Ambush (Michael Bennett #11)(50)

“Gait analysis hasn’t given us anything,” Taft said. “We found no matches to Pushman’s avatar. This is the first time he’s been on RTD property.”

“What are the weaknesses of the software?”

“Not many.” Taft tilted back in his chair and folded his arms. “Simply feigning a limp won’t fool it. Neither will slowing down or speeding up. This guy’s heavy clothes are a deterrent—especially that blanket. But we still have a high level of accuracy.”

I dropped my elbows to my thighs as I ran down a mental list of possibilities.

“What if we’re making the wrong assumption?”

Taft cocked his head. “What do you mean?”

“What if the guy isn’t homeless?”

“That would make him a hell of a good method actor.”

“Maybe it’s a good costume. Maybe he even spent a few months building the persona—the dreads, the beard, that shuffling walk. If he did that, he would have created a completely different avatar from his normal one.”

“Meaning he’s been on RTD property in the past, but we’ve got him marked as a different person.”

“Right.”

“Why would he go to such lengths?”

“So he could scope out the place. He might be a local who rides the trains and knew he could be recognized. Or . . .” A little buzz built in my skull. “Or he didn’t want to be tracked once he left the station. Maybe he didn’t disappear. Maybe he became someone else.”

Taft rubbed his jaw. “You’re talking a lot of work and some serious premeditation.”

“But it’s possible? The hunch and the shuffle, the heavy clothes—those might be enough to fool the software?”

“Maybe. Our software doesn’t look at externals, so the hair and beard don’t matter. But those other things . . .” His voice trailed off as he replayed the tape. “It’s possible to create a gait that can fool the system. But it’s not easy. Our killer would have to know specifically what elements to adjust. Just switching from a walk to a shuffle wouldn’t do it.”

“What if his backpack was weighted? Would that matter?”

“Probably not. It changes your walk, but in ways we can predict and correct for.”

“How’s that?”

“When people gain weight naturally, over time, their body adjusts, and they maintain their normal stride. Thus, if a man went from a hundred and fifty pounds in January to two thirty the following December, he’d still have the same gait. But a person’s walk changes if they suddenly pick up a heavy load. Their feet strike the ground harder. It’s physics, and it’s not something you can easily compensate for. Our cameras will catch the change. It’s how we watch for backpacks with bombs.”

“So not easy. But doable.”

“In theory. If our guy was a pro, he could have practiced carrying the load off camera or even gradually increased the load, again off camera, without giving himself away. Now you’re back to premeditation.”

I considered the Alpha and the resources he might have. “If you figured the guy knew exactly how to fool the system, would your software be able to accommodate for that?”

Taft’s eyes went soft. “I know you want this to be more than a random tragedy, Sydney. We all do. But what you’re suggesting sounds like a conspiracy. Or a professional hit. Why would Kane be a target for something like that? It’s ugly and pointless, but the homeless angle makes a lot more sense.”

“Can we take ten minutes to play pretend?”

If the look in his eyes went any softer, I’d be tempted to hit him. I told myself it was sympathy, not pity.

He shook his head. “It’s not that simple. We can build the avatar based on certain assumptions—weight, height, skeletal structure. But if you want us to build a database of possibilities, we’ll have to go through thousands of data points.”

“When you created your avatar and ran it, did you find any outliers? People the computer pinged on but rejected?”

“I’ll ask our analyst, Meredith. And I’ll run your idea by her. But if she didn’t find any outliers, I don’t see how we could do this.”

“Can you at least try?”

“It isn’t the best use of our resources.”

I made my voice as soft as the look in his eyes. “This guy killed one of ours, Ryan. This man pushed Kane—”

“You’re preaching to the choir. We’ll look. We’re all hands on deck with this, Sydney.”

I looked down at my feet for a moment, then stood. “Thanks, Ryan. Let me know what you find.”



Back outside, instead of getting in the truck, I grabbed Clyde’s dish and some water from the cooler and took him into the shade beneath a small grove of dispirited sumac entrenched at the far end of the asphalt lot. I poured water for him and, after a moment’s hesitation, dug out a cigarette from my rainy-day stash in the glove box and lit up. Two steps forward, ten back.

While Clyde enjoyed the water and the breeze, I worked to annihilate my lungs as I watched the street for a brown sedan and checked my phone for a message from Cohen. Nothing.

He was busy, I told myself. He’d call later.

Clyde finished drinking the water, then stretched out in the shade, his tongue lolling. I stuck the cigarette in the corner of my mouth and squatted beside him. I reached under his vest and scratched. His tail thumped. I scratched harder, and his tail matched my tempo.