by Steve Gannon
“Fine,” Snead repeated, turning on his heel. “See that you do.”
After Snead had slammed out the door, the interview continued for several more hours, with Detectives Madison and Logan repeatedly going over my version of events—establishing a timeline, asking and re-asking questions, and nailing down every detail of my statement. The sun had risen by the time the interview was over.
I knew that FID’s investigative results would be reviewed by Chief Ingram, the Office of the Inspector General, and finally the Los Angeles County District Attorney’s Justice System Integrity Division, which would conduct a final review of all facts in evidence. And ultimately, at the end of an involved, painstaking process that often took months, the investigative conclusions would be reviewed, adjudicated, and published by the Los Angeles Board of Police Commissioners.
What I didn’t know was how much Snead’s statements would count. I was also troubled to learn that prior to going to Chief Ingram, the FID’s findings would be forwarded to Assistant Chief Strickland for comment. Nevertheless, at issue was whether my use of deadly force had been objectively reasonable. Given the circumstances, I felt confident there was no question of that. Unfortunately, I also knew there could be more involved.
Hours later I learned that I wasn’t being relieved of duty, either via administrative leave or by disciplinary suspension—at least for the time being. I took this to be a good sign. Still, on the return drive to West Los Angeles for the FBI briefing, I placed a call to my Police Protective League representative and put her on notice. I had seen situations like this blow up more than once, with careers ruined in the process.
*****
No one at the FBI briefing that morning appeared to have had much sleep, including me. I hadn’t had time to return home following my FID interview, although at one point during my interrogation I had cleaned up some in a restroom down the hall. Still, I knew I looked like hell. And I felt like it, too. The head injury I had received at the Clark residence, which turned out to be a deep, mirror-shard slice near my hairline, had finally stopped bleeding, but my collar and the front of my shirt were covered with blood. My jacket hid some of it, but not all. Wearily, I dropped into a chair at the back of the room. To my surprise, Taylor settled in beside me.
“How did the shooting investigation go?” she asked.
“Not as well as I would have hoped,” I answered. “Snead is trying to make an issue of my supposedly severing phone contact with you after I entered the residence. ”
“I’m sorry about that, Kane.”
I knew that Taylor had been interviewed by LAPD detectives at the scene. “Don’t worry about it,” I said. “You told the truth. I’ll be fine.”
“I hope so. What is it with you and Snead, anyway?”
“Long story. Maybe I’ll tell you sometime.”
“Okay, I look forward to hearing it. In the meantime, if there’s anything I can do . . .”
“If there is, I’ll let you know,” I replied, lowering my voice as Vaughn stepped to the front of the assembly. “And thanks.”
Vaughn raised his hands for silence. “I’ll make this quick,” he said. “Last evening at approximately seven-thirty p.m., a terrorist team entered the Pacific Palisades home of Dr. Oliver Clark. Dr. Clark was present at the time, along with a friend, Ms. Tammy Sanders. Ms. Sanders had recently watched a CBS news report detailing the pizza-delivery connection with the terrorist murders. When a Wiseguy van unexpectedly showed up at the Clark residence, Ms. Sanders called 911.”
“How did CBS get that information, anyway?” Duffy broke in. “The leak sure as hell didn’t come from us,” he added, glancing in my direction.
Although I ignored Duffy’s tacit accusation, I decided to quiz Allison about the leak. I knew she couldn’t give specifics, but I hoped she might be able to point me in the right direction. And I suspected that the direction would lead to Snead.
“We’re checking into that,” said Vaughn, also glancing at me. “Rest assured, we’ll know soon enough.”
An uncomfortable silence settled over the room. Finally Vaughn continued. “The M.O. of the Rivas Canyon intruders matches that of the terrorists in Bel Air and Holmby Hills, including the presence of video equipment and an AK-47 rifle.”
“Same guys,” someone muttered.
Vaughn nodded. “During the attack, Dr. Clark was wounded and died on route to UCLA Medical Center. Ms. Sanders sustained minor injuries and was released from the hospital early this morning. All three terrorists died at the scene from gunshot wounds inflicted by Detective Kane.”
At this, more heads turned in my direction. I ignored them, saddened but not surprised to learn that Dr. Clark hadn’t survived.
“Kane, we’ll discuss your unauthorized actions at the Clark residence in a moment,” Vaughn went on. “But before that, can you explain how you happened to be there in the first place?”
“I got a tip,” I replied.
“And after receiving this . . . tip, you and Taylor abandoned your Bureau stakeout and proceeded to the Clark residence. Is that correct?”
“It was a judgment call,” I said for the second time in twelve hours.
“And when you were making this judgment call of yours, did it ever occur to you that it might have been useful to have at least one intruder left alive to interrogate?”
“With respect, ASAC Vaughn, we should be kissing Kane’s butt right now,” Taylor broke in.
At this, eyes in the room shifted in surprise to Taylor. Stubbornly, she glared back.
“Nice talk, Taylor,” said an agent nearby.
“Screw you, Dave,” Taylor shot back. “You know I’m right.”
“You approve of Kane’s actions?” demanded Vaughn.
“Not entirely,” Taylor replied. “But if Kane hadn’t gone in, both residents would be dead right now, and we still wouldn’t have anyone left to interrogate. Those guys weren’t going to surrender.”
“That may be, Taylor, but it doesn’t excuse—”
“I think we’re getting off-subject here, Mason,” interrupted Gibbs, who was standing at a workstation near Director Shepherd. “Let’s move on.”
“Yes, sir,” said Vaughn. He referred to an index card, then pushed ahead. “It’s now clear that the terrorists were not foreign nationals, as we first suspected.”
“Do we have IDs on any of them?” someone asked.
“One of the three,” Vaughn replied. “Ethan James Hess—arrested for car theft when he was twenty. He got probation, then dropped off the grid about four years ago. No current address, phone record, driver’s license, tax payments, utility bills, known-associates, and so on. The other two suspects’ prints aren’t in our IAFIS database, so we don’t have anything on them yet.”
“Any connection with the pizza parlor?” asked Young.
“We’re checking Wiseguy franchises,” Vaughn answered, again referring to his notes. “Other pizza establishments, too. At this point, aside from establishing that the killers purchased a Wiseguy pepperoni pizza found in the house, we’ve come up cold. We’re fairly certain that the terrorists had their phony magnetic signs custom made, probably online. LAPD is running down the source of those signs.”
“Did we get a statement from Ms. Sanders?” someone else asked.
“She was understandably distraught at the scene,” Vaughn replied. “Later at the hospital she stated that after forcing their way into the house, the killers bound her hands and placed a hood over her head. Dr. Clark resisted and they beat him into submission. After that Ms. Sanders doesn’t remember much, except that she was terrified.”
“What about the killers’ van?” asked Garcia, for once not looking like he had just stepped from a sauna.
“The van was stolen from an LAX parking lot two years ago,” Vaughn replied. “The plates on it didn’t match the vehicle registration. The plates belong on a Chevy Camaro. When we checked the Camaro’s owner—a housewife in Playa del Rey—she hadn’t noticed that her pl
ates had been switched. We’re checking the plates on her vehicle for prints, as well as examining the terrorists’ van for blood, hair and fibers, prints, and so on. On a positive note, we were able to match the tire-track impressions from the Bel Air crime scene to the van. We’re also analyzing oil from the van, and we’re confident that the oil drips will prove a match, too.”
“So it’s the same vehicle used in the murders of Arleen and Gary Welch?” asked an agent near the front.
“No doubt about it,” answered Vaughn. “We’ll be reviewing footage from the terrorists’ camera for any additional information that might prove useful, but we’re tentatively concluding that the terrorist attacks have ended with the deaths of the individuals killed last night. Nevertheless, they may have had help from associates, and in days to come we will vigorously investigate that possibility.”
I shifted in my seat, suspecting from Vaughn’s manner that the final bit of his speech had been lifted from an official Bureau statement scheduled for later.
“To that effect, we will be making a news announcement later this morning,” Vaughn concluded, confirming my suspicions. “In the meantime, thank you all for your excellent work. That being said, we still have things to mop up, and there’s plenty left to do. Please pick up your assignments after the briefing.”
A few minutes later, following a further address by Gibbs, the meeting concluded. With a sigh, I turned to Taylor. “Thanks for sticking up for me,” I said. “But take my advice and make that the last time. I have a feeling you didn’t help your career much just now.”
Taylor shrugged. “It needed to be said.”
“Anyway, it’s been interesting.” I extended my hand.
Puzzled, Taylor shook my hand. “You going somewhere?” she asked.
I nodded. “I have a feeling I’m not going to be around much longer.”
“Well, if that’s the case . . . stay in touch.”
“Sure.”
“Kane,” Gibbs called from across the room. “Director Shepherd wants a word.”
“Be right there,” I called back. Then, to Taylor, “Take care of yourself.”
“You, too, Kane.”
I crossed the room without looking back. I nodded at Gibbs upon arriving, then addressed Director Shepherd. “You wanted to see me, sir?” I asked, already suspecting what was coming.
“Dan, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t upset about the leak,” Shepherd replied. “We know it didn’t come from us, which leaves the LAPD and Captain Snead’s task force as a possible source.”
“Don’t forget the DA’s office,” I advised. “Wouldn’t be the first time they sprung a leak over there.”
“I’m also disappointed that Captain Snead didn’t see fit to notify us of the developing situation in Rivas Canyon,” Shepherd continued, ignoring my interruption. “If it hadn’t been for a call from Agent Taylor, the Bureau would have been completely left out of the loop. That’s not the way this was supposed to go down.”
“No, sir. Unfortunately, I’m not in a position to explain the actions of Captain Snead.”
“No, I don’t suppose you are. Anyway, I spoke with Chief Ingram earlier this morning. Now that the case is over, he wants you detailed back to LAPD, effective immediately.”
“Yeah, I figured,” I said, still not certain whether I wanted to return to my job on the force.
When Shepherd didn’t continue, I asked, “Is there something else?”
Shepherd hesitated. “There is one more thing,” he finally replied, lowering his voice. “Dan, I didn’t request your presence on our investigation merely as a liaison. I wanted you here because I needed a fresh perspective from someone who could think outside the box. I had seen your work on previous task-force investigations, and despite your methods, I knew you got results. You didn’t disappoint me on either count.”
“Uh, thanks . . . I think.”
“No, thank you,” said Shepherd, shaking my hand. “If for some reason you ever find yourself looking for a job, give me a call.”
“If I’m ever looking for a job? Is there something I should know?”
Shepherd laughed. “Nothing I’ve heard, at least on my end. I’m just saying.”
I smiled. “Then I appreciate the offer. Who knows? I might take you up on it.”
Gibbs, who had remained silent during our conversation, shook my hand as well. “See you around, Kane,” he said. “Good luck.”
At that moment my cellphone vibrated. Realizing I hadn’t changed the ringer setting since the previous evening, I pulled my phone from my pocket and checked the caller.
It was Chief Ingram’s number.
“Thanks, Gibbs,” I sighed, suspecting that the chief wasn’t going to be as understanding as Director Shepherd. “I may need it,” I added, stepping away to answer the call.
“Detective Kane?” said a voice I recognized as belonging to Assistant Chief Strickland.
“That depends,” I replied, at that moment wanting nothing more than to head home, grab a shower, and sleep for the next twelve hours. “What did he do?”
“This is no time for jokes, Kane.”
“Right. What’s up, Assistant Chief Strickland?”
“You need to get your ass down here to headquarters. Now.”
“Why?” I asked, already certain of the answer.
“The chief wants to see you.”
“Now?”
“That’s what I said, Kane. Right now.”
Chapter 28
On my cross-town drive to PAB, I received a call from Allison. “An LAPD task-force officer killed the terrorists,” she said as soon as I picked up. “But I suppose you already knew that,” she added, clearly fishing for details.
“A task-force member killed the terrorists, huh? That’s what you’re reporting?”
“Is that wrong? Was the FBI involved?”
“Where are you getting your information, Ali?”
“Just rumors so far,” Allison admitted. “I was at the scene last night, but after giving us the bare bones, no one was saying much.”
As I had been leaving the Clark residence the previous evening, I had noticed my daughter arriving, joining a throng of reporters and a fleet of mobile news vans already present. She hadn’t noticed me there, and I wanted to keep things that way.
“The FBI/LAPD Joint Terrorism Task Force has scheduled a press conference for later this morning,” Allison continued. “I thought I’d get a jump on things. Anything you can tell me?”
I hesitated. “Maybe. But before we get to that, I have a question for you.”
“Shoot.”
“Who leaked the pizza connection?”
“Dad . . .”
“That was Brent Preston’s exclusive, right? Where’d he get it?”
“Brent was quoting a confidential source. Even if I knew who it was, which I don’t, I couldn’t say anything.”
“I’m not asking for names, Ali. Just point me in the right direction.”
Allison paused before replying. “Almost all of Brent’s sources are on the force,” she said at last. “I heard him complaining yesterday about not having any leverage with the Bureau. If he got a tip from someone, my guess is that it came from one of yours. Probably someone high up.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“Your turn now, Dad. Quid pro quo. Give me something.”
I considered a moment, deciding I could reveal a few details to Allison without compromising the case. Besides, most of what I was about to say would be revealed in the upcoming press briefing, so I was simply giving Allison a head start, like she said. “Don’t quote me on any of this,” I warned.
“Right. Sources close to the investigation it is. Talk.”
As I battled my way through freeway traffic, I gave Allison a brief rundown of the previous evening’s events, avoiding any mention of my involvement. I also avoided disclosing the name of the terrorist who had been identified, in case the Bureau planned to withhold that informat
ion pending further investigation. I did confirm that three terrorists had been killed at the scene, and that none of them appeared to be of Arabic descent.
When I’d finished, Allison remained silent for several seconds. “So Brent’s report on the pizza-delivery connection actually saved that woman’s life?”
“I suppose you could look at it that way,” I grumbled.
“And now this appears to be a case of domestic terrorism, not the work of ISIS or ISIL or some other radical Muslim organization?”
“A foreign connection hasn’t been ruled out. That aspect is still up in the air.”
“Who was the officer who went inside?”
“His name won’t be available until a departmental risk assessment and an officer use-of-force determination has been made.”
“C’mon, Dad. It’s me. People will want to know who the hero was last night.”
“Hero, eh? You mean another hero besides Brent Preston, who leaked confidential information that saved a woman’s life?”
“Yeah, besides Brent,” Allison laughed. “Who was it?”
“Let it go, Ali.”
“Okay, we’ll go with ‘Unnamed Police Officer’ for now. Or maybe ‘Mystery Hero.” Which do you like better, Dad?”
“Neither.”
*****
This time when I arrived at Chief Ingram’s office, I wasn’t kept waiting. Within seconds of pushing through his tenth-floor office door, I was summarily ushered into the chief’s private suite. Ingram was again sitting at his desk. And again, he looked irritated. Assistant Chief Strickland was once more standing nearby, hands clasped behind his back. I also noticed Captain Snead across the room, slouched against a wall.
“Kane, thank you for coming in,” said Ingram.
“Didn’t know I had a choice.”
“You damn well didn’t,” said Strickland. “What the hell were you thinking last night?”
“I’m assuming you’re referring to my entering the Clark residence,” I replied, quickly assessing where things were headed, and not liking the direction.
