by Wolf Riedel
Because the CENTCOM connections were from the Army, CID was added to the joint task force and an undercover operative was stood up with each of MacDill’s AFOSI and Lakeland’s CID to delve further into the target organizations. Each operative had been inserted as a clerk; each at the center of their respective target organization, each working in the background, and each easy to reshuffle from office to office as needed.
“Been getting some vibes about that dead reservist from Ocala,” said Lucky. “You working that?”
“Ocala PD is primary. And the County Sheriff’s looking into the missing girls,” said Mark.
Lucky took a pull on his Coke as he stared out the window. “Fuckin’ shame,” he said after a pause. “Nothin’ good’s comin’ for them, that’s for sure.” He paused again.
“There’s some noise going around that your boy was into guns,” he said at last.
“We’ve got some info that he was into buying and selling at gun shows. We’re all looking for records.”
“I think it’s more than that,” said Lucky shaking his head. “Word’s that he was offering full auto AR-15s.”
“What else?”
“That’s it, man. I’m workin’ drugs; not guns. All I know about guns is what I was taught on AIT and at CIDSAC.” He’d pronounced it Sid Sack—the CID Special Agents’ Course. “You want I should dig around some more?”
“If you can do it subtly without fucking up your primary, then yeah. We could use some more leads. At the moment we’ve got no clue as to the motive behind this. When Tony gets back from leave I’ll let him know I’ve added this to your tasking.” Tony was Staff Sergeant Tony DiAngelo, Lucky’s handler and due back from vacation the next day.
“Okay then. I’ll mention it to Ezzy when next I see her.” Sergeant Ezmeralda “Ezzy” Zorrila was Lucky’s AFOSI counterpart embedded within 6 MXS. “She’ll need to know that I’m spending some time on this.”
Mark gave it a thought and determined that having AFOSI in the loop had no down-side. “Yeah. Do that,” he said. “In the meantime I’ll have someone back at the det do some research on what it takes to make an AR-15 full auto.”
The sun had set by the time Mark had dropped Lucky off within walking distance of his car and made his way back home to his home in Lakeland. The rambling bungalow sat on Edgewater Beach Drive on the southern edge of Lake Parker. The word beach was a misnomer; none of the houses had what anyone would call a beach. Most had some form of seawall or a grassy, reedy shoreline that bordered on the green algae filled waters of the lake. Several, maybe a quarter of the waterfront homes, made up for this by having pools encased in mosquito-proof mesh enclosures.
Mark had rented the property from a former Lakeland Det agent who had been posted away but was holding on to the property as his retirement home in a few years. The arrangement was mutually beneficial. The owner had tenants who he knew would keep the property well maintained and in exchange for which, Mark and Kristin, were benefited by a reasonable rent in an otherwise expensive real estate market. The result was that they were able to salt away a fair amount of cash each month from his salary and housing allowance and Kristin’s shift work as a supervising ER nurse at the eight hundred and fifty bed Lakeland Regional Health Center. He figured they’d be easily able to afford a down-payment at their next post. Deciding where that would be was still a bit premature. They had at least a few more years here.
Kristin and the almost five-year old Max had finished their supper before Mark had gotten home so he took advantage of the hour before Max’s bed-time to get down on the floor for some serious LEGO construction. They’d weaned him off the bigger DUPLO kits by starting him off with, what else, a LEGO police station. A bit advanced for his age but he’d taken to the work with a will and as long as Mark kept feeding him the right bricks, Max was able to follow the instructions to put them together the right way. Construction was frequently interrupted with play, especially throwing the scruffy looking bad guy figurines into the tiny jail cells; a task Max took particular delight in much to Mark’s amusement and satisfaction. He’d been so immersed in the activity that he hadn’t noticed the phone ringing until Kristin tapped him on the shoulder with it.
“A Sergeant Dunn wants to talk to you.”
Mark took the phone.
“Chief Winters,” he said.
“Mark? It’s Gary. I think you guys might want to come back up here.”
— § —
PART 2
CHAPTER 11
CR 484, Marion County, Florida
Tuesday 06 Mar 07 0930 hrs EST
Sal looked north about a hundred meters to the tree line from where they had first walked into the clearing. He turned and then looked south to another scrubby treeline maybe twenty meters away. He held up the topographical map in his left hand, measured it with a protractor and said, “I make it about seven hundred and fifty meters from here to the Lewis car’s dump site.”
“That sounds about right,” said Dunn.
Mark had decided to wait until daylight before coming back to Ocala and he and Sal had just joined Dunn and Harris. They were standing on a dirt track that bisected the lower end of a small elliptical clearing siting just south of the county road. A short grizzled octogenarian in tan Carhartt overalls and work boots stood off a few meters to the side. Further away, against the tree line a team of coveralled crime scene techs were beavering away amongst the trees.
“How’d we miss this?” asked Mark.
“I don’t think we did,” said Dunn. He called to the old guy. “Mister McAllister! Could you come over?”
The old man strode over. Looks spry for an old man, thought Mark. He gave the man a closer look; creased chestnut skin evidenced many years in the open under the blistering Floridian sun, the coveralls and boots, however, were tidy and clean showing either a penchant for neatness or perhaps his being retired from day-to-day farming.
“Mister McAllister,” said Dunn. “This is Chief Warrant Officer Winters and Staff Sergeant Watts from the Army’s police.” Winters held out his hand and shook the old man’s gnarled paw. He had a surprisingly firm grip. “Mister McAllister runs the orchard across on the other side of the road.”
“You guys must be CID,” said McAllister. “You can’t be regular MPs with those suits.” It had been a bit chilly that morning so Mark and Sal had opted to wear their suit jackets rather than their light rain jackets.
“You’ve served, Mister McAllister?” asked Mark.
“Call me George,” he replied. “Oh yeah. Korea. I was with the 3rd of the 24th Infantry from Pusan right to the end.”
Sal contemplated for a moment. “The 24th? Wasn’t that one of the Buffalo Soldier outfits?”
“Yup. The outfit went back to the post-civil war days fighting Indians out on the frontier. During War Two it served in the Pacific and ended up in Okinawa afterwards where I joined it just before we went over to Korea. We got an ROK Presidential citation for the fight at Pusan but then took an awful shit-kicking when the Chinese counter-attacked. Bad gear, bad support and bad leadership.” A brief frown crossed his face. “They disbanded the outfit later that year. I finished off my time and then got out and took up farming down here. Both my boys served in ’Nam and I had a grandson in Iraq. They’re all farming with me now over yonder.” He pointed back across the road. “Apples, peaches and tons of blueberries.”
“How’d you find . . .,” Sal started.
“The bodies?” McAllister replied, his mood changing suddenly from animated to solemn at the recollection of what had brought them all here. “Well, I guess it’s because of my dogs. I’ve got two Border Collies and take them for a long walk on this side of the road every evening. We’ve got a lot of land on the other side but I don’t like having them running around in amongst the plants; there’s machinery in there they can get hurt on and nobody wants blueberries that dogs have pissed on ya’ know.”
Mark and Sal nodded respectfully.
“So every e
vening around six I take them out for a long walk down the trails over here.” He looked at Sal and said as if divulging a shared secret, “We miss the news that way. Nuthin’ but bullshit on the news these days, but we get back in time for the good shows.” Sal responded with a knowing nod.
“Anyway,” he continued. “We crossed the road over to the west and then walked down to and along this trail when the dogs suddenly went nuts and took off into the bush right there.” He pointed to where the techs were working.
“I called them back but they just wouldn’t come so I went in after them and found . . . well, I’ll let you tell me what I found but I’ve seen burned bodies before so I was pretty damn sure it wasn’t no animals. I called your guys.” He nodded toward Dunn.
“They were still smoldering when he found them,” interjected Dunn.
Mark nodded. “Did you see any sign of fire earlier in the day?” he asked McAllister.
“Can’t say I did,” he replied. “If I had I would have called the fire department. There’s no houses right here so it’s not like it would have been a neighbor burning trash in a barrel. Around here we take brush fires seriously. Nah,” he shook his head. “I spent most of the afternoon working inside one of our greenhouses. I didn’t see it.”
Dunn held out his hand. “Thanks George. You can head back to the house. If we need anything further we’ll give you a call.”
The old guy took the hand. “Hope I don’t see anything like that again,” he said and walked back across the clearing with his head down.
Dunn watched him go and then unslung the digital camera that had hung from a strap around his left shoulder. “This is what he found,” he said as he started to cycle the camera through a number of flash photos that had been taken in the late dusk and early night. The picture showed in graphic detail two burned bodies virtually lying on top of each other. One on its back, knees flexed and arms bent at the elbows and pointing upward. The other partially collapsed over the first. Both showing skin and flesh charred black. Around them were signs of scorched earth and vegetation.
“Our guys figure from the smell that a petroleum accelerant was used,” said Dunn. “The ME’s already taken them away for an autopsy and will confirm that as well as cause of death and identity.”
“Is there any question about who they are?” asked Sal.
“It would be the biggest damn coincidence in the world if it wasn’t. We’re not missing any other kids and these both looked female and about the right size. We’ll be able to confirm real easy by way of DNA. Velia will be doing the autopsies tomorrow and she expects we’ll have the DNA results back in a week; give or take.”
“Despite the extensive charring, the burning looks pretty superficial to me,” said Mark. “No real attempt to dispose of the bodies but just to destroy surface evidence.”
Dunn nodded. “And the fire was recent. They weren’t here when we were looking at the car. At least they hadn’t been burned then and I doubt if they had been left there unburned. My guys did walk the area pretty extensively and we had two guys who walked these trails with a dog. There was nothing. I think the odds are that the bodies were brought back and then burned rather than having been here all along. The autopsy will probably let us know.”
“Did anyone notice the fire at all?” asked Sal.
“My guys are still canvassing the neighborhood but so far nothing. We’ll let you know,” he waved his hand toward the techs. “We’ll let you know what these guys find. You heading back to Lakeland?”
Mark shook his head. “No,” he said. “We’ve got another interview to do in town.”
First Sergeant Emmet Nordell was a bull of a bald man. Six feet of muscle crammed into too-tight ACUs. Sleeves—rolled contrary to regulations—exposed hard knotted forearms well inked. He sat rocked back in a chrome and black leatherette executive chair with his feet, in what looked to Mark like a pair of Merrell Sawtooths, crossed at the ankle on top of his steel pedestal desk. When not in uniform, Nordell wrestled eighteen wheelers for one of North America’s largest trucking companies whose southeastern-most terminal was located in Ocala.
“What can I tell you about Jim?” he asked rhetorically. “Good guy. Worked hard. Nice family. Fucking shame what happened to him.”
They’d established that Nordell had been on a run up to Toronto. Straight up the I-75 and the 401 and back again. A semi-trailer load of seafood that had been short-hauled to Ocala from Tampa by another trucker and then taken the rest of the way north by Nordell’s truck. The return load had been thirty tons of frozen beef brought in and transferred to another truck five hours earlier that day and probably already undergoing breaking bulk in a warehouse in Miami. News of Lewis’s death hadn’t reached him until late the day before.
“Can you think of anyone at all that might have had it out for him or his family?” Mark asked.
“Shit no. Like I said, a great trooper. As was Carlie. And who’d want to hurt the girls?” he shook his head. “As soon as I heard. I called around to some of the guys on his team who knew him better than me but no one has a clue. I’ll give you a list of their names and addresses.” He paused in thought. “Nah. I got nothing.”
Mark waited to see if anything further came out. The silence grew.
“We understand he was working at CENTCOM on weekends,” he said. “What’s your understanding about that?”
“Easy. He needed more cash so we got him extra jobs wherever we could. CENTCOM needed extra computer guys. Hell they’re like a black hole these days, sucking up any spare Guard or Reserve guys wherever they can. Being this close to them is great for our guys.”
“Any particular reason Lewis needed extra cash?”
Nordell contemplated that one. “Best I know they were at the edge of their mortgage. Neither of their jobs were big moneymakers and, quite frankly, Carlie had pretty expensive tastes for herself and the girls. I got kids too; they ain’t cheap these days. Everything they do—and they do lots—costs money. Jim was on the leading edge whenever the talk turned to high spending families.”
Sal gave Mark a look.
“What do you know about Jim’s buying and selling small-arms.”
“He did that a lot. Whenever he could he’d be making his way around the state and buying them up, doing modifications, selling them for a profit.”
“What type of modifications did he make?”
Nordell glanced down. Sal again gave Mark a look.
“Rails, lasers, scopes. Things like that,” replied Nordell.
“What about full-auto AR-15 conversions?” asked Sal.
“Who told you about that?”
“What do you know about it?” asked Mark.
Nordell paused. “I’ve heard about it,” he said at last.
“Did he make you one?” asked Sal.
“Shit no,” said Nordell quickly. “There’s no way I could afford one of those. And even if I could my wife would kill me if I spent that much on one. I get to shoot full-auto M4s anytime I want to. I got no need for owning a fuckin’ AR-15.”
“How much are we talking about?”
“You can’t buy a full auto AR these days. They go back to the late 1950’s and basically became the military M16. It was pretty easy to make an old AR-15 full auto. But in the 1980s the laws were changed so that the bolt carrier groups are no longer interchangeable and conversions are only allowed in very special circumstances. The converted ARs are very pricey now. I hear you can get as much as fifteen, twenty grand for one while the semi auto sells for about one grand.”
“What was Lewis selling his for?” asked Sal.
“I got no idea,” said Nordell. “We’re talking rumors here.”
“What were the rumors?”
Nordell paused. “I heard twelve grand.”
“Know anyone who bought one?” Sal asked.
Nordell’s eyes became hard. “No,” he said.
Sal pulled the SUV into the drive-thru of a Burger King a few blocks away from the
Ocala Armory.
“Couple of Whoppers, an onion rings, a large fries and two Diet Coke’s,” Sal shouted into the drive-thru’s speaker. He ran up the window and drove forward in the lineup.
“Nordell’s a lying prick,” Sal said. “The guy knows a lot more about the full auto’s than he lets on about.”
“No shit, Kemosahbee,” said Mark. “Problem’s going to be finding out just how much he knows and who else knows anything. These guys are masters at circling around the brotherhood. I’ll lay you any money that the moment we left there the calls started going out and by now everybody is burying their rifles and ammo somewhere in the woods in mylar bags or PVC pipes or Monovaults.”
“Maybe we’ll be lucky and find videos of them on the rifle range. These guys always take videos when they do their mad-minute shit on the ranges.” Sal pulled ahead as the line slowly inched its way forward to the take-out window.
“What gets me,” said Mark, “is that so far we haven’t found any sign of a shop where Lewis did his conversion work. I don’t know much about the job but you probably need some precision tools and equipment; tap and die stuff, clamps, screwdrivers and wrenches. All I’ve seen is the usual household stuff. Nothing that one could call precision.”
“So there’s got to be another site somewhere,” said Sal.
“Or another person with a shop.” Mark handed Sal money for his share of the meal as they pulled up to the window. Sal took the drinks and handed them to Mark and then placed the sack with the food down on the SUV’s console.
“Just pull over up there,” said Mark. “We might as well eat before we hit the highway.”
The question of how to move forward on this issue was troubling Mark and he needed some time to think it through.
Sal parked the car and handed Mark one of the burgers placing the fries and rings on the console. “I sometimes think that drinking Diet Coke with one of these things is just being hypocritical,” he said unwrapping the Whopper.