Signature Wounds

by Kirk Russell

  “It doesn’t mean anything. A friend of his modified a video game so he can use it as a teaching tool. He’s a drone flight instructor. That’s his business. Corporations are his primary clients. Look, he flew the real deal for seven years. Nine-hundred-ninety-nine kills were attributed to him.”

  Venuti shook his head. “Quit one short of a thousand. Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

  I looked at Venuti. “What do you know about Jeremy Beatty, Dan?”

  Thorpe cut that off before it went anywhere. He asked, “Is his drone consulting work legitimate?”

  “Seems to be. He works primarily through a job broker who has gotten him business with farmers, mining companies, utilities, and others. He worked on a movie. He gets referrals. I think it’s legitimate and growing, but I don’t know much about drone consultants.”

  “Did he tell you he was canceling his phone?”

  “No, Sarah Warner, the DOD investigator, told me. I believe she also thinks I’m an apologist for Beatty. But like I said, when I saw Beatty last night, he showed me videotape of their surveillance. He made a copy that I gave to Warner. He thought they were CIA coming back to check on him about a drone strike he was the trigger on and is not supposed to talk about.” I looked at their faces and added, “Jeremy knew my sister, Jim, and the kids. Melissa was fond of him. Jim is who got me involved trying to help him. Dan knows this.”

  “Show me the text he sent you July 3.”

  I pulled out my phone and brought it up.

  Thorpe turned to Venuti and asked, “Is anyone reading what DOD gave us?”

  “I don’t have anyone available yet.”

  “Have you looked at them?”

  Venuti shook his head and I looked at him, debating, and then I said, “The DOD investigators told me the Bureau has been aware of their investigation of Beatty for months.”

  “This office?” Thorpe asked.

  “Yes.”

  I’d been sitting on that one. I knew from the way Sarah Warner had said it that it was probably true, and, if so, probably tracked back through the Domestic Terrorism Squad.

  Thorpe turned to Venuti.

  “Were we aware OSI and the DOD were investigating a civilian former drone pilot and Special Agent Grale?”

  “Something was communicated, but it didn’t make much of an impact on me. Obviously, if they were genuinely investigating a special agent we would have heard a lot more about it. If I’d known it was a chance to get Grale suspended, I would have been all over it.”

  Venuti meant that to be funny. Had to admire him for even trying, but it repulsed Thorpe this morning. The Venuti I knew might let them investigate me, just to see if they could come up with anything. He was that way, and it didn’t offend or surprise me.

  Thorpe asked Venuti, “Were you aware Agent Grale has tried for a couple of years to help Beatty adjust to civilian life and figure out his PTSD?”

  With me here, Venuti couldn’t dodge it. “I was aware,” he said. “And I’m sorry for the bad joke. Grale is beyond question, so I didn’t worry about whatever thread DOD was following.”

  “Did you alert the DOD investigators to Grale’s mentoring of Jeremy Beatty?”

  “I’m not sure. I think so. I hope so. I should have, but this was right after the bombing and I didn’t talk with them very long. It was understood that Grale would come in, answer questions, and go back out to the Alagara.” He looked at me. “That’s what we talked about.”

  I nodded, but he never told the DOD that Beatty and I were friends. He knew it. I knew it. DOD said they had wiretaps, and he got curious.

  Thorpe returned to me.

  “You get a suicidal text the night of July 3. That’s Beatty reaching out to you before he kills the pilots in an act of revenge against the air force. Then he goes somewhere to take his own life.”

  He turned to Venuti again. “Isn’t that what we’re getting from DOD?”

  “More or less.”

  “More, I think,” Thorpe said, “but almost anyone in America will tell you the ones responsible for this are the people we’re hammering with drone attacks. So I guess DOD’s idea is that Beatty is allied with our enemies.”

  Neither Venuti nor I touched that, and Thorpe asked me, “What do you know about Jeremy Beatty’s discharge?”

  “Only what my brother-in-law and Beatty have told me, and they had differing accounts. Jim said Beatty developed what’s called ‘kill inhibition,’ which is not the same as PTSD. But he exhibited symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder, so they went with that on the discharge.”

  “After that many kills, Beatty developed kill inhibition?”

  “Drone pilots get familiar with their targets, and the air force has learned the collateral kills work on them. It builds up. With Beatty they tried for a year to bring him around before medically discharging him. Think of what they had invested in him. You can bet they didn’t give up on him easily.” After a beat I added, “The air force has an ongoing retention problem with drone pilots.”

  I paused and when no one said anything, I continued.

  “A few times in the past two years Jeremy has alluded to an air strike that put him over the top. But last night was the first time I heard he was part of the Hakim Salter strike. Do you remember the controversy around that one?”

  Thorpe nodded.

  “Beatty also told me they were all under orders not to talk about Salter. My brother-in-law, Jim, confirmed that. I called him as I left Beatty’s trailer. A therapist Beatty met in a bar somewhere has convinced him to do otherwise. I don’t know whom all he’s told, but he’s talking. He wants the air force to apologize to Salter’s family.”

  “Good luck with that,” Thorpe said and stared hard at me. I knew the look. I knew what was coming.

  “For a couple of years, he alludes to a drone strike that put him over the top but doesn’t give you a name until last night. And that doesn’t raise red flags after the bombing?”

  “I can’t make the jump DOD did.”

  Thorpe turned to Venuti. “Can you get me a copy of those transcripts?”

  “Sure.”

  “I mean now.”

  “I’ll have to go to my office.”

  “We’ll still be here.”

  As Venuti left, Thorpe said, “We’ve got a little bit of a situation with you, and this is my proposal to your supervisor. You’ll still report to Dan, of course, but if you’re up to it, I don’t want to lose your skills in this investigation. No one would fault you if you’re not able right now.”

  “I don’t want to be anywhere else.”

  “You’ll have full autonomy to choose where you put your investigative energies, as long as they’re within an area a terrorist sleeper cell or a homegrown bomber would work from.”

  “Terrorist sleeper cell.”

  “Washington is waiting to see if anyone claims it.”

  So was everyone else. I nodded and asked, “I can follow a lead wherever it goes?”

  “I want you to pick up the orphan leads and focus on the bomb material, and as you said, the bomb maker.”

  “Dan won’t go for autonomy.”

  “Well, you know what I mean by autonomy, and you know how to make it work your way better than anyone around here. I don’t see you chasing what the task force is swarming over. Play to your strengths. No one in this office is better on the street, but as you know, your supervisor doesn’t like street agents. You’ll need timely results.”

  “Have you talked to Dan about this?”

  “He’s against it, but he’ll do it. He’s actually worried about you. He said you were very close with your sister, and Captain Kern was your best friend.”

  “That’s all true.”

  Thorpe studied me before continuing. “If Beatty is as innocent as the baby Jesus, it still won’t matter to some of the officers on the task force. They’re going to hold you at a distance just to be safe. You and I know that. But I want you to do what you’re good at, so we�
�re going to try this.”

  “I get to choose my leads, and I’ll have support.”

  “As long as they’re of the character we just talked about.”

  “What about the JTTF?”

  “You’ll have full access to the Joint Terrorism Task Force and every file in the fusion center. You’re not getting shut out in any way at all. I don’t mean to say that. I think a mistake was made last night not leaving you out there. We need you.”

  “I’ll need someone in the office working with me who can write FISA requests and—”

  “Work out who writes the requests for surveillance against foreign spies with your supervisor. This starts now but before you go, tell me what you think Beatty’s root problem with the air force is, and I know what you just said, but put it in one sentence. I’ve got a meeting coming up and he’s on the list of subjects.”

  “Beatty believes he was ordered to do something that was morally wrong and compromised the values of the US Air Force, and as a consequence compromised him. He’s still angry over it.”

  I reached across Thorpe’s desk and tapped the photo of Beatty being circulated.

  “Take a look at his haircut. He’d still be an air force pilot if he could be.”

  Thorpe glanced at the photo then back at me.

  “You don’t need to wait for Dan to come back. Go find them, Grale. Let’s get these bastards.”

  “I’m going to focus on the bomb maker.”

  “It’s your call.”

  “And you’re going to back me?”

  “I’m backing your track record. You’ve got more bomb-tech experience than the rest of the office combined and no one in this office is a better investigator on the street. You’re cleared to start right now, this second. Go.”

  10

  The conversation with Thorpe helped. I was thankful he’d thrown his umbrella over me and would keep Venuti in check as I found my investigative footing. Venuti and I usually got on pretty well together. We didn’t have an ongoing supervisor-agent tension, but he did like control, and he’d almost sidelined me. No, more than that, Dan burned me last night. He should have left me out there. His reason for pulling me wasn’t good enough. He knew it. I knew it. Thorpe knew it and stepped in. I was thinking about that when my cell rang.

  “Sarah Warner, DOD, here. There’s something I forgot to tell you. Do you know the toilet called the Headwaters Casino out near the California border?”

  “Sure, I like the place.”

  “Ex-USAF Lieutenant Jeremy Beatty met there with a black-market arms dealer named Lucian Hayworth. That’s where all of this came from. At the time, Hayworth was attempting to buy blueprints from hackers for a small, older drone called a Raven used by our combat troops. How much do you know about drones, Grale?”

  “Not enough.”

  “I believe that.”

  “How about you back down a little?”

  She sighed and her voice slowed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t intend to be that way. I mean that.”

  “What happened at the Headwaters Casino?”

  “It’s where we first came across Jeremy Beatty. He rode up on an old motorcycle, not the expensive new Italian Ducati he bought with the money Hayworth paid him, but a beat-up Harley. We had no idea who he was until he sat down with Hayworth and we ran the plates on the motorcycle. We got his name and went from there. This was on a cloudy, cold afternoon in January with wind sweeping in off the Mojave. I’m painting the scene because it was seriously cold and your friend was in jeans and a light jacket, which is behavior I associate with people high on drugs or Alzheimer’s victims.”

  I remembered the cold at the end of January and into the first days of February and knew about Beatty’s disregard for his body. I could also picture the Headwaters Casino and Bar. Too many tables, bad light, watered-down drinks, but not a bad place if you wanted to meet unnoticed.

  “It was obvious to us they knew each other,” she said. “Long handshake, general friendliness, ease, male crap that wouldn’t be there if they weren’t already acquainted.”

  “Familiarity.”

  “The waitress who served them was one of our agents. She was both wired and eavesdropping. Beatty downed three vodkas in thirteen minutes, and they talked about flying drones in Taiwan and what the similarities would be with drones Beatty had already flown.”

  “Was that taped?”

  “There were some problems with the taping, so it’s not clear what got said from the recording, but our agent heard enough to tie things together.”

  “Who set up the meeting with Lucian Hayworth and Jeremy Beatty?”

  “Edward Bahn.”

  “I know Eddie Bahn. Jeremy wanted my take on Bahn when he started working with him, so we all met at a bar.”

  “He’s a blowhard and a crook.”

  “I wasn’t that impressed either, but he’s gotten Jeremy work. He takes a fifteen percent cut, maybe more, but it’s helped get Beatty on his feet and working again. Send me what you have on Bahn that makes him a crook. I got the blowhard part when I met him.”

  I heard keys tapping. She was sending it. She continued on about this “aha” moment in the bar with Beatty and Hayworth meeting, but I wasn’t seeing it. I wanted evidence, not just association.

  “I doubt Jeremy had any idea who he was meeting. Bahn probably told him where to be and to talk drones with the man they signed a contract with.”

  “You make him sound naïve.”

  “About business he is. He signed up with the air force at twenty-one. Eight of the last ten years he spent in the service and two since trying to get his life back together.”

  “In ten days in Taiwan he made enough to buy that bike.”

  “I’d bet Bahn negotiated the payment terms.”

  “When I called you an apologist for him, maybe I was too soft. Do you know what a Ducati bike sells for? Beatty could have upgraded his life if he hadn’t bought the bike. But that would have meant depositing a large cash payment into a bank, and you know the rule. Banks have to notify the IRS of any deposit ten thousand dollars or bigger. Did he tell you he got paid in cash on the Taiwan outing?”

  “No.”

  “Of course not. Your shining example for postmilitary entrepreneurship is in the cash economy and knows not to talk too much about it.”

  My phone buzzed and I looked down at the caller ID.

  “I’ve got a call coming. Let’s pick this up later.”

  She hung up, and I took Beatty’s call.

  “I’m coming in to your office this morning to get interviewed,” Beatty said. “Any chance I can meet with you first?”

  “Sure. Where are you?”

  “How about Willie McCool Park in an hour?”

  “See you there.”

  11

  I sat on top of a picnic table in the shade at Willie McCool Park and watched two white-haired seniors in shorts, sandals, and T-shirts fly remote-controlled World War II–era model airplanes. They looked very into it but were aware of me and probably thought I was there to watch them refight the war. The buzzing planes were loud. The park was otherwise empty and hot.

  I cleaned my sunglasses and thought about Jeremy flying remotes here. After his discharge and after his ex-fiancée, Laura Cotter, moved out, he would sometimes call from here, his voice tight with anxiety. This place was a refuge for him, an emotional touchstone named for a hero of his, so it wasn’t surprising this was where he wanted to meet before a long day of interrogation.

  As a child, Willie McCool flew remote-controlled model airplanes with his father on the airfield at Ann Road and Fifth. Later as a pilot, he flew from the USS Coral Sea and the Enterprise. He learned to fly twenty-four different types of aircraft and was forty-one years old and captain of the space shuttle Columbia when it broke up over the southern United States sixteen minutes before landing.

  Beatty was a next generation pilot, certified by the US Air Force as an “external pilot.” He learned at the unmanned aerial v
ehicle school, usually called the UAV school, in Fort Huachuca, Arizona. He loved video games and, like Willie McCool, he was avid about remote-controlled aircraft. Beatty never made carrier landings or flew a space shuttle, but he flew in the early coming-of-age years of the drones. It wouldn’t be long before they were everywhere.

  I turned at the smooth sound of Beatty’s motorcycle then watched him park and walk through the gate. I wanted to reassure him he was doing the right thing, coming in to answer questions, but I was too roiled by sadness. I didn’t have it in me. He’d have to sail his own ship. He walked up and embraced me.

  “If you need me to do anything for Julia or at Jim and Melissa’s house, just tell me,” Beatty said.

  I nodded but said, “Let’s talk about you.”

  “There’s not much to say. I want to get my name cleared, so I’m coming in to answer questions. They can ask me whatever they want to.”

  “They will, don’t worry. Are you bringing a lawyer with you?”

  “I don’t need a lawyer.”

  “No one ever does, I guess.”

  But I was glad he was going in alone. I sat on that several seconds and watched that WWII Japanese Zero attack again.

  “I’m pretty fucking keyed up,” Beatty said. “When I told you about the Hakim Salter strike, I said I’d thought the surveillance watching me was CIA. I saw your face when I said that. You thought that was insane. But is it more insane than what I’m going to do this morning? I’m going to your office to try to convince the FBI I didn’t have anything to do with my friends getting murdered. It makes me think the FBI has no clue where to look.”

  “It’s true. When you said CIA, I didn’t get it. You took out some bad dudes, Jeremy, a lot of them, but more than a few bed down locations get wiped out with everyone included, families and all, right?”

  “Sure.”

  “The CIA knows the public is inured to collateral damage. And to be blunt, Salter is probably old news to them. They’d probably have to look him up to remember him, and most likely they’d look you up first. You’ve had psychological issues. That gives them a big door to walk through if they want to discredit you. They don’t need to watch you. Forget the CIA. You’ll probably never see another CIA employee in your lifetime. How angry are you still at the air force? That’s a question I’d be asking myself if I were you.”