The Mile Marker Murders

by C. W. Saari

  “Great. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  This would be his first time seeing Robin while off duty. It felt a little weird, but he looked forward to it.

  The next morning he met Robin as planned. There were about eight hundred runners milling about who didn’t seem fazed by the forty degree temperature. She spotted him first.

  “This is great!” Robin said as she walked up to Bannister and gave him a hug. She was wearing black tights, a running jacket, and a pink baseball cap. Her long, blonde hair was pulled back in a ponytail. “It’s kind of nice knowing you don’t always wear a suit,” she said with a wink.

  The run started exactly on time. When ninety percent of the participants were type-A personalities, race officials didn’t want to be even one minute late.

  “Adam said you were a serious runner,” Robin said. They were no longer running in place, but moving out quickly with the mass of participants.

  “When people hear you run a lot, they always label you as serious. I just enjoy running.”

  “You don’t have to run with me, you know. We can meet at the finish.”

  “And miss out on your wonderful conversation? Definitely not.” He wanted to stay with her. “I’ll try and run your pace, unless you’re a secret track star.”

  “No, I’m going to try and run an eight-minute mile pace. That will show me I can handle the runs at Quantico. Maybe you could check my form.”

  “I already have,” he said.

  The race itself was going smoothly as the churning mass of huffing bodies wound its way down Peachtree Road through the commercial section of Buckhead. Things were uneventful until after the halfway turnaround. Bannister felt a burning, shooting pain in his right thigh. He slowed his pace and pressed hard on the outside of his leg. The pain disappeared. He didn’t say anything to Robin and hoped she hadn’t noticed. This same pain occurred a couple of times before, during runs with Cal. Cal had asked him what was wrong. He remembered telling him about his wounds from the invasion of Grenada and his orthopedist informing him there were some bone fragments in his leg. The orthopedist said the damage might make him a candidate later in life for osteoporosis or arthritis. Cal said to get it checked out by a neurologist. Bannister always feared getting disabled but decided to ignore his friend’s advice.

  Fifty minutes later, Bannister and Robin were back at the finish line where they each grabbed a bottle of water and some orange slices.

  “I’m parked right over there,” Robin said, pointing to her Jeep, wiping the perspiration off her forehead.

  “I’m across the street,” Bannister said. “I’ll drive over here, and you can follow me to my house. I’m only five minutes from here.”

  He gave Robin his address in case they split up. They took Roswell Road past the Rib Shack to Habersham and turned onto Valley Road. A minute later they pulled into his drive and waited for the gates to swing open. Robin followed him under a high canopy formed by six mature elms on each side of the drive, and parked in front of the house. Bannister parked in his three-car garage.

  Robin came around the corner carrying a black duffel bag. “Gosh, Ty, this is where you live?” Her eyes swept from left to right, noting the stone archways, tall leaded-glass windows, and the stone tower anchoring the right side of the building.

  “Yeah, this is where I live. For as long as I can remember, I thought it’d be neat to live in a huge stone house. I still feel that way. Come on, let’s go in through the garage.”

  “Nice car,” Robin said, pointing toward a silver Mercedes.

  “Yes. I don’t think you’ll see many of these. It’s a 1957 Mercedes 300 SL Gullwing. It belonged to my grandfather. When I was a kid, I loved the way the doors swung up into the air. My grandfather took me for a ride around his ranch whenever I went to visit. He knew I loved that car the same way he did, so he left it to me when he died.” Bannister took Robin’s bag.

  “It’s beautiful.”

  “If you want, we can go for a drive through the neighborhood after we eat.”

  Once inside, Bannister poured each of them a glass of orange juice and put the crème Brule French toast casserole in the oven. “How about we clean up while breakfast is baking? You can use the guest bathroom behind the den. There are plenty of towels, and feel free to use any of the stuff that’s on the counter. I put it there to be used, so don’t be bashful.”

  Twenty minutes later he was back in the kitchen, having changed into Levis and his favorite sweatshirt. The green color had faded years ago, and the white Dartmouth letters were barely visible. Robin came out in jeans and a black cashmere sweater. Her hair was still damp and her face was bare of makeup, except for some shimmering gloss on her lips.

  “Whatever you’re cooking smells great. And by the way, has anyone compared your guest bath with one in a five-star hotel? I can’t believe you had all those perfumes and colognes on the vanity.”

  “I didn’t do that. That’s Amelia. My housekeeper. I told her if I had guests, I wanted them to be treated like I’d like to be, so she had someone at Nordstrom’s pick out all that stuff. Besides, if someone forgets something, it’s nice to know they don’t have to worry about doing without.”

  The oven timer went off, and Bannister removed the French toast, which he set on the table with slices of cantaloupe and fresh strawberries.

  “I thought you might like the strawberries,” he said with a knowing smile as he poured them coffee.

  “One of my favorite foods.”

  The obvious flirtation thrilled him, but he was again struck with the idea that here he was, enjoying the luxury of his beautiful home, delicious food, and the company of a fascinating woman, when Cal was . . . he didn’t know where Cal was. He had hoped the race and his date with Robin would distract him from this feeling that he should be doing something more to find his friend. But these enjoyments only seemed to taunt him.

  While they were eating, he asked Robin to tell him about her family. She said her parents and younger sister lived in Palo Alto, and she was going to California to spend Christmas with them.

  He found himself already missing her.

  “Have some more,” he said.

  “This is so good. And your place is so beautiful, right down to the fresh flowers.”

  “You’d have to credit Amelia for that. But she knows what I like.”

  “On the job you seem so hard and professional. It’s nice to know you have some rounded edges.”

  Bannister unlocked the Gullwing and the doors swung up. He helped Robin into the passenger seat and showed her where the seatbelt latch was. He started the engine, which responded immediately with its throaty thrum.

  It was an unusual car, with its door sill armrest and the rear-view mirror mounted on the dashboard instead of stuck in the windshield. “It takes a little getting used to,” he said. “The car is meant for a racetrack or straight and level roads. It’s a little unpredictable under high-speed cornering.”

  They drove out onto Valley Road and went up and down the wide, gracefully curving streets of Buckhead. He was amused and gratified by her obvious enjoyment of the car.

  “Do you know how to drive a stick?” he asked.

  “Yep. My Jeep’s a manual,” Robin said.

  With that, he pulled over into a side road off Tuxedo Drive. He opened the doors and got out.

  “What are you doing?” asked Robin.

  “Giving you a chance to drive.”

  “I can’t drive this car. What if I hit something?”

  “Nonsense. It’s just a car. Come on, you’ll like it.”

  Robin climbed into the driver’s side, and after an adjustment to the seat and mirror, they took off. He could see the excitement in her face. She was a little tentative at first, but once she got the feel of the Gullwing and how it responded, she pulled it through a series of smooth turns and accelerations. He let her drive it back to the house and into the garage.

  “I notice the speedometer goes up to one-sixty,”
she said. “Does it really go that fast?”

  He just smiled.

  They went inside the house and Robin collected her things.

  “Thanks for sharing your morning with me, Ty,” she said. “I had a great time and a super breakfast. And I never dreamed I’d get to drive a car like that. What more could I ask?”

  “What more could I ask? A strenuous workout, a healthy breakfast, a fast ride—and all in the company of a beautiful woman.”

  “You’re sweet,” Robin said. She leaned in and gave him a hug, his second of the morning.

  “I guess I’ll see you at work,” she said.

  “You will.” Bannister watched her get into her Jeep. Robin waved out the window as she headed down the driveway. He carried Sunday’s copy of The Atlanta Journal-Constitution into the house and found the classifieds. The extortionist’s ad was printed correctly with no typos.

  Monday morning at eight-thirty, Special Agent in Charge Leon Brennan called Bannister, Stu Peterson, and Gary Witt into his office to discuss the Global Waters case. SAC Brennan had returned from the FBI Academy at Quantico. Brennan was an executive respected for his intellect as well as his common sense. Before he joined the FBI, he and his four brothers had run the family farm in Iowa. The Brennan family raised flowers and seeds, which they sold worldwide. Unlike a lot of farms struggling in the Midwest, theirs was successful. Leon was the youngest and went to college, then applied with the FBI to fight white collar crime. In his early Bureau years, he’d solved several major cases and rose fast through the investigative ranks. At forty-five, he was one of the youngest bosses in the Bureau and was considered by many to be on a short list for promotion to Assistant Director.

  With his steel-gray suit, white shirt with dark-striped tie, and gold-rimmed glasses, Brennan looked like a successful tax attorney. Unlike a tax attorney, however, Brennan smiled a lot, not because he was so happy, but because he knew it put people at ease. He was smiling when the three of them walked into his office.

  Following Witt into Brennan’s corner suite, Bannister thought about a quote from a salty agent who’d helped break him in a long time ago. It was one of Murphy’s laws, the one that said: “If there is a possibility of several things going wrong, the one that will cause the most damage will be the first one to go wrong.”

  “Have a seat, gentlemen,” said Brennan. “While in Virginia, I was kept informed of developments on this case. Let’s hope the poisoning part never happens.” Looking at Bannister, he added, “I appreciate your calling me this weekend with the latest lab input.”

  “No problem.”

  Brennan remained seated at his desk with his back to the glass wall overlooking the I-85 traffic heading to downtown Atlanta. Taking out his black-and-gold Mont Blanc pen, he looked down at a notebook to refresh his memory. “Gary, are you comfortable with not cutting the locals in on this?” he asked Witt.

  “I don’t see any problems, Leon,” Witt replied. “It’s our jurisdiction and we can’t risk a leak.”

  “And you’re going to coordinate everything from the command center, right?” Brennan asked.

  “Not exactly.” Witt cleared his throat before continuing. “I’m going to be the on-scene commander, and Bannister will be back here for coordination. He knows all the players and who to call if we need additional equipment or personnel.”

  Brennan’s smile disappeared. He looked at Bannister and Peterson, then back at Witt. When Witt looked down at the operational plan he had brought to the meeting, Brennan glanced at Bannister and nodded his head as if to signal he trusted his judgment.

  “Okay,” Brennan sighed. He said to Witt, “Just make sure there are no screw-ups on this thing. We don’t need bad press. And I don’t want headquarters breathing down my neck.”

  “We’re totally ready. They won’t get away,” Witt said.

  “Good. Make sure you leave me a current copy of the operational plan, and let me know if there are changes. I’ll be in the office Thursday afternoon.”

  As the three men stood up and filed out of the office, Witt turned and said to Bannister, “I hope I didn’t catch you off guard just now when I told the boss I’d be the on-scene commander instead of you.”

  Bannister didn’t answer. He was irritated with Witt but not surprised. The ASAC had a reputation for changing direction mid-stream. “We’ll pencil in the switch on the ops plan,” was all he said.

  For the next three days, FBI agents working the case had rehearsed their assignments and reviewed contingency plans. Now it was Wednesday afternoon and everything was ready. The money would be delivered by armored truck to Global within the hour. Bannister looked up at the large ceiling-mounted TV in the squad area. It was always tuned to CNN with the volume set low. The meteorologist was announcing tomorrow’s forecast for sunny skies and a high around fifty—optimum surveillance conditions.

  Bannister was at his desk, wrapping up loose ends. Stu stood in the doorway of his office with his hand resting high on the doorjamb. Instead of phoning agents to come to his office, Stu had a habit of looking out over the tops of the work stations and shouting out for whatever he wanted. When Bannister glanced his way, Stu waved him over.

  “Grab a seat,” Stu said as he sat down in his high-backed leather chair.

  When Bannister was settled, Stu began, “You know, Ty, the boss is well aware that you had to make decisions in the Corps and in the Bureau. The kind of decisions where lives are at stake.”

  “Then why didn’t he pull the plug on Witt’s grandstanding?” Bannister asked through clenched teeth.

  “Brennan still needs to back his ASACs. He let Witt do his bantam strut because he knows your plan for tomorrow is sound and you’ll make things work. But I don’t like the idea of Witt being at Global Headquarters calling the shots without one of us nearby to rein him in.” Stu crossed his arms and leaned forward with both elbows on his desk. “I’m hoping he’ll have the smarts to coordinate with you before making any harebrained decisions. I’ll make sure our people in the command center know you’re the one to contact first.”

  “Thanks. This isn’t an ego trip for either of us. If Witt would take a hands-off approach, we could make him famous.”

  “I tried to convince him to stay here in the office. I told him any major decision would be routed to him for approval, but he didn’t buy it. Then I tried a different tack.”

  “Which was . . .”

  “I told him if he stayed here he’d be bullet-proof if anything got screwed up. You’d be the fall guy.”

  “Thanks,” Bannister said wryly.

  “Not really, but that’s what I told him. I said if things went right, there’d still be room for him in the picture.”

  “How did he respond?”

  “He didn’t. He pulled rank and gave me an order. He’s going to run things from Global. You’re to be the coordinator. He mentioned something about the inspection team coming in and maybe second-guessing his leadership.”

  “What he should have learned about leadership is that you empower your qualified people and turn them loose to accomplish the mission. If they need support, provide it.” Bannister glanced up at the picture of Stu and the other US hostages on the day they were released after 444 days of captivity in Iran.

  “You and I know that,” said Stu. “Witt’s never been in the military or in harm’s way. I don’t even know if he’s supervised a serious case before. Put your disappointment aside and look at it this way. We’ve covered all the bases, minimized the risk to outside personnel, and we should be able to take these guys down at the right time,” he said.

  “I just wish he’d follow the three D’s of leadership like most Washington guys.”

  “What are those?” Stu asked.

  “Decide, delegate, and disappear!”

  Stu laughed. “So we’ll assemble here at seven-thirty in the morning. The tech guys will do their stuff with the money around nine, and then we’ll wait for the call.”

  On Thursday a
t 11:30 a.m., as Witt left to drive over to Global, Bannister called Adam Kush from the FBI’s operational center. Everything was ready at their end. The global positioning trackers and motion sensor had been concealed in the money and the bag. The five million in hundred dollar bills weighed seventy pounds, and the banded packages fit in a large canvas mason’s bag. The van was inside Global’s garage. Agent Campbell was behind the wheel and a SWAT agent was concealed in the back. The surveillance teams were stationed at prepositioned locations. The Bureau pilots were inside the FBI’s hangar chowing down on chili dogs and sodas one of the agents had brought back from The Varsity.

  “So are you ready for this?” Bannister asked Kush.

  “Ready as we’ll ever be. We’re using the conference room as our operations center. I’ve got to admit, the adrenaline is kicking in, and we haven’t even gotten the call yet. I just had to pop a couple of Tums.”

  “I know the feeling. Waiting around is the hardest part.”

  “What’s strange is Witt coming over here. I haven’t seen him for a year, and to be honest with you, we’re not exactly excited about his being on the scene. I’m sure there’s a story behind that.”

  “Keep my cell phone number handy.”

  “Don’t worry; your number’s programmed into my phone. Since your agents are here with the money and have rechecked everything, I’m cutting the armed guards loose.”

  “Remember, the cell phones you and agent Campbell have are identical, and all conversations are being relayed here to the command post. We’ll be listening to the audio live and recording it.”

  At 1:15 p.m. the extortionist called the number in the advertisement. Adam Kush didn’t wait for the second ring, and picked it up immediately.

  “This is the Ambassador,” said a female voice, using the prearranged introduction.

  “This is the Deputy,” Kush responded in the exact words the extortionist had requested.

  “Have your driver leave in two minutes and take 14th Street to Peachtree Street and turn left. Have him call this cell phone number as soon as he makes the turn onto Peachtree.” The caller read out the cell phone number and hung up.