by Randall Wood
“What other methods of identifying this guy do we have?”
“So far, no prints or DNA material. We’re tracing materials from all three scenes, but no hits. No serial numbers off the rifles. We’re still waiting on the list from the Department of Defense. May have something new from the Olson shooting, but I think it’s going to take a stroke of luck or a tip to get him. We need to think ahead of him.”
The chair simply rocked in reply. Larry stole another look at the letter while he had the chance.
“All right, stay on track. I’ll smooth it over with the A.G., and call DOD about the damn list. Call if you need anything else, Jack.”
“Yes, sir,” Jack replied to the back of the chair. He motioned Larry out in front of him.
Once the door was closed, Larry pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow.
“Thanks a lot, Jack. Just what was I in there for anyway?”
“Moral support. I’ll catch up to you in the pit.”
“All right.” Larry hustled down the hallway away from the Director’s office as fast as he could.
Jack left in the direction of his office, but detoured to the elevators. He couldn’t tell Larry he needed him there as a witness. The Director was somewhat of a political creature and Jack had been warned by Deacon to be careful. Arriving on the bottom floor, he left the building and wandered down the street until he found a favorite sandwich shop. He ordered his usual and found a seat outside on a bench. With the traffic noise in the background he pulled out his cell phone and made a couple of calls.
* * *
“Danny!”
Danny Drake was in a foul mood. After the long flight from California he had arrived in Orlando to find Dominic waiting for him at the baggage claim. Dominic was the owner’s nephew, and worked doing odd jobs around the paper. Behind his back he was known as Smithers, after the Simpson’s character. One had to be careful what one said around Dominic, as it would get to his uncle, well edited, in record time.
He offered nothing to the prying questions as he was driven to the paper instead of his apartment. Only there did he learn of the shooting of TJ Olson. He was quickly instructed to submit his story on the Ping shooting before being loaded into a car with a cameraman and sent to Ft. Myers. Once outside of town, he forced the photographer to stop at a hotel so he could shower and change before climbing into the backseat in an attempt to get some more sleep. Now he was being yelled at.
“What?” he asked without opening his eyes.
“Your phone.”
“He opened one eye to see the offending instrument being held out while the other hand stayed on the wheel. He grabbed it and looked at the screen. It woke him up immediately.
“Hello?”
“Mr. Drake?”
“Yes.”
“Are you on your way to Ft. Myers by chance?”
“Yes, we are,” Danny hinted.
“You’re not alone I take it. I’ll be brief. The Department of Defense was asked to submit a list of past and current sniper-trained personnel after the Addicot shooting. They have yet to deliver. I could use your assistance with that.”
“I understand.”
“In return, I offer you this. Both the guns from the Ping shooting and the Olson shooting were the same brand and model as the Addicot shooting. The letters also are all from the same source, confirmed by the FBI forensic labs.”
“Can I quote you?”
“Not yet. How about high level government source for now. That always seems to work.”
“All right...that it?”
“Sorry, Danny. That’s all I can offer right now.”
“Okay...uh, thanks.”
“I’ll call again, Danny, you’re doing well.”
A dial tone ended the call before Danny could ask any questions. He tried to think it through, but the fatigue was still there. Giving up, he settled back into the seat. A minute later he was snoring.
* * *
Unknown to Danny, Sam lay in a hotel bed less than a few miles away with one of the pre-paid cell phones in his left hand and the TV remote in his right. Just outside of Tampa, he had been in the room for a couple of hours now and was watching another round of CNN while keeping tabs on the local stations. So far no description of him, but they had found the Cadillac. As the anchor turned the program over to the sport’s desk, he punched the mute button and dialed Paul.
“Hey buddy, how’s it going?” Paul answered.
“Shitty, how’s your end?”
“The same, I’m just watching some TV. Did you know TJ Olson was shot this morning?”
“Really?”
“All over the tube. He’s real dead. Have any problems?”
“Nope, didn’t even sweat. Getting out was the only variable. I made it past Venice before they set up the roadblocks. Way too late, I’m in Tampa now and thinking about catching a flight.”
“You gonna use Chicago or Detroit? Don’t forget Grand Rapids has a lot of connections now, too.”
“Actually, I was thinking Memphis.”
“You’re gonna try to make the rally? What’s the rush?”
“If we keep going they really have no time to catch up. The more we stay ahead of them, the better.”
“I thought you said the faster we go the more mistakes we make?”
“Who’s making mistakes?”
“Don’t give me that. I don’t like it.”
“Relax. I’ll go and check it out. If there isn’t a good option, I’ll pass and come back home. Okay?”
“I guess. Just be careful. You asked me who’s making mistakes. The answer is you, just not a critical one yet.”
Sam bit his tongue for a minute. Paul was right. He just didn’t know what Dr. Maher had told him.
“I’ll be careful. I’ll call from Memphis when I get there. Run the DVR for me?”
“You got it.”
Sam hung up. He’d tell Paul the rest when he got home.
* * *
Jack sat at his desk reading a file with some amusement. He had no doubt that it had found its way there thanks to Sydney. It made for some interesting reading.
Eric Simmons had been labeled by his teacher as slightly retarded when he was six years old. Luckily his parents had refused to believe that and had him tested. Turned out he was anything but. The boy showed a remarkable affinity for math and science. The main problem was he was bored. Throughout his school years he constantly disappointed his parents with inconsistent grades. Report cards showing A’s in some subjects, D’s in others, never anything in between. If he liked a subject and the teacher, he would produce an A. If not, then the minimum was met. Fortunately, he was intelligent enough to change this when he hit high school.
It was a shop teacher, of all people, who got through to him. After meeting the boy’s parents and making some suggestions, Eric was soon taking college level courses at the local university. He finished high school in less than three years and was accepted to MIT on an academic scholarship. Here, he once again ran afoul with the strict school rules. When a particular teacher announced in his welcoming speech that nobody got an A in his class, Eric took offense. Using his considerable skill with a computer, he accessed the teachers laptop and installed a program forcing the professor to answer a short quiz on his own subject before allowing access. Wrong answers locked the computer down for 24 hrs. After being locked out repeatedly, the professor turned the computer over to the school. While Eric was good, he was no match for the staff, and the program was broken and traced. While guilt could not be proven, Eric received the rest of the year off to think about it. He may have avoided the suspension if the professor’s failing quiz grades had not been published to the web. Regardless, he was currently out of school and unemployed.
“Well?”
Jack looked up to see Sydney standing in the doorway of his office. She had that look on her face he remembered. She used it to manipulate him back when they were dating. He hated to
admit it, but it usually worked.
“You really want him?”
“Yes, I think he’d be a good asset.”
“All right, write up the paperwork, and we’ll try him as a temporary consultant. But your name goes on the sponsorship papers. I’ll write a letter of rec. The Director said I could have anything I needed, so when you have it all ready let me know and I’ll get him to stamp it. Is this number current?”
“At the top of the file cover? I believe so.”
“All right, I’ll call him and ask him if he’s interested.”
“Thanks, Jack, I owe you one.”
“Go away.” She smiled as he shooed her out. Picking up the phone he punched in the numbers with the eraser end of a pencil. It rang twice.
“Hello, Chief? Jack Randall from the FBI. I was wondering if I could talk to your son?”
—TWENTY-NINE—
The state of New Hampshire holds 2,434 inmates in its prisons.
Approximately 1,630 are repeat offenders.
Sam consulted his map as he drove north on I-75. He was about an hour out of Tampa on his way to Jacksonville. After watching the news coverage of the shooting, he was convinced the reporters had not gotten the full story. They reported on the roadblocks despite the fact that the Cadillac had been found. This made Sam think that they had a description of the rental car, too, but had kept it from the press in the hopes that he would still use it. Sam took the thought further, and decided to change his exit plan. He was now at the wheel of a new rental car. Color and make as far from the other as he had been able to choose from the limited selection. Bypassing the airport was another choice. He decided to catch a flight from Jacksonville. It would cut his available preparation time in Memphis, but he felt it was better to be safe.
After committing his exit number to memory, Sam traded the map for the file on his next target. Thomas M. Curtis: white male, short at 5'7", fat at over 240 pounds and full of hate. Curtis was over seventy years old, but had been the leader of the white supremacy movement for decades. A former minister with the Christian Identity Movement, he had ultimately converted to atheism. In the late 1970s he became a member of the Knights of the Ku Klux Klan, becoming Grand Dragon for the state of California where he also worked as a plumber. Here he found a better fit for his anti-Semitism, and broadened his approach to include a monthly pro-white newspaper. This led to radio and television appearances followed by regular demonstrations. As the technology presented itself, Curtis branched out into websites containing his views. Telephone hotlines, email, and racist merchandise were marketed to young, low educated followers. He began to support racially slanted rock bands and more youth soon joined the ranks. As the skinhead movement migrated from Great Britain to the United States in the 1980s, Curtis welcomed them with open arms. The skinhead gangs with their neo-Nazi insignia, heavy tattoos and shaved heads were a natural match for Curtis’s brand of white supremacy. Now with young, easily influenced, and disposable soldiers available, Curtis began staging rallies and provoking racial minorities. The on-camera confrontations were broadcast by the media, and the growing white supremacy movement received the free publicity it sought. When a group of skinheads in the northeast took Curtis’s words too far and killed a trio of black men, the subsequent trial was front page news. The skinheads who committed the crime were too ignorant to hide Curtis’s correspondence coaching them on how to perform the act. They were also too weak in character to hold up to police interrogation. Soon warrants were issued, and Curtis found himself on trial in connection to the murders.
Although he was found not guilty of the murder charges, he was soon after sued by the Southern Poverty Law Center on behalf of the victims’ families. The trial was short, and the jury awarded $13 million in damages to the families. Upheld on appeal, the judgment was one of the largest civil verdicts of its kind in United States history. Curtis’s assets were seized to help compensate the families, his home, business and life savings all forfeited. The revenue from his newspapers and websites were accounted through the court, and the majority went to the families’ fund as well.
Despite the defeat and subsequent poverty, Curtis continued to spread his message of hate. In a pathetic attempt at revenge, he began advocating the Lone Wolf model of extremism. Also known as the Leaderless Resistance model, it promoted individuals or small groups conducting underground activity, as opposed to aboveground organizations. This, in theory, leaves the least chance of being caught by law enforcement. A published Letter to the Editor in the monthly newspaper gave advice on how to operate as a Lone Wolf and Curtis often used the phrase in his speeches, hoping to inspire impressionable youth to act. He became the leader of the largest domestic terrorist group in the United States. Yet the police could never pin anything on him. Curtis had learned from his mistakes and took every step necessary to shield himself from being prosecuted. Like other terrorist leaders, he never got his hands dirty. It was much easier to send one of his mindless disciples to do his bidding for him.
As the years passed, Curtis found a smaller and smaller audience for his beliefs. The skinheads grew up and the ever increasing diversity of the United States left little room for his antiquated ideas. His rallies were attracting smaller crowds, and in some areas, the counter-protest crowd was larger and louder. Yet, the snake still had its head, and in some areas of the country an audience could still be moved by a hate speech from Thomas M. Curtis. Another generation was coming of age, and Curtis hoped to have influence on it. People brought their kids to hear the speeches and the message was taught while they were most impressionable. Hate crimes were again on the rise. The next rally was in Memphis. Sam had two days to get there.
It was time to cut the head off the snake.
* * *
Jack looked up from the forensic report he was reading. A handwriting analysis had confirmed that the letter found in the refrigerator was written by the same person who had written the others. Jack flipped to the last page to get the answer. Why it took ten pages to answer a yes or no question was frustrating to him. He knew why of course. Lawyers. All the paper was simply so it would stand up in court. He tossed the file into the pile on the floor next to his desk. He had graduated from In and Out baskets on his desk to In and Out piles on the floor. All this and he had told them to give him “just the pertinent stuff.”
He reached for another. This one was titled Ballistic Report. He felt the urge to do a Johnny Carson imitation and hold it to his head while he predicted the contents. Before he could open it the phone rang.
“Randall.”
“Jack? Its uhh...Bob. I got an answer to your request.”
“Okay.” Jack waited.
“...are you kidding?”
“It’s a secure line.”
“Did you forget who you’re talking to? Where we had lunch last time, in about thirty minutes, okay?”
“Hold on.” Jack took a second to remember the place. “Okay, I remember. Thirty minutes.”
“Fine.”
Jack sighed. He hated the cloak-and-dagger stuff, but if he wanted the information, he’d have to play along. He got up and grabbed his coat. It was freezing out.
Thirty minutes later found him in the lobby bar of a local hotel. He ordered a drink for appearances and found a corner table where he could see the entrance. He soon saw his friend walk by the entrance without entering. This was getting ridiculous. He appeared again two minutes later and Jack waved him over.
As the man quickly seated himself, he scolded Jack. “Could you call a little less attention, please?”
“Will you relax? We know each other. It’s in your file, it’s in mine. Nobody cares if we meet for a drink, your job’s gone to your head.”
“Maybe, your request didn’t go through channels though, did it?
“Well, it just doesn’t meet the homeland security guidelines does it? Nevertheless, I need the help. What did you find?”
The man opened his briefcase and pulled a computer
disc from its pocket. He placed it on the table and slid it over to Jack.
“Can I get you anything?”
Jack smiled as his friend visibly jumped at the surprise question from the waitress.
“He’ll have a martini, vodka. I’ll have another Amber Bock.”
“Yes, sir.” She smiled. “Anything to eat?”
“Just the drinks, thank you.”
When the girl had departed, Jack looked at his friend. He looked pissed.
“Jack, I don’t need a drink, I need to leave.”
“If anybody ever needed a drink, it’s you. Relax and tell me what I have here.”
The man took a breath, and after a quick look around, explained. “After 9-11, the NSA began acquiring more super computers. It was covered under the intelligence budget, but the reasons weren’t exactly published, you know? Anyway, we use them for wire and phone taps. They’re all linked with the phone companies’ computers and we program them to record conversations that are triggered by key words. The volume is enormous and the languages are a real pain, but we’re getting good information on several cells in the US alone, not to mention overseas.”
“How do you get them all? I mean, if it only records after it hears a certain word?”
“No, it records everything. It only saves and flags it if it catches a word or phrase we program it to key off of.”
“That has to be millions of calls a day?”
“Billions is more like it. Right now we rotate the coverage from area to area. New York and DC get it all the time, other cities and states as we can, or if we get a tip. We need more people and it takes time and a lot of money to build super computers.”
“So can you help me or not?”
“That’s the calls from south-west Florida you asked for. What else do you need?”
“I need you to drink this.”
“What?”
Jack watched his friend jump again as the waitress approached from behind and set down the drinks. Jack pulled a twenty from his wallet and placed it on her tray.
“Keep it,” he said.
“Thank you.”
Jack motioned to the drink as he sipped his beer. His friend grabbed it, and half of it was soon gone.
“I need you to be ready to trace calls from the area of the next shooting when it happens. Can you do that?”