Bend, Oregon
April 17
“Detective Colson,” she said as she answered the phone.
“Detective, it’s Peter Savage. Do you have a minute?”
“I’m surprised to hear from you. Look, if you’re going to tell me you’re lodging a complaint with the department, save your breath. Our review of your records was by the book, and I’ve already briefed the chief.”
“No, actually, that’s not why I’m calling. Have you considered the victim’s email?”
“Look, Mr. Savage. I am not at liberty to discuss this investigation with you. You’ll be hearing from either myself or Detective Nakano if we have any questions for you.”
“Yeah, I get it.” The friendliness was rapidly leaving his tone. “So I won’t ask you any questions. But here’s a suggestion. I was talking with Kate Simp—”
“Now you listen here,” her voice was hard, threatening. “You’d better stop poking your nose into my investigation, or I’ll book you into jail myself!”
“Calm down. I’m not interfering with your investigation. And there’s no law against me talking to Kate.”
“You’re walking on a razor’s edge, Mr. Savage.”
“Look, all I want to suggest is that there may be something of importance in Emma’s email. Think about it. This wasn’t a random burglary, and you know it. This was planned. Why would the killer be after the laptop?”
“Stay out of this investigation before you muck it up!”
“I’m not in your investigation. Just tell me you’re going to check into her email account.”
Ruth Colson debated for a moment before replying, “We already have.”
Peter was surprised. “Okay. And?”
“I shouldn’t tell you this, but it’s not important to the case anyway. Nothing, okay? We found nothing.”
“What do you mean? She didn’t have any emails?”
“No…” Ruth replied irritably. “What I am saying is that there was nothing—no messages sent or received—that in anyway were out of the ordinary.”
Peter felt deflated. After his conversation with Kate he was certain he was on to a useful lead—something that would help explain how a magnetic impulse weapon had made it into the hands of a murderer.
“We’ve questioned Kate Simpson at length. We’ve gone at this from every angle. Trust me on this—we’re not a bunch of dummies. I’ve been a detective for close to 15 years. I know what we’re dealing with, and it’s not a standard burglary. Now, if you have something useful, let me know. But I’m warning you for the last time: stay out of this.”
Richard Nyden—alias Agent Barnes—was enjoying the crisp, clear morning. This was his first visit to Bend, and he felt it suited him well. Nestled on the eastern slope of the Cascade Range, he had a panoramic view of snow-capped peaks from his hotel on the bluff overlooking the Old Mill District. He was well into a 10-mile run—working off the culinary indulgence from the previous evening—when his phone rang.
He stepped off the trail paralleling the Deschutes River to answer the call. “Did you read my report?” he said, already knowing the other party by the caller ID code name.
“Yes. That was smart, planting a bug in the house. I trust you hid it well?”
“Well enough,” Nyden said. “Plus, there’s no reason for anyone to suspect listening devices were planted, so no reason to search for them. Got three of ‘em: in the living room, kitchen, and bedroom.”
“Just the one meeting?” he heard the voice say.
“That’s right. And the police don’t seem to have any clue—no pun intended.”
“What is the probability that this guy—Savage—will find something you missed?”
“Zero. I didn’t miss anything. We accessed her email account and deleted the emails. Done. End of story. They’ve already gone through a backup cycle, so even if someone got overly suspicious, there’s nothing on the backup server either. But, if you’re losing sleep over this, I can take care of it.”
The other party on the call knew exactly what Nyden meant. He was an accomplished killer. Trained by the Marine Corps, battle hardened, resourceful, and intelligent. Richard Nyden had planned to complete at least 20 years with the Corps, then retire and go into the private sector—corporate security, hired gun with few questions asked.
But that plan evaporated one day when he shot an entire Afghan family. Three generations, dead. All because Nyden snapped—that was the diagnosis from the base shrink. For three weeks the Marines had been taking heavy casualties from sniper fire and IEDs. One of Nyden’s buddies was killed and two more severely wounded when a roadside bomb was remotely detonated as the patrol passed. Despite three to four patrols each day, the Marines were never able to catch the insurgents or get the villagers to identify them. So, following a tip, Nyden took care of the problem himself.
His fellow Leathernecks refused to testify against him. They had all said the Afghan elder had a rifle, but none was found during the investigation. With only circumstantial evidence, and it being a war zone, Nyden was acquitted of murder and manslaughter. The best the Court Marshal could do was convict Nyden of conduct unbefitting a Marine, and he was out. Seventeen years of honorable service wiped from the records.
Upon returning home, Nyden was unemployed for less than a month. He soon learned that there was an underserved market for a man with his particular skills. He was hired by a secretive organization known as the Guardians, although exactly what they were guarding was never clear. He usually worked alone, other times in a small team of two or three. Orders came from encrypted email and phone calls. Money was wired into one of several accounts in each of his aliases. He was almost always travelling and had no need for a permanent address.
The money was extremely good, especially since he didn’t file a tax return—Nyden didn’t believe in paper trails. He liked living off the net, using different aliases so there were no records of his existence. He was an apparition; at best, a distant memory in the minds of family and friends he had once known.
“No need to get heavy handed; not yet anyway. I’ve got a contact at the Cyber Crimes division of the FBI. He’s at the Portland office.”
“And what’s he gonna do?” said a skeptical Nyden.
“Don’t worry. He’s not in your league. But for a few thousand, he’ll open an investigation into Peter Savage. Hacking government databases or something. He’ll create a credible story to support the allegations; enough so, anyway, to get the local Bend police interested. Maybe even arrest Mr. Savage.”
“What good will that do? We both know the charges won’t stick—unless you’re also planning to fabricate incriminating evidence.”
The voice didn’t answer right away. Nyden assumed the other party was contemplating doing just that. “No, too much time and possible links that could expose us. I think it will be sufficient to implicate Peter Savage on multiple federal offenses. He’ll be so busy trying to clear his name that he won’t have time to probe any deeper.”
Nyden listened. So far this was interesting but irrelevant to him.
“I did some research on Mr. Savage,” the voice said. “He owns a business that makes special weapons. Something you might be familiar with—they call it a magnetic impulse firearm. Sound familiar?”
Nyden smiled at the irony. The inventor who manufactured his preferred assassination weapon was about to be falsely implicated for hacking government databases. All to cover up a crime committed with one of his guns—the gun itself being illegally acquired by the Guardians. Brilliant!
“Orders from the Department of Defense will dry up as soon as word gets out—and I’ll be certain the FBI issues a press release and internal memos right away accusing Peter Savage of identity theft, wire fraud, espionage… I’m sure my contact will produce a long list of allegations.”
“So what do you want me to do?” Nyden asked.
“For now, stay glued to that bug you planted in the house. Let me know immediately if there are any more conversations between Peter Savage and Kate Simpson. If Ms. Simpson gets curious and starts sticking her nose in our business, you know what to do. Oh, and when the police take a renewed interest in Mr. Savage, I’ll want your report without delay.”