Scorpio Rising, Page 3

  A young woman raised her hand. “Could you give us an example of a suspect profile based on the hand?”

  Crowe looked at the fingerprint form still projected on the screen. At a glance he saw sufficient detail to make a good example. He turned to Margo who’d taken a seat in the first row. “Margo, do I know the identity of the person whose prints are shown here, or any background regarding crimes they may have committed?”

  “No,” Margo said.

  “I’ll start my profile with the structural elements of the hand.” Crowe used the laser to point at the form. “In the flat, the index finger is short and the ring finger very long. There’s a scientific correlation between testosterone and index-to-ring finger length ratios so I’ll play the odds and say this is a man’s hand. Based on the same ratio, I’d say this person has low self esteem but takes risks to prove himself. The pinkie is long, delicate, and crooked, so he’s a white collar criminal.”

  He pointed the laser at another feature. “In the right-hand writer’s palm, a horizontal line an inch above the wrist suggests substance abuse. Since it also appears in the left hand, a family history of the same.”

  He targeted another aspect. “Within the inter-digitals, loops flanking the ring finger indicate cleverness and entrepreneurial instincts. A deep vertical crease under the ring finger suggests a risk taker or a gambler.”

  He pointed to the fingerprints. “Arch patterns occur five times out of ten, which is significant, since arches are less common than loops and whorls. He’s a skilled craftsman with an eye for details.”

  Someone in the audience asked, “Who should the police be looking for?”

  “A solitary white collar criminal, maybe someone writing bad checks to support a drug habit.” Crowe turned to Margo. “What can you tell us about this subject?”

  “Both parents were alcoholics,” Margo said. “In high school, he forged birth certificates for underage classmates to get into bars and clubs. After developing a cocaine habit, he wrote bum checks to pay for it. Recently arrested and charged with counterfeiting.”

  Crowe’s correct interpretation earned a flurry of applause.

  A professor spoke up. “That was quite a demonstration. But surely you don’t suggest palmistry will replace traditional profiling?”

  “Of course not. It may become just another element in the profiler’s toolkit.”

  “But profilers would need training. Will police academies give courses in palmistry?”

  “Not such a crazy idea. Palmistry has been practiced for thousands of years and is a well-documented science.”

  “Most people would object to calling it a science,” the professor said.

  “Times change. Fifty years ago, offender profiling was itself unknown. The FBI enjoyed its first success in 1973. Initially profiling was accused of being too subjective, even mystical.” Crowe paused to let that sink in. “Ultimately the willingness of profilers to study all facets of the unsub – the unknown subject – will include psychological clues from fingerprints and handprints. If we have to borrow interpretations from palmistry until we can build a database of statistical behaviors, so be it.”

  “Good grief! What’s next on your agenda – astrology?”

  “Don’t write it off. But that’s a subject with even more emotional baggage than palmistry. Let’s stick to the subject at hand – no pun intended.”

  The group had several more questions, which Crowe answered with authority, clarity and occasional humor. A faculty member thanked Crowe and Margo for their time and reminded the audience there’d be another pair of lunchtime talks next month, details on the faculty site. Crowe descended from the podium.

  Margo unplugged her laptop from the projector and slipped it into a carrying case. “That went over pretty well.”

  “Thanks for inviting me,” Crowe said. “It’s always nice to speak to the open-minded, even if only because there are so few of them.”

  “The more they’re exposed to different ways of thinking, the more likely they’ll embrace new methods of police work. Like you said, things are changing fast...”

  Margo trailed off as a member of the audience approached them. She was an attractive redhead with green eyes and freckles, wearing jeans and a tight sweater that made profiling her somewhat more than just an intellectual exercise.

  “Hi. My name’s Rosalyn.” The redhead extended a hand to Crowe. “I found your lecture very relevant to the thesis I’m working on.”

  “Which is...?”

  “Working title, Deduction versus Induction: Forensic Psychology at a Crossroads.”

  “Provocative,” Margo said in a tone that made Crowe wonder if she was referring to Rosalyn’s thesis or her sweater.

  “How can we help you?” Crowe said.

  “Are you familiar with Bayesian theory?”

  “It’s the foundation for artificial intelligence. Bayesian theory says probability is a measure of a state of knowledge. Computers learn to do the things that experience teaches them to be statistically correct.”

  Rosalyn and Crowe regarded each other with frank and mutual interest. Or was it just his imagination? She was after all several years younger than him.

  Margo realized they were talking a language she didn’t understand. Or to judge their body language, sharing a message from which she’d been excluded. She checked her watch. “I guess I’ll be going. Need a ride, Axel?”

  “No, I’m good. Thanks again for inviting me.”

  “I’m sure you’re good.” Margo headed for the exit. “See you around.”

  Crowe turned back to Rosalyn. “I’d love to hear more about your thesis.”

  “I’d love to tell you about it,” she said. “Want to go for coffee?”

  Chapter 5

  New York

  Shortly after ten, Carrie Cassidy helped her mother load the dishwasher. Frances added detergent and started the machine. Carrie looked at the clock on the wall. It was 10:05.

  They returned to the dining room where a cribbage board and a deck of cards lay on the table. Frances shuffled the cards with a brisk flutter of her hands, like a card shark stacking the deck for some unsuspecting pigeon.

  “Another game of crib?”

  “It’s ten o’clock, Mom. I should head back to my hotel. I’ve got a big day tomorrow.”

  “It’s only eight, Mountain time.”

  “I have a breakfast meeting tomorrow. I’ll be dog tired if I don’t get to bed early.”

  “Why didn’t you stay here instead of a hotel? When I think of the money you throw away…”

  “The hotel’s closer to my meetings. And I need time alone to practice my pitch.”

  “Didn’t you practice on Walt before you left?”

  “Walt doesn’t give a shit about my work, Mom. He’s busy saving the free world.”

  Carrie remembered a candlelight dinner a long time ago when Walt had waxed poetic after two bottles of wine and told her she was the jewel of his existence, a desert rose that had brought beauty to his barren world. Lately, she found the metaphor ironically apt. This blossom had experienced a lengthy drought and started to wilt alone in the desert.

  “You could have practiced on me,” her mother said.

  “I don’t think so.” Carrie fetched her jacket from the foyer. “Thanks for dinner. I’ll call you tomorrow before I catch the shuttle.”

  “Do you really have to leave so soon?” Frances looked petulant. “You’ve only been here two days.”

  “Please don’t act like I’m just springing this on you. We talked about this before I came. Things are really busy for me this month. I just don’t have much time to spare.”

  Her mother started to sniffle. Carrie grimaced. Frances was such a drama queen. She could play the drill sergeant, the dewy-eyed ingénue, and all parts in between. Still, she was her mother and she’d been to hell and back a few times, first with the death of Carrie’s father, then again with Carrie as a teenager and all the drama of that shape-shifting
age. Carrie gave her mother a fierce hug, like shaking a crying child, just wanting to avoid a scene and get out of here as quickly as possible. She should have been gone by ten. Time was now of the essence.

  “Next time, I’ll stay a week. Okay?”

  “When?” her mother pressed.

  “Thanksgiving.”

  “Is that a promise?”

  “Of course. But now I really have to go.”

  Frances wiped her eyes, snorted back her crocodile tears and followed Carrie to the door. She unhooked the chain and turned the bolt. She stood there expectantly. Carrie gave her a hug again and kissed her on both cheeks. Her mother smiled and this time she looked like she was going to cry for real.

  “Good luck tomorrow, Carrie. I bet they love your book. One of these days, we’ll see your name on the bestseller lists.”

  “Thanks, Mom. I’ll call you tomorrow before I fly out.”

  “Oh, wait, I wanted to give you some shortbread to take home to Walt.”

  But Carrie was already halfway down the hall, running for the elevator.

  A different doorman was on duty, watching a basketball game on a small TV behind his desk. Carrie stiff-armed the door open and ran into the street where she put her fingers to her mouth and whistled. A taxi on the other side of the street hit the brakes, crossed lanes and backed up to where she was. She jerked the door open and jumped in.

  The cabbie, a tall guy with glasses who looked like an unkempt version of Neil Simon, one of her literary heroes, looked over his shoulder through the Plexiglas divider.

  “Broadway and Fifty-First,” she said. “And I’m in a big hurry.”

  “Aren’t we all?” he said, but to his credit promptly started the meter and matted the gas. The taxi ran the yellow light at Columbus Avenue and careened around the corner in a turn that pressed her against the door.

  “Got an idea how much the fare’s going to be?” she said.

  “Seven or eight bucks.”

  She took a ten from her wallet and rapped her knuckles on the Plexiglas. He slid open the little window and she passed the money through. “Keep the change.”

  “You want a receipt?”

  “Not if you have to stop to write it.”

  He wrote it out anyway when he had to stop for a light. She looked at her watch. Cripes. It was 10:22. She felt sweat popping out all over. If she missed this window of opportunity, God knows if or when she’d ever get a chance to do what was supposed to be done tonight.

  Chapter 6

  San Rafael, California

  Out on San Pedro Road, just outside San Rafael, Marin County, 52-year-old Bernie Lang was plugged into his iPod and taking his daily run in a canary yellow track suit. Ever since he’d crossed the half-century mark, he’d been in a constructive state of denial. No turning back the years but he was determined to make the best of what God in his infinite wisdom had bequeathed him. Getting a little thin on top, he kept his hair trimmed fashionably short. Although not really an outdoorsy type, regular visits to a tanning salon maintained the illusion. And when his butt had begun to sag, a regimen of jogging and vigorous workouts with a personal trainer of sadistic inclinations had tightened things up so that he wasn’t shy about getting naked with men younger than himself.

  Life was pretty good for Bernie and its almost predictable regularity now gave him comfort in his golden years. He was wealthy beyond his expectations. Dividends from his investments fell like manna from the heavens on a monthly basis, swelling both his net worth and his ego. And except for the occasional hemorrhoid he enjoyed an almost perfect state of health the like of which, his doctor assured him, should see him into octogenarian status. That was a mixed prospect but so long as he still had an erection to go along with it, he couldn’t complain.

  He had a live-in boyfriend, a hard-luck case in terms of his own career, but a fun guy in the sack and a good companion most of the time. And for those other times, lately more than once a week, Bernie visited the Castro District where he amused himself trying on different relationships, just like any guy with a sedan in the garage at home but a fascination for sports cars. Yes, life was a bowl of cherries and every now and again he was lucky enough to pop one.

  Bernie’s daily run, a regimen to which he religiously adhered, took him from his gated community of Marina Bay Park north on San Pedro Road to the top of the hill. There the road entered China Camp State Park, winding along the bluff of the headland overlooking San Pablo Bay. Bernie’s routine was to jog a mile and a half to Buckeye Point and back. The whole run was about three-and-half miles, a good part of it hilly, which took him a little over half an hour.

  As Bernie labored up the last hill in the home stretch, he met a blue Jeep Cherokee coming around the corner at a sedate speed, less than the 30 mph posted for this stretch of road. The driver moved into the other lane, allowing Bernie to maintain his pace and not break his stride by stepping off the steep shoulder. Bernie waved in appreciation to a good driver who obeyed the speed limit on this curving road, something local teenagers failed to do.

  ~~~

  Jeb Stockwell tapped the brakes as he approached the jogger and got a good look at him. From the yellow track suit alone he suspected this was his man but he needed to be sure. Shaved head, deep tan, diamond stud in his right ear. Just like the picture Dave had provided. Sure enough, that was Bernie Lang.

  He drove another half a mile and turned in the parking lot of China Camp Point. There was a picnic ground and a restroom facility but not a soul in sight. He needed to take a leak but forced himself to wait. No telling what kind of investigation might arise from this and he was absolutely paranoid about leaving any DNA trace near the scene. He wheeled the Jeep around and headed back toward San Rafael. Since he’d entered the state park, he hadn’t seen a single other vehicle.

  As he drove back up the hill towards the turn at the crest, he saw the yellow track suit a good hundred yards ahead, jogging around the corner, briefly hidden behind the trees that lined the road. He glanced at the speedometer. By the time he reached the top of the hill and negotiated the turn, he was doing fifty. On the straight stretch he pushed the gas a little harder, touching sixty as he quickly overtook the jogger.

  ~~~

  Lang didn’t know what it was, but some animal instinct flashed an alarm. He looked over his shoulder and saw the Jeep coming up behind him way too fast and way over the yellow line. He spun in his tracks to face it, thinking how ridiculous a gesture it was, like a matador trying to deflect a charging bull with a wave of his hand. Before he could pirouette out of the way, hurl himself into the ditch, the Jeep angled all the way over onto his side of the road, its wheel hugging the edge of the highway, and there was nowhere left for him to go.

  He threw up his hands to protect his face. Bang! The grill smashed into him, collapsing his arms, driving them into his chest. He flew through the air, one last image etched in his brain, the face of the man behind the wheel, his expression both frightened and fierce.

  Chapter 7

  Los Alamos

  Dr. Cassidy was wasted. He and his team had mapped out a project agenda measured in weeks, the mere documentation of which had elicited great protests. It had not been an easy eight hours. The two wall-length white boards were covered with flowcharts, system architecture diagrams and to-do lists. The wastepaper baskets overflowed with soda cans and empty cartons of cafeteria pizza. As the day wrapped up, an unofficial census would have recorded one migraine, vague abdominal pain and multiple bruising of egos.

  Having drawn short lots, Denman and Kruger were assigned the first critical steps, requiring code rewrites and several trial runs. They were left behind to survive the night on coffee and cafeteria leftovers, with a mandate to demonstrate something tangible in the morning that would justify their high salaries and perquisites.

  Still discussing work, Cassidy and Morris signed out at the security desk, emerging into the crisp New Mexico evening just as the sun sank behind the nearest mountain ridge. C
assidy took a deep breath of mountain air and loosened his belt. What a day. Right now he just wanted to go home, have a Scotch with a beer chaser, and watch some basketball on ESPN.

  He took out his cigarettes and lit up. The marathon brainstorming session had felt like an eternity and he’d allowed himself only three smoke breaks in the past eight hours.

  As they walked across the parking lot to their respective vehicles Morris said, “Aside from software development, we also need better hardware. You know, Cray’s about to release a new model that’ll make some of our other stuff look obsolete.”

  “You write the specs, I’ll get the funding,” Cassidy said with an air of cockiness, an attitude he was beginning to make his own. After hearing others talk about it, now he actually knew what it felt like to be in the zone, a player on a winning streak. He and his team were scoring so many points with the CIA field officers who directed wet work on the other side of the globe that his superiors had all but granted him carte blanche. Even though those were dirty French words, it was music to his ears.

  “I’ll get right on it tomorrow,” Morris said.

  “What’s the matter with tonight?”

  “I’ve got a date.” Rumor was, Morris was enjoying covert ops with the wife of another team leader currently doing top secret work with the F-111 Stealth squadrons down in Alamogordo, which kept him away from his Taos home two weeks at a stretch.

  “Your date can wait.”

  “That’s not what she told me on the phone.”

  “What with all that screwing, maybe you’ve lost sight of your priorities. So long as the government’s paying your inflated salary, national security is job one.”

  “Right,” Morris shrugged.

  “So I’ll see a spec on my desk by noon tomorrow?” Cassidy knew that even for someone as experienced as Morris, it was a good four hours work.

  “Jawohl, Herr Doktor.” Morris gave him a Nazi salute. “Ich vill on der job begetten.”

  They parted, Cassidy going toward his BMW, Morris toward a Ford Mustang. Cassidy took out his car keys and pressed the remote to unlock the doors, start the engine and get the A/C going. He whistled a little tune as he twirled the key ring on his finger. He was so hot these days he could even get away with buying a non-American vehicle, something most peers were loath to do.