by Bob Hamer
Wadi continued to stare at Rashid as he drove south on Fairfax, roaring to every light.
“Slow down,” barked Wadi.
Rashid slowed, but as he came to the next light, it turned yellow well before the Explorer entered the intersection. Rashid sped up and ran the light. Again a motorist attempting to turn left into the intersection honked long and loud at Rashid.
A black-and-white LAPD patrol unit was sitting two cars back at the light. The police officer obviously saw the indiscretion but chose not to react. Maybe it was “end of watch,” and he determined it wasn’t worth the effort to turn on the lights, swing in and around traffic, and write up the paperwork. Besides, the Los Angeles Times had once again recently skewered local law enforcement for profiling Arab Americans. Let it go.
“Turn at the next right and pull over,” demanded Wadi.
Rashid did as directed. When he stopped, Wadi ordered him out of the car. They both walked to the curb. Like any good leader, Wadi chose to criticize in private. “You must not draw attention to us. Do you understand me? Why are you driving like this?”
Rashid was humble in his explanation. “I am sorry. I do this to prevent us from being followed. I was taught to drive this way so the police cannot follow. I am also nervous. What are we doing tonight?”
Wadi looked at him, realizing fear plus obedience accounted for the driving pattern. “Let’s get back in the car. Soon, very soon, we will discuss tonight.”
Wadi and Rashid returned to the Explorer. Rashid made a U-turn on the residential street and continued south on Fairfax.
Rashid drove three more blocks before he was told to turn right on Sixth Street and stop. Wadi explained tonight’s mission. “The Israeli Consulate is located in an office building on Wilshire Boulevard. The management office for that building is in the basement. In a file cabinet are the plans for every office in the building. We are going to photograph every document pertaining to the consulate, the ventilation system, and power plant in that building. We can access the basement from the entrance in the alley.”
Rashid asked, “Someday, will we attack the consulate, striking a glorious blow for Allah?”
“That is not for you to know. Our mission tonight is as I described. If someday we are ordered to attack, we will,” said Wadi.
Wadi opened the gym bag. He pulled out a Sony Cybershot digital camera and showed it to Rashid and the others.
Wadi said, “I will take the photos.”
Wadi then pointed to the smaller of the two men in the back. “He works for the alarm company that maintains the security for the building. He will override the alarm system. Then we will enter the building and go directly to the basement. The stairwell is on the right as we enter through the alley door.”
The alarm technician then added, “The exterior perimeter alarm system to the alley door is a low-voltage, electrical stand-alone with multiple sensors. It will take me several minutes to disarm each sensor. There is a rather simple interior perimeter sensor alarm on the door to the maintenance office. It will only take me a minute to bypass. The system is monitored at the first floor guard desk.”
Wadi said, “After we complete the search, then we will leave. The consulate is in suite 1700. We are concerned with both the office plans as well as the overall plans to the building.”
The alarm technician looked at all three. “I will rearm the alarms as we exit. But it is very important you do not touch anything once we enter the building and as we are leaving. I cannot disarm everything. Each alarm is on a separate system to prevent the failure of one system from affecting the entire building.”
Wadi asked the technician, “Once inside the office, will we be able to touch anything without setting off an alarm?”
“Yes, once inside the building maintenance office, there are no more alarms. The only alarm is to the door. The security guard only checks the basement twice a night, usually when he first comes on around four in the afternoon and then later in the evening around ten or eleven. We will have plenty of time if we are quiet and careful.”
Wadi interjected, “We can afford no mistakes. This is important to the cause. Let’s go.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
Rashid drove west one block on Sixth and turned left, crossing Wilshire Boulevard. He parked the Explorer less than a hundred feet from the dark alley leading to the rear of the building.
Earlier in the week Wadi ordered a cell member, unknown to anyone but Wadi, to shoot out the lights.
Someone in the neighborhood reported hearing shots fired but could not be specific about the location. By the time the police arrived, the cell member had accomplished his mission and escaped. Gangs from LAPD’s Wilshire District had been moving north, and the police, unaware the lights were damaged, assumed gang members were responsible for the shooting. They quickly dismissed the call when they found no evidence of a weapon having been discharged.
Prior to exiting the Explorer, Wadi reached into the gym bag and pulled out four pairs of surgical gloves.
Rashid was the last to leave the car and struggled to put on the gloves. The cheap latex glove ripped as Rashid attempted to pull it over his right hand. Two of his fingers were sticking out, unprotected by the glove. Frustrated, Rashid ripped off both gloves and threw them into a nearby trash can. The others kept walking as Rashid ran to catch up.
The four moved slowly through the alley and came upon the rear entrance. The technician took several tools from the gym bag. The other man held the flashlight as the technician began disabling the exterior door alarm. He worked quickly and with precision. It took him less time than he expected, and the four were in the building within two and a half minutes.
They moved down the stairwell to the basement. Wadi led the way down a long corridor past several closed doors. Behind each door the loud rumblings of heating and air-conditioning units could be heard. Wadi had previously been in the basement and went directly to the building maintenance office.
The technician opened his bag a second time and within seconds bypassed the alarm to the interior door. They were in.
The room was larger than one would have expected. It consisted of a small reception area and two separate offices for the building administrators. Two large file cabinets were against the far wall. The technician easily picked both locked cabinets then stood guard at the door. The other man walked through the two offices.
Rashid searched the file cabinet on the left. Wadi searched the cabinet on the right. Within a few minutes Rashid found the documents pertaining to the consulate.
Rashid whispered, “I have it.”
Wadi looked over at him. “Do you have the file?”
“Yes, I think it is all here.”
Wadi looked at Rashid’s hands. “Where are your gloves?”
Rashid offered a nervous smile as he answered. “They tore as I tried to put them on. It is fine. I have never been arrested.”
Angered, Wadi said, “No, but you were fingerprinted when you applied for a visa. Do you think the Americans are stupid? I had extra pairs of gloves in the gym bag. You should have said something.”
Rashid’s smile faded. “It is too late; I will wipe it clean before we leave.”
The papers Rashid pulled from the folder included an extensive floor plan of the seventeenth floor detailing each office in the consulate. Wadi began photographing the blueprints for the individual offices, conference room, restrooms, kitchen, library, and storage room. The blueprints for the technical services room detailed the phone and secure teletype systems.
Within minutes they found every document they wanted. Wadi was able to photograph everything. In fewer than ten minutes, the four accomplished their mission. They disturbed very little in the office, and the cleanup was minimal. Rashid hoped he redeemed himself by finding the plans.
The four wal
ked into the hallway. As the technician was resetting the alarm to the interior door, Rashid leaned against a door across the way. Wadi saw him and glared. Rashid quickly stood up straight.
The other man heard footsteps. “Someone is coming.”
The technician finished and grabbed his bag. The four ran down the hallway and escaped through the rear door. They were down the alley and out to the car before the security guard exited the building.
RASHID SPED DOWN THE side street. No one in the car said a word as Rashid drove north on Fairfax. Finally Wadi ordered him to turn right on Santa Monica Boulevard. As they approached Plummer Park in West Hollywood, Wadi directed Rashid to drive behind the park.
It was dark and the park was empty. Rashid stopped the vehicle and all four exited. Wadi was still wearing the surgical gloves as they walked toward some thick shrubs near the restrooms.
Wadi stopped. “This is good. We will talk here.”
Wadi faced Rashid. “Tonight you have almost cost us our mission. The cause cannot tolerate your mistakes.”
With that Wadi pulled a .32 caliber automatic from behind his back and fired one shot. The round struck Rashid just above the right eye and penetrated deep into the skull and brain.
Rashid dropped immediately. His body convulsed on the pavement as if protesting a death that should have been reserved for martyrdom. Then all movement ceased.
Neither the technician nor the other man seemed affected by the cold-blooded murder of a coconspirator.
Wadi reached over and grabbed the keys to the Explorer from Rashid’s right hand and shoved them into Rashid’s pants pocket. He replaced the keys with the .32 caliber auto. Wadi carefully wrapped Rashid’s fingers around the gun and pulled the trigger a second time. Wadi picked up one of the two shell casings. The technician bent over to pick up the second casing.
“Leave it for the Americans,” ordered Wadi.
“Is it wise to leave your gun?” asked the technician.
“It is not mine. I purchased it off the street from a skinny hype with a serious addiction. He needed to sell me the gun he stole in order to buy the heroin we imported.” Wadi shook his head in disgust. “In a democracy they allow even him to vote.”
All three laughed.
Wadi gave each man a twenty-dollar bill and told them to take separate cabs back to Farmer’s Market where their car was waiting. He walked west on Fountain and headed back to the apartment on Havenhurst, ten blocks away.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Plummer Park is in West Hollywood, an incorporated city. The park consumes a small city block and serves as a focal point for the neighborhood, now predominantly Russian immigrants. By big city standards it was rather simple, consisting of tennis courts, block-wall restrooms, and picnic tables. If the grass were carpet, it would be described as threadbare. But the residents of the multilevel apartment complexes surrounding the area appreciated a place to congregate.
Rather than create its own police department, the West Hollywood city government contracted with the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department for protection.
A sheriff’s patrol car pulled into the park around 10:30 p.m. The deputy, working as a one-man unit, exited his car and began to walk the perimeter of the park, a routine he performed at least once every shift. Sounds of the city could be heard—cars traveling up and down Santa Monica Boulevard, dogs barking, the wind blowing through the trees—but the park was unusually quiet.
Typically the park was crowded with newly arrived Russian immigrants. This night the temperature dipped below forty-five, and most people chose to stay indoors.
Several men were sitting at a table at the far end of the park smoking a strong brand of Russian cigarette. In all likelihood they had also been drinking, but they seemed docile so the deputy reasoned, “Why be confrontational?” The deputy nodded to them as he walked past. Each returned the greeting with a nod or a wave.
As the deputy approached the restrooms, he noticed what he first thought was a man sleeping under the bushes. The deputy’s immediate reaction was “too much vodka.” As the deputy closed in on the body, he saw a puddle of blood. He then saw the .32 caliber pistol in the right hand. The deputy instinctively drew his weapon and pointed it toward the body. He quickly scanned the area looking for others but at the same time maintained his attention on the body fifteen feet away. Using his shoulder-attached radio mike, he called for assistance.
The deputy carefully approached Rashid. After determining it was safe, he bent over the body and felt for a carotid pulse. There was none.
Within seconds two additional units arrived. A paramedic unit from the nearby fire station also responded to the “officer needs assistance—possible 187” call; “187” was a reference to the state criminal code for murder. It was a designation with which law enforcement officers in L.A. were all too familiar. The deputy knew it was too late for the ambulance, but since only a paramedic unit or the coroner could declare a person dead, their presence was welcomed. It really didn’t take medical training to confirm the deputy’s assessment.
Soon a uniformed sergeant rolled up on the scene and took control until homicide detectives and investigators from the coroner’s office arrived. Dead bodies were nothing new for the sergeant, and he quickly put into action the protocol he had followed many times: secure the area, prevent anyone but authorized personnel from entering the crime scene, begin a grid search for evidence, and dispatch deputies to canvas the area seeking witnesses.
Even though it looked initially like a suicide, the homicide unit was always called to conduct the investigation. Homicide detectives determine who did it. The coroner’s office determines the cause and manner of death.
The men sitting at the picnic table at the far end of the park remained throughout the police activity. The three men were Russian, and only one spoke passable English. All three had been drinking as the initial deputy suspected. They tried to hide the bottle of vodka secreted in a brown paper bag as the two-man team of deputies approached. One of the Russians put the bottle at his foot and kicked it next to the table leg, hoping to hide it from the deputies.
The two deputies arrived and identified themselves, as if the Russians needed an introduction. The deputies wore uniforms. They were the police. That was all the Russians needed to know. They came from a police state and understood uniforms.
The one deputy reached down and picked up the brown paper bag. He showed the contents to his partner. The deputies could have cited the men for possession of an open container in a public park, but tonight a dead body took priority.
The deputy returned the paper bag with a slight grin then tried to engage the men in conversation. The initial efforts were fruitless until one man who spoke no English said something in Russian to the “interpreter.”
Normally the Russians at Plummer Park did not volunteer information to law enforcement personnel. The interpreter hesitated and then looked at the deputies. “My friend lives in the street across.” He pointed to an apartment complex directly across the street from the park.
The interpreter continued, “Before we meet here at the park, he hear what he think was cracker bomb. Then he hear second cracker bomb.”
The deputies looked at him with confusion. The taller of the two deputies questioned, “A what?”
“Cracker bomb, like what you do on holidays with the lighter.”
After a brief pause the deputy said, “Oh, you mean a firecracker.”
“Yes, my English not so good.”
“No, it’s just fine. It’s a lot better than our Russian. When was this? What time?”
The interpreter looked to his friend and asked the question in Russian. After getting a response, the interpreter said, “It was just a few minutes before we came to the park. My friend thought nothing of it. It was two pops. Maybe it is nothing.”
The deputy followed up with several questions, but the answers were not all that helpful. The Russian saw nothing, and when he arrived at the park, no one was present. The other two Russians joined him a few minutes after he arrived. No one else had been in the park since the three men gathered, and no one heard anything unusual. Based upon further questioning and assuming the pop sounds were shots, the deputies surmised the time of the incident was between 9:00 and 9:15.
A canvas of the neighborhood was negative. No witnesses. No answers.
THE HOMICIDE DETECTIVES ARRIVED within thirty minutes, but for investigators from the coroner’s office, it took almost two hours. The coroner’s team came on duty at 4:00 p.m., and this was their third call of the evening. On some summer nights in L.A., that would be interpreted as a slow evening. Tonight it was just steady work.
A decision had not been made about the call. At first glance the evidence pointed to suicide. But a careful analysis of the scene made the investigators think twice. Was this a homicide meant to look like a suicide? The gun was in the deceased’s right hand with the fingers wrapped around the weapon and the index finger outside the trigger guard. There was no evidence of a struggle—no evidence the body was dragged, no evidence of broken branches on the bushes, and the blood pooled in one location. One expended .32 caliber shell casing was discovered a few feet from the body, a little too far based on the location of the weapon, but it could have bounced that far after being automatically ejected following the firing.
But there was no suicide note. The deceased was carrying no identification. Most suicides aren’t looking to hide their identity, just end their life. The gunshot was above the right eye, and the angle of trajectory appeared to be straight in. The autopsy would identify the exact angle, but most suicide victims put the gun to their temple at an angle and pull the trigger leaving a tattoo of charred gases and unburned powder surrounding the entry wound. The pattern on the deceased was broad and nearly faded, demonstrating a shot more distant than next to the temple.