry… Dr. Lange.”

  “That’s OK, why don’t you just call me Shelly?”