Uncommon Thief
Page 16
Chapter 16
Career Maker
Samuel P. Whitehead had always wanted to go into politics. It was his dream to be governor someday, and if that went well, to run for President. Unfortunately, fate had sent him in other directions. He didn’t quite rank high enough in his law school class at USC to get offers from the most prestigious law firms in LA, so he reluctantly went to work at the Los Angeles County District Attorney’s office. He did well there, as he was a ruthless litigator and would do anything to get a conviction. His prosecutorial talents, coupled with the political connections he’d forged in the local Democratic Party, soon got him national notice. This led to an appointment as an assistant U.S. Attorney. Once he had his foot in the door, it wasn’t long before he was the number one federal prosecutor in LA.
It was fall in LA, which is usually fairly pleasant as the temperature rarely got above 75∘ or below 50∘. Whitehead had just gotten to his office when he received a telephone call from Jim Walters, a special agent with the FBI that he frequently worked with. “Did you hear about the bank robbery in San Bernardino?” Walters asked.
“No. What bank?”
“Bank USA. I just got here. The cashier didn’t show up for work, so they called in a supervisor from their main office to help get the vault open.”
“Yeah?”
“When they got the vault open, they found the cashier inside, bound, gagged, and dead as a stump.”
“How much did they get?”
“$6.7 million and some change.”
“Jesus! That’s quite a heist. Any suspects?”
“Two. A couple of bank messengers had access to the bank about the time the robbery took place. It had to be an inside job—not a shred of evidence showing a break in.”
“Who are the messengers?”
“A Sam Stewart, an ex-con living up in the mountains. I’d say he’d be our most likely suspect, except it’s hard to see how he could have done it without the other messenger, Fred Fuller, being in on it.”
“How do you figure?”
“Well, Fuller is the main messenger at San Bernardino, and he would have been there about the time the heist went down.”
“Have you found out anything on Fuller?”
“He’s a college student at UCLA, no record, a political activist but not anti-war, a Republican, chairman of the Young Republicans, and with some past ties to Congressman Bartlett up in Ventura.”
“Really? The press will be all over this one when Bartlett’s name pops up.”
“Probably so.”
“What was the cause of death?” Whitehead asked.
“Don’t know yet, but there’s no external injuries, which is odd.”
“Have you located Fuller and Stewart?”
“Fuller’s not at home, but he’s due for work this afternoon. We’ll see if he shows up.”
“If he does, talk to him, but don’t spook him. If we keep an eye on him, he might lead us to the money. What about Stewart?”
“It seems Friday was his last day. He gave notice two weeks ago. The local sheriff says he left Saturday for Vegas. We’ve got agents there looking for him now.”
“Alright, I’m on my way. Should be there in about an hour.”
“Okay. See you soon.”
Whitehead hung up the phone, feeling almost giddy. Was he finally getting the break he needed to launch his political career? The case that was unfolding in front of him seemed too good to be true. He grabbed his briefcase and almost ran to his car.
An hour later, at the crime scene, he met up with Jim Walters and his partner Joe Harper in the lobby of the bank. The place was a bustle of activity between the crime scene investigators, bank examiners, local police, Bank USA executives, and insurance company reps.
“Anything new?” Whitehead asked.
“The coroner thinks the cause of death was a heart attack,” Walters replied.
Whitehead frowned. “A heart attack?”
“Yeah, induced by the stress of the robbery, he thinks. He may have been drinking. There was an empty flask of bourbon in his office, an open bottle in his desk drawer, and he’d been reprimanded for drinking in the past.”
“I can’t believe they’d trust over six million dollars to a drunk,” Harper said, shaking his head.
Whitehead shrugged. “You gotta wonder.”
They moved to the vault and went inside. The body had been removed, but there was a chalk outline where Hamlin had been found. There were eleven teller carts with their empty drawers extended.
“What about prints?” Whitehead asked.
“Fuller’s are all over the bank—even in the President’s office.”
“Anything inside the vault?”
“No, but they found them on the door of the vault. He must have closed it when he left.”
“What about Sam Stewart? Any of his prints inside the bank?”
“No.”
“So, what do you think happened here?” Whitehead asked.
“I can’t see Fuller pulling it off himself. Hamlin would have had to help him,” Harper said. “There was an incident about six weeks ago when Hamlin left the vault open and Fuller found it. Fuller reported it, and Hamlin got reprimanded. When this happened, they were alone together for about a half hour. Perhaps that’s when the idea was hatched.”
Whitehead frowned. “Hmm. That’s a stretch. Something like that would more likely make them enemies, not co-conspirators.”
“Yeah, except Hamlin was pretty easygoing and smart enough to know Fuller wasn’t the reason he got in trouble,” Harper added. “The incident might have gotten him to thinking it might be possible to rob the bank and not get caught if he had some help. You’ve got to admit, stealing over six million dollars from a bank with a state-of-the-art alarm system is quite a feat.”
“Or,” Walters suggested, “Hamlin got drunk and left the vault open again, and this time Fuller decided to take the money. Maybe Hamlin was drunk in his office and caught Fuller taking the money. That could have led to the confrontation that caused his heart attack.”
“I like that idea,” Whitehead said. “That’s the most plausible explanation I’ve heard so far. We need to find the money, though, so let’s give Fuller some rope so he can lead us to it—and then we’ll hang him with it.”