Infidel

by Steve Gannon

  At this Mr. Welch began struggling in earnest.

  Until then I had avoided thinking about how the murders would be accomplished. I knew from viewing the crime-scene photos what the final, horrific result would be, but I suppose I’d preferred to think that the hideous dismemberments had been accomplished with one clean stroke. With a chill, I suddenly realized that the killings weren’t going to be clean at all.

  The men forced back their captives’ heads, exposing their necks.

  And a moment later it began.

  Although I wanted to look away, I forced myself to watch. Brutally, the men began sawing their blades through the Welches’ necks, like clumsy butchers hacking through thick slabs of meat. As blood began spurting, the man murdering Mr. Welch leaned forward, using his weight to topple his victim to the carpet, trapping him beneath his torso. The man savaging Mrs. Welch did the same.

  I sat frozen in horror, watching with a mix of shock and disbelief. At one point the short, muscular man paused to stare directly into the camera, his hooded face and dark sunglasses lending him a look of pure, unadulterated evil. Deliberately, he tipped back Mr. Welch’s partly severed head, exposing the gushing neck-stump. Then, with animal ferocity, he returned to his task.

  Although the Welches were undoubtedly dead before the final cuts were made, it took what seemed forever for the men to complete their murders. Then the men rose together and stood over their victims, each holding a dripping head by the hair, displaying it for the camera. Still brandishing their bloodstained knives, they then placed their hideous trophies on each victim’s back, balancing the severed heads between the bodies’ bound arms.

  The camera held on the grisly scene for several seconds. Next the shot panned down to a close-up of blood still flowing from the Welches’ severed necks. Then the video cut to the Arabic word for “infidel” painted in blood on the wall, finally concluding with a close-up of the ISIS flag before fading to black.

  I was trembling. I swallowed hard, feeling as if I’d been punched. I forced myself to breathe, realizing I’d been holding my breath.

  Over the course of my career I had witnessed more than my share of the unthinkable things people can do to one another. I had also investigated more murders than I cared to remember, but this was the first time I had actually witnessed one taking place. It was something I will never forget.

  Shepherd, who had been sitting on the edge of his desk, stood and shut off the monitor.

  “That was posted on the internet?” I asked, struggling to get a hold of my emotions.

  Shepherd nodded.

  “Any chance of tracing the IP address?”

  “We’re still working on that,” Gibbs answered. “The video was uploaded to a Russian social network called VK, using an IP masking service called the Tor Project. Since then the video has been posted on sites all over the world, including YouTube. Google took it down almost immediately, but it keeps popping up elsewhere. There’s no stopping it now.”

  “Tor?”

  “Tor stands for ‘The Onion Router,” Gibbs explained. “Tor is a hidden-service-protocol network that lets someone post a video in, say, Los Angeles, and have their traffic show up as originating from someplace else—Berlin or Rome, for instance—with a different IP address. With help from our friends at NSA, we were able to trace the original upload to a Starbucks in Santa Monica. From there we hit a brick wall. We’re currently watching that particular café and others like it in the area, hoping the killers come back.”

  “Was there any video surveillance at the Starbucks site?”

  Gibbs shook his head. “Unfortunately, no.”

  “Do you have any impressions on the video, Kane?” Shepherd broke in.

  “A few,” I said. I took a deep breath, attempting to set aside my feelings by concentrating on forensic aspects of the investigation. “First, anyone with basic computer skills could have produced that video,” I continued. “Second, they were clearly going for maximum shock value, and they succeeded.”

  “That’s putting it mildly,” noted Gibbs.

  “There were three men involved, possibly four,” I went on. “The video mostly consisted of straight cuts between edits, so they could have locked down the camera and removed any unnecessary footage later—in which case they wouldn’t have needed a fourth man to operate the camera. There was a shot at the end during which the camera panned down to the blood puddle. That would have required someone moving the camera, but it could have been the guy with the assault rifle. We never saw him after he delivered the knives.”

  “That’s what we figured, too,” said Shepherd. “Anything else?”

  I thought for a moment. “There were a couple of things that struck me as odd,” I said. “For one, what’s with the sunglasses? Wearing balaclavas and gloves I can understand, but sunglasses? Seems like overkill. And not one word being spoken by the killers. Were they just being cautious, or is something else going on?”

  “We’re assuming cautious,” said Gibbs.

  “The presence of the AK-47 also seemed strange,” I continued. “Sure, an AK is the terrorist rifle of choice in the Middle East, but this is West Los Angeles. A bit theatrical, don’t you think? And where did they get the weapon?”

  “We have ATF looking into that,” Shepherd answered, referring to the Department of Justice’s Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives. “No results yet. Anything else?”

  I paused again to collect my thoughts. “What about the stilted text?” I asked, taking a shot in the dark. “It reads like something from a bad movie.”

  “Actually, much of it was lifted from a speech given by the British terrorist, Jihadi John, just before he and other ISIS members engaged in a mass beheading of Syrian military personnel,” Gibbs explained. “A video of those murders was shot in the desert outside Dabiq, and that bit about hungry lions was the clincher. It was a direct translation of a quote from ISIS leader Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi, a quote that was included in the same video.”

  “So are we dealing with foreign nationals or home-grown terrorists?”

  Gibbs shrugged. “We’re concluding from an analysis of the text—grammar, syntax, and so on—that foreign terrorists are involved. But we’re not ruling out the presence of a domestic faction, either.”

  “Either way, they can’t actually believe their demands will be met.”

  Again, Gibbs shrugged.

  “I talked with Agent Taylor on my way in,” Shepherd noted, glancing at me as he moved to sit behind his desk. “She was impressed with your discovery of the oil drips and tire tracks, which might be from the unsubs’ vehicle,” he added, referring in Bureau-speak to the unknown subjects of the investigation. “Good work on that.”

  I hesitated, surprised to hear that Taylor had anything positive to say about me. “With two investigative agencies vying for authority, it’s easy to overlook something like that,” I granted, wondering what else might have been missed.

  “I also spoke with Chief Ingram this morning, Detective Kane,” Shepherd continued. “I know you have concerns about returning to work so soon after your wife’s death, and I understand that. But as I’m certain Chief Ingram mentioned, these are extraordinary circumstances. The Bureau will be requesting LAPD assistance at various points in the investigation, and we need a liaison to facilitate cooperation between our two agencies. Simply put, we need to find the people responsible for those murders, and you can help. Are you in?”

  In retrospect, I knew that I had been kidding myself by thinking there could be any response on my part but one, especially after viewing the murder video. On one level, I had hoped returning to work might help take my mind off Catheryn. On another, I was concerned that my job would again prove dangerous to my family, as it had in the past. I was prepared to say no, despite any consequences to my career. Granted, working as a liaison would keep me on the periphery of the investigation, and I was a long way from being ready to retire. Were I to refuse, I had no doubt what the outcome w
ould be.

  What tipped the scales for me, however, was the look of unalloyed evil I had seen in the man who had stared into the camera and exposed Mr. Welch’s neck-stump, just before finishing his horrific decapitation.

  “Are you in?” Shepherd asked again.

  I hesitated a moment more. Then, although uncertain where my decision would lead, I nodded.

  “I’m in.”

  Chapter 11

  Still profoundly disturbed by the terrorists’ video, I spent an additional forty-five minutes at Bureau headquarters being issued a parking pass and a Federal Building ID. Afterward, I returned to my Suburban and headed home. Partway down San Vicente Boulevard, however, I decided to stop at the West L.A. station to check in with Lieutenant Long. I also wanted to give myself some time to get my emotions under control before returning to the beach. A short detour on surface streets took me to Butler Avenue, where I parked in a mostly empty visitors’ lot outside the West Los Angeles County Courthouse.

  After shutting off my ignition, I made two quick calls. The first was to Chief Ingram, well before his 5:00 p.m. deadline, leaving a message with his secretary that I was officially onboard. The second was to Gavin Chan, a friend in SID’s Questioned Documents Division. Following a brief conversation, I emailed Chan a photo of the Arabic word that had been smeared in blood on the Welches’ wall.

  Calls completed, I walked a half-block down Butler to the West L.A. station. With a nod to a patrol officer manning the lobby desk, I headed upstairs to the detectives’ squad room. There, gathered around a table in the back, I found Deluca, Banowski, and Lieutenant Long sifting through a stack of files. All three looked up as I entered.

  “Kane,” said Deluca with a grin. “Twice in one day. We’re going to have to stop meeting like this, paisano. People might talk.”

  “Hey, Dan,” said Banowski, surprising me by rising from the desk and giving me a brief, bearlike hug. “Good to see you back. We could use some help around here.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you, John,” I said. “I am back on the payroll, but for the moment I’m working for Chief Ingram, acting as a liaison with our Bureau friends.”

  “The Bel Air murders?” asked Long.

  I nodded.

  Long’s brow furrowed. “I’m happy to see you back at work. It could be the best thing for you. But the last time we talked, you seemed pretty adamant on the subject. What changed your mind?”

  “The murder video. Not that Assistant Chief Strickland didn’t threaten my career if I declined.”

  “Screw Strickland,” said Banowski. “He can’t do that.”

  “Maybe not. But once I saw that video, Strickland’s threat didn’t matter much any more,” I said. “I want those guys taken down, and if I have to work with the feds to see that happen, then that’s what I’ll do.”

  “I hear you,” said Deluca. “That video was . . . I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “Me, neither,” said Banowski. “And I’ve seen a lot.”

  We all fell silent.

  “LAPD/FBI liaison, huh? At least that should keep your name out of the papers,” said Long, changing the subject. “You really okay chumming with the feds?”

  I shrugged. “Better than working for Snead.”

  “Tell me about it,” Deluca grumbled. Then, brightening, “Do you know the three most overrated things in the world?”

  “Yep,” I said, having heard it before. “Champagne, caviar, and the FBI.”

  “Some truth there,” laughed Banowski. “The Bureau guys are good at some things, though. Like taking credit when things go well, and shifting the blame when they don’t.”

  Like many police investigators, both Deluca and Banowski had been stung in the past when dealing with the FBI, and I knew that Banowski had a point. To be fair, I also knew that there were plenty of capable men and women in the Bureau, and despite the FBI’s habit of bulldozing into any investigation it considered its turf—often without the ability to investigate the case—it wasn’t reasonable to dismiss the entire agency. For that matter, there were a few mutts in the LAPD as well, and it was still a first-class organization. At the thought of mutts, my thoughts turned to Snead. “So how are things going on the task force?” I asked.

  Deluca’s expression darkened. “About as well as could be expected,” he answered. “Considering that we’re going to be running errands for the feds, taking orders from Snead, and following up on useless hotline tips, things are just swell. Snead gave us the day to reassign all our ongoing cases,” he added, glancing at the files on Long’s desk. “By the way, Snead wasn’t too happy about your visit this morning. He ordered every detective on the task force to avoid you like an STD. Needless to say, I’ll give you a heads-up if anything develops.”

  “Thanks, Paul.”

  “No problem. Just watch yourself around Snead.”

  “I’m reporting directly to Ingram, not Snead. Besides, I can handle Snead.”

  “Yeah, you said that. Just be careful.”

  “Speaking of being careful, how did you guys miss the oil drips?” I asked.

  “Sorry about that,” said Deluca, looking embarrassed. “Like I said, Snead showed up before we had a chance to do much, and Banowski and I wound up sitting on the sidelines.”

  “And then the feds barged in,” added Banowski. “With everyone claiming a piece of the turf, the oil drips got overlooked.”

  “Sounds about right,” I said, once more wondering what else might have slipped through the cracks. “Along those lines, where did the killers get their black flag? You might check into that.”

  “Good idea,” said Deluca.

  “They probably brought the cloth sacks and handcuff ties with them. It’s a long shot, but trying to locate the source of those items should also be on the list,” I suggested. “Try tracing the source of the sunglasses they were wearing, too. They looked identical, and maybe they were bought locally.”

  Deluca nodded. “I’ll propose that to Snead.”

  “Make it your idea. Don’t say it came from me.”

  “Right.”

  “I thought a moment. “You guys are checking everyone with a gate code, right? You might expand that search to include looking for a work vehicle or delivery van seen in the area. If the killers didn’t have the gate code, maybe the Welches buzzed them in.”

  “I’ll suggest that, too.”

  “So are you coming back to work here once the Bel Air case is over?” Banowski broke in, glancing at the files on Long’s desk.

  With Deluca detailed to the HSS task force, I realized that my former D-III duties would now fall on Banowski. “One step at a time, John,” I answered. “Don’t worry, I’m sure you can handle the added responsibility. It’ll look good on your resume.”

  “Yeah, right,” Banowski grumbled.

  I glanced at my watch, realizing that if I wanted to avoid rush-hour traffic, I needed to hit the road. “Well, if there’s nothing else . . .”

  “There is one more thing, Dan,” said Long. “Two things, actually. First, like I said, I’m glad you’re back, even if it is on an organizational mess like the Bel Air case. If there’s anything I can do to help, let me know.”

  “Thanks, Lieutenant. I appreciate that. What’s the other thing?”

  “Some advice, whether you want to hear it or not.”

  “And that is?”

  “Don’t trust the feds.”

  Chapter 12

  Make no mistake, we are at war with radical Islam,” said Jacob, sweeping his gaze across his congregation as he began his evening service. “And we are losing that war,” he added softly. “We are losing.”

  Jacob paused to let his words sink in. Then, again raising his voice, “In view of the terrorist murders that were recently reported in the news—brutal, gruesome killings committed by Muslims in our own country—we must turn our hearts and minds to this important issue, for our very survival is at stake.”

  “Amen, Brother Jacob,” came a c
all from the back.

  “Amen, indeed,” said Jacob. “The time has come to tell the truth about our enemy,” he continued. “Our government, and in particular our president and our state department, has lied to us. Our leaders aren’t even willing to name our enemy, labeling them ‘terrorist groups,’ or ‘violent extremists,’ or some other misleading term. I want to clarify the issue. In plain English, our enemy is radical Islam, whose Muslim members want to impose their religion on us by force, and who will cut off our heads if we don’t comply.

  “Everywhere we look, radical Islam is on the march. Its goal is to dominate the world. It may take different names in different places—Al-Shabaab in Somalia; Al-Qaeda in Yemen, Libya, and India; Hezbollah in Lebanon; the Islamic State and the Levant in Iraq and Syria. Some Islamists are Shi’ites; others are Sunnis. Some want to restore a medieval caliphate from the seventh century; others want the apocalyptic return of a ninth-century imam. But all militant Islamists share one thing in common. They all want to establish a world order in which Christians are subjugated, freedom and tolerance are things of the past, and ‘infidels’ like you and me are given but one, single choice: Convert or die.”

  Again, Jacob paused for emphasis. Then, pushing on, “Consider the statement of Iran’s founding ruler, Ayatollah Khomeini: ‘We will export our revolution to the entire world, until the cry, “There is no god but God” will echo throughout the world.’ These are the words of our declared enemy, and we must not take them lightly. Radical Muslims considered Osama bin Laden a holy warrior. They cheered when thousands of our citizens were murdered on 9/11.They hate our culture, our religion, our way of life.”

  Once more Jacob swept his gaze over his followers. “We must not take their threats lightly,” he repeated. “I know that many of you think a Muslim takeover couldn’t happen here in our country. You are wrong. It is already happening, as it has in many countries around the world, and this is how it proceeds: To begin, Muslims begin infiltrating a non-Muslim host country like ours, portraying Islam as a peaceful religion and Muslims as victims of racism and misunderstanding. As their population grows, increasing numbers of mosques are built to further spread Islam, along with fostering hate for the host country.