by Chris Culver
She glanced up at him and humored him with a smile. “I’m on a roll, Germs. Give me an hour, and you’ll have my full attention.”
He shook his head and gathered the pictures as well as the note and took them to her desk.
“What are you doing?” she asked. “I’m working.”
He reached forward and turned off her monitor.
“Now we’re working on something else,” he said, looking down at the pictures. “Look at this.”
She gave him an exasperated look and then glanced down. “They’re pictures of a school. Why do I care about pictures of a school?”
“Because an FBI agent just sent them to us. This is Westbrook Elementary, the school the president’s family was murdered at. We’ve got proof Islamic terrorists assassinated the first family.”
She flipped through the pictures slowly, just as Jeremy had. Her hands began trembling sometime after the tenth picture. Once she finished, she folded her hands together for a moment, her eyes glued to her desk.
“This is real news,” she said. “This is fucking real.”
“Yeah, it’s real,” said Jeremy. “What do you want to do?”
She didn’t respond for a moment. They both knew what they should have done. Reporters at the Post or The New York Times would have called their sources within the government for verification, but neither she nor Jeremy had those kind of sources. And even if they had, they wouldn’t have picked up the phone. They didn’t know how many other news outlets had received similar information packets. They had to get this out before anyone else. She looked at Jeremy, her eyes distant for a moment before focusing.
“Did Roger finish our server upgrades?”
Jeremy nodded. “Last week.”
“Good,” she said, her breath still short. “We’re about to get slammed.”
Chapter 20
Lauren Collier lived in a single-story home with a big bay window out front and a hip roof. There were rose bushes along the base of the house to hide the foundation and a shade tree between the front walkway and sidewalk. Though she had used a different color palette and different plants, something about the symmetry of the home and yard reminded me of Jacob Ganim’s place. Evidently, Lauren was the designer in the family.
I parked in front, but before I could even open my door, a blonde woman stepped out of the house. I recognized her from pictures in Jacob Ganim’s living room, so I knew I was at the right place. I got out of the car and began walking up the paver walkway to her front door.
“Ms. Collier?” I asked. She looked at me up and down warily. I pulled back my jacket to expose the badge at my hip. “I’m Lieutenant Ash Rashid with the Indianapolis Metropolitan Police Department. Do you have time to talk?”
Her eyes snapped to mine. I stopped a few feet in front of her.
“What’s this about, Lieutenant?”
“Is it possible we could go somewhere and sit down?” I asked.
“No,” she said. I nodded and took a step back to show her I respected her wishes and personal space. I probably should have brought Emilia Rios for this. She was better with people—especially women—than I was.
“I understand,” I said. “Like I said, I’m a lieutenant with the Indianapolis Metropolitan Police Department. I’m currently working on a task force with the FBI in Indianapolis. Has anyone from the Bureau contacted you about your husband lately?”
“I’m not married.”
“Your ex-husband, then. Jacob Ganim,” I said. She drew in a breath at the mention of Ganim’s name. I took that as a sign of recognition. “Has anyone talked to you about him lately?”
She sighed and crossed her arms. “No.”
I considered stopping the interview right there. She clearly didn’t want to talk to me, and even more clearly, she didn’t want to talk about her ex-husband. Still, the man was dead, and I didn’t have a lot of leads.
As a former homicide detective, I had done a lot of next-of-kin notifications in my career. I had found a lot of wrong ways to do it, but never the right one. No matter what I did, Ms. Collier’s world was going to fall apart as soon as I spoke. Early on in my career, I’d thought the best way to do this was to beat around the bush for a while, let the victim’s family come to the realization on their own. I had thought that would be easier for them, but it wasn’t. It was cruel. Ms. Collier needed honesty.
“Ma’am, I’m very sorry to inform you that your ex-husband has died. I’m here because I’m the lead detective in his murder investigation.”
She blinked once, but that was the only indication that she had heard what I said. I waited for a ten count, and then she blinked again and again as tears welled in her eyes. She brought her hand to her face as her lower lip began to tremble.
“I’m truly sorry,” I said.
She held up a hand to stop me from saying anything else. Then she leaned against her doorframe and drew in some deep breaths. We stayed there for a few minutes. Even if they were divorced, she obviously still cared about her ex-husband on some level.
“How did he die?”
“He was murdered while working a case,” I said. “And that’s why I’m here. I’m trying to find out what kind of a person he was. I’d appreciate anything you can tell me.”
She closed her eyes and drew in a breath. “Are you really a police officer?”
It was an odd question, and I considered my answer before speaking.
“Yes. If you’d like, I can have someone from my department or from the FBI call to confirm my identity. I’m Lieutenant Ashraf Rashid with IMPD. My office is in downtown Indianapolis, and my supervisor is Captain Mike Bowers. Right now, I’m reporting to Special Agent Kevin Havelock of the FBI. I’m not a con man. I’m simply a detective trying to find out who murdered your ex-husband.”
“Okay,” she said, nodding and rubbing a tear from the corner of her eye. “I believe you. What do you want to know, Lieutenant Rashid?”
“Anything you can tell me,” I said. “I have access to information about your ex-husband’s work life, but I don’t know much about his personal life. I need to know about the kind of things he did after work. Did he have problems with anyone? Did any of the men or women he arrested make threats? Did he ever have problems with drugs or alcohol? Anything you can tell me would be extremely helpful.”
She blinked a few times and then drew in a breath. When she spoke, her voice was strong and clear.
“I appreciate that you came all the way out here to tell me about Jacob, but I’m not comfortable answering these questions. If you come here again, I’ll call the local police and have you prosecuted for trespassing.”
I paused, unsure what I had just done wrong. Then I nodded and took a couple of steps back, giving myself a moment to think. People got upset when I did next-of-kin notifications, but usually they yelled and screamed. Ms. Collier’s request was cold and calculated.
“Thank you for your time. I’m sorry to have disturbed you. Would you like my card in case you change your mind?”
“No,” she said. “Please just leave, Lieutenant.”
I didn’t think staying and arguing with her would have gotten me anywhere, so I got back in my car and drove off without saying a word.
Rarely did the spouse of a murder victim refuse to help an investigation. When it did happen, it usually meant he or she had other means of seeking justice in mind, or that he or she was involved in the crime. Ms. Collier’s tears had looked genuine and spontaneous. I doubted she had known her husband was dead. Whether she had the means to seek justice on her own, I didn’t know yet, but I planned to find out.
When I got back in my car, I called up the GPS app on my cell phone. Nassir’s camp was only forty-five minutes away, and we needed to talk. I dialed his number, but his phone immediately went to voicemail. Given the remoteness of his summer camp, that didn’t surprise me. He was probably out of range of any cell towers. At the beep, I left a message.
“Nassir, it’s Ash. You and the guys at your camp are the o
nly people I know who knew Jacob Ganim. We need to talk about his ex-wife. I need to know everything he’s told you. Every throwaway comment, every gripe, every compliment, everything he said.
“We also need to talk about a warehouse leased by Safe Haven, LLC. The building burned to the ground last night, and the FBI has sent over technicians to sift through the rubble. I know Safe Haven is your company, and I know you were storing something there you shouldn’t have been. We need to talk so we can sort this out. If you let the FBI investigation run its course, they’re going to kick your door down and come in with guns drawn. Someone could get hurt. You don’t want that, and neither do I. If you’re not at your camp when you receive this message, get there. I’m coming to see you.”
Once I hung up, I waited a moment to see whether he’d call back. He didn’t, which was probably for the best anyway. Some conversations were best had in person.
The drive to Nassir’s camp through the hills of south-central Indiana was uneventful but pleasant. There were a lot of spring wildflowers on the roadside, and the air smelled like freshly cut grass. When I arrived at Nassir’s camp, the front gate was shut. Evidently, they didn’t want visitors. I opened it and drove through anyway.
As before, there were a number of cars parked outside the clubhouse, including Nassir’s Cadillac. No one came outside to greet me, so I went in. Nassir and three other men were in the mess hall, deep in conversation. They didn’t notice me, so I cleared my throat. One by one, they nodded to me. Nassir waved me over. I stayed put near the door.
“Did you get my message?” I asked.
Nassir furrowed his brow. “What message?”
I looked at the other men in the room. I recognized Ismail Shadid and Asim Qureshi from my trip to the camp earlier, but I didn’t know the third man. Evidently, my brother-in-law had more people involved in his project than anyone knew about. I looked at Nassir again.
“Tell me about the warehouse you leased from Konstantin Bukoholov.”
The furrow on his brow deepened, and he tilted his head to the side. “What are you talking about?”
“Your company, Safe Haven, LLC, leased a secure warehouse from a known gangster,” I said, speaking as slowly and clearly as I could. “That warehouse burned to the ground last night in very suspicious circumstances.”
Nassir looked to the other men around him. They looked as confused as he did. Bukoholov could have lied to me on his deathbed, but I doubted it. They knew more than they were letting on.
“We have no idea what you’re talking about,” said Nassir. “We don’t have any rental property. This is it.”
“If that’s the story you want to stick with, that’s your choice. Bear in mind that the FBI has some of the best forensic scientists in the world. They will find everything stored in that building. If they tie it to you and find something incriminating there, you’re going to have a bad day.”
“I told you already, Ashraf,” said Nassir, gesturing around him and practically yelling, “this is a summer camp. What else do I have to say to you?”
“It is a summer camp, but I’m guessing it’s more than that. I’ve searched this building. You have a room secured with a solid exterior door and a padlock up the hallway. Aside from the bathroom, it’s the only room with a lock anywhere on the property as far as I can tell. What are you hiding?”
A couple of the guys sat straighter. One drew in a breath. That got their attention.
“Nothing,” said Nassir, turning away so that his shoulder pointed at me. A lot of people did things like that when they lied. A psychologist could probably explain the move, but I didn’t need an explanation to know he was holding back.
“You don’t put a door like that inside a residential building without reason. What are you storing in that room?”
Nassir sighed and shook his head, but he didn’t look at me. Before he spoke a word, I knew he was going to lie to me.
“Donations and payroll,” he said, turning his body so that I could see only his side. “It’s where we keep our petty cash. Would you rather we keep that in the open?”
I looked to the other men there. “You think these guys are going to steal from you?”
“This isn’t a secured building. People like you can just drive right onto the property.”
I sighed and took a step back. If they weren’t going to tell me the truth, I’d find out on my own.
“What do you know about Jacob Ganim’s ex-wife?”
“Nothing,” said Ismail. “We didn’t know Jacob Ganim. Michael Najam never mentioned his wife.”
I waited for Nassir or anyone else to say anything. No one did.
“This is your last chance,” I said. “If you force me to find answers on my own, you might not like my methods.”
Again, no one said anything, so I turned to leave. Before I could get more than a few steps, Nassir sighed.
“Please stop,” he said. “We need your help.”
I turned around and put my hands on my hips to push back my jacket. Everyone there could see my badge and the weapon on my belt.
“Are you going to cooperate with my investigation?”
The man I didn’t recognize stepped forward. He was probably about fifty and had graying curly hair, dark brown skin, and a neatly trimmed beard. His irises were brown, while the whites of his eye were tinged slightly yellow. He moved with a barely perceptible limp. I hadn’t seen him at my mosque, but if he was one of Nassir’s friends, he was probably quite devout.
I nodded hello to him. He nodded back and then lowered his gaze.
“My name is Saleem al-Asiri. I’m the guidance counselor at a high school near Dayton, Ohio.”
“Very nice to meet you,” I said, glancing from Saleem to Nassir and then back. “I’m Ashraf Rashid. Nassir is married to my sister. As you can probably guess by now, I’m a police officer.”
He looked back at his friends and then to me. He shuffled just a little and sighed. “I need you to talk to one of my students.”
I raised my eyebrows. “I’m a detective in Indiana, and I’m already working a case. If you suspect your student committed a crime in Ohio, you need to talk to someone at your local police station.”
Saleem shook his head. “He’s not committed any crime, but he will. He’s here. His parents contacted me after they found him ordering ammunition online. The family doesn’t own any firearms. We think he’s buying the ammunition for someone else.”
I sighed. That was a problem.
“If he’s acting as a straw buyer for guns or ammunition, that’s a federal crime. I don’t have jurisdiction. I don’t even know that area of law well.”
Nassir stepped forward. “He’s not selling guns. We’ve been monitoring him online. He thinks God wants him to become a mujahid. We think he’s stockpiling ammunition for some kind of attack. We need you to talk to him and find out who he’s working with. Please.”
Nassir was almost pleading. I didn’t say anything. Instead, I let my mind work freely for a few minutes. Then I sighed as everything clicked all at once.
“That’s why you post on radical Facebook groups,” I said, rubbing my eyes. “You’re not trying to moderate them. You’re monitoring kids that you think are radicalized.”
“Yes,” he said, a smile breaking across his face. “Now you see. That’s why I left Rana. I couldn’t involve her in this. I didn’t want her hurt. This is important work. Someone needs to do it.”
“Yeah,” I said, nodding. “Someone. The FBI, for instance. Not a bunch of middle-aged high guidance counselors and accountants.”
Nassir seemed to shrink a little. “You’re not going to help us?”
“I’ll help,” I said, shaking my head. “But first, we’re going to talk in private. Outside, right now.”
Nassir nodded and followed me outside. Though I had marveled at what a nice day it was earlier, now the late morning felt somehow oppressive. The clouds seemed lower in the sky, the heat and humidity had begun to settle in, an
d the gray horizon looked almost foreboding. There was a storm building in the distance. Whether it would pass here was anyone’s guess, but it would smack somebody and soon.
Nassir and I walked without saying a word. I didn’t have a destination in mind, just a vague goal of getting out of earshot of Nassir’s friends. We walked for about ten minutes behind the clubhouse to the hill at which I had placed a call to Agent Havelock the day prior. I had looked out over that hill just a little over twenty-four hours ago and wondered how I’d tell an FBI assault team to take the camp. After the fire at the warehouse last night, I wondered whether a tactical officer was making that decision without me.
I looked at Nassir and drew in a breath.
“It’s time to come clean about everything. Did you know about the warehouse?”
He closed his eyes and then shook his head. “The curse of Allah be on him if he is one of the liars.”
I nodded. “I know what the Quran says about lying. Did you know about the warehouse?”
He shook his head again. “No. I don’t know anything about it. I haven’t spoken an untruth to you since you got here. You’re the liar. Everything you’ve done has been a lie.”
I held up a hand. “This isn’t about me. I’m doing my job. You don’t like my methods, tough shit. We don’t live in a pleasant world. Could any of your friends down there use your camp’s funds to rent a warehouse?”
He hesitated, but then nodded. “We all have responsibilities, so we all have access to the checkbook. If anyone wrote a check, though, they would have told me. I’m the accountant.”
“And nobody told you anything?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Of course not.”
“Then go over your accounts and compare your funds available with the books. You’re going to have a discrepancy somewhere.”
Nassir considered me and then crossed his arms. “Why do you think the problem is on our end? Where did you get your information?”
“A confidential informant. He has no reason to lie to me about this, and he would have no reason to know your name unless you or someone close to you did business with him. Can we talk about the kid you guys are holding captive now?”
