by Steve Gannon
“Against my direct orders,” Snead chimed in, stepping toward me with clenched fists. “I’m bringing you up on charges, you smug bastard.”
“As I said earlier, Captain Snead . . . I don’t take orders from you.”
Snead scowled. “As ranking officer at the scene, I—”
“You weren’t at the scene. I was. It was my call.”
“We’re getting off-track,” Ingram interjected. “We have a press conference in twenty minutes, and we need to decide what we’re going to say.”
“Yes, sir,” said Snead. “But when this is over . . .”
“When this is over, we’ll discuss what’s going to happen next,” said Ingram. Then, to me, “Much of that will depend on you, Kane. Do you understand?”
I nodded, deciding that Ingram’s promise to “have my back” was no longer in play.
“So here’s the situation in which we find ourselves,” Ingram continued, folding his hands on his desktop. “First, we have an active, officer-involved shooting investigation. At present, the facts surrounding this incident are cloudy. We have an LAPD detective who putatively disobeyed orders and entered a crime scene. Instead of maintaining cellphone contact with officers outside, this detective disconnected his phone and proceeded into the residence. Next, with no one to corroborate his account of events, he shot and killed three suspects. Are you following me so far, Kane?”
“Perfectly,” I said, understanding Ingram’s not-so-veiled FID threat, and having a hard time controlling my temper.
“Excellent,” said Ingram. “Second, and here we get to the interesting part. We have a high-profile case in which the department has been taking a backseat to the Bureau, as well as doing most of their work. Worse, every time the media has searched for someone to blame, the LAPD has been served up as a scapegoat. Now we have a chance to change things.”
“I’m not certain I follow,” I said.
“Then I’ll suggest a scenario you can follow, something I think we can all live with,” said Ingram. “Last night in Rivas Canyon, the unnamed LAPD officer was actually a member of our LAPD task force. Working under the direction of Captain Snead, this unnamed officer entered the Clark residence and at great personal risk, he saved the life of one of the residents, sustaining significant injuries himself in the process. Unfortunately, during the rescue he was forced to shoot and kill all three terrorists.”
“I can’t condone this,” Snead objected. “Kane was—”
“Bill, you’ll condone whatever the hell I tell you to condone,” Ingram warned.
Snead looked away. “Yes, sir.”
Ingram turned back to me. “Kane?”
“Let me make certain I’m following you, Chief,” I said. “Last night I was actually working for Snead. I entered the Clark residence acting under LAPD task-force orders. Everything else follows from there. The department gets credit for closing the case, the FBI winds things up, and everyone’s happy.”
“Correct.”
“Will the Bureau go along?”
Ingram nodded. “Already done. Director Shepherd wants to avoid further notoriety concerning the Bureau’s role in this. As it is, considering the organizational mess at the first murder scene and the pizza-connection leak after that, we’re all looking bad enough without attracting additional attention from the media.”
I thought a moment. “I can live with your scenario,” I said, deciding I didn’t have much choice. “On one condition.”
“God damn it, Kane,” Strickland jumped in. “You are in no position to make demands.”
“That may be, but it’s still something I want. And it’s non-negotiable.”
“And that is?” said Ingram, also seeming about to lose his temper.
“I want my name kept out of things. You mentioned an ‘unnamed officer’ in your version of what happened. Let’s leave it at that.”
Ingram rocked back in his chair. “Who knows so far?”
I thought a moment. “Two LAPD patrol officers at the scene—uh, Officer Fagen was one. I didn’t get his partner’s name. The responding SWAT guys know, too—as they politely refrained from shooting me. And Snead’s task-force detectives. No one in the press.”
“What about the FBI?”
“Special Agent Taylor was present. She called her supervisor, ASAC Gibbs, who mentioned my name at this morning’s briefing. I’m not certain how far up and down the chain it went from there.”
“A lot of people,” Ingram mused. “But it might be possible to keep a lid on things.” Then, addressing Strickland, “Owen?”
“I think we can swing it,” said Strickland. “At least for the foreseeable future. We could cite the risk of a terrorist retaliation as the reason for withholding Kane’s identity. State law prohibits divulging the names of police officers in public documents, so the FID report won’t be a problem, either. It might fly.”
“Then we’re in agreement,” said Ingram. Turning to me, he regarded my bloody shirt, seeming to notice my appearance for the first time. “You were seriously injured last night.”
“No big deal,” I said, my hand traveling to the scabbed-over wound on my forehead. “Flying glass.”
“That wasn’t a question, Kane. You sustained significant injuries during your efforts at the Clark residence. As of now, consider yourself on injury leave, with full pay and benefits. I’m certain you will need several weeks to recuperate, at minimum. I trust you’ll keep your head down during that time.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then all’s well that ends well.” Ingram paused, then turned to Strickland. “Owen, please give Kane and me a minute. I’ll meet you and Captain Snead downstairs.”
“Yes, sir,” said Strickland.
After Strickland and Snead had exited, Ingram regarded me for a long moment. “Dan, I can tell from your expression that you don’t like how things are going down,” he said. “You’re also probably wondering what happened to my promise to have your back.”
Although the chief was right, I didn’t reply.
“No one is questioning your decision last night to remove those guys from the gene pool,” Ingram continued. “Not one person in the department has a problem with that, including me. At issue is how you did it.”
“Chief, I—”
“Don’t say anything,” Ingram interrupted. “I don’t know what happened in that house last night, and I don’t want to know. A lot of things have gone sideways on this case, including the fiasco in Rivas Canyon. Given the circumstances, I came up with the best solution I could craft for all parties involved, including you. Bottom line, I do have your back. Maybe more than you realize.”
“Yes, sir,” I mumbled.
Ingram rose and shook my hand, signaling an end to the meeting. “I’m going downstairs now to talk with the media,” he said. “As you and I are in agreement on what happened in Rivas Canyon, I don’t expect to hear anything to the contrary.”
I shrugged. Even though I was disgusted that Snead would once again be taking credit for something he didn’t deserve, there was nothing to be gained by objecting. “Not from me,” I said. “I was working for Captain Snead.”
Ingram nodded. “Despite what people think, you can be a team player, and I appreciate that. After the dust settles, we’ll speak further regarding your future in the department.”
Chapter 29
That evening found Jacob and Rudy sitting in Neptune’s Locker, a local seaside restaurant and bar at the mouth of Trancas Canyon. Although Jacob’s compound lay a mere six miles up a winding road from the popular establishment, compared with the commune’s atmosphere of prayer and seclusion, Neptune’s Locker could well have been on another planet.
Jacob was sitting at the bar sipping a diet soda. Rudy sat beside him, drinking Wild Turkey. Across the lacquered bar top, a television mounted above a rack of liquor bottles was tuned to CBS Evening News. Jacob and Rudy turned their attention to the newscast as it began. After a lead-in from Dan Fairly, the network’s New
York anchor, the news broadcast switched to Los Angeles for the evening’s lead story. Reporting from Los Angeles was correspondent Brent Preston.
“Turn up the sound,” Rudy ordered the bartender, a muscular, thick-necked biker-type with a shaved scalp and blurry tattoos festooning both arms.
The bartender looked up from a blender, where he was mixing a round of drinks for a rowdy group of women in the back. Scowling, he flipped off the blender and grabbed a TV remote control. Pointing it toward the TV, he turned up the volume.
“. . . Preston reporting from Studio City, Los Angeles,” the blond reporter was saying. “Responding to a 911 call, authorities arrived at the Pacific Palisades home of Dr. Oliver Clark. Here, with an on-the-scene report from earlier last evening, is CBS correspondent Allison Kane.”
The scene switched to a darkened street, where a thicket of police cars jammed the road in front of a two-story residence. Near the police barricade, bracketed by a fleet of mobile news vans, stood a tall woman reporter, microphone in hand.
“This evening at approximately nine p.m., a van displaying counterfeit pizza-restaurant markings arrived at the Pacific Palisades home of Dr. Oliver Clark,” the female reporter began, turning briefly to glance at the gated estate behind her. “Ms. Tammy Sanders, a friend visiting Dr. Clark at the time, grew suspicious, having recently viewed a CBS News report detailing a pizza-delivery connection with the Los Angeles beheading murders. Alarmed, Ms. Sanders dialed 911. Unfortunately for Dr. Clark, she was too late.”
Earlier, Jacob had learned of his mistake. In many respects, the lack of electricity, telephone reception, and internet services at his remote compound had proved a blessing, fostering a more godly existence for his followers. Nevertheless, it had been foolish of him not to have maintained up-to-the-minute intelligence on what the authorities knew, as well as what they might be planning. With a sense of shame, Jacob realized that his hubris had led to the previous evening’s disaster. Had he kept up on current developments, he would have known that their pizza-delivery ruse had been discovered. As a result, his overconfidence had nearly cost them everything.
It was a mistake he would not repeat.
“Members of the FBI/LAPD Joint Terrorism Task Force arrived at the scene, accompanied by an LAPD SWAT unit,” the female reporter continued. “At that point, acting under the direction of Captain William Snead, an unnamed LAPD officer entered the Clark residence.
“In a gun battle that followed, all three terrorists were killed. At this time, the intruders’ identities still remain unknown. Dr. Oliver Clark later died of wounds inflicted by one of the terrorists. The unnamed LAPD officer, who is credited with saving the life of Ms. Sanders, sustained injuries in the shootout and is currently receiving medical treatment. At present, the identity of this ‘mystery hero’ remains unknown. Reporting for CBS News, this is Allison Kane, Los Angeles.”
The report switched back to the news studio, with Brent Preston’s face again filling the screen. “That was CBS correspondent Allison Kane with an on-the-scene report from last evening. At eleven a.m. this morning, authorities held a press conference at LAPD headquarters. This is what we learned.”
The telecast switched to a large auditorium, where Mayor Fitzpatrick, LAPD Chief Ingram, and FBI Assistant Director Shepherd were standing shoulder-to-shoulder in front of a bank of microphones.
Ignoring shouted questions, Mayor Fitzpatrick spoke first, raising his hands for silence. “Welcome. I am happy to report that the terrorist threat endangering our city has been brought to an end. Last night, under the direction of my office and working hand-in-hand with the FBI’s Joint Terrorism Task Force, the U.S. Department of Homeland Security, and LAPD’s Counter-Terrorism and Special Operations Bureau, a Los Angeles Police Department task force led by Captain William Snead brought the terrorist investigation to a successful conclusion. Although the case is still ongoing, with the deaths of the three men responsible for the Westside beheading murders, we are confident that the danger to our citizens has now passed.”
Mayor Fitzpatrick turned to Director Shepherd and Chief Ingram. “I want to thank each of you for your efforts,” he said, grasping their hands in turn, prolonging each handshake to give photographers time to capture the moment. Then, turning back to the roomful of reporters, “That said, this might be as good a time as any to throw open the briefing for questions.”
“Have you identified the killers?” came a question from the front.
Chief Ingram stepped back, deferring to Director Shepherd.
“All of the deceased terrorists were Caucasian males,” Shepherd replied. “At present we have identified one of the intruders as Ethan James Hess, a natural born American citizen. We still don’t know the identity of the other suspects killed at the scene.”
“An American citizen. So is this a case of domestic terrorism, not an ISIS plot?” asked another reporter.
“At this time we are not ruling out a foreign connection,” Shepherd cautioned. “As Mayor Fitzpatrick indicated, we still consider the case to be ongoing. There are a number of questions left unanswered, including how these men came to be radicalized as Islamic terrorists. In an effort to determine whether others are involved, the FBI will continue to work with its critical asset partners across the country, as well as with members of the LAPD and the U.S. Department of Homeland Security. We intend to leave no stone unturned in our effort to bring to justice those responsible for these murders.”
“Why isn’t the name of the ‘mystery hero’ being released?” someone called from the back.
Chief Ingram stepped forward. “For security reasons, and pending the results of an LAPD use-of-force review, we are currently withholding the identity of the officer who saved the life of Ms. Sanders.”
At that point the newscast switched back to Brent Preston. “The identity of the LAPD officer involved in the deadly shootout still remains a mystery,” he said. “Meanwhile, as our country’s leaders call for an end to the violence, a nationwide Muslim backlash continues, with hundreds of deaths and dozens of Islamic centers being destroyed over the past weeks. Muslims, both foreign and domestic, are now in the crosshairs of an angry, frightened population, with no end in sight. This is Brent Preston, CBS News, Los Angeles. Now back to Dan Fairly in New York. Dan?”
“Thanks, Brent,” said the network anchor as the broadcast returned to the CBS studios in New York. “That was Brent Preston and Allison Kane, reporting from Los Angeles. In a related story, earlier today in a televised address from the National Counterterrorism Center in McLean, Virginia, the president again called for an end to the violence targeting our nation’s Muslim population. Amid renewed fears of terrorism, the president promised that by being strong and smart, resilient and relentless, we will overcome any and all terrorist threats we may face, both foreign and domestic, now and in the future. In his remarks the president also stated that although the FBI currently has no evidence that the Los Angeles execution-style murders were directed by extremists overseas, he cautioned that terrorism seems to have evolved into a new phase, with attacks being hatched at home as a result of foreign fanatics poisoning the minds of killers already on U.S. soil. Here, with more from our nation’s capital, is CBS News correspondent Manuel Gallegos . . .”
“What now?” asked Rudy, turning his attention from the television.
“You heard the news report,” said Jacob, “A cleansing Muslim backlash is sweeping our nation, with a decisive blow being struck against radical Islam. We knew there would be setbacks,” he added, lowering his voice. “Nevertheless, we dedicated ourselves to our cause, and we will proceed.”
“When?”
“Soon.”
“We’ll need new members for the kill squad,” said Rudy, also lowering his voice.
“That won’t be a problem,” Jacob replied, already considering several candidates who might fit the bill. Possibly even Sister Zoe, if he decided to add a woman to the team. He thought a moment, deciding that replacing their l
ost equipment wouldn’t be a problem, either.
“What about the cop who killed Caleb and Ethan and Parker?”
“All in good time. The authorities can’t keep the identity of their ‘mystery hero’ a secret forever. Sooner or later, we’ll find out who he is.”
Chapter 30
I spent the next few days keeping my head down at home, as ordered by Chief Ingram. Allison dropped by the beach house several times after work, joining Grandma Dorothy and me for dinner. Nate continued to remain reclusive. He missed school several times, saying he had a stomachache, and he skipped dinner each evening, staying in his room.
During that time I learned from Allison that the media, as usual demonstrating an insatiable desire to uncover anything that was considered secret, had risen to the challenge of identifying the LAPD’s “mystery hero.”
With a lack of other developments, Lauren had tasked Allison with discovering the identity of the officer who had entered the Clark residence. Allison had objected, pointing out that revealing the officer’s name could put him in jeopardy, but Lauren had remained firm, stating that it wasn’t their call to make. So far no one had talked. Nevertheless, a lot of people knew what had taken place in Rivas Canyon, and although I suspected it was just a matter of time before my name was leaked, I hadn’t decided how to handle things when that happened.
As for the investigation, I’d had no further contact with the Bureau, but I knew from watching TV that FBI agents had interviewed a number of persons-of-interest connected with Ethan Hess, the only identified terrorist to date. So far nothing had shaken loose, at least nothing the Bureau was sharing with the media.
Because the two remaining terrorists’ prints weren’t in the system, I wasn’t surprised to learn that they still hadn’t been identified. Television crime series routinely show someone feeding a fingerprint into a computer, and seconds later out pops the suspect’s name, date of birth, employer, his most recent address, and what the guy ate for breakfast.