Afraid of the Dark - James Grippando [45]
Brainport changed the game entirely.
Vince worked as a training advisor on “human issues” with the Academy Detail, but the new Miami Police Training Center in downtown Miami had been built after his accident. He’d never had an actual look at the new Firearms Unit. His role was to teach courses on “mental preparation” and “ethics and professionalism” with the Officer Survival Detail, and to conduct advanced multijurisdictional sessions on crisis negotiation skills, which covered everything from outright hostage takings to convincing an armed drug addict not to commit suicide. Stimulating work, but it was still just the classroom. He longed to get out, and a morning at the Firearms Detail with Brainport was a big step in that direction.
“I never would have believed it, but you could very well get to a passing level on stationary targets at close range,” the trainer said. “Moving targets . . . well, we’ll wait and see.”
Vince focused the Brainport camera lens on a black-and-white target peppered with gunfire. The stated policy of the Institute for Human & Machine Cognition was never to let the device leave the Pensacola campus, but Chuck Mays had a way of making things happen. It made Vince’s heart race with excitement to see—literally—the results.
Vince removed the mechanical “lollipop” from his mouth. “This is so unbelievable.”
He hated to shut down the device, but he was authorized to use it only in controlled environments like the Police Training Center. If he stumbled down the stairs or tripped on the sidewalk and broke it, he’d not only be on the financial hook to replace the prototype, but they’d drop him from the pilot program.
The firearms trainer helped him put the components back inside the carry case. Vince used his walking stick to find the door. Sam was waiting for him in the hallway.
“One day I’ll take you huntin’, Sam,” he said as he folded away the stick. Together they went to the elevator and rode down to Vince’s office. Sam brought them to a stop in the open doorway, and Vince sensed that someone was waiting inside.
“Hi,” said Alicia.
Alicia’s police work often brought her to the department headquarters next door, but even so, unannounced visits from his wife weren’t the norm. “What’s up?”
Vince heard more than one person rising from the chairs in his office. Alicia said, “I have Detective Burton with me from Miami-Dade Police. He’s from the Homicide Division, working the Lincoln Road Mall case.”
Miami-Dade was the countywide force, akin to a sheriff’s office, and it wasn’t surprising that Miami Beach Police would bring them into the investigation once a homicide was suspected. Vince shook the detective’s hand, invited him and Alicia to return to their seats, and made his way to the chair behind his clunky metal desk. For the hundredth time, he nearly sliced open his thigh on the pointy metal corner of the government-issued furniture. Whoever was in charge of procurement definitely wasn’t blind.
“You didn’t mention that you were working with Miami-Dade on this case,” Vince said.
“I’m not,” said Alicia.
“I’m here on what you might call a professional courtesy,” said Burton. “After I interviewed Jack Swyteck, it was clear that my investigation ties in pretty closely with the criminal case against Jamal Wakefield. It seemed appropriate for you to be informed, given your—you know, given what happened to you. I thought you might want your wife present.”
Vince didn’t make an issue out of it, but the detective’s actions were so typical. You go blind, and the world thinks you can’t do anything alone. Still, Alicia knew better. She should have told Burton that there was no need