by Mark Terry
“My son. Michael Church. Before you ask—”
”You bring your son along on investigations?”
Damn, Jill thought. He asked before I could explain. “It’s a little complicated.”
“I just bet it is.”
Jill took a deep breath. Detective Wayne Bezinski was short, balding and slight. He wore wire-rimmed glasses that magnified his blue eyes. Dressed casually in khaki slacks, a dress shirt and a windbreaker, he nonetheless carried himself with confidence. Bezinski was accompanied by another detective, a woman. She was broad, probably in her forties, with steel-gray hair she wore to her shoulders. She wore a dark pantsuit with no-nonsense rubber-soled shoes. She kept very quiet and stood aside, keeping an eye on Michael.
“Detective,” she said. “Take one more look at my identification and then stop interrupting me.”
Bezinski tapped his finger on her I.D. folder. “Fine, Ms.—”
”That’s Agent Church. Federal Bureau of Investigation. Are we clear on that?”
Bezinski frowned, then handed back her identification. “We’ve got a body upstairs?”
“Yes. I’ve also called in a Bureau evidence specialist from downtown.”
“What’s this all about? Murders aren’t your jurisdiction.”
“This is related to the sarin gas attacks in Detroit.”
Bezinski’s eyes widened. Then he shifted his gaze to Michael, who was standing nervously next to his car. Bezinski’s expression shifted and his eyes narrowed. He turned back to Jill. “Why’s he here?”
“Someone else needed my car, so I called Michael to come get me and I planned to use his car. On the way back to Troy I received a call about the body here.” She gestured at Rebecca Harrington’s house.
“Uh-huh,” Bezinski said. “Okay. Kind of inconvenient. Who called you about the body here?”
She hesitated. “An agent with the Department of Homeland Security.”
Bezinski looked up from his notepad. His expression became even more inscrutable than before. “His name?”
“Derek Stillwater.”
Something flickered in Bezinski’s face. “And your relationship with Derek Stillwater?” His pen was poised over the notepad.
“I’m acting as the FBI liaison with the Department of Homeland Security. Agent Stillwater is a specialist in biological and chemical warfare. He flew in with the Bureau’s Hazardous Materials Response Unit.”
Bezinski’s left eyebrow raised just a fraction of an inch. “What time was this?”
“What?”
Bezinski focused on her. “What time did Agent Stillwater fly into town with the Bureau people?”
This question caught her more than a little off guard. “Why?”
“Why what?” Bezinski countered.
“Why do you want to know?”
“Just tell me, please.”
“Right around nine o’clock.”
Bezinski wrote that down and looked up at her. “You’re sure of that?”
“Yes. I was waiting at the helicopter pad at Henry Ford Hospital when they arrived.”
“Where did they come from?”
“They?”
“The Hazardous ... What was it again?”
“HMRU,” she said. “They’re out of Quantico, Virginia.”
“And Stillwater?”
“Baltimore, Maryland.”
Bezinski’s eyebrow rose again. “What time was the attack at that restaurant?”
Jill put her hands on her hips. “What is this all about?”
Bezinski met her gaze. “Clearing something up in my mind, Agent Church. And it seems to me that a few facts that I can verify would help.”
“It was at 8:00. Almost exactly 8:00.”
“Stillwater and the HMRU made it from Virginia and Maryland to Michigan in an hour?”
“The HMRU has a one-hour response time. They were called immediately.”
“Is there any chance whatsoever that Derek Stillwater was here in Detroit at 8:00 this morning?”
“No.”
Bezinski nodded. “Agent Church, I’m not entirely certain what’s going on here, but all local law enforcement agencies have been notified to be on the lookout for Derek Stillwater. He has been classified as a ‘person of interest,’ whatever the hell that means, and it was hinted that he might be behind these attacks.”
Jill stared. “What?!”
“You heard me. But the time frame doesn’t seem to work right. Of course, perhaps he set it up earlier and triggered it from a remote location.”
“Where is this coming from?”
“Your office.”
“The FBI?”
Bezinski nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
Well, thought Jill. That explained the Birmingham cops. And it smelled like something Matt Gray might be behind. “I believe Stillwater’s in custody in Birmingham,” she said.
“I see. How do you—”
”He just called me only a few minutes ago. And I can assure you, Detective, that I was with Agent Stillwater at the time of the second attack. He’s not responsible for it. Now, the woman here, however, is directly involved. In fact, her ex-husband is our prime suspect. She was supposed to be at the site of the first attack today. And in her ex-husband’s office at Wayne State University we found evidence that causes us to believe he’s the prime suspect—not Derek Stillwater—in these attacks. The office was also booby-trapped.”
“That explains the eyebrows,” Bezinski said.
“What?”
Bezinski ran a finger over his own eyebrows and then pointed to her. She ran her fingers over her own eyebrows. They felt short and spiky. Like they’d been fried. “I didn’t even notice,” she said.
“So there was an explosion?”
She nodded.
“Two mass killings, an explosion and now a corpse.” Belinski glanced over at Michael. “This just isn’t your day, is it?”
“No.”
“Let’s go in and look at our scene. You have a warrant?”
“No.”
He studied her. “Probable cause?”
“A tip.”
“From?”
“Stillwater.”
“He have a warrant?”
“You’d have to ask him,” she said.
Bezinski eyed her, then sighed. “Shit. Let’s go in. Tell you what, Agent Church. I was having a much better day myself before you showed up. Son,” he said to Michael. “Stay right here with Detective Standish. She’ll have some questions to ask you. That okay with you, Agent Church?”
Jill nodded, giving Michael a significant look.
“Fine,” Bezinski said. “Let’s get down to business.”
32
1:13 p.m.
AGENT FRANK MCMILLAN RINSED off under a safety shower, still wearing this biocontainment suit. Once he had gotten any residue of sarin off the suit, he was allowed to strip off the suit and hang it up to dry, changing into street clothes. It was hot, exhausting work, cataloguing and securing a scene of this size. And there was an emotional toll to be had, as well. None of them wanted to stop and take a break, but they were all professionals. They wouldn’t do anybody any good killing themselves working without a breather now and then. In this case, McMillan followed the lead of the HMRU’s protocols, taking a break every hour to get out of the suit, go to the john, having something to drink to re-hydrate, and get away from all the death.
He moved into the tent and slipped into a pair of surgical scrubs he kept in his duffel for just such an occasion. He needed to carry his gun, but the Glock was heavy. He usually wore it on a belt clip, but wearing scrubs, he couldn’t. His damn pants would fall down around his ankles, and wouldn’t that be a pretty picture on the six o’clock news? So he took out the gun and carried it. Pain in the ass. The whole back-and-forth, in-and-out thing was a pain in the ass.
It was too big a hassle to pull his street clothes back on, take a walk, knock back some Gatorade, maybe a Power Bar, find a bathroom nearb
y, then go back, change out of his clothes, back into the spacesuit, back into the crime scene. Oh well. What was he going to do? So he slipped into the pajama-like scrubs, pulled on his shoes, picked up his duffel and headed out for a stroll and a smoke. And maybe, he thought, I should find a john soon. His bladder felt uncomfortably full. But his nicotine craving was stronger. Smoke first.
McMillan was a lanky redhead, hair shorn nearly to his skull on the sides, worn short but curly on top. He stood about six-three. He’d played center at Seton Hall, but hadn’t been quick enough or accurate enough to go pro. He still played ball at the gym when he could, keeping in shape. For a guy in his forties, he thought he was in good shape. He could keep up with the twenty-somethings, even occasionally show them a thing or two. Right now, though, he felt drained and exhausted. Maybe it was the cigarettes. He should give the damn things up, he knew. But they helped with the stress.
The Detroit cop guarding the tent was looking up at the sky. “How’s it going?” Frank asked.
“Something’s up,” the cop said. He was a short, muscular black man, hair cropped close to his skull. His face had acne scars, giving his coal-black complexion a lumpy, moon surface-like appearance.
McMillan looked up and noticed helicopters. There were a couple TV choppers, but he also recognized at least three Bureau copters. Further off he saw two circling airplanes. “They’ve got a lock,” he murmured.
“On The Serpent?”
“I bet. They’re triangulating. Bastard was hanging around to watch the excitement.”
“Sick fuck,” the Detroit cop said.
“Got that right. I’d better go check what’s going on.” He loped off toward the command center.
33
1:15 p.m.
IN THE COMMAND CENTER, Agent Cortez was in communication with the helicopters and airplanes triangulating on The Serpent’s cellular phone signal. Matt Gray paced as best as he could, a walkie-talkie in his hand. He had set up sharp-shooters all around the perimeter of their one hundred yard area, which encompassed part of the University Health Center, Detroit Receiving Hospital and the Medical Library. He was in direct communication with Agent Samuel Woldencourt, who was coordinating the take-down with the Detroit P.D., his agents, and the SWAT team.
Cortez said, “The Serpent’s on the move.”
“Where?” Gray rushed to Cortez’s shoulder.
“Still in our area—”
”You got it?”
A voice came over the radio. “Signal is moving in a southwesterly direction within the grid. I repeat, southwesterly direction ... we have eleven targets, I repeat, eleven targets in that grid. Locking on.”
“Request a visual,” Gray said.
“Nighthawk 6,” Cortez said. “This is LFA 2. LFA 1 requests a visual.”
“Locking on, LFA 2. Nighthawk 6 out.”
“LFA 2, this is Nighthawk 3. Coordinating ... five, four, three ... Nighthawk 6, this is Nighthawk 3. Do you have lock?”
“Target is in muted green, carrying red duffel bag. Confirm. Nighthawk 6 out.”
“Nighthawk 3 confirms. Target is wearing green and carrying red duffel bag, moving on a southwesterly direction. I repeat, moving in a southwesterly direction. Nighthawk 3 out.”
“Nighthawk 1 here. Target is confirmed. Triangulation locked on.”
Matt Gray, voice tense, clicked the walkie-talkie. “This is LFA 1. We have a confirmed lock. Target is wearing green and carrying a red duffel bag, moving across grid in a southwesterly direction. Do you have a visual?”
“LFA 1, this is Blue Team Leader. I have a visual. Green scrubs. Red duffel bag. Moving in a southwesterly direction across grid. Subject is armed. I repeat, subject is armed.”
Gray nodded. “Blue Team Leader, take him.”
“LFA 1, this is Blue Team Leader. I confirm. Subject take-down. I repeat, subject take-down.”
34
1:17 p.m.
MARY LINZEY, ED WACHOVIAK and Steve Shay were camped out in front of the Detroit Medical Center, as close to Scott Hall as they were able to get since the Detroit Police had cordoned off the area. Something was going on. Something big. Mary, who had spent the last half an hour trying to track down information on Derek Stillwater, working Ed’s cell phone just as hard as she could, said, “Something’s going on. You see that? Up there? I think I saw a sniper or something. And all the helicopters...”
Ed was already bringing the camera up on his shoulder. Steve Shay took a look at himself in their truck’s mirror, brushed back a lock of hair that didn’t want to stay in place, and said, “Got me in?”
“Over your right shoulder,” Ed said.
Steve Shay, microphone to his mouth, said, “This is the Channel 7 Action News Reporter Steve Shay, reporting from the Detroit Medical Center. Above us are a number of Federal Bureau of Investigation helicopters. Behind me, you can see, the Detroit Police Department has cordoned off an area in the vicinity of Scott Hall. The Bureau Media Relations won’t comment, but there is clearly an on-going—”
Mary Linzey gasped. Steve Shay broke off, spinning, then picked up where he had left off. “As you can see, a number of Detroit Police and FBI agents have converged on ... are you getting this Ed? Oh my God—”
35
1:18 p.m.
TROTTING TOWARD THE COMMAND center, Frank McMillan sensed something was wrong right away. The Bureau helicopters shifted lower, for one, and he wasn’t oblivious to the fact the news helicopters were staying away from the immediate area. Which meant the Bureau was keeping them out of their airspace. Frank also noticed a lot of movement in the surrounding area. What had before seemed to be a random conglomeration of law enforcement and emergency medical personnel now seemed both more organized and segregated. The Detroit PD and the FBI were on the move, operating separately, but in concert. It was all there for a trained observer to see. Out of the corner of his eye, atop the Scott Building, he noticed a camouflaged figure with a rifle ducking out of sight. The Bureau had put snipers around the area. Something was definitely going on.
Then Frank noticed a man running off to his left. The figure wasn’t clear, but Frank saw he carried a gun and was moving very quickly.
Dropping the duffel, Frank yanked out his Glock, flinging the holster to the ground next to the duffel. “Hey!” he shouted, bringing up his weapon. “You! Don’t move!”
The first bullet struck Frank McMillan on the left side, about four inches left of his navel, along the floating ribs. It spun him around, but McMillan, reacting as he had been trained to do, dropped into a classic Weaver stance, both hands on his gun, and returned fire.
Then all hell broke loose.
36
1:19 p.m.
MARY LINZEY STOOD FROZEN, watching as literally dozens of people with guns opened fire. Steve Shay nearly dropped the microphone, then seemed to catch on to the notion that he was standing on top of a major career-maker, got a grip and turned to Ed and said, “Focus on the guy they’re shooting.”
But Ed was already on the move, trying for a better angle. And he wasn’t the only one, Mary thought, watching as the other stations’ cameramen jockeyed for position. With a grimace she watched a cameraman from CNN sprint toward the battlefront. Cowboy, she thought.
Steve Shay raced after Ed, microphone to his mouth, keeping up a running commentary as Ed took in the carnage.
“...as a man ran across the street from the direction of the Scott Building, shooting broke out. The figure, presumably the man calling himself The Serpent, returned fire. But the entire area ... Ed! Over here!”
Ed ducked down behind a parked car, aiming the camera to where dozens of cops and other people were firing at the lone man, who fired back...
Shay continued, “The Serpent is returning fire ... oh God!”
A high-velocity round fired by one of the snipers struck Frank McMillan in the side of the head. The entire opposite side of his skull exploded outward in a spray of scarlet blood, white bone and gray brain matter.
“Ed, did you catch that? Oh God!”
Ed looked away for a moment, about ready to vomit. “We’ll never be able to use that,” he said. He looked a little green. “I had it on close-up.”
“Start practicing your Pulitzer acceptance speech, Ed. This is fucking fantastic!”
Ed stared at Shay. “We’re still hot, Shay.”
“Oh ... sorry. We’ll edit it out.”
Silence abruptly dropped over the area. The only sound was the rotors of the helicopters beating the air.
Steve Shay turned so he was again in front of the camera. “This is Steve Shay, Channel 7 Action News Reporter in Detroit, Michigan. Just behind me you can see that the alleged terrorist calling himself The Serpent has been brought down in a hail of bullets by the Detroit Police Department and the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
Mary Linzey appeared at their side. Quietly she said, “You get all that, Ed?”
“Yeah. Every bit of it.”
“Let’s get the feed going. CNN’s...” She trailed off. “Something’s wrong.”
They ran toward the scene, just like all the other journalists in the area. Mary let Ed shoulder his way through the crowd that was gathering, leading the way.
Steve Shay stuck his microphone toward a man she recognized as Matt Gray, the SAC.
Shay said, “Is this The Serpent, Agent Gray?”
Gray stared blankly at him, his eyes dull, expression perplexed. “No comment.”
“Special Agent Gray,” shouted a reporter from FOX News. “Is this case over? How did you know—”
An FBI agent in blue coveralls had been kneeling next to the figure of Frank McMillan. “Oh Jesus! Oh no! Jesus Christ!” The agent looked up at Matt Gray. “It’s Frank McMillan! It’s McMillan!”
