But for all the cutting-edge pizzazz, there was no match.
I said, “So he’s not a known criminal, and he’s not known, period.”
“That’s right,” said Kellner. “If his image was on Facebook or any database, Hunting Wolf would send up a flare. This guy has a very low, almost nonexistent profile.”
I leaned in and said, “If you input the second face, it could match to the first. It’s still just a cold hit, but maybe we’d get a better image of this guy, right?”
“Correct,” said Kellner. “Exactly right.”
The second photo from my series was of a skinny guy wearing a dark leather jacket, knit hat, a brushy moustache, and a small soul patch.
Kellner imported it, and technological wizardry recommenced. Images flashed on the screen, stopped on the first skinny guy, now known as Kellner1SFPD, and flashed “100% MATCH.”
Kellner said, “Let’s go for a triple play.”
Skinny man number three wore a hoodie that threw a shadow over his eyes.
The mouth on number three looked different from the first two, and he had a bulge in his cheek that looked like he had food in his mouth. Kellner explained, “Could be chewing gum. That’s a time-tested method of fooling ID software. Even smiling can throw off the search function. That’s why you don’t smile for a passport ID. But don’t worry. Hunting Wolf is smarter than the guy chewing gum and wearing a hoodie.
“Watch Hunting Wolf hunt.”
CHAPTER 72
AS I WATCHED the computer screen, the software digested the new input at some unimaginable speed, and when it stopped, I was looking at a composite of our three skinny guys without any facial fur.
Kellner’s program then did a global recognition search, and when no lights blinked and no bells rang, he pushed back his chair and looked up at us.
“I don’t know who he is, but this is a pretty good representation of what your man looks like.”
I asked Kellner to get up and let me sit close to the monitor, which he did. I stared into the eyes of the composite image, and I swore that face looked familiar to me.
Was that because I recognized him from watching the facial recognition process? Or did I recognize the actual guy?
I knew my brain was fried from viewing too many miles of gray-and-white surveillance footage, but still, pieces and parts of the man’s face matched a man I’d seen but didn’t know. Then I pictured him in action.
I recalled a barely registered image of a guy like this one stepping down from a Chuck’s refrigerated transport van. He’d been wearing a dark leather jacket and a dark scarf around his neck. No, not a scarf. It was a gray hoodie. He had opened the cargo doors, his back to the camera, then, head lowered, he’d carried a stack of white cartons to the back door at Chuck’s Hayes Valley location.
My mind saw it now, more vividly than when I’d watched the unending surveillance footage.
The skinny guy had delivered food to Chuck’s.
Then, having handed off a half dozen white cartons to the kitchen, he’d pulled up his hood and gone into the restaurant. I was staring at his composite image right now.
But even if my sketchy memory was dead-on, this might mean only that the delivery truck driver liked to buy lunch after he made a delivery.
But why hide his face?
If he was a deadbeat dad, or if there was a warrant out for him, and he wasn’t the stupidest person on earth, he might have fooled around with his facial hair to avoid detection by the security cameras.
Or else this guy, who had the means and the opportunity to deliver preformed frozen hamburger patties to Chuck’s restaurants, was no dead-beat dad.
He was Mr. Ka-boom.
“He works for Chuck’s,” I said to Conklin. “I’m sure of it. Richie? I think we have a suspect.”
CHAPTER 73
BO KELLNER FORWARDED the composite image of our suspected belly bomber to my phone. I thanked him, said, “Great job, Bo,” and handed my car keys to Conklin.
Once Conklin and I were inside the elevator, I checked the time again and saw that, as if I didn’t already know it, we were edging up on the bomber’s deadline. We had about twelve hours to name, locate, and arrest the man I’d tentatively identified as Mr. Ka-boom. The sun was down and offices were closed. Catching this guy without a name was a lot to hope for.
We piled into my Explorer and burned rubber in the forensic lab’s lot, then headed out to Emeryville at high speed.
I texted and then called Michael Jansing’s cell.
The phone rang three times and then rolled my call over to Jansing’s voice mail. So I called him at home.
This time a woman answered and identified herself as Emily Jansing. When I said I had to speak with her husband, she complained that he was at dinner and said that he’d call me later.