Stolen Identity

by Michael W. Sherer

  “We wanted to speak with Rachel Calhoun,” Roberts said, “and hoped her father might be here, too.”

  “Been no mention of her father,” Marquette said in a low voice, “but you can listen in on Deputy Clatterbuck’s questioning. Be mindful where you step.”

  He shifted to let her pass, but kept his gaze on Hunt. Roberts stepped past and stopped to listen.

  “Not a lot I can tell you yet,” Marquette said. “We’ve only been on scene a few minutes. Best we can figure at this point is that the dead fellow came in brandishing a gun, threatened the wife and shot the husband. Husband says he stabbed the guy in self-defense and killed him.”

  Roberts’s gaze roved over the scene as the deputy spoke, trying to envision what the cop described. She had difficulty reconciling the brief synopsis with what she saw.

  “Why call in the FBI?” she said. “You’re talking a straight-up home invasion.”

  “The husband was yammering about terrorists when we first got here. Said the dead guy identified himself as ‘Amir.’ We didn’t find any ID on the body, so his name could be Pinocchio for all we know. We can run prints, but figured if Amir here really is a terrorist, you folks would be able to identify him faster than we could.”

  “You mind?” Hunt said, gesturing toward the body.

  “Suit yourself.” Marquette stepped aside.

  Hunt took a couple steps toward the body and tipped his head. Even from where Roberts stood, the man’s face definitely had a Middle Eastern cast to it, but it didn’t ring any bells. Prints, facial recognition, DNA…one of them was bound to give them a hit if he was on a watch list or had priors.

  Roberts shifted a step toward the petite woman in blue scrubs standing with the other deputy. She had dark hair pulled back into a ponytail and seemed to be in shock. Clatterbuck stood motionless, holding a glass of water, as if waiting until she could collect herself.

  One of the EMTs working on the wounded man stood and faced Marquette. “He’s all yours, but only for a few minutes. We need to transport him ASAP. He’s lost a fair amount of blood, and the arm’s a mess. Surgeons will want to get to work on him as soon as they can.”

  Marquette placed his steps carefully until he crouched in front of the man. Both Roberts and Hunt focused on the man’s face as he answered Marquette’s questions.

  “What’s your name, son?” Marquette said.

  “Am I going to lose my arm?”

  Marquette shook his head. “Not today, but the sooner you answer a few questions the sooner these boys can get you to the hospital. Now, what’s your name?”

  “Jack. Jack Calhoun.”

  “And you live here, Jack?”

  “Well, yeah.” Jack tipped his head toward the kitchen. “That’s my wife, Rachel.”

  “Okay, so the two of you live here, and you were both home, I’m guessing. Tell me, best you can, what happened. Take your time.”

  Calhoun nodded and licked his lips. “Like you said, we were both home, and this maniac comes barging in. Waving a gun all over. Yelling about holy war or some such. He goes after Rachel, and I stepped in and told the son of a bitch to back off.”

  Marquette swiveled his head for a look around and looked Calhoun in the eye again. “This is important. Think hard. Where were you standing? Where’d you ‘step in’ from?”

  Calhoun looked bewildered. “I don’t know. Like, right about here, I guess. I must have been sitting on the couch talking to Rachel or something when he busted in.”

  Marquette nodded. “Okay, so what then?”

  “So, the guy freaks and shoots me! So I lunge at him and stab the fucker.” He settled a little, with an expression of self-satisfaction that bordered on smugness.

  Marquette nodded again.

  “Where’s the knife?” Roberts said. Calhoun looked up, brows knitting. “The knife you used, it’s not near the body.”

  “Hell, I don’t know. Maybe one of you guys moved it?”

  “You are so full of shit!” Calhoun’s wife yelled.

  Roberts swung toward her.

  “What are you talking about?” Calhoun shouted back.

  “Answer his question, Jack,” she said. “Where’s the knife? The knife isn’t here because you didn’t do a damn thing except get yourself shot!”

  “Well, that’s not my fault!”

  “The hell it isn’t. You brought that asshole here to trap my dad. My dad’s the one who saved us both, not you! He was right about you all along. I didn’t want to admit it, but you’re nothing but a bastard! I got a call at work this morning. You’ll never guess who. Belinda! Said she balled your brains out yesterday. Wanted to know your cell phone number because she lost it.”

  Tears streamed down her face and she sobbed. Clatterbuck looked as if he wanted to be anywhere but where he stood. Roberts stepped to Rachel and put an arm around her shoulders.

  “Rachel, it’s okay,” Roberts said. “It’s okay. Tell us what happened.”

  Rachel covered her face with her hands, chest heaving with each big sob until she got herself under control.

  “I came home from work,” she said, pointing at the body, “and he was waiting for me. He put a gun to my head and made me let him in. Then we waited. Maybe five, ten minutes later, Jack shows up with my dad in tow. Amir—that’s what he called himself—said he’d been waiting for Dad. To stop him from messing up some plans. I don’t know.” She shook her head, frustrated.

  “I’ll give my jerk of a husband some credit,” she went on. “He did tell Amir to back off, that I wasn’t supposed to be involved. That’s when Amir shot him. Dad convinced Amir to leave, to take Dad hostage. Amir was going to kill him, I know it. But Dad had a knife on him somewhere, and he fought back. Jack just sat on the floor bleeding.”

  “Christ, Rachel,” Calhoun said. “Give me a break! It was your dad’s idea I should take credit.”

  “Fuck off, Jack,” Rachel spat. “You want to take credit for something, take credit for causing this mess. You and your big plans.”

  “Who’s your father, ma’am?” Marquette. “And where is he now?”

  “Zane Keator,” she said. “He left.”

  “Keator’s our person of interest,” Hunt told Marquette. He turned to Rachel. “Did he say where he was going?”

  She shook her head. “He wasn’t sure. My nephew was kidnapped, he said. His grandson. He wanted to get him back. From Al-Qadir? I think that’s what I heard.”

  Hunt’s reaction mirrored what Roberts felt; both of them focused on her intently.

  “Something else,” Rachel went on, staring up into a corner of the trailer as if looking for a memory. She glanced down at the body. “He said my nephew was safe with his father. I’m not sure what he meant, but I remember it because it was so weird.”

  “What happened here sure sounds like self-defense,” Marquette said gently, “but we’re going to have to bring your father in. Do you know what kind of vehicle he was driving?”

  Rachel hesitated. “No.”

  “I do,” Calhoun said, wincing in pain as he tried to sit up. Hunt followed his gaze to his wife and back. Calhoun shrank under Rachel’s glare, and said meekly, “I rode over here with him from the highway. He drove a minivan. Brown.”

  “Do you have a vehicle, sir?” Marquette said.

  “A pick-up,” Calhoun said. “Wrapped it around a tree early this morning.”

  “Oh, god,” Rachel said wearily. “Not again.”

  Marquette turned to her. “How about you, ma’am? What do you drive?”

  “I loaned my car to a friend,” Rachel said.

  “Sergeant,” an EMT interrupted, “we need to get him out of here.” He jerked a thumb at Calhoun while his partner headed out the door to get a stretcher.

  Roberts’ caught movement from the corner of her eye and saw Hunt tip his head a fraction. She offered the barest of nods.

  “I think we got all we needed,” Hunt said. “Charlottesville can take it from here.”

 
Roberts met him at the door.

  “If you find my dad,” Rachel called, “don’t hurt him. He didn’t do anything except try to protect us.”

  “We’ll do our best,” Roberts said.

  Hunt took her arm and gently steered her out and down the steps.

  “Might be better if we were gone before Charlottesville gets here,” he murmured.

  She nodded, and they hurried to the car with a nod to the deputy out front.

  “What’d you think of Keator’s daughter,” Hunt said as they climbed in.

  “Tough,” Roberts said, giving it thought. “Resilient. From being a nurse probably. She was more upset about her marriage falling apart because of her asshole husband than she was about a dead guy in her living room.”

  Hunt nodded as he started the car. “I got the same impression. Didn’t you tell me she and Keator were estranged? She was protective.”

  “Could be she’s always looked up to him. Also might have something to do with him saving her life just now.”

  “Did you notice the minivan out front? Makes me wonder how Keator got away.”

  “You think Rachel was lying about loaning her car to a friend?”

  He didn’t reply. Before he put the car in gear, both of them automatically reached for their cell phones and took them off silent mode. Hunt’s rang almost immediately. He put it on the car’s Bluetooth.

  “Hunt.”

  “Where’ve you been?” Machowski’s voice boomed over the car’s speakers. “I’ve been trying to reach you.”

  “Working a crime scene. What’s up?”

  “Roberts with you?”

  “She’s here.”

  “Good. You’re both gonna want to hear this.”

  60

  “You said you’d get me all the things on my list.” Preston glared at Mr. Samara. Well, at a button on his shirt, the fourth button up from his belt, to be exact. He didn’t like looking at people’s faces much. He understood the words they used, but not the things their faces said. His mom had to explain those things to him. He was trying to memorize them, so he’d know what a sad face looked like, a happy face, an angry face. But he still didn’t like looking at them.

  “I’m not going to bed until I have pajamas,” he said. He didn’t think he’d be able to sleep if he didn’t have pajamas, no matter how tired he was. “You promised. Besides I’m hungry. You didn’t get me any dinner.”

  Mr. Samara held up his hand. “Fine, I’ll get the stuff on your list. And something to eat. But I have to lock you in so no one tries to hurt you. Do you understand? I don’t want to leave you alone here, but if you want all these things, then that’s the way it has to be.”

  Preston set his mouth in a determined line and said nothing.

  “What do you want to eat? Pizza? How does that sound?”

  “I only have pizza on Saturday. Today’s pasta day. Mom makes me pasta.”

  “What, like spaghetti and meatballs?”

  “Just pasta.”

  “You mean with butter, or olive oil.”

  Preston shook his head. “Just plain pasta. But I like to put my own cheese on it. Parmesan cheese. The kind in the green can.”

  Mr. Samara shrugged and turned for the door. “I don’t know how long this will take. You might as well watch TV or something.”

  Preston crossed his arms and continued to stare at Mr. Samara’s shirt button until he backed out of the room and closed the door. Preston heard a click as Mr. Samara locked the door from outside. He looked around the room, and wished he had his Legos to work with. Now that the grimy windows were dark with nightfall, this room, this place, didn’t seem so nice. He missed home, his room. He missed his mom. If he hadn’t been able to talk to his dad for a few minutes, he thought he might be homesick enough to cry. But he was braver than that. And he had seen and talked to his dad, so he knew everything was all right.

  He took his backpack over to the bed and rummaged through it, looking for a good book. But he was tired of all the books he had with him, having read them a few dozen times each. Finally, he walked over to the television and turned it on. He flipped through the channels until he found a basketball game—the Washington Wizards against the Toronto Raptors. He wondered if he could go to a game after seeing the National Archives. He heard sirens outside and traffic, so much noisier than his room at home. He started rocking back and forth.

  * * * * *

  Preston didn’t know how long he’d been rocking when he finally heard the sound of the key in the lock. The basketball game was over, replaced with guys in suits sitting around a table talking. Talk, talk, talk… He waited for the door to open and Mr. Samara to enter before he turned to look. But the man who stepped inside wasn’t Mr. Samara at all. This man was taller and wore different clothes, clothes made of materials that looked so soft and smooth Preston wished he could touch them.

  “You must be Preston,” the man said, his low voice pleasant and soothing. “You can call me Joseph, Preston. Or Joe, if you prefer. I apologize that it took so long for Fayad to collect me and return here. Oh, you probably know Fayad as Mr. Samara. Anyway, you must be starved. Fayad said you like pasta. I do, too, so we got enough for all of us. I brought ours in here. I thought we might have supper together, get to know one another a little better. Would that be all right?”

  The smell of the pasta finally reached Preston’s nose, and his mouth salivated. Joe seemed nice enough. And he’d brought two full shopping bags along with the bag of food. Preston gave a little nod to indicate that, yes, it would be okay to stay and eat if Joe would give him all the things on his list. He needed those things.

  “That’s wonderful, Preston. I think you and I are going to get along famously.”

  Joe set the bags down next to the bed as he talked and turned to bring the small table over next to the bed. He placed the bag of food on the table, and brought over the chair from the corner.

  “I’m sorry we don’t have a real dining table,” Joe said, “but if you’re okay with sitting on the bed, we can have a proper meal.”

  He put out the food, with a napkin, fork and spoon at each of their places. Preston scooted over until his legs dangled over the side of the bed under the table. The last thing Joe took out of the bag with a small flourish was a green can of Parmesan cheese. He set it in front of Preston’s bowl of pasta. Preston took it gratefully, opened it carefully, and shook some cheese onto his pasta. Now it felt more like home. Some of his anxiety receded. He spooned some into his mouth and chewed. Not as good as his mom’s, but it was okay.

  “Do you know my dad?” he said through the mouthful of food.

  “I know who he is,” Joe said, “but I’ve never met him. I bet he’s very proud of you, Preston. Winning that contest and coming to Washington, D.C., all by yourself. You’re very brave.”

  Preston didn’t know if he was brave, just that he wanted to see the documents in the National Archives so badly that he would do nearly anything. He wasn’t even sure why he wanted to see them so much, but he sensed that they were important, as important to him as they were to the rest of America, whether people believed in them or not. That was the thing Preston understood about America from his schoolwork and from what his dad had told him. Those documents guaranteed that if you were an American you could think whatever you wanted to, say whatever you wanted to, be different, as long as you obeyed the law.

  Even if you didn’t know what the Constitution was, or the Bill of Rights, those pieces of paper made sure that everybody in the country was free to be themselves. Somehow, Preston sensed that because he was different, those documents were even more important to him than most people. That’s why he’d gotten in the limo with Mr. Samara, why he’d taken his first plane ride, had agreed to be locked into a strange room without his own things. Brave? Maybe. After all, America was the land of the free and home of the brave.

  He noticed that Joe wasn’t eating, but was staring at him. Preston squirmed uncomfortably.

  “
I’m sorry,” Joe said. “I forgot my manners. I was just wondering what you were thinking. You looked very intent for a moment.”

  “I was thinking about the National Archives. That’s where they keep the Constitution.”

  “Why, so it is,” Joe said. “In the morning I’m going to take you there.”

  “You are? Not Mr. Samara?”

  Joe shook his head. “He has other things to do. But I’ve been looking forward to this for a long time. I hope you are, too, Preston. It will be an honor to escort you there.”

  Again, Preston looked at the clothes Joe wore. They were so much nicer than the ones Mr. Samara wore, even though his were nice, like his dad’s. With clothes like that, Joe must be a far more important person than Mr. Samara, or maybe even his dad, though no one could replace his dad. How could Preston refuse an invitation like that?

  “I can’t wait,” he said.

  61

  Rachel’s car, it turned out, was the little Japanese job out front. That little bit of irony wasn’t lost on me. I figured it was her way of thumbing her nose at me until I got in and drove away. The car was a far cry from the crap pieces of tin the Japanese imported back in the 1970s. But then Detroit wasn’t turning out its best work then, either. Rachel’s car had a lot of zip, was way more responsive than the two boats I’d already driven that day, and felt pretty solid for such a small vehicle, as if it had more weight and stature than its outward dimensions suggested.

  None of it made a damn bit of difference except the car’s performance. The only thing that concerned me was getting the hell out of the area as fast as I could without attracting attention. I needed as much space between me and Rachel’s trailer as possible before the cops gave chase. The manhunt had already spread across two states and now included a third. Cops in surrounding states—North Carolina, West Virginia, Pennsylvania, Maryland—also would be on the lookout. When a chase goes viral, like mine had, apparently, everyone wants in on the action. Everyone wants to be a hero.

  My head felt like a grape in a vise, and my ears rang louder than a Salvation Army bell at Christmas. Wet, sticky blood soaked my clothes and filled my nostrils with a metallic scent I’d not smelled since ’Nam. As the adrenaline wore off, fatigue seeped into every bone in my body, and a voice inside cajoling me to just give up grew more convincing by the minute. I was tired of running, I just wanted my life back, my identity.