by Jeff Nania
He woke up the next morning with a major league hangover in bed with a woman who was not Nedra. His new buddy from the company answered his cell when Edwin called him and came over to pick him up. They began a friendship, and eventually, when the time was right, the company supervisor told Edwin that some of the shippers were paying him a little extra to make sure they stayed at the top of the list. No harm, nothing illegal. Just making sure they got the attention they needed. It turned out the little extra was a whole hell of a lot of money. His buddy didn’t offer Edwin any part of this.
Then a couple of months later, this guy comes back to Edwin and says that one of the regular shippers that used the company was having trouble with some paperwork. He shipped farm machine parts and had never run into a problem before. The issue was that some of the farm machine parts were from Russia, and government red tape was holding them up. He didn’t want Edwin to do anything wrong, but maybe he could look at the paperwork and see if he could straighten it out. Edwin did and, as a favor, signed off on the shipment. The next day after work, Edwin’s buddy asked him to meet at a park near the company where he handed Edwin an envelope that contained ten thousand dollars cash—a gift from the company he had helped out. Edwin knew he should refuse, but he took it.
Nedra’s absences became more frequent as her relative’s health declined, and she went south every month for a few days. Edwin’s buddy had been sending him a few clients to help out now and again. He helped with paperwork and got paid well. No real harm. They became good friends, and one weekend they went out on the town but ended up at a private party. There he met Sheila, a dancer at the Lumberjack Saloon. She listened to him talk about his miserable life and miserable wife. Then she told him that she wished she could find a man like him. She was only dancing in the club because she needed money to send home to her sick mother for medicine. As soon as she could, she was going to quit and go to college, then get a real job. He pulled out a grand from his pocket and gave it to her. “Here, for your mother,” he told her. She was so thankful that she gave him a big hug. Then she said she wanted to stay but had to get going. He gave her a ride home, and before he knew it, she was milking him like a cow.
That’s when his work associate approached him again and told him how to make real money—by not inspecting certain shipments, changing the paperwork on others, and making sure to let his buddy know when Customs was making an inspection. He had been giving most of the money to Sheila, and she was putting it away for them. As soon as they had enough, he was going to quit his job and leave Nedra. They were getting close, but her mother had needed an emergency operation, and that had set them back. Edwin Milton was the perfect patsy. The one thing the bad guys had never figured on was that Edwin had a good memory and had kept a written record of each shipment he had rigged. The other thing was that living with Nedra all those years had required that he develop a solid strategy for self-preservation. He wanted a deal, and he wanted it now.
Jack Wheeler showed up and was immediately able to track the shipments using his new computer access and information from Edwin. The pattern was clear: the shipments and names of ships that Edwin told us about were all connected to Eastern European organized crime. They were suspected to be involved in everything from drug smuggling and shipping high-end stolen cars overseas to the dirtiest business of all—human trafficking.
The evening’s surprises didn’t stop there. Agents Chandler and Street were the next to burst through the door. Chief Bork looked like he was going to be sick.
“Oh no, not those guys. Oh my gosh, John, we don’t need this now,” the chief said.
“The whole thing with Superior Shipping and Container is a federal case. It’s a big deal,” I said.
“But we have a picture of Chandler with Volkinov. He’s dirty, John. We can’t hand him the case or Edwin for that matter.”
“I know, Chief,” I replied.
“John, I have an idea. Let me try and handle this. Follow my lead,” Len said. Then he crossed the room to meet the agents. “Agents Chandler and Street, how nice to see you. We have our hands full here and don’t have time for chit chat. We are going to hand off a big case to you guys. A career maker, unless I miss my guess. It’s tied up with ribbon, and you will get to take all the credit. There is one caveat. We need to have the special agent in charge of Wisconsin here in person for the handoff. There’s no room for negotiation, so get to it boys.”
Chandler started with his tough-guy act and was quickly silenced by Street. “That won’t be a problem, Chief,” Street replied. “The SAC has been following this whole situation, and because of the potential involvement of the Wolf and this massive screwup you guys pulled on the takedown, he is already on his way here. His ETA is less than an hour. Unless you want to bring us into the loop now, I guess we wait.”
“We’ll wait,” said the chief.
“John, if you want to watch things here, I’ve got to do a couple of things,” Len said.
“Okay, Chief. I will handle it,” I replied.
“Milton, you come with me,” the chief said and also motioned to one of the officers standing by to come with him. They secured Edwin Milton in an interview room, and the officer stayed with him.
Chief Bork returned a few minutes later carrying a file. We sat down awaiting the arrival of the SAC. Agent Chandler couldn’t help but occasionally open his mouth. “You know, guys, I’m wondering how it could be that this guy ends up shooting four people and escapes. This must have been one of your plans, Cabrelli. This is so screwed up. We’re going to have to take over the whole mess. You watch. Once this hits the governor’s ear, he’ll lock you guys in the basement while we try and clean up for you.”
I started to respond but Len stopped me. “John, let it go. Don’t humor him.”
Forty-five minutes later, a black Suburban pulled up in front of headquarters. The press attacked.
A tall man in a suit exited the back, and two others exited the vehicle following him inside. It was Special Agent in Charge Bob Thompson, affectionately known as Fightin’ Bob. He was at least six feet, six inches tall, with a washboard stomach, heavily lined face, and hair mostly gone to gray. He walked over to the chief and stood face to face.
The oppressive tension in the room was broken when he smiled, extended his hand, and said, “Len, it’s good to see you again. Boys,” he said to the agents, “don’t let this guy’s ‘awe shucks’ look fool you. We first met at the Police Sniper Rifle Course at Quantico. The old deer hunter showed everyone up and was the only one to ace the course. Been too long. I heard that you took the job of the interim chief. Do you still know where there’s a limit on walleyes? I would love to get out on the water one of these days. For now, though, we have business. Is there a place we can talk in private?”
“Sure, Bob. Let’s step into this interview room right over here.”
The men entered and the door clicked shut behind them. The two agents that had come with Fightin’ Bob stood with their backs to the wall and didn’t engage anyone, including agents Chandler and Street. I offered them coffee and both politely declined. Radio traffic had slowed down and was now mostly car to car communications. We went through a status check of all our people on the road. There was nothing new to report. Soon we would have to send people home to rest. They were dedicated but they were tired, and tired cops make mistakes.
I got up my courage and called Bear’s cell. Tanya answered the phone. I held my breath for what I knew was coming.
“Hi Tanya, how’s Bear doing?” I asked. Silence greeted me.
She finally responded, “He’s going to be fine. The wound was through and through. There was tissue damage, but he should heal well. No active duty for at least six months.”
“As soon as I’m free, I am coming to see him. Things are up in the air right now. The Feds arrived, and I will keep him posted if he wants. Otherwise, I will leave you two be. I want you to know I will help however I can if you want me to. Tanya, I am sorry this hap
pened to Bear and am so thankful it is not worse. He wouldn’t be in this mess if it weren’t for me. I’m sorry,” I babbled.
“John, shut up. I’ve had years and years to think about this very thing. Guys like you two are who you are, and that will never change. You’re the good guys and you chase the bad guys. That’s what you do. It is true that you told him about your situation, but he was the one who decided to get involved. JJ Malone does whatever he thinks needs doing, and there is no stopping him. He will heal and be back at it again, and so will you. I do have one favor to ask,” Tanya said.
“Anything,” I replied.
“Get out there and find the son of a bitch who shot my husband.”
“Count on it, Tanya. I will.” She hung up the phone.
It was more than an hour before Fightin’ Bob and the chief came out of the room, their faces grim. The chief spoke to the room: two communicators, a couple of uniforms, four federal agents, a DCI agent, Ron Carver, Jack Wheeler, and me.
“Special Agent Thompson has some things to tell you folks. Bob, they’re all yours,” the chief said.
“People, here is the situation. This has become an issue of national security. We are taking over the case involving Superior Shipping and Container. We will be placing Edwin Milton in protective custody. My agents will debrief with Mr. Carver and Attorney Wheeler right now. Attorney Wheeler, if you will work together with Agent Huffaker, and please show him what you have learned. Mr. Carver, would you please speak with Agent Swenson and go over the details of your discovery of Edwin Milton. There are agents coming from our field and satellite offices as we speak. They are coming by car and air. We are going to move team members in with as little fanfare as we can manage. They will be staging at a location outside of Superior. We have a top
surveillance team from our Duluth-Superior office already moving into place. We intend to determine as quickly as possible whether or not we have what we need to hit Superior Shipping and Container with a positive result.
“Regarding the manhunt for the Wolf, now known as Dimitri Volkinov, Agent Street, you will work at the direction of Chief Bork. Provide him with any and all resources he thinks he needs, without question. I want every outlet and law enforcement office in the U.S. to have the best picture and description of Volkinov. Agent, you will also keep me up to date on progress. Any requests for additional manpower will be honored immediately within our ability.”
Agent Chandler spoke up. “Excuse me, Chief, but I assume that means I will be working directly on the task force with you? I know the lay of the land here, and I am willing to bring you up to speed immediately.”
“Thank you for your offer, Agent Chandler. I would like to see you and Agent Street for a moment with the chief and Mr. Cabrelli in the interview room. Agents Swenson and Huffaker, Mr. Milton is now in our custody. Please go with the officers here and lock him in a cell. If it’s okay with you, Chief, could one of your men stay with him until the other agents arrive?”
“Sure thing, Bob.”
“Once he is locked up, agents, get back here and start working with Attorney Wheeler and Mr. Carver.” With that, we adjourned to the interview room. The chief shut the door, and Agent Thompson spread the surveillance photos out on the table.
“Agents, I would hope that you can enlighten me as to the origin of these photos.”
The agents were silent for a moment. Street was studying the photographs with an investigative eye. Chandler looked but kept looking away. Street spoke first, “I don’t know where these photos came from or who took them. This is the first time I’ve seen them. The woman is our missing agent. They must be tied into her disappearance. Where did they come from? Who took these? When did they take them? Are they dated?” All questions a good cop should be asking.
Chandler said nothing, asked no questions, and didn’t look at the photographs.
“Agents,” Thompson said, “there is one more photo.”
He put the picture of Agent Chandler and Volkinov down on the table. Again, Chandler said nothing. It took Street a second to realize what he was seeing, and when he did, he yelled, “What the hell is this?” while scanning the room with an accusatory eye.
Thompson spoke, “I was hoping that someone could answer that question, starting in, let’s say, thirty seconds. Agent Chandler, you appear to be silent on the matter, yet that photo clearly is you. Do you have anything to offer?”
Chandler didn’t answer. The silence was deafening. Fightin’ Bob was a man not to be trifled with, and fifteen of the thirty seconds had ticked away before Chandler opened his mouth. What came out was not the usual threatening, bad mouth, badgering bravado to which I had become accustomed. He was reserved when he answered, “Sir, it’s complicated. I—”
“Agent Chandler, then help me. Make it simple so I can understand it. I am a man that has a big job to do at this moment. Many of your fellow agents are coming here to help me do that job. You have information that may be of value, now spit it out. Start with who took these pictures,” Thompson said.
“It was the old chief of police, Don Timmy. He got a bunch of surplus surveillance gear from DEA. I showed him how to operate it. I didn’t know then that he was part of any criminal activity. I let him run his own program, and I figured I would benefit from the intel. He gave me copies of what I thought were all of the pictures. I have never seen the ones of our agent before. He set up the meet for me with a potential informant. I didn’t know who it was. Later, it turned out that the informant was actually the UNSUB known as Volkinov.”
“So you met with a person who may or may not have information regarding a missing agent, and you didn’t feel inclined to share that information?” the SAC asked.
“I kept working it, but no, I didn’t pass it on. I would have when I had more,” he replied sheepishly.
“Two of the photos show residents receiving large amounts of cash. It appears as though they may have been duped into being part of a scheme that involved laundering drug money. Were you aware of these activities?
“Yeah, I was. I didn’t act on it because I was on the trail of the missing agent,” Chandler said.
“Do you know who was giving them the cash?” Chief Bork asked.
“Yeah, Lance Brolan. Lance Brolan set them up,” he replied.
“Did you know Lance Brolan?” asked Thompson.
Again silence.
Thirty seconds passed before Chandler admitted, “I knew him. He was an informant. I leveraged the money laundering intel against him.”
“You are aware that he was murdered on the grounds of Superior Shipping and Container and that Volkinov may have been involved. Is that correct?” asked Thompson.
“That is correct. But understand, there were extenuating circumstances. We were doing everything we could to find our missing agent,” Chandler replied defensively.
“Bullshit. There is an entire task force looking for that agent. You withheld this information. You were trying to be a hero, the star of the show. Had you provided that information to your colleagues or your partner, who by the look on his face is hearing this for the first time, it may have led us to your missing fellow law enforcement officer. Is there anything else that you wish to share at this moment, Agent Chandler?” Thompson pressed.
The look on Chandler’s face made it clear to everyone that he did indeed have more to share. Thompson settled it for him, “Immediate termination or disciplinary hearing, your choice. Five seconds.”
“Alright, alright. There is something else. Before I tell you, I want you to understand that I felt like I was getting close to our missing agent. As soon as I knew I really had something, I would have turned it over to the task force. I believed I was operating within agency guidelines.”
“Agent Chandler, what else do you have? Tell me what you have right goddamn now,” Thompson menaced.
“It’s about Cabrelli’s uncle. Neither the former police chief nor the other crooked cop killed him. They may have set him up, but they
didn’t do it,” he said.
“Any idea who may have killed him?” he asked.
“Maybe a hitter that was brought in,” Chandler replied.
“Volkinov?”
“I don’t know. I really don’t know who he was,” Chandler said.
“Give your gun and credentials to Agent Street. You are suspended as of now. I would normally not have your partner do this, but in this case, I have my hands full, and I don’t want to worry about some rogue hotdog agent screwing this up.”
Street stepped forward. Chandler, with a half-smile on his face, handed over his credentials and pistol.
“Now, get out of my sight,” ordered the SAC.
24
Agents Huffaker and Swenson were huddled up with Ron Carver and Jack Wheeler. Chief Bork and SAC Thompson were going their separate ways but staying in the same building. Bork was running the show along with DCI in the search for Volkinov. Thompson was getting everything together for the potential raid on Superior Shipping and Container.
Further updates came in on the wounded. Malone and Holmes were both out of the woods and doing well. Sheriff Jim Rawsom, however, was not, and the prognosis was grim. His family was with him. The surgeries were successful, but the doctors were struggling to keep him stable. He had not regained consciousness.
My cell phone rang, showing the number at the cabin. It had to be Julie, the one voice I could not wait to hear. “Hi, Julie,” I answered. “I’m glad you called.”
The voice on the other end chilled me to my core. In a heavy accent, a voice said, “John Cabrelli, I have your woman. You do what I want, I set her free; you don’t, I kill her. Maybe slow, maybe fast, but I kill her for sure. You go to Stone’s house, bedroom first one left of stairs. Old leather satchel. Bring it to me now. One hour or girl is dead.” Then, to make sure I was paying attention, I heard a horrible noise. It was Julie screaming in pain. “One hour, Cabrelli. Come by self. Anyone else, I kill girl.” And he hung up.