Perhaps the last thing he did before logging off was to try to pull up Lori Petersen’s case, out of curiosity, if for no other reason. This would explain why those commands were what Margaret found on the screen.
Was my paranoia running off with my reason? Could there be a connection between this and the mislabeled PERK as well? The cardboard file was spangled with a glittery residue. What if it hadn’t come from my hands? “Lucy,” I asked, “would there be any way to know if someone has altered data in my office computer?”
She said without pause, “You back up the data, don’t you? Someone does an export, doesn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“Then you could get an export that’s old, import it into a computer and see if the old data’s different.”
“The problem,” I considered, “is even if I discovered an alteration, I can’t say for sure it wasn’t the result of an update to the record one of my clerks made. The cases are in a state of constant flux because reports trickle in for weeks, months, after the case has been initially entered.”
“I guess you got to ask them, Auntie Kay. Ask them if they changed it. If they say no, and if you find an old export that’s different from the stuff in the computer now, wouldn’t that help?”
I admitted, “It might.”
She changed the password back to what it was supposed to be. We logged off and cleared the screen so no one would see the commands on the OCME computer in the morning.
It was almost eleven o’clock. I called Margaret at home and she sounded groggy as I questioned her about the export disks and asked if she might have anything dating back prior to the time the computer was broken into.
She offered me the expected disappointment. “No, Dr. Scarpetta. The office wouldn’t have anything that old. We do a new export at the end of every day, and the previous export is formatted, then updated.”
“Damn. Somehow I’ve got to get hold of a version of the data base that hasn’t been updated for the past several weeks.”
Silence.
“Wait a minute,” she muttered. “I might have a flat file . . .”
“Of what?”
“I don’t know . . .” She hesitated. “I guess the last six months of data or so. Vital Statistics wants our data, and a couple of weeks ago I was experimenting, importing the districts’ data into one partition and spooling all the case data off into a file to see how it looks. Eventually, I’m supposed to ship it to them over the phone, straight into their mainframe-”
“How many weeks ago?” I interrupted. “How many weeks ago did you spool it off?”
“The first of the month . . . let’s see, I think I did it around the first of June.”
My nerves were buzzing. I had to know. At the very least, my office couldn’t be blamed for leaks if I could prove data were altered in the computer after the stories appeared in the papers.
“I need a printout of that flat file immediately,” I told her.
There was a long silence. She seemed uncertain when she replied, “I had some problems with the procedure.”
Another pause. “But I can give you what I’ve got, first thing in the morning.”
Glancing at my watch, I next dialed Abby’s pager number.
Five minutes later, I had her on the line.
“Abby, I know your sources are sacred, but there’s something I must know.”
She didn’t respond.
“In your account of Brenda Steppe’s murder, you wrote she was strangled with a tan cloth belt. Where did you get this detail?”
“I can’t-”
“Please. It’s very important. I simply must know the source.”
After a long pause, she said, “No names. A squad member. It was a squad member, okay? One of the guys at the scene. I know a lot of squad members . . .”
“The information in no shape or form came from my office?”
“Absolutely not,” she said emphatically. “You’re worrying about the computer break-in Sergeant Marino mentioned . . . I swear, nothing I’ve printed came from that, came from your office.”