Lone Wolf

by Sara Driscoll

  Meg crossed the office to him, Hawk ambling along behind. “Can I pick your brain for a minute?”

  Greg gave up the drawer search and dropped into his chair on an exhausted exhale. “Sure. What do you need?”

  Meg pulled up a chair and rolled close so she could keep her voice low. “Were you out at Cumberland yesterday?”

  “Just back from it. We haven’t even made it home yet. Worked all night.”

  “That explains why you look so beat.” Meg glanced down at the German shepherd at Greg’s feet, who was cheerfully greeting Hawk with sniffs and enthusiastic wagging. “How’s Ryder?”

  “He’s the Energizer bunny. He’ll grab a catnap while we travel and be good for hours. I wish I could sleep on planes like he does. Twenty seconds in the air and he’s out like a light. Meanwhile I feel like something the cat dragged in.” He stifled an enormous yawn behind his hand. “Sorry.”

  “No need to apologize. You know I get it. Now . . . I know it’s too soon for any of the evidence from yesterday’s attack, but what about Tuesday’s? I heard you and Ryder had some good finds at the Whitten Building.”

  Greg glanced across the room to where Brian and Lauren sat, their dogs under their desks, as they combed through teetering stacks of files. “What makes you think I have information on that?”

  While the different arms of the FBI’s canine program—criminal apprehension, explosives detection, and forensic applications, which included both their own Human Scent Evidence Team and the Victim Recovery Team for human remains—had only minimal interaction because of the significant differences in their work, Meg, as a former police officer, had the strongest connection to the FBI Police officers who made up the other two sections of the program. She and Greg often stopped to touch base about each other’s cases or to discuss law enforcement issues outside the Bureau.

  “Because I know you,” Meg said. “You’re like me—you don’t like to leave a case unfinished. Finding evidence is only part of the job. You want the whole story and want to know what the evidence tells us.” She scooted forward another few inches, letting her own intensity rise to the surface for him to see. “I was in there with the victims, Greg. I helped the live ones and had to turn away from the dead. I need to know too.”

  He met her gaze for a few seconds, his lips drawn into a thin downward curve. “All right. But this is between you and me until the data is officially released. I wheedled the results out of a tech downstairs, and I don’t want to get her in trouble.”

  “Deal. Now spill.”

  Greg turned his chair so his voice wouldn’t carry toward the far side of the room. “The bomb was pretty standard, but effective. C-4 with RDX boosters and PETN detonation cord.”

  Meg’s brows snapped together in a frown. “I was expecting something more homegrown.”

  “The problem with homegrown bombs like Timothy McVeigh’s is that they’re big and heavy to get the kind of bang you want. It took a van with seven thousand pounds of explosives to tear apart the Alfred P. Murrah Building.”

  “Considering the bomb was delivered by drone, fifty pounds probably wasn’t doable, let alone seven thousand.”

  “Not even kind of. The max carrying capacity of the drone was likely ten or fifteen pounds. Thus something lighter, yet still effective.”

  “But C-4 doesn’t just grow on trees. How did he get his hands on it? Commercial use?”

  “Actually, we know exactly where he got it from. They found enough of the chemical tag added to the C-4 to make it traceable.” Greg’s gaze shot over her shoulder to check the room before returning to her face. “This particular taggant marks it as military grade C-4.”

  Meg stifled a sound of surprise. “Military? How on earth did—” She cut herself off as a memory crystallized. “Wait a minute. That theft in West Virginia late last fall, the one at the army reserve in . . . where was it?”

  “Wheeling?”

  “That’s it. Wasn’t explosive material stolen from there?”

  “That’s what I heard. But the army, or CID, as the case may be, was very hush-hush about the whole thing. After the initial reports, which the media jumped all over, I never heard anything more about it. But now you have to wonder.”

  “You certainly do. Okay, so the taggant tracks the C-4. Any way to track the other materials?”

  “The detonator cord and primer and blasting caps are all pretty generic, but with further testing they might be able to find a signature. But my money’s on the C-4 as the biggest lead.”

  “Where are they going with that?”

  “I’m not sure. I don’t even know if anyone has connected the dots yet with Wheeling. Remember, I’m not on the inside track on that part of the investigation. As far as the agents are concerned, we’ve done our bit.”

  “I really wish they’d let us help more. And not keep us so compartmentalized because . . .” She trailed off as a thought occurred to her.

  Greg’s eyes narrowed on her face. “What?”

  “I might have an inside angle on some info.”

  Greg leaned back in his chair, suspicion carved deeply into his haggard face. “How?”

  “My old sergeant back at Richmond PD. He’s ex-army.”

  “I’m ex-army. That’s not going to help us.”

  “He’s ex-CID.”

  “Now that puts a new spin on it.”

  “I haven’t seen Sarge for a while. Maybe it’s time for a visit. You know someone will make the Wheeling connection at some point, but it might not be for a day or two, especially if they are waiting on other evidence.” Meg glanced back toward Brian and Lauren, heads down, paging laboriously through files. “You remember what Peters said about everyone in the division being put to work scouring tip line info and back files. I’m chained to a desk and it’s killing me. I need to be out there doing something.” She braced her hands on the arms of the chair. “So that’s what I’m going to do.” She pushed to her feet before pointing a single finger at Greg. “Not one word of this.”

  Greg held up both hands as if in surrender. “Hey, I’m so tired, I’m pretty sure we never had this conversation.” He pinned her with a steely look. “I’m pretty sure I never passed on any results either.”

  “I certainly don’t have any recollection of it.” She grinned at him. “Thanks, Greg. Appreciate it. Now go home and get some sleep.”

  “Don’t have to tell me twice.”

  Meg watched Greg trudge out of the office, Ryder at his side, before returning to her desk and the depressingly high pile of paperwork. She glanced at the cell phone sitting beside her keyboard, hoping that in the few minutes she’d been talking to Greg a new text had come through, but it remained frustratingly silent and dark.

  She’d left it lying screen-up and had been surreptitiously keeping an eye on it since coming into the office an hour ago. Too restless to sleep well last night, she figured she’d do better coming in to help with the ongoing task force efforts. The tip line was swamped, and it took significant manpower to sift through all the tips, separating the wheat from the chaff, the crazies from the legitimate tippers. And then there were the thousands of files on people who sent threatening or furious notes to the various government departments, any of who could be the bomber before he started killing to get attention. Doing something was better than doing nothing, but within thirty minutes she was getting restless with the feeling that she wasn’t actually accomplishing anything.

  Welcome to investigative work. Sifting through data isn’t sexy, but sometimes it’s the way to find the bad guy.

  She’d been given stacks of files to comb through, filled with people with grudges against the two departments already hit.

  George Stanworth, Las Cruces, New Mexico. To: Department of Agriculture . . . Your requirement to file quarterly is entirely unreasonable and untenable. And the fines levied against hardworking, honest folk are crippling....

  Debbie Pickering, Timber Lake, South Dakota. To: Internal Revenue Service . . . Paying
taxes is like paying you off. When you pay someone off it should be for something, but we get nothing in return. We’re not even free individuals. Our liberties are at the whims of a government that makes its own rules and then enforces them only when and on who they want....

  Ambrose Watkins, Abilene, Texas. To: Internal Revenue Service . . . When we take Texas back, there’ll be no more dealing with your understaffed offices and ludicrous tax laws that no one can keep up with. I recently visited one of your offices, complete with a four-hour wait to finally see someone. Just how many changes can one government make in a single year? You’ve proved it’s too many, and chaos is the result....

  It went on and on and on. Hundreds of messages from Americans. Some irritated, some livid, some way past the red zone and straight into insane rage. Some with the barest hint of a threat, some anonymous messages with blatant descriptions of violence. Detailed enough to make an ex-cop wince at the mental pictures they conjured up. The things humans could threaten to do to their fellow man . . .

  She’d thought when she came in that morning that she and Hawk would have the Forensic Canine Unit office to themselves. But Lauren was already there with her own pile of paperwork, Rocco snoozing contentedly under her desk.

  After filling the largest coffee mug she could scrounge from her bottom drawer, Meg settled at her desk with Hawk lying at her feet. Fifteen minutes later, Brian and Lacey appeared. Brian had dark smudges under his eyes and was uncharacteristically unshaven. She didn’t comment on his look and she was thankful he didn’t comment on her lack of even minimal makeup and similar state of exhaustion. Coffee could only take a girl so far, after all.

  Now if only McCord would follow up on his previous text with more info . . .

  “You waiting for Prince Charming to call?” Brian’s voice broke into her thoughts.

  “Ryan’s going to call me?” She blinked innocently at him. “Isn’t that nice. It’s been too long since we had a chance to catch up.”

  “Not my Prince Charming. Yours.”

  “I didn’t know you had one,” Lauren cut in from her desk, not even raising her head as she laid one document face down on a pile and picked up a second from another.

  “Funny. Me either,” Meg retorted.

  “Well, the way you’ve been glancing at your phone all morning, it makes me think you’re expecting a call,” Brian continued.

  “Not . . . exactly.”

  “Then what, exactly?” Lauren set down the report she was reading and rolled her chair closer, carefully ensuring no paws or tails got crushed under the wheels. She leaned forward, and Meg nearly pulled back under the intensity of her stare. “You always were a terrible liar. What are you trying to hide?”

  “It’s just . . .” She turned to Brian, who sat in the desk opposite her. “You remember what we talked about yesterday?”

  His expression went comically blank for several seconds before his eyes suddenly went sharp. “You did it? You really did it?”

  “And hit the jackpot.”

  Brian slapped a hand down on the desk and let out a hoot. And then apologized to the dogs when they jumped to attention. He ran his hand over Lacey’s head. “Sorry, girl, sorry.”

  “Will someone please fill me in?” Lauren scowled at both of them. “Clearly, I’m the only one in the dark.”

  Glancing at the officers across the room, Meg scooted her chair a little closer and dropped her voice. “You know that Washington Post reporter who got the e-mail from the bomber?”

  “Yes.”

  “I met him last night. Ran into him at the S Street Dog Park.”

  “Ran into him, my ass.” Lauren leaned in conspiratorially. “What did he say?”

  “He’s as pissed as we are. More than that, he seemed . . . tired.”

  “Tired?” Brian braced his elbows on the desk and rested his chin on his clasped hands. “How could he be tired? This is the story of his career.”

  “Which is saying something, considering his career so far. I bet it’s not the workload burning him out, it’s the work. Even if doom and gloom is your lifestyle, it must wear on you after a while. So much dark has to grind down the soul.”

  Brian dropped a hand down to touch his dog. “That part I get.”

  “We see enough of it to get it. And we have our dogs to keep us sane. He’s essentially on his own, because his overex-citable puppy is nothing but a stressor. At least for now. Anyway, he and I exchanged contact info and we made a deal to keep each other in the loop . . . off the books, so to speak.”

  “Can you trust him not to just run with whatever you give him?” Lauren asked. “Reporters are known to be somewhat unscrupulous when they’re after a hot story. If Craig found out, or worse, Peters, you’d be in some pretty hot water.”

  “Trust me, I know.” Meg sat back in her chair and looked down thoughtfully at Hawk, patiently sitting beside her desk, eyes fixed on her as if waiting for her next command. “I don’t have a great handle on him yet, haven’t had enough time for that, and God knows I don’t trust reporters for a second, but he seemed genuine. Kind of a straight shooter. So far I haven’t given him anything. He, however, texted me over an hour ago to say the bomber had contacted him a second time.”

  Brian gave a small jerk of surprise, his head shooting up. “Whoa. Why haven’t we heard about this yet? Why didn’t you report it?”

  “Because he asked me to keep it quiet. If I’m going to expect that of him, he should expect it of me. A little mutual back scratching. He said he was heading into the office to discuss it with his bosses and then they’d officially report it after that.”

  “Any chance they won’t and you’ll have to let the cat out of the bag?”

  “He said this was bigger than him or his paper and that anything incoming would go straight to the FBI, no matter what. But once it gets here, then the news has to trickle down to us. When Craig hears, he’ll let us know.” She looked back at the towering pile on her desk, torn between wanting to make a trip to Richmond that second and being on hand when the bomber’s next message broke. Patience finally won out. “We’d better get back to this. I heard they had over ten thousand tips come through in four days.”

  “Impossible to follow up on all of them,” Lauren said. “Thus, the weeding.”

  “Anything look like a possibility?”

  “A couple. I have a few piles going—strong possibles, weak possibles, unlikelies, and crackpots.”

  “I’ve had a few of the crackpots.” Brian picked up the top sheet from one of several piles. “This old gal thinks her neighbor is responsible because he’s a space alien. It’s the first step in his plan of terror to take over the planet, she says.” He laid it down on the pile. “I’m thinking . . . no.”

  “Hey, guys.” Every head in the room spun toward the door as Craig leaned in to the office. The gleam in his eye told Meg something was on the move—either the Post had made contact or there was a break in the case. “We need everyone in the conference room.” Craig was slightly out of the breath and paused to suck in air.

  Brian flicked a glance at Meg before rising from his chair. “What’s going on?”

  “The bomber has contacted us again. More than that, we may have him. One of the analysts thinks they have a connection. We’re getting briefed and then they’re sending in SWAT. Let’s go.” He drew back and disappeared into the hallway.

  Meg and Brian stared at each other, yesterday’s despair falling away under the light of hope. Calling their dogs, the team jogged out the door. There was a perp to catch and no time to waste.

  Chapter 13

  Bastard Search: A search in which, for some reason unknown to the searchers, the subject is not within the search area.

  Saturday, April 15, 5:14 PM

  Forensic Canine Unit; J. Edgar Hoover Building

  Washington, DC

  They huddled around the big flat-screen panel attached to the wall, the dogs milling restlessly around their legs, clearly picking up on the buildin
g tension in the room.

  “This shouldn’t be happening,” Craig muttered from where he leaned against a desk. “The public is going to lose it.” His hand closed over the edge of the desktop and squeezed, his knuckles going bloodless. “They’re going to call Ruby Ridge on us.”

  “This shouldn’t be Ruby Ridge. How did it get out of hand so fast?” Brian ran a hand through his hair, making it stand on end. “It was supposed to be a simple follow-up interview. And now, six hours later, it’s all gone to hell.”

  This morning’s task force briefing had indeed showcased the bomber’s newest communication, but then took an unexpected twist when EAD Peters took the mic to share the news of their first concrete suspect. A farmer named Skinner, ninety minutes away in Sperryville, Virginia, had made multiple veiled threats against both the Department of Agriculture and the IRS. One of the FBI’s linguistic experts had evaluated the style and spelling of the letters and declared a very strong possibility the writer of both the letters and the bomber’s messages could be the same person. At that time, agents were dispatched to Sperryville to interview the suspect and convey him back to FBI headquarters if warranted.

  But the op had gone wrong right from the start. The agents were greeted at the farm by locked double wooden gates, an intercom, and an irate farmer who had no intention of cooperating with any government agent or law enforcement personnel. When the agents couldn’t produce a search warrant to legally enter, they were told to vacate the premises. When the agents opted to remain outside the gates, angry words were exchanged. When the agents were still there several hours later, shots were fired and the whole situation quickly went to hell.

  After that, it was a blur of swarming law enforcement from municipal, state, and federal agencies, immediately followed by a gathering crowd of reporters with cameras and microphones. One of the scores of arriving FBI agents set up a live video feed and now they were also patched in to audio. Meg knew this feed was being watched by every task force member wherever they could gather. And probably some not officially on the task force but with a vested interest in the FBI’s image.