by Jack Davis
Craig Lublin’s mood was seldom pleasant, even under what he would consider ideal circumstances. On days when he was under any type of stress or had to do something not to his liking, his already sour mood deteriorated rapidly. Wednesday started poorly and got worse—fast.
Lublin’s frustration that morning had to do with lack of sleep. After his last encounter with the agents, he decided to be better prepared. While he refused to admit he had taken the agents too lightly, he was determined to have the upper hand this time. As he lay in bed staring at the ceiling, he mentally went through the potential questions and scenarios. The absence of the annoying, uncouth agent was a relief.
I’ll be polite but firm and explain right up front I have to leave by eight. I’ll do a little mental sparring with Agent Swann if necessary, then give them a short statement about Antonescu.
Of course, I’ll reluctantly mention my suspicion that Mihai has a problem with pornography. For added believability I’ll say I’d like to avoid putting that in the statement, but that I thought the agents should know.
The internal conversation started positively enough at twelve-thirty a.m. after a productive session of WoW. By two a.m., Lublin was confident he had gone through all the possibilities. But now, he was annoyed with himself that he would get less than five hours of sleep.
The next morning, hitting the five-minute snooze button four times didn’t help matters. When his feet finally hit the floor, Lublin knew he’d have to hurry his shower and still not have time for breakfast before the agents arrived. He detested being rushed.
As he stood up and stretched, glancing out his window, he saw agents sitting in a car outside his house. They said seven-thirty; it’s not even seven-fifteen. Who shows up early? To Lublin, who was habitually late, someone showing up early was inconceivable, bordering on inconsiderate.
Calm down, everything is under control. They’re still in the car. He went through the plan once again as he watched the agents through the dirty, tan sheers.
It appeared the driver was eating something. Probably a doughnut, then as he pictured Agent Swann, he changed the order to some type of croissant, something with a little more class.
Since his initial encounter, he’d actually thought about Swann a few times. He liked that the government hired smart people to track down hackers. Swann seemed smart…for a government employee; he caveated the thought. He seemed like a worthy opponent, even though he was somewhat annoying in their first encounter.
All of Lublin’s grandiose thoughts vanished when he saw Kruzerski open the driver’s door. He felt his temperature rise, heart rate pick up, and temples start to throb. He didn’t take any satisfaction from having predicted the doughnut as he watched Kruzerski walk over and put a Dunkin’ Donuts bag in his garbage. Lublin noted the agent looking into the can before putting the lid back. What was he looking for? What kind of man looks through other people’s trash? That’s disgusting; he’s disgusting.
Lublin was nervous and that made him mad, which added to his nervousness, making him madder; it was a cycle. He looked for Agent Swann. He had been betrayed by his potentially friendly adversary. Then he saw the second agent, a large man getting out of the passenger side.
Starting down the stairs, Lublin tried to calm himself. A few deep breaths. As he opened the door, he heard Agent Kruzerski. “What’d I tell ya, all the lights are on.”
As the door opened, Kruzerski, in a tone that had too much familiarity for Lublin’s liking said, “Craig, this is Agent Greere.” He simultaneously barged into the living room, pushing Lublin’s hand off the doorframe as he walked past.
Lublin was at once furious, annoyed, and more nervous. Amazement followed as he watched Kruzerski act as if he owned the house by walking around and turning off lights. “Craig, we talked about this the other day. Global warning?”
The fact the ignoramus couldn’t even get the phrase correct aggravated Lublin. The man was the worst type of know-it-all, the kind who thought he knew something but didn’t—but he didn’t stop.
“How ’bout helpin’ the rest of us out and turnin’ the lights off occasionally? You must spend a small fortune just on bulbs.”
“Where’s Agent Swann?” Lublin blurted out, unable to contain an annoyed tone.
Agent Greere, still in the doorway, spoke for the first time. “Agent Swann is ill. As my colleague said, I’m Agent Ron Greere. I spoke to you on the phone. We just need a little of your time. Do you mind if I come in?”
Lublin was surprised by the intelligent sound and soothing tone of Agent Greere’s voice.
The fact he had asked to come in wasn’t completely lost on Lublin either. It was offset by Kruzerski on the other side of the room, turning off lights.
“Stop that!” Lublin snapped, looking at Kruzerski.
“Sorry, I just grew up poor and we’d always turn off lights when we left a room. It’s a habit. Seeing all your lights on drives me nuts. No harm in me turning ’em off; you said you had to leave by zero-eight-hundred and ya can’t leave ’em on all day.”
“Stop! I’ll take care of that before I leave. Just stop!”
“Okay, no need to thank me for tryin’ to help out a little,” said Kruzerski.
“Let’s get this over with,” said Lublin. “You have a document you want me to sign?”
Greere moved into the room as Lublin’s attention was diverted. “Sort of, we need to get a statement from you refuting Antonescu’s claims that he was doing work for you outside his job position’s description.”
“I have no idea what he hopes to gain by dragging me into his mess. The things he was saying on the phone were truly bizarre.”
“Yes, sir. But since it appears Antonescu is going to try some misdirection in his defense, we need to have a statement from you denying what he is alleging.” Greere shook his head. “We need to cover all the bases.”
“That makes sense….” Looking at Kruzerski and then back at Greere, Lublin asked, “Can I write something up later today, sign it, and send it to you?”
“I’m afraid that won’t work; it has to be witnessed by someone who can swear to it in court. Basically, one of us. We’ll sign that it was written in our presence and we can swear to it in court, that way you don’t have to be there. The AUSA needs it before he can go to the grand jury, which he’d like to do this afternoon. We need to get it done this morning.”
“What am I supposed to say in this statement?”
“Basically, who you are, what you do, your relationship with Antonescu as his supervisor, and then that you didn’t authorize him, or anyone for that matter, to do any work outside of the job description for which they were hired. It’ll probably be about a page, not more.”
“I see. I’ll go upstairs to my den, write something up on my computer, and then bring it down for all of us to sign.” Lublin turned toward the stairs.
“Mr. Lublin, we really need it on the standard Secret Service statement form,” said Greere, grasping at straws.
“That’s fine; I’ll adjust my printer so it aligns properly. It’s not a problem.”
Kruzerski came to the rescue. As Lublin went toward the stairs, the former Marine followed without a word. When Lublin realized he was being followed, he stopped.
“What are you doing?” The indignation in his voice was colossal.
“I’m comin’ up into your den with you while you write your statement. Officer safety requires we are with you while we’re in the house.”
Greere also moved toward the stairs as Kruzerski continued, “Too many cops lose their lives every year ’cause someone they trust gets outta sight. Next thing ya know BANG!” The volume and force with which Kruzerski made the sound made Lublin flinch. “The scumbag comes out with a shotgun and shoots the poor bastards sittin’ on the couch.”
Greere added to the story. “It is standard protocol.”
Standard protocol, my ass! There’s no way anyone is going upstairs. It’s bad enough this moron is turning off light
s like he owns the place. He is NOT going upstairs. I’ve had enough of being pushed around in my own home.
“No. You can’t come upstairs with me. Absolutely not!”
“Why not? You hidin’ something up there, or someone?” asked Kruzerski.
Lublin felt he was being baited. “No! It’s just…” He didn’t have a legitimate excuse that could trump their officer safety argument. He knew Kruzerski was only doing this to look upstairs. It was like the Dunkin’ Donuts bag—an excuse to look somewhere he didn’t have permission to look. Lublin knew there was no evidence, but just the thought of that Cretan looking around his library—his most personal space—and peering into the rooms they would pass getting there, the bathroom and his bedroom, using the excuse of turning off the lights to look into each—was too much. He wouldn’t allow it, but he didn’t know how to stop it. His head was pounding. He was frustrated.
Kruzerski stood there staring at him, waiting for an answer, his meaty fists on his hips in an impatient pose.
Greere threw Lublin a lifeline.
“Sir, why don’t we just have you fill out the statement form here in the living room? It will only take a few minutes longer. If you make a mistake, we’ll just cross it out and you initial it. It’ll go quick.”
It seemed like a reasonable compromise from a reasonable person. It brought Lublin’s anxiety level down by half. Greere took a pen out of his pocket and set it on the coffee table in front of the couch.
While Greere helped him through the statement, Lublin kept an eye on Kruzerski, who seemed somewhat disinterested in the writing. He sat on one of the matching living room chairs, mouth slightly agape, looking about the room.
He finished the statement at 8:08 a.m. and Greere apologized for keeping Lublin longer than anticipated as he witnessed the document and handed the pen to Kruzerski to do the same. They thanked Lublin and he was glad to watch them drive away.
As soon as the car was out of sight, Lublin went upstairs, took four aspirin, lay down, and covered his eyes. He would call the service desk when he woke up and tell them he was sick.
Handwriting Results (10/21/09, 0917 hours)
The agents also waited before they did anything. Once out of sight, Greere put the statement in an evidence envelope, signed and dated it. A faxed copy of the handwriting was in FSD within five minutes of Kruzerski and Greere arriving back at the police department. Morley had the original couriered to headquarters shortly after that. Within an hour he received a phone call from the SAIC of FSD; Morley put the conference room phone on speaker.
“The initial analysis shows the handwriting of Craig Lublin to be a match to the previously unknown handwriting from the signature card and rental car receipt from the Savannah murder case.”
There was an explosion of emotion in the police department.
The SAIC continued, “The handwriting is a probable match to the signature card and rental car receipt obtained from Cleveland.”
There was another spontaneous outburst before Morley spoke, “That’s fantastic, thanks. Once we make the arrest, we’ll get you more handwriting, that should make your job easier.”
“If you really want to make my job easier, get a confession.”
Morley laughed. “We’re working on it. If we get anything more from the Bureau on other related homicides, we’ll have additional unknown examples for you to compare.”
“The more, the better. Glad we can help. Happy hunting.”
Morley started making assignments. He asked Kruzerski and Murray to notify the agents in Savannah and Cleveland, and had Swann contact the AUSA. He didn’t say it out loud, but he would call Shaw.
The 1700 hours briefing was going to be interesting.
With all the excitement, Morley hadn’t noticed ASAIC Brown leave the room. During the HQ briefing later that day, he understood why, when NYFO SAIC Ferguson didn’t register surprise or excitement when told about the handwriting matches.
70 | Too Many Chefs
Johnson City, New York, 10/21/09, 1700 hours
Morley’s words to the group were prophetic. The adage about too many chefs spoiling the meal was as true in the law enforcement community as it was anywhere else.
When Morley informed Shaw of the handwriting matches, his FBI friend said he’d endured stiff questioning from his DC brass.
“When did you first find out about the case? was what they wanted to know. The general feeling at the Hoover Building is that the Service knew it was an FBI case all along but had run with it anyway. Even the most magnanimous of the Bureau hierarchy had a hard time believing the elements of the case played out like my official write-up. The majority are sure the Service knew about the killings from the beginning and had basically hidden evidence until the case was firmly in your court.”
“That’s bulls—”
“I know, I know. I’m just telling you the mood down in DC,” said Shaw. “They know as long as the case is seen as a success, their hands are tied, since the killer had flown beneath the Bureau’s radar for so long. But, if things go-south in the case, the gloves’ll come off and the recriminations are gonna be severe.
“To give you an idea of the importance FBI HQ is placing on the case, the Office of the Director called an emergency meeting this morning. The brass in attendance, one Associate Director, two Assistant Directors, four Deputy Assistant Directors, four SACs, four DSACs, four ASACs, and countless lower grades…and me.”
The “and me” made Morley laugh.
Shaw stated, “The official outcome of the meeting was a statement indicating—the Bureau is ready to come alongside the Secret Service in the investigation to provide any assistance needed and help bring it to a successful resolution.”
“Very lawyerly,” interjected Morley.
“I think you mean very political,” said Shaw. “As the meeting was wrapping up, I gave the standard, ‘If at the end of the call I can get the various working-level POCs to provide me their contact information, I’ll marry them up with their Service counterparts,’ to which my AD Investigations says, ‘Due to the magnitude and nature of the case and the partnership with the Service, all aspects will be coordinated through my office.’
“If you want help reading between those lines, it is, We don’t trust the Service or Shaw.”
“I’m really sorry about puttin’ you between your agency and me. I.—”
“Fuck them. The important thing is that this guy gets convicted. And ya know what, even if they want to try and fuck with me, what are they gonna do, send me to New York?”
Both men laughed, knowing that their agencies held that over the heads of agents throughout other field offices.
“Anyway, brother, be careful from here on out, every decision you make is gonna be scrutinized six ways to Sunday.”
“Thanks, I’ll be careful.”
During the evening telecon, after the line was confirmed secure, people started introducing themselves.
Morley tuned out the progression of brass giving their acronyms, names, agencies, and offices. He knew it’d go on for at least ten minutes. He decided to put the time to productive use.
He’d been working on a vexing problem most of the afternoon—who should interview Lublin, assuming he agreed to talk.
Morley went through his options.
Swann was a given in the equation. Morley needed someone to be able to match Lublin on a technical basis. With Swann in the room, balance ruled out Greere or Posada.
Scott was the best pure interviewer of anyone and would have made an excellent choice, but Morley thought his step-by-step style would be too aggravating for Lublin.
Morley’s next thought was Kruzerski. Morley knew the former Marine’s presence rattled Lublin. The idea of the suspect being uncomfortable did have its advantages. The downside was Lublin’s animosity toward Kruzerski might make him lawyer-up immediately.
While Peyton had practically begged to be part of the interview team, Morley was sure Lublin wouldn’t let anyone
try to pry open the rusty doors to his psyche.
Morley was still stumped when he heard, “Agent Kay Pencala, USSS, NYFO, Forensics.”
He instantly knew who the best “second man” in the room would be—a woman.
Pencala had been making men, Morley included, say and do things they hadn’t planned on as long as he’d known her. While it was a long shot, she might have an effect on Lublin. Kay was as easy to talk to as she was pleasant to look at. If there was anyone Lublin would open up to, it was Pencala.
His email was to the point. You’ll be conducting the interview of Lublin with Doc. Be here by 0800 hours tomorrow morning. Will brief you then. He added the address of the hotel and had just hit send when the introductions ceased.
“Hello again everyone, for those of you on the phone, this is AT Morley of the Secret Service. All of you have the most up-to-date case briefing, so I won’t go over that. If there are questions regarding that document, stay on the line after this briefing and I’ll try and answer them. Other than that, I’ll brief the tactical plan we’ve developed for tomorrow, then I’ll turn it over to AUSA Carpenter to provide a rundown of where we are in terms of the prosecutable aspects of the case.”
The plan was straightforward and even with an occasional comment or interjection, briefing it went quickly. No one expected Lublin would provide any resistance or information. The house didn’t pose a problem—it was under surveillance—and from everything they knew, there was nothing about it that should cause an entry team a problem.
It was understood that the search of the areas on the SUNY network where Lublin had access and any other networks was going to be laborious. Based upon everything they’d seen, they could anticipate logical booby traps. Swann, Posada, and Greere assured the group they could handle anything of that nature and made the point they should be the only ones to touch Lublin’s electronic media.
“I will forward everyone on the distribution list a copy of our Tac Plan and minutes from this meeting.” Morley looked around the room.
