CHAPTER 42 Sampson
Sampson
ANNA RIZZO AND I are once again with Dennis Chan in the basement of the DC Metro Police headquarters, hovering over his shoulder as his fingers fly over the keyboard.
As Chan works, his eyes never move from the two large monitors on his desk. “When John asked me to go back to the old style of catching arsonists, I have to say, I was skeptical,” he says. His voice sounds weary.
Rizzo turns to me. “Why arsonists?”
“Something I remembered from working with Alex Cross,” I tell her.
“It has to do with their psychology. Some arsonists get off on seeing the results of their work and watching the emergency response. That’s why when police photographers show up at the scene of a suspected arson, they take pictures of the spectators in addition to the fire damage. ”
“But arsonists and terrorists are two different animals. Seems like a stretch to me,” says Rizzo.
“I thought so too,” says Chan. “But John asked me to give it a shot.”
“What did you do, exactly?” Rizzo asks. I can tell she’s intrigued.
“What I did,” says Chan, “was load every frame of surveillance footage, raw media footage, and personal photos we could find from anywhere near the bombing sites. Then I processed them all through a facial-recognition program that doesn’t officially exist and that I’m not supposed to have access to. ”
On Chan’s side-by-side monitors, still images are whizzing by in a blur.
“The program is called Flash Talbot. It uses AI and a borrowed quantum computer system from Fort Meade.”
“What’s going on in here? Movie night?”
It’s Ned Mahoney. He steps into the cubicle next to me. He reeks of McDonald’s, and he could use a shower.
I point to the screens, where the image flurry is slowing down. “Dennis says he might have something.”
“Any luck with Langley and my C-4 taggants?” asks Rizzo, her eyes glued to the screens.
“Progress is supposedly being made,” says Mahoney. “But nothing yet.”
“I thought you were best buds with the president,” says Rizzo.
Mahoney nods. “Langley wasn’t overly impressed. Presidents come and go.”
On both monitors the images have slowed to a crawl.
Then they freeze.
One image on the right. One image on the left.
We all lean in.
I hold my breath.
The frozen image on the left screen shows a white male in a tan jacket and black baseball cap, hands in his pockets. He’s standing in a crowd, looking straight ahead.
The other image shows a white male in a dull yellow jacket and black baseball cap, hands in his pockets, also looking straight ahead. Same kind of setting. Same outfit. Same posture.
The images are fuzzy, but in both photos, the man has a strong chin, prominent cheekbones, heavy eyebrows.
“It’s the same guy,” says Rizzo softly.
“Can you sharpen the pictures?” asks Mahoney.
“They are sharpened,” says Chan. “I’m limited by the quality of the raw material and the degree of enlargement. This is military-grade software, but it’s not military-grade footage. We can’t count nose hairs.”
I look back and forth between the two screens, squinting and angling my head as if that will help. “Do we know who he is?”
“Not yet,” says Chan. “That’s the next step, crunching through a ton of visual data from Homeland Security, Bureau of Prisons, all the military branches, the DMVs, private security companies—and any foreign assets we can tap into.”
Rizzo smiles. “You mean hack into?”
“Only if they refuse to play nice,” says Chan.
I reach out and tap the frozen images with my fingertip, one after the other.
“Whoever he is—that’s our guy.”