Infidel

by Steve Gannon

  Appearing uncomfortable under the combined gaze of everyone present, Agent Young stood. “Uh, we have made some progress locating the source of the AK-47,” he began, referring to a notebook. “It’s a Chinese knockoff known as a Norinco or Chicom Type 56. Among other things, the Chicom Type 56 differs from a Russian AK-47 in having a fully enclosed front sight and a folding bayonet mount attached to the barrel just aft of the muzzle. ATF is reviewing registration logs, checking for ownership of this type of weapon. If there’s a record of that rifle being purchased or transferred, I’m confident we’ll find it.”

  “Not to rain on your parade, Brody, but what if it was purchased at a private sale?” asked Taylor. A number of heads turned in her direction. “Like at a gun show?” she continued stubbornly, ignoring looks of impatience from several in the room.

  It was a good question. I’d been thinking the same thing, and upon hearing Taylor ask it, my estimation of her ascended several notches. I knew from working other cases that tracing a firearm could sometimes be an impossible task. Although federal law required anyone engaged in the business of selling guns to have a Federal Firearm License and keep a record of their FFL sales, the rule didn’t apply to anyone selling rifles or handguns from a private collection—say at a gun show. Hence the so-called “gun-show loophole.” A few states like California had passed laws requiring background checks on all gun-show firearm sales, but most states had done nothing to close the loophole. And two of those states were right across the California border.

  “We’ve asked ATF to look into that angle, too,” replied Young. “California has strict laws regarding the transfer of assault weapons like an AK, but other states aren’t as stringent. So, yeah, it’s a problem.”

  “Let’s move on,” Vaughn suggested. “Notwithstanding other areas of inquiry, and because of the terrorist aspect of the crime, the main thrust of our investigation will focus on reaching out to our contacts and operational partners in the Muslim world. Someone in the Islamic community knows who did this. Using the resources of our Los Angeles Joint Terrorism Task Force, our Joint Regional Intelligence Center, TITAN’s Field Intelligence Group, and working with our multi-agency colleagues across public and private sectors—both here in California and in other states as well—we will find them. Following the briefing, each of you meet with your Command Group leader and pick up your assignments.” Vaughn glanced at his watch. “Any final questions?”

  I had a few, but as I had no investigative position on the case, I decided to keep my mouth shut.

  “So we’re assuming this was done by Muslim extremists, and we’re looking for a source or informant in the Muslim community?” asked an agent near the rear. “If that’s the case, how do you explain the Welches’ inviting a team of Islamic terrorists into their living room? It doesn’t make sense.”

  In my opinion, his question was right on target. Why had the Welches’ allowed the killers past their gate? From the beginning, I’d thought there had to be something more. Against my better judgment, I decided to weigh in. “As I mentioned earlier, LAPD is checking everyone with the Welches’ gate code,” I said. “I could suggest to our guys that they widen their search. Maybe somebody saw a suspicious work vehicle or trade van cruising the area,” I added, deciding not to mention I had already suggested that line of inquiry to Deluca.

  Gibbs spoke up. “Good idea, Kane.”

  “Yes, sir. Another thing,” I continued, unable to stay silent. “Am I the only one here who thinks something stinks about that murder video?”

  Again, Vaughn glanced at his watch. “We appreciate your input, Detective Kane, but please remember you’re here as a liaison, not as an investigator. Now, if there are—”

  “Let’s hear what Kane has to say,” interrupted Director Shepherd, speaking for the first time. “An outside opinion might prove useful.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Vaughn. Then, turning to me with an ill-disguised look of irritation, “What impressions on the murder video would you like to share, Kane?”

  “I just think something’s . . . off about it,” I said. “Sure, they were going for shock value, and they succeeded. But what’s with the sunglasses, and completely covering their features with hoods and gloves? And the AK-47, or Chicom Type 56, or whatever it was. Just a little too theatrical, in my opinion. Plus those demands they made . . . they can’t possibly think they’ll be met. It doesn’t add up. I have a hunch something more is going on.”

  “Hunches are fine, as long as they’re discarded once evidence has proved them wrong,” said Vaughn, closing his file. “Facts will determine our conclusions on this investigation, and the facts indicate that these murders were committed by members of an unknown extremist cell. As such, until the facts prove otherwise, we will proceed accordingly. Now, if there are no other questions, let’s—”

  “I do have one more question,” I broke in again. Since reviewing the impound list of items taken from the Welches’ residence, I had been plagued by the feeling I was missing something. I’d been chewing on it since yesterday, and during the drive to the briefing that morning I had finally realized what it was. An examination of any crime scene should consider not only what is present, but what is not present as well. It wasn’t something that I was missing. It was something that was missing from the impound list.

  “Yes?” said Vaughn, finally seeming out of patience.

  “Where are the Welches’ cellphones?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I asked, where are the Welches’ cellphones? Everyone has a cellphone. I checked the list of items taken from their house. Cellphones weren’t on it.”

  “Are you certain?”

  I have a good memory. Maybe better than good. At times it wasn’t something I valued, especially lately when I couldn’t get thoughts of Catheryn out of my mind. But at other times, like now, it was. I took a moment to rerun the impound list in my mind, reviewing each item as plainly as if I were reading the original file. “I’m certain,” I said.

  “Even if it’s true, I don’t see how—”

  “I think Kane is suggesting that the killers might have taken the Welches’ cellphones with them,” Gibbs jumped in. “And if that’s the case, we might have a chance of locating them.”

  The room fell silent.

  “Damn,” said an agent sitting near Taylor. “It’s a long shot, but if those phones are still turned on and the batteries aren’t dead yet . . .”

  “Mason, we need that authorization from Verizon ASAP,” said Gibbs. “We might just have a chance of winding this up sooner than later. And check with legal about getting a warrant for a cellphone-location trace. Verizon may ask for it, and we don’t want to screw things up on a technicality. In the meantime, all agents pick up your assignments and hit the streets.”

  Next, Gibbs turned in my direction. “Kane, I need to talk with you after the briefing,” he said. “Taylor, after you pick up your assignment, I’ll need to talk with you, too.”

  Chapter 15

  What did you want to see me about, sir?” asked Taylor, addressing SAC Gibbs. I was standing nearby, also having sought out Gibbs after the briefing. Duffy had followed Taylor over as well, seeming as puzzled as the rest of us by Gibbs’s request.

  “Change of assignment, Agent Taylor,” said Gibbs. “I’m teaming you with Detective Kane for the next few days, assuming the case continues that long.”

  “But, sir, why do I have to babysit—”

  “This isn’t a request, Taylor.”

  Taylor scowled. “Yes, sir. May I ask why?”

  “No, you may not.”

  Duffy, who had initially looked more upset about the change in assignment than Taylor, seemed to have been about to object as well. At this he closed his mouth.

  “Taylor, you will complete today’s field assignment with Kane accompanying you as an observer,” Gibbs continued. “Duffy, you are being detailed to ASAC Vaughn’s unit and will assist in locating the Welches’ cellphones.”

 
“Yes, sir,” said Duffy, visibly brightening.

  “Well? Why are you all still standing here? Get to work.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” said Duffy. With a guilty glance at Taylor, he turned and headed across the room toward Vaughn, who already had several enthusiastic agents gathered around him.

  “What do you say, Taylor?” I asked, part of me surprised by Gibbs’s pairing me with Taylor, another part perversely enjoying her irritation. “Ready to hit the streets?”

  Taylor’s face darkened. Without replying, she started for the door.

  “Hey, Taylor, wait up. I have a question,” I called, taking long strides to catch up.

  “You’re just full of questions, aren’t you?” Taylor grumbled without slowing her pace.

  “This is an easy one. Where’s the Computer Analysis Response Team that Vaughn mentioned? CART? They have the Welches’ computers, right? Are they here in the building?”

  “Our CART lab is on the fourteenth floor. Why?”

  “Fourteenth floor? Okay, I just thought of something I want to check, so I need to make a quick stop there on the way out. You coming?”

  “No, I’m not going to the CART lab. And neither are you. I have my assignment, and you’re going to accompany me on it, whether I like it or not.”

  “What’s the assignment? Hitting some downtown mosque and interviewing an uncooperative mullah who probably doesn’t know anything and wouldn’t tell you if he did?”

  Taylor looked away. “We’re interviewing a Bureau asset at the King Fahad Mosque.”

  “Sorry, Taylor. You and I both know it’ll be a waste of time, but I’ll go with you. But first I’m going to talk with your CART unit. If you don’t want to join me, I’ll meet you in the parking garage.” By then we had reached the elevators. “Either that, or you can leave on your assignment and explain later to Gibbs why you didn’t bring me along.”

  “Damn it, Kane . . .”

  “Come on, Taylor. I have an idea I want to check out. It’ll just take a minute,” I coaxed, stepping into a waiting elevator and punching the button for the fourteenth floor.

  “What idea?”

  “You’ll see.”

  By then the elevator door had started to close. Taylor hesitated. Then, with a look of irritation, she held the door and stepped inside. “This had better be quick,” she warned.

  “What’s your problem, Taylor?”

  “I don’t have a problem, Kane. I just love babysitting our LAPD liaison while my partner actually gets to work the case.”

  I knew that Taylor had a point, and I remained silent as we descended to the fourteenth floor, thinking that the built-in bias against women in law enforcement, justified or not, was probably the same in the Bureau as it was at the LAPD.

  The CART facility turned out to be a large, well-lit room down the hall from the elevators. Several men looked up from a workbench as we entered, clearly surprised by our visit. “Can I help you guys?” one of the technicians asked.

  “I’m hoping you can,” I said before Taylor could answer. “In the briefing upstairs just now, ASAC Vaughn said you guys were able to break into the Welches’ computers. Good work.”

  “Thanks,” the technician replied, pleased at the compliment. “Actually, it wasn’t as difficult as you’d think. Both of them were using the same password, which helped. We’ve downloaded most of the pertinent files, but Mr. Welch’s machine also has an encrypted partition that we weren’t able to decode. We’re sending both computers over to our RFCL lab in Orange County to see what they can do.”

  “RFCL?”

  “Regional Forensic Computer Laboratory,” the man explained.

  “Are the Welches’ computers still here, or have you already sent them to Orange County?”

  The technician called to a man at another workbench. “Hey, Arturo, have those computers gone out yet?”

  “They’re still in the back,” Arturo replied. “All boxed up and ready to go.”

  “Can I take a look?” I asked.

  “Sure,” the first man answered. “We’re done with them. Don’t see how it could hurt.”

  “What are you doing, Kane?” Taylor demanded.

  “Just give me a minute,” I said, watching as Arturo retrieved a large cardboard box, slit open a strip of packing tape, and withdrew two Mac computers—a laptop and an iMac desktop model—along with a wireless keyboard and mouse.

  “Can you fire them up?” I asked, pleased to see that the Welches had been Mac users. I had been an Apple customer for years and was familiar with most of the Mac features, including the seamless syncing of all their products. As such, I knew there was a good chance that the Welches had owned iPhones as well.

  Arturo carried the iMac to a nearby counter, plugged it in, and hit the power button. As the desktop machine began booting up, he opened the laptop and turned it on as well.

  The iMac screen came up first, displaying a password panel in the center. I glanced at Arturo.

  “DivorceInc1,” he said. “Initial caps on the ‘D’ and ‘I.’ Same for both machines.”

  Using the wireless keyboard, I tapped in the password. An instant later a desktop screen appeared, with a number of icons superimposed on an outdoor scene. From the file names below several of the icons, it was clear that the machine had belonged to Mr. Welch.

  Taylor stared at the computer screen. “Kane, what the hell—”

  “Trust me, Taylor,” I said, moving the cursor to the bottom of the screen and clicking a Safari icon. When the internet browser display appeared, I typed “icloud.com” into the address bar. A moment later another screen appeared, this one with a further assortment of icons. One of them—a green circle resembling a radar screen—had the words “Find my iPhone” written beneath it. Clicking on that, I got an Apple sign-in request. Hoping Mr. Welch had used the same password for his iCloud account, I mentally crossed my fingers and typed in “DivorceInc1.”

  No luck.

  Before Taylor could object, I switched to the laptop and repeated the procedure.

  This time it worked.

  Following the brief image of a compass, a map of Santa Monica appeared. A gray marker was pulsing on Second Street between Broadway and Colorado Avenue, a few blocks from the Santa Monica pier. I clicked on the marker. It read “Arleen’s iPhone.” Accompanying the location marker, whose gray color indicated it had been sent when Mrs. Welch’s cellphone charge became critically low, was the transmission time of the final signal.

  Arleen’s cellphone battery had died early Monday morning, approximately twenty-nine hours after her murder.

  “Cool,” said Arturo, who had been watching over my shoulder. “We didn’t know the Welches’ cellphones were missing, or we would have done that search ourselves,” he added, seeming embarrassed.

  I made a mental note of Arleen’s cellphone location and shut off both computers. “Don’t beat yourself up. We just recently figured out the phones were missing,” I said, adding, “Thanks for your help, guys.”

  “No problem,” said Arturo.

  “C’mon, Taylor,” I said, heading for the door. “Let’s take a ride.”

  “Take a ride?” Taylor said incredulously once we were outside. “That was good work, Kane, but you have to be kidding. I need to report this.”

  “Why? So Vaughn and your boyfriend Duffy can take over?”

  Taylor’s face darkened. “Screw you, Kane,” she snapped. “Duffy isn’t my boyfriend.”

  “Maybe you should let him know that,” I advised. “At any rate, this is a chance for you to get in on the investigation, instead of sitting on the sidelines babysitting me, as you put it. Unless I’m reading you wrong, that’s what you want, right?”

  Taylor hesitated. “Yes, but we—”

  “Listen to me for a minute,” I interrupted. “Mrs. Welch’s cellphone being in Santa Monica can mean one of three things. Scenario one: The killers still have it, in which case we proceed to the location, make sure they don’t le
ave, and call for backup. Scenario two: Mrs. Welch’s cellphone is down there in Santa Monica somewhere, maybe in a trashcan. While your guys upstairs are dicking around with Verizon—getting a location warrant and organizing an Evidence Response Team search—that phone could be picked up and on its way to a landfill. Scenario three: Mrs. Welch’s cellphone has already been moved, in which case we’d both look like idiots calling in the mighty resources of the FBI without first checking things out. Whatever the case, we need to move, Taylor. And we need to move now.”

  “You heard Gibbs, Kane. Without a warrant, the case could be compromised.”

  “I know the law, Taylor. The Welches’ cellphones were stolen, so the killers can’t claim any expectation of privacy. And under the circumstances, I don’t think the Welches will object to our trampling their Fourth Amendment rights.”

  Taylor still looked unconvinced.

  “I’m heading to Santa Monica,” I said. “If there’s trouble about this later, blame it on me. Come with me or not, Taylor, I don’t care. But I’m going.”

  In the end Taylor decided to accompany me, as I was going with or without her. She also agreed to postpone calling Gibbs, at least until after we had determined the situation in Santa Monica.

  We rode in my car. Taking surface streets, we arrived at an industrial section in Santa Monica twenty minutes later. The Second Street neighborhood was zoned for restaurants, shops, and the like—no residential structures.

  Which left looking for a dump site.

  Following a brief search, we located a dumpster behind a local McDonald’s, close to the spot I had noted on the “Find my iPhone” screen. As luck would have it, we arrived minutes ahead of a scheduled garbage pickup. Glancing at Taylor, I flashed my badge and waved off the trash truck. Then, after removing my jacket, I donned a pair of latex gloves and started looking. After a moment’s deliberation, Taylor opened her handbag, pulled out a pair of gloves of her own, and joined me.

  Within minutes, our dumpster-diving paid off. We discovered Mrs. Welch’s cellphone in a black plastic trash bag, buried beneath paper waste, spoiling garbage including McDonald’s fare and a partially eaten pizza, and a broken wicker chair. The trash bag containing Mrs. Welch’s cellphone also held a second phone, presumably Mr. Welch’s, along with towels and a wadded mass of black clothing—all of which appeared to be stained with dried blood.