Violet Darger | Book 8 | Countdown To Midnight

by Vargus, L. T.

  Loshak hadn’t uttered a word since they’d returned to the car. She supposed he could be thinking ahead to the task force meeting, about the most pertinent details from the profile to get across to the group, but she thought he was probably thinking the same thing she was.

  Three hours. Three measly hours to figure something out.

  They had nothing.

  And they were running out of time.

  CHAPTER 15

  There was a Dunkin’ Donuts around the corner from their destination, and Loshak loaded up with several boxes as was his ritual before almost every task meeting Darger had ever attended with him. When they reached the meeting room on the 23rd floor, there was a table already laden with an array of pastries and cookies.

  “Looks like someone beat you to it,” Darger said.

  Loshak made room on the table for his boxes.

  “Yeah, well. No one ever complained about too many donuts. Besides, it’s a big group.”

  He wasn’t wrong. Along with the primary group of FBI personnel, Darger saw a few guys from ATF and at least four different police jurisdictions.

  A sheening oak table filled most of the conference room, its pale plank a little over twenty feet long. Agent Fredrick stepped up to the head of the table and raised her hand.

  “If everyone could find a seat, we’ll get started.” She gave the room a stern look. “Now, before I hand things over to Agent Haslett from the forensics lab, I’ve only just been notified of a… development, I guess you could call it. And not a good one. The text of the suicide note we discovered in Huxley’s apartment has been posted online.”

  A murmur spread through the room.

  “I don’t think I need to explain to anyone here how leaking this kind of information can jeopardize an investigation, and I’d like to believe that no one on this task force would do such a thing. But in the event that someone here has taken it upon themselves to interfere in this way, please be aware that you will be found, and you will be held accountable.”

  There was actually a smattering of applause from some members of the task force.

  “Thank you,” Fredrick said. “And now Agent Haslett will present his findings.”

  Haslett was a tall bald man with tortoiseshell glasses. He fiddled with the projector for a moment before beginning.

  “This is a rendering of one the improvised explosive devices designed by Ted Kaczynski, the Unabomber.” He gestured at the drawing of a bomb projected on the wall. “Based on the debris, we believe the device mailed to Gavin Passmore was quite similar to this one.”

  He pointed out various parts of the drawing.

  “Here you have the pipe bomb portion. Three different sized steel pipes fitted inside one another concentrically and filled with ammonium nitrate and aluminum powder. The package is more or less booby-trapped, so that when it is opened, the tension applied to the switching mechanism here is released, which completes the electrical circuit provided by some lamp cord and two D-cell batteries.”

  The drawing became animated then, showing how a piece of cord attached to a flap at the top of the device triggered the detonation.

  “When the electricity hits the hot wire initiator right here, it ignites the main pyrotechnic charge, which in turn ruptures the pipe, turning all that steel into shrapnel. We believe the package also contained additional projectile material, namely small nails and screws.”

  He displayed a series of photographs from Passmore’s kitchen then. Holes in varying sizes that pocked the walls and cabinetry.

  “The average speed of a fragment produced by a bomb like this is 2700 feet-per-second, which is equivalent to the muzzle velocity of a 30-06 hunting rifle. Each piece of shrapnel from a device like this is, in essence, a bullet.”

  The room was deathly quiet as that sunk in.

  “What stands out to me here is that this was the design of the Unabomber’s later bombs. His first seven IEDs relied on smokeless powder and match heads as the main charge. In other words, he started out with slightly less sophisticated, less powerful bombs. He moved onto the ammonium nitrite/aluminum mixture only after many years. Based on the level of sophistication, I believe our suspect would have made several practice bombs. Perhaps in the dozens. Usually we find that they start with more rudimentary IED designs, as was the case with Kaczynski. Once they get the hang of that, they become more daring. The chemicals being used are extremely volatile and there is a high risk of accidental detonation. In other words, this is not a sport for beginners.”

  An NYPD detective with a blond mustache raised his hand.

  “Where would someone learn something like this?”

  “We find that most bombers are self-taught. There’s plenty of information out there for those who want it, unfortunately.”

  “What about the supplies for making the bombs?” another detective asked. “Would he need a special contact or source for that?”

  “Most of the ingredients are harmless, individually. The pipe and lamp cord can be found at any hardware store or even scavenged if the bomber wants to avoid leaving any sort of trail. Ammonium nitrate is commonly found in certain fertilizers and cold packs. Aluminum powder is used in a variety of industries, including cosmetics. None of these things are illegal to buy or possess. It’s only when combined that they become deadly.”

  Haslett took a drink of water before continuing.

  “I understand the bomber has laid out a schedule of sorts for the forthcoming attacks. This leads me to believe that he will augment his prior method. First, I doubt he’ll use the mail again, as it would be nearly impossible to orchestrate the opening of such a device at a specified time. The fact that he put forth a specific timetable suggests he’ll be using timers.” His eyebrows went up. “What I’d like to point out is that timed devices are almost always equipped with anti-tampering devices, so that should someone try to open or disarm the device, it will detonate regardless of whether the timer has initiated or not.”

  “Meaning we might have less time than he said? Like if he’s left one of his packages sitting out in Central Park and someone comes along and monkeys with it… kaboom?”

  Darger recognized the man speaking as the SWAT team leader that had stormed Huxley’s house. Agent Fitch, she’d heard someone call him. Like many of the members of CIRG, he looked more like a guy that should be rappelling down the side of a building or maybe tracking the Predator through the jungle than your average FBI agent. His neck was a thick slab of muscle slightly wider than his skull, and his pale blue eyes gleamed with intensity.

  “Precisely,” Agent Haslett said.

  “Well… shit.”

  Agent Haslett answered a few more questions before returning to his seat, and then Laboda stepped to the front, hitching up his pants as he went.

  “First things first. I just got word from the latent print lab, confirming what we already suspected. Fingerprints from our stiff in the basement are a positive match for Tyler Huxley. The bomber is dead.”

  Laboda rifled through a manila folder for a few seconds before continuing.

  “That’s the good news. The bad news is that we were hoping to get a jump on identifying potential victims through Tyler Huxley’s internet search history. Unfortunately, he did a top-shelf job of destroying his phone and laptop hard drive. That’s thrown a wrench in things. To make matters worse, our attempt to narrow the scope by combing through Huxley’s past delivery routes has yielded over five thousand individual addresses. Unless we can find a way to thin the herd in some way, it may not prove useful at all.”

  Smoothing his mustache, Laboda went on.

  “We have managed to get his cell phone records, and we’re working on getting his internet history stuff from his ISP, but it’s going to take time, and it’s going to be a lot to sift through. We also have a team going through his social media in the hopes that he sought out victims that way. Techs are still combing through the house in Jersey City as well.”

  The flaps of the manila f
older parted again. Papers shuffled around.

  “Dr. Farrow is finishing up the autopsy now. She has confirmed the cause of death was a gunshot wound to the head. Huxley’s hands had gunshot residue and powder burns, all consistent with it being self-inflicted. So we’re not expecting any bombshells from the postmortem… no pun intended.”

  “What about the gun?” someone asked. “Was he registered?”

  Laboda shook his head.

  “We have found no record of Huxley ever applying for a Firearms Purchaser Identification Card. We suspect it was purchased illegally or perhaps he bought it when he still lived in New York and brought it with him, which is legal.”

  Laboda glanced their way, an eyebrow raised as if to ask if they were ready. Darger nodded.

  “Now I’ll turn things over to Agent Loshak and Agent Darger, our profilers from Quantico. If you pay attention to anything said here tonight, this is where I’d focus. If we’re going to thwart these imminent attacks, understanding Huxley’s psychology is going to be the key.”

  This was one of the warmest introductions they’d ever received and not what Darger expected based on the region’s reputation for blunt honesty peppered with a variety of four-letter words.

  Darger went up first, giving a general background on Huxley and his psychology.

  “Because we know who our subject is, we know the basics. Where he lived, where he grew up. He even left us a note, which gives some insight into his state of mind. After reading it, I think I can say with some degree of certainty that Tyler Huxley was likely a man filled with bitterness, resentment, and righteousness.”

  As she spoke, the subtle arrogance in Huxley’s suicide note rang in her ears. My ideas will be dissected and debated the whole world round, chunks of my journal translated into damn near every language on the globe.

  “Bombers often have this in common,” Darger went on. “This belief that it’s somehow their duty or responsibility to ‘open the eyes’ of the public at large. They are motivated by what they see as a mission, a cause bigger than themselves. They approach it pragmatically. Beneath the warped righteousness, these are men who feel overlooked. Sidelined. Held back by society in some way. Not allowed to reach the heights they feel they deserve. The bombings are acts of grandiosity, a sort of over-the-top compensation for their wounded egos.”

  Darger brought up a photo via the projector.

  “Ted Kaczynski is a prime example. He showed a lot of academic promise as a kid. A mathematics prodigy, he graduated high school at fifteen and got into Harvard. His promise didn’t pan out, though. A frustrated professor for a short time, he soon resigned and isolated himself in a Montana shack where he lived without electricity. He became increasingly convinced that technology was destroying the world.” She shrugged. “OK. But how does murdering a secretary or a graduate assistant further that cause? How is killing anyone saving the forest? These acts did nothing to further his professed agenda. Because what really motivated him was fury and anger at his unfulfilled potential, great potential, in his estimation.”

  She swapped Kaczynski’s for another.

  “Timothy McVeigh. Very similar psychologically. On the surface, he claimed blowing up a federal building would spur a revolution, that was his motivation. But looking at the bigger picture of his life, the psychology underneath becomes clear.”

  Darger flipped to a new image, this one of McVeigh as a child, a vulnerable expression on his face.

  “McVeigh was bullied as a kid. He tried to join Special Forces after his tour in Iraq and washed out on the second day. There we see the true motive, I think: he feels rejected and is lashing out. The bombing becomes a way of asserting his importance. The claimed cause is more or less an excuse to do what he’s emotionally drawn to.”

  The next image showed handwritten text pulled from letters McVeigh had written.

  “This is an excerpt of a letter McVeigh wrote to a childhood friend: ‘I know in my heart that I am right in my struggle, Steve. I have come to peace with myself, my God and my cause. Blood will flow in the streets, Steve. Good vs. Evil. Free Men vs. Socialist Wannabe Slaves. Pray it is not your blood, my friend.’ Here we see the violent fantasy, the grandiosity.

  “In another letter to a friend, McVeigh wrote, ‘I have certain other ‘militant’ talents that are in short supply and greatly demanded.’” Darger raised an eyebrow. “‘Greatly demanded.’ By whom? Again, we see the kind of grandiosity I’m talking about.

  “So how does this relate to our case? In Huxley’s mind, this is about advancing his cause, spreading his message. But psychologically, I think we can see that asserting his importance is a primary motivator. He feels ignored. Rejected. Well, bombs can’t be ignored. And the grandiosity in the suicide note is consistent with the psychology common in this type of perpetrator.”

  She moved on to a list of social attributes common to the archetype.

  “These men — and I say men because they are almost always male — tend to be loners. Like I said, McVeigh was bullied in school. Kaczynski has a similar childhood background. Shy, withdrawn, and all of that exacerbated by the fact that he skipped a grade and suddenly didn’t fit in with his older classmates.”

  She used a laser pointer to highlight another item.

  “Despite the fact that they struggle socially, romantically, and in their careers, these are men who have very high opinions of themselves. Their rage grows out of the perception that they cannot reach their supposed potential, something they blame the outside world and society for. They feel they’ve been done wrong. Treated unfairly. And they want revenge.”

  Darger gave a brief nod to Loshak, who took over from there.

  “As Agent Darger has already touched on, these types of perpetrators like to claim all sorts of lofty ideals. They love to portray themselves as purists. As truth seekers. But to use Eric Rudolph, the Olympic Park bomber, as an example… He claimed to be carrying out his attacks to protest abortion, yet one of the places he admitted to bombing was a lesbian bar. How many lesbians do you think are getting abortions?”

  There was a mute chuckle from the group.

  “In all seriousness, if you really get down and parse their crimes, how they choose victims… they twist their rage into something resembling righteousness, but they are no different than a mass shooter who opens fire on a bunch of innocent people at a shopping mall. They get a thrill out of the chaos. A rush from feeling powerful. The violence allows them to finally feel… relevant.”

  Loshak cupped his chin in his hand.

  “You may be surprised to learn that there are quite a few similarities between your more traditional serial killers and bombers. The anger. The inadequacy. They feel like victims, and they are compensating for that with these big displays of power and control. They want to prove to themselves and to everyone else that they do have power. They want to rub our noses in it. There’s an irony to the fact that their violent acts stem from a feeling of powerlessness.”

  “Yeah, like, why not just get some therapy?” Agent Fitch joked. “Jeez.”

  Loshak smiled at the comment.

  “Another thing — bombers tend to see their victims as symbols. Their anger is directed at society, but it’s hard to lash out at society in a broad way. They end up choosing a figurehead or figureheads almost out of necessity. Some person or institution that acts as a lightning rod for their hatred. McVeigh focused his anger on the federal government, so he targeted a government building. Kaczynski’s rage fixated on technology, on the destruction of the natural world, so he lashed out at scientists, a timber lobbyist, etc. Huxley’s fury, I think, is being channeled toward fame. Celebrity. Success.”

  He gestured toward a photograph of Huxley’s suicide note.

  “Look at the language in the note, the sort of sweeping big picture talk, the grandiosity shining through from start to finish. The first attack had nothing to do with Passmore as an individual. This whole thing is epic in Huxley’s mind, much bigger than one b
omb, one victim. These crimes are a fantasy about power, about fame. These bombings let him tell the story — to the world if no longer himself — that he was important, that he was special. Like he said, he’s a celebrity for today. A big one.”

  Agent Fredrick raised her hand.

  “Speaking of the note… I had a question on that,” she said.

  “Go ahead.”

  “Well, I was curious if you think the promises he’s laid out in the note — like the idea that we have a chance to disarm the bombs at all — are honest or not. I guess what I’m saying is, can we trust this scumbag?”

  Stroking his chin, Loshak pondered this for a moment.

  “Trust might be too strong a word. What I think we can put faith in is the fact that this is a game. He said so himself in the note. And a game doesn’t work without rules. Of course, the fact that he is the designer of the game puts him at an advantage. There’s no reason to cheat when you’re the one creating the rules in the first place.” Loshak ran a hand through his hair. “Something else I’d like to address is that I believe Agent Haslett is correct in assuming the rest of the attacks won’t be through the mail. It leaves too much to chance, and Huxley wants his fifteen minutes of fame badly. Shock and awe arise from building tension, ever-increasing spectacle, like the structure of an opera.”

  Everyone was quiet for a second.

  “I guess I’m saying that I think this is about to get a whole lot worse.”

  CHAPTER 16

  Amelia Driscoll felt the cool breeze of the air conditioner on her face. She basked a moment there, eyes closed, just inside the doorway of her house, enjoying the chilly touch.

  The Florida humidity had been unbearable for seven days straight. Some vacation.

  Somehow the flight home had been even hotter. And stuffy. All those sweaty people huddled together in a giant silver beer can with wings, the sun beating down on the metal, flaring its bright into the windows, the collective misery mounting with each ascending degree. Brutal. The sun’s descent in the evening didn’t seem to help things. No relief. Even asking the Uber driver to crank the air on the drive afterward couldn’t sap the residual heat buildup from her being.