След из крошечных подсказок.
It was November 5, 2001. Commander Grigoriy pinned the evidence Team Triangle had collected earlier that week to the corkboard.
A single bleached hair. A paint chip no bigger than a sesame seed. Two crumbs of dried plum.
He stepped back and studied the collection.
“Earlier this week, you gave me a crime scene,” he said, pacing in front of the board. “Today, I want a direction. Observer Grigoriy, you’re up.”
Observer Grigoriy had spent most of the night in the Clan’s laboratory and computer room. He cleared his throat and stepped forward.
“Lead One: the paint chip. Under magnification, the outer layer is dark brown, but beneath it is a layer of rust-red primer, along with a tiny fleck of chrome. Factory paint jobs don't usually look like that. This vehicle has been repainted, and not particularly well. Judging by the layers, I'd estimate it's fifteen to twenty years old.”
Commander Grigoriy nodded. “Good. Radio Operator Grigoriy, what did you find out about the hair?”
Radio Operator Grigoriy flipped open his notebook.
“Hydrogen peroxide, as we suspected. But there's something else. Look at the color, sir. It's brassy, almost orange near the roots. A professional salon would have corrected that with toner. Whoever did this used a cheap home dye kit, probably quite recently.”
“And that tells us what?”
“We checked the nearby shops. Only one sells that particular shade. It might be where our suspect lives.”
“An excellent possibility,” the Commander said. “Engineer Grigoriy?”
“The vehicle records were a mess, Commander, but I managed to narrow things down to three possible locations.”
Engineer Grigoriy unrolled a torn corner of a city map and pinned it to the board. He marked three spots, then stretched red thread between them.
“Three leads. Three locations. All within a close proximity of the store.”
Commander Grigoriy studied the map for a long moment, tracing the red thread with one claw.
“Then we have a town to investigate. You will observe only. No contact with the suspect, no unnecessary risks, and absolutely no improvisation.”
He paused and fixed the three mice with a stern stare.
“And no nuclear weapons.”
“That was a one-time response,” Radio Operator Grigoriy muttered.
“It was a mongoose.”
“A very suspicious mongoose, sir.”
“Dismissed!”
By midnight, Team Triangle was making its way through the neighborhood surrounding their final lead. They kept close to the walls, moving through patches of darkness and avoiding the pools of light beneath the streetlamps.
“Garage ahead,” Engineer Grigoriy reported from his overwatch position on a drainpipe. “Side door closed. No lights inside. There's a tarp covering something large, though. One corner has slipped.”
Observer Grigoriy and Radio Operator Grigoriy approached the garage. With a little effort, they squeezed beneath the partially raised door and slipped inside.
The garage smelled of oil, dust, and old rubber.
They crept toward the covered object.
Observer Grigoriy carefully lifted the loose edge of the tarp.
Brown paint.
He leaned closer. A deep scrape marked the front-left fender. Beneath the dark brown finish, a narrow streak of rust-red primer was visible.
They lowered the tarp without disturbing anything and retreated beneath the garage door.
Once outside, Observer Grigoriy raised his radio.
“Commander, this is Team Triangle. We have a vehicle match. Brown paint, rust-red primer, and damage to the front-left fender.”
By morning, Team Triangle had prepared an anonymous tip and submitted it to the police department. The message contained the vehicle registration, the suspect's name, and enough supporting details to persuade the police to investigate.
At police headquarters, the Chief read the tip twice before passing it to the officers gathered around his desk.
“I recognize this handwriting,” he said.
One of the officers leaned over to examine the note.
“From where, Chief?”
“From the financial scam tip we received this past February. Same handwriting. Same peculiar way of forming the letter G.”
“Do we know who sent it?”
“No. But whoever it is seems to know things that even we don't know.”
An officer frowned at the note.
“Did we ever run it through forensics? Fingerprints, perhaps?”
The Chief shook his head.
“We did. The lab found nothing but mouse prints.”
“Mouse prints?”
“That's right. The forensic team couldn't identify a single human fingerprint. Their conclusion was that the sender's home must be infested with rodents.”
The officer stared at the note.
“That's a rather unusual infestation, Chief.”
“Indeed,” the Chief replied, folding the paper. “And apparently, a very well-informed one.”
Следы мыши.