by Steve Gannon
“Yes, sir,” said Garcia.
“Kane, this could be an area in which your task force might be able to help,” Vaughn suggested. “You know, get the word out on the street.”
“I’ll pass it on,” I said.
“Anyone else have an idea on this?” asked Vaughn.
When no one responded, Vaughn made a final entry in his file, checked his watch, and glanced at Gibbs. “That’s it for this morning,” he said. “There are briefing sheets in the back. Pick them up on your way out. But before you leave on your assignments, SAC Gibbs would like a final word.”
Once more Gibbs moved to the front. “What you’re about to see will be hard for many of you,” he warned, waving several agents back to their seats. “Probably for all of you, in fact, so I apologize in advance for what you’re about to experience. That being said, and in an effort to understand the type of terrorists with whom we’re dealing, I want you to view their latest video. No exceptions.”
A chill ran through the room. I knew from talking with Taylor that a number of agents had watched the first murder video, but probably just as many had elected not to. Now they weren’t being given a choice.
Gibbs motioned to an agent at one of the workstations. The overhead lights flickered off, darkening the room, and a monitor on the wall behind Gibbs came to life.
A moment later the video began.
I didn’t want to watch. But like everyone else, I did.
Similar to their first production, the terrorists’ new video began with three dark-clothed men standing in front of an ISIS flag. All three were wearing balaclavas, leather gloves, and sunglasses. No one spoke. The man on the left appeared to be holding the same automatic weapon I’d seen in the earlier video. The other two were positioned behind a man and a woman, who both had sacks covering their heads. Although I couldn’t be certain, the terrorists looked similar to the ones I’d seen in the first video—the tallest holding the rifle, the second man short and muscular, the third slim and a bit taller. From a glare illuminating the scene, it appeared that spotlights had been now added behind the camera.
The couple, whom I assumed to be Emma and Noah Davenport, were kneeling in the foreground, hands fastened behind their backs. Mrs. Davenport sounded like she was weeping, her soft sobs muffled by the cloth sack. Otherwise, silence.
There was silence in the conference room as well.
The video faded to black, and lines of script began scrolling across the screen. “America, be God’s curse on you,” the writing began, as it had before. The terrorists’ message, an exact duplicate of the one I’d seen earlier, took several minutes to cycle past. During this time I felt a grim tension building in the room, as palpable as an electric current.
We all knew what was coming.
All too soon the video returned to the images of Mr. and Mrs. Davenport, kneeling before their captors. As before, the rifle-carrying terrorist stepped out of frame, returning with a metal vessel containing two dark-handled knives. The video then cut to a medium shot of the men behind the Davenports. Each withdrew a knife from the metal container. Next they tore the cloth sacks from the heads of their captives.
The video cut to a close shot of the Davenports. The hapless couple blinked in the harsh light. Mr. Davenport looked angry. Mrs. Davenport was crying. Tears had run her mascara, smearing her cheeks in sad, dark rivulets.
“We have money,” begged Mr. Davenport. “We’ll pay whatever you want. Just . . . let us go.”
Neither of the hooded men responded. Instead, they encircled each captive’s head with a forearm. In unison, they forced back Mr. and Mrs. Davenport’s chins. Knives held in gloved hands, they placed their blades to their victims’ throats. The Davenports began struggling. Screaming, Mrs. Davenport vainly tried to bite her captor’s hand. In what seemed an almost intimate gesture, the short, muscular killer placed his mouth near Mr. Davenport’s ear and said something. At this Mr. Davenport stiffened and redoubled his efforts to break free.
And then it began.
More than anything, I wanted to look away. I didn’t. Heart pounding, I watched in horror as the men began sawing their blades through the Davenports’ necks. A wave of shock coursed through the room. Several agents gasped, looking away as blood began to flow.
As before, the muscular man murdering Noah Davenport leaned forward and used his weight to topple his captive to the floor. Lying atop his struggling victim, the killer continued his grisly work. The man executing Mrs. Davenport remained standing, seeming able to control his smaller victim without taking her down.
Like others in the room, I sat frozen, sickened by the violence. At one point the muscular killer stared directly into the camera, as he had in the first video. Again he tipped back his victim’s partially severed head, exposing the gushing neck-stump. By then Mr. Davenport was probably dead. Mrs. Davenport had gone limp seconds earlier, and at that point she was most likely dead as well.
Blood was everywhere.
Although the killers completed their hideous decapitations shortly afterward, the executions seemed to go on forever. The final severing, as the terrorists hacked through the vertebrae at the back of each victim’s neck, took the longest.
Finally it was over.
Covered in gore, the killers stood over the bodies of Mr. and Mrs. Davenport. Grasping the severed heads by the hair, the men held aloft their gruesome trophies, displaying them for the camera. Then, in a ritualistic act that seemed almost surreal in its cruelty, they placed the severed heads on the backs of the headless corpses, balancing them between Mr. and Mrs. Davenport’s pinioned arms.
The camera held on the horrific scene for several seconds, then moved in for a close shot of the severed heads. Seeing this, I concluded that the camera was now probably being operated by the third terrorist. Next the video cut to the Arabic word for “infidel,” smeared in blood on a nearby wall. Finally the camera panned left for a close-up of the ISIS flag. The video held on the flag, then faded to black.
Moments later the overhead lights in the room came back on.
Once again I found myself trembling, shaken by the violence I had witnessed. I glanced around the room. An agent near the front was quietly sobbing, a hand to her mouth. I saw tears in the eyes of other agents as well, many of them men. As my gaze traveled the room, Taylor caught my eye. Her face was pale. It was clear that like everyone present, she had been shocked by the video. She also looked angry.
“Damn,” someone said softly.
“That was uploaded to the web early this morning,” said Gibbs, again addressing the room. “Since then it has been reposted just about everywhere, including a number of Islamic sites worldwide.”
“Any chance of shutting it down?” asked Vaughn.
Gibbs shook his head. “There’s no putting that one back in the bottle.”
“Is the media onto it yet?” asked someone else.
Gibbs nodded. “Coverage is ramping up.”
“And it’s probably going to get worse,” added Vaughn. “A lot worse.”
Chapter 21
As usual, I placed a call to Chief Ingram’s office following the briefing. After bringing the chief up to date on the current “homegrown Muslim” theory, I relayed the Bureau’s request that Snead’s task force begin looking into sources of domestic Muslim recruitment and radicalization. I also mentioned that I planned to visit the Holmby Hills crime scene a soon as possible.
Upon hanging up, I noticed Taylor standing nearby. “Ready to hit the streets?” she asked.
“Hang on,” I replied. “I need a moment with Gibbs.”
Gibbs was engaged in conversation with Director Shepherd and Agent Vaughn. Ignoring a questioning look from Taylor, I waited for a chance to break in. While waiting, I scanned the briefing sheets I had picked up after the meeting. Among other things, the briefing summary contained a copy of the Welch autopsy protocols. Vaughn had been correct in his assessment that they contained nothing unusual. Both of the Bel Air victims had
died of exsanguination subsequent to the severing of their carotid arteries. Toxicology showed that Mrs. Welch had been taking a tricyclic antidepressant called Elavil. Mr. Welch was being treated with a cholesterol-lowering statin. Otherwise, the autopsy results were unremarkable.
“You have a question, Kane?” said Gibbs, finally noticing me waiting.
“Yes, sir,” I said. “A request, actually. I’d like to visit the Holmby Hills crime scene.”
Vaughn scowled. “Once again, Kane, need I remind you that your liaison position doesn’t—”
“What could it hurt?” Gibbs interrupted. “You know, a fresh pair of eyes.”
“I’m inclined to agree,” Shepherd weighed in. “Do we need to clear this with Chief Ingram, Detective?”
“I already did. Ingram’s onboard,” I said, stretching the truth a bit. “Thank you, Director,” I added, turning on my heel before anyone could change his mind.
*****
When Taylor and I arrived in Holmby Hills, we found the Davenports’ security gate standing open at the street. Someone had angled an LAPD black-and-white across the entrance, blocking the driveway. I flashed my shield and identified myself to a young patrolman stationed nearby. The patrolman logged my name and badge number into his notebook, adding Agent Taylor’s name and her Bureau ID to the record as well. That done, he backed up his vehicle and allowed us to proceed down the driveway. As we approached the Davenports’ rambling, one-story home, I noted that several other LAPD patrolman were still onsite. I smiled, happy to see that even though the Bureau had taken priority, LAPD was maintaining a presence.
“What?” asked Taylor.
“Nothing.” I said, pulling to a stop in front of the Davenports’ three-car garage. “Let’s get to work,” I added, shutting off the engine and stepping from the car.
As at the Welch crime scene, I first made a complete circuit of the grounds, finding no evidence that the killers had gained access to the Davenports’ home other than via the security gate.
Again, I wondered how.
Inside the residence, a number of FBI agents were still at work. From their manner, I concluded that they were members of the Bureau’s Evidence Response Team. “LAPD,” I said to an older investigator who seemed to be in charge, again flipping out my ID.
The man glanced at my shield, then at Taylor, who flashed her Bureau creds as well. “Don’t see why not,” he said with a shrug. “We’re about done here. Just don’t move anything.”
“I won’t.” I thought a moment. “Were the Davenport’s cellphones found onsite?”
The investigator nodded.
“You check the phone logs?”
“After dusting for prints. No outgoing or incoming calls on either phone since yesterday.”
“What about the residence landline? Or is there one?”
“There’s a landline hookup through AT&T. According to a phone bill we found in the den, that line was used mostly for their security system—which is missing, by the way.”
“What are you getting at, Kane?” asked Taylor.
“I’m not certain,” I admitted, “but I still think we’re overlooking something. Like how the killers are getting past the gates, for one.”
“That’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question, isn’t it?” said the investigator.
“It is,” I agreed, checking my watch. “How much longer are you going to be here?”
“Maybe twenty minutes.”
“Could you let me know before you take off? I might have another question or two.”
“Sure,” the investigator replied. He looked at me carefully. “Kane, right?”
I nodded.
“I heard about your visit to the Welch scene. I, uh, wouldn’t mind a heads-up if you think we missed something,” he said quietly.
“No problem.”
“Thanks. In that case, I’ll stick around till you’re done.”
Taylor trailed me through the house as I inspected each room, starting with the entry. As at the Welch residence, forensic investigators appeared to have done a thorough job of gathering evidence—sink and shower traps removed, numbered tags marking the location of recovered material, ferric oxide darkening any surface the killers might have touched. I noted bloody shoe prints in the entry. In the kitchen, I thought I detected the faint smell of vomit, concluding that someone had been sick at the scene, like the pool guy at the Welches’ estate.
As before, I saved the murder room for last.
Like the Welches, the Davenports had died in their living room. Two taped body outlines and a large, congealing puddle of blood marked the location where the killers had executed Noah and Emma Davenport. On a wall to the left, painted in blood, was the Arabic word for infidel, apparently written by the same hand that had scrawled the twisting cursive at the Welches’ mansion. Now that I knew what to look for, I could tell that the word had been written incorrectly, left-to-right.
Same guys.
Across from the blood puddle, delineated by a numbered tag, indentations in the carpet marked an area where the killers had set up their camera tripod. Also indicated with numbered tags, I noted several other carpet depressions behind the body outlines, marks that had probably been made by a frame displaying the black flag. With a sick, hollow feeling, I glanced around the murder site, trying to imagine Mr. and Mrs. Davenport’s final moments.
“You find anything?” asked the ERT tech, who had followed me into the living room.
I fought to bring my feelings under control. “Your team seems to have done a thorough job,” I replied. “I wish I had something to add. Unfortunately, I don’t. Sorry.”
“Yeah, me too,” said the investigator. “Maybe they’ll make a mistake next time.”
“Maybe,” I said, not wanting to consider that this might happen again. “Who got sick in the kitchen?” I asked, changing the subject. “Not that I blame him.”
“Nobody got sick,” the investigator replied, looking puzzled. “Why do you ask?”
“I thought I smelled something in there,” I said. “Maybe it wasn’t vomit.”
With Taylor and the ERT technician following, I returned to the kitchen. “There,” I said, sniffing the room. “Smell that?”
“I don’t smell anything,” said the technician.
“I do,” said Taylor. “Pizza.”
I sniffed again. “Yeah, I think you’re right.” I checked under the sink, looking for a pizza wrapping. A plastic bin there was empty.
“We took everything from the residence trash cans, but there wasn’t much,” said the technician. “No pizza box or frozen pizza wrappings, if that’s what you’re looking for.”
“Napkins or plates with pizza stains?”
The technician thought a moment. “No.”
“Anything in the cans by the garage?” I asked, referring to several trash containers I had noticed on the drive in.
“Empty. But trash pickup was yesterday morning. I checked. Some neighbors still have their cans on the street.”
“Maybe the Davenports reheated leftovers,” Taylor suggested.
I crossed to a built-in microwave near the fridge. Tripping the door latch, I opened the microwave and sniffed. The smell inside the microwave was stronger. Definitely pizza. “Were there any dirty plates, leftovers, or anything to indicate that the Davenports had pizza for dinner?” I asked the technician.
The investigator shook his head. “The dishwasher was empty, too.”
“What are you getting at, Kane?” asked Taylor. “So we smell pizza. So what?”
“I’m not sure,” I answered. “But think for a minute. The killers have been choosing gated estates for their killings. Why?”
“So they can set up their camera, complete their killings, and film the murders without being interrupted, like Agent Young suggested,” Taylor replied. “And maybe to demonstrate that no one is safe, even behind a locked gate.”
“Right. But the big question has always been, ‘How are they getting in
?’”
“You think the terrorists are delivering pizzas?” Taylor scoffed.
“I know it’s a long shot, but someone here ate pizza. It’s unlikely the smell would last more than a day, so it was probably yesterday. And if it was the Davenports who ate pizza, where’s the box, or frozen pizza wrapper, or dinner plates?”
“There could be several explanations for that,” Taylor said doubtfully.
“Maybe. But there’s a way to find out.”
“How?”
“Remember when we were digging through the dumpster in Santa Monica?”
“Yes, but—”
“What did we find right on top of the bag containing the Welches’ cellphones?”
“How am I supposed to remember every piece of trash—”
“Think, Taylor.”
Taylor’s eyes widened. “A pizza box. Wiseguy Pizza.”
“And there were several partially eaten pieces inside, remember? Pieces that probably have saliva on them.”
The ERT technician broke in. “We took the entire contents of the dumpster to the lab. We haven’t finished processing all of it yet, so most of that stuff’s still there. We can test the pizza remnants for blood type and DNA,” he added, pulling out his cellphone. “It’s been a few days, which is usually the limit for testing saliva DNA, but most of the perishable items have been stored in our cold room,” he added, punching numbers into his phone. “Maybe we’re still good,” he mumbled, at that point seeming to be talking to himself.
“Dust the pizza box for prints, too,” I suggested.
“Right,” the technician agreed distractedly, stepping away as he began speaking on his phone.
Taylor regarded me with a look I couldn’t quite fathom. “Kane, if you’re right about this . . .”
“. . . maybe we just got lucky,” I finished. “And make that, ‘If we’re right about this.’ You identified the pizza smell, remember?”
