Huston, James W. -2003- Secret Justice (com v4.0)(html) by Secret Justice (com v4.0)

Author:Secret Justice (com v4.0)
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2012-07-19T18:44:42+00:00

The three FBI forensic experts sat in DeLong’s office with their roll-on luggage and equipment stacked behind them. The leader of the team, Peter Symmes, spoke. “So what exactly is our role here?” He had that federal look about him, dark blue pants, cheap polo shirt, and government-issue haircut.

DeLong was quite proud of himself that he had convinced the police chief of Monrovia to allow the FBI to assist in the investigation. What he didn’t know was whether it was too late. “To assist the Liberian police in the investigation.”

“What does that mean exactly? Do we have control of the scene?”

“No, you don’t. But the police—”

“Has the car been moved?”

“No. It’s in exactly the same place it was when it landed. It has rained several times though.”

Symmes grimaced. “That’s always helpful.” Symmes thought about the investigation for a moment. The one thing he didn’t want was to be involved in an investigation that was going to be a failure. He was positive that if he was given a free hand and control of the evidence he would find out what had happened. But in his experience, when he went to a third world stink hole, and all the people who thought they were smart were walking around booting evidence out of sight, the likelihood of a successful investigation fell off the table. Either he was in charge, or he was gone. “What do you want out of this?”

“Who did this, how they did it, and why. We’ll be working with you. We have people running down the victim’s family, friends, other possible motives. But we need your help on the bomb. One of the . . . people on my staff said he thought it was C4.”

“On what basis did he make that statement?”

“He examined the photographs.”

Symmes tried not to show his contempt for such opinions. There was nothing he liked better than an amateur telling him the exact type of explosive used in a car bomb from a photograph. Even he couldn’t do that.

“Maybe you can tell us,” DeLong said, reading Symmes’s silence. “Tell us what it was, where it came from, whatever. Look, we need some help here. We may be on to something. They don’t have much terrorism here. If that’s what it was—but it probably wasn’t some loan shark angry at a debtor, or someone who hates banks that blew up someone to make a point. It may be that some bad people are here and we need to know what they’re doing and why. And at the end of the day, it’s always about us.”

Symmes nodded.

“I’ve arranged for a vehicle to take you guys over to the scene. Remember, no jackets, hats, or anything else that say FBI.”

Symmes shook his head. “So the geniuses can take credit for our work.”

“I don’t really care who gets credit. What I care about is finding out who did this.”

“I care about both. Because we want them to call us first the next time, and they’re more likely to do that when they know that we can help them, and that we will.

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