by Steve Gannon
“I’ll bet,” Taylor chuckled. Then, her eyes lighting with recognition, “Allison Kane? She’s your daughter? I’ve been following her career since she reported on the Sharon French abduction. She’s one of the rising stars at Channel 2, right?”
“I suppose so,” I sighed. “Unfortunately, Ali’s job hasn’t made life any easier for me.”
“Veteran LAPD homicide investigator versus ambitious, news-reporter daughter. Sounds like a movie premise. Or at least a TV series.”
“Glad you think so.”
“Well, in case you haven’t noticed, your daughter has been reporting nonstop on our Infidel investigation, and I can’t say as I like how things are shaping up in the media. Everyone is looking for a scapegoat, and it’s a tossup as to who’s their first choice—the Bureau or the LAPD.”
I had noticed recent developments in the media, and it wasn’t a topic I wanted to discuss. Since I had last talked with Allison, her prediction of a media blitz had materialized with a vengeance, with every TV station, newspaper, and supermarket rag devoting more and more attention to the investigation. Worse, thanks to inflamed media coverage, a Muslim backlash was flaring up across the country. Mosques had been burned in Texas, Alabama, and Philadelphia, with a number of related deaths reported nationwide as well.
“Scapegoats, eh? Well, that’s why we’re getting the big bucks,” I said, trying to divert the conversation.
“How are your LAPD task-force pals holding up?” Taylor asked, ignoring my attempt at humor.
I shrugged. “About as well as can be expected. LAPD investigators don’t like doing Bureau legwork instead of handling the case on their own.”
“You sure you’re not talking about yourself?”
“Maybe,” I admitted. “But I’m just a Bureau liaison, so I have no cause to complain. What about you, Taylor?” I asked, again attempting to steer the conversation in another direction. “As long as we’re sharing here, what’s your story? How’d you find your way into the Bureau?”
“Just lucky, I guess.”
“Just lucky? That’s your idea of sharing?”
Taylor lifted her shoulders and concentrated on her soup.
“Jeez, Taylor. Like someone said, this is like pulling teeth. I thought women were supposed to be the talkative gender.”
“Fine,” said Taylor, taking a final spoonful of pho and pushing away her empty bowl. “I grew up in Salmon, Idaho. Got married at eighteen, right out of high school,” she added, unable to hide a trace of bitterness in her voice. “I worked as a secretary to put my husband Mark through college and law school. Later I went back to school myself, earned my undergraduate degree, and attended Chapman Law. After graduation I joined Mark at a law firm in Burbank. When our marriage imploded, I took some time off, did some thinking, and decided I needed a change. I applied to the FBI and was accepted. After graduating from the FBI Academy in Quantico, I paid my dues as an FOA in a five-man RA back east. I spent my time there on a fugitive squad with another FOA rookie and a seasoned SA chasing down Class Forty-two deserters. On my next office assignment I moved up to major crimes, and later I wound up in L.A.”
I smiled, again thinking that Bureau agents seemed genetically unable to complete two declarative sentences without resorting to abbreviations. Nevertheless, I nodded as if I had understood Taylor’s alphabet explanation, which I did . . . mostly.
Taylor paused, working on a thumbnail with her teeth. “Let’s see, what else? No children, one living parent, my mom. I also have a sister, Jeannie, who is married with two kids and living in Detroit. I drive a Jeep Renegade and my take-home bucar, the Crown Vic. I own a two-bedroom condo in Santa Monica and live with my cat, Chuck. In my spare time I surf, ski, and do a little whitewater kayaking. Last but not least, my therapist thinks I have abandonment issues and feelings of inadequacy. That about cover it?”
“Inadequacy and abandonment issues,” I mused, rubbing my chin in an attempt to strike an analytical pose. “And how do you feel about that?”
Taylor grinned. “Actually, I think I’m perfect, and I wish my therapist would leave me alone.”
“Good answer,” I laughed. Then, changing gears, “How do you like working at the Bureau?”
Taylor stopped chewing her nail and looked away. “It’s just peachy.”
“Having trouble breaking into the boys’ club?”
“None of your business,” she snapped. Then, catching herself, “Sorry. Didn’t mean to take it out on you.”
When I remained silent, Taylor squared her shoulders and continued. “To answer your question, women in the FBI have every opportunity the Bureau offers their male counterparts, at least on paper. In practice it’s another matter.”
“Probably the same in a lot of professions, especially law enforcement,” I said, knowing that advancement for women at many police agencies, including the LAPD, was often problematic.
By then our lunch bill had arrived. Taylor glanced at her watch, pulled a wallet from her purse, and tossed a credit card onto the tray. “Let’s split this and get moving. We have three more interviews to do today, and it’s already one o’clock.”
“Cash-only service here,” I said, sliding her card back across the table.
Taylor looked embarrassed. “I, uh, don’t usually carry much money—”
“I’ve got it,” I said.
“Thanks. I’ll pay you back tomorrow.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“I’ll pay you back,” Taylor repeated firmly.
“How about this?” I suggested. “You get the next one. We’ll go someplace really, really expensive.”
“Whatever,” Taylor replied, clearly impatient to get back to work.
“About those interviews,” I went on, placing enough money on the table to cover the meal and leave a good tip. “We’re in the area, and there’s a quick stop I want to make.”
“Not this time. We have things to do.”
“I’m driving, remember?”
“Damn it, Kane—”
“Don’t worry, Taylor. My stop is nearby in East L.A., and it won’t take long. Plus, it may turn out to be important. Trust me.”
Taylor smiled thinly. “Trust you? Gee, where have I heard that before?”
After retrieving my Suburban from the parking lot behind the restaurant, we took the I-10 Freeway east and arrived at the Los Angeles Cal State University campus a few minutes later. The Hertzberg-Davis Forensic Science Center, a state-of-the-art regional forensic laboratory that housed both the LAPD’s and the Los Angeles Sheriff’s Department’s crime labs, was situated on a triangular section of campus on the southeast corner of the university. As I pulled into a visitor’s slot and killed the engine, Taylor, who on the drive had repeatedly demanded to know where we were going, regarded the immense, five-story forensic science center suspiciously.
“What are we doing here?” she asked.
“I told you, there’s something I want to check,” I said, stepping from the Suburban. “It’ll only take a few minutes, after which we can resume our very important Bureau assignments1.”
With a sigh, Taylor followed me into the building. Navigating a broad corridor past a series of California Forensic Science Institute offices, we eventually arrived at the LAPD’s Scientific Investigation Division crime lab. After registering with an officer manning the SID reception desk, I guided Taylor to a bank of elevators deeper in the building. From there we took an elevator one floor up and proceeded to an office down the hall, along the way passing labs marked “Trace Analysis” and “Serology/DNA.” The plate on the door at the end of the hall read, “Questioned Documents.”
I knocked. Receiving no answer, I opened the door and stuck my head inside. Several technicians looked up from their work. One, a thin Asian man wearing dark slacks and a blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up, rose from his desk and smiled. “Kane. I was going to call,” he said apologetically, crossing the room to greet us.
“No problem, Gavin
,” I replied, shaking his hand. “I was in the area and thought I would swing by. This is Special Agent Taylor,” I added, noticing my analyst friend’s admiring glance at my companion. “Agent Taylor, Gavin Chan.”
“Pleased,” said Chan, taking Taylor’s hand.
“Likewise,” said Taylor.
“Any progress on the photo?” I asked.
“The shot of that Arabic word? Yes, I took a look,” said Chan, reluctantly releasing Taylor’s hand. “It’s impossible to do a thorough analysis based on a photograph, but—”
“Just give me what you’ve got,” I suggested, ignoring a curious look from Taylor.
“Well, it’s the Arabic word kafir, meaning ‘infidel,’ as I’m sure you already know. Let’s go over to my desk. I made a blow-up print of your photo. There is one thing that stood out.”
We followed Chan to a workspace at the back of the room. Upon arriving, my friend shuffled through several files before finding what he wanted. “Ah, here’s the photo,” he said, laying an eight-by-ten print of the bloody writing atop his desk.
“Graphology is a pseudoscience based on how you dot your i’s and cross your t’s, right?” Taylor noted with a frown, staring down at the photo. “Assuming it even works, how could you possibly perform any meaningful analysis on something written in a foreign language?”
“Graphology does take into account certain letter formations, in particular that of a number of upper- and lowercase letters,” Chan agreed. “But it also considers writing pressure, slanting, letter size, word spacing, and so on. As far as it being a pseudoscience, most people classify graphology as a credible social science that falls in the same category as psychology. You’d be surprised what a skilled analyst, using either the ‘Trait Stroke’ method or the ‘Gestalt’ approach, can learn from an examination of your handwriting.”
“What about a foreign language?” Taylor persisted.
“Depends on the alphabet,” said Gavin, warming to the subject. “For example, the strokes of Latin-based languages like English, Italian, Spanish, and French are all similar and well researched. Analysis of non-Latin languages like Arabic requires a completely different technique.”
“So you don’t do Arabic graphology.”
“Actually, in Questioned Documents we don’t do any graphology,” Gavin sniffed. “I just wanted you to realize the issues involved.”
“So what do you do?” asked Taylor, still clearly irritated by our unscheduled visit to the forensic center.
“Why don’t we just let him tell us?” I suggested.
Taylor folded her arms. “I’m all ears,” she said, her posture indicating otherwise.
“Most of our work here involves examining documents to determine various facts about their preparation and subsequent treatment,” explained Gavin, appearing disappointed by Taylor’s attitude. “Checking for possible alterations by someone using computer or photocopier manipulation, for instance. We also do handwriting comparison, document dating, and ink analysis—details that routinely wind up in court.”
“You said there was something that stood out on the photo I sent?” I prodded, attempting to get my friend back on track.
“There was,” said Gavin, picking up the photo. “First, the writing on the wall appears to have been done with a finely bristled lettering brush, similar to one you can purchase at any artists’ supply house. Look here, and here,” he continued, pointing to several areas on the photo.
“Uh, what are we looking at?” I asked.
“See how the brushstrokes start out thick in the body of each letter, then feather to the right, trailing off so you can make out the individual bristles of the brush?”
“Yeah,” I said. “So?”
“Arabic script, which includes twenty-eight letters, is written cursive-style from right-to-left,” Chan explained.
I was beginning to understand. “And whoever wrote the Arabic word for ‘infidel’ on the Welches’ wall—”
“—wrote it left-to-right,” Chan finished. “It was copied onto the wall . . . and not by someone familiar with the Arabic language.”
“And you’re sure about this left-to-right thing?” asked Taylor.
“Absolutely positive,” said Chan. “Brushstroke analysis may not be accurate on everything, but on this issue, there’s no doubt.”
“It still could have been done by a foreign national,” Taylor pointed out. “The illiteracy rate in Arab countries is huge.”
“Any Arabic-speaking national, illiterate or not, knows that Arabic is written right-to-left,” Chan countered. “Whoever copied that word wasn’t from an Arabic-speaking nation. Of that I’m certain.”
I thought a moment, considering the implications of Chan’s discovery. “Gavin, you’re going to get a call later today from an LAPD investigator asking you to do the same analysis for him that you just did for me. Don’t mention we talked, okay?”
Chan shrugged. “What analysis?”
“Thanks, Gavin,” I said. “I owe you one.”
Once we had left the building, I called Deluca and filled him in. Next I suggested that he call Gavin Chan in Questioned Documents, ask Chan’s opinion of the Arabic writing, and then bring his “discovery” to Snead.
As soon as I had hung up, Taylor asked, “What’s going on?”
“You mean my giving the backward-writing thing to Deluca? Simple. After our dumpster incident, we can’t afford to have it look like we’re running our own investigation here. Not a second time, anyway.”
“Not we, Kane. You. And as a matter of fact, isn’t that exactly what you’re doing?”
“I’m simply doing what you Bureau guys should have done in the first place. To be fair, LAPD should have done it, too. Either way, I’m just a liaison, remember?”
“I remember,” Taylor said with a smile. Then, her brow furrowing, “So how does this handwriting issue affect the investigation? What difference does it make whether or not the Arabic word was written by a non-Arab? We never ruled out the possibility that our terrorists could have a homegrown element.”
“Taylor, no one at the Welches’ residence that night was a foreign national. If anyone there had spoken Arabic, they would have been the one to write that word on the wall. And copied or not, the word would have been written right-to-left.”
“You’re probably correct, but—”
“And if that’s the case,” I went on, “we’re wasting our time beating the bushes of our immigrant population for Muslim terrorists. We should be checking the ranks of our homegrown converts, investigating websites and prisons where they’re recruited and radicalized, for instance.”
Taylor started to object, then stopped.
“There’s something else,” I said. “It’s been bothering me since I first watched that beheading video.”
“What?”
“The stilted language in their text. ‘Be God’s curse on you,’ and so on.”
“I don’t see what you’re getting at.”
“Look, we just learned that whoever killed the Welches didn’t know the first thing about Arabic. They’re not foreign terrorists, Muslim or otherwise.”
“So?”
“So why are they trying so hard to make us think they are?”
Chapter 19
From his seat in the front of the van, Jacob watched as a procession of Sunset Boulevard estates rolled past his window. Steeling himself for what was to come, he mentally reviewed his preparations for the evening.
First, on the off-chance their van was recorded on some random security camera, the license plates on their vehicle had been pilfered that morning at a Westwood mall, with a second set replacing the stolen plates so the owner wouldn’t immediately notice their loss. The same precaution had been taken for their backup vehicle, which was now being driven by Ethan.
Second, on their way into Beverly Hills that evening they had picked up several pizzas in Santa Monica. The pies were now in the back, staying warm in insulated vinyl delivery bags . . .
not that their temperature would matter, except possibly to Rudy.
And third, all equipment for tonight’s venture had been stowed in the van and covered with a tarp—camera gear, assault rifle, pistols and sound suppressors, balaclavas and gloves, knives, hoods, handcuff cable-ties, magnetic signs, clean clothes, and trash bags.
Everything was ready.
Jacob glanced at Caleb, who was driving. As instructed, his younger brother was concentrating on the road and keeping their speed within the posted limit. “Do you know our escape routes, Caleb?” Jacob asked.
Caleb nodded, not taking his eyes from the road. “Of course. Mapleton to Beverly Glen, or north on Mapleton to Sunset. From there we either head toward Westwood or Beverly Hills.”
“Alternate sites, in case something isn’t right?” Jacob continued his query, even though he knew it was unlikely that the Holmby Hills residence they had chosen for tonight’s killings would need to be changed. They had studied Noah and Emma Davenport’s gated estate over a period of weeks, and they knew the family’s schedule well. They knew when Mr. Davenport, the CEO of an internet security company, departed for work in the morning and when he arrived home at night, and that housewife Emma, who routinely visited a health club on weekdays and sometimes had lunch with friends in Westwood, was always present for Noah’s return. The Davenports had no children, and during the time they had been observed, never had friends visited during the week. Last, neighboring homes were far enough away as to not present a problem. No, the Davenports’ residence was perfect—quiet, secluded, and private . . . once they got past the gate.
“Alternate sites for tonight,” Caleb replied, referring to additional residences that had been chosen months earlier. “South Hudson in Hancock Park, and Rivas Canyon in the Palisades.”
“Escape routes for the alternate sites?”
“Hancock Park: West Third Street to Western, then south to the Santa Monica Freeway. In the Palisades we take Rivas Canyon to Sunset, then east or west.
