"This video is heavily encrypted with a rolling cryptographic hash to prevent tampering," Carter explained, his tone conversational, as if he were lecturing a dim-witted law student who had arrived late and unprepared. "Every second carries a signature that changes with the next second. Alter one frame and the chain breaks. Alter the chain and the server knows. It was not recorded onto a local hard drive that could be swapped or wiped or lost in an evidence locker. It was broadcast via a secure satellite uplink in real time directly to a server."
He paused, and the pause did the work of a raised voice.
"Specifically, a server located in the sub-basement of the J. Edgar Hoover Building in Washington, D.C."
Captain Miller's face drained of all color. The blood left it in a visible wave, from his forehead down to his jaw, until he looked like a man who had been standing too long in cold water. He looked at Carter, then at the two silent men in dark suits standing by the door, men who had not spoken, had not shifted, had not needed to, and finally at Cynthia Holloway, still seated at the steel table in her damp blazer, still in her socks, still watching him with an expression he could not read and did not want to learn to read.
"Who are you people?" Miller whispered, and the authority was completely stripped from his voice, leaving only a question that sounded smaller than the room.
Carter reached into his breast pocket and produced a sleek leather wallet. He flipped it open with a practiced flick, revealing a gleaming gold shield and a federal identification card, the seal catching the fluorescent light. Miller took the wallet with shaking hands. He read the credentials. He read the seal of the Department of Justice. He read the name and the title twice, as if the second reading might change them, and it did not.
"Deputy Director," Miller choked out. "I... I had no idea."
"I am well aware of what you don't know, Captain," Carter said, snatching the badge back with a smooth, final motion, closing the wallet and returning it to his pocket. "But my identity is the least of your concerns tonight, because I am not the ranking federal officer in this room."
Officer Doyle, who had been leaning against the doorframe trying to look tough, suddenly stumbled backward as if he had been physically struck. His shoulder hit the wall. His mouth opened, but no sound came out, only a thin, useless intake of breath. His eyes went from Carter to Cynthia and back again, and the calculation that had kept him standing all night collapsed in his face.