basically a computerized detective. It scanned in every single scrap of paper generated in a homicide case, saved it to memory, then examined itself for repetitions and similarities. Nothing was lost; nothing was forgotten, and that nightmare happened all too often when a dozen cops were reading and trying to remember thousands of pages of data. The software constantly cross-referenced incoming information with countless databases, identifying in a matter of hours connections that might require weeks or months of a detective team’s legwork.
Grace had explained the technical side to him once – he’d walked away with a monster headache. Magozzi could get around a keyboard pretty well, but what went on inside a hard drive made about as much sense to him as waving a wand over a kettleful of toads’ eyes. Finally, she’d made it simple.
Look at it this way, Magozzi. Say you have a victim who wrote a check to some antique dealer up north a few months earlier. And say on that day a deliveryman with a record of minor assault drops a load at the antique store. The program will tell you that in minutes, and you can take a closer look at the man. Now a good detective with a lot of free time might make the same connection eventually . . .
And he might not, Magozzi had thought then. There wasn’t enough manpower in the National Guard to do that kind of detailed legwork in a timely fashion.
Apparently he hadn’t said anything in a long time, and apparently that was worrying Grace, because she was trying to mollify him with food. He looked down at the plate of chocolate-covered strawberries she’d set in front of him and thought what a dirty fighter she was. He’d sell out his mother for a chocolate-covered strawberry, and Grace knew that.
‘Annie’s been in Arizona for over a week now,’ she told him, eliciting a small smile.
The mention of Annie Belinsky – one of Grace’s partners, and certainly her best friend – did that to most men. Profoundly overweight and unbelievably sensual, a single glance from the woman was like attending an orgy.
‘She’s looking for a house for us to rent, setting things up with the chief.’
His smile vanished. ‘You’re renting a house? Just how long do you think this is going to take?’
Grace shrugged. ‘We’ll rent by the month.’
Magozzi closed his eyes and sighed.
‘I have to go, Magozzi. I have to do something. ’
‘What about the work you’re doing here? That program of yours has closed at least three Minneapolis homicides that have been open for years. You don’t call that something? Three families who finally have some closure. Three murderers identified . . .’
‘Magozzi.’
‘What?’
‘They were old cases.’
‘I know that. And we got a million of them. Gino brought over another file just this morning . . .’
‘Two of the murderers were dead, the third was in the vets’ hospital drooling in front of cartoons.’
Magozzi scowled and reached for the bottle of wine. Maybe if he got her drunk she’d stop making sense.
‘Don’t get me wrong. I’m glad we could help, and those cases were good tests for the software. Helped us work out the kinks. But there are people out there killing right now, and here we are, working your cold cases, sitting on a program that just might be able to save some lives.’
Magozzi looked her straight in the eye. ‘I’m Italian. I’m absolutely immune to guilt. You, obviously, are not.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning that this is your penance. You all still blame yourselves for the Monkeewrench murders.’
Grace winced. Monkeewrench had been the name of their software company, at least until it also became the media name for a killer, and a series of senseless murders that had nearly paralyzed Minneapolis last fall. They’d been trying to think of a new name ever since.
‘Of course we blame ourselves,’ she said quietly. ‘How could we not? But whatever our motivation, this is a good thing,
Grace had explained the technical side to him once – he’d walked away with a monster headache. Magozzi could get around a keyboard pretty well, but what went on inside a hard drive made about as much sense to him as waving a wand over a kettleful of toads’ eyes. Finally, she’d made it simple.
Look at it this way, Magozzi. Say you have a victim who wrote a check to some antique dealer up north a few months earlier. And say on that day a deliveryman with a record of minor assault drops a load at the antique store. The program will tell you that in minutes, and you can take a closer look at the man. Now a good detective with a lot of free time might make the same connection eventually . . .
And he might not, Magozzi had thought then. There wasn’t enough manpower in the National Guard to do that kind of detailed legwork in a timely fashion.
Apparently he hadn’t said anything in a long time, and apparently that was worrying Grace, because she was trying to mollify him with food. He looked down at the plate of chocolate-covered strawberries she’d set in front of him and thought what a dirty fighter she was. He’d sell out his mother for a chocolate-covered strawberry, and Grace knew that.
‘Annie’s been in Arizona for over a week now,’ she told him, eliciting a small smile.
The mention of Annie Belinsky – one of Grace’s partners, and certainly her best friend – did that to most men. Profoundly overweight and unbelievably sensual, a single glance from the woman was like attending an orgy.
‘She’s looking for a house for us to rent, setting things up with the chief.’
His smile vanished. ‘You’re renting a house? Just how long do you think this is going to take?’
Grace shrugged. ‘We’ll rent by the month.’
Magozzi closed his eyes and sighed.
‘I have to go, Magozzi. I have to do something. ’
‘What about the work you’re doing here? That program of yours has closed at least three Minneapolis homicides that have been open for years. You don’t call that something? Three families who finally have some closure. Three murderers identified . . .’
‘Magozzi.’
‘What?’
‘They were old cases.’
‘I know that. And we got a million of them. Gino brought over another file just this morning . . .’
‘Two of the murderers were dead, the third was in the vets’ hospital drooling in front of cartoons.’
Magozzi scowled and reached for the bottle of wine. Maybe if he got her drunk she’d stop making sense.
‘Don’t get me wrong. I’m glad we could help, and those cases were good tests for the software. Helped us work out the kinks. But there are people out there killing right now, and here we are, working your cold cases, sitting on a program that just might be able to save some lives.’
Magozzi looked her straight in the eye. ‘I’m Italian. I’m absolutely immune to guilt. You, obviously, are not.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning that this is your penance. You all still blame yourselves for the Monkeewrench murders.’
Grace winced. Monkeewrench had been the name of their software company, at least until it also became the media name for a killer, and a series of senseless murders that had nearly paralyzed Minneapolis last fall. They’d been trying to think of a new name ever since.
‘Of course we blame ourselves,’ she said quietly. ‘How could we not? But whatever our motivation, this is a good thing,
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