by Marc Rainer
“That’s certainly consistent with what I’m seeing here.” Kathy was looking at the wounds on the other two bodies. “Somebody hit what he was aiming for. Two heart shots and a head shot. Three shots, three kills. Not the usual spray of automatic drive-by fire.”
“Excuse my ignorance,” Trask said. “Are there high-quality sniper rifles that fire AK ammo?” It’s good to have some real experts around to rely upon. I should actually know this already, need to read more ballistics lab bulletins.
“I wouldn’t call this AK or SKS ammo, either,” Wilkes answered. “The usual stuff we see in the SKS 7.62 x 39 ammunition is the steel core bullet. This looks more like a NATO round, 7.62 x 51 maybe.”
“What’s the 39 and 51 difference?” Trask asked.
“The 7.62 is the metric diameter of the cartridge. The 39 and 51 measurements are for the length of the cartridge,” Carter said. “Bigger cartridge, better range. More powder behind the round, right, Frank?”
“Yes. I don’t have the cartridge here, of course, just the spent round. I’m just guessing that if we’re dealing with a NATO country sniper rifle—something indicated by the type of bullet and the ballistics markings—we’d see a longer range, sniper type of ammunition. Probably the 7.62 x 51.”
“Gangbanger snipers?” Sivella asked.
“As I said earlier today in Baltimore, I don’t think so,” Carter said.
“What are you thinking, Dix?” Doroz asked.
“We know somebody’s at war with this gang. If the MS-13 thinks it’s Barrio 18, then regardless of who starts the war, then they will be at war with the 18th Street crew. That’s a fact. I’m just not convinced that a gang shooter is good for these hits.”
“Food for thought, then,” Sivella said. “Both for all my new homicide cases, and for the federal gang task force that’s supposed to be taking these things off my hands. If it’s not a gang sniper, I might have to pull you back to Homicide, Dix.”
Carter nodded, then turned and walked out of the morgue. He didn’t return.
“I guess I need a ride back to the office,” Wisniewski said.
“I’ll take you, Tim,” Doroz chuckled.
“Cold shoulder?” Sivella asked.
“Not exactly,” Wisniewski answered. “I’m not sure exactly what to call it. He’s sharp as hell on the case, as you can see, but it’s like he doesn’t really exist away from it. Jeff and I rode for two hours with him today—Baltimore and back—without hearing a word from him. It was like he didn’t know we were even there.”
That’s why I was floating, Trask thought. No conversation. Just the road noise and the wind.
“Keep an eye on him,” Sivella said. “And keep me posted.
Trask’s hearing that afternoon was a nightmare. Any time a prosecutor drew Senior Judge Richard Scott for a guilty plea at 4:00 p.m., the attorney knew to call home and tell his wife not to hold dinner. Most federal district judges could handle a routine plea in well under an hour, some in half that time. Judge Scott, on the other hand, was very proud that in more than twenty years on the bench, he had never had a guilty plea that had subsequently been set aside by the Court of Appeals because of an inadequate plea inquiry. Federal Rule of Criminal Procedure 11 required the judge to make sure that the defendant indicated on the record that he knew what he was doing, knew the rights he was waiving, and had, in fact, committed the crime to which he was pleading guilty. Judge Scott’s Rule 11 inquisitions went far beyond the requirements of the rule; in fact, most Assistant United States Attorneys (AUSAs for short) worried as much about Scott talking the defendant out of the plea as the length of the process.
The defendant du jour was an ugly little troll who had been shipping ecstasy tablets—the rave party drug of the moment—to the nation’s capital from his home in Phoenix. Trask thought he might actually get out of the proceedings in less than two hours, but then the judge asked the accused whether he was under the influence of any medications that might affect his mental clarity. The laundry list of maladies and medications that came spewing from the defendant marked him to be a hypochondriac of the highest order, and Trask cringed at the answer, since he was familiar with “Richard’s Ritual,” the judge’s tortuous inquiry into the effects of every drug on the list.
While the pointless script was playing out, Trask was present in body only. He glanced from one portrait to another. Dead judges who had ruled the courthouse in the past. His eyes remained open but glazed over—he couldn’t close them for fear of being accused of sleeping through the hearing—as he recalled significant cases decided by each late jurist. Some decisions had withstood the tests of time and appellate review. Several had not.
Back with Mom and the doc again. “You like music, Jeff?” “He loves it,” she said. “We got him a radio with an earpiece and he listens to the thing all night when he’s supposed to be asleep. Hides it under his pillow.” How did she know? She always knew. “Pick out a song, then, and play it in your head when you get bored.” It had worked for him ever since; the order when the chaos started to crowd in. No more talk of medication. “Music is the Doctor” from The Doobie Brothers started playing on his mental jukebox.
Two hours later, after finally asking the perp whether the aspirin he took daily for cardiac therapy had any effect on his ability to understand the gravity of the plea he was about to enter, the judge finally got into the actual details of the offense. It was seven-thirty before Trask started the forty-five-minute drive home to Waldorf, Maryland, a bedroom suburb at about five-thirty on the beltway “clock.”
Lynn met him at the door with a kiss and the appropriate amount of spousal sympathy. “Put on something comfortable. I ate already, chicken and dumplings. I’ll heat you a bowl, and then I’ve got some more info for you.”
“About what?”
“Our case, of course. Eat first and give your mind a rest. I know you need a break after that marathon with Judge Gollum.”
Trask smiled at Lynn’s nickname for Judge Scott. The diminutive and bald jurist did bear a strong physical resemblance to the character from Lord of the Rings. He changed, wolfed down the meal while watching the news on the big screen in the living room, and then sat back in his chair. He yawned, and then yawned again.
“No naps yet. Not until I tell you about my afternoon,” she said.
“OK. Shoot.” He yawned again.
“You going to stay awake for this?”
“I’ll try to. Five autopsies, two silent rides with Dixon Carter, and then Judge Gollum. No guarantees.”
She sat down on his lap and started to unbutton her blouse.
“That’s not fair.” It isn’t. I can’t concentrate on anything else, even if I want to, and I don’t want to. Pick a song—yep, that one’s appropriate.
“Stay awake then. Barry brought back some of the personal papers on the vics from the local shootings. One was a kid named Diego Morales, the one with the new tattoo. I’ll tell you what I think that means in a minute. He had his ID in his wallet, and also a pay stub from a delicatessen in Langley Park.”
“Nice work. We’ll go by and talk to the owner tomorrow after they open up.”
He yawned again. She unbuttoned two more buttons.
“Stop that,” he said. The music in his head started his fingers tapping on the chair arm.
“You really don’t want me to stop, and you really don’t want to go to that deli tomorrow.”
“Why not?”
“I drove by it on the way home after work. It burned down yesterday, and the fire flared again today in the rubble. The firefighters were still hosing down the ashes. I talked to one of the guys on the scene. After I showed him my creds, he told me it was an arson job.”
Trask closed his eyes and shook his head. When he opened them, her blouse was on the coffee table. He smiled.
She saw his fingers hitting the chair arm.
“Now? What song?” she demanded.
“‘Night Moves.’ Bob Seger. 1976.”
&n
bsp; “Why that one?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Something about points sitting way up firm and high.”
“You wish! They used to be.” She shook her head and laughed. “Anyway, I think Diego Morales may be your killer of the ambassador’s kid,” she said, leaning over to kiss him.
“How do you figure that?”
“In addition to the bullet hole, Barry said he had a lot of bruises, about two days old. That means he just got ‘jumped in.’ That’s the term MS-13 uses for an initiation. The new recruit has to carry out some special mission first—like murdering a rival gang member—then he gets the shit kicked out of him for thirteen seconds. It’s only after completing his assignment and getting ‘jumped in’ that he’s allowed to get his tattoos as a full-fledged Mara member.”
“Makes sense,” Trask said. “Fresh bruising, new tat. Timing lines up. We’ll need a lot more to make the case, of course, find out who ordered the hit on the ambassador’s kid and why, but those are excellent leads, babe.” He yawned again.
“Thanks. Barry thought so, too. He wants you to go with him to see the ambassador Monday, with a photo spread. See if he can pick out Diego.”
“OK. I’ll need to get some sleep then.”
He leaned back, closed his eyes and tried to keep a straight face. He couldn’t. When he opened his eyes, the bra was gone. She kissed him again.
“Not so fast, hotshot. In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m amped up about this case. I need one of those physical sleeping pills you’re so good at, or I’ll be up all night.”
Chapter Six
August 15
Trask reached his office at 8:00. He checked his e-mails and the court docket to make sure no emergency hearings had popped up. His schedule was clear, so he crossed the street to the FBI field office. Barry Doroz was not alone. Michael Crawford was in Doroz’ office, and a man in a well-tailored suit with flaming red hair and a matching moustache stood from his chair and turned when Trask entered the room.
“Morning, Jeff. This is Tom Murphy; he’s with the State Department,” Doroz said.
“Very glad to meet you, Jeff,” Murphy said.
Trask thought that Murphy’s smile was a bit too wide, his manner too friendly. This guy reminds me of some used car salesmen I’ve met in the past. Must be the State Department emphasis on diplomacy—a professional glad-hander.
“Jeff Trask, Tom. Nice to meet you, too, I hope. What part of the State Department?”
Murphy smiled at Doroz.
“You’re right, Bear, smart and careful. I’m from the Diplomatic Affairs Division, Jeff. We’re responsible for all sorts of things regarding foreign ambassadors to the US. We oversee the accreditation of the ambassadors and their staffs, deal with issues involving diplomatic immunity for the embassy staff and their families, and we handle any problems arising with any of the personnel in any of the foreign missions. El Salvador is one of the nations I monitor. My boss just wanted me to ride along with you guys today to see if there was anything that State could do to facilitate your investigation.”
“To make sure that this is really an FBI case, not a State case, and that some bungling AUSA didn’t start an international incident?”
“Barry’s already assured me that I don’t have to worry about that, but yes, that too, if something should come up.”
“Do you know something that we should be worried about?” Trask asked.
“I’ll give you some background on the way over to the embassy.”
It was a nice day, and it made no sense to drive with the Metro stop as close as it was. They walked through the Law Enforcement Memorial to the Red Line entrance in Judiciary Square and got on the down escalator leading to the subway.
“Barry tells me you’ve been briefed on the civil war in El Salvador, and on the gangs that sprang up in the refugee barrios in LA?”
“Yes.” Trask looked around to see if anyone else was within earshot.
“Nothing I’m going to say is classified,” Murphy said. “You could get it all on the web in about fifteen minutes.”
“OK.”
“The pertinent facts for today are these. The war was basically between two political factions. On the conservative, pro-American side, you had the ARENA group, which was backed by the military, the National Civilian Police, and our CIA.”
“Hard-line, right-wing bastards like myself and these agents here?” Trask asked.
“Much harder, I’m afraid,” chuckled Murphy. “Some of us in State believe that they had to be hard to survive. Others disagree. At any rate, the opposition was aligned with the FMLN.”
“The Liberation Front?”
“Yes, a more radical group, and in the recent elections, the winners by a narrow margin. The new regime has done and said all the right things publically—that their priorities are to maintain the good relations between El Salvador and the US—I really don’t think there’s much reason to worry about them. The new ambassador comes from that group. It’s the first time the FMLN has been in power, and that’s a matter of concern, especially given the tensions between the new government and some of the other Salvadoran national agencies. The ARENA candidate who lost was, after all, the former director of the national police.”
“And what does this have to do with our murder case?” Trask was looking around again to see if anyone was eavesdropping.
“It has to do with the Maras. The ARENA administrations were very tough on the gangs. The Salvadoran cops were known to meet gang members at the airport in San Salvador when they arrived after being deported from this country. If the cops saw a banger with the usual tattoos, they’d haul him straight to one of their infamous prisons just for being a member. Tattoo equals guilt equals jail, or worse. Some of the gang members never made it to prison. It wasn’t unusual for their bodies to be found alongside a country road somewhere. Before 9/11, some Mara members were trying to cut their tats off with razor-blades on the flights back to the home country. The airlines were forced to rehab the lavatories to clean up all the blood.”
“What’s the relationship between the gangs and the new administration?” Doroz asked.
“The new president won because he portrayed himself as a moderate,” Murphy continued, “not just another Marxist financed by Hugo Chavez. He held out some olive branches, tried to persuade gang members to leave the Maras, and called many of the inmates in his country ‘political prisoners.’ The problem is that he’s now got the same troubles Castro faced before he hit us with that Mariel boat lift in the seventies. Even Communist workers’ paradises and liberation fronts have real thugs and criminals to deal with, psychopaths who don’t give a damn about which side of a political argument you’re on before they rob you and cut your head off. When their gang soldiers weren’t all immediately freed, the Mara hard-liners—especially those from MS-13—felt like the new ‘moderates’ in the FMLN sold them out, and they declared war on the new regime just like they did with the old one.”
“You think that’s the reason the ambassador’s kid got whacked?” Crawford asked.
That’s what he wants us to think, Trask thought. Murphy’s already trying to paint the case as a politically motivated assassination. If he’s successful, special agents from the State Department will be calling the shots over Doroz’ head, and the main justice hall-crawlers will be passing notes to me at the trial table.
“It’s certainly possible,” Murphy said. “I just thought you guys investigating the case needed to hear that side of the story before interviewing the ambassador again. I know you have rules regarding what information can be released and when, but we’d like to be kept in the loop as much as possible. The Secretary is personally interested in the case, and called your US Attorney last night.”
“The Secretary of State?” Trask asked. “I’m surprised I wasn’t in Eastman’s office first thing this morning.”
“Ross called me this morning, Jeff,” Doroz said. “I told him that Murph here was briefing us, and that I’d kee
p you from embarrassing him.”
“Wonderful.”
“Seriously,” Doroz laughed, “he said he had complete confidence in us, but he wanted an update after our meeting with the ambassador. He thinks a lot of you. I think he called me because I’ve been around longer.”
“I think he called you because it’s a subtle way of telling me that he’s going to be checking on this from every angle possible,” Trask said. “Complete confidence aside, my direct and personal updates aren’t going to be enough where ambassadors and the State Department are concerned.”
Murphy was chuckling again. “I don’t know how long you’ve been in the capital, Jeff, but you’ve certainly learned some of the games.”
The train pulled to a stop at the Dupont Circle Station. They rode the escalator back up into the sunlight.
“Dupont Circle. This is where that Georgian diplomat Makharadze killed that kid during a DWI isn’t it?” Trask thought aloud. “Georgia waived his diplomatic immunity, and we actually got to prosecute him, as I recall.”
“A very rare event,” Murphy said. “I wouldn’t count on seeing that again in your lifetime.”
A very weird thing to say, Trask thought. Wonder where that came from? Diplomats all over this city getting away with everything from serial traffic violations to rape, and he acts like the waiver was something that shouldn’t have been pursued. He must be concerned about his own status when he’s overseas.
They walked a few blocks east to the embassy.
Murphy presented his credentials first, which got a knowing nod at the reception desk. They were almost immediately ushered into the waiting room outside the ambassador’s office, where they sat on a couch. A dark-haired secretary smiled at them from her desk. She was twenty-something and stunning, at least a fourteen on the proverbial ten-scale.
“That didn’t take long,” Doroz said, returning the secretary’s smile.
Trask noticed that the girl’s glance lingered on Crawford, who was smiling back at her and blushing.
