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Authors: David Levien
Tags: Mystery
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the garage.
“Yo,” the janitor said.
“What happened here the other night?” Behr asked.
“That throw down? Some Bs flew.” The kid shifted his weight and a thick ring of keys clinked.
“You think it’s on the security tapes?” Behr asked.
“How much?” the kid responded.
“How much what?”
“How much you got?”
A hundred bucks. It was more than he could afford, but it was still the standard unit of measure for bribery in matters of any import on the street, and that’s what Behr paid him. The kid thought the security guard was a prick, and knew he was headed to lunch in an hour. He told Behr to go get a cup of coffee and meet him back at the security office in an hour and ten exactly, so that’s what Behr did.
When he returned, it was in time to see the kid leave the security office with a wastebasket, dump it into his rolling garbage can, and replace the basket in the office. When he exited, however, he left the door slightly ajar and rolled off into the recesses of the garage. Behr knew the area was probably on camera, but the kid’s actions would look like a mistake, some youthful, sloppy work.
His
entry, on the other hand, would not. Behr tipped his chin down and walked briskly inside.
He locked the door behind him. Not that it mattered. The cramped, hot space had no other way out. If square badge returned, Behr would be discovered. So he worked quickly, sitting down at the desk, and keyboarding in to the security archives. It took him a few minutes, but the log was fairly straightforward and clearly dated, and he soon found the time and angle he was looking for. Behr scrolled to 10:55 of the night in question. He estimated the shooting started within a few minutes of that time. The video ran, showing no movement, but at 10:57 it blinked forward to 12:31. This footage showed the police in the final stages of their investigation and cleanup.
Confused, Behr scrolled back, thinking he’d perhaps hit a key commanding the system to skip. But he hadn’t. Behr assumed a copy had been made for the police. That’s what square badge had said. In the days of videotape it would’ve been conceivable that they’d handed over the original, but now everything was digital. While a CD may have been burned and given to the police, after that, either accidentally or intentionally, the material had beendeleted. Behr knew enough about computers to understand that unless an elaborate scrubbing process had been followed, the footage was actually in the hard drive somewhere, because delete usually meant a repurposing of the memory space. But it would take him hours and a call to his computer guy to figure out how to pull it up, and he didn’t have that kind of time. At the moment he didn’t have much of anything.
Behr drove out of the garage into daylight and a ringing cell phone. “Behr,” he said.
“Frank, Neil Ratay here.” The reporter’s voice came back to him through the phone.
“What’s up, Neil?”
“Not much. Listen, about that story, my editor doesn’t have any appetite for it.”
“I see,” Behr said. He needed to make a right onto Delaware to head back to the office, but he found himself turning left onto Capitol. “Did someone tell him not to, or is he just not hungry?”
“Don’t know,” Ratay said, “but with the state of the newspaper business, it means the same thing to me. Sorry I can’t help you.”
“Got it,” Behr said, “and thanks, Neil.” Behr hung up. He was on North Meridian now, the big dividing road that bisected the city. He passed stately homes behind wrought iron gates, including the ceremonial governor’s mansion. As he continued north and out of town, the city quickly released its grasp and gave way to thick trees that spread into a more open sky. He was headed toward Carmel, the well-to-do suburb that was Bernie Cool’s domain.
16
It shouldn’t be long, if what the prim, attractive secretary told him about the twenty-minute wait was true. Behr
“Yo,” the janitor said.
“What happened here the other night?” Behr asked.
“That throw down? Some Bs flew.” The kid shifted his weight and a thick ring of keys clinked.
“You think it’s on the security tapes?” Behr asked.
“How much?” the kid responded.
“How much what?”
“How much you got?”
A hundred bucks. It was more than he could afford, but it was still the standard unit of measure for bribery in matters of any import on the street, and that’s what Behr paid him. The kid thought the security guard was a prick, and knew he was headed to lunch in an hour. He told Behr to go get a cup of coffee and meet him back at the security office in an hour and ten exactly, so that’s what Behr did.
When he returned, it was in time to see the kid leave the security office with a wastebasket, dump it into his rolling garbage can, and replace the basket in the office. When he exited, however, he left the door slightly ajar and rolled off into the recesses of the garage. Behr knew the area was probably on camera, but the kid’s actions would look like a mistake, some youthful, sloppy work.
His
entry, on the other hand, would not. Behr tipped his chin down and walked briskly inside.
He locked the door behind him. Not that it mattered. The cramped, hot space had no other way out. If square badge returned, Behr would be discovered. So he worked quickly, sitting down at the desk, and keyboarding in to the security archives. It took him a few minutes, but the log was fairly straightforward and clearly dated, and he soon found the time and angle he was looking for. Behr scrolled to 10:55 of the night in question. He estimated the shooting started within a few minutes of that time. The video ran, showing no movement, but at 10:57 it blinked forward to 12:31. This footage showed the police in the final stages of their investigation and cleanup.
Confused, Behr scrolled back, thinking he’d perhaps hit a key commanding the system to skip. But he hadn’t. Behr assumed a copy had been made for the police. That’s what square badge had said. In the days of videotape it would’ve been conceivable that they’d handed over the original, but now everything was digital. While a CD may have been burned and given to the police, after that, either accidentally or intentionally, the material had beendeleted. Behr knew enough about computers to understand that unless an elaborate scrubbing process had been followed, the footage was actually in the hard drive somewhere, because delete usually meant a repurposing of the memory space. But it would take him hours and a call to his computer guy to figure out how to pull it up, and he didn’t have that kind of time. At the moment he didn’t have much of anything.
Behr drove out of the garage into daylight and a ringing cell phone. “Behr,” he said.
“Frank, Neil Ratay here.” The reporter’s voice came back to him through the phone.
“What’s up, Neil?”
“Not much. Listen, about that story, my editor doesn’t have any appetite for it.”
“I see,” Behr said. He needed to make a right onto Delaware to head back to the office, but he found himself turning left onto Capitol. “Did someone tell him not to, or is he just not hungry?”
“Don’t know,” Ratay said, “but with the state of the newspaper business, it means the same thing to me. Sorry I can’t help you.”
“Got it,” Behr said, “and thanks, Neil.” Behr hung up. He was on North Meridian now, the big dividing road that bisected the city. He passed stately homes behind wrought iron gates, including the ceremonial governor’s mansion. As he continued north and out of town, the city quickly released its grasp and gave way to thick trees that spread into a more open sky. He was headed toward Carmel, the well-to-do suburb that was Bernie Cool’s domain.
16
It shouldn’t be long, if what the prim, attractive secretary told him about the twenty-minute wait was true. Behr
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