At the Watergate, they got more burgers. Rae asked, “What do you think about Sutton?”
“I don’t know,” Lucas said. “He’s at least a candidate. But, I don’t know. I guess we’ll find out in the morning. I’m going to watch some football, then go to bed, and sleep in. This was a long day.”
“Hate those letters floating around,” Bob said. “They all make that same argument—that if you kill a senator’s kid, the next senator might listen to you when you want a vote changed. It makes a weird kind of sense, if you’re nuts.”
“Carter was a felon with five rifles and a sawed-off shotgun, plus a couple of pistolas,” Rae said. “You want nuts, there it is.”
* * *
—
LUCAS WATCHED SOME FOOTBALL, went to bed, and was actually up and moving when Chase called the next morning.
“Guess what?”
“From your tone, I guess he wasn’t the guy,” Lucas said.
“Two steps forward, one step back,” Chase said. “We have a connection, just not Sutton. Remember when I said we had blood on the door of Rachel Stokes’s house that probably didn’t come from her or her brother? Like somebody else had been shot?”
“I remember.”
“Well, the science guys got a match—DNA from the blood on the door matches DNA from the cheekpiece on the rifle we found under the cemetery shack. Whoever killed the Stokeses also shot the kid; the killer must’ve gone to the house specifically to get the gun, and then killed the Stokeses to eliminate witnesses.”
“How does that eliminate Sutton? You couldn’t have done DNA . . . Oh. Wait. You already had it. Sutton was typed when he was convicted of that ag assault charge.”
“Yup. We’ll re-do him, but I think he’s out of it.”
“Well, at least we got him on a gun charge and resisting arrest,” Lucas said. “That’ll put him away for a while.”
Long silence.
Lucas repeated, “That’ll put him away for a while.”
“About that . . .”
“Ah, shit.”
“Look, we’re really worried about these alt-right groups and all the guns. Turns out Sutton and Lacey are involved in three or four of them. They can give us some real insight into their operations and the membership. Lacey has a federal job that she’s scared to death she’s about to lose, and will lose, if we charge her with assaulting a federal officer. We think, you know, if we don’t charge them . . . they could be really useful in this alternate modality.”
Lucas: “You said, ‘alternate modality.’ I mean, Jesus, Bob nearly got his fuckin’ head cut off. You at least ought to use real words.”
“Well, you know. I’m a fed,” Chase said. “Sometimes I can’t help myself.”
“Sometimes that excuse wears a little thin.”
“Suck it up, Lucas. Listen. I know you tend to sleep in,” Chase said. “Are you up and around?”
“Yes. I’m getting dressed.”
“I’m about a mile away. Meet me in the restaurant in ten minutes.”
* * *
—
LUCAS’S BRAIN USUALLY wasn’t fully working for an hour or so after he got up, especially when he got up early; Chase, on the other hand, was a lark, bright and cheerful at the crack of dawn, every hair in place, looking good in a raspberry jacket, dark blouse with navy slacks and matching shoes and a purse designed to hold a .40 caliber handgun, which she’d begun carrying when she found out that it impressed other federal suits.
Lucas was drinking a Diet Coke with pancakes when she arrived. She was one of those women that waitresses seemed commanded by, and as she slid into the booth opposite Lucas, one rushed over to get her order of a cup of coffee and toast, plain, no butter.
“We need to talk about the letters,” she said. “Actually, let me restate that. I need to talk about the letters. You need to listen.”
“You find something on them?”
“Yes. Letters. And words and sentences and paragraphs. We’ve had our analysts looking at them.”
“You’ve got analysts for everything, don’t you?”
“Yes. Now, be quiet,” Chase said. “Nobody we’ve arrested or looked at, with two or possibly three exceptions, could have written those letters. And, the letters are all absolutely identical in content—and by that I mean, the original text, type fonts, spacing. For instance, the writer always puts two spaces after a period, which means he probably learned to type on a typewriter, rather than a keyboard. There are at least three iterations. We have one copy-machine version that is perfectly straight on the page, one copy-machine version that is crooked, and one copy-machine version that has a smudge on a word at the bottom of the page, as if maybe somebody got a bit of spit on it, or maybe was reading it while eating breakfast and got some milk on it, or maybe . . .”
“I get the idea,” Lucas said. “All copied, but different.”
“That’s right. What we don’t have, is an original copy. The analysts have questioned why we would have all these different copies if they came from the same secondary source. The primary source, the writer of the letter, could have made as many copies as he wished, by pushing a button on his laser printer. We think there’s one person behind the letter, but they’re spreading out in chain-letter fashion. A person gets one, copies it, and sends it along to friends or group members who might want to read it and perhaps act on it.”
“And what are we doing about that? By ‘we,’ I mean you, the FBI.”
“What we’re doing is pressing the people we’ve arrested for names of people who might have sent these letters to them. We’re hoping to find more letters, and by cross-indexing names, get up the pyramid to the original sender.”
“Can you identify a printer if you get an original?”
“Yes. Color laser printers—this is a color laser printer, by the way—actually have tiny dots, invisible to the naked eye, sprayed on the paper that will identify exactly what printer printed the letter, and even when it was done.”
“You gotta be shittin’ me.”
“Nope. That’s not a secret, but not a lot of people know about it. We would like to keep it that way. If we can find an original letter, we can match to the printer.”
“You said with two or three exceptions, none of the people we know about wrote the letter. How do you know that?”
“Because we’ve taken samples of all their writing styles and word patterns. All the little stuff—word choice, vocab, spellings, and so on. With three exceptions, none of the people we’ve looked at could have written the letter, because they’re all nearly functionally illiterate. The person who wrote the letter is literate, trained in writing to some degree, probably a college graduate. The exceptions are Stephen Gibson, Charlie Lang, and John Oxford from ANM.”
“I don’t think ANM,” Lucas said. “Could be, but my gut says they’re not involved. They’re very different, but they’re not psychotic.”
“Stephen Gibson has a color laser printer. I would expect Charlie Lang does, too. If we could find an original printed copy of the letter, we could either pin it to one of those machines, or clear them,” Chase said.
“The copies aren’t clear enough to see the dot-codes?”
“No. These codes are tiny. You literally can’t see them with the naked eye, and neither can copiers.”
“So I’m looking for letters.”
“You’re looking for specific letters—printed letters, not copied letters.”
“Even then,” Lucas said. “It might not be the shooter. It could be somebody who stumbled over the 1919 site and decided to send out some letters, to get somebody else to shoot.”
“Could be,” Chase said. “But it’s what we got right now.”
They both stopped talking for a moment, as the waitress delivered Chase’s coffee and two slices of dry toast, sliced diagonally and care
fully arranged on the plate.
When she was gone, Lucas took his cell phone out of his pocket and said, “Let me make a call.”
“You mean . . . right now?”
“When better?”
* * *
—
LUCAS CALLED RICHARD GREENE, of the Greene Mountain Boys, who picked up on the third ring. “Marshal Davenport—we had nothing to do with that shooting, believe me.”
“I hope not. I’m calling about something different. I’ve been told you know everything on the alt-right. A number of people in these alt-right groups have gotten letters suggesting that the meaning of the 1919 group was to encourage somebody to shoot a kid, so that could be used as a leverage to change votes in Congress. We need letters. We need you to ask about them. Carefully. With people you trust.”
“Yeah, I heard about Stephen Gibson. He must’ve touched a hot wire.”
“We’re all over that. If you could reach out . . . you don’t have to tell anyone why you want to know, just provide us the names. You were talking about getting brownie points with the feds, should you need them. This would get you some. Or many.”
“I understand. Listen, let me think about it for a while. I’ll call you if I get something.”
* * *
—
CHASE SAID, when Lucas was off the phone and had explained about Greene, “He seemed eager to get those brownie points. I wonder what he did, or he’s planning, that he needs them?”
“Not my problem,” Lucas said. “It’s yours. Say, you gonna eat all that toast?”
CHAPTER
TWENTY
Saturday morning.
Lucas caught Bob and Rae coming back from their morning workout, told them to go look at the Washington Monument. “I already saw it. It’s that big white pointy thing, like a monument to a famous Anglo’s sexual fantasies,” Rae said. “If you don’t need us, I’m going to the National Gallery. Call when you need me.”
Bob had an old friend with the Marshals Service, stationed in Arlington. He said he’d call the guy, set up a lunch. “You won’t need us before lunch?”
“I don’t see anything coming,” Lucas said. “I think you’re safe for now. Take the Caddy if you want.”
“Nah, I’m gonna try to figure out the Metro . . .”
* * *
—
LUCAS WENT BACK TO HIS ROOM, called Weather, talked for half an hour, then watched a couple of TV broadcasts, went online and tried to figure out the relative importance of the various DC news outlets, and finally sat and thought though a variety of possible moves.
At eleven, he left the hotel and walked north on a narrow leafy residential street to Pennsylvania Avenue, then left until Pennsylvania intersected with M Street, and west on M to a nearly unmarked red-brick building with a brass plate next to the door. The plate read, “Steaks and Spirits, LLC,” as though it might be a law firm.
Lucas looked at his watch: 11:35, five minutes late. He’d be amazed if he wasn’t the first to arrive.
Inside the door, a tall man in a nubby sport coat, worn with a black T-shirt and jeans, asked, “Do we have a reservation?”
“We do,” Lucas said. “Smith and Jones.”
“Um, which Smith and Jones?”
“Tall blond guy, short white-haired guy.”
“Of course. They arrived a few minutes ago. This way.”
So Lucas was amazed: he wasn’t the first to arrive, but the last. He followed the maître d’ through a maze of high-backed leather booths filled with serious-looking men and women in expensive clothes, speaking in hushed voices, and finally through a polished mahogany door into a tiny private room just large enough to seat six people.
Senators Henderson and Smalls were looking over menu folders when he came in, and Smalls said, “Ah, the late Lucas Davenport.”
“Sorry. It’s an interesting walk. I stopped to look into a bookstore window.”
“Got to have your priorities,” Henderson said. “My priority is not to walk in Washington, DC.”
“That’s why you’re such a weak sister,” Smalls said. “I run three miles every morning after my yoga.”
“While you’re out running, I’m working for the American people,” Henderson said, as he reached for the bread basket. “I’m thinking the oysters.”
“Oysters respect no political party,” Smalls agreed. “I’m thinking a dozen, or maybe a dozen and a half. The caloric content is negligible.”
“The mignonette is terrific here, though it has a tendency to make me fart,” Henderson said. “Fortunately, I’m only dealing with underlings this afternoon.”
“Then fart away,” Smalls said. “Lucas?”
“I’m going for the buffalo burger with red onions and deli mustard,” Lucas said.
Smalls: “Prole.”
* * *
—
THE WAITER CAME AND WENT, wine for the senators, a Diet Coke for Lucas, though the Coke raised an eyebrow. “They have any wine you want, but he’ll probably have to send out for the Diet Coke,” Henderson said. “Now. Where are we? Are we done with the shooting?”
“Maybe,” Lucas said. “Not only will I not promise that we are, I’m thinking it’s about fifty-fifty.”
Smalls: “Shit. That’s not acceptable. What are we supposed to do, sit on our thumbs until some other kid gets shot?”
Lucas told them about the letter and how it had turned into a chain letter. “It’s all over the place, the FBI is doing some kind of analysis thing.”
“The FBI is always analyzing their asses off. In the meantime, these NRA lunatics . . .”
“Hey. Lay off the NRA bullshit,” Smalls said.
“Yeah, I know, I looked at your donations,” Henderson said.
Smalls waved him off and said, “My sources at the FBI are a little confused by all the action. Lucas: start at the beginning and tell us everything that happened, in detail.”
Lucas did that, stopping for chit-chat when the food arrived, then resuming and leaving out only the identification of Audrey Coil as the creator of the 1919 website. Smalls didn’t know about that and Henderson wanted it held privately for as long as possible—forever, if possible.
When Lucas finished, the two senators, both lawyers, cross-examined him as they pushed oysters into their faces, and then Henderson said, “I think you’re wrong about the fifty-fifty. I think it’s more like seventy-thirty in favor of another shooting. It seems like every time you turned over a rock, you found another nutcase with a copy of that letter.”
Lucas had told them about Richard Greene and the Greene Mountain Boys, and said, “If Greene comes through with a batch of letters, it’s possible that we’ll be able to trace them back to the original sender. Or the FBI will.”
“And if my cocker spaniel went puck-puck-puck, he’d be a fuckin’ chicken,” Smalls said.
“I’ll keep pushing,” Lucas said.
“Do more than push,” Smalls said, rapping his knuckles on the tabletop. “Do whatever you need to. Anything you need to. Anything. Stop this shit.”
Lucas glanced at Henderson, who seemed to hesitate for a moment, then gave a quick nod.
* * *
—
LUCAS LEFT STEAKS AND SPIRITS and took his time walking back to the Watergate. Across the street from the hotel, he thought, “They said anything.”
He’d thought of something, that morning, and inside, he told the concierge, “I need an electronics store. The cheaper, the better.”
There was nothing close by, and he wound up taking a cab to the store, which turned out to be little more than a hallway with a rack of crappy cell phones on the wall. He bought one, and the Pakistani owner took five minutes to explain about the SIM card and the available minutes. He asked no questions and Lucas got out of the store without ever mentioning his name or anything
else about why he wanted the phone. But then, he was in Washington. Halfway back to the hotel, Greene called: “I had to make up some crazy excuses, but I can tell you who has three of these letters and they’ve agreed to turn them in.”
“Give me the names,” Lucas said. “They’ll be interviewed by FBI agents.”
“You won’t give my people any trouble?”
“I can’t promise anything—but receiving letters isn’t any kind of crime I can think of, and I can promise you that I’ll ask the FBI to take it very easy, that these are cooperating witnesses.”
Greene asked, “Okay. Let me give you some names.”
Lucas took down the three names. He called Chase from the hotel, gave her the names, asked that the feds take it easy: “They’re volunteers, even if they are nutcase assholes.”
“I’ll pass the word,” Chase said. “Thank you.”
Lucas lay on the bed, the curtains pulled to dim the room, sighed and began making phone calls with his newly purchased and totally anonymous burner phone. “Yes, I don’t want to give you my name. I’m an FBI agent and I have a piece of information that I think it’s important for people to know. The FBI has figured out who created that 1919 website and it’s a pretty amazing surprise . . .”
* * *
—
BOB CALLED AT TWO O’CLOCK, but Lucas had nothing for him. “Why don’t we get dinner together? Go out to someplace nice?” Lucas asked. He now had nothing to do but wait.
“I’m good with that,” Bob said. “Seems like things are winding down. Or maybe winding up, but I’m not sure what we’re needed for.”
“I’ll call Rae,” Lucas said.
Rae was good with dinner.
* * *
—
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