by Chris Culver
The closer I got to the building, the lighter my feet seemed to become. Once I saw people inside, I couldn’t stop myself from running. When I arrived at the clubhouse, two uniformed police officers caught me on the porch.
“Whoa, buddy,” said one. “What’s going on?”
I drew in a deep breath, nodding to the screen door ahead of me. “I’m Lieutenant Ash Rashid. I need to see the body.”
A third figure—this one wearing a colonel’s silver eagle on his collar—came out of the building. He nodded to his troopers, and they let go of my arms. He looked at me up and down.
“Are you sure you’re all right, Lieutenant?”
“I haven’t slept in a while, but I’m fine. Have you identified the body yet?”
“No,” said the colonel, shaking his head. He looked over my shoulder. “Are you Captain Bowers?”
I turned so Bowers was to my left and the colonel was to my right. Bowers nodded.
“Yeah. Lieutenant Rashid is anxious to see the body. It might be his brother-in-law.”
Colonel Holtz took a step back and gestured toward the door. “By all means, go in. Don’t touch anything. You know the drill.”
I put my hands in my pockets so I wouldn’t accidentally touch anything and walked past the officers into the clubhouse. A breeze blew through the windows. A man and a woman stood in the center of the room. The woman wore black pants and a black blazer, while her partner wore dark jeans and a white long-sleeved shirt. They turned as I walked in.
I didn’t know either of them, but they both wore detective badges on lanyards around their necks. I nodded a hello to each of them.
“I’m Lieutenant Ash Rashid with IMPD. I might be able to identify your body.”
The man nodded and took a step back. I stepped forward, feeling my gut contort. The police officer at the gate was right. The victim was an Arab man, but it wasn’t Nassir. This was Omar Nawaz. He wore a beige thobe beneath a dark brown sport coat. His legs were tucked beneath him as if he had been kneeling when he died. A single gunshot wound marred his forehead. It was a small-caliber round with just enough power to penetrate the frontal bones of his skull but not enough to blow out the back. The round would have ricocheted off the bones of his skull, tearing his brain apart.
This was an execution.
I saw all that at a glance as my mind slammed pieces together. Nassir barely knew Omar. He hadn’t come out there to build that summer camp. None of the men in Nassir’s group attended Omar’s mosque as far as I knew. He had no reason to be at that camp, and yet here he was.
It was right in front of my face. I should have seen it. Ganim had a dozen or more surveillance pictures in his basement, and Omar was in every single one. I had thought Ganim was interested in the women, but they weren’t his target at all; that was all Omar. He wasn’t some do-gooder out to help Syrian refugees; he was one of the villains, and he had hid right in front of me.
I didn’t know who the bad guys were, but he was working with him. That’s how Butler and his friends found Kim Peterson’s house. Omar had led them right there. Now, his former partners had killed him because he was a loose end.
“Lieutenant?” asked the female detective. I felt my nostrils flare as I drew in a breath.
“Your victim is Omar Nawaz. He’s the imam of a mosque on the near-east side of Indianapolis. He’s the only person you found on the property?”
“Yeah,” said the male detective. “We searched every building as best we can tell.”
“Did you search the garage to the northwest?”
He nodded. “It was empty.”
“Even the storm cellar?”
The two detectives looked to one another.
“There’s a storm cellar?” asked the female.
Instead of answering, I left the building and began running northwest. A couple of people followed, but I didn’t pay much attention. The building was just a couple hundred yards away, so it didn’t take long to reach. All of its doors were open, but no law enforcement officers had stayed after searching it. Like the detective in the clubhouse said, though, it was empty. The stack of fertilizer it had once held was gone.
I looked over my shoulder. Captain Bowers and the two state police detectives had followed. More uniformed officers followed at a leisurely pace just down the hill.
“Mike, walk around the building and see whether the tank of diesel’s empty,” I said. Bowers nodded and disappeared while I looked at the two detectives and then pointed to one of the garage stalls. “There used to be a pallet full of fertilizer there. It was a couple thousand pounds at least. There should be an invoice in the office detailing how much exactly.”
“Okay,” said the male detective, drawing the syllable out as if he were confused. “This is farm country. Why do we care about fertilizer?”
“Because when you mix diesel and ammonium nitrate fertilizer, it creates a very powerful explosive,” I said, speaking slowly. “You’re working an antiterrorism case, and some very bad people just stole the ingredients for a very big bomb.”
He held up his hands and started taking a step back. “If this is a terrorism case, shouldn’t the FBI be involved?”
“They are involved,” said Bowers. “They’re working another end of the investigation. Why don’t you go back to Mr. Nawaz’s body and supervise the investigation there? We’ll call you if we need anything.”
The two detectives hesitated but then left. Bowers turned to me.
“So what now?”
“We find Nassir,” I said, walking around the building until I came to a pair of doors that led to the storm cellar. There wasn’t a lock, so I simply pulled them open and walked down the concrete steps. The cellar was dark, so I held up my phone as a torch. It was a large, open space maybe forty feet by forty feet. Concrete columns and steel beams held the ceiling up about eight feet above my head. Had the worst come to pass, Nassir and his crew could have fit a lot of people down there in a tornado.
Nassir had said their armory was connected to this storm cellar, so I walked to the nearest wall and ran my hand across the concrete, looking for a seam or hidden door. I found one behind some steel shelving along the wall directly opposite the entrance.
Bowers and I dragged the metal structure away, and I ran my hand along the concrete for a handle or some other device to open it. Fortunately, the door didn’t need a handle. All I had to do was push on it.
The instant the door opened, nearly blinding light filled the cellar. I squinted into the newly uncovered room. Four bare light bulbs in fixtures along the ceiling illuminated the space. It was about half the size of the storm cellar, and along the exterior walls, there were metal shelving units similar to the ones Bowers and I had moved a moment earlier. There was a body on the ground.
“It’s Nassir,” I said, running inside and then kneeling beside him to feel his throat for a pulse. It was strong and regular, and his breath seemed unobstructed. He lay on his back as if he had been put there. He had a bruise the size of a grapefruit on his temple and forehead, but there was no blood on the ground. He was hurt, but not mortally. Clearly, they had clubbed him with something, maybe the butt of a rifle. Even if he wasn’t bleeding externally, we needed to get him to the hospital for a CT scan to make sure his brain wasn’t bleeding.
I looked to Captain Bowers.
“Go back down to the clubhouse and call for an ambulance. We need to get him to the hospital.”
Bowers nodded but hesitated before leaving.
“Were you exaggerating about the amount of fertilizer they stole?” he asked.
I shook my head and looked from Nassir to him. “No.”
“Tell me you and Havelock had a plan for tracking these guys down.”
I smiled a mirthless smile at him. “Given that Havelock’s dead, even if we had a plan, I’m not sure how much trust I’d put in it.”
Bowers nodded and left the room without saying anything. He didn’t need to say anything, though. We both knew t
he stakes. Very bad men were going to kill a whole lot of people very soon.
And we were the only people who could stop that from happening.
Chapter 39
A few minutes after Bowers left, a car pulled up behind the building, and four doors slammed shut in quick succession. Several people rushed into the storm shelter, but I couldn’t see them well from the room Nassir and I were in. At least one of them, though, had a camping lantern because the room outside the armory lit up.
“Lieutenant Rashid?” called a voice.
“In here,” I said. “We’re in the back room.”
Footsteps shuffled toward me, and then four uniformed male officers burst into the room. Two of them looked like they were in their mid-twenties, a third looked about my age, and the fourth looked as if he could have retired at any moment with a full pension. The two young guys carried fishing tackle boxes and lanterns, while the other two carried a stretcher.
“Is he breathing?” asked one of the young guys as he set his tackle box and lantern on the ground and then snapped a pair of latex gloves on his hands.
“Yeah, he seems to be breathing fine,” I said, furrowing my brow at the back brace. “What did Mike tell you?”
“Just that we had a medical emergency,” said one of the other officers. “We’re the team paramedics.”
“I think he’s just knocked out.”
One of the young guys looked almost disappointed, but the others kept their emotions to themselves and got to work over Nassir. They checked his pulse, his capillary response, and then they felt his skin to see whether it was clammy. Then, once they determined he probably was okay, they broke open a smelling salts ampule and held it under Nassir’s nose. For a moment, nothing happened. Then his eyes popped open, and he shuddered.
“How are you feeling, Mr. Hadad?” asked the older officer.
Nassir’s eyes fluttered, and then he tried to sit up but fell backward before he could.
“Dizzy,” he said. “And thirsty. Who are you, and what am I doing here?”
“They’re police officers,” I said, kneeling beside him. “You’re okay.”
For a moment, he stared at me, confused, and then comprehension dawned in his eyes.
“Ashraf, they came to the camp after the police left. They had guns. They didn’t tell me what they wanted. They shot Omar Nawaz.”
“I know,” I said, nodding. Unease began to build in my gut. “Why did they kill Omar and not you?”
His eyes flicked to the ceiling, and then he shook his head. “I don’t know.”
The question was more important than he probably realized. My investigation kept coming back to him, and yet he denied a connection at every turn. I wanted to believe him, but it got harder at every turn.
“Think hard,” I said. “They killed Omar and left his body to rot. You’re alive. Why? We need an answer to that question.”
“I don’t have one,” he said, sitting up again. This time, he didn’t fall backwards. “I don’t know what’s going on. They came to my home and murdered a man in front of me. I don’t know who they were, or what they wanted. Aside from Omar, I hadn’t even seen any of them before.”
I locked my eyes on his and held his gaze for a few moments.
“You are right in the middle of this, Nassir. If you want to stay out of prison, your explanations need a lot more detail,” I said. “Where are the other men who live here with you?”
“They went home after we were arrested,” he said. “They’re with their families. Rana made it clear that I don’t have a family anymore. So I came here.”
I wanted to tell him that was his own damn fault, but this wasn’t the time for family squabbles.
“How many people came?”
His eyes went unfocused for a moment. Then he looked at me again.
“At least ten. They were boys, mostly, but there were two older men, too. One was named Hashim.”
I nodded. Butler al-Ghamdi had mentioned someone named Hashim. We were getting somewhere.
“How did they get here?”
He furrowed his brow. “They drove. What do you think, they took a train?”
I forced a smile to my face to hide my annoyance at the answer.
“What did they drive?” I asked.
“Cars.”
My hands balled into fists without my conscious effort. I almost smacked him. Instead, I clenched my jaw and drew in a deep breath. Nassir cleared his throat and looked away.
“What kind of cars did they drive?” I asked. “Four-door sedans? SUVs? Convertibles? Pickup trucks? Did you see what they drove, Nassir? The people who came to this camp are going to kill a lot of people. Talk.”
He blinked a few times. “A truck. The kind you move in. It was yellow. And minivans. One was gray. The other was light blue.”
“Good. So twelve people came,” I said, nodding. “Were they white? Were they black? Brown? Asian? Latino? Native American?”
He drew in a breath and closed his eyes as a pained expression crossed his face.
“They were brown,” he said. “All of them, I think. They looked like us.”
I nodded to the uniformed officers with me. “One of you go tell your boss and Captain Mike Bowers to start calling truck rental companies. We want to see whether anybody’s rented yellow moving trucks to Arab-looking men in the past couple of days.”
Three of the officers looked to the older guy. He nodded to one of the young men.
“Do as he says,” he said. “Run.”
The guy disappeared, and I looked to Nassir again.
“Tell me about the fertilizer upstairs. Where is it?”
Nassir furrowed his brow. “We haven’t touched it since Qadi bought it. It’s hard to find time to fertilize when you’re in federal custody or when crazy people attack you.”
“So you haven’t touched it at all?” I asked, lowering my chin.
“No,” he said, his voice growing indignant. “We haven’t touched it. Why are you asking?”
“Because it’s gone,” I said. “The men who killed Omar and knocked you out took your fertilizer. That’s probably why they brought a truck. How much did you have?”
He drew in a breath. “I don’t know how much Qadi bought. He got a good deal. I’d have to look at the computer to be sure.”
I put a hand under his armpit to help him stand. “Then we’re going to your office.”
Nassir stood up easily, but he leaned against me at first for balance. Then he blinked and waved me away.
“I’m fine,” he said. “Give me a minute. The blood just rushed to my head.”
I looked to the uniformed officers who were starting to stand and gather their gear.
“It’s not far to the clubhouse, so I’ll just walk him down. We’ll meet you there.”
“Are you sure you’re okay walking?” asked the older uniformed officer.
“He’s fine,” I said, squeezing Nassir’s tricep so he wouldn’t say anything. “He’s not even wobbling anymore.”
“I am fine,” said Nassir, glancing at me and then to the officers. “We’ll walk.”
The officers seemed leery of leaving us alone, but I didn’t care. I led Nassir outside and stepped close to him as the uniformed officers began loading up their SUV.
“Are you positive you didn’t recognize any of the men who came here earlier?”
He gave me a bewildered look. “I already told you no.”
“I get that, but I was hoping you could tell me the truth now. These bad guys you didn’t recognize murdered a man right in front of you. Instead of killing you, they clubbed you over the head and dumped your body in a secret room only known about by people you trust. You see the problem I’m having?”
Nassir slowed his gait.
“I don’t know what to tell you,” he said. “Butler al-Ghamdi knew about it. He could have told others.”
It was a reasonable answer, but it didn’t truly respond to my concerns. I stopped walking. Nassir too
k another few steps but then stopped as well and turned to me.
“I need your help,” I said. “If you’re telling me the truth, there are twelve men intent on hurting innocent people out there. What’s more, they’ve got guns, trucks, and potentially explosives.”
“Like I told you earlier, this is a summer camp,” he said. “I never intended—”
“Just stop right there,” I said, interrupting him. “Jacob Ganim came here to see you. The terrorists who attacked Westbrook Elementary blamed you. You brought Butler al-Ghamdi to Indianapolis, and he killed seven innocent people. He set up an ambush that killed four FBI agents. I never would have met him if not for you. Today, I came back here and found out that your bulk purchases of fertilizer and diesel fuel happened to be stolen by terrorists. That’s an awful lot of coincidences, don’t you think?”
“I made some mistakes,” he said. “I admit that, but I’m not a terrorist. I’m building this camp for my daughter. How many times do I have to tell you that?”
I folded my hands in front of me. “Is it possible somebody else in your group wants to hurt people?”
“I’ve known these men for twenty years. They wouldn’t hurt anybody. They’re good people.”
“All of them?” I asked. Nassir nodded. “What about Saleem al-Asiri? He brought in Butler al-Ghamdi. Have you known him for twenty years, too?”
Nassir hesitated before answering. “No, but he’s a good man.”
“Where’d you meet him?”
Again, Nassir hesitated.
“Nassir, I don’t have time for this,” I said. “People are going to die unless we do something now.”
Nassir blinked and then looked down. “I met him on Facebook. We know some people in common. They vouched for him.”
“Somebody vouched for Michael Najam, too, and he turned out to be an undercover FBI agent,” I said, nodding. “How long have you known him?”
