Borderline Insanity

by Jeff Miller

  As they passed into downtown Brownsville, Diego started to laugh.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “All of that, and they never once asked to see my ID.”

  She shook her head. They were back in America, indeed.

  CHAPTER 57

  Dragging her suitcase through the parking lot of Dayton International Airport, Dagny noticed Diego wasn’t at her side. She stopped and turned around. He was standing still, twenty feet back.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  He walked closer and tossed her his keys. “I need to wrap up some things before I head back to Bilford.”

  “Diego, I can’t take your car.”

  “I’ll rent something. See you in a day or two.” He turned and headed toward baggage claim. She watched him until he was gone. He never looked back.

  It was a strange end to their trip, and she ruminated over it on her drive back to Bilford. After their mutual confessions, the hotel kiss, and repeated brushes with death, there was a lot for a priest to process, she supposed. The kiss had surprised her. It reminded her of being in love, even if it wasn’t love. It had sprung, she supposed, out of the intimacy of the evening and the stress of their endeavor, but maybe there was something more to it. Diego was handsome, smart, kind, and, it turned out, brave. By any measure, he was a catch.

  Bilford was as she had left it—teeming with news vans, crime junkies, and law enforcement, and despite this, or maybe because of it, everything felt depleted and soulless. With luck, the interlopers and investigators would be gone in a matter of weeks, but Bilford would never be the same. Its name would forever be synonymous with an atrocity. Municipal rebranding was hard. She remembered reading that Hamilton, Ohio, had added an exclamation point to its name in the eighties, but the US Board on Geographic Names—an actual federal organization since 1890—declined to acknowledge it, and Rand McNally wouldn’t put it on its maps. Eventually, the city dropped the exclamation point. Hamilton would always be Hamilton, and Bilford would always be the place with the massacre.

  Dagny flashed her creds at the guard station behind the high school and parked. Three days had passed since she’d been there, and she worried about what had transpired while she was gone. It was something like what parents must feel when they go away for the weekend and leave their children with their grandparents.

  Grandpa McDougal was sitting at the desk in the gym teacher’s office, fingering, alternatively, papers from a large stack and Fritos from a large bag. She stood in the doorway a full minute before he looked up at her. “I’m glad to see you’re alive,” he said. “Going after Diablo Rico in Matamoros is serious business.”

  She was shocked that he knew. “Victor told you?”

  The Professor frowned. “No, but now I’m angry that he didn’t.”

  “Then how did you know?”

  “I follow your movements on your phone’s GPS.”

  “You had the NSA watching me?”

  “I don’t need the NSA for that. Exercising my management discretion, I had a patch put on your phone so I can trace you at all times.”

  “Just me?”

  “And Victor and Brent, of course.”

  She was outraged. “That’s an invasion of privacy.”

  “Privacy is something that existed only as an intellectual abstraction between 1965 and 2001. And you’re changing the subject. Tell me about Diablo Rico.”

  There was too much to do to waste time arguing about civil liberties. “Diego posed as a potential migrant.” She reached into her backpack and pulled out her mp3 recorder. “I taped the encounter.”

  “Play it for me.”

  “It’s in Spanish.”

  “Just play it.”

  She hit “Play.” At various points of the recording, the Professor nodded and smiled. When it was done, he said, “Diego did rather well.”

  “You missed the part where they followed him back to me, and we had a shootout in the streets of Matamoros.”

  “Oh, to be young,” he said wistfully. “Well, in light of the shootout, I guess we can’t pay them the fifty thousand and be done with it.”

  “Diablo Rico claims that the unsub used to place its clients in employment. If the NSA has phone numbers used by Diablo Rico, they can search for calls to Ohio. If there are a number of calls to a single number, it’s probably the unsub. I can swear out an affidavit for the warrant.”

  “Section 702 of the FISA Amendments Act permits the NSA to target foreign communications without a warrant. Diablo Rico’s calls are almost certainly contained in NSA records.” He grimaced. “However, I’ve spoken with several people at the NSA, and they have no idea who Diablo Rico is, so they can’t isolate their calls.”

  “I’ve got geographic coordinates for their headquarters. The NSA could simply look for calls originating from that vicinity.”

  The Professor smiled. “So, the trip was worthwhile after all. Finally, something the NSA can use.”

  “I think we should get a warrant from the FISA court, just to be safe.”

  “As a matter of principle, we won’t. There’s enough judicial interference with investigations today.”

  “You’re surprisingly neocon on this surveillance stuff for a guy who was demoted thirty years ago for objecting to illegal searches during the Weathermen investigation.”

  “This isn’t remotely similar. The NSA does not break into people’s homes. It does not trespass property. People do not own the phone lines that transmit their calls. They don’t own the Internet that sends their e-mails. When you put your communications through the property of others, you are surrendering those communications and any privacy associated with them. If you want to talk privately with someone, invite them to your house.”

  “What about when you and I are talking on the phone about a case?”

  “That is completely different,” he said.

  “How so?”

  “I’m not above hypocrisy, Dagny. I’ll call NSA immediately about Diablo Rico.”

  “I missed this Allison Jenkins thing while I was gone.”

  “Attractive girl. Looks like a much-younger version of you.”

  “I’m only thirty-five, you know.”

  He held up his bag of Fritos and pointed the open end toward her. “Help yourself.”

  She reached in and grabbed about two Weight Watchers points. “Doesn’t make up for the age crack.”

  “Jenkins was supposed to meet her news crew at the edge of the Hoover farm early in the morning but never showed up. Smashed cell phone suggests abduction. Brent is heading the search. No physical evidence found yet.”

  “They seem to think it’s the same unsub on the news.”

  “Could be. Or it could be a nut with a crush.”

  “You’re the profiler. What do you think?”

  He leaned back in his chair, as if to announce he was falling into pensive reflection. “I think they are related.”

  “Why take her? It doesn’t fit his MO,” she said. “To go after an American girl. Maybe she was onto him?”

  He shook his head vigorously. “Are you suggesting that a teleprompter reader was on the tail of a guy who has eluded us? Impossible. My guess is infatuation, which is good for us. It means he’s caught up in watching the story unfold on the news. Makes him feel important.”

  “Why is that good for us?”

  “If he’s enjoying the high from the notoriety, then that’s a weakness. Perhaps we can exploit it.”

  She stood and grabbed her backpack.

  “Where are you going?” he asked.

  “To find Allison Jenkins.”

  “Good.”

  She started toward the door, then paused. Something felt wrong. It seemed like she was getting off too easy. “So, you’re not upset that I lied to you about why I was heading to Texas?”

  “Of course not. I was hoping that you were lying and that you intended to venture into Matamoros. Lying gave me plausible deniability in the event that things w
ent wrong. Lying was polite—the most loyal thing you could do. When Victor lied about being in New York while he was helping you find the bodies, I was overjoyed. I lied to the president and told him that I wouldn’t use NSA data to look for the unsub, and that’s exactly what he wanted me to do. Lying is the grease that keeps our engines moving. Lying is one of my favorite things in the world. I lie to you all the time.”

  Dagny wasn’t sure what to make of that confession. “About what?”

  He ignored the question. “Go help Brent find Allison Jenkins. Lie all you want if it helps.”

  “Thanks, Professor. This has been a great chat.”

  She was lying already.

  CHAPTER 58

  The funny thing was that Jake Finney had actually driven a tank for years. Every day, sixty tons of steel and metal had rumbled over Iraqi roads, dirt and paved, controlled by his hands. Now, these hands were folded in his lap, because only Sheriff Don drove the Bilford County tank. Ever the loyal solider, Finney sat quietly next to Sheriff Don, who was a great man doing great things, so of course, he deserved to drive the tank.

  Behind the tank was an armored truck. Like the tank, it was a gift from Homeland Security. Behind that truck was the Channel 6 news van. Channel 6 was the sheriff’s favorite. It provided the most balanced news coverage of Sheriff Don’s accomplishments. Other stations occasionally gave voice to fringe elements critical of the good sheriff’s love for America.

  It took an hour and a half to drive eight miles, partly because the tank was slow and partly because the sheriff had trouble turning corners. When they landed at 1230 Homestead Drive, Finney checked the address on the warrant four times to make sure they had it right. They’d botched their last operation, raiding the wrong house because someone misread the address. The resulting paperwork had been a nightmare.

  Twelve armored officers ensconced in military-style SWAT gear jumped out of the vehicles and onto the front lawn. They huddled around the sheriff, who called the play. Because drugs were involved, it was assumed that the occupants were armed and dangerous, so this would be a no-knock raid. That meant they would bust through the front door with a battering ram and toss flash bangs through the side windows. The thugs inside wouldn’t know what hit them.

  Everyone would lead with guns. In this case, the guns were AK-47s for some, M16s for others. More gifts from Homeland Security, so that neighborhoods would be safe.

  Jake Finney had the honor of battering the ram and commanding the troops once they were inside the house. Sheriff Don, as always, would wait outside, explaining the operation to the press.

  With a clap of hands, the team dispersed from a huddle and set their play into action. Finney ran to the front door carrying the ram, a thick, thirty-inch rod of epoxy and steel, by its two handles. He lifted it back and up and then rammed it forward into the front door, which popped open. “Let’s go!” he shouted.

  As they entered the house, flash bangs exploded in the rooms to the right and left of entry. A dog came around the corner, barking and jumping. Finney lifted his AK-47 and fired a series of shots at the dog until it was dead. It was a kind of terrier, and it lay still, dripping blood on the living-room carpet.

  He pushed through to the kitchen, where an old woman stood at a stove covered in pots. A ladle lay on the floor; she’d dropped it. An officer pulled the woman’s hands behind her back and cuffed them, then pushed her down to the floor. “Where is everyone?” he screamed at her.

  The woman was in her seventies, thin and frail. She didn’t answer. She only cried.

  Feet clattered on the staircase, and Finney led the team to the bottom of the steps. A man stood halfway up the staircase, screaming, “What’s happening?” He wore dress slacks and a button-down shirt. His hair was black and trim.

  Finney grabbed him and threw him to the bottom of the steps, where another officer cuffed his hands and tossed him down next to the dead dog.

  “Why are you doing this?” the man screamed.

  Finney knelt down next to the man and screamed at him, “Is there anyone else here, sir?”

  The man was crying. Finney grabbed his shoulder and shook it. “Answer me! Is there anyone else here?”

  “No!” he yelled. “Why are you doing this?”

  “Where are the drugs, sir?”

  “Why did you kill my dog?” He was sobbing. “There are no drugs. You have the wrong address. Why did you kill my dog?”

  “Where are the drugs, sir?”

  The man collapsed in tears. Two officers pulled him up from the floor and walked him outside. Another two officers escorted the old woman out. Finney motioned for his men to tear apart the house.

  Every drawer was dumped. Every mattress was sliced. Drywall was punctured. Floorboards were torn. Toilets were opened, and tubs were smashed. The team knew how to look for drugs. They had done this many times.

  After fifteen minutes of destruction, an officer handed him an envelope. “It was in the man’s desk.” He smiled. “Cash.”

  Finney opened the envelope and counted its contents. Sixty-three dollars. He flipped the envelope over and saw hand-printed words: Yard Sale Proceeds. “Keep looking.”

  When they were finished, they’d torn apart every room and punctured every wall. There were no drugs. Their target had cleaned it out. Perhaps he knew they were coming for him.

  Finney stepped out to the front porch, where Sheriff Don was speaking to the news camera. The sheriff smiled at him and continued talking: “About two weeks ago, we received a tip that an illegal migrant was selling marijuana to kids at the high school. After investigation, we determined that this dealer was employed by B&R Landscaping. We raided B&R two days ago and obtained their client list. To our surprise, Councilman Kepner was a frequent customer of the illegal landscaping operation. And the drug dealer had worked here, 1230 Homestead Drive, performing landscape work and who knows what else, on at least three different occasions.”

  All of this was a surprise. The good sheriff had never mentioned that Kepner was a councilman, and he had described him as a drug dealer, not a landscaping client.

  “I am astonished by the brazenness of this crime,” Marigold continued. “Mr. Kepner was elected by the good people of the city of Bilford to honor and protect the law, not to break it. There are good Americans who need jobs, and . . .” He shook his head and covered his eyes, shielding his tears from the camera. “I mean, the people here have suffered enough, in this economy, for goodness sake. That’s all I have today.”

  He backed away from the microphone, and the news crew started packing up their equipment. Finney sidled up to the sheriff on the way back to the tank.

  “Sheriff, I thought Mr. Kepner was a drug dealer.”

  “Well, we don’t know exactly what he was up to. But he was putting money into a drug dealer’s hands. Whether this was a laundering situation or not will unfold.”

  “But a councilman?”

  Sheriff Don turned to Finney and put his hands on his shoulders. “In this righteous cause of justice, we are necessarily going to run into folks with power. We can’t let their titles or politics get in the way of doing what’s right. Councilman or not, we’ve got to treat him like any other law-breaking citizen.”

  There was enough sense in that to keep Jake Finney’s faith.

  CHAPTER 59

  “He’s the devil himself.” Officer John Beamer grabbed the remote and turned off the television.

  Dagny and Brent were sitting in the Bilford PD conference room, reviewing files concerning Jenkins’s disappearance. They had taken a break to watch live feed of Sheriff Don’s latest raid.

  “Who is Councilman Kepner?” Dagny asked.

  “He’s a good man who was thinking about running against the sheriff in the next election,” Beamer replied.

  Brent looked up from the files. “Why would Sheriff Don think he could get away with such a crass, political move?”

  Beamer sighed. “Because he always does. People here like when law
enforcement enforces. They’re going to say that Kepner never should have hired illegals and that he’s getting what he deserved.”

  “You really should run against him, John,” Dagny said. “I’m serious about that.”

  He shook his head. “I couldn’t.”

  “Yes, you could.”

  “I wouldn’t stand a chance, Dagny.”

  “You’re a bright, young officer with a strong moral compass. A local boy. Handsome and articulate.”

  “Yeah, well . . .” He paused.

  “What?”

  “I wouldn’t win.”

  “Give me one reason why you couldn’t.”

  “Because . . .”

  “Because why?”

  Beamer threw up his hands, shook his head, and finally closed the door to the conference room. In hushed tones, he whispered, “Because I’m gay, okay?”

  It hadn’t crossed her mind that he might be. “I had no idea.”

  “Well, I don’t advertise it.”

  “I mean, you live like a slob, and all that Star Wars stuff at your house.”

  “We’re not all flamboyant.”

  “Does the rest of your force know?” Brent asked.

  “A few do. I don’t talk about it. It doesn’t go over well in Bilford. Which is why it’s silly to talk about running against Sheriff Don. You’d have to be a war hero or something to overcome being gay in an election in Bilford.”

  “Well, that’s a shame,” Dagny said. “Bilford’s loss.”

  “It’s just the way it is.” He sighed again. “I’ve got to go brief the chief. Track me down if you need anything.”

  After he left, Brent popped a DVD into Dagny’s computer, and they watched video feed from the lobby of the Hampton Inn on the morning of Jenkins’s disappearance. At 5:31, Jenkins appeared on screen, pulling her suitcase through the lobby and out the automatic doors. There was no camera outside the hotel to capture what had happened next.