by Steve Gannon
“Kane. You done yet?” Taylor repeated. “I’d like to get out of here.”
“Why?” I replied, still reviewing the case in my mind. “Late for lunch?”
“No,” Taylor replied, frowning. “I just . . . want to get some air. If you’re done with your super-sleuthing, that is.”
Before I could reply, I heard the front door open. Taylor and I turned toward the sound. A thin, sandy-haired man wearing a dark suit and sunglasses stepped into the entry. He hesitated when he saw us. “What are you doing in here?” he demanded, his gaze traveling from Taylor to me.
“Take it easy, Duffy,” said Taylor. “Detective Kane is here from the LAPD. He’s our liaison with the locals, and he has permission to inspect the scene. I was instructed to accompany him.”
“Jesus, what’s that smell?” Duffy mumbled, retching.
“It’s what’s left of the Welshes,” I answered. “Let’s take this outside.”
His face paling, Duffy nodded and turned for the door, covering his nose and mouth with his palm.
Taylor and I followed him out. Taylor shut the door behind us. “Detective Kane, this is Special Agent Gavin Duffy,” she said once we were outside. “Agent Duffy, Detective Kane.”
I shook Duffy’s hand, noting that although he briefly made eye contact with me, his gaze kept returning to Taylor.
“I . . . I was worried when I arrived and you weren’t at your post, Sara . . . I mean Agent Taylor,” Duffy stammered. “I came to relieve you and, well, I’m glad you’re all right.”
Taylor glanced at me, then back at Duffy. “I’m fine,” she said. “But thanks for your concern.” Then, again to me, “Well, if there’s nothing else—”
“There is one more thing, Taylor.”
“And that is?”
“I need to talk to your boss.”
Chapter 10
As I trailed Taylor’s late-model Crown Vic through the streets of Westwood, I felt myself growing more and more disturbed by the Bel Air murders. If what I had learned so far was accurate, the killers had butchered Mr. and Mrs. Welch to make some sort of political statement, even bringing a camera with them to record their act. Although I still hadn’t come to a decision regarding Chief Ingram’s request, I was angry. I was also becoming increasingly prepared to hear what Director Shepherd had to say.
Fifteen minutes later, after battling stop-and-go Westwood traffic, we reached the Wilshire Federal Building. An architectural example of late modernism, the towering structure that housed FBI headquarters was an aging, seventeen-story monolith with precast concrete fins and a broad white façade, centrally located on twenty-eight landscaped acres of a former golf course. Although its top five floors still housed the FBI’s Los Angeles field office, I knew that at one point an effort had been made to construct new FBI headquarters on the current location. Local residents had ultimately blocked that effort, citing traffic congestion, land use concerns, and fears that an expanded FBI presence would paint a terrorist bull’s eye on the surrounding community—issues that seemed to be coming true nonetheless.
When we arrived, several hundred anti-Muslim protestors carrying placards lined the sidewalk out front, with a smaller number of pro-Muslim advocates flanking their angry counterparts.
Once past the demonstration, Taylor and I had a short but heated conversation in an exterior parking garage, during which she insisted that I leave my service weapon locked in my car. I had visited Los Angeles FBI headquarters in the past, and I knew that as an active police officer performing my duties, the Law Enforcement Officers Act of 2004 gave me “concealed carry” rights almost everywhere. My LEOSA carry-rights included federal buildings, so I declined. In the end, Taylor decided to see things my way.
After that, any hope of small talk between us seemed to be at an end. Frowning, Taylor walked me to the main entrance and escorted me through building security—an exacting process during which I was eventually issued a temporary visitor’s ID. Afterward Taylor accompanied me on a high-speed elevator to the top floor. There, once she had checked me in at the receptionist’s desk, she directed me with a wave of her hand toward Assistant Director Shepherd’s office down the hall, then started back toward the elevators. “It’s been swell, Kane,” she said over her shoulder, clearly happy to be rid of me. “Maybe I’ll see you around sometime.”
“Maybe,” I said. From the beginning I had been annoyed by Taylor’s attitude, so it was with more than a trace of irritation at myself that I still found myself watching her trim figure as she retreated down the hallway.
When I arrived at Director Shepherd’s office, I was told he was out. A sympathetic secretary informed me that he had left a copy of the FBI case file for me, assuring me that Shepherd was expected back soon. Deciding to make the most of my time, I dropped into a chair across from the secretary’s desk and spent the next thirty-five minutes perusing the Bureau’s report.
Although I occasionally had some difficulty deciphering unfamiliar FBI codes, multi-letter abbreviations, and Bureau-speak, I got through most of it. Toward the end, I began to suspect that the bulk of the file had been lifted directly from an LAPD crime report, then reorganized to conform with FBI protocols.
In brief, here’s how the investigation shaped up so far: Early Sunday morning, West L.A. patrol officers Thomas Phelan and Edward Flory had responded to a one-eighty-seven homicide call, arriving at the Bel Air residence of Arleen and Gary Welch at 8:46 a.m. Upon arrival the officers had interviewed Chuck Lohrman, a pool-maintenance worker waiting out front. The pool guy stated that when he had arrived that morning to service the Welches’ pool, he had noticed their front door standing open. Twenty minutes later, after adjusting the pool chemicals and performing a surface skim, he had returned to his truck—noting that the Welches’ door was still open.
Curious, Mr. Lohrman had mounted the front steps and called into the residence, seeing what appeared to be blood smears in the entry. Alarmed, he had again called into the house. Receiving no answer, he had stepped inside and followed the blood tracks into the living room. Upon finding the bodies of Mr. and Mrs. Welch sprawled in a puddle of blood, he had exited the house, vomited in a shrubbery bed, and called the police.
After questioning Mr. Lohrman regarding his route into and out of the house, as well as asking what items he might have touched or disturbed, Officers Flory and Phelan had entered the residence, determined that a multiple homicide had occurred, and exited, retracing their steps. While Officer Flory established a crime-scene perimeter, Officer Phelan had called West L.A. for backup.
West L.A. homicide detectives Paul Deluca and John Banowski had arrived at 9:27 a.m. After talking with Mr. Lohrman and completing an initial assessment of the scene, Deluca had placed a call to the LAPD Special Investigative Division, whose criminalist and crime-scene unit would be responsible for the procurement and cataloguing of all trace evidence taken from the site. Deluca had also made a call to the Los Angeles County Coroner’s Office, as the presence of a coroner’s investigator was required during any examination and moving of the Welches’ bodies.
The SID crime-scene unit—whose members included a latent-prints technician, an officer from the photo section, and criminalist Ron Tremmel—arrived forty minutes later. Art Walters, an investigator from the coroner’s office, arrived shortly after that. Also arriving around that time was Captain William Snead, accompanied by two Robbery-Homicide investigators from the LAPD’s HSS unit, Detectives Peter Church and Evan Nolan. Captain Snead subsequently informed Deluca and Banowski that Robbery-Homicide was taking responsibility for the investigation and ordered them to stand down.
With Banowski and Deluca now relegated to the sidelines, Officers Snead, Church, and Nolan proceeded with the investigation. Latent prints were lifted, blood samples and other forensic evidence collected, and photos and videos taken from various angles throughout the residence.
Several hours later, as Captain Snead and coroner’s investigator Art Walters were examining the
bodies, an FBI unit arrived at the Welch residence. The Bureau’s five-man team of special agents was led by Special Agent in Charge Aaron Gibbs, and was accompanied by a fifty-three-foot mobile forensic van and an FBI Evidence Response Team. Citing national security issues that superseded LAPD authority, Gibbs ordered Snead to relinquish control of the scene. Following a spate of angry phone calls, responsibility for the case again changed hands, with the FBI now taking control.
I paused, recalling my comment to Chief Ingram about too many cooks. From what I had read so far, it looked like I’d been right on target, which didn’t make for a good beginning on a case like this. With a sigh, I read on.
The significant investigative elements in the FBI file—some probably taken from the LAPD’s SID investigation, some from the FBI’s ERT results—were as follows: Unmatched latent prints had been lifted (no computer hits), and a number of unidentified hairs not matching those of Mr. or Mrs. Welch had been recovered. Unexplained type AB-negative blood not matching the Welches had been found in an upstairs bathroom. DNA testing was currently being performed on the unexplained blood. The autopsy results were still out, as were the toxicology and other lab results, but given the circumstance, I didn’t expect those findings to change things much. Last, a hard-drive recording from the Welches’ onsite security system had been removed, presumably by the killers.
The eight-by-ten crime scene photos were particularly chilling, and though I’d seen almost everything over the course of my career, I had a hard time looking at them. As I flipped through, I understood why Deluca hadn’t wanted to discuss details of the case at Ali’s reception.
Also included in the Bureau file was an inventory of items that investigators had removed from the Welch residence—computers, phone records, daily calendars, bills, letters, personal correspondence, bank statements, and so on. These items were currently being examined to determine whether the killers might have had any connection, however tenuous, with the Welch family. Also removed by investigators were a number of knives, scissors, and other cutting instruments that were being tested for the presence of blood. As I finished scanning the impound list, I had a feeling I was missing something. Unable to pin it down, I pushed on, deciding to return to the impound list when I had a chance.
Three things rounded out what I considered a “probably useless” category in the Bureau file: A search of the NCIC (National Crime Index Computer) databank had been completed, with no hits; a VICAP (Violent Criminal Apprehension Program) report was currently underway; and an FBI psychological profile was being procured.
Bottom line, unless investigators got lucky with the DNA analysis of blood found in the bathroom, I saw nothing of significance in the forensic evidence that could prove useful, much less lead to the arrest of a suspect or suspects. Worse, I knew from experience that most murder cases were closed quickly, or not at all. After the first twenty-four hours evidence evaporated, witnesses’ memories grew cloudy, and the killers’ trail cooled. The clock was running, and I didn’t like how things were shaping up.
As I was completing my perusal of the file, I heard the door click open behind me. Glancing up, I saw Assistant Director Shepherd entering the room. As always, I was struck by Shepherd’s youthful appearance, although I knew he was considerably older than he looked. Shepherd was accompanied by a lean, weathered-looking man whose close-cropped hair and granite-hard eyes spoke of a military background.
“Kane, good to see you again,” said Shepherd, shaking my hand as I rose to greet him. “This is Special Agent in Charge, Aaron Gibbs,” he added, indicating the stern-looking man beside him. “Gibbs is heading up our investigative team on the Welch murders. SAC Gibbs, Detective Kane.”
I shook Gibbs’s hand next, deciding I had been right. Definitely military—been there, done that, and come back for more.
“Detective Kane,” said Gibbs with a brief nod.
“Dan, I again would like to extend my condolence for your loss,” Shepherd continued.
“Thank you,” I said. Although I appreciated Shepherd’s sympathy, I didn’t know what else to say.
Seeming to sense my discomfort, Shepherd changed the subject. “Did you have a chance to review the file?” he asked, glancing at the paperwork in my hand.
I passed him the file. “I did.”
“And?”
“Not much to go on. Might get lucky with the DNA.”
“Let’s head back to my office,” Shepherd suggested. “There’s something you should see, if you haven’t already.”
Curious, I followed Shepherd and Gibbs to an office down the hall. Shepherd held the door open, then closed it behind us as we entered. Next he walked to a desk and swiveled a computer monitor to face us. Without speaking, he brought up a video program and clicked an icon to make the image fill the screen.
“What are we watching?” I asked.
“Wait,” Gibbs said grimly.
A moment later a video began, displaying the images of three men. All were wearing black polo shirts, dark pants, and leather gloves. Balaclavas and sunglasses hid their faces. One man stood to the left, holding what appeared to be an AK-47 automatic weapon. The other two, who had just entered the frame when the video began, were shoving a couple before them whom I assumed to be Mr. and Mrs. Welch. Both captives had sacks over their heads. Their hands were bound behind their backs with what looked like plastic handcuff restraints. As the couple stumbled into view, one of the men kicked the back of the man’s legs, forcing him to his knees. The other man pushed the woman to her knees as well.
Shepherd froze the image.
Much as I dreaded it, I had known the time would come when I would have to watch the murder video, as it might contain information that could prove helpful. It seemed that time was now. “I’m guessing that’s Mr. and Mrs. Welch,” I said.
“Correct,” said Shepherd. “See that black flag behind them?”
Behind the two men, a rectangular piece of fabric had been hung from a frame, forming a backdrop for the video. What appeared to be a scrawl of Arabic letters ran across the top, with an irregular white oval and more indecipherable writing in the center.
“What is that?” I asked.
“It’s called the Black Standard,” answered Gibbs. “Its origins go way back, but lately it has been used by Al-Qaeda in the Arabian Peninsula and Al-Shabaab in Somalia, among others. More recently, ISIS members have been co-opting it for their own use.”
“These guys are ISIS?”
“Maybe,” said Gibbs. “Or ISIL, or whatever the hell they’re calling themselves these days.”
“What does the writing mean?”
Shepherd spoke up. “The top line, known as the shadada, translates as ‘There is no god but God. Muhammad is the messenger of God.’ The circular symbol lower down represents the ‘Seal of Muhammad,’ allegedly used by Muhammad on several ancient communications. The shadada and the Prophet’s seal are something all Muslims share, so by hijacking words and symbols that in themselves have nothing to do with jihad, ISIS is attempting to broaden its ideological reach.”
“Where did they get it?” I asked.
“Get what?” asked Gibbs.
“The flag. It doesn’t look like something you just buy on Amazon. Did they have it made, and if so, where? Is the source of the flag something you’re checking into?”
Shepherd looked doubtful. “Gibbs?”
Gibbs shook his head. “Not so far, sir. I’ll look into it.”
“Do that,” said Shepherd. Then, with a reluctant sigh, he restarted the video. Grimly, we watched as the murder of Mr. and Mrs. Welch resumed.
Head lowered, Mr. Welch appeared to be weeping, his sobs clearly audible. Mrs. Welch was angry, first ordering her captors to take whatever they wanted and get out, then threatening that if she or her husband were harmed in any way, they would regret it.
None of the hooded men responded. Instead, the video faded to black and lines of writing began scrolling across the screen.
&nb
sp; “America, be God’s curse on you,” the killers’ scripted message began. “We call on your president, the dog of Rome, to witness our acts. Now hear our words. Today we are slaughtering your people in their homes, as our soldiers are slaughtering your soldiers in our holy lands. With Allah’s permission, we will break your last crusade, until the final hour when the words, ‘There is no god but God shall be heard in every corner of the world.’
“America, now hear our demands. You will remove all U.S. troops from our holy lands. You will establish shariah law in all Muslim communities throughout your country. You will release all Muslim prisoners now held in Guantanamo and other American jails, and in the jails of your proxy puppets. You will establish laws throughout your land forbidding blasphemy of any kind against Allah and the Prophet Muhammad.
“We say to you, in Allah’s name we make these demands. Allah willing, we will slaughter your people in their homes until our demands are met, for we are hungry lions whose drink is blood and play is carnage. All praise be to Allah, and peace and blessings be upon his Prophet Muhammad.”
The writing faded to black. A moment later the screen again displayed the images of Mr. and Mrs. Welch, kneeling before their captors. Without speaking, the man with the assault rifle stepped out of frame. Moments later he returned with a metal vessel containing two dark-handled knives. The video cut to a shot of the men behind the Welches as they each withdrew a knife. The blades were serrated near the hilt and gleamed as they cleared the metal vessel.
Next, knives held in gloved hands, the terrorists yanked the sacks from their captives’ heads. Then the men each curled a forearm around his victim’s face, trapping Mr. and Mrs. Welches’ heads in the crooks of their left arms. Mrs. Welch stiffened and began struggling. Mr. Welch continued sobbing, pleading for his life. The man behind Mr. Welch leaned closer and appeared to whisper something.
