“I think this case is bigger than we can imagine,” Heinz commented not knowing that it was a severe understatement.
***
Agent Chen had just returned from the cruiser, where she’d spoken to Agent Greg Gamble of the Chicago office of the FBI. Her head of long black hair virtually hid her face, but Heinz could detect the smile of success and accomplishment there.
Agent Gamble had quickly understood the situation and agreed to have four agents at the church by 7:30 p.m. They would be armed with special mikes and cameras. All the people who entered the building would be photographed, and a sound recording of the meeting would be made. The information would subsequently be brought to the Streamwood Police Department, where a task force would be set up. The immediate mobilization of a large number of white supremacists caught the attention of the FBI.
The questions with Ula Woods went on until the state police showed up with three cars and a van. The authorities would have to investigate every crime, every report, and every connection since 1988. Not to mention the possible homicides. Wait until the insurance companies find out about this. They will all be looking to get their money back, Detective Heinz thought.
Heinz walked outside. He needed to make a phone call. He dialed his cell phone, connecting to Colton Banyon’s cell phone.
“Hello,” Banyon answered.
“Mr. Banyon, it is Detective Heinz from the Streamwood police department. How’re you doing? Listen, can you stop by the station at say 7:00 p.m.? I need to talk to you about something. Your name has surfaced again, and you may know more about this case than you think.”
“What do you think I’ve done now?” Banyon angrily retorted.
“No, we don’t suspect you of anything. We need your help.”
“Can I bring Pramilla?” Banyon asked.
“Yes, you can bring Mrs. Patel.”
“We will be there at 7:00 p.m. then.”
***
Soon, everyone was read their Miranda rights and loaded into a police van to be taken to an FBI facility. The computer and ledgers were entrusted to a cruiser. The state police, having obtained a warrant, were checking all over the house for more evidence and clues. Heinz considered getting a warrant for Dean’s house too, but decided they didn’t want to tip off Dean until they could digest all the evidence.
He realized Dean would be concerned about Mrs. Woods not being home, so Heinz had her call his answering machine to say they all had gone to look at a summer house in Indiana, and would be back on Monday night.
Heinz would also get someone from the station house to watch the Dean residence until everyone had been arrested.
***
It was about six o’clock in the evening. Detective Heinz and Agent Chen were standing on the porch. Everyone else had gone to the station. They had to be there by 7:00 p.m. to talk to Banyon. As they walked to the car, he could see that Agent Chen had something on her mind. She had been restless and fidgety all afternoon.
“What’s on your mind, Agent Chen?”
“Well, we have about forty-five minutes before we need to be at the station. Do you live near here Carl?”
“Actually, I live only about a mile from here. Why do you ask?”
“I’d like to see where you live,” she said with a mischievous smile.
“But my place is probably a mess,” he said defensively.
“It has a bed doesn’t it?” She asked provocatively. “Ever since you looked at my ass, I’ve had this feeling simmering inside me.”
Detective Heinz got in the car, turned on the lights and siren, and peeled rubber.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Back in Westhampton, Walter Pierce was seated at his antique desk and waiting patiently. The front gate buzzer finally rang. He got up and walked slowly to the front intercom. He carried his trusty Luger.
“Who is it?” he croaked into the intercom.
“I’ve got a package for a Walter Pierce,” a deliveryman said.
“I’ll open the gate for you. Please, walk up the drive,” he said as he pushed the button to open the gate.
He opened the door and hid the gun. The deliveryman was clearly in a hurry as he jogged to the door carrying a two-foot-square package in plain brown paper. Pierce signed for the package and quickly closed the door. He watched through the small window until the man passed outside the compound. He then closed the gate and walked to his desk, hugging the package. He hummed a merry tune as he moved through the house.
Once in his office, he ceremoniously cut the box top and started to take out the contents. After he had laid out all the bounty on his desk top, he closely examined each item. He knew what each medal represented.
To Walter Pierce, these medals were his reward for all these years of service. The fact that no one would ever know he had them was of no consequence to him. There was no one left alive who had any idea about who he was, and what he had been charged with those many years ago. He sat there and awarded each medal to himself, citing the reason he should receive each one. He then pinned them on his suit jacket and stood up. He remained at attention for several minutes in a salute. A rush of accomplishment ran through him.
He could have gone to many stores and even have someone get him the medals on the Internet, but Pierce didn’t want any old medals; he wanted the Banyon family medals. It had been an obsession since he first heard of the medals from the voices. They were almost his constant companions now. They were filled with joy. It seemed the nearer Pierce got to completion of his mission, the more joyous they became. Now the medals were his, the voices were singing, and his plan was progressing splendidly. His celebration lasted only a short time.
He had more work to do. He picked up the phone, and called his old acquaintance Professor Raymond Davies. Davies was much younger than Pierce, being only forty-three years old. To Pierce, he was always “the kid.” Davies was a professor of archeology at Stony Brook University. Davies answered the phone on the first ring.
“How are you today, my friend?” a congenial Pierce asked.
“I’m just fine. Bet you’re calling about Monday?”
“You’ll be there Monday night, I trust?” Pierce was apprehensive, as his associate was not always reliable. Davies sometimes got lost in his work, and time had no meaning. But what Pierce wanted him to do was to fulfill a life’s dream. He was the right man to do it.
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Davies replied with sincere enthusiasm.
“Good, and don’t forget to bring your assistant. This will be the biggest archeological find of the century — I guarantee it.”
“What is it exactly that I’ll be doing?”
“You’ll need you to verify the translation of the tablet. I have kept this tablet secret for over sixty years. It must be exposed to the public now.”
“Will you have any media there?” Davies inquired.
“Everyone who needs to be there will be there,” Pierce coyly replied.
“I’ll see you at 8:00 p.m. on Monday then.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Detective Heinz and Agent Chen arrived at the station house at exactly 6:45 p.m. They were both looking and feeling refreshed. As they entered the building, they were shocked. They encountered complete chaos. People were rushing everywhere. The open area of the station had at least four times as many people seated than usual. Several agents sat three to a desk. Phones were ringing, people yelling and a buzz of activity filled the air. A female FBI agent manned the front desk. When the stunned Detective Heinz asked where his man who usually manned the front desk was located, the agent pointed to the office assigned to the Captain.
“Ask him,” the agent said and pointed to the office where Heinz usually resided.
“That’s Agent Gamble,” Loni said happily and waved.
Agent Greg Gamble was a mountain of a man and completely filled the desk chair in the office. He was over six feet two inches tall and weighted around two hundred and thirty pounds. He showed
great agility as he leaped up from the desk when he noticed Loni waving at him and rushed out to meet them.
“Glad to see yawl,” he let out with a slight southern drawl. Loni introduced Detective Heinz, and the two men shook hands.
“Greg and I were at the FBI Academy at Quantico together,” Loni told Heinz. “That was where the FBI sent us for our hand-to-hand combat training.”
“Yeah,” Agent Gamble said. “This little one kicked my ass all over the training facility. She is an exceptional fighter, believe me.” Heinz raised an eyebrow. He looked at the tiny Loni and the huge Agent Gamble and wondered how that was possible.
“Where are my men?” Heinz croaked with a hint of concern.
“Come on inside the office so we can talk without all this here noise,” Agent Gamble said amiably, and waved them into the room. Once inside, he closed the door. They stood just inside the office in a small circle.
“Where are my men?” Heinz repeated with a touch of anger.
“Hold your horses, buddy,” Agent Gamble replied. “I’ll explain. When we got here, I wasn’t sure if we could trust any of your men, so we confiscated their guns, and put the two men on duty into one of the cells in the back.” Loni shook her head in agreement.
“That would be standard procedure,” she told Heinz.
“Well, maybe you didn’t notice,” Heinz said sarcastically. “But one is a Latino and the other is Asian. They are not part of a white supremacy group.”
“Well, if you are vouching for them, I’ll give them their guns back,” Agent Gamble said. “Their guns are over there on the table.”
Detective Heinz made a move towards the guns. “I need to do that right now.”
“Wait,” Agent Gamble implored. “We also have Timmy the tattoo man sequestered in one of the cells, and a little while ago some sleazy lawyer type named Seith Paul wandered in and demanded to talk to Michael Dean. He is in the interview room under guard.
“I asked him to come in. He is part of this conspiracy,” Heinz replied as he picked up the guns and headed to the back of the station house. “I’ll be right back,” he said.
Heinz returned the guns to his men and told them to go to the homes of Michael Dean and Ula Woods. He told them to stake out both homes and stay until relieved. Both men gathered their guns and left without comment. Heinz returned to his office, and noticed that Loni was gone. He walked past the standing FBI agent, and sat down behind his desk.
“Agent Gamble, I know you’re heading up the FBI part of this investigation. However, remember, this is my station house, and I’m in charge of it not you,” Heinz said forcefully while tapping the desk top. “I care about what happens in my department and anything that’s connected to Streamwood. I need to know about everything you’re working on, so I can see how it fits into my case. Got that?”
“Captain Heinz, there’s enough here for everyone to take credit. We may be able to shut down the most organized white supremacy group in the country. That is all I care about. I’ve been after these guys for some time.”
“Okay, we’ve got that cleared up now. By the way, I’m not a Captain. I’m just babysitting until they hire a new full-time captain.”
“Don’t worry, buddy, when this bust is over, we’re all going to get promotions — this is a really big case,” Agent Gamble said with a grin.
Suddenly Agent Chen burst into the office. She tossed Heinz the fax which had come in earlier. “A clerk at the FBI bureau in Chicago sent this in,” she said breathlessly. “She was seeing Michael Dean until recently when he got too rough with her. She said he gave her the picture two years ago. This is the photo that started it all. Colton Banyon’s fingerprint showed up a year ago as a match to the print on the picture.”
“A year ago?” Agent Gamble questioned.
“We took his prints when he was hauled in because of a sting the Woods gang had set up against him,” Loni explained.
“Apparently he had not been fingerprinted since before we had a database,” Heinz offered as an explanation.
Gamble asked a question. “The picture was taken in 1970. That was a long time ago. What do you think it all means?” For once, Agent Chen could not come up with an answer.
“I don’t know,” admitted Heinz, “but Colton Banyon is due here any minute. Maybe he can shed some light on this.”
***
At five minutes after the hour, Colton Banyon came strolling into the station with both Patel women, one on each arm. The women were dressed in slick dresses as if they were headed for a show. As they walked up to the service window, everyone stopped to stare. Heinz jumped up, and headed out to greet him, a broad smile decorated his rugged face.
“Colt, thanks for coming in. Good to see you, Mrs. Patel. This must be your sister? I don’t know your name.”
“You may address both of us as Ms. Patel from now on detective,” Previne said in a frosty voice.
“And you can call me Carl from now on,” he replied. “This is Agent Loni Chen from the state police and Agent Greg Gamble from the FBI.” The girls, in unison, looked Loni up and down, and then turned up their noses. They turned back to Heinz.
“Let’s go into my office to talk, shall we?” Heinz pointed the way. After they all were seated, Heinz brought out the photo and placed it in front of Banyon. He asked if Banyon recognized the picture.
“Where did you get this?” Banyon responded in confusion.
“It was sent to us by the FBI’s Chicago field office, which got it from a Michael Dean. Does his name ring a bell?” Heinz pressed.
“Is he the same Michael Dean who is an officer here in Streamwood?” The question from Banyon was filled with contempt. “I only met him a couple of times.”
“You should be happy you don’t know him better — he’s a white supremacist,” Heinz explained.
A light of recognition went on in Banyon’s head. “This has to do with my break-in, doesn’t it?”
Pramilla said, “And my attack too.”
“We think so. But the picture came in over two years ago, yet your break-in was only two days ago. We don’t know why?”
“I’ve absolutely no idea either,” Banyon said with confusion. ‘The only time I’ve ever been fingerprinted was when I was drafted by the army. I was included in the first draft group in 1967. I was also fingerprinted when you pulled me in last year. Maybe there’s a connection?”
“Yeah, I’m sorry about that. We’re still investigating,” Heinz said. “But it appears your accident last year was planned.”
“I told you so,” Banyon said as he pounded the table. Although he was not a vindictive person, Colt felt the thrill of vindication now. The Patel sisters seemed pleased and smiled.
“Okay, a year ago you were fingerprinted,” Heinz repeated. “That would have activated the database. Can someone check to see if anyone had put a flag on Mr. Banyon’s prints match?” Agent Chen was already opening the door to the interview room, and heading out to investigate.
Heinz focused on Colton Banyon. “While we’re waiting, what can you tell us about the picture?”
“That’s easy. It’s a shot of Lorenzo. He has this ‘shit-eating’ grin that you could never forget. He’s a good friend of mine, has been since the sixth grade.”
“What’s his last name?” Heinz had a pencil and paper in his hand.
“It’s actually Lawrence Bell, but everyone called him Lorenzo, the Latin lover. I don’t think he’s Italian or anything, but he was hot-blooded.” He then added, “Lorenzo’s kind of a nickname; you won’t find it on any documents, yearbook, or anything.”
“And where can we find Mr. Bell?” Gamble interrupted.
“He lives in Silicon Valley in California. He had a very successful Internet business and sold out a couple of years ago. He’s a man of leisure now. He couldn’t be part of this; I’ve known him forever, and he’s no white supremacist. I’ll call him if you’d like.”
“Well, it appears that someone is looking for him.
Got any ideas?”
“No, not a clue,” Banyon said, scratching his head.
“Do you remember when and why this photo was taken?”
“Yes, I do. I took the picture. It was during our senior year of college. Lorenzo and I had a great relationship since he was good at science and I was good at history, art, and all the humanities. Sometimes we would help each other on projects. We both took geology in our second semester senior year, and had to do a paper on some local geology. We agreed to partner, and decided to do the paper on the formation of eastern Long Island.
“I see,” Heinz said as he scratched his head.
Banyon continued. “Most people don’t know this, but Long Island was formed by several glaciers, and not by a single glacier. Long Island was the terminal moraine, or where the glacier ended and drained. The glacier stopped, receded, and came back and receded at least three times. We wanted to prove that the hills in the middle of the island were formed from a different glacier than the north shore. At that time, in 1970, the more-than-one-glacier theory had not been proven.
“What about the picture?” Heinz asked in expiration. They were getting nowhere so far with the discussion.
“This picture was taken at the second highest hill on eastern Long Island. A gun club owned the land, and Lorenzo and I dug a big hole near the crest. You can see it in the background. We counted the striations in the sand. We also did this on the cliffs on the north end of the island a few miles away and compared them. They were clearly different. We got an A on our paper.”
“What is that metal pole in the background? There is something written on it. It looks like a marker. It says 19-42.” Heinz announced.
“During World War II, the land was used by the army and air force as part of a huge military training base. Pieces of metal are scattered everywhere in those woods. The marker was already there, so we dug our hole by it. The landscape is very monotonous on that part of the island, and we needed to identify where we had dug.”
“Could you find that spot if we needed to find it?”
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