All Sadri needed was a body bag.
The media was also arriving in large numbers. Since the news event was so close to New York City, they were able to get many reporters and camera crews there quickly, local and national. Within minutes, field reporters were standing and talking to cameras, with the theater behind them as a backdrop.
Captain Bradley was there, as was Jessie and just about every one of Nate’s fellow officers. Initially it wasn’t easy for anyone to get into the theater, because they had to navigate the hundreds of moviegoers fleeing the place.
Doug was only dimly aware of the surroundings; he was focused on Nate’s wound, and trying to continue to stem the flow of blood. But when he saw the first police arrive, he had the presence of mind to warn them that there were very likely explosives in the fallen Sadri’s backpack.
This news caused everyone other than EMS workers and a few agents to clear the lobby. Doug reluctantly left Nate in the care of the medics, and went out to the parking lot. He felt lost, alone among all those people.
“Doug, what happened in there?”
He turned and saw that it was Jessie, and Bradley was coming up toward them as well.
“Nate was shot,” he said. “I think it’s bad.”
“Who did it?” Bradley asked.
“His name is Sadri … was Sadri … he’s dead. He was going to blow up the theater. Nate stopped him.”
Just then the EMS people came out of the theater, wheeling Nate on a gurney, heading for the ambulance. Bradley ran over and talked to them as they loaded Nate into the vehicle. He came back to Doug and Jessie as the ambulance pulled away.
“He’s alive, but vital signs are weak. They won’t know how bad it is until they get him to the hospital.”
“I’m going there,” Doug said.
Bradley shook his head. “No, you’re going to have to be debriefed and give a statement on what happened here tonight.”
“To whom?”
“The Feds. They’re already coming down on this with both feet.”
Doug looked around and was surprised to see that the parking lot had emptied quickly. Officers were setting up a perimeter at least three hundred yards from the theater, no doubt in deference to the presumed presence of explosives. In the distance, Doug could see that Route 4 was already clogged in both directions with bumper-to-bumper traffic. He hoped it didn’t seriously impede the ability of Nate’s ambulance to get him to the hospital as quickly as possible.
All things considered, the evacuation was going in a fairly orderly fashion. The only people offering any resistance at all were the media members, but when they learned about the nature of the danger, they moved along rather quickly. No sense getting blown up on national TV; that was not part of the job description. They wanted to live to broadcast another day.
Three bomb squad unit vans pulled up to the front of the theater, and the officers headed inside. That was one job in law enforcement that Doug had never envied, or at least not that he could remember.
Congers came over to them and said, “Captain, you and Jessie have to move behind the perimeter. They’re going to be examining the device and then bringing it out.” He indicated Doug. “And I’m going to need our boy here.”
“Where are we going?”
“The Bureau. And you’re going to talk, and talk, and talk some more.”
Wilson Metcalf, FBI agent in charge, conducted Doug’s interview.
More accurately, he conducted the final interview, after Doug had repeatedly told the entire story to two other agents in consecutive sessions. Congers had been present for both of those sessions, but this was just Metcalf and Doug.
Doug had briefly noticed Metcalf at the theater before departing, so he figured that if Metcalf was here now, things must have been wrapped up there.
It was almost past midnight when they started. “You’ve had quite a night,” Metcalf said.
“Yeah.”
“Where’d you learn to shoot like that?”
“Shooting school,” Doug said, his annoyance showing. “Look, we’re not going to chitchat, are we? I’m tired and I’ve told everybody everything. Twice. How is Nate?”
“I got a report about a half hour ago. Critical but stable; whatever the hell that means.”
“What was in Sadri’s backpack?”
“Enough explosives to level the entire mall.”
“So when can I get out of here?” Doug asked.
“I’m your last stop,” Metcalf said, and then proceeded to ask mostly the same questions that Doug had already answered repeatedly. Then he asked, “So, just to be clear, since you were released from the hospital, you have had no additional contact with, or information about, Ahmat Gharsi?”
“No. Was Gharsi behind this?”
Metcalf paused for a moment, then said, “We have information that Gharsi commandeered a plane tonight, which blew up over the Atlantic Ocean.”
“So he’s dead? You’re sure?”
Metcalf nodded. “As sure as we can be where Gharsi is concerned. He murdered an airport worker and then disabled the cameras, but we have him on tape just before that.”
“So Gharsi was behind Sadri?”
“I think that’s a fair assumption; I would be very surprised to learn otherwise.”
“Who blew up his plane?”
“Probably no one. More likely he had explosives with him that detonated, maybe from pressure in the cabin. But again, no way to be sure; he certainly wasn’t communicating with air traffic control.”
“And Bennett?” Doug asked. “Does he fit in to this?”
“This will go quicker if I ask the questions,” Metcalf said. “Have you gotten any of your memory back?”
Doug shook his head. “No. Nothing. What about Bennett?”
“My best guess is that you were investigating something else, maybe Bennett, maybe not, and you stumbled on Gharsi. You made a mistake, and you got shot. But you retraced your steps, and had a do-over tonight. And you won.”
“So you don’t think Bennett is connected to tonight?” Doug asked again.
“Bennett’s name does not belong in the same sentence as Gharsi or Sadri. They are criminal apples and terrorist oranges.”
“I don’t feel like I won tonight. Not with Nate…,” Doug said, not finishing the sentence.
“The world will think you won,” Metcalf said. “By tomorrow morning you’ll be a national hero. You’ll be on goddamn Wheaties boxes. Millions will breathlessly await your tweets.”
“What the hell are my tweets?”
“Never mind; you’ll find out.”
“Can the hero leave now?”
Metcalf nodded. “Yeah, we know where to find you. I hope your partner is okay.”
“Thanks.”
I’m tired, maybe more tired than I’ve ever been in my life.
Of course, since I don’t remember a good portion of my life, I could be wrong about that. But it has been an exhausting day, and the feeling is magnified by the fact that I’m not fully recovered from my injuries. I don’t seem to have an extra gear I can kick into.
I can’t get Nate out of my mind; he was literally bleeding through my hands, all because he went after Sadri and I didn’t. That should have been me; I should have been quicker. I used to act on instinct; that was something I trusted and could fall back on. Maybe my injury has set me back, or maybe I lost the ability years ago. I just don’t know.
I wish my memory loss could restart now; I do not want to have to remember tonight.
I turn on the radio, and have to listen to almost ten minutes of the recounting of the events, and my role in them. Metcalf was right—they don’t know that much, but they know enough to have already decided that I’m a hero. Nate gets mentioned, but almost as an afterthought, and his condition is said to be unknown.
I decide to go to the hospital, and I see that some of my fellow officers are standing around outside, as if on a vigil. I greet them, though I don’t remember most of
their names, and they tell me that Nate is on the fifth floor. “Same as you were,” one of them says.
I get off the elevator and go to the waiting room, where another four cops are sitting. Jessie is one of them, and when she sees me enter the room, she stands and comes over to me.
“Doug,” is all she says, and then puts her head on my chest. I put my arms around her and hold her for at least a minute. It feels good, it feels familiar, and it feels good that it feels familiar.
One of us finally breaks it off, I’m not sure who, and I ask, “How is he?”
“I don’t know. He’s still in surgery, and they say it’ll take at least another hour.”
“You want to go down and have some coffee?” I ask.
She smiles, very slightly. “Only if they don’t have scotch.”
When we get downstairs, she sits at a table and I tell her I’ll get the coffee. “How do you take it?” I ask. She smiles, and I ask why.
“Never mind.”
“Come on,” I say, prodding her.
“Okay. We used to make fun of each other, because I drink it black, with nothing in it, and you take milk and sugar. You’d say we were reversing the male-female roles.”
“I take it with milk and sugar? Since when?”
She nods. “For the last couple of years.”
“I don’t eat broccoli or asparagus, do I?”
“God forbid.”
I get the coffees and bring them back to her. We sit without talking for a few moments, and she says, “I can’t believe this is happening again.”
“What?”
“Sitting in this hospital, worrying, waiting for the doctor to come out of surgery.”
“You were here the night I got shot?” I ask.
She nods. “I was. Maybe I’m good luck.”
“I’m scared,” I say. “He didn’t move at all once he went down.”
“You want to talk about what happened tonight?”
I shake my head. “Not really; I’ve already told the story four times, and it never gets any better. Do you mind?”
“No. I’m sure I’ll read all about it.”
For the first time, at least for the first time that I can remember, it doesn’t feel uncomfortable to be with her. More important, I guess, is that she seems more at ease as well.
I proceed to say something that is likely to screw that up. “Since we’re not talking about tonight, do you want to talk about what happened between us? That’s not something I’ll be able to read about.”
“No. Do you mind?”
“I hope I didn’t do anything to hurt you.”
“Let’s go upstairs,” she says, avoiding the subject. “In case the doctor comes out earlier than expected.”
He doesn’t come out earlier than expected, and we wait almost two hours before we finally see him. During that time we say very little; Jessie has seemed to withdraw into her protective shell again. Or maybe I’m imagining that, and she’s just quiet because she’s worried about Nate.
“He’s lost a lot of blood, but it could have been much worse,” is how the doctor starts the conversation. As conversation starters go, this is a pretty good one, and then he makes it even better. “It will be a long haul back, but unless something unforeseen develops, he should recover fully.”
I can see Jessie’s legs sag a bit in relief, and I say to her, “You are good luck.”
We ask the doctor a few more questions, but we’ve already gotten the key information. There’s no way we can see Nate tonight, and the doctor doubts whether tomorrow will work either. But that’s okay; we can wait.
When he leaves, I turn to Jessie. “Can I give you a ride home?”
“No thanks. I have a car.”
“Can I walk you to it?”
“Doug, give it time.”
There are eleven messages on my answering machine when I get home.
I listen to the first two, and they’re both from media outlets wanting to interview me about tonight’s events. I don’t bother listening to the rest; I just turn off the ringer.
I’m tired and I want to go to sleep.
I set the alarm for eight o’clock and I sleep until it wakes me. Had I set it for September, I would have slept until it woke me. I get up and turn the phone ringer back on, and it’s actually ringing as I do so.
The caller ID says that it’s “NJ State Police” calling, so I pick it up. “Doug?” the energetic voice asks. This guy seems like he’s been up for a while. “Doug, this is Grant Friedman. I’m the public information officer. We reconnected the other day.”
“Reconnected” is an interesting way to put it. “Hello, Grant. What can I do for you?”
“I’ve been trying to call you, but your message box is full.”
I look at the machine, and now it says I have twenty-nine messages, which must be capacity. People must have been calling all night; apparently no one sleeps in 2015. “You got me now,” I say.
“As you can imagine, media outlets are falling all over themselves to interview you. We’ve got requests from everywhere, even international.”
“I’m not interested; I haven’t done anything worth talking about.”
“I appreciate that you feel that way,” Grant says. “But the governor feels differently.”
He must be kidding. “The governor?” I ask, while realizing that I don’t even know who the governor is these days.
“Yes. He’s quite proud of you. We all are.”
I don’t like where this is going. “Thank him for me, so I can go back to sleep.”
“Sorry, Doug. But I’m quite sure I speak for the governor when I tell you that the sleep portion of your day just ended. It’s the price of fame.”
He proceeds to tell me that there are so many outlets, national and local, that want to interview me that it would be clearly impossible to honor all the requests. So the governor and commissioner want me to have one large press conference, to accommodate everyone and get the story out as we want it told.
Left unsaid is the obvious fact that the governor wants it made clear that it was the New Jersey State Police that thwarted this attack, and not the federal government. The same New Jersey State Police that reports in to that same governor, whatever his name is.
As if there was any doubt about that, the press conference is to take place in Trenton, the state capital. It’s at two o’clock, and they will send a car to take me down there. Until then I am to stay in my apartment, and not speak to any members of the press.
I don’t argue with him, but I have no intention of sitting here all morning. My plan is to go to the hospital and see how Nate is. Unfortunately, I change my plan when I look outside the window and see that what looks like a media mosh pit has formed at the entrance to the building. There’s no way I am going to be able to get through that mob without an armed convoy.
I call Jessie at the office, to see if she has any information on Nate. She’s not in yet, but they patch me through to her cell phone.
“I’m just leaving the hospital now,” she says when I tell her what I want. “They’re not letting him have any visitors because he’s still in intensive care. But everyone seems pleased at how he’s doing.”
“Very glad to hear it,” I say.
“Are you coming in to the office?”
“Apparently not. They have set up a press conference for me in Trenton.”
“I’m not surprised,” she says. “They want to show you off.”
I get off the phone and grab an hour of additional sleep before getting up to shower and get dressed. Grant Friedman calls me back to tell me that arrangements have been made to take me through the furnace room out to the back of the building, where the car will be waiting. Even if the media people figure it out, they will be prevented from going back there.
The car turns out to be a limo, and when I get in I see that Friedman and Captain Bradley are in the back waiting for me. They use the time on the way down to Trenton to brief me on what I am
to say during the press conference. Basically, it boils down to one word.
Nothing.
I am to say nothing, unless you consider “I’m sorry, I can’t speak about that, because it’s part of an ongoing investigation” to be something. I can’t even answer if they ask me what my favorite cereal is, because for all I know they stopped making Cinnamon Special K five years ago.
This is going to be one hell of a boring press conference.
When we arrive, we’re brought into the governor’s office. He tells me how proud of me he is, in a tone as if he were my father and I just brought him a terrific report card. Then we all go downstairs to the press room, where the media people are packed in like sardines. They are all talking, and it sounds like a low roar, until we walk in and the place instantly gets quiet.
The governor says what seems like a few thousand words by way of introduction, and I walk to the podium. The reporters start to fire questions at me, about everything from what happened at the theater, to how I knew to be there, to if there are other conspirators, to what was going through my mind as I fired the fatal shot.
I successfully deflect all of them, until they ask me what it feels like to be a hero. “I have no idea,” I say. “If I ever become a hero, I’ll let you know.”
Then someone asks me what Nate’s role was in all of this, and I can’t help pouncing on it. “He’s the real hero,” I say. “If it wasn’t for him stopping the perpetrator, we’d still be counting the bodies today. Every single person in that theater, including me, owes their life to Nate Alvarez.”
I think that my comments about Nate must have been off-script, because Friedman announces that the next question will be the last. I am the designated hero; that doesn’t leave much room for Nate.
A young woman gets the opportunity to ask the final question. “Is what happened last night connected to the incident in which you yourself were recently shot? And if so, is this a time when you feel some satisfaction in getting your revenge?”
I shrug off and deflect the question, but it momentarily stuns me into realizing something. The words she said that I’m focused on are “is this a time.” Actually, it’s only two of those words that I care about.
Blackout Page 8