joan ryley, to the rescue. (rationale) wrote in noircity, @ 2014-11-08 23:23:00 |
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"The first rule of recording devices is: never leave it where you can't get it back." Peggy said, unlocking the store cupboard that held the small stock of recorders that had been purchased over the years. "These things cost nearly a thousand dollars to buy these days; we can't wreck them or give them away, so wherever you put it, don't let it get found." Joan looked at the box-like devices in front of her. They were plain things, completely unremarkable in any way — which was the whole point, wasn't it. Subtlety. A thousand dollars' worth of it. "Somewhere I can get it back later. What's the second rule?" "Don't plant it until you're confident it's going to catch something of value. They've only got a day's worth of tape at most, and that's the newest one. If you think you can get it out of someone in a conversation, you take this —" Peggy opened the case with the wristwatch microphone and wire connecting up the sleeve to the case that housed the recorder itself, "but only if you're sure they're not going to be getting your clothes off or giving you a pat down." The circumstances like that ought to be slim, Peggy hoped. But better prepared than caught out, especially with Joan being new on the beat. Only the voice in Joan's head whispering a real detective wouldn't gush over this that kept her from leaning in to examine every detail of the wristwatch and the mechanism that connected it to the recorder. Of all the devices and trinkets of the trade she had seen while at PEDA, this was the ultimate spy gadget, the visceral reminder that she really was an agent now, that she would soon be on the streets, hunting down evidence for the agency. She trimmed the dozen different questions she wanted to ask about the device to just one. "The actual recorder shouldn't be too difficult to conceal under a coat, should it?" "No, it tucks up under your arm along your side, and this elastic bit here works like a harness of sorts. I can't say it's really comfortable, digging into your armpit and your ribs, but it does the job." Peggy had worn it only a few times herself, when she happened to be the best person for whatever the job was. Once she went to the same nail salon as a client's wife - that had been a trick, keeping the watch microphone connected and concealed during a darned manicure. "The cameras are easier, all in all, but there's a rumor that they're making some sort of bug small enough to fit inside a pen, a brooch, a shoe. I still don't know how you'd hide the recorder and battery, but it's something to do with a radio transmission? I dread to find out how much that's going to cost," Peggy laughed. It was a funny education to impart on someone, nearly ten years of accumulated experiences and acquired tricks of an offbeat trade. "Sounds like something out of a novel," Joan said, not quite managing to mask her excitement at the idea. "It's a good time to be a snoop, isn't it? With all these gadgets available. Anyone could find out anything." "Sure beats hiding in trunks and closets," Peggy agreed. "But I'm afraid there's still too many times when an old-fashioned stake-out with a camera's your best shot for any real evidence." (Joan smiled at the no doubt unintentional pun.) "These'll help you get whole conversations, but if you can't snap a photo of who's doing the talking, they'll try to deny it's not their voice, that you're setting them up, somehow." "They could still say a picture doesn't prove they're talking about whatever we say they're talking about, couldn't they? Not like you can read a conversation from a picture." Peggy nodded. "They could. It's hard to definitively prove things, regardless of if you're a detective for the police, or for this office. But - have you ever been to a trial? Sometimes all the little things add up to something more, something that puts doubt in people's minds. And you never really know where the tipping point is between doubt and surety of guilt, so every little bit of evidence you can get, it adds a bit of weight to that side of the scale." Joan nodded thoughtfully. "That's our job." "Search out the truth, whatever it is, by whatever means, and put it in the hands of those who need to know." It sounded more romantic, more noble than 'nose around in other people's business if someone's got the cash to pay you for it,' which was why Peggy always did her best to start them all off with an idealistic view of what the job could be. The work was like the victory gardens she'd grown with her mother; the seed of something beautiful and honest had to be planted, carefully curated into a useful purpose. Some day, the weeds of cynicism and humanity's most base desires would eventually come creeping in, and that was when everyone who'd stepped over the office threshold had to show if they knew how to rip it out by the roots in order to carry on, or if they would have to be razed, the position left fallow and waiting for some starry-eyed dreamer or a wounded soul in search of the last bits of good the world had to offer. With a smile, Peggy squeezed Joan's arm. "You're going to be good at this, I know it." |