Sleeper Cell

by Chris Culver

  I started with my sister. Even though she and Nassir were going through a divorce, she needed to know he was in jail. I waited a couple of rings for her to pick up.

  “Rana, hey,” I said. “It’s your brother.”

  “Ahh, Ashraf,” she said, her voice subdued. “I can’t talk long because I have an appointment to have my nails done. I just got a massage. It was wonderful.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” I said. “Listen, I’m calling because your husband is an idiot.”

  She sighed and laughed under her breath. “I’m glad we agree on that.”

  “He’s been arrested for the attack on the president yesterday,” I said.

  For a few seconds, Rana said nothing. Then I heard her draw in a breath.

  “Tell me he didn’t do it.”

  “He didn’t do it,” I said. “I don’t know who did, but it wasn’t him. He’s being set up. We don’t know why yet. He never mentioned Michael Najam to you, did he?”

  “No,” she said. “But I don’t know any of them in his little club. All of them kept their families away. That camp broke up my marriage, and I don’t think I’ll be the only one. As far as I know, Qadi and Fatima Hamady stopped talking weeks ago.”

  “I understand you’re mad at him, but if you don’t do something now, your husband is likely to end up in prison for a crime he didn’t commit.”

  Rana sighed. “What do I need to do?”

  “Look up John Meyers and Associates. They’re a criminal defense firm. They’re going to cost you some money, but they’re the best defense firm in the Midwest. If they can’t handle the case, they’ll refer you to a firm that can.”

  “Nassir doesn’t deserve a brother-in-law like you,” she said, sighing again. “I can’t even remember what I used to see in him.”

  I blinked, thinking through my response.

  “You saw a good man. I think he still is that good man, but I wish he had better judgment. When you talk to him next, ask him why he left you. If he refuses to tell you, I will. It might change your feelings toward him.”

  “I don’t think anything could change how I feel toward him.”

  “Then it will put things into perspective,” I said. “Good luck.”

  “You, too.”

  She hung up a moment later, and I rode for another couple of blocks in silence before we turned into the parking lot of a Denny’s on 82nd Street. The driver stopped our SUV, while the passenger reached into his pocket for a set of keys, which he handed to me.

  “It’s the black Ford Mustang in the handicapped spot,” he said. “Please be careful with it. Also bear in mind that the vehicle was confiscated from a drug dealer. It’s been searched and cleaned thoroughly, but its previous occupant was gunned down in the front seat. You happen to find drug paraphernalia, weapons, or cash in the car, we’d appreciate hearing about it.”

  “Havelock will be my first call,” I said, opening my door and stepping out. The occasional sprinkle had turned to a drizzle, making it uncomfortable to stand outside for long. The FBI agents drove off, and I walked to the car they had given me. I’d get a little more attention in a jet black Mustang than I would have in my Volkswagen, but it beat walking everywhere. I opened the front door, sat down, and took the handicapped parking decal from my rearview mirror before taking out my cell phone.

  My investigation had gone in directions I couldn’t have predicted, but it was still a murder investigation. No matter what else happened, I had to follow the evidence, and right now, I had a big piece of evidence I hadn’t even considered. I took out my phone and called the Marion County Coroner’s Office and asked to speak to Dr. Hector Rodriguez. It took a few minutes, but eventually I got him on the phone.

  “Ash, hey,” he said. “You could have just called my direct line. You didn’t need to go through the switchboard.”

  “I would have, but I’m not on my normal phone. I’m calling about a body the Bureau was supposed to let you have access to. It was a floater found in the Ohio River near Madison.”

  Rodriguez grunted. “Yeah, that one. I’ve got it. You free this afternoon?”

  “If necessary, I can make time.”

  “Please do. We need to talk.”

  I nodded to myself and turned on my car. The engine let out a deep-throated growl that made several people inside the restaurant in front of me look out the window. This car might be a little fun after all.

  “I’m a couple of blocks from the Castleton Square Mall. I’ll be at your office as soon as I can.”

  Dr. Rodriguez and the rest of the coroner’s office worked out of an old, converted warehouse a couple of blocks from Lucas Oil Stadium, the home of the Indianapolis Colts. Despite its rather humble brick facade, the building functioned well. There were multiple autopsy theaters, offices for the staff, and space to store both old records and corpses. I rarely heard people complain about the place, but dead bodies rarely complained about anything.

  I parked in the lot out front and went inside, where the receptionist directed me to autopsy room 2 in the basement. As I descended the stairs, the temperature dropped, and an antiseptic smell began seeping into my nose. I wished I had worn a sweater. Hector Rodriguez was inside the autopsy room, leaning over a counter to read a report while he ate an apple. Jacob Ganim’s body rested on a cold metal table about five feet from him. Harsh bright lights illuminated the work space, while music played softly from somewhere nearby. A woman was singing about a breakup many years ago.

  “Never imagined you as the sentimental type,” I said.

  Dr. Rodriguez looked up, his brow furrowed as he chewed his apple.

  “The music,” I said, nodding in the vague direction of the radio. Recognition dawned on his face, and he nodded.

  “My internet radio station. Apparently, it thinks I’m an Adele fan,” he said, putting his apple down and then sliding to a sink to wash his hands. Once he had his hands cleaned and dried, he snapped on a pair of latex gloves and walked to the exam table. I followed a few feet back.

  No matter how many times I saw the corpse of a murder victim, it was hard to get over the indignity of a violent death. Not only was a man or woman’s life snuffed out early, but the victim’s body would also be photographed, sliced up, and examined dozens of times over by dozens of people. After the autopsy, the pictures would be displayed in front of juries and lawyers, and, oftentimes, the body would be kept in cold storage for months or years until trial. The victim didn’t even get the decency of a timely burial. Seeing Jacob Ganim displayed on the autopsy table felt like a violation almost as bad as the one that took his life.

  “This was an interesting one,” said Rodriguez. “What can you tell me about him?”

  I sighed and raised my eyebrows as I looked at Ganim’s body. They had found him in the water, so his skin was puffy and loose. There was a deep laceration on his neck and what looked like bruises across his torso.

  “Unfortunately, I’m limited in what I can say,” I said. “He was a law enforcement official who worked undercover. He was fished from the Ohio River. Cause of death was unknown, but I’m guessing it had something to do with that cut across his throat.”

  Rodriguez nodded. “Yeah. He died from exsanguination due to a laceration on the anterior aspect of his neck. Cut was approximately seven centimeters below his chin and seven centimeters above the suprasternal notch. The cut itself was clean and deep. There’s damage to the underlying thyroid cartilage, supraglottic part of the larynx, soft tissue, blood vessels, and musculature corresponding to the surface injury. In addition, there’s a cut along the fifth cervical vertebrae measuring four centimeters in length and at a depth of two millimeters.”

  “Ouch,” I said, looking from Rodriguez to the body.

  “Damn near took off his head,” said Rodriguez. “This guy was used to pain, though.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “As part of the autopsy, I took X-rays over his entire body. This guy was tortured severely sometime in the
recent past. Nearly every bone in his right hand has been broken, and there are indications none of the fingers were set properly after his injury.”

  I leaned against a nearby counter and crossed my arms, thinking.

  “This guy would have had health insurance. Why wouldn’t he have gotten medical attention?”

  “You’ll have to answer that one,” said Rodriguez. “I’m just telling you what I’ve found.”

  I nodded. “What could have done it? Was this an accident, you think?”

  “No,” said Rodriguez, shaking his head. “The amount of remodeling on the bones indicates that the first break occurred about four weeks before the last. This was systematic. If I had to guess, somebody took a hammer to his hand, one finger at a time.”

  That wasn’t the kind of thing that happened to very many FBI agents, although it did explain the pain medication I found on him.

  “Anything else?”

  “Yeah. There’s significant damage to his shoulders and wrists. I’ve only seen this kind of damage once before. It was from an older man who had been a guest inside a North Korean prison. According to his family, that victim had his wrists bound behind his back and was then strung up by his hands. It would been excruciating.”

  I drew in a breath, taken aback. “Anything else?”

  “He’s broken five ribs and been shot in his right knee. Both injuries occurred at roughly the same time as his hand injury—I’d say about four years ago. You said this guy was a police officer?”

  “Something like that.”

  Rodriguez took a step back and leaned against the counter beside me to stare at the body.

  “If a live patient came to me with these X-rays, I’d refer him to a psychiatrist to make sure he wasn’t going to hurt himself. Then I’d refer him to a social worker who could help him apply for disability. I don’t know what happened to him, but your victim was in pain every day of his life.”

  I nodded and crossed my arms, thinking. I had begun to think Ganim was a rogue FBI agent addicted to pills. And maybe he was, but clearly he was more than just that. This was a man willing to endure pain for his cause. What that cause happened to be and why someone would kill him for it, I had no idea. I knew someone who might have, though, and it was past time she talked to me.

  “I appreciate the work you put into this,” I said, pushing off from the counter. “I’ll see myself out. I’ve got to drive to Franklin before it gets dark.”

  Chapter 24

  I hit the outskirts of Franklin about an hour after I left the coroner’s office. Lauren Collier’s neighborhood wasn’t far from that. The rain had tapered off by the time I parked, but the sky hadn’t cleared. A cold breeze whipped through my shirt as I opened my door. At times, it felt like summer was right around the corner, but spring still had a way of reminding me that we were still in its grasp.

  I grabbed the autopsy report and pictures I had received from Dr. Rodriguez and then straightened my shirt and jacket before heading up the walkway of Jacob Ganim’s widow’s house. A young girl opened the door when I knocked. Like her father, she had olive colored skin and dark hair. She was younger than my daughter but older than my son. Probably six or seven, if I had to guess. I knelt in front of her and smiled.

  “My name is Ashraf, and I’m a police officer. I’m looking for your mommy. Is she home?”

  Before the little girl could answer, Ms. Collier’s strident voice whipped through the house.

  “Get away from him, Maya,” she said, hurrying down the hallway. The little girl shrank back, and I stood. Ms. Collier’s throat was red and her eyes were narrow as they bore into me. “Lieutenant, I thought I made myself clear the last time you were here. You’re not welcome at this house, you’re not welcome to talk to my daughter, and you’re not welcome to talk to me. Get out.”

  “Not this time,” I said, shaking my head. “We need to talk about Jacob Ganim.”

  “Daddy?” said the little girl, taking a step forward. Ms. Collier looked back at her and softened her voice.

  “Please go in the basement. You can watch My Little Pony if you want. Mommy needs to talk to this man.”

  The little girl slowly nodded and began walking down the hall, trailing her fingers on the wall. When she disappeared around a corner, Ms. Collier turned to me.

  “I’m getting the phone, and I’m going to call the police.”

  “Okay,” I said, nodding. “If you’re going to do that, be sure to tell them your ex-husband was involved in the plot to murder President Crane’s family and everyone at Westbrook Elementary. I’m sure the police and the FBI will be right over.”

  She scoffed. “I don’t have to listen to you.”

  “You don’t have to, but you really should,” I said. “Your ex-husband infiltrated a group of Islamic men building a summer camp. While he was supposed to be investigating that group, he was secretly investigating another case entirely. In the meantime, that peaceful group had their lives put through the wringer. They’ve now been arrested for something they didn’t do. I don’t know what’s going on, but your ex-husband was in the middle of it. Who was he? And please don’t tell me he was just an FBI agent.”

  “Jacob had flaws, but he was a good man. If he infiltrated this peaceful group, he did it for a reason, probably because they’re not so peaceful.”

  I nodded and drew in a breath. “Maybe you’re right. I don’t know yet. I do know your husband isn’t the man everyone thinks he is. Who did he actually work for?”

  She blinked and then crossed her arms. “He was an FBI agent.”

  “No more lies, okay? I’m getting tired of them,” I said, shaking my head. “If Jacob had been an FBI agent, you would have called a security officer at the FBI when I showed up the last time. That security officer would have done a preliminary background investigation of me, found out that I correctly told you I was a police officer, and then he would have called the US Attorney’s Office in Indianapolis with a complaint. The US attorney would have then called the Marion County Prosecutor’s Office, who would have then alerted my boss.

  “Instead, you called a military officer. That military officer called my boss from the White House. Just for future reference, the former spouses of FBI agents don’t usually have those kinds of contacts within the government.”

  Ms. Collier’s eyes bore into mine as she weighed whether to speak to me. Finally, she leaned against the door frame, her posture softening.

  “What do you want, Lieutenant?”

  “Answers,” I said. “I was called into this case to investigate your husband’s murder. Not bragging, but I’m a pretty good homicide investigator. After this long on a case, I’ve usually got a pretty good idea of who my murderer is. In this case, I don’t even know who my victim is.”

  Some of the heat left her eyes. Her shoulders dropped as she took a step behind her and reached to a purse on a table beside the front door. My back stiffened, and I dropped my right hand to the weapon on my belt. With shaking hands, she pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit up.

  “I quit a couple of years ago when we were trying to get pregnant,” she said, exhaling. “Now just seemed like the right time to start again.”

  “I’m sorry if I make you nervous.”

  “You’re not sorry,” she said, tipping her cigarette to knock off a length of ash. “Men like you are never sorry.”

  I looked her in the eye.

  “Okay, sure. I’m not sorry. The FBI found pictures in your ex-husband’s home that implicate him in the attack on Westbrook Elementary in New Hampshire.”

  She scoffed and shook her head. “I don’t think so. My husband wouldn’t do that.”

  “I agree. Somebody’s setting him up to take a fall. I was in his house earlier, and the pictures weren’t there. They were when the FBI returned this afternoon. That’s partly why I’m here now. I need to know who your ex-husband was. You can start by telling me who tortured him.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking abou
t.”

  Out of instinct, I almost called her out without thinking. As I watched her, though, her expression went from surprise to confusion. She was being honest. She had no idea someone had hurt her ex-husband. I considered how I wanted to approach this. Even if they were divorced, Ms. Collier clearly had some feelings for her husband. Maybe she didn’t love him, but she had cared for his well-being, nonetheless.

  I narrowed my eyes at her.

  “Can you tell me what your ex-husband did for a living in 2014?”

  “Was my husband tortured in 2014?”

  And now, Jacob was her husband instead of just her ex-husband. She did care about him. That made this tricky.

  “There are indications that he was hurt then, yeah.”

  “What kind of indications?” she asked, her voice growing hard. She looked to the autopsy report I was carrying. “And what’s on those papers?”

  “This is the autopsy report. It includes pictures. You don’t want to see them.”

  She nodded and swallowed hard. “How did he die?”

  “Someone took a knife to his throat and cut his carotid arteries. His body was disposed of in the Ohio River. He would have died very quickly. There would have been a minimal amount of pain.”

  She looked away from me as tears began forming at the corners of her eyes. I wanted to say something, but I had done enough next-of-kin notifications to know nothing I said would help. She brought a hand to her face, but she didn’t wipe away her tears. Instead, she balled it into a fist and exhaled deeply and slowly, getting control of herself.

  “He knew his murderer,” she said.

  “That’s one possibility,” I said, nodding.

  “No,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m telling you. Jacob knew and trusted his murderer. He never would have let a stranger get that close to him.”

  “I’m sure he was a capable man,” I said, speaking slowly and trying not to sound too paternalistic, “but we can’t discount the possibility that he was murdered by a stranger.”

  She looked at me as if I had just told her the sky was neon green.