right. She carefully dusted and lifted the print, filled out a card and
nearly ran the entire way to Frank’s office. She found him with his hat
and overcoat on, which he quickly removed.
“You’re shitting me, Laura.”
“You want to check with Pettis to see if he remembers Rogers adding the
oil that day?”
Frank called the cleaning company, but Pettis had already gone for the
night. Calls to his home went unanswered.
Simon looked at the lift card like it was the most precious jewel in the
world. “Forget it. I’ll run it through our files.
Stay all night if I have to. We can get Fairfax to access the state
police AFIS, our damn terminal’s still down.” Simon was referring to the
Automated Fingerprint Identification System housed in Richmond, where
latent prints found at crime scenes could be compared against the ones
on the state’s computerized database.
Frank thought for a moment. “I think I can do one better.”
“How’s that?”
Frank pulled a card out of his pocket, picked up the phone and dialed.
He spoke into the phone. “Agent Bill Burton please.”
BURTON PICKED up FRANK AND THEY DRove Down ToGmIER to the FBI’s Hoover
Building, located on Pennsylvania Avenue. Most tourists know the
building as bulky and rather ugly and as a place not to miss on a visit
to D.C. Housed here was the National Crime Information Center, a
computerized information system operated by the FBI, consisting of
fourteen centralized-distributed types of databases and two subsystems
that constituted the world’s largest collection of data on known
criminals. The Automated Identification System (AIS) component of NCIC
was a cop’s best friend. With tens of millions of criminal print cards
on file, Frank’s chances of a hit were measurably increased.
After depositing the print with FBI technicians–who had clear
instructions that this assignment was to be moved to as near the top of
the pile as possible-Burton and Frank stood outside in the hallway
nervously sipping coffee.
“This is gonna take a little while, Seth. The computer’s gonna kick out
a bunch of probables. The techs will still have to make the ident
manually. I’ll hang out and let you know as soon as a match comes back.”
Frank checked his watch. His youngest was in a school play that started
in forty minutes. Her role was only that of a vegetable, but was right
now the most important thing on earth to his little girl.
“You sure?”
“Just leave me a number where I can reach you.”
Frank did so and hurried out. The print could turn out to be nothing, a
gas station attendant, but something told Frank that was not the case.
Christine Sullivan had been dead a while now. Trails that cold usually
stayed as cold as the victim resting six feet under, the longest six
feet any of them would ever have to face. But a cold trail had suddenly
turned blazing hot; whether it would flicker out remained to be seen.
For now, Frank was going to enjoy the warmth. He smiled, and not just at
the thought of his six-year-old running around dressed as a cucumber.
Burton stared after him, smiling for a very different reason. The FBI
used a sensitivity and reliability factor in excess of ninety percent
when processing latents through the AFIS. That meant that no more than
two probables, and most likely only one, would be kicked out of the
system. In addition, Burton had obtained a higher priority for the
search than he had told Frank. All of which gained Burton time, precious
time.
Later that night, Burton stared down at a name that was totally
unfamiliar to him.
LUTHER ALBERT WHITNEY.
DOB 8/5/29. His Social Security number was also listed; the first three
digits were 179, indicating it had been issued in Pennsylvania.
Whitney’s physical description was given as five foot eight, a buck
sixty, with a two-inch scar on his left forearm. That’comported with
Pettis’s description of Rogers.
Using NCIC’s Triple I (Interstate Identification Index) database, Burton
had also gotten a good snapshot of the man’s past. The report listed
three prior felony convictions for burglary. Whitney had records in
three different states.