by Brian Shea
Nick had arranged for both of the armored truck guards to come into the office for an interview. Vincenzo Mangano was scheduled to go first, and he had arrived on time, entering the lobby of the FBI’s New Haven Field Office at 9:55 a.m.
The interview room, or “box” as investigators commonly referred to it, was small and only contained one table with two uncomfortable plastic office chairs. The walls were covered with a stippled polypropylene beadboard to absorb sound, eliminating both internal and external intrusive noise.
Vincenzo was brought to the room by a civilian administrative assistant who had been employed by the Bureau for several years. Doris’s conservative manner of dress gave her an air of professionalism even though she was only in her late twenties. Nick liked the quiet politeness of her demeanor. He always tried to use her to escort his interviewees to the box. This was done by Nick’s design. He liked to make the environment somewhat uncomfortable, and Doris’s silence aided that. It allowed him to apply controls that would subtly guide a person’s behavior. The goal was to maximize Nick’s ability to regulate the interview.
Nick was notified of Mr. Mangano’s arrival and looked at his watch, noting that he was on time. A good sign. Showing up early is a potential indicator of nervousness. Arriving late can demonstrate a suspect’s attempt to assert dominance.
Nick let Vincenzo sit for several minutes in the quiet isolation of the box. The armored truck guard was left in the uncomfortable plastic chair of the interview room with no distractions except for the thoughts inside his head.
Nicholas Lawrence knocked, entering the room with the presence of a congressman on a re-election campaign. He walked directly to Vincenzo, extending his hand. “Wow! You have been through an incredible ordeal. I am so glad that you are alright.” Nick said warmly.
“It wasn’t that bad,” Mangano said with the false bravado that Nick had become so accustomed to. People, especially men, tended to minimize traumatic events.
“Tell me what you can remember. I want you to begin from the point that you approached the bank’s parking lot. No detail is too small.” Nick had said these words, or their equivalent, a thousand times before to suspects and victims alike.
“I remember that Shelly and I were driving up to the bank. We were talking about a show we watch. The Real Lives of Airline Stewardesses. Cheesy, I know, but it’s our thing.” He gave a sheepish grin, before continuing, “Everything was normal. We were running a bit late for the delivery, but our schedule gives a flex time of fifteen minutes. If we don’t check on-site to our dispatch center within fifteen minutes of the scheduled arrival time, then they begin to try to reach us by radio. If that fails, then the local police are notified of our truck’s GPS location. This is done in case we get hijacked or taken hostage.” Nick scribbled some notes on his pad but already knew the general protocols, having been through this in previous cases. Each armored truck company had similar safety nets established to protect their assets.
Vincenzo sighed before he continued to retell his experience. Nick knew that this gesture was done in a subtle attempt to let him know that he had already told this story to the other cops. Nick said nothing and waited for him.
“We pulled around the bank and into position in front of the ATM. I ride shotgun and do the retrieval and reload of the machine. Shelly remains inside the truck and keeps it running.”
“So, is it normal for Shelly to park the truck and get out?” Nick asked, knowing that this slight confrontation may put Vinny on the defensive, but it was essential to the interview process.
“What? No… but come on man, you can’t blame this on her. She’s a good employee. She has a family. We were just talking, and she got out of the truck so that she could hear me better. If you want to point the finger, then point it at me. I wasn’t paying attention when that guy snuck up on me!” Agitation was clearly present in Vincenzo’s voice.
“I am not blaming either of you. I may say things to you to get some clarification, but don’t be offended. I am not looking to get either of you in trouble. My job is to understand how you guys do things so that I can figure out how our bad guy pulled this off. Please continue.” Nick was calm, and he could see the tension in Vinny’s face begin to release slightly. Nick was not the enemy and he needed the guard to register this.
“Okay. Well… yeah, Shelly was out of the truck talking with me. I opened the front of the ATM and detached the money container. Then I walked to the back of the truck and retrieved the refill. That’s when it happened.” Vinny’s head slumped, projecting his defeat. Nick registered his embarrassment.
“And then what?” A subtle nudge to continue his explanation.
“You know what happened next. That asshole pistol-whipped me! The fucking gun went off in my damn ear. He could have killed me. I mean, shit, what would you have done? I thought I had been shot.” Vinny responded, becoming defensive again.
Nick figured that Vincenzo was probably embarrassed because he had urinated in his pants when the gun went off. It was a very common reaction to this type of occurrence. If the brain becomes overwhelmed, then some of the subconscious controls shut down and very typically this came in the form of bladder or bowel release. Nick had seen it first-hand among some of his soldiers during combat engagements and held no judgment.
“I’ve never been in a situation like that and can’t comprehend what it would be like.” Nick, of course, was lying. He’d been in much worse scenarios with real bullets snapping passed his ears. Several scars on his left shoulder told the tale of one such encounter, but Nick was not here to exchange war stories. He was here to listen to Vincenzo Mangano.
“Well… it was freaking terrifying. That’s really all I remember. I never even saw the guy. I heard him say something about not moving and then he dropped me.”
“What did his voice sound like?” Nick asked, seeking sensory details.
“Deep I guess. Kind of gangster like. I don’t want to sound racist, but the guy sounded black.” Vincenzo said timidly. Nick had learned long ago that there is no room for political correctness if it interfered with the progress of a case.
“Thank you for that Vinny. Is there anything else that you can think of that may assist me in catching this guy?”
“Umm. Not sure. I think that is everything.” Vinny said flatly. He seemed to have suddenly been overcome with a wave of exhaustion, rubbing his pasty face with his hands. Nick was also familiar with this sudden fatigue, knowing the draining effect associated with reliving a traumatic event.
“I am going to give you my card and if anything else pops into your head, then please don’t hesitate to reach out. You were very helpful today,” Nick said, giving a reassuring handshake as he escorted Vincenzo Mangano out of the interview room. Doris quietly escorted him from the building.
“Not involved,” Nick said to Izzy.
“Okay. Well, the female guard is waiting down in the lobby. I’ll send for her,” Izzy said, demonstrating the seamless teamwork of their partnership.
Nick seized this small break between the interviews as an opportunity to grab a cup of coffee. The k-cup was, in Nick’s humble opinion, the greatest invention in history.
He exited the break room, observing as Shelly Lewis was being escorted by Doris into the same interview room that Vincenzo had recently vacated. Again, Nick allowed her to sit in the silence of the interview box for a few minutes before making his entrance.
Nick had a disarming smile as he entered. He gave her the nonverbal gesture of “would you like a cup of coffee too” pointing toward his paper cup. She replied by shaking her head “No.” Nick sat, placing his notepad and pen on the table.
“Are you sure that I can’t get you a cup of coffee?” Nick offered again, easing the perceived tension.
“I’m good. Thank you,” Shelly said.
Nick noted a rasp in her voice most likely caused by years of heavy smoking. She was thirty-one, but life had taken its toll, adding ten hard years to her features.
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“I spoke with Vinny. You two have been riding together for a while now. I would like you to walk me through everything that happened on Thursday. Take your time and put in as much detail as you can remember. Let me worry about whether or not it’s important. Whenever you’re ready you may begin.” Nick said as if he was a school teacher giving the directions to a test.
“Vinny and I got to the bank a little after five. You can check the dispatch records for the exact time. We pulled in and parked by the ATM, like we always do. Vinny got out and started doing his thing. He’s responsible for the actual handling of the money on deliveries. I do the driving and dispatch communication. We’ve got our assignments.” Shelly said, pausing for a moment to gauge Nick’s reaction.
“Okay,” he said, giving minimal encouragement. Interviewers like Nick used simple phrases or sounds to elicit a response by gently prodding the interviewee to continue.
“So, Vinny got out and walked around the front of the truck. He opened the ATM and went to the rear. He came back with the new canister and…”
“Sorry to interrupt, but where were you while Vinny was doing this? Remember that these details are important to me.” Nick said this already knowing the answer but wanted to test the level of Shelly’s honesty.
“Well, I parked the truck and got out to talk with Vinny.” Shelly mumbled this statement as if she were a child fearful of being scolded.
“Shelly, please do not hold back anything from me. Assume that I know all of it. I just want to hear things in your words. I do not work for your company and couldn’t care any less about procedures. Try to relax. I know that you have been through a difficult ordeal and I want to understand what happened. The only way that I can do that is if you open up to me,” Nick said calmly. He could sense that he was establishing a connection with Shelly. His tone and word choice were meant to break down the barriers of the interview.
“Okay. I’m sorry. Just nervous, I guess. So, as you know I got out of the truck. Vinny and I were talking about this silly show that we both watch. And then out of the blue, I see this guy appear out of nowhere, and he was pointing a gun at Vinny’s head. It was so fast. And then the bang. I swear to God that I saw Vinny’s head explode. He dropped.” Shelly stammered, quivering as if shaking off a chill.
“Go on.” Nick encouraged.
“Vinny was on the ground and the guy was yelling at me, but it was like I had earmuffs on. I heard the sound of his voice, but it was muffled, and I couldn’t tell you what he was saying.
“I remember that at some point I was able to understand the gunman’s words. He said something to the effect of get on the ground. So, I did what he said. I am no hero. I mean, Jesus, he had just shot Vinny. Well, I thought that at the time. I’m not dying for seventeen dollars an hour!” Shelly’s reference to her salary was obviously something she had said numerous times before as if this was her mantra.
“I don’t judge you. I have not been in your shoes and do not know how I would react. I want you to know that I think you were very brave.” Nick reaffirmed, needing her to be confident so that her shame did not cover necessary details.
“Thank you.” Shelly’s shoulders went slack, and she stared at the wall. “I remember him telling me to look away and count. So I did. I felt him pull my gun out of my holster, and I was terrified that he was going to kill me with my own weapon. Then I heard a car drive off, but I stayed on the ground until I finished counting.”
“Think about the bad guy and what he looked like. Try to picture him after Vinny was on the ground and you were facing him. Start at his head and mentally work your way down his body to his feet.” Nick said, guiding her mind to a specific point in time to assist the recall process. This helped a witness organize their information, but even so, eyewitnesses were notoriously unreliable creatures.
“He had a black ski mask on. I remember that he had brown eyes. I would say that the guy had a medium-brown colored skin. He could have been black or Hispanic. I don’t know. I remember seeing a black circle tattoo on his neck, but I have no idea what it was. That’s pretty much it. I really couldn’t tell you what he was wearing, and I never saw what he drove.”
Nick listened and was impressed with her level of detail. Satisfied that Shelly Lewis was not involved, he closed his notebook.
“Shelly, I will be in touch if I have any more questions. You were very helpful. Thank you.” Nick spoke in a reassuring tone that conveyed his appreciation, knowing that it was important to provide closure. “Take my card and reach out to me if something pops into your head that you think may benefit the case.”
As Shelly departed the office area, Nick looked over at Izzy who was on the phone. She waved Nick over, thanking whoever she was talking with, and hung up.
“So, this is weird.” Izzy loved to give a teaser and then stop. It drove Nick crazy, but he always played along.
“Are you going to make me beg?” Nick mocked, taking a kneeling position on the worn carpet of the office cubicle.
“I just got off the phone with the rental car agency that Flash’s plate returned to. They said that they have a red Toyota Corolla with the matching New Jersey plates.” Izzy paused, allowing time for Nick to process this information.
“That’s not weird. That’s great. Who rented the car?” Nick said with eagerness in his voice. He could feel that a shift in momentum was on the horizon. As of right now, the case was batting zero for leads.
“It hasn’t been rented in over a month.” Izzy let this information hit home with Nick.
“What? You’re saying that someone stole a car, used it in an armed robbery, and then returned it?” Nick had never seen that done before and was thoroughly confused at this tactic.
“No. The manager reviewed the lot footage from the date and time of the robbery. The car was there the entire time.”
“So, the car never moved?” Nick’s eyes squinted, and his brow furrowed as his brain tried to sort out this new information.
“The car has only been moved one time in the last month, but that was for an oil change and car wash two weeks ago.”
“We are dealing with a pro,” Nick hissed, letting that hang in the air as he walked over to his desk and dropped into his chair. The phone in his cubicle rang and he looked at the visible display of the caller ID. It was his mother. He was tired and for the first time in a long time, he let it go to voicemail.
13
He had ridden this particular bus many times in preparation for this mission. Khaled had sat in the rear of this same bus several weeks ago and marked the rubberized backing of the seat in front of him with a small black “x”. Every time he rode, he had walked to the rear and inspected the seat to make sure that the bus had not been changed. Each time the x was present.
It was Monday. He looked down at his watch and compared the time to the schedule, noting that it was running two minutes behind. He had found that this was very common due to the roadway congestion that marked the approach of the invisible boundary into the state capital of Hartford. Traffic accidents and road repair dominated the Connecticut landscape. The failed promises of politicians to improve roadways and public transportation increased with each passing election.
The bus pulled to a stop a few feet past where Khaled sat. He got up from the bench, entering as the doors folded open. Khaled moved past the tired faces of the few commuters already inhabiting the stained plastic seats. He found his place in the rear. Not many people took the morning commute. This would be to his advantage.
He waited for the bus to lumber forward and pull away from the bus stop that was conveniently located across from the Clover Leaf Federal Bank. The same bank that his old acquaintance, Enright the Golden Man, had robbed the previous week. That recent development would add an extra level of chaos to the original plan. Khaled had a few adjustments to make before it began.
The ride to J’s Pizza was uneventful. This time, only the heavyset man, known to him as Mustafa, met him at the door and brought
him into the room. Khaled knew that this man’s real name was not Mustafa. Everything had been arranged by the Seven so that no one could ever identify another if they were caught and interrogated. Khaled was known to them as Mohamed, but he knew that they also knew him by a different name, Alghabar Alshaytan, the Dust Devil. This was a moniker that had been bestowed upon him by terrified American soldiers. Even his FBI’s wanted poster had no picture, only labeling him by his nickname. Khaled liked its anonymity. He really did not work for The Seven. In many ways, they worked for him, but none of that mattered. The only thing that counted was vengeance. His journey had begun in the rugged desert terrain of his homeland, but his masterpiece was soon to be unveiled on American soil.
“Mohamed. Good to see you again so soon,” the man called Mustafa said as he pulled a hand-rolled cigarette from its rectangular metallic box. He offered one to Khaled who declined with a dismissive wave of his hand. Mustafa began the daily ritual of filling the small back room with a low hanging cloud of smoke.
“I need to get a message out.” Khaled had no time for pleasantries and did not particularly like the fat man. Khaled felt that Mustafa had become too comfortable with American culture, adopting many of their despicable traits. Khaled decided that the fat man sitting before him would do nothing more for the cause than operate a business front, allowing safe harbor for the real soldiers.
“Of course, my friend. Please tell me what it is that you need.” Mustafa said this with the feigned tone of cordialness that Khaled knew to be more done out of fear than respect. Khaled had come to learn that respect and fear caused men to act in similar fashion. In the years since his Sonia’s death, he’d grown more accustomed to the latter.
“Tell them that it will be done to satisfaction, but at a new grid coordinate. I am deviating from the original location. I think that they will be pleased with my reasons.” Khaled said, sliding a piece of paper to Mustafa with the hand-written coordinates 41.723158, -72.668059.