The Burning Season

by Jeff Mariotte

  “Ammonium nitrate isn’t just used in the States,” Earl said. “It’s common in terrorism cases around the world. It’s not a controlled substance and it’s not that hard to get. IED makers in the theaters of war in the Middle East swear by it.”

  “What can you tell me about the bomber?”

  “Well, it’s not McCann.”

  “I didn’t think it would be.”

  “Or anyone who learned from him. His bombs were beautifully crafted. This one’s pretty punk-ass by comparison. Amateur hour. Plans probably came from the Internet.”

  “You think so?”

  “It’s easily found out there. It’s explosive, all right—we saw the results of that. But there’s no style to it, no grace. It’s just a big, destructive bang.”

  “What about the construction of the device itself?”

  “Same thing. Effective but boring, and poorly made. If the bomber had been more skilled, no one in either vehicle would have survived. A bomb like that could have done damage to an up-armored Humvee, and neither of those vehicles had anywhere near that sort of protection. And the trigger was a garage door opener. The bomber’s lucky—those don’t have very unique frequencies. The wrong person pushing the wrong button at the right time could have blown him to bits before he even planted it.”

  “So we’re looking for a bad bomber.”

  “We’re looking for an inexperienced one,” Earl corrected. “But they all have to start somewhere, don’t they?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “He—and I’m not being sexist; it’s possible for women to become bombers, but it’s so rare as to be virtually unheard of—he survived this one. Which means there’s every likelihood that he’ll do it again. And you know what they say.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Practice makes perfect.”

  Catherine drove downtown. Daniels and his administrative assistant, Maureen Cunningham—the woman driving the second car—remained in the hospital, but the other staffers had been released. She didn’t know if they would be working, so soon after the attack, but Daniels Cable News was on the air twenty-four seven, so chances were good.

  What Earl had told her about the bomb nagged at her. The trigger had been a low-powered device, the bomber inexperienced. Those two factors meant the bomber couldn’t have had a lot of confidence in the attack—certainly not enough to be far from the scene at the moment of detonation. He would have needed to know exactly what route the Daniels party would take, and when they would be reaching his location.

  She wanted to know how someone might have come by that information. And she figured his employees were the ones to ask.

  As soon as she turned onto the road DCN headquarters was on, she realized her mistake. She had seen the protest on TV, but not in person. Up close, it was bigger and more chaotic than she had expected. There were hundreds of people thronging the street, many garbed in bright clothes or strange costumes, most carrying signs. They chanted and shouted and sang. Some were right up against the gates of the network’s headquarters,. Their intent seemed to be intimidation, and Catherine would have been surprised if it wasn’t working, at least to some extent. How could anyone get any work done in that kind of environment?

  The idea of turning around and conducting these interviews over the phone flitted across her mind. She decided against it, though. She had come this far, and she had a job to do. She would make sure it got done, and an unruly crowd wouldn’t stop her.

  She eased toward the gates, and a couple of uniformed guards parted the sea of protesters for her.

  She had hoped not to make eye contact with the protesters, but their garb—lots of Revolutionary War costumes, complete with knickers and tricorn hats, and an equal number of people decked out in red, white, and blue—grabbed her attention. As did the signs. “Hands Off Our $$$!” “Read Our Lips: No More Taxes!!!” “Re-elect Nobody!” “No Taxes For War!!” The people were mostly white, but not all of them, and they represented the whole span of ages, from toddlers through seniors—even senior-plus, if that was a category. Catherine drove slowly between them, wincing when hands slammed against her car. She thought she had a clear shot at the door when a stout man in his mid-forties blocked her way. He was staring at her through the windshield.

  “Hey!” the man shouted. “Aren’t you that cop?”

  Catherine thumbed the window down a little. “I’m not a cop,” Catherine corrected. “I’m a crime scene investigator. Can you move aside, please?”

  “From TV. You were on TV.”

  “Occasionally.”

  “No, today. Hey, hey!” the guy called, raising his voice. “It’s that lady cop, from TV!”

  “Don’t do that,” Catherine said, the words coming out as soft as a breath. It was too late, and she knew it. The news spread through the crowd. Catherine steered around the man, but before she made it through the gates, people were blocking her way, their faces twisted in anger, some screeching at her and waving fists. The security guards were doing their best to control the protesters, but for a frightening moment she wasn’t sure they would manage.

  “Why do you think it was us?” one protester asked.

  “Get the facts!” someone called out. “Don’t make blind accusations.”

  Catherine took her badge off her belt and showed it out the window. “I haven’t accused anyone,” she said, keeping her voice level. There was an edge to it anyway, and she couldn’t prevent it. “I am trying to get the facts, that’s why I’m here. Now get out of my way.” She was only seconds away from flipping on her lights and siren.

  The shouting and stomping and banging on the car was frightening, and she thought again that it had to be intimidating to the staffers and volunteers who passed through every day to go to work. A couple of uniformed cops who had been standing off on the sidelines joined the security guards, and herded the protesters back. “Let her through, folks,” one said. “She’s here on police business. Back away.” They opened a path for her, and Catherine gladly took advantage of it.

  When she made it inside the building, the racket slacked off. The front lobby was expansive, marble-floored, with a reception counter constructed of some rich, dark wood and topped with a granite counter about halfway to the rear wall and an open-stepped staircase curving gracefully to the next level. Monitors suspended on poles, at different heights, all played DCN’s programming. Catherine was astonished to see her own face flit across the screens. DCN’s coverage seemed to be largely about the bombing. Given Dennis Daniels’s notoriety, she wouldn’t have been surprised if the same held true for the other cable news outlets.

  Soft music played inside, and she suspected there were white noise machines at work, too—a gentle rushing sound blocked some of the hubbub from outside. She gave her name to the perfectly coiffed receptionist at the counter. A few minutes later, a man came down the stairs, his shirtsleeves rolled up over his wrists, collar open, no tie. He wore jeans and loafers and he had short, curly hair and an easy grin. His casual nature almost disguised the cuts and bruises on his face, neck, and hands. “Sorry about the trouble outside,” he said. “I’m Eldon Wohl.”

  “Catherine Willows.”

  “Of course. From the Crime Lab.”

  “Is there anyone in Las Vegas who doesn’t know me?”

  “Probably not,” he said. “You’ve been all over our air today. And the Internet. You’re the topic du jour on the conspiracy websites.”

  “Another checkmark for my bucket list.”

  Wohl chuckled. “Also, Garrett Kovash told us about you. He said you might come around.”

  “Normally it would be a detective,” Catherine said. “But they’re busy, too. And I just had a few questions that tie in with my investigation.”

  “Sure, come with me.” She followed him up the stairs and past glass-walled offices, in which people were either working or giving an effective impersonation of it. Down a short hallway was an inner conference room with its own glass walls faci
ng inside, but no windows looking out.

  “Your job title is operations manager, right?” Catherine asked as he waved her toward a rolling chair. The conference table was sleek, also glass—someone in charge of interior spaces appeared to be a big fan of that. She supposed the business had a large budget for glass cleaner, and maybe a couple of full-time employees to use it.

  “That’s right. Operations manager, non-news division, if you want to get technical. I make sure salaries get paid and the lights stay on, that sort of thing. Dennis likes to keep the business side and the news side of the house strictly separated.”

  “So that commercial considerations won’t affect the judgment of the news people?”

  “Exactly.”

  “But the network has never pretended to objectivity,” Catherine pointed out. “Daniels has always used it to advance his own point of view.”

  “There’s a big difference,” Wohl said, “between espousing one’s own viewpoint because it’s the right thing to do, and allowing an advertiser to dictate news coverage to its own financial ends. Dennis has always been clear that he sets the political tone at the network, and while the on-air personalities, on certain programs, are allowed to speak their minds, he is the one who hires and fires, which guarantees a certain consistency of outlook. He’s opposed to extremism on either side. He supports commonsense, middle-of-the-road solutions. He advocates for social and economic progress and against backtracking or standing still.”

  Catherine had heard the network’s slogan many times. “The world is changing. We either change with it, or it leaves us behind.” She figured that progress was a safe enough thing to be in favor of—like motherhood and apple pie, it was hard to argue against. And the word was vague enough that everyone could define it in their own way.

  “But you didn’t come to talk politics,” Wohl said. “Or the TV news business, I’m guessing. So how can we help you?”

  “First, what’s his condition?”

  “Dennis is awake and alert. Probably driving the hospital staff nuts already. He’s got some broken bones and some internal bleeding, so they want him to stay there for a couple of days. But he’ll be fine. Maureen, too. Full recovery is expected in both cases.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.”

  “Yeah, you’re only looking for an attempted murderer, not a murderer.”

  “I wish I could always be so fortunate.”

  “What can I do?”

  He had not taken a seat, but paced around the conference table like a big cat in a zoo. She guessed TV news was not a profession for the lethargic.

  “Who knew the route you would take last night?”

  That brought his pacing to a sudden halt. He picked at his lip. “Let’s see . . . Garrett Kovash chose the routes. He’s been doing it for a couple of weeks, since the threats started coming in faster and meaner.”

  “Does he reveal the routes in advance?”

  “Not much. We went in two vehicles, okay? Bryan driving one, Maureen the other. I guess before we headed out, he described the route to those of us who were going. While we were at the house in Lake Las Vegas, he told us all how we’d return.”

  “Why not just let the drivers pick their own routes?”

  “People are creatures of habit. Especially when we’re tired. Garrett’s worried that we’ll settle into our routines, drive our usual paths. So he stays on top of us, trying to keep us on our toes.”

  “And he told all of you? How many was that, six?”

  “That’s right. Two vehicles. We could have all squeezed into the Escalade, but I had a conference call here and I had to leave late. Maureen worked until I was ready, and we took off about forty minutes after the others.”

  “Is it typical for so many of you to attend a fund-raising event?”

  Wohl shook his head. He was pacing again, occasionally interweaving his fingers while he walked. “We haven’t been involved in politics long enough to know what’s typical. This wasn’t strictly fundraising, it was more about taking the temperature. Dennis hasn’t formed an actual campaign committee yet, so nobody’s writing us checks. He just wanted to discuss his chances with some of the people who can write big checks when they want to.”

  “So this wasn’t a dinner at which people hand you checks in envelopes.”

  “Not at all. It was a face-to-face with a potential ally and his very wealthy friends. I think it went well.”

  “Until you were on the way back.”

  “Yeah, that was a turn for the worse, definitely.”

  “And before you left Lake Las Vegas, Kovash told you the route he had picked out for the trip home.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Did you tell anyone else?”

  “I hardly listened. I was driving, but Maureen was navigating. I was involved in a discussion of economic stimulus, with an actress you’ve seen in a dozen movies.”

  “So you don’t know if anyone else called home, called a friend, anything like that.”

  “No idea.”

  “Are the others who were with you that night here today?”

  “Dennis and Maureen are still in the hospital. Garrett’s there with them. Connie, Bryan, and I are here.”

  “Can I talk to them?”

  “You might have a hard time getting Connie to put down her three phones. Apparently that’s how she lives all the time. Bryan’s a hard worker, too, but he’ll talk to you.”

  “He’s Dennis’s driver?”

  “Driver, man Friday, body man. He’s there to know what Dennis is going to need before he needs it. If Dennis wants an umbrella or a breath mint or a pen or a flashlight or a pipe wrench, Bryan’s supposed to fish it out of a pocket. And he does.”

  “I could use one of those.”

  “Who couldn’t? Between Bryan Donavan and Maureen Cunningham, Dennis really doesn’t have to do much of anything for himself. I’m afraid this one is taken, though. He’s as loyal as an old hound dog. I think Dennis could quit paying him and he wouldn’t care.”

  “Loyalty like that is a vanishing trait.”

  “Yeah, you’re not kidding. Hang on, I’ll get him for you.”

  7

  CATHERINE COOLED HER heels for a couple of minutes in the conference room, before Wohl returned with a young, slender African-American man. He was dressed much like Wohl, in an open-collared shirt and dress pants, but unlike Wohl, he seemed absolutely calm, with a stillness at his center that Catherine supposed was an island of stability Daniels could cling to in the turbulent waters of the media business.

  Wohl was introducing her to Bryan Donavan when someone started to scream.

  Her first thought was that one of the protesters had come into the office, but then she recognized the shrill tone of utter terror. Wohl and Donavan both turned toward the conference room door. Then they all heard the word Fire! and Donavan ran from the room.

  Wohl tossed her an uncertain look. “We’d better . . .”

  “Right,” Catherine said. Wohl hurried out the door, Catherine right behind. The smell of smoke already tickled her nostrils.

  The screams had increased, and even before she emerged from the hallway, Catherine heard chairs falling over, drawers slamming, and people rushing from their glass-walled offices.

  A muddy gray haze hung in the air of the reception area. Catherine hurried down the steps, appraising the situation. The smoke seemed thicker in the rear area, behind the reception desk. “Fire’s in back,” she said. “What’s back there?”

  “Then we’ll go out the front,” Wohl said. “There are storerooms back there, loading docks, that kind of thing.” He raised his voice to be heard over the general din. “Has anyone called 911?”

  “They’re on the way,” someone answered.

  “This so sucks,” Wohl said. “Everyone stay calm, stay orderly!”

  “It looks like the fire’s all outside,” Catherine said.

  “Let’s hope it stays that way. Our whole operation is in this building
. I’d hate to see it all go up in smoke.”

  They followed the others out the front doors. The mob was still right outside the gates, but their chanting and shouting had stopped when the exodus began. The mood had changed in what seemed like an instant, from one of ugly confrontation to one of human connection and cooperation.

  Sirens wailed in the distance, growing nearer. Catherine scanned the crowd quickly, knowing that arsonists often liked to be at the scenes of their fires, to watch the damage and confusion they caused. But this scene was too chaotic; if one of the protesters had started the fire, there was no easy way to pick out which one.

  She detached herself from the knot of campaign workers and went around to the rear of the building. First responders were arriving, squad cars and fire engines, and the gate guards were waving them through. Catherine held her badge up, directing them toward the back. When a uniformed cop approached her, she explained the situation and let him worry about controlling the crowd and securing the scene. She hurried toward smoke, billowing out from the loading docks, anxious for a look at the blaze before the firefighters trashed it.

  The fire was small, but had the potential, as almost any fire did, to become much larger. It had been set right at the base of a steel loading door. She suspected that some sort of accelerant—kerosene, gasoline—had been splashed on a pile of rags and ignited. Scraps of scorched fabric were still in place. The door hadn’t burned through, but there was wooden framing around it, and once that caught it could get into the walls and spread fast.

  Firefighters brushed past her and attacked the fire with some sort of super fire extinguishers, tanks mounted on their backs. They blasted the flames, making an almost deafening racket and filling the air with cool, sharp vapors. They smothered the fire, preventing oxygen from reaching it, and it was out in no time.

  And her crime scene was largely ruined.

  Not entirely, though. Arsonists often believed that their fires would cover any traces left behind, but they were usually wrong. Even DNA could survive a fire, as long as it wasn’t soaked. She had a field kit in her vehicle, and she would go get it in a minute. But first she wanted a closer look. As the firefighters backed away, Catherine stepped up.