The piece did have a sense of churning instead of learning, as Rook liked to phrase it. “Speaking as someone who knows a bit about journalism, there comes a point in a news cycle where the public appetite for the topic is hotter than the information flow. So you get recap and talking heads and very little that’s new.”
To underscore that, the network rolled archival footage of the Free Mehmoud pickets, blending with archive video of the Free Mehmoud hack message, and the press conference in which the Syrian ambassador to the United Nations (with a circumspect Fariq Kuzbari stationed in the background) demanded that Mehmoud be returned from custody, all the while denying his nation’s involvement in the unfortunate cyber event. In a jailhouse statement issued through his attorney, Mehmoud Algafari declared himself to be not a criminal but a prisoner of conscience. Nothing new in that, either. A black hat expert on hacking, who was photographed in silhouette with his or her voice electronically altered, told Nikki something she didn’t know. The hacker said the MISD vulnerability stemmed from the fact that New York City doesn’t employ developers, but mainly expert caretakers. Competent, but not elite code writers. Sounding a lot like Darth Vader because of the vocal processing, he/she said, “Most of the applications the city’s MISD network uses come from a hodge-podge of third-party sources, and that’s why they haven’t been able to execute a unified solution. It’s like herding cats.”
When the commercial came on, Nikki said, “You ready for bed?”
“Sure.” Rook furrowed his brow gravely. “But one can’t help but wonder. Is this the night before the morning after?”
Nikki swatted his ass with a dish towel and said, “One way to find out. I’ll be right in.”
“You’re only going to get his voicemail again. This is very OCD of you.”
“I’ll be right there. Don’t start without me.”
Rook made her laugh, performing an over-the-top sexy model’s runway walk up the hall, and calling over his shoulder, “Gait analyze this.”
Heat did redial Backhouse’s number, with the same result. Then she switched off the TV and stared at its blank screen a few seconds in contemplation. She picked up her cell again and scrolled to Sean Raley’s number. “Hi, did I wake you?”
“Mmm, no.”
“Of course I did. I have an assignment. As King of All Surveillance Media, it may be the greatest challenge of your reign. You ever try herding cats?”
An administrative aide took Heat’s CompStat homework first thing upon her arrival the next morning, bound the spreadsheets with thick rubber bands, set them inside a cardboard box, and gave them to an officer for hand delivery downtown at One Police Plaza. “As long as you’re keeping stats,” observed Rook, “the true crime is you having to do the bean counting by hand like that.”
“No intranet, no electronic data. We can’t risk emailing sensitive attachments like that on public domains.”
“Sure, but come on. What’s next, sleeve garters and a green eyeshade?”
Nikki gave him a side-glance. “Is that on your list of turn-ons now?”
“No.” He paused. “Yes.”
The homicide detectives started gathering in the bull pen. Heat quickly signed vacation authorizations for some patrol officers and staff, accepted an invitation to speak at a school assembly at P.S. 199, and then hurried into the squad room to join the briefing.
She hadn’t missed much. Raley and Ochoa, back from the previous day’s field trip to Peekskill, were getting filled in by Detective Rhymer on the Wilton Backhouse incident and his self-imposed exile. Rook added that both he and Heat had been dialing the professor’s cell phone compulsively, as well as emailing and texting. “No pickups, no call backs, no texts, and the emails are now bouncing back with an I’m-out-of-the-office message.”
“Dude’s not careful, it’s going to be an I’ve-been-offed message,” said Feller.
Inez Aguinaldo took her seat. “Cranky Randy this morning.”
“It’s my default setting. You’ll get used to it.”