logo of some metal band Shelton had never heard of. He held out his hand.
“You have something for us?” Ritter said, tendering the food like an offering.
Tony shoved most of a McMuffin into his mouth, spun back to his keyboard, and started tapping.
Shelton looked around. Sheets of paper had been haphazardly tacked to boards; yellow sticky notes with incomprehensible script were stuck on top of each. Shelton saw an FD-302, an FBI interview report form, mixed into a loose pile on a desktop. He reached for the report, but Ritter wrapped an iron grip around Shelton’s wrist before he could get too close.
“No touching,” Ritter said in a low voice.
“Those FBI bubbas at TEDAC pulled fingerprints off the shell casings. Partials, two sets, and no DNA. Irene sent it over with some other goodies,” Tony said. “That other bombing on the Beltway? The bomb went off on a guy named Max McBride, a policy wonk and lobbyist. Real mover and shaker with the neocons during the lead up to the Iraq War. He practically put together the narrative for the war when he was with the administration. Naturally, he got nailed for using faulty intel during the senate inquiry after all those weapons of mass destruction weren’t found. Failure was no obstacle for him. He was a conservative thought leader until the explosion.”
“Any connection between him and our first bombing victim?” Shelton asked.
“Zero, and I looked ,” Tony said. “Anyway, we got a hit on one of the partials, and here’s where it gets weird.” A mug shot popped up on one of the screens; it was a Hispanic man, his face slack and eyes unfocused. The gloved hand of a police officer had to hold his chin up for the photo. The man’s teeth, what few remained, were blackened posts jutting from his gums.
“What a winner, right? This is Aaron Garcia, arrested two weeks ago in DC for methamphetamine possession and disturbing the peace. It was his first arrest,” Tony said. He unwrapped another sandwich and started eating.
“There’s no way that’s his first arrest. Someone that deep into a meth addiction like that has to have priors,” Shelton said. The FBI Academy made it a point to show cadets the progressive damage methamphetamine did to its users. The drug ground hale and hearty men and women down into wretches within a few years, ravaging skin and mouths.
“Your beard is pretty smart,” Tony said to Ritter. “Garcia does have priors but not in the system we use every day. Someone erased his entire record but didn’t bother to do the same favor after his last bust.” The fat man pointed to a screen, where a rap sheet popped up with dozens of entries.
“Maybe he gave a fake name,” Shelton said. Ritter winced at Shelton’s statement.
“What?” Tony spun around, crumbs stuck in his three-day stubble. “I spent eight hours in the repository gathering everything from his high school transcripts to his birth certificate and bouncing his banking record off of every place he used a credit card. Until he decided his meth addiction was worth his full attention and maxed out all his cards. All his records still exist, just not in the aboveground system.” Tony’s pale skin slowly flushed red as an inner rage fought its way to the surface.
“Tell us about the deletions,” Ritter said.
Tony pushed himself to his feet and waddled around the room. He grabbed seemingly random sheets of paper and waved them over his head.
“All done at one time. Someone at the Justice Department, by the IP they used, scrubbed him out of the federal database. Same thing at the same time for the system in Virginia and Maryland.” Tony handed the papers to Shelton, printouts of raw computer code with a few lines highlighted in yellow.
“Wait. Can we back up? How is any of this possible?” Shelton said.
Tony rolled his eyes and went back to his keyboard.
Ritter leaned closer to Shelton. “During the Cold War, when DC was high on the Soviet’s to-nuke list,
“You have something for us?” Ritter said, tendering the food like an offering.
Tony shoved most of a McMuffin into his mouth, spun back to his keyboard, and started tapping.
Shelton looked around. Sheets of paper had been haphazardly tacked to boards; yellow sticky notes with incomprehensible script were stuck on top of each. Shelton saw an FD-302, an FBI interview report form, mixed into a loose pile on a desktop. He reached for the report, but Ritter wrapped an iron grip around Shelton’s wrist before he could get too close.
“No touching,” Ritter said in a low voice.
“Those FBI bubbas at TEDAC pulled fingerprints off the shell casings. Partials, two sets, and no DNA. Irene sent it over with some other goodies,” Tony said. “That other bombing on the Beltway? The bomb went off on a guy named Max McBride, a policy wonk and lobbyist. Real mover and shaker with the neocons during the lead up to the Iraq War. He practically put together the narrative for the war when he was with the administration. Naturally, he got nailed for using faulty intel during the senate inquiry after all those weapons of mass destruction weren’t found. Failure was no obstacle for him. He was a conservative thought leader until the explosion.”
“Any connection between him and our first bombing victim?” Shelton asked.
“Zero, and I looked ,” Tony said. “Anyway, we got a hit on one of the partials, and here’s where it gets weird.” A mug shot popped up on one of the screens; it was a Hispanic man, his face slack and eyes unfocused. The gloved hand of a police officer had to hold his chin up for the photo. The man’s teeth, what few remained, were blackened posts jutting from his gums.
“What a winner, right? This is Aaron Garcia, arrested two weeks ago in DC for methamphetamine possession and disturbing the peace. It was his first arrest,” Tony said. He unwrapped another sandwich and started eating.
“There’s no way that’s his first arrest. Someone that deep into a meth addiction like that has to have priors,” Shelton said. The FBI Academy made it a point to show cadets the progressive damage methamphetamine did to its users. The drug ground hale and hearty men and women down into wretches within a few years, ravaging skin and mouths.
“Your beard is pretty smart,” Tony said to Ritter. “Garcia does have priors but not in the system we use every day. Someone erased his entire record but didn’t bother to do the same favor after his last bust.” The fat man pointed to a screen, where a rap sheet popped up with dozens of entries.
“Maybe he gave a fake name,” Shelton said. Ritter winced at Shelton’s statement.
“What?” Tony spun around, crumbs stuck in his three-day stubble. “I spent eight hours in the repository gathering everything from his high school transcripts to his birth certificate and bouncing his banking record off of every place he used a credit card. Until he decided his meth addiction was worth his full attention and maxed out all his cards. All his records still exist, just not in the aboveground system.” Tony’s pale skin slowly flushed red as an inner rage fought its way to the surface.
“Tell us about the deletions,” Ritter said.
Tony pushed himself to his feet and waddled around the room. He grabbed seemingly random sheets of paper and waved them over his head.
“All done at one time. Someone at the Justice Department, by the IP they used, scrubbed him out of the federal database. Same thing at the same time for the system in Virginia and Maryland.” Tony handed the papers to Shelton, printouts of raw computer code with a few lines highlighted in yellow.
“Wait. Can we back up? How is any of this possible?” Shelton said.
Tony rolled his eyes and went back to his keyboard.
Ritter leaned closer to Shelton. “During the Cold War, when DC was high on the Soviet’s to-nuke list,
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