Allies

by Wolf Riedel

  Dunn wasn’t having any part of it.

  Maybe she’s still alive,” he said. “But even the dumbest guy should be able to figure out that there’d be an autopsy and that we’d eventually catch on.”

  “Life’s hard,” said Anderson. “It’s even harder if you’re stupid.”

  “John Wayne,” said Mark.

  “What?”

  “That’s a John Wayne quote.”

  “All this time that I’ve used it I never knew that,” said Anderson.

  “So why’s this guy doing this. If he knows he’s not going to fool us who’s he trying to fool and why?” said Sal.

  “And where did he get access to a little black girl to swap out for Megan?” asked Mark.

  “I guess that’s going to be our job,” said Dunn. “I’ll get Phyllis on that and check out any missing African-American girls in the age range of what—eleven to thirteen? Yeah eleven to thirteen.”

  “Looks like you should be able to adjust your perp profile. Ones that go bi-racial should now be in the special consideration category,” added Mark.

  “Yup,” said Dunn. “This actually moves us away from a couple of guys we’ve been doubling down on because they had a particular attraction to blonde and white.”

  Anderson picked at a few more fries on his plate and swirled them heavily in ketchup before pushing them into his mouth.

  “What about you guys?” he said to Mark. “What have you got on the go.”

  “We’re staying on the guns angle,” he said. “We’re getting the vibe that our boy may have been involved in some higher end conversion of firearms to full-auto. Sal’s got some more financials to dig into.”

  “Jeez. I don’t know,” said Dunn. “That’s got to be a long shot. I mean with three kids now and the clear sex angle there’s got to be a pedophile behind this shit. The gun thing is just a red herring. You guys are wasting your time.”

  “Well,” said Mark. “Phyllis and you are already covering that angle and you’re the experts at it. Sal and I know guns so we’ll just stay with that.”

  “I’ll do those financials,” Sal said. “I’ll do that just as soon as I can get today out of my head.”

  CHAPTER 17

  James West Army Reserve Center, Lakeland, Florida

  Thursday 08 Mar 07 1400 hrs EST

  Mark felt drained.

  There was no reason why he should be; the morning had been fairly light work. While Sal had been running the Lewises’ financials, Mark had taken the opportunity to review the other ongoing investigations in the office. Two developing drug cases at SOUTHCOM, a senior army officer who had assaulted a bartender at a military function in Orlando when he was told he had been cut off, and a sexual assault case at a facility in Miami. One after the other the investigators had briefed him on the course of their investigations and one after the other he provided his guidance and direction.

  On the other hand, he hadn’t been able to sleep the previous night. There had been short bursts when he thought he might have nodded off but his dreams had kept bringing him back to that steel examination table in Leesburg. Outside, as the hours wore on, the noises of the night traffic had diminished to a point where they had almost completely disappeared. He knew that he was in trouble when slowly the road noises started to rise again, the product of the first of the morning shift workers making their way from and to work.

  Throughout the night, the two small bodies, savaged first by the perp who had violated and killed them and then again through the intrusive autopsy procedures that they had been subjected to, continued to pray on his thoughts. In frustration he had turned on the light and the TV in the bedroom and started to read a novel while a muted Friends episode played mindlessly in the background. That’s how Kristin had found him when she returned home from her own night shift a few minutes after six. Dawn was breaking and the birds were starting their incessant day’s chirping.

  A message slip on his desk that morning advised him that Harris had tracked down and made contact with an aunt who was Emma’s nearest living relative and who would eventually claim her and her parents’ bodies for a proper funeral. It had every likelihood of becoming the largest funeral ever for the City of Ocala.

  Lunch had been a baloney sandwich and an apple brought from home in a sack. While eating he’d tried a few times to concentrate on a report he had been trying to read but by the time he’d caught himself reading the same paragraph for the sixth time he’d just flung the thing into the furthest corner of the room.

  “That’s real mature,” said Sal from the doorway.

  “Screw it,” Mark replied. “I might as well go home and drink.”

  “I tried that last night when I got home,” Sal said as he walked into the room placed a stack of accordion folders on the floor and swung his leg over the back of one of the chairs before finally settling down and putting his feet up on Mark’s desk. “Roxy was game for a while but got a little pissed off when she started falling behind after five beers.”

  “Didn’t get the same chance,” interjected Mark. “Kristin had a shift last night so I was left with Max who’s not so good at holding his liquor.”

  Sal laughed. “How is the little guy?”

  “Good. Good.” Mark got up and recovered the report and tossed it casually back into his in-basket before reclaiming his seat. His feet joined Sal’s on the desk.

  “So?” he asked pointing at the accordion folders on the floor next to Sal’s chair. “Anything worthwhile in all that shit?”

  “Yeah. I think there is but we’ll need to get more information yet.”

  “What have you got so far?”

  “Well, for starters, the Lewises kept several separate and joint bank accounts. The wife had a checking account where her paychecks were deposited to. There was a regular stream of checks and ATM withdrawals that seem household related; grocery stores, gas, small meals. It was running pretty close to the line by the time the next paycheck came in.

  “His paycheck from his civilian job always went into their joint account and out of that they made both check and direct deposit payments for taxes, utilities, mortgage, insurance, health care, credit cards, other run-of-the-mill type of stuff. That account had a cushion of maybe a thousand bucks from month-to-month.”

  “Anything for the guns?” asked Mark.

  “I’m getting to that,” said Sal. “Before I do you should know that they had three savings accounts; two had exactly the same amounts deposited each month—two hundred bucks—and I’d guess these are college funds for the girls and stood at a total of sixty-four hundred each. The third was almost empty. Two years ago it had been at ten thousand but had been gradually whittled down in spurts.

  “The last account was a checking account in his name. This one is a strange one in that it was tied to a separate VISA card which he would pay off monthly from the account. The VISA payments were for mail order guns and gun parts; maybe six or seven thousand a month.”

  “Where does he get the money from for that account?”

  Sal shook his head from side-to-side. “Dunno,” he said. “They were all cash deposits that were made usually on the first and third Wednesday of each month.”

  “Any offsetting transfers from any of the other accounts?”

  “Nope. But the account would grow over the year and several times a year he would draw off funds that would go by check into IRAs that they had.”

  “IRAs?”

  Sal nodded. “Yeah. The last two years those had been building. Before that not so much.”

  “Debts?”

  “Yup. Mortgage on their house. They’d bought it and financed almost the whole thing. There’s four hundred grand outstanding on it. On top of that both their cars were financed through the car dealerships.

  “One final thing. The joint account was getting pretty regular cash deposits as well. If the account dropped to below five hundred there’d suddenly be a cash deposit of one or two grand to beef it up. Not on a regular s
chedule but regularly as it dropped below five hundred.”

  “Cash, again?”

  “Yup. Cash,” Sal said. “It’s never enough to get the bank excited but it’s from an unexplained source. The thing is it’s a comfortable amount but it’s not indicative of big profits.”

  “Unless he’s got another place that he’s hiding cash,” observed Mark.

  “There’s that explanation. Or, alternatively, it’s a modest business he has going.”

  “Or he’s just a small part of someone else’s not so modest business.”

  “There’s always that,” conceded Sal.

  “Any idea from the parts purchases as to whether he’s doing full autos?”

  Sal nodded. “Based on what you gave me about the parts needed for conversions there were definitely purchases of parts that you would need to use for that. Incidentally Florida doesn’t have any licensing requirements for dealing in firearms but Lewis did have a Federal Firearms License from the ATF that authorizes him to deal in firearms.”

  “Anything in the way of records on the type of volume he’s doing?” asked Mark.

  “Nope. He declared about four thousand in net profits from gun sale to the IRS but I guess he wouldn’t be the first guy to under report his income. Beyond the mail-order parts invoices and payments there weren’t any records. Since we’re being told he spent a lot of time at gun shows, there should be a lot more records. The parts volume alone suggests that a higher volume was involved even if they weren’t full auto conversions. If he’s doing full autos then there should be a ton more records and cash somewhere.”

  “Not to mention a workshop to do the stuff.”

  “Yup.” Agreed Sal. “If you ask me then what I think we’ve got here is a strawman.”

  Mark had sent Sal off for the rest of the afternoon to follow up with whatever dealers and suppliers that he could using the records available until each and every avenue reached its respective dead end. He’d finally returned to the report in his in-basket when the phone rang.

  “Lakeland CID, Chief Winters,” he answered.

  “Mark, my man. It’s Dave,” said the voice on the other end of the line. Mark was hard pressed to put a face to the name and voice at first and then it came to him; Dave Galloway the resident CID agent in Kandahar that he had been trying to reach.

  “Dave. Thanks for calling me back.” He did some quick math in his head and came up with the calculation that it must be very late in the evening for Dave to be returning the call. “What’s the matter. You couldn’t get to sleep?”

  Galloway laughed. “No it’s just been a long day out here. I just got back in from FOB LAGMAN. Having a little contractor issue up there. Thought I’d clear up a few things on my desk before I hit the rack and while you guys back home were still at your desks. So what can I do you for?”

  “Just some information if you have any.” Mark paused a second to arrange his thoughts. “One of the organizations I support is SOCCENT who is doing an Article 15-6 on that incident a few days ago with the Marines. The commander down here was interested in finding out whether or not we have a CID investigation going.”

  “That thing up in Nangarhar? That’s not part of my bailiwick so I don’t know but I can find out for you tomorrow, if that’s good enough?”

  “Sure. That would be fine.”

  “My guess is that we’re not. If it’s Marines then they should be bringing in NCIS to be do that.”

  “That’s okay. Just so long as I can get back to my people here with a clear yes or no as to CID. Got one more question for you.”

  “Shoot.”

  “We’ve got a second Article 15-6 this time about army special forces in Zabul.”

  “That would have to be the PB POWDER bunch?”

  “Yeah,” said Mark with some surprise. “You got a file open?”

  “Nope but I’ve heard about them. Nothing concrete or anything clear enough to open a case on but people always roll their eyes when the place gets mentioned. Who’s doing the investigation? TF 31? “

  “Nope. They’re sending down a colonel from SOCCENT. A Canadian guy named Richter.”

  “Shit no kidding. I know him. He was down here during my last tour here.”

  “I’ll let him know that you’re there. He’ll undoubtedly go to Kandahar and may want to drop around to see you.”

  “Happy to give him a cup of coffee but otherwise I don’t have much else to offer.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Ma’Sum Ghar, Panjwayi District, Kandahar

  Friday 09 Mar 07 0110 hrs AFT

  The smell of the town was well behind him. Here the air was cleaner; the fresh smell of the bare rock and earth, untainted by night soil or rotting vegetation. Ahead of them the bright moonlight illuminated the bright gray rocks and crags of the mountain. A few days before the moon had been full but was now starting to wane. Still for the most part of the night, the moon would be above and behind them. Their shadows would be short and blend in amongst those of the crags. Normally the enemy’s night vision devices benefited from the moon’s light but tonight there might be a disadvantage for them since the illuminated parts of their bodies would be facing away from their enemies who would be staring directly into the light.

  Norowz’s heart wasn’t in it on this attack. It was being prosecuted simply to satisfy Dadullah that they were doing something aggressive besides mining the trails around their area and conducting intermittent sniper and mortar ambushes.

  Personally, he hadn’t been to this site since the beginning of Sha’ban of the previous year when he had been wounded in an attack on the Canadians a few weeks before their massive offensive in Panjwayi. The wound had been less serious than first imagined; a large splinter had entered his side but had missed anything vital. He’d been evacuated in a pickup truck to a hospital in Quetta but recovered quickly enough to help in the defence of Panjwayi against the Canadian and American offensive that had followed.

  Now he was back on this same mountain—almost at the same spot—this time to face an even larger and better equipped foe than the first time but with many less of their own men. The last time hundreds of his brothers had attacked a small mechanized company and been heavily thrown back with many martyred. This time, one sole delgai from the village of Alkozi; a mere twenty-four fighters in addition to Norowz’s small command element.

  The plan was simple. Launch several RPG volleys and some machine gun fire toward the base and then pull back into Bazaar-e-Panjwayi, return the weapons to their caches and settle in with family relatives until the next day when they would walk back to their own homes having earned their pay for the month and done their duty to God.

  The routes in and out were well known to all the men; they’d walked these mountains all their lives. More importantly some of them had been hired as labor by the Canadians to move gravel and fill sandbags as they expanded the positions during the past winter. Yesterday a few of his people had walked both sides of the ridge in daylight taking note of the positions and their fields of fire. Their observations had gone into finalizing the plan the previous evening.

  Norowz had a nagging feeling that they were rushing things too much but he simply couldn’t see how delaying several more days would make the raid any more effective. Truth be told he had become angry with Emal and in the midst of the anger he had committed his people to this fight.

  “We can’t go in any further, Commander,” whispered the delgai’s commander.

  Norowz held his peace. He contemplated their position.

  “Just up ahead is a new sangar with a machine gun that covers this wadi, Commander.”

  “Canadian or Tajik, Rahim?” Norowz asked. Many of the ANA soldiers in the area were Tajiks from the North.”

  “I don’t think Canadian, Commander. Not enough aerials and no overhead cover.”

  Norowz grunted his assent. That sounded logical. The ridgeline overlooking the FOB below was ringed by outposts, some Canadian others Afghan Army or Police.
In order of development and protection, the Canadians made the most effort and the police the least.

  “Are you sure that they aren’t asleep?”

  “No I am not. It’s possible,” whispered Rahim.

  “Push an RPG and a machine gun team forward to cover it,” said Norowz. “Tell them they are to open fire only on one of two circumstances. First, immediately if the position opens fire and second, immediately that they hear the rest of the delgai begin to engage the main position.”

  “It shall be done, Commander.”

  “Good. As soon as they are in place lead the rest of your men past the position and set them up on the ridge.”

  “Yes, Commander.”

  Norowz laid back and waited for Rahim to finish the deployment. It rankled him. Not so much that Rahim had come back to tell him about the sangar. That was appropriate. What bothered him that the man should have had a plan put together to recommend to Norowz by the time that he came back to him rather than to let Norowz solve the problem for him.

  Norowz blamed himself for the situation. True, they had lost many of his best men last summer, but he should have taken more time to train the new leaders in their jobs. At the end of this mission he would have Tofan prepare a plan for that. It shouldn’t be too hard. The two of them had done it many times before. He wasn’t sure when they had gotten complacent but this incident showed him that they had indeed been failing in their leadership role.

  The minutes passed quickly. Around him everything was quiet. To his rear he could see the dim outlines of the villages and compounds in the valley below. No lights were visible. No sound save for the yapping of the occasional pack of dogs could be heard.

  Out of the corner of his eye he caught a movement as the delgai started on its way further up the draw to the crest. One of his command team gave him a gentle nudge with his hand. Time to move on, he thought.

  It was less than five minutes of slow but steady climbing when they reached the area that Norowz had designated as his command post. The sangar had remained quiet. Ahead of him Rahim was positioning the main firing line. This would be a simple position. A single line with no depth, no reserve and minimal flank guards. Rahim had his orders. Start the attack as soon as he was ready.