Executive Actions (23 page)

“Scott Roarke. He needs some bureau help.”

“Sure. What’s it for? Part of his little Boston escapade?” he added. “The one the police would give any thing to figure out?”

“He’s got something else on his mind. He doesn’t ask for much. Make it so, Bob.”

“Done. Have him at my office at 8
A.M.
”

They wrapped up their meeting with a nightcap of scotch.

When Mulligan left, the president telephoned Roarke with news about his morning meeting. Then he said goodnight. The president held off telling him about a little trip he’d be making soon. Better he get a few good nights’ sleep.

“I
need to work with that photo expert of yours up at the Academy,” Roarke said.

“Which one?” FBI director Robert Mulligan replied between bites of his onion bagel.

“You know, the Identikit guy. The nerd,” explained Roarke.

“Touch Parsons.”

“Touch?”

“Touch, like ‘touch up,’ but it’s really Duane Parsons,” Mulligan explained.

“Okay. Can I see him today.”

Mulligan made the call. Within minutes Roarke was on the way to the FBI Academy at Quantico, Virginia.

The ride was slow going. The weather bureau forecast a 60 percent chance of rain. But along I-95 100 percent of it was coming down in sheets, slowing his way. Roarke had an idea and no time to waste. He’d once seen what the Identikit could construct in the hands of an expert. And by all accounts, Touch was the best.

Mulligan cleared Roarke ahead of time at the gate, but rules still required officers to thoroughly search the underbelly of the Roarke’s Jag with mirrors, pop the trunk and check under the hood. An officer in charge scanned his photo ID with a government bar code reader, counted the ten seconds it took for computer confirmation, and then asked Roarke to place his hand on a palm print scanner.

In the past decade all of the security regulations were buttoned up, and as a result, the FBI Academy was becoming as secure a facility as the CIA and NSA. It was all necessary.

After going through another checkpoint at the front desk, Roarke was given a plastic card to pin on his jacket. It contained a microchip programmed with specific clearances; where he could walk and where he couldn’t. For Roarke it meant the elevator to Parson’s floor, the hallway and the men’s room. Any place else and a readout at the security desk would scramble officers to Roarke’s exact location.

Roarke was met by a young secretary, barely out of school, who failed to take any interest in Roarke.

“This way,” was all she said as she escorted him to the elevator and down a hall to a waiting area.

He laughed to himself. He was probably too old for her. But it did make him think about Katie and that powerful attraction they felt for one another.

“Have a seat here. Mr. Parsons will be right with you.”

“Thank you,” Roarke said.

Five minutes later Duane Parsons burst through the door.

Roarke had imagined that he’d be about 55 years old, a sloppy dresser with a goofy laugh, tape holding his glasses together; a dweeb.

Instead, a tall, trim and fit man came out.

“Hello there. I’m Parsons.” His handshake was as tight as the rest of his body. Roarke had to squeeze back just to get him to lighten up.

“Roarke, Scott Roarke. Mulligan called.”

“Yes. Yes. I was expecting you. You realize it’s not everyday Mulligan calls himself. To tell you the truth, it’s the first time. You must have friends in high places, Mr. Roarke.”

“Just one.”

“Well, from the little I heard your project is fairly straightforward. You could have gone to any number of people.”

Roarke looked him straight in the eyes. “That wasn’t possible.”

It was then that Parsons realized that this man was deadly serious. “All right, I’m honored. So whatcha got?”

“Inside.”

Parsons appeared surprised.

“Inside,” Roarke insisted this time pointing to Parson’s office. He was inside the FBI’s labs, but that didn’t mean everyone could be trusted. He didn’t know Parson’s secretary or anyone else on the floor. He closed the door behind them.

Parson’s office was typical government issue—a stark metal desk and matching filing cabinets, computers, a small round table for conferences, and a photograph of the President. The photograph made Roarke laugh. It was Morgan Taylor in a classic Brooks Brothers suit. Only he appeared to be around eight or nine years old.

“Oh, that?” Parsons offered. “Some of my work.”

With that, Roarke realized Touch was good, really good.

Instead of stopping in the office, Parsons hit a button on the top of his desk. A file cabinet moved aside, exposing a high tech computer photo lab. “This way.”

“Very Bond of you,” Roarke joked.

“Well, not really. It just allows me a certain degree of isolation while I work. What I do takes time and concentration. Mulligan gave me everything I wanted.”

“Including extra security,” Roarke suggested.

“Yes, a bit extra, and lots of toys. As a result, I’ve been able to put new faces on some old crimes. I earn my keep.”

“Now for your particular project.”

Roarke removed an envelope from his pocket and silently passed it along to Touch.

“May I?” he said, blowing air into the envelope to create space. He removed the newspaper photograph, a cropped copy that Roarke had made on a Kinko’s Kodak photo machine.

“A newspaper. Loose dot matrix. Not much gray scale to work with and a bit out of focus. But I’ve started with worse. No caption?”

“None,” Roarke lied. He intentionally cut off the caption and all other hints to its origin.

Parsons placed the picture on a scanner and before Roarke fully realized what had happened, the photograph appeared on a 19” flat computer screen.

“Now I can work with it.”

With a few keystrokes Touch enhanced the sharpness, thereby improving the focus. He added more contrast, cropped out the superfluous portions and enlarged the subject.

“Well, what do we have here. A Boy Scout. Troop 134. See,” he said as he zoomed in on the boy’s shoulder patch. I’d say your little fellow here is about 13, maybe 14. Tall for his age.” He studied the face, moved the cursor around and immediately filled in some pinpricks that the microfilm negative had transferred to the positive image. “I have to be honest with you. This is going to be hard. But luckily, the features are all developed; enough for a first pass.”

“First pass?”

“Well, I can age his face to whatever you want. But I really don’t have enough visual data with just this photo to genealogically age him accurately.”

“What do you mean? Isn’t this what you do?”

“It is Mr. Roarke. But how good do you want me to be? That’s more in your hands than mine. Let me explain. Age progression has become an important part of crime solving. I imagine that’s why you’re here. Some sort of crime. Kidnapping?”

Roarke didn’t give any ground.

“Kidnapping is why we often age children. To see if anyone recognizes them as adults. We also use the process to age adolescent criminals on the run. We’ve been able to capture them five or ten years out. Of course, that’s mostly for capital offenses. What’s your Eagle Scout? A killer or did he squeeze a Girl Scout’s tits at camp?”

“Neither. Call it
research
. I need to age the boy into his late forties,” Roarke said. “Can you or can’t you do it for me.”

“I haven’t finished with my explanation. Given that this is somehow important to you, you’ll soon understand why I’ll need more.”

“Go on,” Roarke said more politely. He sat down and watched Parsons at work.

“Look,” Parsons said, clearing his screen. He went to a file and clicked on a picture of a young girl. He quickly cycled through various stages of her life through 75. “Amazing isn’t it. An individual’s basic look holds relatively true through the years. The eyes hardly change. They’re a signature to me, just as fingerprints are to other investigators. Certainly the subject will mature, but I can extrapolate some of the variables —the distance of the eyes to the nose, eyebrow growth. Shape of the nose through puberty. Things like that. It’s the other changes that make it a real challenge. How much will the lips thin over the years? Or the hair recede? What happens to the jaw line? All of it is indeterminable. Of course, I get a little help from computer models. The programs were developed and refined in Louisiana at FACES.”

“‘Faces?’”

“Short for Forensic Anthropology and Computer Enhanced Services Laboratory at Louisiana State University. We learned a lot from them in the early years of age progression portraiting technology. We still share a great deal of information with—”

Roarke cut him off. “Not this time. You. Just you.”

“This is serious business.”

“Very.”

“Well, then, there is something that can make it far easier for me.”

“And that is?”

“Family photos, Mr. Roarke. If I have photographs of brothers or sisters during different stages of their life, and parents younger and older….”

“Not possible.”

“Come on. Parents?”

“I don’t have any.”

“Then find them,” Parsons demanded. “Get me pictures of this boy’s mother and father at ages 45 to 50. Better yet, get me a whole slew of pictures representing different years. Then the percentages dramatically increase for me to spot and track family characteristics. Oh, and health records of the parents. Get them, too. Invaluable information.”

Parsons switched to another program comparing an aging montage of a boy with his father who, as Parsons explained, suffered from diabetes.

“This case—missing persons—required determining what a boy might look like at age 35. His father had diabetes and gained a good deal of weight. Knowing that, and the boy’s genetic predisposition to diabetes, we added some pounds to him that we might not have otherwise considered.” The montage ended on the boy at age 35. It dissolved into an actual photograph of a man who had gained weight and looked exactly like the computer model. “We found him, Roarke. We found him because we added the weight. We can find them because of their health, their personalities and what we can predict that they’ll wear. All of it goes out to the FBI or police departments, or on TV. And it all helps.

“It’s truly forensics, Roarke. We quantify growth data to predict the natural changes that a face will likely undergo through life. I can manipulate grids within the face to refine, or more specifically, redefine facial features. Knowledge of the distinguishing family facial characteristics is key to predicting the spatial arrangement over time.”

Roarke was impressed by Parson’s knowledge. “How do faces change? What are the variables?”

“Faces grow downward, also outward. The bridge of the nose rises. The face broadens and lengthens. The eyes will narrow slightly, the mouth expands. Hair color will darken, then gray. There are transformations to the cheekbones. They tend to become more prominent. And there’s facial-cranial growth. It’s all, no pun intended,
relative
. Which is why I need family pictures.

“Do the parents wear glasses? Are they smokers? Do they battle with depression? Drugs? Alcohol? Everything is a factor.”

“His parents have been dead for decades,” Roarke said. “Pictures were destroyed.”

“So what are you trying to do. Locate this kid now?”

“Oh, I know where he is,” Roarke stated.

“Then why do you need to know what he looks like? Can’t you just take a picture yourself?”

“There are ample pictures of him, Mr. Parsons. Let’s leave it at that.”

Roarke stood up and stared directly at the computer artist. “Come on, Parsons. I know your reputation. You get shit to work with and you end up with fucking Rembrandts. I’m sure you can…”

“You said, one friend in a high place? “ Roarke nodded. “Okay, let me see what I can do.” He moved his computer mouse to the open file of the Boy Scout and pushed in closer to the eyes. He worked quietly for five minutes, typing computer instructions, shading the picture in a photo shop program and manipulating the image a little at a time.

Parsons sat back in his chair and considered his work. “Once more for me, Roarke. You know what he looks like, but you need me to create an accurate picture for you.”

“Exactly.”

“Then get me the other pictures. This is complex work. Without additional resources I’ll be relying on my own presumptions. And I can easily miss the obvious. Give me what I need and I’ll show you exactly how your Scout ages 33 goddamned years. I’ll nail him within six months if you’d like. Now go get yourself some target practice and come back in a few days. And bring those medical records and parents photographs I want!”

Roarke liked it when people got mad enough to prove their worth. He actually smiled. “Touch? It’s Touch?”

“Yes,” he answered.

“I like that. Nice and descriptive.” Roarke offered his hand. “Most people usually call me ‘Asshole.’”

Parsons laughed. “Well, Asshole, get moving.” He took Roarke’s hand and firmly shook it.

They both had a hell of a task ahead. Only Roarke knew why.

On his way out, Roarke’s cell phone rang. The president’s secretary asked him to hold. He stood in the large parking lot of Quantico, took a deep breath of the rain soaked air, and prepared for either a question or an order. He never expected answers from his boss. The answering part was all up to Roarke.

“Here you go, Scott,” Louise said as she connected Roarke to President Taylor.

“Scott. Was Mulligan helpful?”

“Very.”

“Then you got to see who you needed?”

“Yup,” Roarke simply responded.

“Good.”

“I’ve got to head back up to Boston and get my hands on a few other things.”

“Put a hold on that. I have a little side trip for you first. Up for some more Navy frequent flier miles?”

“The food service sucks.”

The president laughed. Roarke was absolutely right. He’d be flying in a cramped F/A-18, refueling midair courtesy of a KC-10 tanker, and eating a miserable boxed lunch. The only things worse than the food were the toilet options.

“Yes, but you can avoid all the lines at the airport. Why don’t you come by, I’ll brief you and send you on your way merry way.”

“And exactly where is that?”

“Can’t say now. But get rolling. The plane is leaving at 0300.”

“Any movie showing?”

The president considered the question, then said, “
Lawrence of Arabia
.”