Sophie says, “I’ll take that one,” and starts typing.
“Second vehicle to a Marlon Cumer—Cumerford, I guess.” He spells the name for us and reads an address in Erie, Pennsylvania.
“I have that one,” I say.
“And the third one,” says the agent, “is listed to someone named Graham. Winston Graham.”
87
IT’S JUST a hunch, just one of hundreds of theories and leads we’ve explored, but something about Denny’s guess—that our subject lives in Pennsylvania—somehow rings true to me. And the fact that only three vehicles traveled to this game from Pennsylvania makes it easy enough to investigate, true or not.
But we don’t get off to a good start. It takes Sophie and me less than twenty minutes to rule out the first two names on the list we were given. David Epps from Beaver Falls, Pennsylvania, is an elementary school teacher, married with three children, and he has a brother who lives in Detroit, thus explaining why he’d attend the Lions game. Marlon Cumerford from Erie, Pennsylvania, is a sixty-two-year-old retiree from a position with the city transportation department, and a cross-reference with the Lions ticketing office shows that he is a season ticket holder who travels to every Lions home game.
Winston Graham is number three. Sophie and I tag team him, desperate for a score, our last chance. “Single, never married,” I say, as I fly through the relevant databases. “No criminal record. No fingerprints on file.”
“Parents—Richard and Diana—deceased, the last one dying nine years ago,” says Sophie. “No other family. An only child. Raised in Ridgway, Pennsylvania. He has a postal route for an address, so it’s rural.”
Books and I look at each other. “If I had to write a bio of our subject,” I say, “he would be a loner who lives in a remote location, and he would have time on his hands.”
Books thinks about it and nods. He picks up his cell phone and says, “Get me in touch with the agent on duty in the Pittsburgh field office.” After a long pause, Books is apparently connected, and he introduces himself to that agent. “I need a warrant,” he says. “There’s an on-duty AUSA I can talk to? Great. Patch me through.”
Another pause, while Books waits for the federal prosecutor working the late shift in Pittsburgh, whose job it will be to talk to the federal magistrate hearing emergency warrant applications this time of night.
“The name is Winston Graham,” Books says hurriedly into the phone, spelling the last name and providing the Social Security number, driver’s license number, and home address. “Phone records, bank accounts, credit cards, and a warrant to search the premises. I’m working on an affidavit right now. What? Why—why not?” Books begins to pace. “Yes, it is. Yes, it is. Hey, listen…listen to me. I don’t give a royal rat’s ass if the magistrate’s asleep. The guy we’re hunting is the guy who set off the explosives at Ford Field today. Yeah, that guy. And he’s not only that guy, he’s also the arsonist serial killer who’s been roaming the country. This…okay, but listen to me, we don’t have time for baby steps. Because we don’t! Just do…get me whatever you can, as fast as you can. Think you can handle that?”
Books hangs up. “Lawyers,” he says. “They don’t think we have enough for a warrant.”
“They may be right,” says Denny. “We think our subject might live in Pennsylvania and Graham lives in Pennsylvania, like thirteen million other people. We think our subject was at the game today and so was Graham, along with sixty thousand others. And he lives alone. It probably isn’t enough for a judge.”
“Maybe this is.” Sophie spins her laptop around so it’s facing us. It’s Winston Graham’s records from the Pennsylvania Department of Transportation. “He renewed his driver’s license eight months ago and took a new photo,” she says. “Does this man look familiar?”
The picture isn’t the greatest quality, which makes it all the more reminiscent of the grainy image we have of our subject from Benny’s Tavern in Urbana, Illinois, when he was meeting Curtis Valentine. But unlike that image, which showed little of the curve of his face and only a long, slender nose while he kept eyes downward and his face away from the camera, the photograph he took for his renewed driver’s license is full-frontal. He is squinting for the photograph, his eyes beady and lidded, looking like someone who wears eyeglasses and was told to remove them (and is none too happy about it). Unlike in the video from the bar, where he might have been completely bald, here Winston Graham has some semblance of wispy brown hair above each ear but is otherwise bald. His jowls mask his chin, a function of age and weight. He looks a bit older than his forty years, but to me, there’s no question.
“It’s him,” I say, feeling a surge of adrenaline, a sense of momentum that hours ago would have been unfathomable.
“Shit, that’s him,” says Books. “That’s our subject.”
“When do we leave?” I ask.
“Everyone, go back to the hotel and get your stuff,” says Books. “We leave as soon as possible.”
88
I’M IN the final stages of packing up, toiletries dumped into a bag, listening to CNN on my television with its breaking-news coverage of the explosions at the game today and the hunt for the “Ford Field Bomber.” The repetition is endless. They can’t come off the story, but they have nothing fresh to report other than the occasional new anecdotal testimony from a fan at the game who discusses the loud blasts and the mad rush for the exits. It was like the Fourth of July, says one man. I thought I was dead, says another. It sounded like it was coming from all directions at once, another claims.
We see diagrams of Ford Field and arrows and red glowing dots showing the points of explosion on the south end. He chose the ideal spot for the acoustics in the concourse, says a city official, to maximize the sounds of the blasts and the resulting panic.
Authorities have ruled out Islamic terrorism, we are told. The suspect is a white male in his thirties or forties, they say. An intense manhunt is under way, viewers are assured, involving local, state, and federal authorities.
Three people have now been pronounced dead, all injuries sustained in the mad melee that ensued as fans swarmed for the exits.
I jump at the knock on my hotel room door. Under the circumstances, a cat’s meow could make me jump.
It’s Books. I let him in and go back to my belongings.
“I thought we were meeting in the lobby,” I say.
“Yeah, we were. I just…I just thought I’d come up.”
“Okay. Change of plans?”
“No. No change. But the pilot won’t be at the plane for another hour, so we have a few minutes.”
“Oh, okay.” I wonder what he wants with these few minutes.
When I look back at him, Books is turned away from me completely, addressing a smudge on the cheap chest of drawers in the room. He raises a hand tentatively, then makes it a fist.
“When I heard that first…,” he begins, then clears his throat aggressively.
I pause. He doesn’t go on. So I do it for him.
“When you heard that first blast, coming from the south end zone,” I say quietly, stepping closer to him but giving him his space.
“I…thought you were dead.”
“But I’m not, Books. I’m fine. We get past it and move on, right? Isn’t that what you always say?”
He nods his head. Books and his emotions have always gotten along like oil and water.
“Okay,” I say, “so let’s just focus—”
“I kept calling your cell phone, and you didn’t…you didn’t answer.”
I don’t say anything. The room suddenly feels very warm.
“You know, when this case started, I didn’t really think your theory was going anywhere,” he says. “You had some interesting data, but in all honesty, I was very dubious.” He turns his head to the side, so I can see his profile, his tired eyes and mussed hair falling forward. “I just wanted to work on the case because you were working on it. That sounds silly, now, after you ended up sin
gle-handedly uncovering this monster.”
“Well, I’m glad you did,” I say. “Look at us now. I think this Winston Graham could be our—”
“Emmy, I need to say this. Just let me say it.” Books takes a breath. “I still—”
His cell phone rings. His half-completed sentence looms between us. I still… He sweeps his phone off his belt, annoyed. “This is Bookman,” he says. And then he rifles to attention. “What? Who? MS—”
He turns to me. “Turn on MSNBC.”
I grab the remote and flip around, unsure of where to find that cable news channel, but it’s only a few clicks away, it turns out.
The breaking-news line at the bottom of the screen says it all.
Breaking: Manhunt Moves to Pennsylvania
“…believe the Ford Field Bomber is located. To repeat, a source close to MSNBC has confirmed that federal investigators are focusing on a location in rural Pennsylvania where they believe the Ford Field Bomber is located.”
“Oh, shit,” Books mumbles. “How did this happen?” Books shouts into his cell phone. “How the hell did this happen?”
I raise a hand to my face. It could have been anybody, I realize. We’ve been in touch with authorities from local cops, Elk County sheriffs, Pennsylvania state police, and the Pittsburgh FBI. It only takes one to spring a leak.
“I want that perimeter around his house sealed tight,” he says into his phone. “Because if he’s watching the news, now he knows how close we are. And you damn well better believe he’s watching the news.”
89
* * *
“Graham Session”
Recording # 21
September 30, 2012
* * *
They’re coming to take me away! They’re coming to take me away!
Oh, this is great, this is just great, great, great. You’re out there somewhere, aren’t you, ladies and gentlemen of the FBI? What did it? I really want to know. I really do. What did it? How did you pin me down to that football game?
Oh, shit, fuck, fuck! How the…what the…ahhh! Ahhhhh!
You think you’re going to take me alive? Is that what you think, you miserable stupid fuck shit fuck fuck fuck! You’re going to lock me up and study me like a caged rat and strap me down and analyze my brain waves so you can stop the next one like me? Oh, that’s rich, that’s the plum jewel of the whole thing right there, thinking that you can ever stop someone like me. You can’t! Don’t you see that? Don’t you understand? You can’t prevent the next one like me because the next me is you! I’m inside all of you! The only difference is I don’t hide behind some mask, driving my SUV and sipping Starbucks at my kid’s soccer game. You’re just like me and you don’t even know it!
You hear me? Do you fucking hear me?
Why should I let you take me alive? Huh? Why should I? Why should you know anything about me? You don’t deserve it. I was trying to help you, I was…fuck! Fuck! I was trying to get you to understand, but why the hell should I care if any of you understand me? Why should I care about anything anymore? You’ve done nothing to deserve it. You and the miserable little sheep that follow you haven’t done a single thing in life to deserve what I can teach you, what I tried to teach you.
So just go on with your little sheep miserable lives, doing what everyone says and telling yourself that your life is normal and good and happy and never mind who’s pulling all the levers and never mind what’s really going on in the world or who the real people are hiding behind those smiley faces and blow-dried hair and—whatever, whatever, you know what? I’m done with this. I’m—but you won’t get me alive. You could have learned so much from me but now it’s too late. Why should I give a shit about you when you don’t give a shit about me? About me! Why don’t I matter?
You think you’ll stop people like me? You can never do that. Do you hear me, FBI boys and girls? You won’t ever, ever stop people like me!
[Editor’s note: pause of fourteen seconds.]
Oh, I can’t…I don’t believe this. I can’t believe this! But too bad for you, I won’t go quietly, I can’t, don’t you see I just…I just can’t…
[Editor’s note: pause of eighteen seconds.]
It shouldn’t be like this. It shouldn’t be like this. This isn’t right. This isn’t fair. I’m not what you think I am. But you’ll never understand. You’ll never even try to understand. I’m finished trying to help you understand. I’m done.
I’m so tired. I’m so, so tired. I really don’t want to do what I have to do now. I really, really, really don’t want to do it, I swear to you I don’t, please believe me, I don’t.
But I have no choice. She knows too much.
[END]
90
FOUR O’CLOCK in the morning. A deep, still darkness, not even the first hint of light creeping over the horizon. A peaceful autumn morning in rural Pennsylvania, about to be not so peaceful.
The farmhouse belonging to Winston Graham is located in unincorporated Elk County. Surrounded on three sides by acres of scrub brush, former farmland long neglected, with a small forest of trees behind it, the farmhouse is a sprawling brick ranch. The floor plans we’ve obtained from the county recorder show three bedrooms in the back of the ranch, a kitchen, a living room, and a front parlor. There is a basement as well, spanning the entire floor plan.
From the main streets, a long dirt road winds its way for more than a quarter mile to the farmhouse, where Winston Graham’s Buick Skylark rests next to the attached garage.
Members of the Hostage Rescue Team have crawled into position, surrounding the farmhouse and lying in the weeds, literally, waiting for the signal in their ear from Books. They are dressed in black, head to toe, with gas masks and helmets, submachine guns and holstered firearms, stun bombs on their belts.
From our perch a quarter mile away on a small hill, I raise the infrared binoculars to my eyes again. There is no movement at the farmhouse. No light inside or outside the house. For all we can tell, the ranch has been abandoned.
“Thank you, Your Honor,” says Books into his cell phone. He lets out a breath of relief. “We got our warrant.”
Books has been on the phone for half an hour with a federal magistrate judge in Pittsburgh, explaining the basis for his probable cause to search the residence of Winston Graham. The last thing we needed, after all this work, was to have some judge rule the search invalid and leave us with nothing.
Books raises his radio to his mouth. “Team Leader, this is Bookman. Do you copy?”
“Copy, Bookman.” The reply through Books’s radio breaks the stillness of the night air.
“Team Leader, we are now in status yellow.”
“Copy that.”
“Are you in position, Team Leader?”
The team leader on the HRT does a quick check with his people around the perimeter before coming back to us. “We are in position, locked and loaded.”
Books looks around at the other agents and me. We are in a small convoy of vehicles out of sight of the farmhouse: the Elk County sheriff’s office, Pennsylvania state troopers, the local fire department, the bomb squad, and federal officials from the FBI as well as the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives.
“Team Leader,” says Books, “we are sending in Kevin. Do you copy?”
“Copy that.”
Books nods to the ATF agent standing next to him, a man named Moore. But right now I’m more interested in the contraption Moore is holding, which includes a video monitor and a toggle stick. He looks like a teenager playing with his Xbox.
But “Kevin” is no video game I’ve ever seen. “Kevin” is an explosives detection device, operating like a little remote-control truck with tractor wheels and a 360-degree pivot capacity. And we can see what Kevin sees from this remote device.
A member of the Hostage Rescue Team approaches an open window. That’s odd. Winston Graham is inviting us in.
The HRT member lowers Kevin into the living room and scrambles for cove
r a few yards away. The screen in Moore’s hands comes alive. We are now looking inside Winston Graham’s house, seeing what Kevin is seeing on a small screen.
The living room is filled with antique furniture and a rather small open kitchen. Dated, but lived-in, no doubt. A bottle of beer rests on the breakfast counter. Newspapers are strewn about the floor, everywhere, almost covering up the hardwood floor.
Newspapers.
Fires need three things to burn: oxygen, fuel, and heat.
The open window is oxygen.
The newspapers are fuel.
The light on Moore’s remote device begins to blink red, a mini siren. Kevin is telling us something.
He’s telling us that he detects a heat source.
“It’s gonna blow,” I say.
“Team Leader, retreat,” Books calls into his radio. “Retreat, Team—”
And then the explosion, a muted blast that interrupts the dark night with a flash of bright orange cascading across the living room, engulfing the room with the snap of a finger, like one fiery dragon’s breath.
“Fire team, go! Go!” Books shouts to his right. The fire truck blasts into action, followed by SWAT officers in fire coats and the bomb squad, tires squealing on the paved road.
“He doesn’t want to be taken alive,” says Denny Sasser.
I throw on my thick coat and helmet and carry my gas mask in my hand.
“All agents,” Books cries out, as he starts running toward the inferno, “you keep that perimeter secured! Every inch of that perimeter secured! This could be a diversion!”
I run along with Books, each of us ignoring the available car and just racing with all our speed toward the house, the beacon of blazing orange and thick smoke blowing through the roof now.
“The basement,” I call out between breaths. “He’s in…the basement!”
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