Disclaimer etc, see Chapter 1
NET KNOTS
Chapter 11
"I was on a roll," Sam admitted, with a soupçon of adolescent enthusiasm in his tone for the first time tonight. "I was just basking in the smugness when I suddenly realised I'd only done half a job. Hospitals and clinics don't exist in isolation; they talk to each other or rather the computers in their tissue testing labs do –"
Dean's intellect was lazy, but when curious or having a vested interest, didn't need any signposts, "So some overworked junior doc, or intern or even lab tech on the home stretch of a straight 30-hour-shift hits the wrong key and gets back the accidental but interesting information that the tissue and blood sample AB12345 Dean Smith bear-attack victim in Hicksville, Minnesota is the same guy as CD67890 Dean Berkowitz electrocution case in Nowheresville, Nebraska is the same as Dean Finkelstein the fractured ribs case in Loserville, Illinois. At which point he tells his boss who tells the hospital administrator who's curious enough and worried enough to ring the local PD who hotfoot it to my bedside in the belief that someone with that serious an identity crisis is probably someone they should be trying to put in jail."
"Exactly," Sam acknowledged, "and that same computer technology is getting faster, better and more affordable for rural cash-strapped law enforcement agencies all the time. When the Benders had me imprisoned in Hibbing - which let's face it was even less than a one-horse blip in the middle of nowhere - Deputy Sheriff Hudak still had an in-car computer link to the 'world wide web' that blew your phoney ID out of the water in about ten seconds flat. It's not like it was even just five years ago when you were still likely to have a day's grace before a rural sheriff's office knew your FBI badge was about as real as my 'bikini inspector' card. We've always been most vulnerable every time we get into the Impala, but nowadays…"
Dean grinned briefly at that fond memory of his brother's ire, but nodded his agreement, "Yeah, I get it. Every time I drive, we're on the edge of disaster. All it needs is some pissed traffic cop or state trooper to decide everyone is going to share his bad day pulling me over for driving whilst being cool and insisting on checking the trunk or the glove box. One look at our ordnance or my Homeland Security ID and he'll be having visions of his acceptance of a medal from the President for single-handedly capturing two al-Qaeda sleepers and we'll be on a CIA all-expenses-paid one-way trip to Guantanamo Bay – by plane." He shuddered.
"That's what I thought, so I wrote a letter to Wellbury, Illinois, asking them for the forms to retrospectively register the guns you bought there." Sam explained.
"I've never been to Wellbury, Illinois." Dean pointed out.
"I know. But six months ago their county courthouse basement was flooded out – broken sewerage pipe."
"Nasty."
"Very. So I wrote to them as an upright, dutiful citizen of the U.S. of A., explaining I'd purchased some firearms and permits to carry concealed and did I need to re-supply details in view of their recent unpleasantness…"
"And of course they had no surviving records of the purchases or permits." Dean chuckled. "Nice one, little bro'. You rock when you've got your Geek on."
"Ha-ha," Sam glared at the backhanded compliment. "Two of the hunting rifles and the 9mm Berretta are now registered with all propriety and legality to Dean T. Winchester."
Dean looked at the paperwork with renewed interest. "Dayton, Texas?"
"Electrical wiring fire."
"Henderson, Arizona?"
"Vermin infestation."
"Gainesville, Arkansas?"
"Tornado."
"Bettison, Kentucky?"
"Woman scorned."
"Ok- whoa?" Dean blinked.
Continued in Chapter 12…
© 2006, Catherine D. Stewart