by G. K. Parks
“Alex.” I gave him a coy smile. “Your name has surfaced in conjunction with an ongoing investigation.” Watching him, it was apparent he knew exactly what was going on. “This will go much better if you elaborate before I have to start asking questions.”
“How’d you know it was me?” His Adam’s apple bobbed uncontrollably as he swallowed repeatedly.
“We’re the federal government. Big brother is always watching.” From the science fiction memorabilia around the room, I was positive he probably believed in some conspiracy theories too. I snickered and cracked a smile. “Relax. Why don’t you sit down and tell me what you know?”
“Are they watching me right now? Is that what the drones are for?”
It would be too easy to toy with him, so I shook my head. “I was only kidding. There were a lot of long hours, phone records, and basic investigation tactics that led us to you. Now,” my tone grew stern, “we can do this here, or I can bring you in. Which would you prefer?” I flipped my hair behind my ear and tried the smile again. Apparently, he was mesmerized by my charm or afraid of the drones lurking outside his window because he quickly became an open book.
“I didn’t go with them. They never asked me to. But they talked about it all the time. Finding better ways to make money. Easier ways. A few months ago, I was tinkering with a computer, and Dave asked if I could show him how it worked. Then we got talking about how everything is computerized now and wouldn’t it be great if you could hack an ATM.” He looked up, flustered. “Not that I ever would.”
“Of course not.”
“But yeah, that’s when it started. He tried to make sure I didn’t know what was going on, but I overheard a lot.”
After listening to everything Neville said, I phoned Jablonsky for advice on what to do now. He was a material witness. He knew the connections among the players and the identity of the getaway driver. We couldn’t leave him here, especially if someone else realized what he knew. At the same time, it would be a tough sell to get the kid to willingly go into protective custody, at least for the short-term.
“I’ll send Carver to meet you. He has some visual aids that might help your dilemma.”
Fifteen
Michael and I convinced Neville to come with us and to provide invaluable testimony on the ATM thefts. The failed bank robbery was being prosecuted separately since it relied too heavily on a separate team, despite the fact it had been David Slidle’s plan. Slidle would be brought up on conspiracy to commit charges in conjunction with the bank robbery, but the heavier penalties for him lay with the ATM thefts.
The bank robbery case practically made itself since three of the four team members had been caught red-handed and in possession of firearms. They were all going away for a long time. That allowed our focus to shift back to the initial case, the ATM heists. The only common denominators present at both the bank hold-up and the heists were the getaway driver, John Seymour, and Isaiah Thompkins. Both men would be charged to the fullest extent on the ATM case and the bank robbery.
Neville told us everything he could. He was our tipster. He didn’t think robbing anyone, even banks, was a reputable way to make money. At least someone had ethical standards and a conscience. His tips might have put him in danger had Seymour been concerned with being sought after, but he wasn’t. Being the getaway driver during the bank robbery, he just wanted a cut without as much risk. Fortunately for him, we were willing to deal if he cooperated.
David Slidle masterminded the plan with the help of his girlfriend, Roxie. The two of them found maps, blueprints, and schematics for the ATMs. From the information we found in Roxie’s apartment, I was willing to wager she was the brains and David was the brawns. Despite the fact she had accused him of all of it, upon a second search of her apartment, this time for drugs, we found a false wall in her closet where she kept her stash. There were dozens of empty prescription pill bottles, and we believed she spent her money on pharmaceutical grade narcotics and needed more cash to refill her supply. David had the connections and the muscle to pull this off. He had questionable friends, namely Isaiah Thompkins.
Slidle used his friends as additional support during the ATM snatch and grab and the convenience store hit. His team consisted of his friends, Isaiah Thompkins, John Seymour, and Roxie Henderson. Thompkins and Seymour met Slidle while getting their cars repaired years ago, and they had been close ever since. Seymour had no prior record but was willing to go along with everyone else. He was a follower, and Slidle had been the leader, or at least believed he was. It seemed more apparent Roxie encouraged him, even though she denied this fact vehemently. The skeletons in her closet said otherwise. And while Thompkins might have boasted about being reformed, the statistics said differently. Repeat offenders continue to offend repeatedly.
After Roxie and Slidle got pinched, Thompkins wasn’t willing to let the perfect plan go to waste, so he called in his two former acquaintances, Dunne and Black. The two had some B&Es and larceny charges, but neither was a criminal genius. They were simply continuing to do the only thing they knew how to do, steal things. This time they got caught. The Uzis they brought into the bank were provided to them by Thompkins, who by all accounts was the only actual hardened criminal in the bunch. The rest seemed to be wayward misfits, pursuing their own personal agendas.
“A drug addict, an auto mechanic, a dumb schlub, one hardened criminal, and two lackeys walk into a bank,” Carver said, watching as I finished some paperwork. “Want to hear the punch line?”
“The punch line is we got them.”
“Precisely.” He pulled up a chair and sat across from me, putting his feet on the edge of my desk. “May I take you out to celebrate, Agent Parker?”
I shook my head. “I’m not in the mood.”
“That’s why we are going to drink. To put you in the mood.”
Logging off my computer and putting my report in the top drawer for tomorrow, I leaned back in my chair and assessed Michael. “It’s getting easier, isn’t it?”
“What?”
“This job. The work is still daunting, but,” I frowned, “it’s not like I’m surprised to find out Henderson lied to us or that Thompkins was so desperate to get away that he’d rip a letter opener out of his stomach to use as a weapon.” I maneuvered through my muddled thoughts. “Easier isn’t the right word, but I’m not sure what is. Maybe it’s just me being cynical and jaded.”
“You’ve always been cynical and jaded.” He smirked. “You’ve got that agent prerogative. You always have.” He stood up. “And now we’re going to do what everyone else does to cope.”
“Fine,” I gave in, “but you’re buying the first round.”
The Final Chapter
An Alexis Parker Short
G.K. Parks
One
The pain radiated up my side. I couldn’t move, and I couldn’t breathe. If the man above me applied any more pressure to my ribs, I was sure they would break. As it was, I wasn’t positive they weren’t going to be bruised and sore for the next few days. Resisting the physical urge to panic and flail, I carefully considered my options before making a decision. Slapping my palm against the dingy red mat, Agent Michael Carver immediately released his grip and leaned back on his haunches. I took a deep breath and flattened out on the floor, no longer being forced into an uncomfortable contortion. I shut my eyes and put my hands over my face as I attempted to shut out the world.
“You’re distracted. Where’s your head?” Michael asked, laying on the mat next to me and staring up at the ceiling. We spent the early morning sparring in the FBI’s gym. “First of all, I’ve never managed to pin you in that hold before, and second, since when do you tap out?”
I sighed and moved my hands to my torso, gingerly assessing the area for tenderness. “I’m having an off day. Plus, it’s too early in the morning for hand-to-hand combat,” I muttered. He hadn’t done any damage. Well, maybe just to my pride.
“Alexis,” he bumped his shoulder against
mine, “what’s going on?”
“Nothing.” I considered sitting up, but that required too much energy. “I’m just tired. I haven’t been sleeping well lately.”
“When was the last time you got laid?” he asked, and I kicked him in the shin. “That long, huh?” He rubbed his leg. “I only ask because you might be in need of some extracurricular stress relief.”
Carver tended to flirt. He also tended to be a jackass, and sometimes, he came off a little too pigheaded and misogynistic for his own good, despite my best efforts to knock some sense into him. But we were partnered together often enough that I considered him a friend and sometimes valued his opinion; however, this wasn’t one of those times.
“Let me guess, you’re offering,” I retorted.
“Maybe I would have, but you kicked me. So no. This well-formed male specimen is not available to be your plaything.” He smirked. “Unless you ask nicely.” I rolled my eyes. “In all seriousness, Alex,” he offered a hand and helped me up, “is everything okay?”
I nodded. “Everything’s fine. Maybe I’m coming down with something. Change of seasons tends to make most people sick, right?”
He didn’t buy it, but when it came to interrogation techniques, he knew I wouldn’t budge. We parted ways, heading off to the separate locker rooms to shower and dress for another fun-filled Monday at the Office of International Operations.
Practically colliding with him on my way out the door, he failed to leave well enough alone. “Maybe I should have joined you in the shower.”
“Maybe I’ll report you to Jablonsky for sexual harassment, and you can spend the next few days watching the sensitivity training videos and being informed on proper social etiquette by the legal department,” I growled. First, he tried to break my ribs, and now, he was busting my chops. Hell of a way to start the day.
Looking appropriately repentant, he held the door for me and dropped the sexist remarks. Once inside the elevator, I let out a sigh. Today began on the wrong foot, and it didn’t need to get any worse. A bit of explanation for my snappish attitude might be in order.
“Michael,” I narrowed my eyes as I stared at the bottom of the door, “this case is getting to me. I don’t know why, but it is.”
“It’s getting to all of us,” he admitted, adopting a serious tone. “Bombers are a scary, disturbing lot. Particularly this one since we have yet to determine what he wants. Anonymous explosions scream terrorism whether it’s one homegrown lunatic or an entire international sleeper cell. There’s the possibility for mass casualties, hysteria, panic,” he maneuvered around to stand in front of me, “that’s why it’s our job to keep it together. Can you keep it together, Agent Parker? Because someone’s gotta think calmly and rationally about things if we have any hope of stopping these sick, twisted bastards.”
Staring into his brown eyes, this was the first time I ever felt so overwhelmed and helpless since becoming a federal agent almost five years ago. Carver and I graduated from Quantico together, and eventually, we were both assigned to the OIO, a division of the FBI. After completing our two years of training, we had worked numerous cases from forgeries to bank robberies to arms dealing. Currently, we were investigating a local car bombing. There had been only one incident, but from the crime scene, the bomb had been planted intentionally in a public place, just outside the courthouse. However, it had been inadvertently thwarted by a highly astute meter maid who reported the illegally parked vehicle and had it towed to impound where it had done nothing more than blow the nearby vehicles sky high. It was dumb luck that had prevented potentially dozens of casualties and fatalities from occurring.
The motivation behind the car bombing would have been questionable if a threat hadn’t been delivered to FBI headquarters after the explosion, warning of another impending attack. The ominous words declared that this one would not be as easily avoided. We were on a collision course for destruction and death unless we pooled our resources and identified the bomber and the target. At the moment, there were no solid leads. Assuming this wasn’t a bluff, we were running out of time. The uncertainty of our success was seeping into my subconscious, affecting my sleep and everything else. Self-doubt and fear were my enemies.
“I’m afraid of the price of failure.” I bit my bottom lip, hoping Carver would say something reassuring.
“We won’t fail.” He tried to play it off as a joke, but he was scared too. “You and I both scored off the charts. We’ve closed countless cases and impressed everyone around here with our superior deductive skills. Hell, the only reason we haven’t cracked this one yet is to give someone else a chance to play hero, right?”
“In that case, I’ll sit this one out, and you can play hero. Maybe afterward I’ll even let you demonstrate some of those extracurricular stress relief techniques of yours.” It was entirely a joke, but it was what we did to avoid the seriousness of the situation. It was our coping mechanism and one that many in the law enforcement community exercised on a regular basis. To work a job like this, you have to find a balance from the harsh realities that exist in the dark underbelly of society.
“Empty promises, but on the off chance you’re serious, I’ll consider it added incentive for finding a lead.”
The elevator doors opened, and SSA Mark Jablonsky spotted us as we exited the elevator. Our boss didn’t look happy which didn’t bode well for any of us.
“Parker. Carver. Conference room. Now,” Jablonsky barked, pausing after each word as if it were its own sentence. That was never good.
Obeying, we followed him into the room and took a seat at the table. A dozen agents were already inside discussing the forensics team’s findings concerning the makeup of the bomb and the materials used for the detonator.
“The residue found does not match the chemical composition of any military-grade incendiary device or any that are manufactured or used by any governments or private corporations that we are aware of,” said Agent Sam Boyle. “The bomb was homemade and by someone who knew exactly what they were doing.” He flipped the large screen against the wall to an image of what was left of the detonator. “Although it was almost completely decimated in the explosion, our technical team has reconstructed what they believe was the detonator switch.” The image on the screen changed to a computer rendition. “There was a built-in failsafe and a timer. On the bright side, it doesn’t appear that the bomb had a remote trigger. So assuming he sticks to the same signature, if this happens again, we should be able to disarm it without the bomber being able to cause a premature detonation.”
“The problem is,” Jablonsky took over the briefing, “it also means the bomber doesn’t have to be anywhere in the vicinity. The unsub values his own life. He’s smart and calculating. We can’t expect him to make any stupid mistakes, so we have to be on top of this.”
Closing my eyes for a second, I didn’t feel on top of anything. Carver was right; I needed to get my shit together. All I needed was a decent night’s sleep to give my mind and body time to regroup. Was that too much to ask?
Boyle began handing out assignments as he divvied up the list of materials used in the bomb. If we could figure out where the items were bought, then we might be able to identify the bomber. Half the agents left the conference room to begin locating suppliers. Another group of agents was assigned to scrub the surveillance footage from where the car had been prior to its impoundment. There was a chance the bomber might be identified from when he planted the bomb. The last few agents, including Carver, were sent to locate the owner of the vehicle and determine why someone would want to blow up his car or him.
“Parker,” Jablonsky began as Boyle left the room, leaving the two of us alone, “you’ve barely left the building in the last three days, ever since we received notification of the explosion. So what have you got?”
“Not a goddamn thing.” I was frustrated and bitchy. Mark sat on the edge of the conference table and propped a leg up on one of the chairs. He wasn’t about to accept that as a val
id answer. “None of it makes any sense. And if it does, I can’t see it.”
“Okay,” he was exercising a level of patience I never witnessed from him before, “let’s just talk it out. What do we know?”
“The car belongs to Douglas Haze, an assistant district attorney. It was parked in one of the reserved spots in front of the courthouse, and from the copy of the ticket, it remained in that spot for almost four days. After the permitted seventy-two hours, the city was notified of the violation, and the car was towed to the police impound lot. Six hours later, at approximately noon on Thursday, the bomb went off. Based on the blast, it is estimated that there was enough explosive inside the car to take out a thirty foot radius.”
“If the vehicle wasn’t moved,” Jablonsky tried to guide my thoughts, “it would have taken out nearby pedestrians, possible motorists, other parked cars. What else?”
“As far as I can see, it would have been a random act of violence.” I shook my head, hoping to knock something important loose. “I checked the court’s docket, and there weren’t any high-profile cases on the schedule. Noon is in the middle of the day, and since judges tend to stay in chambers to enjoy their lunch hour, the likelihood the explosion was meant to target one of them doesn’t seem very likely. And given that Mr. Haze hadn’t moved his car in days, how could anyone assume with certainty that he’d return on that day and time to his vehicle?” I got up and began pacing the room. Pacing was one of the things that helped me think. “Could the target be the courthouse and not any particular person?”