by Rick Mofina
“They’re wrong. I never saw them before today.”
Varner stared hard at the suspect. He was white, in his early twenties, had thick brown hair and a wispy beard. Varner cracked open the Canadian passport they’d seized from him.
“What’re you doing with Thomas Randall Thompson’s passport?”
“That’s me. It’s my passport.”
“The Royal Canadian Mounted Police tell us this passport was reported stolen two months ago at Chicago O’Hare.”
“That was me. I lost it and reported it stolen, but I found it later in my bag when I got home.”
“The RCMP and Canada’s citizenship people have no record of the passport’s recovery.”
“Well, I didn’t think I needed to call them once I’d found it.”
Varner snapped a new and final photo on the table then jabbed it with his forefinger. “That’s you, right here!”
The suspect looked at the new photo and shook his head.
“The bus driver doesn’t remember you as a passenger,” Varner said.
“I sat at the back with my hood pulled up. I slept most of the way.”
Tilden leaned forward, slammed down his palms. The suspect flinched.
“Cut the crap!”
Tilden jabbed the photo, too. “You’re Adam Chisolm Patterson, of Chicago, and we know you’re in this deep. You’re one of the Young Lions, and, buddy, you’re facing enough charges to lock you away for all eternity. If you want us to put in a good word with the US attorney, you’d better cooperate.”
“Cooperate?”
“We want the network,” Varner said. “Names, contacts, codes—everything.”
The room went still as the air-conditioning cycled off.
The suspect began shaking his head and sniffling. His handcuffs clinked as he raised his hands to brush his tears.
“Here’s the truth. I swear. In my backpack, there’s...” He grew apprehensive, reconsidered, stopped and lifted his head in defiance. “I know my rights. You haven’t Mirandized me yet. I want a lawyer, and I want to inform the Canadian consulate in New York or the embassy in Washington that you’ve detained me.”
Tilden shook his head in disappointment.
“Don’t you think we already know what’s in your backpack?” Tilden said. “Why’re you making it hard for yourself with this bullshit, Adam?”
“I refuse to answer any questions.”
The investigators stared hard at him for a moment, exchanged glances, then left.
* * *
Tilden and Varner entered the adjoining room.
Pierre Norbert, the tour bus driver, stood at the one-way glass, studying the suspect as he was taken from the holding room to a jail cell.
“What do you think, Mr. Norbert?” Varner asked.
“I believe the man in that room is the man in the pictures you showed me—Adam Patterson—and I saw him sitting with the others before the explosion.”
“And you don’t recall seeing him on your bus?”
“I don’t.”
Varner nodded to a trooper.
“Thank you for your cooperation. You’re free to go, Mr. Norbert. Your bus company will be sending another bus and a fresh driver to help with the other passengers. We have their statements.”
After Norbert left, Varner, Tilden and investigators from several other agencies huddled at the room’s table for a case status meeting. Varner had been informed that the FBI director in Washington was awaiting an update and wanted the Bureau to issue a written statement release ASAP.
“Here’s what we know.” Varner started the meeting, flipping through his notes. “Ten passengers—seven Canadian nationals, two German nationals and one US citizen—were injured in the explosion. Three have lost limbs and are in critical condition. The others received various minor injuries. The critical ones have been sent to area trauma centers, the others are being treated in a hospital in Catskill.”
Varner flipped a page.
“Todd Dalir Ghorbani of Springfield, Massachusetts, who posed as a state trooper, is confirmed dead. We obtained his prints from his employer. Our intel points to him as the bomb maker.
“Jerricko Titus Blaine is the suspect who charged SWAT and detonated the backpack IED. His remains failed to yield enough for us to recover fingerprints. DNA analysis will take time. One SWAT team member identified Blaine as the suicide bomber, while another was uncertain. However, one reported seeing Blaine touch a newspaper box in front of the diner during the walk out seconds before the explosion. We recovered a print from the box that is consistent with Blaine’s. DNA comparison from toiletries Blaine left at his cousin’s apartment will confirm the suicide was Blaine.
“Jake Sebastian Spencer of Minneapolis, Minnesota, is also deceased, as is Doug Gerard Kimmett, of Binghamton, New York. In both cases confirmation came after local PDs in Minnesota and Binghamton managed to secure fingerprint records, which were originally unavailable, for comparison.”
Varner turned to another page.
“Now, we don’t have any record for Adam Chisolm Patterson. The photo we obtained from Illinois was of poor quality. No fingerprints, no criminal history, nothing. We’ve sent the surviving suspect’s photo to our FBI office in Chicago, and they’re working with Chicago PD to circulate and confirm his ID with his former college, so we can proceed with charges.”
Varner looked around the room.
“We haven’t yet determined where and what their intended targets were, but we’re determined to learn the full extent of the plot by questioning the survivor and the hostages,” he said. “Now I’ll turn it over to Marv.”
Tilden touched the tip of his finger to his tongue and read from his notes.
“The bomb techs located two unexploded IEDs in backpacks at the scene and removed them for examination and detonation. ATF people tell us that early on-scene analysis of the bloodied clothing, fragments and debris, collected from the explosion, are consistent with evidence collected at sites linked to Todd Dalir Ghorbani.”
Tilden double-checked something on his phone.
“The gas station’s security cameras were not working. Last week an RV clipped the exterior cameras, knocking out the system. It was to be repaired tomorrow. And...”
Tilden found another note.
“We also discovered at the scene, concealed in the fabric of a backpack, a pound of cocaine.”
Varner’s phone vibrated. He read and relayed the message.
“The director wants a full press conference at the media center within twenty-four hours to answer all outstanding questions wherever possible.”
A ripple went around the table to acknowledge the underlying role of political optics in high-profile cases.
“And we’ve just learned that Dan Fulton’s condition has deteriorated. Doctors do not expect him to survive.”
82
Albany, New York
Lori Fulton was surfacing.
Floating to consciousness, as her senses awakened to medicine and antiseptic smells mingling with freshly laundered linen.
She was groggy, her body stiff and heavy. She could feel bandages on her arms and face. She opened her eyes to see a nurse standing near, adjusting her IV. A uniformed female officer sat in a chair near the window.
It was evening.
“How are you doing, Lori?” The nurse keyed notations into her chart.
“Where are Billy and Dan?”
“Here, in this hospital. Billy’s right there. He’s asleep and doing fine.”
The nurse whizzed the dividing curtain open so Lori could see his bed across from hers. Glimpsing her son’s face and hair, she struggled to get up as the nurse gently pushed her back.
“Take it easy. You need to rest.”
“No, I need to go to him!”
Lori struggled to a sitting position and began swinging her legs weakly but with determination to get out of the bed.
“Okay, hold on. We’ll get you over there, Mom.” Turning to the officer, she said, “Could you get the wheelchair in the hall for us?”
The officer got the chair and helped the nurse get Lori into it. After affixing her IV bag to the chair’s pole, they wheeled her to Billy’s bedside.
Lori took one of Billy’s hands in hers then caressed his cheek and hair. His head was bandaged. His face laced with cuts and scrapes. She nearly leaned out of the chair as she reached to kiss him and whisper as he slept.
“It’s over, sweetheart. You’re safe. We’re all safe.”
A woman entered the room. Her hair was in a ponytail, she wore glasses, a white coat and had a stethoscope collared around her neck.
“I’m Dr. Beth Valachek. How’re you doing, Lori?”
“Tired and sore.” She continued holding her son’s hand. “How’s Billy? Will he be okay?”
“Yes, he’s going to be all right. He’s got a gunshot wound in his lower abdomen. Miraculously, the bullet passed through without damaging any organs. He also suffered a concussion, but no major damage is evident. It took over a dozen stitches to close his head wound and he’s lost some blood, but he should recover nicely after some rest.”
Lori nodded her thanks.
“You,” Valachek said, “will need some surgery on your arm to repair the damage from your wound. But you’ll regain full use in a few months.”
“And Dan? I want to see Dan.”
The nurse and police officer looked at the doctor.
“Lori,” Valachek said, “Dan’s not doing well.”
Lori covered her mouth with her hand.
“What—is he—”
“He’s in the ICU and he took a bad turn earlier today.”
“I need to see him!”
“I don’t think it’s a good idea right now.”
Lori gripped the handrails on the wheels and began pivoting her chair. Valachek gripped the chair, lowered herself, removed her glasses and looked directly into Lori’s eyes.
“Lori, listen to me. He’s in critical condition. He was shot six times. He suffered a number of compound fractures to his ribs and legs. He suffered exposure and he lost a lot of blood. He’s had several setbacks. By all measures, he shouldn’t be alive right now.”
“Then I need to see him! I need to see him before...”
Valachek took Lori’s hands in hers.
“Lori, let’s wait. He needs to rest. The next few hours will tell us how he’s doing.”
“I want to see him now!”
The doctor gave it a moment, then nodded once. “Okay, I’ll take you.” She wheeled Lori to the elevator, then up to the intensive care unit. Before entering, she helped Lori as they put on protective smocks, hair nets, masks, gloves and foot covers.
The light in the room was dim, making it tranquil with the soft beeping and hum of the monitoring equipment. A nurse, who’d been keeping vigil, stepped aside.
Lori stared at Dan as the doctor moved her closer.
He was unconscious. His hair had been shaved off, and his scalp was webbed with stitches. His swollen face was bruised and laced with cuts. An IV line ran from his left arm, while a sensor clipped to his right index finger ran to a monitor. A clear oxygen tube looped under his nostrils.
Lori found Dan’s hand, entwined her fingers with his.
Using her free hand to steady herself, Lori stood and leaned into her husband, kissing his cheek tenderly.
“It’s Lori, sweetheart. I’m here, Dan. Billy’s here, too. We’re both safe because of you, because of what you did.”
Valachek watched the equipment monitoring Dan’s heart rate, blood pressure and breathing.
“You have to keep fighting, Dan. We need you. Don’t leave us, please. Keep fighting. We’re here with you. We love you, we need you.”
A beep sounded.
“Okay, Lori.” Valachek nodded to the nurse. “We need to take care of him now.”
“Please, let me stay.”
The beeping grew louder, more insistent.
“You really should leave, Lori,” she said. “Nurse, please help Lori into her chair and back to her bed.”
The beeping grew to an alarming level.
“Dan!” Lori called. “Stay with me!”
As the nurse wheeled Lori out, other emergency staff rushed in.
Lori demanded she be allowed to remain on the ICU floor, to stay as close to her husband as possible.
The nurse agreed to take her to an empty lounge area where Lori watched all-news channels and their coverage of the case. She sat alone at the end of a hallway in the darkened lounge, bathed with the light of the television mounted in a high corner. During the commercials and sports reports she took stock of the IV tube in her arm and all she’d endured.
Was this real?
Her life blazed before her...the first time she’d met Dan, falling in love; the tears in his eyes on their wedding day; his smile when Billy was born; her agony over Tim’s death; how Dan had helped her every painful step of the way, his smile, his resolve to save her when she was lost.
The TV flickered with a news bulletin showing the aftermath of chaos, gunfire and an explosion at a mountain diner. Lori stared in disbelief.
All of the suspects, except one, were dead.
Tears streamed down her face as she shook her head and prayed for her husband’s life.
83
Coyote Mountains, New York
The Early Light Motel hadn’t changed since the 1970s, when it was established by a retired navy cook.
Sheltered by maple trees, it stood about four miles from the media center where the FBI would hold its press conference the next morning.
Looking at the neon No Vacancy sign, Kate was relieved that she’d reserved two rooms when she and Strobic had first arrived in the area.
As a veteran reporter, she’d learned that when you’re on the road, you’ve got to think ahead. News crews from New York, New Jersey, Connecticut and Pennsylvania filled the lot.
“The FBI presser’s at nine, so I’ll meet you for breakfast at seven-thirty in the motel restaurant,” Strobic said as Kate unlocked the door to her unit, which was next to his.
Her room was utilitarian and “shipshape,” like the website said.
The knot in Kate’s gut had not yet relaxed. As she sat on the bed, her body aching for sleep, she smiled at her phone’s screen and the faces of Grace and Vanessa. It seemed a lifetime had passed since she’d seen them.
Kate pressed the number for Nancy Clark.
“Hi, Nancy, it’s Kate. Hope I’m not calling too late to talk.”
“Hi, Kate. No, Grace’s getting into her pajamas and Vanessa’s at a night class. So how’re you holding up?”
“Good, just a bit tired.”
“We read your story, how you found the Fultons. I’m so happy they rescued everybody and stopped those psychos. It could’ve turned out much worse.”
“It could’ve been far worse.”
“Are you on your way home?”
“Not tonight. The FBI’s holding a press conference here in the morning, so I’ll be back tomorrow, likely in the afternoon.”
“Would you like to talk to Grace? She’s right here.”
“Yes, thanks. And Nancy, as always, thank you for doing this.”
“You don’t have to thank me. Here she is.”
“Hi, Mom!”
“Hi, sweetie, how did school go today?”
“Well, my friend Lilly and me saw Lucas Parker try to kiss Madison on the mouth! Eeeww!”
“He tries to kiss all the girls on the mouth. We said, ‘Lucas, you’re spreading germs!’ But Mia Schendaller kissed him back! Eeeww! Right?”
Kate laughed. “Right.”
“Mom, when’re you coming home?”
“Tomorrow. I was thinking that you, me and Aunt Vanessa could all go out shopping and then go to your favorite restaurant.”
“Yes!”
“I’m so sorry I’ve been working a lot, sweetie. I love you so much.”
“I love you, too, with a million hugs and a million kisses!”
After Kate ended her call, she texted Vanessa.
Miss you, sis! See you tomorrow and we’ll all go out.
A short time later her phone chimed with a text.
Love you, too, Kate! Be safe!
For a long moment Kate stared at her phone, tracing her finger lightly over Grace’s and Vanessa’s smiles. Then she flipped on the TV, surfing quickly through the twenty-four-hour news channels and checking her phone to see if any competitors posted any breaking angles online.
No one had anything new.
She searched her bag, glad she always carried a small emergency overnight travel kit with toiletries and underwear. She grabbed it and headed for the bathroom when something on TV stopped her in her tracks.
Cell phone footage of the immediate aftermath of the explosion had been captured by a Canadian tour bus passenger. The short, dramatic images had been obtained by CNBC, working with a Canadian network.
The knot in Kate’s stomach tightened again as she got in the shower.
As steam clouds rose around her, the day replayed with memories and moments that had pierced her and pulled her through her tragedies.
Lori and Billy Fulton bleeding in the river. Billy, only a year older than Grace. Holding Lori’s hand, the way she’d held Vanessa’s all those years ago in that mountain river where death nearly took her.
Lori closed her eyes and let the hot water soothe her.
84
Coyote Mountains, New York
At 9:06 a.m. the next morning, the assistant director of the FBI’s New York Field Office sat at the table on the dais in the media center.