That night Georgia pored over the surveillance tapes of the flash rob on her computer. Reggie was telling the truth. The digital files on YouTube consisted of a series of staccato images, all wide shots of the store from various overhead angles. She could clearly see the kids stuffing clothes into their pants pockets, backpacks, and jackets, but she couldn’t see their faces. Even so, Georgia felt a chill. The marriage of technology and bad intentions had created an entirely new kind of crime: impulsive, passionless, and organized by smartphones on the spur of the moment. It was a powerful warning of what could happen to a society where envy, a sense of entitlement, and electronic toys converged.
She clicked on the file that was supposed to show the drug deal going down. A tall, lanky white boy was at the register, while another kid, presumably Chase Bartell, stood behind the counter. Something changed hands, but whether it was a packet of drugs, money, or just a credit card wasn’t clear. Georgia was surprised the cops hadn’t pursued it. If she were still on the force, she would have. She went back to the YouTube tape. All the police needed to do was connect one face or phone number to the flash rob. Just one. Had they started to make an effort but then dropped it? If so, the Bartells’ or their attorney’s clout was serious.
She drummed her fingers on her desk, making sure she tapped each finger the same number of times. Had to make them all come out even. She’d requested Chase Bartell’s cell phone records from a contact who did that kind of thing under the radar. While she waited she clicked onto Facebook. Chase Bartell’s profile was typical of high school students: grandiose pronouncements, lots of cursing, and a pseudo-cynical philosophy. Nothing hidden or private. Georgia studied his friends list. She found two boys, one African American and one Hispanic, who lived on the South Side. Looking them up, she compared their photos to the surveillance tape. There wasn’t a lot of definition, but she thought the Hispanic boy might have been on the tape.
She wrote down his name and his Facebook moniker so she could cross-reference him later. People should only know how easy it was to be a PI these days. She’d worked hard for her license, but so much information was online now, just waiting to be viewed, collated, and analyzed, that almost anyone could set up as an investigator. And teenagers were so oblivious to anything other than themselves, they never imagined their information could be used in a way they hadn’t intended.
She got up and stretched. She could take a break. Go down to Mickey’s for a drink. If she did, though, she wouldn’t make it home until late. And she’d drink way too much. She glanced around her living room. Her décor was bare-bones neutral; she had never been into possessions. With a beige sofa, brown chairs, coffee table, and small area rug, it was obvious that only one person lived here. She wondered if that would ever change. On this chilly January night, for example, she would have loved— She forced herself to stop. It was what it was.
The cheerful chime of her email told her the cell phone records had arrived. She went back to her computer. The kid’s cell was registered to Stephen and Marlene Bartell. They had a family plan, and her contact had obligingly provided all four cell numbers. Four phones for three people—what was that about? She checked them all. One had a lot of calls to the 312 area code. Downtown Chicago. The two others were mostly calls to 847. The North Shore. One phone hadn’t been used at all. She’d have to trace them all. It would be tiresome. Then again, that’s why she was a PI.
Two hours later, she was satisfied the cells were clean. No suspicious or disposable numbers. And the cops had the same records. That was probably why they’d passed. This case was going to take more than a superficial effort. In fact, since she’d begun, all she’d done was duplicate their work. Facebook and other social media were the first places cops checked when there were crimes by juveniles. The only thing she had going for her was that the cops hadn’t cracked the case either.