Chapter 11–Monday, 2:50PM

Herb recognized the VBI car the moment it pulled up across the street. Unmarked. Tan. About as nondescript as you could get. Didn’t they know they stuck out like a sore rib? Two agents, both in dark suits and sunglasses, stepped out of the vehicle and walked quickly to the station’s back entrance. Herb had only expected one agent. Oh, well, two minds were better than one, Herb thought. He watched silently as they approached, then jerked the door open as they reached out to knock.

“Come in quickly,” he whispered. When they had slipped past the door and it was secured again, Herb led the two down the hall a few steps and, after pausing to key in the passcode at the door, ushered them in to the secret domain of the GCPD’s CSI tech team. String, the only green bean on the force, and Ted, a turnip, were hunched over microscopes. Jordan, an older, shriveled gourd, sat at a computer, Truman looking over his shoulder.

“Truman,” Herb’s sudden greeting startled the scientist. “I’d like you to meet the VBI’s men.”

Truman rushed over to greet his guests. Herb turned to the two. “You can take off those glasses in here, gentlemen.”

“Lady and gentleman,” the shorter of the two spoke as she removed her glasses. It was Monica. The chief hadn’t recognized her in such modest attire.

She reached out to greet Truman. “Monica’s the name,” she said as he gripped her hand. “And this is Capote.” The man, a smallish zucchini, removed his glasses.

The tech’s exchanged glances. “Truman,” Capote nodded. “Capote,” GCPD’s finest nodded back. “Let’s see what you’ve got,” the former suggested. With that the two trotted over to Jordan’s computer. The gourd gave up his seat and Capote settled in. Truman pointed to the screen and began jabbering about ones and zeros.

Herb turned to Miss Stewinsky. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m here in a supervisory role. VBI policy. Tech guys aren’t allowed out alone with agency equipment during an investigation that’s been compromised by leaks.”

“So you’re here to keep us honest. Is that it?” Herb was a bit miffed.

“Your guys and my agent.” She left it at that. “Can I see the photo?”

“The altered one?” Herb asked. “Sure.” Turning to Truman, the chief asked, “Which computer should we use to bring up Linda’s most recent email contribution?”

The asparagus pointed to the workstation in the corner. He was too busy for words.

Herb led Stewinsky to the machine, double-clicked on an icon labeled “Peanut Butter Stew” and a log-in screen came to life. Herb entered his username and password then brought up the email Linda had forwarded to Truman’s lair. A couple more clicks and the image that had caused such a stir that morning filled the screen.

Stewinsky leaned close, examining the pixels. She reached for the keyboard. “May I?” she asked.

Herb stepped aside and Monica went to work. She plugged a tiny drive into the port on the desktop and then tapped a few keys. A dizzying array of code streaked across the screen. For ten seconds they watched and then Stewinsky stopped the stream with a single keystroke. “There it is,” she said with a smile.

“There what is?” Herb asked stepping closer.

“The signature I wanted.” She was grinning.

“Signature?” Herb was puzzled. “You were looking for a signature?”

“A digital signature,” the agent clarified. “As I suspected, the person who fixed this image hid it, but not well enough. See here,” she said pointing. “This tells me what program was used to alter the image. PhotoChop 7.8. And...” she paused to type in a few letters, “this should tell me who did the...”

The sentence died on her lips. “Capote! Come here!”

The agent at the other side of the lab pulled a drive and jogged over.

“Look at this,” Stewinsky pointed to the screen.

“PhotoChop 7.8,” the tech agent mumbled, scanning the code before him. “PhotoChop 7.8 and... No ID!? Wow! This guy’s good.” Pointing to the machine he’d just left, he continued. “We’ve been able to reconstruct the phone log over there. All of it except the call in question. I can’t crack the encryption our ‘friend’ has used.”

“Any luck with the voice message?” Stewinsky asked.

“Haven’t started on that yet,” her agent replied. “I’ll get to that in a minute, but what I’m wondering right now is how many people in this town have PhotoChop 7.8. It’s brand new. Just out. In a town this size, I’m guessing not many folks have it yet.”

“I could help you find out.” It was Woodstalk. He’d come in while everyone was eyeing the screen.

“And who are you?” Capote asked.

“The name’s Woodstalk,” Herb answered for the rookie. “He’s not assigned to the lab.” He glared at the boy. “But I suppose he could help with this.” Then to the rookie, “What are you doing here?”

Woodstalk’s face registered shock. “What?! I come back here all the time when I don’t have something pressing to do.”

“Well now you have something pressing to do,” Herb snapped. “Go do it.”

Woodstalk started to reply, but thought better of it. He hung his head and turned sheepishly away. He was out the door before anyone breathed again.

“What?” Herb said. They were all staring at him.

No one answered.

Capote broke the silence. “Let’s have a listen to that voice message.” Truman and Capote exited the main room. Jordan slunk back to his desk. String and Ted turned back to their monitors. They suddenly had tons of work to do.

“What was that all about?” Monica asked. The softness in her voice nearly crushed Herb’s heart.

“Oh, nothing,” Herb answered. “The kid startled me, that’s all.”

“I see,” Stewinsky said. “Remind me never to startle you.” She stalked off toward the door Truman and Capote had passed through. Herb was left to stew alone.