each vibrating filament of her web, filter out the static, and produce results.
Like now.
Kat had called him down here with the promise of a breakthrough.
“Give me a second to bring up the feed from Salt Lake City,” she said.
She winced slightly, placed a palm on her belly, and continued to type one-handed on a keyboard. At eight months along, she was huge, but she refused to go out early for maternity leave. Her only concession to her condition was that she’d abandoned her usual tight dress blues for a casual loose dress and jacket, and allowed the curls of her auburn hair to drape past her shoulders, rather than pinning them up.
“Why don’t you at least sit down?” he said, and pulled out the chair in front of the monitor.
“I’ve been sitting all day. Baby’s been doing a tap dance on my bladder since lunch.” She waved him closer. “Director, you need to see this. From the start of the investigation, I’ve been monitoring the local news programs over in Salt Lake City. It wasn’t difficult to hack into their computer servers and look over their shoulders as they readied their evening news broadcasts.”
“Why?”
“Because I figured it’s damn easy to hide a cell phone.”
He glanced quizzically at her.
She explained. “From the number of people who witnessed the attack, the odds were good that someone got a picture or video of the bomber. So why no footage?”
“Maybe everyone was too panicked.”
“Perhaps after the bomb, but not before. If you start with the proposition that a photo was taken, why wasn’t it turned in to the police? I followed that line of reasoning. Greed is a strong motivator.”
“You think someone hid footage of the bomber to make a few bucks.”
“To be thorough, I had to assume that. It would be easy enough to hide a phone during the chaos. Or even e-mail the footage and erase the record. So I canvassed the broadcast logs for tonight’s local news in Salt Lake City and came across a file at an NBC affiliate labeled ‘New Footage from the Utah Bombing.’ ”
Kat hit a button on the keyboard, and a video started playing, another view of the same scenario he’d watched over and over. Only this time, the bomber was caught in full view, exiting the cave, still carrying the backpack. She was moving fast, but for a fraction of a second, she stared fully at the camera.
Kat deftly captured the image and froze it. The image was grainy, but she certainly looked Native American, as the eyewitnesses had reported.
Painter leaned closer. His heart began pounding harder. “Can you zoom in?”
“The resolution’s poor. I’ll need a minute to clean it up.” Kat’s fingers flew over the keyboard. “I thought we should be ahead of the curve on this. The broadcast is slated for the top of the six o’clock hour in Salt Lake City. I happened to read a draft of the accompanying copy. It’s very inflammatory. Coloring the attack as a possible resurgence of Native American militancy. In the same broadcast folder, they posted archival footage of Wounded Knee.”
Painter bit back a groan. Back in 1973, members of the American Indian movement waged a bloody siege with the FBI in Wounded Knee, South Dakota. Two people were killed and many others injured in the firefight that ensued. It took decades for the tension between the tribes and the government to subside.
“Okay,” Kat said. “Program’s done rendering the sample.”
The image reappeared, a thousand times crisper. Kat manipulated the computer mouse to fill the screen with the girl’s face. The detail was amazing. Her dark eyes were wide with fear, her lips parted in a panicked breath, her ebony hair billowing out and framing distinctly Native American features.
“She’s certainly a looker,” Kat said. “Somebody must know her. It won’t take long to put a name to that pretty face.”
Painter barely heard the words. He stared at the screen. His vision narrowed, fixed upon that frozen image.
Kat
Like now.
Kat had called him down here with the promise of a breakthrough.
“Give me a second to bring up the feed from Salt Lake City,” she said.
She winced slightly, placed a palm on her belly, and continued to type one-handed on a keyboard. At eight months along, she was huge, but she refused to go out early for maternity leave. Her only concession to her condition was that she’d abandoned her usual tight dress blues for a casual loose dress and jacket, and allowed the curls of her auburn hair to drape past her shoulders, rather than pinning them up.
“Why don’t you at least sit down?” he said, and pulled out the chair in front of the monitor.
“I’ve been sitting all day. Baby’s been doing a tap dance on my bladder since lunch.” She waved him closer. “Director, you need to see this. From the start of the investigation, I’ve been monitoring the local news programs over in Salt Lake City. It wasn’t difficult to hack into their computer servers and look over their shoulders as they readied their evening news broadcasts.”
“Why?”
“Because I figured it’s damn easy to hide a cell phone.”
He glanced quizzically at her.
She explained. “From the number of people who witnessed the attack, the odds were good that someone got a picture or video of the bomber. So why no footage?”
“Maybe everyone was too panicked.”
“Perhaps after the bomb, but not before. If you start with the proposition that a photo was taken, why wasn’t it turned in to the police? I followed that line of reasoning. Greed is a strong motivator.”
“You think someone hid footage of the bomber to make a few bucks.”
“To be thorough, I had to assume that. It would be easy enough to hide a phone during the chaos. Or even e-mail the footage and erase the record. So I canvassed the broadcast logs for tonight’s local news in Salt Lake City and came across a file at an NBC affiliate labeled ‘New Footage from the Utah Bombing.’ ”
Kat hit a button on the keyboard, and a video started playing, another view of the same scenario he’d watched over and over. Only this time, the bomber was caught in full view, exiting the cave, still carrying the backpack. She was moving fast, but for a fraction of a second, she stared fully at the camera.
Kat deftly captured the image and froze it. The image was grainy, but she certainly looked Native American, as the eyewitnesses had reported.
Painter leaned closer. His heart began pounding harder. “Can you zoom in?”
“The resolution’s poor. I’ll need a minute to clean it up.” Kat’s fingers flew over the keyboard. “I thought we should be ahead of the curve on this. The broadcast is slated for the top of the six o’clock hour in Salt Lake City. I happened to read a draft of the accompanying copy. It’s very inflammatory. Coloring the attack as a possible resurgence of Native American militancy. In the same broadcast folder, they posted archival footage of Wounded Knee.”
Painter bit back a groan. Back in 1973, members of the American Indian movement waged a bloody siege with the FBI in Wounded Knee, South Dakota. Two people were killed and many others injured in the firefight that ensued. It took decades for the tension between the tribes and the government to subside.
“Okay,” Kat said. “Program’s done rendering the sample.”
The image reappeared, a thousand times crisper. Kat manipulated the computer mouse to fill the screen with the girl’s face. The detail was amazing. Her dark eyes were wide with fear, her lips parted in a panicked breath, her ebony hair billowing out and framing distinctly Native American features.
“She’s certainly a looker,” Kat said. “Somebody must know her. It won’t take long to put a name to that pretty face.”
Painter barely heard the words. He stared at the screen. His vision narrowed, fixed upon that frozen image.
Kat
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