[2017] The Whistleblower Onslaught

by David P. Warren

  Lee sat down in the visitor's chair, and a husky man of about fifty with a big grin looked around the newspaper at him. “Hi, Art,” Lee said with a smile.

  “Hey, brother,” Art said, grinning. “What's new?”

  “On the hunt, my friend.”

  “Fire away.”

  “Here's what I have so far,” Lee said, handing the man two sheets of paper. “The first page is the list of inmates in the same cell block as Anders before his release. The second page contains the names of those released from the prison between six months before Anders's release and three months after his release. Seems to me that this is a likely universe of people who have the contacts to get the new identity put together.” As Art stared at the pages, Lee asked, “Who on this list does what you do, and who else on the list knows people who do what you do?” Lee reflected a moment and added, “I am not interested in bringing anyone to the attention of any authorities. This is just for my client.”

  Art said, “First of all, I need to know who you are looking for. I need to make sure that I don't have a conflict of interest.”

  Lee nodded. “Fair enough. I'm looking for Jerry Anders, the dirtbag who kidnapped the Winslow kids.”

  “Yeah, I remember the story. Anders was pretty clumsy, but they made him disappear pretty well. Anyway, not my guy, so no conflict.” Art returned his attention to the pages in front of him. There was silence in the small room for about three minutes, and then Art set the sheets on the desk and circled three names in black. “I know that these two guys know how to make IDs,” he said. He circled four more names in red. “These guys for sure know how to find someone who can do what I do.” He underlined three other names and stopped. “I know it's not these guys.”

  “How?” Lee asked.

  “Because they would have come to me,” he replied.

  “Any thoughts about which one of these guys I should start with?” Art nodded and put boxes around two of the names. Lee nodded and handed him two $100 bills. “Okay, thanks. I appreciate it.”

  “No problem, man. I hope you can find the guy.” He paused and added, “And keep sending me people who need help, man. I'm there for you.”

  * * *

  I sit beside Joey with my hand on his. The room has come to look a lot like his bedroom at home. There are trophies he won playing baseball that occupy a shelf; there is a football sitting on a stand that says “Green Bay Packers,” his favorite team despite the fact that he has never been to Wisconsin; there is a chemistry set; and there are four or five video games at the ready. They gather dust patiently awaiting the return of their owner.

  I close my eyes and lean against his bed. I fall asleep, but then wake up abruptly as I lean too far forward. It's like dozing on an airplane and being periodically awakened by unexpected turbulence. Between the motions, I manage to sleep for about an hour and a half. Then I wake up to see Katy standing beside Joey. There is a tear in her eye, and she tells him, “Joey, you have to come back now. I miss you too much.” She looks at him silently, as if waiting for a reply. When there is no response, she adds, “Please, Joey, I won't call you a butthead any more, I promise.” She waits for the longest time, not noticing that I am awake. I find myself trying hard to hold back the tears as I watch.

  I check my watch to find that it's now 6:30 p.m. I look up, and Lisa walks into the room. She kisses Joey on the forehead and then gives Katy a hug. “Hi, sweetheart, how are you today?”

  “I miss Joey. He needs to wake up.”

  “I agree, Katy.” She looks at me. “You doing okay?”

  “Yeah, I guess so. I spent the afternoon revising a brief on the Walters case, and then napped with Joey,” I reply. “How was your afternoon?”

  “Okay,” she says. “These days I feel like I go through the motions at work so I can get back here. Just do what I can to keep things afloat, you know?”

  “Yeah, I get it.” I take her hand and hold it tightly as we watch Joey sleep, not speaking our shared fears out loud. Fears that time is running out because this induced coma won't protect him forever, fears that he never wakes up, and fears that this is the way we see our son for the last time. We are caught between wanting something to happen if it means getting our son back, but not if it means an end to the hope that we cling to so desperately.

  Our weekly updates with Dr. Mitchell are approached with a foreboding that comes with experience and his downcast expression at every meeting. At the last meeting, he told us that there was no change. He emphasized that we are now at six months and that he has never known a successful return from a medically induced coma that went beyond seven months, so we are battling the clock. As much as I don't want to face it, I sense that he is preparing us for the ultimate bad news. It is coming closer, and he dreads the day when he has to tell us what we are not prepared to accept. For now, we hold tight to our last grains of hope while the sand runs through the hourglass ever faster. We are not devoid of hope, but we feel all too helpless.

  * * *

  “This is it, 1927 East Coleman,” agent Becky Sandoval said, pointing to a small gray house with chain-link fence that leaned at about thirty degrees and a dirt front yard.

  Greg Edmonds stopped across the street, and they both climbed from the unmarked car and walked quickly to the house. Sandoval gestured to Edmonds with an extended hand. He nodded and then made his way to the rear of the residence.

  Sandoval gave him time to get positioned and then stood to the side of the door as she pounded, to stay out of the line of fire. “Open up, Desmond. FBI.” There was no response so she repeated the announcement and pounded even harder.

  “Just a minute,” was heard from inside. A moment later a man with long, greasy hair, and no shirt opened the door. He was thin, about forty years old, and flashed angry eyes. Sandoval pushed in, walked through the living room and kitchen that led to the back door, and let her partner into the house. She walked to the small table in the kitchen, pulled out a chair, and said, “Sit down,” to the man.

  He stared at her a moment and then said, “What the fuck do you want?”

  She looked at him and then tapped the chair. “Sit down.”

  He moved slowly to the chair, never taking his eyes from her. He sat down and continued to stare at her.

  “So you did time with this guy?” she said, flipping a picture of Jerry Anders from her pocket. He looked at the picture and said nothing. She waited, and then said, “You having trouble hearing me, Mr. Desmond?”

  “I hear you.”

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  “And you did time with this guy, correct?”

  “I am not telling you shit. Now get out of my house, lady. I haven't done anything.”

  She shook her head. “Mr. Desmond, I'm afraid our relationship is getting off to a rocky start. So let me clarify a couple of things. First, I am not 'lady,' I am agent Sandoval with the FBI. Second, I am conducting an investigation into a kidnapping, and you don't want to be anything but cooperative and honest, or I will run your ass in for obstructing my fucking investigation,” she said, getting slower and louder as she concluded. “You have any questions now?” There was silence. “You, Mr. Desmond, are on parole, you remember? So I can violate your ass for any of the alarming suspicions that I have about you.” She held his eyes for a few moments and then said, “Now, do you have my question in mind?”

  “Yes,” he said through an angry expression, “I did time with Anders.”

  “Much better,” she said, smiling at him. “And you got out of the system about two months before he did, right?”

  “You already know this shit.”

  “Mr. Desmond, your level of cooperation is slipping again. You and I need to discuss these things because we need to be on the same page about what happened, so that I can then ask about other things that we both know are true. You with me?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good. So back to the question. You got out about two months before Anders?”
/>
  “Yeah.”

  “And until that time, you and he had spent about a year on the same block, correct?”

  “Yeah, we were both there.”

  “I think you're getting the rhythm of this. See how easy it can be? And you, Mr. Desmond, are an artist when it comes to creating personal paperwork, right?”

  “I used to do that, yeah.”

  “Used to?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Until when?” she asked.

  “Until I got caught and went to prison.”

  “And not since then?”

  “No.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “Yeah, I'm sure.”

  She shook her head, “Well, you see Mr. Desmond, we have a witness who says otherwise. He tells us you connected him to a very nice driver's license and credit card, looking just like the real thing. Just so you know, we can now arrest you for the new fraudulent activity, obstructing this investigation, and for violating your probation by associating with a known felon. You've hit the fucking big winner trifecta.” He said nothing, but was beginning to sweat. “You have this wrong, Mr. Desmond. Now is not the time for silence. That will be when we bust your ass and Mirandize you. Now is your chance to talk, and maybe we walk out of here without you. Got it?”

  “I didn't do any work for Anders. Nothing. And he didn't come to me.”

  “Have you seen him since you got out?”

  “No.”

  “Talk to him at all?”

  “No, just like I already told that other investigator.”

  “What other investigator?”

  “Come on, he was here just yesterday asking this same kind of shit. Like I told him, I haven't been in touch with Anders since I got out.”

  “What was this investigator's name?”

  “I don't remember.”

  “Where would Anders go if he didn't come to you? Give me some names.”

  He leaned back in his chair considering what he would do.

  “It would be a shame to get this close to retaining your freedom and then blow it, don't you think?

  “Lester Hall and Byron Cerda are possibles.”

  “Who else?”

  “Rim Noll and Burt Snider.”

  “Anybody else you know?” He was quiet, so she added, “I find another who knows you, and I come back and charge you with everything I can think of plus one, and you will spend twenty-five years making new friends. You follow?”

  “The only other I know is Martin Chavez, but I heard he was sick and out of the business.”

  “I need contact information for all these guys. I won't mention your name when we talk.”

  “Hall checks in at the Blue Bison once or twice a week. Cerda is all over the street, but I don't have contact.”

  “Noll?”

  Good friend of Brent Ramos, the guy who runs that strip joint near the airport, The Fur Trap.”

  “You tell all this to the other investigator? The guy you saw yesterday?”

  “Yeah,” he responded.

  “Give me a description of the investigator you saw yesterday, and we are out of here.”

  Desmond nodded and began to describe Lee Henry.

  * * *

  Lee knocked on the door and waited. An obese man with a straggly goatee covering a broad jaw, and dull, black eyes, opened the door and stared at him. The man wore a sleeveless T-shirt, revealing extensive inking on both arms. He said nothing.

  “Lester Hall?”

  “Who's asking?” the man asked.

  “I'm an investigator, and I'm looking for Jerry Anders. You know him?”

  “You got a warrant?”

  “Do I need one?”

  “What do you think?”

  “Well, I think that neither one of us wants that. I need to find a guy who kidnapped two kids. You've seen the news on this guy, right?” Lee waited but got no response, so he added, “It's easier for me if you and I cooperate. I need to know who supplied paper for this guy. Can you help me?”

  There was quiet. After a moment, Hall said, “What's in it for me?”

  “How about gratitude and a hundred bucks?”

  “How about you keep the gratitude, and two hundred bucks.”

  Lee nodded. “If you've got information that helps, you've got a deal.”

  “It's yes or no, man.”

  “Okay,” Lee said. “It's yes.” He handed the man two $100 bills.

  “I don't know who papered this guy, but I can tell you that I didn't do it, and I know one other scribe who didn't do it.”

  “Who's the other guy, and how do you know he didn't paper this guy?”

  “The guy is Rim Noll, and I know because we talk two or three times a week. We go back a long way, man, and we've talked about not wanting to help this asshole.”

  Lee nodded. “Okay. Anything else you can tell me?”

  “That's what I've got, man. That's it.”

  Lee offered the man a hand. He stared at it like it might be dangerous, but after a moment he nodded and shook it.

  “Call me if you hear anything,” Lee said. “There's more money if you can get me to this guy.” He handed Hall a card that contained only a name and a phone number.

  “Okay, man. You got it.”

  Lee walked to his car and drove away. He decided that he would find Martin Chavez and then Byron Cerda next. He would see the supposedly ill Chavez first and then drive to the bar Cerda was known to frequent. As he accelerated onto the freeway, his phone rang. He pushed the button on the steering wheel and said, “Go ahead.”

  “Mr. Henry, this is agent Greg Edmonds.”

  “Yes, I know who you are.”

  “Good. We need to meet.”

  “We do? To what end?”

  “We will tell you when we meet,” Edmonds said. “Meet us at Matthew's House of Coffee on Ventura Boulevard in twenty minutes.”

  Lee reflected momentarily and then said, “See you there.” He hung up and took the next off-ramp. It would take him fifteen minutes to reach the meeting place, and they somehow already knew he could make it in twenty. Lee pulled into a gas station and walked around his car, looking underneath at various points until he found what he was looking for. The device was about two inches in diameter and had been secreted in a magnetic box above the passenger side rear wheel well. He looked at the device and smiled. He employed several similar devices and had a couple in his tool bag presently. He took the device over to a pickup truck that was fueling. The owner had evidently gone inside the adjacent minimart. He placed the device in the same place on the pickup and then stopped. He had second thoughts and grabbed the device, placed it in his pocket, and walked back to his car.

  Lee got into his car and continued toward Matthew's. He arrived at Mathew's with three minutes to spare. Because of the device, they would know he was arriving. Lee looked around the parking lot and saw three cars that might be FBI wheels. He pushed a button and then heard the phone ring. It rang twice and then a voice said, “You need us again?”

  “Yep. You guys are the bright spot in my day. Can you run three plates for me, quickly? I have three minutes max.”

  “Fire away.”

  Lee recited the makes and models and the plates of each of the three, then said, “I'm looking for a cop plate or government ownership.”

  The response was, “Just hang on.”

  Less than two minutes later, the voice said, “The Ford is the car you want.”

  “Thanks. Gotta go.” Lee hung up and got out of the car. He walked over to the Ford and placed the device in its magnetic container above the rear wheel well on the passenger side. That done, he walked into the coffee shop. There were half a dozen high tables that seated three in the center of the room and booths against glass walls around the perimeter. Only one of the high tables was occupied. It was inhabited by three early-twenties guys. Three of the booths were occupied. One by a couple in their sixties who were laughing and thoroughly entertained. Another by two women in
office attire. The third was occupied by a man and a woman with no coffee or drinks in front of them. The woman had dark hair and watchful eyes. The man was short-haired and wore a tie, no jacket. They were cops—textbook cops. He walked over and sat down in the booth, across from agent Sandoval and agent Edmonds.

  “Good afternoon,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

  Sandoval sat back in her seat and said, “Mr. Henry, do you represent yourself to the public as an investigator?”

  “A private investigator, yes. As I assume you already know, I am licensed as one. Now, why am I here?”

  Sandoval regarded him and then said, “You're here because we need to talk to you.”

  Lee lifted his palms and said, “Please, go ahead.”

  “We are conducting an investigation. We have spoken to two witnesses in the last two days, and from both of them, we learned that you have been there first.”

  Lee nodded. “Okay.”

  “We are conducting an official investigation. We don't need you getting in the way. And, Mr. Henry, we take interference with an official investigation very seriously.”

  Lee furrowed his brow. “I want to make sure that I have this right. You think I am interfering with an investigation that you are conducting that I knew nothing about. And I'm doing that by talking to the people that I need to talk to in order to represent my client and that I have no knowledge that you are approaching.”

  “Well, Mr. Henry, you may not have known of our investigation before, but now you do.”

  “I guess that I do,” Lee said. “It does occur to me, however, that we are or should be on the same team here. Aren't we both working to find Jerry Anders? Why can't we work together and share information?”

  “Parallel investigations do not work. I am telling you that your investigation may well impede ours, and we won't let that happen. If you have any information from your discussions, we expect you to turn it over.” Lee was silent. “You have any information that you want to share with us?”

  “Not that I can think of,” Lee replied.