My suspect had changed his modus operandi. The playing field broadened.

I hadn’t walked onto a college campus in twenty-two years. An anxious knot rode in the pit of my stomach with each solid footfall in my search for building 3, room 223. Up the stairs, around two corners, and beyond a wall of vending machines, I found the computer lab. With the exception of two females sitting near the back door, the room contained men wearing mix matched clothing and haircuts that didn’t match the shapes of their heads.

“Is this the advanced computer class?” I asked.

Heads turned. Snickers broke out around the room. I had guessed wrong. My dark slacks and white shirt said freak, not geek. I shoved the black rimmed glasses up the bridge of my nose and remembered my superior’s steepled hands rubbing together, telling me to think like a kid in possession of a billion bucks.

“Yeah, you’re in the right place.” A young man with lime green greased hair and spiked at all angles smacked gum between each word.

I thumped into the hard seat next to Green Spikes. With eyes narrowed, I counted seventeen tattoos on the arms of the classmates around me. The young men possessed more pierced body parts than the young ladies. I could only imagine how many more lay hidden.

With a subtle shift of my eyes, I set my attention on Green Spikes. Bold and cocky. A leader. He straightened in his chair. Chucked his chewing gum into the trash can across the room. Rose manicured hands in triumph.

The room erupted into a wave of hoots and shouts.

I stole a quick glimpse at the trail of tattooed numbers near his left armpit. What I could read was a match. My jaw clamped tight. I had the right classroom. The right suspect. My legs itched to bolt into action.

Green Spikes fired a cynical and arrogant grin at me. The fierce blaze set in his eyes launched a direct hit too.

I sprang from my chair. The back of my leg caught something solid. Almost took me to the ground.

“Take your seat.” The elderly gentleman clad in a brown baggy suit, a remnant from the depression era, poked his hand carved wooden cane at my leg again. Something made my gut pitch. A dose of suspicion joined the action. I caught a row of numbers on the tip of his raised cane. Another match.

The man in custody who stole the complete Veteran Affairs account files swore he only gave the password to one person. An obvious lie, or had that person done the honors? This identity theft ring could wipe out our country’s financial reserve and ruin credit for millions of people if all parties aren’t caught and stopped.

Laughter suffocated the room. I slid back into my chair to evaluate the added dimension in the situation with my eyes locked on the old man. He shuffled to the front of the room in unhurried fashion. Something in the swing of his gait pushed my brain into a deeper defining mode. I hoped the reply would register soon. His simple introduction carried the same casual flair. “I’m Professor Morgan. You can call me Morg.”

A young man in possession of more gold chains than a jewelry store, shouted, “Looks like you’ll be making a permanent stop there soon.”

The classroom boosted their laughter.

I had to admit the professor’s humorous sobriquet equaled a perfect match to his gaunt expression and frame.

Chains stood and took a deep bow.

A pock-faced kid offered Chains a high-five. Tattooed numbers under Chain’s armpit caught my eye. A third match of access codes. This trail grew instead of narrowed.

My heart pounded in my chest and marked the steady pulse of injustice begging to be halted. Millions of veterans may find their securities breached, their accounts robed, and their identities stolen. A disaster that could haunt them for the rest of their lives.

Professor Morg set his hands together steeple-fashion and rubbed them up and down. A lump balled in my throat, dropped to my gut, and tore through my insides. I had discovered much more than just the ring leader.