Pi Day Doomsday

SID

The sun rose over the Briscoe household catching Barb, a modern day June Cleaver, making breakfast. The aroma of eggs, bacon and brewing coffee wafted through the house, waking Mica. Canceling the alarm, he saw the time was six a.m. The last time he glanced at the clock, trying to sleep, it was four. Great! Two hours sleep. He rested his head back on the warm pillow for a few more minutes sleep. Immediately, the bedside telephone rang and aborted his attempt.

“Hello,” he answered, yawning, “this is Mica.”

“Is this Officer Mica Briscoe?” the female voice inquired.

“Well, yes it is. May I ask who’s calling?”

“Sorry to call you so early, officer. This is Lieutenant Sherry Poole with the Orange County Sheriff’s Special Investigation Division.”

He jolted upright in bed, rubbed his eyes and trying to sound alert, said, “No problem Lieutenant Poole. I was just about to jump in the shower. What can I do for you?” He expected the call, yet dreaded its arrival, especially at six in the morning: a harbinger of mountains of red tape.

“Officer Briscoe, did you bring an anonymous tip letter into our office last evening?”

“Why yes, I did. Around nineteen-forty hours. Gave it to Sheriff Victor. It wasn’t my find, though; a mechanic found it in my cruiser during a maintenance stop.”

“Juan Moreno, right?”

“Yes that’s correct.” Covering the telephone’s microphone, he called out to Barb for a cup of coffee. He could see the conversation dragging on for quite a while.

Poole took a deep breath and continued, “Well, we have your evidence in forensics now and have found several fingerprints on the outside but not one on the letter itself. Do you think they’re Moreno’s?”

“Probably. He found and handled it before I could bag it.”

“We’ve checked his record and found a few minor arrests but nothing serious. No felonies, I mean. Would you consider him a suspect?”

“Can’t say that I would, Lieutenant Poole. He’s been with our SJC maintenance shop for as long as I can remember. Never caused a problem… other than a few misdirected pranks. They caused no harm, though.”

“What about you, Officer Briscoe? Do you hold any grudges against the world? Are you happy in your job?”

“Now wait a minute Lieutenant Poole, I’m as straight as an arrow. Check my record; you’ll see it’s clean as a whistle.”

“Oh we have, Officer Briscoe. It’s flawless, but we have to explore all our leads and they obviously begin with you.”

Barbara entered the room with coffee, handed it to him, and whispered, “Are you in trouble, Mica?”

Shaking his head no, he replied to Poole, “I understand that and I want to help in any way I can, but remember I’m just a traffic cop, nothing more, nothing less.”

“Okay then, you can begin by stopping by our office this morning for questioning.”

He choked on his first sip, then said, “What? Wait… I have to be on shift by ten a.m.” He paused and stuttered, “Am-am I a suspect?”

“Officer Briscoe, everyone’s a suspect until we have more information. We plan for you to provide that to us. We’ve talked to your shift supervisor. They’re not expecting to see you today.”

“Lieutenant, this is rather uncomfortable for me. I don’t even know what’s in the envelope. How can I help you more?”

“Simply put, officer, by telling us where you might have received the letter. We’re hoping a security camera caught the drop. We’ll walk you through your last few days and try to determine when and where it was placed in your cruiser.”

“Okay, I can do that. I’ll start rehashing my last week on my way up there. What time?”

“Plan to spend your normal shift with us. We’ll expect to see you around ten a.m. Okay?”

“Have any donuts up there Lieutenant?” he asked, chuckling.

“Does a bear poop in the woods? Of course we do, Briscoe. We’ll save a plate for you.”

“Great! I’ll see you then. Take care, Lieutenant Poole. Oh, are you in the main building with Sheriff Victor?”

“No, we’re in the Crime Lab on Flower Street, third floor, back of the building in SID Lab. Ask for me at the front desk; I’ll lead you back.”

“Thanks Lieutenant. See you soon.”

He placed the phone into the cradle and stared at it for seconds wondering why him? Did someone target him or was it just a random encounter and his cruiser happened to be there. He shook it off, to be solved another time, and sipped his coffee into the kitchen, joining Barb for breakfast.

The large clock on the wall showed nine-fifty as he entered the lobby of the multistoried Crime Lab on North Flower. The desk sergeant’s call brought Lieutenant Poole down the stairs into the plush lobby of black marble and gleaming steel. She looked all business, her uniform pressed with sharp seams, her graying brunette hair in a tight bun at the back of her head. She exuded authority, something he admired in his business. He noticed on her approach that she was shorter than he expected, but her more-than-ample bosom compensated for her height.

“Good morning, Lieutenant,” he said, smiling.

She returned a slight smile and responded, “Morning Officer Briscoe. Please follow me.”

Briscoe, intimidated by her abruptness, began moving toward the elevators but stopped when she pointed toward the stairway.

“We use only the stairs here. I like to think it keeps us in shape.”

Trailing behind her, heading upward, he commented, “Well, from what I can see, I’d say it’s working.”

She stopped, glared back at him, and said, “I don’t know whether to thank you or slap you, Officer Briscoe, but that was uncalled for. We’re on duty here.”

Blushing, he offered, “Sorry Lieutenant. I meant it as a compliment.”

Poole turned and continued up the stairs, “Compliment my abilities, not my appearance, if you must. I will accept that.”

He smiled and retorted, “Well then, Lieutenant, you climb the stairs with muscular grace.”

Pausing to scold him once more, she hesitated, then continued upward with a sly smile and said nothing more until the third floor landing. “This is our stop,” she said, opening the stairwell door.

Amazed by the opulence of the offices as they entered the hallway heading to the lab, he observed, “Wow, you guys have some nice perks, here. This makes our building look shabby.”

“You should have seen our old lab. Crowded, dim and ancient, it affected our performance. We worked harder and they rewarded us. It was a long time coming, though.”

“Well, that gives me hope. Even though I spend most of my day out on patrol, it would be nice to come back to this.” He smiled and added, “Guess I’ll just have to write a few more tickets.”

Poole smiled, then stopped. “Here we are. Home sweet home.” Over the door was a sign lettered Special Investigations Lab. Poole punched a cipher into the electronic lock and opened the door, revealing an enormous futuristic science lab. Black-topped lab benches loaded with autoclaves, Bunsen burners, microscopes and titration towers, centrifuges, computers and electronic instrumentation surrounded the room. It smelled of science, reminding him of his high-school chemistry class. Intermittent beeps and clicks sounded through the room, indicating tests either were in progress or complete. Silently, four workers dressed in white lab coats attended to their tasks, moving from bench to bench in hurried concentration.

Three small conference rooms and a larger mirrored interview room stretched across the rear of the lab. In one of the smaller rooms, he could see five uniformed and black-suited individuals surrounding a table in a heated discussion. Each of them was holding a single piece of paper waving it occasionally in front of them.

“That’s the Adam task force,” Poole said, leading him toward the room.

“Really?” he asked. “Named after what? A-T-O-M or A-D-A-M”

“A-D-A-M, trying to keep it innocuous. It’s written on the evidence cover.” Thinking further, she added, “But that’s a curious observation. Something we have considered.”

Moving quietly into the room, Poole offered him the head seat and took the chair beside him. The conversation paused as they sat; twelve eyes rested on him. Uncomfortable but confident he nodded to the team seated around him.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is CHP Officer Mica Briscoe, the one who found the evidence.”

She cleared her throat and continued, “Officer Briscoe, allow me to introduce the taskforce.” Pointing around the table at each individual, she started, “Special Investigator Gene Keller, O.C. Sheriff’s Office, Special Agent Doug Strong, with the FBI’s terrorism unit out of Quantico, Special Investigator Linda Combs, Cryptanalyst, L.A. Sheriff’s office, Dr. Herman Weisner, Forensic Psychiatrist with our lab, and finally Special Agent Lashawn Gibbs with the U.S. Department of Homeland Security.”

He swallowed audibly and said, “Well, I must have uncovered some threat. This is quite a formidable team. I just hope I can help.” He glanced at the papers in their hands and asked, “Is that the contents of the envelope? May I see a copy so we’re all on the same page, so to speak?”

Poole slid a copy from the center of the table to him. “This is a double-sided photocopy of the note in its entirety. There were no fingerprints found on the original. It was typed on a vintage typewriter using yellowing paper. Someone intended an element of intrigue.”

He read the front, then turned it over to the empty backing and said, “Is this it? It’s just a poem. Anybody recognize Gin Nose?

Team members around the table eased back in their seats at his first evaluation.

Psychiatrist Weisner studied him briefly, then asked, “Is that all you see, Officer Briscoe?”

Briscoe turned it over in his hands again, inspecting it closer. “I see that it is rather nonsensical; possibly the work of a kook.”

“Read the title and first paragraph aloud for us please, Officer Briscoe,” requested Weisner.

Telescoping his arm in and out, he settled at arm’s length and started, “Poetic Aim.” He looked around at the expectant expressions, and read on, “no math clue err, cursed it’s not, dinosaurs cartoons: paradise lost, delays one’s spot.” Ending the paragraph, he lowered his arms to the table.

Weisner spoke up, “Again, Officer Briscoe, what do you take from that prose?”

He chuckled, “As I said before it’s a poem. Gibberish. Makes no sense to me at all. I’m wondering why we’re all here.”

Agent Linda Combs, cryptanalyst with the L.A. Sheriff’s office, sat up in her chair. “Officer Briscoe, it’s a ciphered message, not unusual for societal threats. Have you ever heard of anagrams?”

“Yes, but help my memory.”

“Scrambled letters made into words.”

“Oh. Well I solve the Cryptoquip and Jumble in the Sunday paper every week. Those are anagrams of a sort.”

Agent Combs grinned and spoke, “Yeah. Kinda like that.” She took a deep breath. “It appears this is a mixed cipher poem written in a free quatrain style. We first noticed some of the introductory lines tied to the mention of WMDs on the cover; they were anagrams of particularly disturbing words.”

He knitted his eyebrows and asked, “Like what?” He scanned the poem again.

“We can’t be sure yet, we need the full context of the poem to better understand it, but the title, Poetic Aim, easily anagrams to Atomic Pie, a rather humorous phrase, but tied to WMDs, it sprouts some horns.”

“Think it’s a coded recipe?” he bantered, smiling.

Combs glared at Briscoe, visually admonishing him. “Officer Briscoe, there’s no place for levity here. Please don’t waste our time with irrelevant humor.”

“Yes, ma’am. Sorry, I’m just brainstorming.” He continued, “But why pie? I’m reminded of humble pie. What liars are said to eat when caught in a lie.”

“Interesting, Officer Briscoe. Go on,” said Combs.

“Saying it out loud, it also sounds like pi, a homophone, spelled P-I, the mathematical constant I hated in geometry class; I could never wrap my mind around it. Then once I finally understood it later in life, it awed me.”

“That’s very intuitive of you, Officer Briscoe; almost too much so.” Combs said, frowning.

Eyes directed downward, he admitted, “Must be my Mensa showing. I try to keep it toned down. Excuse me.”

Poole chuckled and interjected, “You mean you’re a genius traffic cop?” Quiet laughter surrounded them.

“I’m a traffic cop because I chose the adventurous life after I left the service. I scuba dive for a hobby and run marathons for my health. I served my country as a master diver in the U.S. Navy at Point Mugu, here in California, and did a damn good job of it. I was one of the navy’s finest. I can’t help that I was given above average intelligence, Lieutenant Poole.” His squinting, glaring eyes hung on her fading laughter.

Poole back stepped and said, “Sorry officer, it’s just a standing joke around the lab. Rare as unicorns, they do exist; you’re living proof.”

Irritated by her debasing comments, he let fly. Still thinking of pi, he looked back to the poem, then Combs. “What about no math clue err? Is he referencing pi?” He was caught up in the brewing puzzle, no longer playing dumb.

“No. Thermonuclear.” Combs shot back.

He quickly matched the letters between the phrases, agreeing with the solution. “Correct. Who’s doing the decoding?” he queried.

Doug Strong, Special Agent with the FBI’s Antiterrorism unit spoke up. “KryptoKnight, our super computer in the Quantico cryptanalysis lab is working on it. So far it’s spewed out thousands of possible solutions, ranging from groupings of one-letter to sixteen-letter words. We must ultimately decide which ones are pertinent to this threat.”

“I see.” He looked back at Combs, probing deeper, “And cursed it’s not?”

“Destructions.” She held up her hand to stop his next reference, “Are you getting it now, Officer Briscoe?”

“Yeah, unfortunately I am. Thermonuclear destructions. Plural. What does the rest of it say?”

Combs scowled and replied, “The next lines are harder to decode. He gave us a few easy ones to lead us in, and who knows, he may have changed the cipher method. The rest of the poem may not be anagrammed. The FBI’s computer is still working on it.”

Squinting into her frown, he asked, “Are you sure it’s a him?”

“No, not really, but Dr. Weisner seems to think a male best fits the profile. We’re hoping you can tell us for sure with your memory.”

“You mean where I’ve been patrolling lately?”

Lieutenant Poole interjected, “Yes, that and more importantly where you’ve been stopping lately.”

He grinned broadly and said, “Well then, you’re in luck today. I do have the memory.” Pulling a flash drive from his khaki jacket, he offered it to Poole. “This morning I remembered that I’ve been part of a new pilot GPS tracking program for cruisers. I don’t like it because it invades my privacy, but maybe it will help in this case. I stopped by this morning and downloaded my last week’s information onto this drive. Should be about forty hours and a thousand miles of data, stops and all. It was a slow week,”

“Excellent!” Poole exclaimed, taking the drive from him. “This is the break we’ve needed.” She wheeled around in her chair and called out the door, “Garcia? Could you come in here please?”

Delores Garcia, one of the sharpest of the forensic computer analysts at the crime lab, appeared at the door within seconds. “Yes, Lieutenant? What can I do for you?”

Reaching out with the drive, Poole answered, “This USB drive contains the GPS coordinates of Officer Briscoe’s patrol route over the past week. Could you please map it with a coordinated time line. We’re looking for stops of a few minutes or longer where someone could have dropped something into his cruiser window. No rush, but we need it yesterday.”

Garcia smiled, said, “No problem,” then took the drive and turned to leave.

He added, “Oh. I generally crack my windows open on stops when the outside temperature is ninety degrees or higher. They’re closed otherwise and the doors are always locked.”

“Good point, Officer Briscoe,” said Poole. She turned back to Garcia and added, “So map his stops with the time and outside temperatures over ninety highlighted. Can you do that?”

“Sure, I’ll just have to coordinate his location data with the hourly temp data at his location. That’s simple. How about the data formatting on the drive. Is it CSV?” She waited for an answer.

“I believe it is,” he replied. “They told me it’s standard CHP location data coding.”

Garcia nodded and left the room to begin her task. It was not a trivial task, but happily, there were no cloak-and-dagger constraints involved; straightforward GPS to mapping conversions were something she performed almost daily for vehicle tracking. The temperature element made it slightly more interesting.

His eyes followed her down the hall. “How long will it take her?”

Poole answered, “Probably several hours. Most other labs would take days but she uses a mapping app she developed. Does it in minutes. The temperature aspect is new, though. Still, she can modify her code on the fly and do miracles, sometimes. I’m never disappointed with her work.”

“So am I done here?” he asked, starting to rise.

“Keep your seat, officer,” Poole said, nodding to Weisner.

Weisner stood at his chair and addressed Briscoe, “Officer Briscoe, you must realize by now that you are our prime suspect in this investigation. And until we prove your innocence or identify the sender, you’ll remain so.”

The hair on his neck bristling, he rose to defend himself. “That’s preposterous! My record is impeccable. I would never do anything like this; ask my wife, Barbara. I’m on your side.” As an afterthought he asked, stuttering, “Wh-what about Juan Moreno? H-his prints are on the envelope.”

“We’ve already cleared him. He came in earlier for printing, then took the same tests we are about to give you. Sailed through with flying colors,” answered Weisner.

“I figured that. He’s no terrorist. A joker maybe, but not a terrorist.”

“Do you think this is one of his jokes? Does it match his priors’ M.O.?”

“No. I think not,” he admitted.

“Well then, Officer Briscoe will you consent to a few tests to clear your name?” Weisner glanced down and said, “This is as embarrassing for us as it must be for you.” He smiled and walked to Briscoe’s side. “Let’s go next door and clear your name.”