Molon Labe!

by Boston T. Party

  "Physical description of the suspect?"

  "Virtually the same as the dog-walker, though he thought he might be able to recognize him again. He's working with an FIC artist now, but the face they have so far could be nearly anyone of that archetype."

  The SAC grimaces. "I've never trusted the Facial Identification Catalog images, Kinney. I know I'm 'old school' but all experienced sketch artists agree that the 'Chinese menu' of 960 facial features is dangerously manipulative. Remember the original OKBomb John Doe #2? The frontal bareheaded view of a man? That was from the FIC! The witness had only seen him in profile, and wearing a baseball cap! No wonder we never caught him, even after we had to replace the FIC image with a hand-drawn sketch. Kinney, get an artist on this. See if Jeanne Boylan is available."

  Kinney is making notes. "Yes, sir."

  "Did your witness get a plate?"

  "Not the number, but he thought it might be a Virginia plate. Not D.C. The year and make he's positive on; his uncle has the same car but in silver. We're compiling a database on all black 2006 Lexuses registered in Virginia, West Virginia, Maryland, Delaware."

  The SAC is pensive. He offers a final idea. "Computer time is cheap. Extend the database to include D.C., Pennsylvania, Ohio, and North Carolina. If we miss this guy, it won't be because he lives in Philly or Canton."

  "Yes, sir," Kinney says while making notes.

  "You'll still correlate the list of Lexus owners with disgruntled LE officers, right?"

  "Yes, sir, active, dismissed, and retired."

  "Good. I know it's a long shot, but we've got to start somewhere."

  "I agree, sir. And the physical evidence looks encouraging."

  The SAC had almost forgotten. "Yeah, what's the story on that?"

  "The Metro cop took us to the spot on N where the Lexus had stopped. I had a team scour the area within a 100 yard radius. Nothing conclusive on the street, sidewalk, or grass, but below a storm grate they saw scorched concrete. They pulled the grate and collected samples of some charred material. Materials says it's the remains of a small chemical self-destruct device contained in clear polyethylene, like a ZipLoc bag."

  "Chemical self-destruct device? What the hell?" exclaims the SAC.

  "Yes, sir, it is. Glycerine, potassium permanganate, and charcoal. According to the ATF, this sort of thing has been used by arsonists. Through spectroscopic analysis, the PE's dictation says that some of the burned material is consistent with incinerated strychnine."

  "Only 'consistent with', not 'identified as'?" asks the SAC, disappointed. The term "consistent with" is forensic science shorthand for "may" and allows for reasonable doubt in trial proceedings, while "identified as" does not.

  "Yes, sir."

  "Well, it's still something. Juries can always be led to believe that 'consistent with' means guilty. Find our Lexus owner, Kinney."

  North Carolina

  25 February 2011

  Two weeks later FBI Special Agents Malmberg and Swingle from the Raleigh FO pull up to a tidy split-level home outside Wake Forest. They've been interviewing all owners of dark colored 2006 Lexuses. This is their last stop, though it was first on their list. The registered owner of this Lexus was an LLC shell. The agents had to screen the insurance company databases for its VIN to find a policy tied to a driver. This alone made them suspicious.

  Then, they had to find his actual residence. That, and the background investigation, took two days. His DL address was a mail drop, and no property or phone was listed in his name. They made several phone calls to his former superiors, which yielded little. Looked at his credit card records for the past year. A new electric stove delivered to his home, paid for by his VISA card, was all it took.

  The Bureau was buzzing all the way to D.C. He so fit the case profile. Traps and traces on his phone had been activated this morning. Four supporting agents are standing by one block over.

  Walking up the driveway, Swingle ventures around the left garage corner and looks through a window.

  Rejoining Malmberg, he says, "Yep, it's parked inside."

  Malmberg nods as he pushes the doorbell.

  Within seconds the door is opened by a fit and handsome man in his mid-forties with medium-length blonde hair, about six feet tall.

  "Raymond Foster?"

  The homeowner coolly sizes up the agents, instantly pegging them for feds. "Yes. Who are you?"

  "Mr. Foster, I'm Special Agent Malmberg with the FBI, and this is Special Agent Swingle." They flash their leather wallet shields. "May we — "

  "Gentlemen, I'd like to inspect your credentials," says Foster. "And a business card from each of you, too."

  Malmberg glances at Swingle. Most people went into a flutter at a surprise interview by the FBI. That Foster did not was unusual. The agents also weren't used to having their creds inspected, but if they refused Foster could claim that he didn't believe they were FBI and close the door.

  As Foster pockets their cards, Malmberg tries again. "May we come in and talk with you?"

  It's not a question. It never really is.

  Foster returns their badges after a thorough scrutiny. "Here is fine. What do you want?"

  Malmberg notices Foster's hawklike alertness. This would not be easy.

  "Sir, it's probably less embarrassing if we did this inside. It'll only take a minute," says Swingle.

  "What can I possibly have to be embarrassed about standing in my own front doorway?" Foster calmly replies. "We talk here, or not at all. Your choice."

  "As you wish, Mr. Foster," says Malmberg. What an asshole! "Do you own a black 2006 Lexus?"

  "Why do you ask?"

  "Sir, please answer the question," Swingle says firmly.

  Foster doesn't quite roll his eyes, but almost. He says in a clear voice, "Are you here to detain or arrest me under lawful due process?"

  Malmberg senses that he's struck paydirt.

  "No, sir, and don't overreact," Swingle retorts. "This is just routine questioning as part of a general inquiry. Now, do you own such a vehicle?"

  Malmberg winces inside at Swingle's line. After eight years in the Durham PD, Foster knows that "routine questioning" is never routine.

  Foster parries, "You need to tell me what this is all about and why you're really here."

  Malmberg watches his partner bridle and say, "Sir, we're not obliged to discuss the nature of our investigation with the public."

  "Oh, so an 'inquiry' has just been elevated to an investigation?" Foster retorts with a challenging stare. "Well, as you know, I'm not obliged to discuss my possessions with strangers who drop by unannounced."

  He begins to shut the door.

  Malmberg sees his fish getting away and can't stop himself from blurting, "Sir, we know you own a black 2006 Lexus."

  "Most impressive," Foster says blandly. "Good day, Agents Malmberg and Swingle. Do call for an appointment if you must come by again."

  Malmberg is now very anxious. Nobody they've interviewed over the past three days has been so blatantly uncooperative. Foster is definitely hiding something. Just before the door closes Malmberg takes a final gamble, trying to provoke any reaction to confirm his suspicions. A twitch of the eye. A stammer. A dropped jaw. A nervous scratching of the nose. A cough.

  Anything, and Malmberg would have him.

  "Sir, do you recall your whereabouts on Tuesday, February 8th?"

  The door stops. Only half of Foster's face can be seen. He stares at the feds for one long second, a hard glint shining in his eye.

  "Good-bye, gentlemen," Foster says, almost bored sounding.

  The door closes, leaving the two agents standing on his porch, their department store suit jackets luffing in the breeze.

  Malmberg sees no chink in Foster's armor, which to Malmberg is the biggest chink of all. Think you're a pro, eh? Too much of a pro is amateur!

  They walk back to their Bucar without a word and drive away. Around the block they pull up next to their colleagues.

  Th
rough his open window Malmberg says, "Did you copy all that?" These idiots probably fucked up the radio link.

  "Loud and clear, George. What a hard-ass. If it's him, we won't get him the easy way."

  "Yeah, no shit, Frank," Malmberg spits. As if you could get him at all! "See ya back at the ranch." Dork!

  Malmberg peels away with authority. As they drive south on Highway 1 to the Raleigh FO, Swingle says, "Real smart. You tipped off Foster."

  Malmberg hates to be criticized; it reminds him of his worthless, drunk old man. He fights a bilious surge of anger. Just keep your cool, George.

  "Well worth it," Malmberg snaps. "You saw the way he glared at us."

  Swingle turns away and shakes his head.

  "Fucker's dirty, Lyle," Malmberg mutters.

  "Yeah, probably, but now he knows he's under glass."

  "So, what? According to the guys in the Durham FO he had a rep for hating the Bureau and feds in general. Rattling his cage may trip him up."

  Swingle considers this. "Decorated combat vet? Former cop? Three victorious gunfights — all headshots?"

  Malmberg is silent, fuming.

  "Somehow I don't think Foster's cage is so easily rattled, George."

  "We'll see, Lyle. We'll see. I wonder who he called once we left?"

  Fifteen minutes later at their Raleigh FO, Malmberg and Swingle barge in a technician's office. He looks up through his thick glasses and says, "You here about Foster, right?"

  "No duh. Whaddaya got?" says Malmberg. "He make any calls?"

  The tech shakes his head. "No calls, but one email. Wanna read it?"

  Malmberg just stares at him. Dorito crumbfaced punk!

  "Okay, okay — here's a printout."

  Malmberg looks at it, his face a grimace as if trying to focus. Swingle cranes his head over to read it and then frowns.

  "Hey, what the fuck is this?" Malmberg says. "It's all gibberish!"

  The tech applies his best shit-eating grin. "In our biz, it's called 'encryption,' not 'gibberish.' Anyway, he emailed his attorney. Maybe you've heard of him: Solomon Rothstein?"

  Malmberg has had enough for the day. "Awww, fuck!"

  "Oh, this is Not Good," Swingle moans. "I give it about 10 minutes before the SAC hauls us in to ask if we really know what the hell we're doing."

  The tech says, "Yeah, I hear that Rothstein is the Prince of Darkness. Before you bag Foster, you better make sure you got about a dozen witnesses and a truck full of surveillance video. His fingerprints in blood would help. And then, maybe . . . "

  10 minutes later

  "Do you guys really know what the hell you're doing?" demands the SAC. "I just got off the phone with the US Attorney. This Foster 'person of interest' called his lawyer just after your contact interview. Talk about a 'Red Alert'! And you didn't even arrest the guy!"

  Swingle says, "Yes, sir, we've heard. We're not exposed on this, I promise. Since we had no PC to arrest, we weren't required to Mirandize him. And we didn't force our way into his home. Everything was done by the Manual. Frank has the interview audio."

  The SAC calms down a bit and says, "Yeah, I've listened to it. The interview was kosher, I agree. We just have to step carefully from now on, especially when you interview Foster's friends and associates. Rothstein is gonna stay on top of us on this."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Don't look so glum," says the SAC. "This'll cheer you up. A warrant for Foster's bank records. Since he didn't buy any gopher poison on his credit cards during the past year, maybe he wrote a check at some feed store."

  Malmberg replies, "I wouldn't bet on it, sir. Probably paid cash. He works pretty damn clean."

  The SAC smiles. "Not clean enough. Dumbshit used his own car, didn't he? Keep digging, boys. Don't screw up so I can keep Rothstein off our asses."

  Snow Hill, North Carolina

  March 2011

  Malmberg hates this part of the job. Endless field interview and 302s.

  "Lyle, if I smell another bag of grain, I'm gonna puke!"

  "Not unless I puke first. What is this, George, our 27th ag supply we've been to?" Swingle whines.

  Malmberg replies with a bitter chuckle. "127th, it feels like. OK, this is it. 'Snow Hill Farm and Ranch.'"

  FBI agents always got people's attention in the hinterlands. They couldn't believe G-men in their little towns. This feed store manager was no different.

  "Yes, sir, Agent Malmberg. Anything I can do to help. Let's ask Jenny. She's here most of the time."

  Malmberg loves this kind of fawning. Fuckin A you'll do anything to help! Maybe this Jenny isn't a cow like the others.

  Jenny is called into Mr. Brunton's office, its walls adorned with years of outdated calenders featuring Tractors Of The Month and so forth.

  After introducing themselves, Agent Swingle asks, "Jenny do you recall having seen the man in this photo in your store?"

  She carefully looks at the reproduced driver's license photo. "He looks kinda familiar. Maybe he's been here once before. He's not a regular, that's for sure."

  Malmberg thinks Jenny is good looking, for a country chick. Nice ass. He says, "Maybe once before? The man we're looking for may have bought some gopher bait or horse liniment. Does that ring any bells?"

  This is borderline tainting a witnesses. Swingle shoots Malmberg a hard glance. Neither Jenny nor her manager notice; they're still looking at Foster's photo.

  She looks up with a growing smile. "Yeah, gopher bait! I do remember a guy who bought some. Just a few months ago. December, yeah. That's why he stood out in my mind."

  "Why was that?" Malmberg says.

  Jenny looks at him like he's the silliest man on earth.

  "Because gophers hibernate in winter."

  Smartass little bitch!

  Brunton adds, "Most rodents do," trying to be helpful.

  Malmberg thinks he comes across like the Jeopardy know-it-all Alex Trebek. Ooh, I'm sorry, George, but the answer we were looking for was "hi-ber-nate." Hibernate. Most rodents hi-ber-nate in winter.

  Swingle asks, "Now Jenny, was that the man who bought the gopher bait in December?"

  Her smile fades as she looks back at the photo. Time slows to a virtual standstill. The agents are hungry for the meat of confirmation, and she knows it. She wants to help the FBI, but doesn't want to get the wrong man into trouble, either. She finally looks up. "I couldn't say for sure."

  Malmberg moves a few inches closer and says, "Jenny, now this is very important. Just answer us this: could it have been the same man?" His very proximity is almost sexual, though she doesn't notice him trying to peek down her plaid flannel blouse.

  Jenny's eyes fall back to the grainy color photo. He's handsome, but cold and distant. He does look familiar, though, and the FBI seems to already know who he is and what he purchased at her store. The two agents obviously want him very badly. She's flattered they think she can help.

  He could even be a terrorist.

  She makes a decision.

  "Well, now that I look at it again, yes, it could have been him."

  Malmberg's glance at Swingle hums with triumph.

  "I'm not positive, sir, but yes, it could have been him," Jenny says.

  Malmberg turns to the manager. "Mr. Brunton, we'll need to drive Jenny to Raleigh for a statement. We'll have her back in a few hours." Maybe.

  Nobody asks Jenny. She is now just a commodity to be transported and inventoried in the commerce of law enforcement, a subcorporation of Justice.

  Brunton is delighted to have been of help. "Yes, fine, fine. I'll cover for her in the meantime."

  Jenny looks over her shoulder on the way out, suddenly having second thoughts. She feels as though she's fallen in a rushing river which is rapidly taking her downstream. And she realizes she can't swim, but it's too late.

  When she began equivocating during the car trip to Raleigh, they gently steered her back on course. Malmberg knows they are cutting things too closely, but they are desperate to keep Jenny onboa
rd. By the time she made her statement, she was "90% sure" that Raymond Scott Foster was the man who purchased with cash a box of Gopher BeGone on or about Saturday, 18 December 2010. Her deposition, along with the D.C. evidence, constituted probable cause for a Federal District Judge to sign a search warrant.

  Raleigh FBI waits to execute the warrant at 10:03AM when Foster is en route downtown to meet a friend, have lunch, and then go to the gym. He won't be home until after three. Agents tail Foster, waiting for a call from the forensics team. At 2:48PM, it comes. The senior ASAC answers, listens for about 30 seconds, mutters "Thanks" and hangs up.

  His face grim, he says to his fellow agents, "Nada. Not in the house, not in the car. No strychnine, no DMSO, no potassium permanganate, no glycerine, no Senator Hengel dartboard. They went through his place for nearly five hours and found nada. Fucking nada."

  At 3:16PM Raymond Foster pulls up in his driveway. He senses something is wrong as a neighbor saunters over, frowning.

  "Hey, Ray, the feds were in your house all day. What's up?" Foster replies with steely calm, "May I use your telephone, Ed?"

  "Whaddaya mean he's got a fucking alibi?" yells Malmberg. "How could he be in goddamn Durham when he was up in D.C. offing Hengel?"

  The SAC says in his most soothing voice, "George, calm down. Foster could have told you that he was attending his daughter's play at Duke and that he took half the cast out for dinner afterwards, but he's never liked the Bureau. I guess he hoped we'd act on bad info and embarrass ourselves."

  The SAC then turns arctic. "And that's exactly what happened. Did you know that Foster was in Jacksonville — Florida, by the way — with his brother's family from December 17th until January 2nd?"

  Swingle and Malmberg just stand there, blinking.

  "Yeah, I know what's going through your minds: no airline travel during that time on his credit cards. Well, there wouldn't be. He drove."

  Malmberg coughs. Oh shit!

  "Sir, we couldn't have known about his Christmas vacation or his daughter's play. Foster clammed up on us from the start!"