“He looked like he was just riding a bike. You know, wearing a helmet and tight clothing. I think maybe he was one of them terrorists.”
“Hello?” The operator was momentarily silent. Charlie thought he’d lost her. “Hello?”
“All right, sir. It sounds like you might have some good information. We need you to report to the nearest law enforcement facility as soon as you possibly can. If you tell me your location, I can give you directions.”
“Law enforcement facility?” Charlie didn’t like the idea of going to a cop shop.
“They’ll just take down the details of your information and tell you how to file your claim for the reward money.”
“Okay. We’re at Gators, that’s a bar in Kent. Just outside Seattle.”
“Have you been drinking, sir?”
“No—well yes, oh shit . . . I can still drive.”
“I could send a local squad car over to pick you up.”
“It’s all right. I only drank one Bud. Honest. Now where am I headed?”
“The Kent Police Station is on 4th Ave. When you get there, identify yourself to the desk sergeant. He’ll take care of you.”
“Thanks. Can I bring my friend? He was with me at the reservoir.”
“Of course.”
“Okay, we’ll be there shortly.”
The news about potential eyewitnesses moved rapidly up the investigative chain of command. Keyvan Gushue, the local FBI agent, was on the line to Randall Tierney within minutes.
“Are they credible?” Tierney asked.
“Maybe. Two old-timers in the watershed saw some suspicious activities at the reservoir.”
“What kind of activities?”
“Someone possibly putting something in the water. Two agents from our Seattle office are headed to the Kent Police Station to do the intake interview.”
“This could be our first real break. Look, I want to be patched in to that interview—preferably by videophone. Audio as Plan B. And get our best sketch artists on a plane to Seattle, see if we can get some images of the perps to circulate.”
Forty-five minutes later Tierney was staring at two men who looked and talked like characters in a Coen Brothers movie. He watched with mounting disbelief as they heard Charlie’s story about seeing a lone cyclist at the reservoir’s edge. Tierney hit the mute button and spoke into Gushue’s earpiece. “Are you kidding me? One guy on a bicycle? Some thirsty, trespassing, mountain bike–riding, West Coast hippie is in a boatload of trouble.” He rubbed his temples with both hands. The clock was ticking. What were the odds that a guy on a bicycle singlehandedly poisoned Seattle’s water? These two old geezers looked about as reliable as a cheap umbrella in a torrential downpour.
“All right. Put out the word that one or more terrorists may have been disguised as a cyclist, and they would have to have been riding a bike with some means of carrying cargo. Let’s see if we can reel in some more witnesses. And get those old farts over to our Seattle field office. Show them some mug shots. Put them with the sketch artists. And check their vehicles to see if they match the tire patterns we found at the reservoir.”
* * *
Maria was marking term papers when the phone rang. She answered the phone with trepidation these days, fearing bad news. “Hello?”
“Hey, Maria, it’s Dom. How’re you doing? Do you miss the doc already?”
“Of course. Life goes on, but what can you do? I didn’t want him to leave.”
“Why didn’t you go with him?”
“Dominic! What is it with you men? It’s the middle of the semester. I’m teaching two courses and supervising eight graduate students. I’m on more committees than I can count. Women don’t simply drop everything and follow their husbands to the ends of the earth anymore.”
There was a brief, awkward pause. “Right. Sorry. I understand. Well, if there’s ever anything I can do for you while the doc’s away, just let me know.”
“That’s nice. Thank you.”
“Hey, the other reason I was calling is that I was wondering if I could borrow Michael’s mountain bike for a week or so. A bunch of folks from the Sierra Club are going down to Moab in Utah to blow off some steam by biking around on the red rock, and they asked me if I wanted to tag along.”
“He took his road bike with him but his mountain bike is in the garage. The spare key to the garage door is taped to the bottom of the hummingbird feeder.”
“Awesome! Thanks, Maria. I meant to ask Michael before he left, but it slipped my mind.”
“No problem. Keep it as long as you like.” Keep it forever, Maria thought bitterly.
Chapter 21
Cassie grabbed an early breakfast with Abby at the hotel restaurant’s pricey buffet and silently apologized to taxpayers. She filled a large plate with fresh fruit and spooned some yogurt and granola on top. Abby was reading the Seattle Post-Intelligencer on his phone.
“How’s the story playing out today?” Cassie asked.
“About what you’d expect. Saturation coverage. People are upset but mostly not panicking. The initial surge in visits to doctors and hospitals seems to have abated. There was a run on bottled water but the Canadian government is sending a fleet of trucks full of water down from Vancouver. The president is getting good reviews for his speech and for flying out here right away. Speaking of the president, he’d like you to join him at nine a.m. for a meeting with the mayor and the governor.”
“Damn. I was planning to meet with Chief Gilhooley at nine.”
“I can bump the president.”
“Yeah right. Can you call Gilhooley’s office, try and reschedule for ten?”
“Sure. And you have the morning briefing at eight. Find anything interesting in our database?” Abby had printed a summary of hundreds of incidents involving water supplies and treatment systems in the U.S. over the past decade and given Cassie the two-inch-thick binder on their flight to Seattle.
“A couple of long shots. The number of incidents is stunning, but it’s mostly small-scale vandalism, theft, petty misdemeanors. Teenagers partying, disgruntled employees and ex-employees, jilted lovers, and people suffering from mental illnesses. Not a single terrorist attack, confirmed or even suspected, in the entire database.” Cassie had tasked two of her top investigators to follow up on a handful of incidents that she’d flagged. She’d keep an open mind while the boys chased after ISIS and its sleeper cells. Let the chips fall where they may.
Stryder kicked off the Tuesday morning briefing with a terse update. “We’ve heard back from London.”
“And?” The president was prickly and looked tired.
“Not much to report. A security guard at the City of London library said that he saw several young men wearing traditional Muslim garb on Saturday afternoon, using the internet and whispering to each other.”
“Whispering? That’s what people do in libraries, for Christ’s sake. Come on! We’ve got less than twenty-four hours to catch these creeps.”
“Well, it lends credence to the jihadist angle but doesn’t get us very far. There are hundreds of thousands of Muslims in London, and millions of them in England.”
“Is the security guard still being questioned?” Tierney asked.
“No, he went home,” Stryder answered.
“Well bring him back,” the president snapped. “I want him to look through mug shots of Islamic jihad suspects and their known associates. See if he recognizes any faces. What about the closed-circuit TVs?”
“The Brits have handed over thousands of hours of recordings from different locations including the library, a five-block radius around the library, and the airport. We’ve got people reviewing them. A couple of assaults and lots of small fry drug deals, but nothing that helps us move forward. We’re getting cooperation from British Intelligence to help interview all library users who signed out books or
used the internet within two hours of the emails being sent. The Brits are also doing criminal record checks on all library personnel and running their names through Interpol’s terrorist databases.”
“Anything else in London?” asked the president.
“Just a series of dead ends. No hits on the fingerprints we collected at the library. Nothing incriminating on the computer. No eyewitnesses with any useful recollections. It looks like the perp just walked in, sat down, sent emails to the water utility, CNN, and the White House, and walked out.”
“We could canvass local hotels, taxi drivers . . .” Tierney suggested.
“But we have no idea who we’re looking for. Seven million people live in London, and hundreds of thousands more pass through every day,” Matthews added.
“That trail is cold,” the president concluded.
“Ice cold,” Stryder piled on.
“All right, let’s not waste any time. I need results and I need them now. Who’s next?”
Tierney spoke up. “Apart from London, there’ve been a number of promising developments overnight and this morning, sir. Almost every domestic agent is working on this case. Regular investigations and cold cases are all on hold. Even the Kennedy assassination team has been reassigned.” Nobody laughed. “Sorry, FBI humor. We’re much more optimistic than we were at this time yesterday.”
“Get to the facts.”
“Yes, sir. Three main items. First, we have two pairs of eyewitnesses who saw suspicious behavior at or near the Chester Morse Reservoir. Second, our Behavioral Analysis Unit has come up with preliminary profiles of the perpetrators. Third, we cross-checked the names of all airline passengers who flew from Sea-Tac to London after the reservoir was contaminated against the names of known terror suspects and individuals that have written threatening letters to the President or the White House. No hits.”
“Let’s hear about the eyewitnesses.”
“First, a local couple called the Rewards for Justice hotline claiming that two men of Middle Eastern extraction—‘Arab types,’ they said—were seen repeatedly in the neighborhood of the Chester Morse Reservoir in recent months. They were observed in a blue Toyota Tercel, leaving from the water treatment plant at approximately six p.m. on the day of the contamination event. We’re tracking down the vehicle, and sketch artists are working with the couple.”
“Sounds promising. And?”
“Second, two fishermen saw an individual whom they allege was pouring an unknown substance into the reservoir on Saturday morning.”
“An individual?”
“Yes. A Caucasian male carrying containers of some kind and wearing cycling gear—a helmet and shorts. The timing fits, but they’re not able to provide a more detailed description.”
“Why not?”
“Unfortunately, these eyewitnesses are seniors and were a substantial distance away. We’ve confirmed the presence of bicycle tracks and footprints to the water’s edge in the location they identified. We believe it’s the primary crime scene. Local police are searching the area for additional physical evidence. People at our computer lab are running some quick modeling exercises to confirm that this is the point where the PCE entered the reservoir. We’ve also confirmed that it was the witnesses’ trucks whose tracks we found trespassing in the reservoir. So that’s no longer an active lead.”
“All right. The Arabs sound promising, but the cyclist? Probably just filling up a water bottle.”
“Possibly, but he could still be a material witness.”
“Okay, then find him fast. Now what about the profiles?”
“We’ve got Alex Kharlamov connecting with us from the Behavioral Analysis Unit in Quantico. He’ll outline the preliminary profiles for us. It’ll just take a minute to patch him in on a secure video feed.”
While they waited for Kharlamov to join them, Matthews said, “There’s not much for the profilers to go on, so don’t get your hopes up.”
“They’ve surprised us before, pulling rabbits out of their hats,” Tierney replied. “Descriptions that sound crazy and end up fitting to a T. This case is getting cold fast. We have to try pretty much anything, even the long shots.” The phone beeped. “We’ve got Agent Kharlamov on the screen.” Kharlamov looked like a retired Russian hockey player. His face was pockmarked with scars, and his nose was slightly off-center, as though it had been badly broken and poorly repaired. “Alex, please proceed.”
“Yes, sir. Something unusual has occurred. Normally we strive for, and achieve, consensus on the profile of an unknown subject, or unsub. But today we have a divergence of opinion among senior members of our profiling team. As a result, I’ll provide you with two very different, even contradictory, profiles, both of which enjoy equal support. All we have to go on is minimal information about the crime committed in Seattle and psycholinguistic assessment of the three emails sent by the unsub from London.”
The president interrupted Kharlamov. “What the hell is psycholinguistics?”
“Forensic psycholinguistics is a new field of scientific study that looks at the psychological basis of linguistic competence and performance. It’s used primarily in identifying criminals who threaten their victims in writing or correspond with police, government, or the media about their crimes. To be frank, these are early days, and this is more art than science.”
“Caveats duly noted. Now hurry up and tell us what you’ve got.”
“Yes, sir. Here’s the first profile. Neither the crime nor the emails are believed to be the work of one person. The timing, professionalism, and geographic dispersal of evidence suggest that a team of highly organized, educated, and motivated individuals is involved. The emails appear to have been written not by a single author but by several authors, based on internal inconsistencies in grammar, vocabulary, and tone. At least one of the authors probably has some type of medical training or education.
“There is no identifiable signature associated with these crimes that would lead us to believe that a single individual is responsible. Those involved are willing to put many people at risk in order to achieve their goals, indicating a degree of fundamentalism and fanaticism that is consistent with the approaches of major international terrorist organizations.”
“That profile does nothing to advance the investigation.” Osborne sat back and crossed his arms.
“Of course it does. Closes off all of the cockamamie dead-end guesswork that the EPA is wasting their time on,” Stryder replied.
Cassie sat quietly, resisting the urge to roll her eyes.
“Let ’em waste their time. It’s our investigation I’m worried about,” Tierney added.
Kharlamov coughed to clear his throat.
“Go ahead, Alex. What else have you got?” Tierney asked.
“The second profile that our team has developed is viewed as equally plausible, despite the fact that it contradicts the first profile. There are reasons to believe that this is the work of a single individual, likely a white male in his thirties or early forties. He will be fit and healthy. He is a high school graduate and there is a strong likelihood that he has some college education, possibly in chemistry, biology, or political science. He may also have some type of medical training or education. Unsubs who harm many people without seeking publicity are motivated primarily by anger, severe depression, or failures in school, jobs, or relationships. There is a significant probability that the unsub has a history of psychiatric treatment.”
There were grunts, gnashing of the teeth, and other audible signs of displeasure from Stryder, Tierney, and Matthews.
“It’s highly probable that the unsub has made similar threats in the past but not carried them out. It’s also likely that he has written letters to people in positions of power on issues related to global poverty and/or American foreign policy. The tone of these letters probably progressed from polite to angry over a period of time, w
ith an acceleration of acrimony and possibly deteriorating rationality toward the end. It is highly likely that he experienced what we call a precipitating stressor, some kind of negative event in his life, adding sufficient fuel to his anger to move him from rhetoric to action.
“He’s likely a resident or former resident of the Seattle area. Possible occupations include teaching, research, social work, or something in health care. He will likely be perceived as successful by peers and coworkers, although those who know him well may be aware of his frustration at not being important or not doing the kinds of things he believes he is capable of doing or deserves to be doing.
“The lack of detail regarding the follow-up threat makes it difficult to evaluate. It’s clear from both the unsub’s actions and his language that he has sufficient knowledge to identify the type of contaminant that would pose a high risk of acute short-term health effects. However, the fact that his demand is for socially positive government action raises questions as to whether this particular individual would be willing to follow through on the threat. His initial attack appears to have been very meticulously planned and carried out in a deliberate effort to avoid causing any short- or long-term health impacts.”
“The lone gunman theory, except you think that our kook may be a compassionate crackpot,” Stryder snorted.
“Regarding the second profile, how would we use this information to advance the investigation?” asked Cassie.
“There are several tactics that have been used successfully, including vigils for victims, placing some kind of bait, or putting forward a sympathetic shrink that the perp may contact. We’ve also had success establishing a civilian task force to receive and process anonymous tips, as perps fitting this profile are tempted to volunteer. In a similar vein, perps like this often attempt to engage in the investigation, attending funerals, revisiting crime scenes, contacting authorities with evidence or insights, etc. He may find that the publicity provides the ego boost and attention that he was previously lacking. He may keep a scrapbook of media clippings. It’s important to avoid describing him using words like madman, lunatic, or other pejoratives, because doing so may raise his anger level and provoke him into acting again. If we can get the media to humanize the victims of the Seattle attack, it will decrease the likelihood of a second attack.”
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