Back in her car, Tracy lowered the volume on the radio as she made her way across town to Police Headquarters. She contemplated a scenario in which the tape had been edited to eliminate someone coming in and out of the building. She could think of two immediate problems.
First, whom could she tell?
She couldn’t go to Stanley. Stanley had provided Tracy with the tape, and could, somehow, be involved in editing its contents. Tracy also couldn’t call up the security officer who produced the tape because, again, he could have been the person who did the editing, maybe on his own, maybe at someone’s request. She also couldn’t go to Leah Battles or Brian Cho because either—on their own or on someone’s order—could have been the person who went into the building, stole the tape, and hid in the office until the janitor left. Both knew where to find the tape as well as the evidentiary significance of it. Working in the building, they both also likely knew the court reporter’s schedule and would have known that he had already gone home that evening. They also knew the janitor’s schedule. It didn’t, however, explain how they could have edited the security feed, unless they were working for or with others—which meant maybe there was something more to the rumors that the Navy was involved in a cover-up. About the only thing the tape did was eliminate the janitor.
But if Tracy was right about any of the suspects, the tape didn’t explain how the person got into the DSO building without entering the last four digits of his or her Social Security number. Before leaving home to meet with Melton she’d tried to match the people on the tape with the Social Security numbers entered for that evening. She confirmed that neither Cho, Stanley, nor Battles had entered their Social Security numbers to get back into the building after they’d departed. At least the log provided to her by Stanley did not note any of those three numbers. Could the log also have been tampered with? A thought came to her and she pulled to the side of the road. She retrieved her briefcase and pulled out the log of numbers. On the tape, it had taken Al Tulowitsky nine minutes after leaving the building to dump the garbage and return, which seemed like a longer time than necessary. She checked the log and noted his arrival at 11:03 p.m. Scrolling down further, however, she did not see the same four digits. Tulowitsky had not reentered his code when he’d returned from dumping the garbage at 11:26 p.m.
She sat back, wondering if the janitor could have taken the cassette with him when he cleaned Battles’s office and put it in his truck, or had given it to someone when he went outside. It would have been simple enough for him to do so, but again, it didn’t provide an explanation for why he didn’t reenter his Social Security number. It also didn’t explain why someone was clearly hiding from him.
So why had it taken Tulowitsky so long to dump the garbage? Tracy wondered if there was some other way to gain access to the building, despite Battles telling her that there was not.
Tracy had another problem. She looked at the date on her cell phone and wondered if the original video even still existed, or if it had been copied over. According to Rebecca Stanley, the Navy had a retention policy, but Stanley either didn’t know that policy or deliberately didn’t tell Tracy. Then again, the retention policy might not matter; someone could have already recorded over the tape, inadvertently, or deliberately.
Tracy found Detective John Owens’s 360 area code in her recent calls, and pressed the number. Owens answered on the second ring. Tracy explained what she’d learned from the tape and what she was contemplating. Then she asked, “You said you had experience dealing with the Navy?”
“It comes with the territory out here,” Owens said.
A gust of wind rattled her car. The rain continued to fall, and dark-gray tendrils reached down from a cloud layer suffocating the city. “I need to get into the security office, today. Can you make it happen?”
“I can try,” Owens said.
“I don’t want anyone to know we’re coming.”
“I understand.”
“I also want to talk to the janitor again, Al Tulowitsky, but not at work, not in front of his boss.”
“You think he’s involved?”
“Maybe unintentionally. I have a theory. See if you can find a contact for him. I’m going to catch the next ferry, if it isn’t full.”
“This time of evening, with the commuters, it’s likely full. Just walk on,” Owens said. “I’ll pick you up at the dock.”
Leah Battles had been sitting at her desk going stir-crazy since her banishment. She’d endured a telephone interview with the ethics investigators from Washington, DC, which made her want to puke, and was now waiting for them to make a decision on bringing an ethics charge, which would no doubt be a precursor to a court-martial. It hung over her, constantly on her mind. She couldn’t even go out of her office and engage the staff to distract her thoughts and kill time. She remained radioactive, and, as such, others gave her a wide berth when they saw her coming. They weren’t unfriendly. They smiled or nodded. A few even said hello on occasion, but no one ever stopped to ask how things were going. At times it made coming into the office almost intolerable. If the brass was going to court-martial her, Battles wished they’d just get on with it. At least a hearing would give her something on which to focus her energy, which was better than sitting at her desk slowly dying of boredom.
It seemed everything had been put on hold since Trejo’s death, including her fate.
Nearing four in the afternoon, she lifted her head to the sound of a light tap on her door. It startled her only because it was the first visitor she’d had in a week. She expected Darcy, who was the only person who engaged in anything beyond superficialities.
“Come in.”
Rebecca Stanley pushed open the door and stepped into the office. Battles quickly turned off Pandora, which she was streaming over her computer to keep her company, and stood.
And just like that, Battles found those nerves of anticipation.
Be careful what you wish for, she heard her mother say.
Stanley did not visit often, and never just to chitchat. Battles also knew that bad news was always best delivered in person.
“It’s depressing in here,” Stanley said. The only light came from the Tiffany desk lamp. Stanley flipped on the overhead fluorescent tubes. “You need an office with a window, though given the weather this past month, I’m not sure it would offer much.”
Battles wondered if the mention of a different office was a good sign. “Seattle natives use weather to keep people from moving here,” she said.
“So I’ve heard.” Stanley walked to one of the two chairs and sat. “We all could use some vitamin D.”
There was an awkward pause. Finally, Battles broke the silence. “I’m assuming this isn’t a social visit.” She even mustered a smile.
“I’m afraid not. Part of my job is delivering bad news.”