Episode 3 - Vandals
“Two men vandalized the station while you were gone," Irma reported. "One of them tried to open the doors of the Power Wagon and he was looking at the undercarriage. The other attempted to force the front door with a pry bar. When that didn’t work, he tried the back door.”
I really don’t need this right now. The entire week was stressful enough with Jerry micro-managing every move, every decision. This news just dumped another load onto the crap pile. Tonight, I wanted to drink a beer, eat some pie, and veg for a while. I shook my head. Not gonna happen. I exited my pity party and started paying attention to what Irma was telling me.
“. . .and the security company called 911.”
“Were you able to record?” I asked.
“Of course,” Irma replied, disdain oozing from her voice. The AI has been giving me a lot of attitude lately and I was trying to deciide if this is a program feature or a bug. Maybe it was time to tweak her human interaction matrix.
“The vandals disabled three of the standard surveillance cameras but they didn’t notice the button cams. The security company forwarded the video to the police dispatch desk. They also filed a preliminary incident report on your behalf.
“Did the cops catch them?”
“No.The perps were gone when the police arrived.”
One of the reasons for buying the old gas station was its relative isolation. My nearest neighbor is a half-mile east toward Saline. That said, living in the boonies has a few disadvantages, one of which is longer emergency response times.
“Put the footage on the flat screen, please.”
The wall-sized television lit as Irma displayed the videos. The events played out as described except for the final scene. When the vandal failed to force the rear door, he dropped the pry bar and pulled a short-barreled shotgun from his bag. I watched the scene tensely as he held the gun barrel close to the lock and pulled the trigger. My Catalyst-reinforced door held but the back-splatter from the shotgun put the vandal on the ground with a shredded leg.
Serves you right, asshole!
The scene ended with second man helping the injured vandal leave the property. “Why didn’t you mention the shotgun?” I demanded.
“Because the police don’t know anything about it. I inserted a delay into the live feed and cut the transmission when the shotgun appeared. The police have no record of what happened after the vandal disabled the rear surveillance camera.”
“Well done!” I enthused. Reporting an act of vandalism wasn’t going to create a big stir, but a firearm assault and a gunshot injury would generate a boatload of unwanted attention.
“Do you recognize these guys?” I asked as Irma put their photos on the screen.
“They aren’t in my facial recognition database.”
“I need to work on expanding that,” I said. How can we identify them?
“The most efficient method would be to use a crime lab,” Irma opined, “The police have access to facial recognition databases and they might be able to use DNA fingerprinting to identify the injured perp. Unfortunately, those resources aren't available right now.”
“Did anything else happen?”
“Isn't that enough?" She asked. I frowned and waited until she gave me a proper response.
"No, nothing else happened,” Irma replied unhappily.”
I fidgeted as my mind wrestled with the possibilities. Was this a random event or part of some larger plan? What kind of thief brings a shotgun to a daytime break-in? Should Natalia and I leave, fight, or just keep our heads down?
I should be doing something, but what? What? What?
Was someone out there, watching the station? My mind paused at that thought. Yes, there was something I could do to address the watcher problem.
I rinsed the beer bottle, returned the pie to the fridge, and went through the glass door into the rear of the service bay. As part of the station renovations, I built a free-standing office/library in the front half of near service bay. The service pit in the middle of the bay was still there but the top was now covered by a heavy steel plate. The rear of the bay was my shop and fabrication room.
The shop was clean, well-lit and orderly, just the way I liked it. The only anomaly was an untidy tangle of wires dangling from a wall-mounted cable rack. I'd been installing infrared button cameras on the exterior of the building as time permitted. The tangle represented the penultimate step in that project.
“Irma, I’m going to connect the IR cameras to the surveillance system. If this works, we may be able to determine if someone is watching the building. The images won’t be color-calibrated, but they should be good enough for general surveillance.”
“OK, Colin.”
“Put the IR feeds on the workbench monitor as they appear. Let me know if we have any data problems.”
I retrieved my tools and began terminating cables, attaching connectors, and securing the labeled wires to designated ports in the video multiplexer. Faux-color images began populating the screen as the work progressed.
“Colin, I’m not getting data from camera six.”
I grimaced at the delay and picked up a misshapen bolt from the donor box. I drew power from the bolt and used my energy-enhanced perceptions to locate a broken wire within the cable sheath. Repairing the break was simple and the sheath remained unbroken for its entire length. I returned the bolt to it's box and finished the installation.
Eight colorful images populated the screen in two rows. I examined the images closely, flipping from one feed to another to assess system performance. I was pleased with the result. Even without calibration, the images were crisp and had little digital noise. The defense and security people are going to love these cameras. The new IR sensor and optics should fetch a tidy sum for my shell corporation.
Hiding in plain sight can be expensive.
“I don’t see anything out there, do you?”
“No Colin. Nothing stands out from the background.”
“I’m going clean up here and go to bed. Are we secure?”
“All security measures are operational,” Irma replied.
“OK. We’ll see what happens in the morning.”
I really don’t need this right now. The entire week was stressful enough with Jerry micro-managing every move, every decision. This news just dumped another load onto the crap pile. Tonight, I wanted to drink a beer, eat some pie, and veg for a while. I shook my head. Not gonna happen. I exited my pity party and started paying attention to what Irma was telling me.
“. . .and the security company called 911.”
“Were you able to record?” I asked.
“Of course,” Irma replied, disdain oozing from her voice. The AI has been giving me a lot of attitude lately and I was trying to deciide if this is a program feature or a bug. Maybe it was time to tweak her human interaction matrix.
“The vandals disabled three of the standard surveillance cameras but they didn’t notice the button cams. The security company forwarded the video to the police dispatch desk. They also filed a preliminary incident report on your behalf.
“Did the cops catch them?”
“No.The perps were gone when the police arrived.”
One of the reasons for buying the old gas station was its relative isolation. My nearest neighbor is a half-mile east toward Saline. That said, living in the boonies has a few disadvantages, one of which is longer emergency response times.
“Put the footage on the flat screen, please.”
The wall-sized television lit as Irma displayed the videos. The events played out as described except for the final scene. When the vandal failed to force the rear door, he dropped the pry bar and pulled a short-barreled shotgun from his bag. I watched the scene tensely as he held the gun barrel close to the lock and pulled the trigger. My Catalyst-reinforced door held but the back-splatter from the shotgun put the vandal on the ground with a shredded leg.
Serves you right, asshole!
The scene ended with second man helping the injured vandal leave the property. “Why didn’t you mention the shotgun?” I demanded.
“Because the police don’t know anything about it. I inserted a delay into the live feed and cut the transmission when the shotgun appeared. The police have no record of what happened after the vandal disabled the rear surveillance camera.”
“Well done!” I enthused. Reporting an act of vandalism wasn’t going to create a big stir, but a firearm assault and a gunshot injury would generate a boatload of unwanted attention.
“Do you recognize these guys?” I asked as Irma put their photos on the screen.
“They aren’t in my facial recognition database.”
“I need to work on expanding that,” I said. How can we identify them?
“The most efficient method would be to use a crime lab,” Irma opined, “The police have access to facial recognition databases and they might be able to use DNA fingerprinting to identify the injured perp. Unfortunately, those resources aren't available right now.”
“Did anything else happen?”
“Isn't that enough?" She asked. I frowned and waited until she gave me a proper response.
"No, nothing else happened,” Irma replied unhappily.”
I fidgeted as my mind wrestled with the possibilities. Was this a random event or part of some larger plan? What kind of thief brings a shotgun to a daytime break-in? Should Natalia and I leave, fight, or just keep our heads down?
I should be doing something, but what? What? What?
Was someone out there, watching the station? My mind paused at that thought. Yes, there was something I could do to address the watcher problem.
I rinsed the beer bottle, returned the pie to the fridge, and went through the glass door into the rear of the service bay. As part of the station renovations, I built a free-standing office/library in the front half of near service bay. The service pit in the middle of the bay was still there but the top was now covered by a heavy steel plate. The rear of the bay was my shop and fabrication room.
The shop was clean, well-lit and orderly, just the way I liked it. The only anomaly was an untidy tangle of wires dangling from a wall-mounted cable rack. I'd been installing infrared button cameras on the exterior of the building as time permitted. The tangle represented the penultimate step in that project.
“Irma, I’m going to connect the IR cameras to the surveillance system. If this works, we may be able to determine if someone is watching the building. The images won’t be color-calibrated, but they should be good enough for general surveillance.”
“OK, Colin.”
“Put the IR feeds on the workbench monitor as they appear. Let me know if we have any data problems.”
I retrieved my tools and began terminating cables, attaching connectors, and securing the labeled wires to designated ports in the video multiplexer. Faux-color images began populating the screen as the work progressed.
“Colin, I’m not getting data from camera six.”
I grimaced at the delay and picked up a misshapen bolt from the donor box. I drew power from the bolt and used my energy-enhanced perceptions to locate a broken wire within the cable sheath. Repairing the break was simple and the sheath remained unbroken for its entire length. I returned the bolt to it's box and finished the installation.
Eight colorful images populated the screen in two rows. I examined the images closely, flipping from one feed to another to assess system performance. I was pleased with the result. Even without calibration, the images were crisp and had little digital noise. The defense and security people are going to love these cameras. The new IR sensor and optics should fetch a tidy sum for my shell corporation.
Hiding in plain sight can be expensive.
“I don’t see anything out there, do you?”
“No Colin. Nothing stands out from the background.”
“I’m going clean up here and go to bed. Are we secure?”
“All security measures are operational,” Irma replied.
“OK. We’ll see what happens in the morning.”
