her.
There was a knock at the door. The Korean floor nurse appeared
with two men wearing Sears and Roebuck suits, brown shoes, and athletic socks.
Everything about them screamed "Cop."
"Yes?" Herman said.
"These gentlemen were asking to see you," the nurse said.
The men entered the room clawing at their back pockets like bubbas
about to pay for the last round of beers, but coming out instead with faded
brown badge carriers, flopping them open, flashing gold shields.
"I'm Sergeant Lester Cole and this is Detective Investigator
Dusty Halverchek," the heavier and shorter of the two said. Sergeant Cole
was about Herman Strockmire's height, but with a muscular, weightlifter's body
and eyes so tired they seemed to hold disgust for everything they saw. Dusty
Halverchek was younger. Blond, in a tan suit. He was average in all respects:
height, weight, and coloring. Beige. Nondescript. Dusty.
"We're with the San Francisco PD."
Oh, shit, Herman thought. Roland got himself busted.
"I wouldn't normally bother you under these circumstances,
but this can't wait," Sergeant Cole said, his eyes flickering across the
beeping, flashing table full of monitors.
Halverchek was checking out Susan, staring at her, undressing her
with his eyes as if he'd never seen a pretty woman before.
"This is my daughter, Susan," Herman said, trying to
interrupt Halverchek's ten-second fantasy.
The beige cop shook her hand eagerly. "We're with
Homicide," trying to impress.
Herman's spirits plunged. Roland. Homicide?
"Did you have someone named Roland Minton working for
you?" Cole pulled Roland's California driver's license out of his pocket
and showed it to Herman. The d-1 picture of Roland was thin, geeky, with punk
hair.
"Yes," Herman nodded. "Please don't tell me he's
dead." The sentence wheezed out of him, like air through a broken pipe.
"Dead barely covers what happened to him," Halverchek
said with an easy, almost friendly calm. "He was ripped apart. Pieces of
him spread all over his damn hotel room."
Susan put her hands up to her mouth and started sobbing.
"Jesus," Sergeant Cole said, looking at his young
partner. "Why don't ya just lob a grenade at 'em?" He turned back to
Herman. "I'm sorry. He's only been on this detail a month."
"How? You say he was . . ." Herman took a breath.
"He was. . ."
"Mutilated." Cole finished the sentence. "We're
still trying to get a handle on exactly what happened. It's a little strange.
We're not exactly sure how the room was accessed. There were video cameras on
every hotel floor, but according to the hallway security tape, nobody went in
or out of his room at that time in the morning. There is no way down from the
roof, no balconies—real whodunit."
"Roland is dead?" Herman tried
to make it stick in his spinning brain, thinking this was easily the worst day of his
life. He felt responsible. He had sent Roland up there.
"Sir, I'm sorry to have to do this while you're in here with
heart problems, but in a homicide investigation time is everything and we have
to move quickly. I need to know in what capacity Mr. Minton was working for
you."
"He was an electronic forensic investigator," Herman
said evasively. "Sometimes, when we're in a trial and aren't able to get
data from a defendant that we've subpoenaed information from, I would employ
Roland to help me locate it."
"You mean steal it, don't you? You hack it off someone's
computer," Sergeant Cole said.
"No," Herman fudged. "He would access Web pages,
read corporate reports, try and make an informed guess as to which computer or
company might have the stuff we're looking for. Then I would file a new
discovery motion and try to get my hands on the electronic data."
"And he had to
There was a knock at the door. The Korean floor nurse appeared
with two men wearing Sears and Roebuck suits, brown shoes, and athletic socks.
Everything about them screamed "Cop."
"Yes?" Herman said.
"These gentlemen were asking to see you," the nurse said.
The men entered the room clawing at their back pockets like bubbas
about to pay for the last round of beers, but coming out instead with faded
brown badge carriers, flopping them open, flashing gold shields.
"I'm Sergeant Lester Cole and this is Detective Investigator
Dusty Halverchek," the heavier and shorter of the two said. Sergeant Cole
was about Herman Strockmire's height, but with a muscular, weightlifter's body
and eyes so tired they seemed to hold disgust for everything they saw. Dusty
Halverchek was younger. Blond, in a tan suit. He was average in all respects:
height, weight, and coloring. Beige. Nondescript. Dusty.
"We're with the San Francisco PD."
Oh, shit, Herman thought. Roland got himself busted.
"I wouldn't normally bother you under these circumstances,
but this can't wait," Sergeant Cole said, his eyes flickering across the
beeping, flashing table full of monitors.
Halverchek was checking out Susan, staring at her, undressing her
with his eyes as if he'd never seen a pretty woman before.
"This is my daughter, Susan," Herman said, trying to
interrupt Halverchek's ten-second fantasy.
The beige cop shook her hand eagerly. "We're with
Homicide," trying to impress.
Herman's spirits plunged. Roland. Homicide?
"Did you have someone named Roland Minton working for
you?" Cole pulled Roland's California driver's license out of his pocket
and showed it to Herman. The d-1 picture of Roland was thin, geeky, with punk
hair.
"Yes," Herman nodded. "Please don't tell me he's
dead." The sentence wheezed out of him, like air through a broken pipe.
"Dead barely covers what happened to him," Halverchek
said with an easy, almost friendly calm. "He was ripped apart. Pieces of
him spread all over his damn hotel room."
Susan put her hands up to her mouth and started sobbing.
"Jesus," Sergeant Cole said, looking at his young
partner. "Why don't ya just lob a grenade at 'em?" He turned back to
Herman. "I'm sorry. He's only been on this detail a month."
"How? You say he was . . ." Herman took a breath.
"He was. . ."
"Mutilated." Cole finished the sentence. "We're
still trying to get a handle on exactly what happened. It's a little strange.
We're not exactly sure how the room was accessed. There were video cameras on
every hotel floor, but according to the hallway security tape, nobody went in
or out of his room at that time in the morning. There is no way down from the
roof, no balconies—real whodunit."
"Roland is dead?" Herman tried
to make it stick in his spinning brain, thinking this was easily the worst day of his
life. He felt responsible. He had sent Roland up there.
"Sir, I'm sorry to have to do this while you're in here with
heart problems, but in a homicide investigation time is everything and we have
to move quickly. I need to know in what capacity Mr. Minton was working for
you."
"He was an electronic forensic investigator," Herman
said evasively. "Sometimes, when we're in a trial and aren't able to get
data from a defendant that we've subpoenaed information from, I would employ
Roland to help me locate it."
"You mean steal it, don't you? You hack it off someone's
computer," Sergeant Cole said.
"No," Herman fudged. "He would access Web pages,
read corporate reports, try and make an informed guess as to which computer or
company might have the stuff we're looking for. Then I would file a new
discovery motion and try to get my hands on the electronic data."
"And he had to
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