Chapter 7
SEVEN
Metropolitan Police Department, Homicide Unit
Detective Eric Birch was sitting at his desk, trying to transcribe his scribbled notes into the system when his cell phone rang. “Birch,” he answered without looking at the caller’s identity.
“It’s Sergeant Medina. I’m not sure why I even bother trying to take personal time,” he griped as a way of greeting. “Trying being the operative word there.”
Alex Medina was his boss and out of the city today for his grandchild’s birth. His daughter was having a scheduled C-section. For him to call, this had to be something urgent. “Everything all right?”
“There’s a loaded question. Keeping it to business, you’ve probably heard about the lockdown at Founders. There’s over eleven hundred people inside.”
“I have.” It had dominated most of the chatter around the station for the last hour and a half.
“Listen, you know how it is in situations like this. Every available unit and officer, regardless of rank, is boots on the ground. I wouldn’t pull you into this if there was an option. I know you’re working the Gordon case.”
Don’t remind me… Thomas Gordon was pulled from the Potomac with a gunshot wound to the chest three weeks ago.
No wallet or jewelry, and it presented like a fatal robbery.
With little to go on, the investigation file felt bound for cold storage like Gordon’s body.
A break from the murder could only help perspective. “Just name what you need.”
“Those on scene have a potential suspect for you to check out. It’s unknown whether he’s still inside the hospital or if he served as an accomplice and left before the lockdown. You have authorization to enter and search his home.”
“This person’s name?”
“Stevie Cross.” Medina provided the man’s address.
Eric wrote this down on the page in front of him. “Why is he a suspect?”
Medina brought him up to speed.
Access and a lousy credit score. Check.
Medina added, “If, by chance, you find him, treat him as hostile. We don’t take chances.”
“Which you don’t have to tell me.”
“And watch your steps, period. The FBI’s been called in to help with negotiations. Guess some rich boy is inside. Something Maddox. Name ring a bell for you?”
“It does actually.” Eric was certain he’d seen it in the news that morning. Some humanitarian story.
“Well, you know how the world works.”
Eric could fill in the gaps. His boss got especially moody when people pulled on their privilege. Even more so when the FBI became involved. Eric wondered if Sandra was one of the FBI negotiators called to the scene. “I’ll request an officer or two to accompany me.”
“And hopefully you can get them. Most of MPD’s resources are out scouring the area around Founders Hospital, collecting plate numbers.”
Officers, resources, interchangeable. “Understood. And who do I call with my findings?”
“Lieutenant Coleman. He’s acting as team leader today. You have his number?”
“I do.” Neal Coleman was an outstanding cop, worthy of respect.
“Great. Don’t call me.”
Medina ended the call before Eric could even think about asking his boss to elaborate on personal matters. Hopefully all was going well with his daughter and the birth.
Eric saved what he’d been working on and backed out of the system. He wasted no time signing out a car and driving across the city to the address of Stevie Cross.
Eric knocked on Stevie Cross’s door and rang the bell. No luck. And not a surprise, really, when it was highly probable that he was inside Founders Hospital.
While Eric was armed with a warrant to breach and search the home, he wanted to sweep the perimeter before heading inside. He walked along the side of the house and stopped next to a window. The curtains were pulled back, and he peered inside.
Cross was sitting in a stuffed armchair in the corner, leaning forward and gripping his head in his hands. There was a bottle of bourbon on the side table and a rocks glass with little left in it. Cross was doing some day drinking.
He must have sensed Eric’s presence because he lifted his head and looked straight at him. Did a double take.
Eric tapped the glass and smiled. Busted!
Cross staggered to his feet. The front door was open by the time Eric got back there.
“Stevie Cross, I’m Detective Birch. We need to have a little talk.”
Cross shrugged, acting nonchalant as he backed up and waved for Eric to enter.
Eric stepped just inside the door, finding the man’s reaction to him unsettling. He’d rather meet with outright hostility than lukewarm hospitality. “I’m sure you know why I’m here.”
Cross met his eyes. Small, little black beads sunken into a doughy face. Silence.
“Let me lay it out for you then. You turned up at Founders this morning, though not clocking in for your shift. When you were there, you accessed the hospital’s server room. Tell me what you did in there.”
Several seconds passed in silence. It was like the guy was stoned.
“You better get talking,” Eric pushed.
“Someone stole my keycard.”
“And your eyeballs?” Does he not realize I know about the retina scanner? Eric motioned for Cross to spin. When he didn’t, Eric yanked his arm to make him turn, and then snapped on handcuffs. “You’re coming with me.”
“Please, don’t do this. You’re making a mistake. I was made to do this.”
Eric spun Cross around again, continuing to hold one arm. “Creative. I’ve never heard that before.” Given the situation, Eric wasn’t in the mood to give the guy the benefit of the doubt.
“I mean it. Listen, I never meant for this to happen. The whole lockdown thing, the system crash.”
“Who said anything about a system crash?”
Cross wet his lips. “I told you someone made me. I just opened the room. The guy did something with the mainframe.”
“Did what, specifically?”
“I think he uploaded a virus.”
“You think? You’ll need to do better than that.”
“Ya know, to take out the phones and internet.”
“And that’s all?”
Cross swallowed roughly. “It could be worse than that.”
A cold sweat blanketed Eric. “How much worse?”
“It might have jeopardized medical charts and records.”
People will die… “Tell me what he uploaded and how to override it.”
“I couldn’t tell you. This guy, he—”
“Give me a name,” he snapped.
Cross flinched.
“I don’t care if he promised to come for you and your family. I have a promise for you too. I will make sure you go to prison for a very long time, and trust me, you’ll be at the bottom of the pecking order. I suggest you get talking.”
“Brent Hartley.”
“Just like that?” Eric remained skeptical. Cross hadn’t been willing to name anyone a moment ago, but put against the wall, he served someone up.
“Yeah, it’s the truth.”
Usually when people made that claim, the opposite was true. Eric played along. “So this Brent Hartley uploaded the virus?”
“Ah, yeah.”
“And who is Brent Hartley?”
“He used to work at Founders until they canned him a few weeks ago. Guy’s not happy, I tell ya that.”
Eric wasn’t moved by Cross’s story because that’s how it sat. Like fiction. He hauled Cross out of his house, only giving him time to slip into a pair of shoes before he rattled off the Miranda Rights.