The Lost Island

9

Sergeant Adellepoise Johnson was in charge of the Third Tier Evidence Vaults in the vast basement complex of One Police Plaza, in Lower Manhattan, almost in the shadow of the Brooklyn Bridge. Sergeant Johnson had been a chain of custody supervisor for ten years, and during that time, in each of those years, she was the supervisor who’d experienced the lowest rate of CoC infractions. For that extraordinary record, she had been awarded an “Integrity” commendation with a dark blue star and a Meritorious Police Duty citation, both of which she wore proudly on the ample front of her uniform. She had fifteen clerks handling evidence curation for her, as well as another dozen assistants and technicians, and she managed them with military precision and correctness. She knew as well as anyone that evidence management was critical to the outcome of criminal prosecutions. While she might not be the most beloved supervisor in the Evidence Vaults, she was the most respected. People were proud to work for her.

It was a Friday, nine o’clock in the morning, and Sergeant Johnson had been in since seven getting an early start on the computer paperwork of the week, reviewing all the evidence that had been checked out or returned, every movement of every shell casing and hair and DNA swab, whether for trial, lab work, or on-site examination. Maintaining the chain of custody of evidence was of paramount importance, and in the past few years the entire procedure had been computerized, with digital video recording of absolutely everything that was done to a piece of evidence, by whom, when, and why.

Sergeant Johnson was never happy when someone arrived to examine evidence by surprise, and she was particularly irritated that it would occur on a Friday morning. But occur it did. One of her evidence clerks arrived with a tall, thin gentleman in an expensive dark suit, sporting a wiffle cut that practically screamed FBI. And sure enough, he was a special agent of the most annoying kind, one of those who thought they were God’s gift to law enforcement and that beat cops were a lower form of life.

“I’ve spent over an hour now getting credentialed,” the man said in a sarcastic drawl. “I tip my hat to the efficiency of the NYPD.”

With this, he held out his badge and a folder containing his credentials.

Sergeant Johnson never got into it with anybody for any reason. She rose from her desk — her sheer size was often all that it took to quell a sparky personality — gave the man a smile, and took the badge and folder.

“Special Agent Morrison?” she asked.

“That’s what it says on the badge,” he said.

A real hard-ass. She looked at the ID, which was brand new, and the badge, also new, and then looked at him. He looked new, too. Fresh out of the academy. They were the worst.

“So you’re working on the Kells case, Agent Morrison?”

“It’s all spelled out in the file.”

“And you want to examine the forged page, I see.”

“I repeat, it’s all spelled out in the request, Sergeant.”

“You understand, Special Agent Morrison, that in CoC situations the less evidence handling that goes on, the better. It’s my responsibility—” She emphasized the my—“to make sure any evidence handling is necessary and justified. I’m telling you this to make sure you understand the procedures.”

“I’m sure you will find that my examination of the evidence is not on a whim, and I can assure you the FBI would not be happy if my request were denied.”

Sergeant Johnson had dealt with Morrison’s type countless times before, and it was almost laughable how predictable he was. Spoiling for a fight even before there was reason for a fight. She opened the folder and carefully examined his credentials and documents. Everything did indeed look to be in order. The FBI had gone through all the proper channels, the only issue being that Agent Morrison was three hours early for his scheduled appointment. But again, that was typical FBI. The reason for the examination was standard and pro forma, evidentiarily justified and legal.

She approved the documentation, signed it, stamped it, and handed it back. “I will accompany you,” she said, rising.

“Fine,” said Morrison.

He didn’t seem interested in knowing why, so she added, truthfully, “I do this with many high-profile cases. My testimony can be helpful if the defense raises CoC issues.”

“It’s your call,” he said.

Johnson, the evidence clerk, and the FBI agent proceeded to the elevators and descended to the basement, which had been completely renovated in 2011 as part of a major expansion project. Much of the new space had been devoted to state-of-the-art evidence curation, and entering it was like entering the spotless corridors of a first-class hospital. It was a long walk to the Third Tier Vaults, which housed all the evidence in active, open criminal investigations. It was the most important of the three tiers of evidence storage.

After passing many numbered doors, they came to the appropriate storage room. The clerk deactivated the alarm, and the door opened to reveal a beautiful, clean white room with locked cabinets and a plastic table and chairs. There were cameras in all four corners of the ceiling, which Sergeant Johnson knew were recording their every move.

The clerk put on sterile, powder-free latex surgical gloves, scanned the numbered cabinets, and approached one. She punched a code into a nearby keypad, and the cabinet sprang open. Peering inside, she removed a shallow tray and brought it to the table.

“Do you need to handle it?” Johnson asked Morrison.

“Yes.”

“Then you’ll need a face mask and gloves, as well.” She almost added a hair net to the list, just to be difficult, except for the fact that Agent Morrison had almost no hair.

Frowning, Agent Morrison donned the gloves and a face mask, and then sat down at the table. He pulled the tray toward him and looked down at the forged page of the Book of Kells. Johnson, curious, edged closer to take a look. What an amazing-looking thing, she thought, so intricate. It would have been nice to see the original — before it was stolen.

Morrison reached into his suit and removed a notebook, which he laid down on the table beside him, and began taking notes in pencil (pens weren’t allowed). He placed a loupe to his eye, examining the page silently. The time began to drag on, and on, and on. Five minutes went by, and then ten. What on earth was he looking at? She glanced at her watch but decided to say nothing. She was fairly sure Morrison was no expert, and the ridiculous examination was nothing more than the man feeding his own swollen ego.

She and the evidence clerk exchanged a glance.

And now, finally, Agent Morrison picked the page up and examined it while holding it closer to the light, squinting at it and turning it this way and that. Again, the examination went on interminably. Again Johnson exchanged another glance with the clerk, more exasperated this time. Her legs began to ache from standing, and finally she eased herself down into a seat; the clerk, with evident relief, did the same. Would this never end?

Yet still he examined it. Now he was taking more notes, writing rapidly in his notebook in an illegible hand, acting like the expert she was sure he wasn’t.

Suddenly there was a clatter and she rose from the chair to see that the agent had clumsily knocked his notebook off the table, which was now lying spread out beneath it, with loose papers scattered all about. He had jumped up, the page in hand, and was bending down to pick up the notebook, his back to her. She was about to call out to him to put the damn page down while he collected his things but then he turned, still holding the page in one gloved hand, while with the other he fixed the rifled pages of his notebook, putting them back in order.

With a disapproving stare Johnson sat back down, while the agent went back to his examination, taking still more notes.

“Done,” he said at last, placing the page back in its tray.

Without a word, Johnson creaked once again to her feet. The clerk put the tray back into the cabinet, made sure it was locked; they signed out and proceeded out of the room and back down the long white corridors. All routine.

Sergeant Johnson didn’t realize they had a problem until three hours later, when the real Special Agent Morrison arrived for his appointment — right on time.