An Apple for the Creature

“First thing we do,” said Young, “is define the scope of the investigation. That changes a lot as you go. Then the geographical area, because of jurisdictional stuff. Then describe the offense as well as we know it, and describe any participants or other involved parties. That changes, too. Then we target the weak links, and go for them. Start the dominoes falling, until we get to the top. Just like all intel investigations. Always simple, always easy, and always successful, right?” That was the last laugh of the morning.

—

They broke for lunch, served in the academy cafeteria. The intelligence officers sat away from the fifty or so basic law enforcement recruits who were also in session, and mingled only at the salad bar. The three instructors hung back a bit, as the eight from their intelligence class went through the line.

“How ya think it’s going so far?” asked Ben as they watched the class fill their trays.

“We got their attention,” said George.

“You see the one I mentioned?” asked Norma.

“The one from Iowa City?”

“Yes. Detective Dillman. Louise Dillman. She’s the one we want,” said Norma. “Sure of it. Her chief agrees.”

“Well, good enough, then,” said Ben. “She’s sure the right type.”

“Really pretty,” said George.

Norma elbowed him. “Not pertinent. Dirty old man.”

“Not dirty,” he said, affectionately. “Pretty isn’t pertinent as a qualifier, but it’s gotta be difficult to blend those looks into the general population, though. That’s what I meant.”

“I’ve seen her undercover,” said Ben, “and trust me, you wouldn’t recognize her.”

“Really?” said Norma. “Then how did you know it was her?”

“The way she nibbled my ear,” said Ben.

“You’re both awful.”

“Who’s got the dirty mind, here, I ask you? No, really, though. All made up, straight black hair, not blond like it is now. Fake piercings. Fake tattoos. Tank top. Boots. Wouldn’t recognize her unless she showed you her ID.”

“Memorable, huh?” said Norma. “Working Johns undercover?”

“Not really. Posing as an art major, working burglaries from student housing.”

—

The rest of Monday and all of Tuesday and Wednesday were taken up by flowcharts, relational databases, Facebook and Twitter accounts, blogs, alerting reports to be forwarded to the intelligence analysts, and the need to know and right to know criteria for this type of investigation. Dull, often repetitious, but vital to maintaining the confidentiality and restricting the dissemination of the material they would be developing in such cases. All examples, however, were taken from actual cases, and that helped alleviate the boredom.

Ben’s closing statement at 1630 hours on Wednesday consisted of three sentences: “Tomorrow we do the media relations stuff in the morning, and then we split up and do some practical stuff in teams. Normal street dress. Have ID, but don’t display it.”

—

The eight students had been under a rather loose surveillance themselves, and had been dividing up into groups of three and five to go out to dinner, and then entertain themselves for the evening. The group of three tended to go to a movie, while the group of five tended to party at local bars until closing time. Detective Louise Dillman, of the Iowa City Police Department, was a prominent member of the latter group.

—

As the instructors gathered for their own supper and entertainment, they discussed Detective Dillman.

“How do we want to handle breaking the news to her?” asked George.

“We,” said Norma, “thought you should be the one to do it.”

“Oh, nope. Not me.” George looked at his two friends. “Well, then, why me? Ben, you could do it easily. Norma, you’d be perfect for the job. I’m just an old fart with some stories.”

“But you discovered it.”

“You were right there, right after Ben. Hell, it couldn’t have been more than an hour or so.”

“Yeah. But you were there first, and you’d be the best for this. Firsthand is always best.”

George sighed. “How much do I drop on her?”

“Just lay it out, within reason,” said Norma. “Ben and I’ll take the others on the field trip. You just get her in a quiet place, and then take her to where she can observe while you talk. That ought to do it.”

“What if I become aware,” asked George, “as this thing goes down, that we’re wrong about this?”

“About her, you mean?”

“Yeah, Ben. About her. Her qualifications. That’s why you should do this.”

“Norma and I picked her,” said Ben. “Too close to the subject. Got to be you.”

“And if you decide she’s not the one we want, then just slow it down, or minimize it, or whatever, and get out of it gracefully,” said Norma. “That’s what I meant by within reason. But that’s not gonna happen, my boy. She’s our girl.”

George held up his beer glass. “That’s me, old graceful.” He took a drink. “Here’s to you being right,” he said.

“You have doubts?” asked Norma. “Seriously?”

George leaned back, and looked at both of them. He was silent for a few moments, and then heaved a sigh. “Oh . . . no. Not really. I think we’ve got the right one. Just, you know, err on the side of caution sort of stuff.”