“She certainly had motive,” I said, holding my anger in check.
“ERF is a Santa’s workshop for someone who sells espionage equipment.” I paused, thinking.
“Do you know when she was hired by the Bureau, and did she apply for the job or did ERF recruit her?”
“Let’s see. It’s in my notes here. It just says here that she submitted an application last April and started mid-August.”
“Mid-August was about the same time Lucy started. What did Carrie do before that?”
“It seems her entire career has been in computers. Hardware, software, programming. And engineering, which was partly why the Bureau was interested in her. She’s very creative and ambitious, and unfortunately, dishonest.
Several people recently interviewed have begun to paint a portrait of a woman who has been lying and cheating her way to the top for years.”
“Frank, she applied for the job at ERF so she could spy for the spy shop,” I said.
“She may also be one of these people who hates the FBI. ”
“Both scenarios are possible,” he agreed.
“Ifs a matter of finding proof. Even if we can, unless there is evidence she took something, she can’t be prosecuted.”
“Lucy mentioned to me before all this happened that she was involved in some research pertaining to the biometric lock system at ERF. Do you know anything about that?”
“I’m not aware of any research projects of that nature.”
“But would you necessarily know if there was one?”
“There’s a good chance I would. I’ve been given quite a lot of detailed information pertaining to ongoing classified projects at Quantico–because of the crime bill, the money I’ve been trying to appropriate for the Bureau.”
“Well, it’s strange that Lucy would say she was involved in a project that doesn’t seem to exist,” I said.
“Sadly, that detail might only make her situation look more incriminating.”
I knew he was right. As suspicious as Carrie Grethen appeared, the case against Lucy was still stronger.
“Frank,” I went on, “do you happen to know what types of cars Carrie Grethen and her boyfriend drive?”
“Certainly, we can get that information. Why are you interested?”
“I have reason to believe Lucy’s wreck was no accident and she may still be in serious danger.” He paused.
“Would it be a good idea to keep her on the Academy’s security floor for a while?”
“Ordinarily, that would be the perfect place,” I said.
“But I don’t think she needs to be anywhere near the Academy right now.”
“I see. Well, that makes sense. There are other places if you need me to intervene.”
“I think I have a place.”
“I’m off to Florida tomorrow, but you’ve got my numbers there.”
“More fund-raisers?” I knew he was exhausted, for the election was little more than a week away.
“That, too. And the usual brush fires. NOW’s picketing, and my opponent remains very busy painting me as the woman hater with horns and a pointed tail.”
“You’ve done more for women than anyone I know,” I said.
“Especially this one right here.”
I finished getting dressed and by seven-thirty was drinking my first cup of coffee on the road in my rental car. The weather was gloomy and cold, and I noticed very little of what I passed as I drove north.
A biometric lock system, like any lock system, would have to be picked were someone to bypass it. Some locks truly did require nothing more than a credit card, while others could be dismantled or released with various tools, such as Slim Jims. But a lock system that scanned fingerprints could not be violated by such simple mechanical means. As I contemplated the break-in at ERF and how someone might have accomplished this, several thoughts drifted through my mind.
Lucy’s print had been scanned into the system at approximately three o’clock in the morning, and that was only possible if her finger had been present–or a facsimile of her finger had been present. I recalled from International Association of Identification meetings I had attended over the years that many notorious criminals had made many creative attempts at altering their fingerprints.
The ruthless gangster John Dillinger had dropped acid on his cores and deltas, while the lesser-known Roscoe Pitts had surgically removed his prints from the first knuckle up. These methods and others had failed, and the gentlemen would have been better served had they stayed painlessly with the prints God had given them. Their altered latents simply went into the FBI’s Mutilated File, which, frankly, was far easier to search. Not to mention, burned and mangled fingers look a little fishy if you happen to be a suspect.