Chapter Five
The press conference was scheduled for 9 AM in the federal building’s main lobby, but by 8:30 the space felt like a sauna filled with reptiles. Sara counted forty-seven reporters, twelve camera operators, and at least six people livestreaming from phones. The air conditioning had given up entirely.
FBI Special Agent in Charge Rebecca Torres approached the podium like someone walking to her own execution. Mid-fifties, gray-streaked hair pulled into a bun that was already coming undone. She carried a thin folder and the look of someone who hadn’t slept in two days.
“Good morning. I’ll make a brief statement, then take a few questions.”
The cameras rolled. Phone screens glowed. Sara opened her notebook to a fresh page.
“At approximately 12:20 PM on September 10th, a shot was fired at a political rally in downtown Phoenix. Conservative commentator Marcus Riley was fatally wounded. The investigation is active and ongoing. We have multiple persons of interest but no arrests at this time.”
Torres paused, consulting her notes. The lack of a mugshot photo behind her felt conspicuous—just the FBI seal against blue backdrop.
“We’re following several leads and expect developments in the coming days. We cannot comment on specifics while the investigation remains open.”
A reporter from CNN raised her hand immediately. “Agent Torres, can you address the conspiracy theories claiming this was a false flag operation?”
Torres’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “I can confirm that Marcus Riley is dead. The investigation is ongoing. Those are facts.”
“But what about claims that government agents were spotted near the—”
“Next question.”
Sara watched Torres’s hands. White knuckles gripping the podium edge.
Fox News: “Agent Torres, sources are saying the shooter had ties to antifa organizations. Can you confirm—”
“We’re not discussing potential suspects or their backgrounds at this time.”
A blogger Sara didn’t recognize stood up without being called on: “Agent Torres, why should the American people trust the FBI when you can’t even identify the real shooter? We’ve seen at least twelve different suspects posted online.”
Torres’s composure cracked slightly. “The FBI is conducting a thorough investigation. Social media speculation is not evidence.”
“But people have the right to ask questions when there are no official answers—”
“The investigation is forty-eight hours old. These things take time.”
Sara scribbled notes, trying to capture the atmosphere of institutional authority colliding with algorithmic chaos. Torres represented the old model: careful statements, controlled information release, respect for ongoing investigations. The room represented something else entirely—the hunger for content, the knowledge that somewhere online, people were manufacturing their own answers to every question Torres couldn’t address.
“Agent Torres,” called a voice from the back, “can you explain why AI chatbots are still claiming Marcus Riley is alive?”
For the first time, Torres looked genuinely confused. “I’m sorry, what?”
“AI systems. Google, ChatGPT, others. They’re telling users that Riley wasn’t actually killed, that the shooting was staged.”
Torres glanced at someone off-camera, probably a media liaison who was supposed to have prepared her for questions about AI systems spreading conspiracy theories. The confusion on her face lasted maybe three seconds, but every camera in the room caught it.
“Marcus Riley was pronounced dead at 1:47 PM on September 10th at Phoenix General Hospital. I don’t know why a computer would say otherwise.”
The room fell silent for a moment. Then six reporters started shouting questions simultaneously.
Sara closed her notebook. She’d seen enough press conferences to recognize when they stopped being about information sharing and became performance art. Torres wrapped up two minutes later, fleeing the podium like someone escaping a building fire.
Outside, reporters immediately began filming reaction segments, most starting with “The FBI’s lack of answers today only raised more questions…”
Sara walked past news vans with satellite dishes aimed at empty sky, past protesters with signs reading “FALSE FLAG” and “JUSTICE FOR RILEY” and “WAKE UP AMERICA.”
Her phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number: “The FBI doesn’t know what they’re dealing with. You might. Coffee?”
Sara stared at the message for a long moment, then deleted it without replying. But she didn’t delete the screenshot she’d taken first.