Infidel

by Steve Gannon

  “What I know or don’t know is none of your concern,” Strickland snapped, avoiding my gaze.

  “What’s Kane talking about?” asked Snead.

  “I’m talking about a video clip from the terrorists’ camera that proves I acted properly in my use of force,” I answered. “By the way, I’m certain I can get a copy of that, should the need arise,” I added, deciding not to reveal that I had already done just that.

  Chief Ingram spoke up. “Let’s tone things down a bit,” he suggested. “No one is threatening you, Detective Kane. I’m sure Captain Snead didn’t mean to suggest that the outcome of the FID investigation was dependent on anything other than the facts. Isn’t that right, Bill?”

  “Uh, yes, sir,” Snead mumbled.

  “Sorry, Bill, I didn’t quite hear that,” I said.

  “Don’t push it, Kane,” Snead warned.

  Ingram frowned. “We all need to get on the same page here. Kane, I’m sure you’ve heard there was another terrorist incident last night. This time an entire family was slaughtered, right after we announced that the terrorists were dead and the attacks were over. Well, the terrorists aren’t dead, at least not all of them, and now we’re sitting here looking like assholes with egg on our face.”

  Though temporarily thrown by Ingram’s chaotic mix of images, I knew what he meant. There was nothing more embarrassing in police work—or politics, for that matter—than being caught with your pants down, and the chief was guilty on both counts.

  “There has been another development as well,” Ingram continued. “That’s where you come in, Detective Kane.”

  “You mean my name being revealed,” I said, turning to Snead. “You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

  “Are you implying that I leaked your name?” Snead blustered.

  “That’s not an answer.”

  “I don’t know how the press got your name,” said Snead, glancing at Chief Ingram. “And I resent your suggesting that I had something to do with it.”

  I can almost always tell when someone is lying, and I knew that if Snead weren’t outright lying, he was at least holding something back. “I’ll tell you what I’m suggesting,” I said. “I know a call came in on the Bureau hotline threatening the so-called ‘mystery hero’ and his family. It was probably the same threat your LAPD task force received, but the feds took it seriously. So what I’m suggesting here, Bill, is that if anything happens to a member of my family—if even the slightest hair on any of their heads is harmed—I’m going to find the source of that leak and make certain he never leaks again.”

  “Are you threatening me?” Snead sputtered, further confirming my suspicions.

  “I don’t make threats. Consider it a promise.”

  “We don’t have time for this,” Ingram interrupted. “I’ll say it again. We all need to get on the same page.” He scowled at Snead, then returned his gaze to me. “Have you seen their latest video?”

  “I’ve been busy.”

  “Well, I think it’s something you need to watch before we go any further,” Ingram said, motioning for me to join him at his desk. As I moved to stand behind him, he brought up a video on his desktop computer. Within seconds the terrorists’ new internet posting began playing.

  As before, I didn’t want to watch. But as before, I had to.

  The terrorists started their latest video with the image of a rifle-brandishing intruder standing in front of an ISIS flag. Although the terrorist’s face was hidden by a balaclava and dark sunglasses, I could tell it wasn’t the same person who had appeared in earlier videos. The terrorist’s height was shorter and the build seemed slighter, possibly even that of a woman. The rifle was different as well. Instead of the Chinese AK-47 knockoff from before, this time the intruder was holding what appeared to be a Ruger Mini-14 semiautomatic carbine, or something similar.

  My heart fell as two similarly dressed terrorists entered the frame. I thought I recognized one of them—the short, muscular individual I’d seen before. I wasn’t certain about the other. The two men were shoving what appeared to be a teenaged boy and girl before them. The teenagers’ hands were bound behind their backs. Sacks covered their heads. Roughly, the terrorists forced the teens to their knees and removed the hoods. The girl was weeping. Although silent, the young man appeared to be in shock. I could see fear in his eyes.

  None of the terrorists spoke.

  The video faded to black. As before, the terrorists’ manifesto began scrolling across the screen, opening with the words, “America, be God’s curse on you.” I forced myself to reread it all, looking for any difference in the script. There was none. Minutes later the text concluded with the words, “All praise be to Allah, and peace and blessings be upon his Prophet Muhammad.”

  The video returned to the teenagers kneeling before their captors. The terrorist with the rifle stepped out of the frame, returning with a basket containing two dark-handled knives. Each of the men behind the children withdrew a knife.

  I thought I could watch, but I couldn’t. Shaken, I turned away as the murderers began their grisly executions. Vainly trying to shut out the children’s screams, I kept thinking of my own children, imagining how I would feel if that were happening to them.

  When it was over, one of the knife-wielding men stepped out of the frame, returning with a second pair of victims—this time a man and woman. Like the children, the man and woman were bound and hooded. Like their children, they were forced to their knees in front of the camera. And like their children, they were executed.

  I will never forget the look of horror on the woman’s face when her hood was removed and she saw the decapitated bodies of her children. Nor, for as long as I live, will I forget her pitiful, heartrending screams.

  When the killers embarked on their second set of clumsy, brutal murders, I again had to look away.

  After it was over, the video switched to a close-up of the Arabic word for “infidel” painted in blood on the living room wall. Following that came a final shot of the ISIS flag, and the video faded to black.

  None of us spoke. I sat frozen, my heart pounding like a trip-hammer. Although I was shocked and sickened, I also realized that I was trembling with anger. For me, violence assumes a monstrous, unpardonable aspect when children are involved, and what I had just seen shook me to the core. For the killers to behead an entire family was unspeakably cruel, but to make the parents view the bodies of their slaughtered children before their own deaths was hideous beyond measure.

  Finally Chief Ingram broke the silence. “Are we all on the same page now?”

  I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. Strickland and Snead did the same.

  “Good,” said Ingram. “And just so there is no misunderstanding about what page that is, let me spell it out for you. We need to take those guys off the street, using every means at our disposal.”

  I wondered what Ingram had meant by that last part. Before I could ask, he posed a question of his own. “Any thoughts on this latest video, Kane?”

  I thought a moment. “Yes, sir,” I said. “To start, this is the first time we’ve seen the terrorist with the rifle. I get the impression it might have been a woman.”

  “Yeah, we thought that, too,” said Snead.

  “New semiautomatic weapon,” I went on. “Looked like a Ruger Mini-14.” I turned to Snead. “Speaking of which, ATF came up empty tracing the ownership of the Chinese AK-47 we recovered at Rivas Canyon. You guys have any luck?”

  Snead nodded. “Three years back, the AK knockoff was purchased from a private collector at an Arizona gun show. Cash sale to a buyer with phony ID identifying him as David Miller, the same alias used by the man who ordered the magnetic signs. The seller claimed that the Chicom Type 56 rifle was a semiautomatic version, and therefore legal in the U.S. If so, the rifle was subsequently converted to full auto, which isn’t that difficult. By the way, we lifted prints from Miller’s postal-box registration card and matched them to one of the guys you pop
ped at Rivas Canyon.”

  “Yeah, I heard that. Anything new on the ISIS flag?”

  “Same thing. We located a online manufacturer that shipped it to Miller’s box in Flagstaff. The trail ended there.”

  “Did you notice anything else on the video?” Ingram broke in, looking at me.

  “I did recognize one of the terrorists from before,” I answered. “Short, muscular guy.”

  “Yeah, we made that connection as well,” said Strickland.

  “Something about this latest video seems different,” I continued. “Cruder, more amateurish. No camera movement during the murders, for instance. No panning down to the blood puddle or zooming in on the knives, like in the earlier ones.”

  “So?” said Snead.

  “So maybe they didn’t have a cameraman this time.”

  “Meaning maybe there were only three terrorists this time, not four?” Ingram reasoned.

  “That’s what I’m thinking,” I said. “Maybe their killing squad is running out of members.”

  “From your lips to God’s ears,” said Ingram. Then he paused, again regarding me closely. “Okay, here’s what we’re going to do,” he said. “Kane, for better or worse, your name is out there now, so we’re going to make the most of it.”

  “By using me as bait?” I said, abruptly realizing what Ingram had meant by his “using every means at our disposal” comment earlier. “I don’t think so, Chief.”

  “You don’t have much choice in the matter,” Snead pointed out with a nasty grin. “As of this morning, you’ve got a big bull’s-eye painted on your back.”

  I hesitated, realizing Snead was right. My worst nightmare had come true. I had put my family in danger again . . . and there was nothing I could do about it.

  “Think of it this way,” Snead continued, his tone suggesting that we were getting to the real reason I was there. “As of now, you have nothing to lose. If you cooperate, we’ll provide protection. Best-case scenario, we keep you safe and get these pukes off the street, like Chief Ingram said. Are you in?”

  All three of them watched me closely, awaiting my response. Despite Snead’s assurance that I had nothing to lose, I knew in the worst-case scenario, I had everything to lose. I tried to think of another option. Not coming up with any ideas, I finally nodded. “On one condition.”

  “And that is?” asked Strickland.

  “I want round-the-clock protection for my family until this is over.” I would have preferred to get them out of town, but I knew they would refuse to leave, so for now twenty-four-hour protection would have to suffice.

  Strickland glanced at Snead. “Is that doable?”

  “No problem,” Snead replied. “I’ll set it up with Metro.”

  “Good. It’s settled then,” said Ingram. “Kane, Snead will place ironclad protective surveillance on you and your family. In the meantime, you’ll go back to your liaison position at the Bureau.”

  “How exactly is this ‘bait’ operation going to be run?” I asked, suspecting there had to be more.

  “We’ll keep it simple,” Ingram answered. “In addition to pursuing other aspects of the case, the feds are currently tracking every current internet search being made on you. With the help of NSA, they’re monitoring searches worldwide, but focusing on those with local IP addresses. After this morning there are bound to be thousands, but the Bureau has the resources to sift through them and come up with our killers. We’ll continue working our end of the investigation, as well as maintaining a close eye on you—hoping the terrorists try to make good on their threat.”

  “And this time when the dust settles,” Snead added, “it would be helpful to have someone left alive to interview.”

  I bristled. Contrary to what many people think, including those in the media, when an LAPD officer uses deadly force to protect himself or others, he has been trained to “shoot to stop,” not “shoot to kill.” Unfortunately, a bullet through an arm or leg may not stop the threat, leaving the torso as the best alternative target. Unfortunately, a torso shot may also result in killing the suspect, but that was not the officer’s intent—at least on paper. “I did what was necessary to stop those guys,” I said. “After viewing the footage from the terrorists’ camera, if you haven’t already, you’ll know that.”

  “What I know is this,” Snead retorted. “If you had left someone alive in Rivas Canyon, we might have had a chance to roll up their entire organization, in which case we wouldn’t be in the position we are now.”

  “It was a judgment call, and I’ll stand by it.”

  “I agree,” said Strickland, surprising me. “Spilt milk and all that.” He checked his watch. “Maybe it’s time for us to address those reporters downstairs?” he added, glancing at Ingram. “After last night, we need to try to put a good face on things.”

  Ingram nodded. “I agree. It’s time for Detective Kane to meet the media.”

  “How about adding a few details designed to anger the terrorists, maybe goad them into making a mistake?” suggested Snead. “Build Kane up as some kind of terrorist-killing supercop, for instance.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” said Ingram. Then, turning to me. “Kane, we’re heading downstairs now to talk with our brothers and sisters in the media. When we get there, I want you to do one simple thing.”

  “What?”

  “Just be yourself.”

  “No problem,” I agreed, feeling trapped but seeing no way out.

  Ingram smiled. “Perfect. In one way or another, that should piss off just about everyone . . . including the terrorists.”

  Chapter 38

  Jacob sat at the bar in Neptune’s Locker. Alone that evening, he nursed a diet soda and stared into the mirror above the back counter, surveying the crowded tables behind him. For the past hour the room had been steadily filling with customers—couples out on a date, commuters returning home from the city, locals stopping by for a quick one before dinner.

  But Jacob wasn’t there to drink. Still smarting from the near-fatal mistake he’d made by not keeping current on news developments, he had returned to the Trancas Canyon establishment for one reason, and one reason only: to learn the identity of the LAPD’s “mystery hero.”

  Jacob checked his watch. Then, calling to the bartender, “Could you change the TV station to Channel 2?”

  “Hang on, sir,” said the bartender. Then, pointing a remote control at the TV, “Channel 2, coming up.”

  Minutes later CBS Evening News came on, opening with the familiar face of the network anchor, Dan Fairly. “Turn up the sound,” said Jacob.

  Again thumbing the TV remote, the bartender turned up the volume.

  “. . . lead story, we go to McLean, Virginia, where the president once more addressed the nation from the National Counterterrorism Center,” the news anchor was saying, his expression appropriately sober.

  Sitting straighter on his stool, Jacob watched as the scene switched to a reporter-filled auditorium. His eyes gleaming like gunsights, he listened as the president delivered a rehash of his NCTC speech of several weeks back, again calling for an end to the violence against Muslims that was ravaging the country. Next, after reminding the nation that by standing together we would overcome any and all extremist threats, the president expressed confidence that the FBI’s Joint Terrorism Task Force, working in conjunction with the U.S. Department of Homeland Security and the LAPD’s Counter-Terrorism Task Force, would bring to justice those individuals responsible for the beheading murders in Los Angeles.

  Following the president’s address, the newscast returned to Dan Fairly in New York. “In response to an exclusive CBS revelation made earlier today, LAPD police chief Charlie Ingram called a surprise news conference in Los Angeles,” said Fairly, again taking up the reins. “In what appeared to be a hastily scheduled appearance, Chief Ingram introduced the police officer responsible for the Pacific Palisades shooting deaths of three terrorists earlier this month. Here, with more from Los Angeles, is CBS News c
orrespondent Brent Preston.”

  Following a lead-in by Brent Preston, the scene switched to another reporter-filled auditorium. This time, instead of the president addressing the nation, the TV screen displayed the images of Chief Ingram and a large, tough-looking man whom Jacob didn’t recognize. Although Chief Ingram spoke first, it was Ingram’s companion who drew Jacob’s attention. Tall, hard-edged, and unsmiling, there was something dangerous in this second man’s eyes, something disturbing.

  After a round of self-serving introductory remarks, Chief Ingram introduced the man standing beside him as Detective Daniel Kane, better known in the press as the LAPD’s “mystery hero.” Ingram briefly summarized Detective Kane’s previous accomplishments on the force, painting the picture of a man who had been pivotal in a number of high-profile homicide cases, including the current task-force investigation led by Captain Snead. Next, following a review of the Pacific Palisades terrorist attack, Ingram described Detective Kane’s actions at the scene. Then, in a surprise move, Ingram threw open the briefing for questions from the room.

  Reporters immediately jumped to their feet, all directing questions at Kane. “Detective Kane,” yelled one of the more persistent correspondents, “this isn’t the first time you have shot and killed a suspected criminal. In this recent incident, have you been exonerated by your department for your use of deadly force?”

  “Not yet,” said Kane. “But I will be.”

  “How do you know? Is it because you think the LAPD will cover up any improprieties?” yelled another reporter.

  “You’re suggesting the LAPD will engage in some sort of cover-up? What’s your name, pal?” Kane demanded, pinning the questioning reporter in his gaze.

  “Callahan, L.A. Times,” said the reporter. “And for the record, I’m not suggesting anything. Just asking for clarification.”