Shockwave

by Norm Applegate

  "Name's Dwyer, Jack Dwyer."

  More static and a muffled voice came back. He let go of the microphone and looked at Dwyer.

  "Sit tight."

  It's never a good thing to start asking questions. If the cops want you to know they'd tell you. Best plan is to keep your mouth shut until you have more facts, until you know what's going on. So Dwyer sat there. It was obvious they were waiting for someone. Dwyer knew how it worked. The cops, the first level, secure the area. Neutralize everyone. Dwyer felt neutralized, hands cuffed behind his back. Four cops staring him down. Then the next level, intelligence shows up. Play the game if there are two of them, good cop, bad cop. If there's one, they try and be your friend. Pretend like they're on your side and not their fault the cops cuffed you. It's part of the plan to get you to open up; talk.

  A blue suit came around the corner; he was tall, not alone. The other wasn't as tall, but built, muscular. Same blue suit. Dwyer knew how it would play out. The two men walked passed the cop doing all the yelling and one patted him on the shoulder. The big cop moved back. Made room for intelligence.

  One of the guys, the tall one was on the slender side. Maybe fifty, fifty-five. The suit was store bought, not tailored. Shiny along the pant seam. Dry-cleaned too many times. His hair was turning grey; face was white, kind of red on the cheeks. Didn't get out in the sun much. Hands were soft, not tanned, stayed in the office mostly, Dwyer thought. The wedding band was thin, conservative, white gold. It's more popular than the yellow. Shoes were clean, polished black. He'd just come from the office. Hadn't been to ground zero. He pulled out his gold shield. Flashed it at Dwyer. It was in a leather wallet and he slipped it back into his jacket pocket. Dwyer saw the holster on his left side. He said his name, Special Agent William S. Miller.

  "You all right? Shook up?" he asked.

  Dwyer was right he was going to be his friend. The other FBI agent had a poker face, wasn't smiling.

  "I'm not injured if that's what you're asking," Dwyer said.

  He sat down to Dwyer's left keeping an empty seat between them. Turned his body to the side so he could face Dwyer, study his movements.

  "So tell me what happened?" he said.

  The other agent stood at guard, not relaxed, mean look, hardened eyes.

  Dwyer told both agents what had happened. He was traveling down from Atlanta. Going to Florida on vacation, do some sight-seeing, hit a few beaches. He was getting tired, he'd been driving through the night, most of the day, needed a coffee. He got off I-75, saw the sign, “Starbucks.” Had been sitting for about ten minutes, checking out the pretty women. Then a guy exiting the van caught his attention. Knew it wasn't right, got up. The guy crossed the street, disappeared. Then the explosion.

  Agent Miller was interested in the woman, wanted to talk about her.

  "She came in with you?" he asked.

  "About an hour ago." Dwyer said. "Orderly took her down the hall."

  Dwyer nodded toward the corridor.

  The other agent stepped away from the conversation and was talking into his lapel mic. Then he disappeared down the hallway.

  Dwyer saw that. Knew the agent was going to check out his story.

  "Where did you meet?"

  "In Starbucks," Dwyer said. "Right after the bomb went off."

  "How'd that happen?"

  Dwyer went over the story again. But shortened it this time. He didn't like where this was going.

  "Why were you in Starbucks? Up by the University?"

  "Coffee," Dwyer said, "Was feeling tired."

  "Then after that where were you going?"

  "I was going to get back on the highway; head over to the beach get some sun."

  "Which beach?"

  "Closest."

  "Clearwater, St.Pete?"

  "Either one," Dwyer said.

  "So you're from California, driving across the country going nowhere and just happened to pull off the highway in time to save a woman from a car bomb."

  "Sounds about right."

  The other agent returned. Had a different look on his face. Motioned to the Agent that was sitting. He stood up; Dwyer could tell it was serious. The shorter agent leaned into the tall agent and whispered something in his ear. Took about ten seconds.

  They turned and looked at Dwyer.

  "Stand up, we're going to the office," he said.

  "Why?"

  "The woman's missing."

  Chapter 6

  They walked out of the hospital toward an unmarked car. Dwyer could feel people looking at him. He glanced around. People were whispering, staring, talking about him. The rear door was open. It was meant for him. Three of the cops were standing there. Backup ensuring he wouldn't escape. Dwyer felt a hand on his head pushing him down. He slid along the seat. He could smell the leather, cold; new. The door slammed shut. A loud bang, the kind of sound you don't want to hear.

  The two suits got in the front. Agent Miller, the good guy, the one in charge got behind the wheel. Closed his door. Put his sunglasses on. Dark with black frames. The other agent, with the mean eyes, got in and twisted around. Looked at Dwyer, eyed him pretty good, made sure he wasn't going anywhere. Dwyer eyed him back, made sure he wasn't going to do anything stupid. Nothing was said. The agent started the car up and they pulled away from the hospital. The agent turned around and looked out his side window. Then put his sunglasses on, they were dark.

  Dwyer watched the hospital disappear. He didn't have sunglasses. The Florida sun was bright. Made his eyes hurt. Maybe it was the bomb flash. The sudden intense light fatigues the cones in the retina, shuts them down for a while. They took Fowler Avenue west to I-75. Then south to the city, downtown Tampa. Took about fifteen minutes. Small downtown considering the population and when you factor in tourists, kind of surprising. Not much to do in the city. Clean, quiet, the buildings looked new.

  The ride was quiet. Both agents talked to another, kind of keeping the voices down low so Dwyer couldn't hear them. Every now and then, Agent Miller looked in the rear view mirror at Dwyer. He pretended not to notice. Didn't want to make eye contact, show weakness or defiance. Just play it cool until he figured out what was going on.

  They pulled up to a blue glass building on Franklin Street. There was a sign; it read Tampa Police. Flags out front, more unmarked cars, very official. Upper floors had small windows, bars on them. Turned right into a parking garage, out of the sun. It was cool. Must have been twenty degrees different from outside. Took a few seconds for Dwyer's eyes to adjust to the dark. Thumped over a speed bump and pulled up to an elevator.

  Both agents got out. They walked around to his side. Miller opened the back door. "Let's go," he said. Both agents had taken their sunglasses off. The other agent was looking out to the street, had his left hand on his hip. His jacket was flipped behind his back. Dwyer saw the black holster. He recognized the handle. It was a .40 caliber Glock 23. The official handgun of the FBI.

  “Did they read you Miranda?” One of the agents asked.

  “Am I under arrest?”

  The agents looked at each other.

  Miller turned to Dwyer. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say or do can and will be held against you in a court of law…”

  Dwyer nodded. “I understand my rights.”

  “All right,” Miller said.

  Above the elevator door was a camera. Dwyer glanced left; saw another camera. It covered the entrance. Then another to his right covering the elevator, different angle. No surprise; standard surveillance. Both police cars from the hospital pulled in right behind them. All four cops got out. Smiling, laughing, routine. Miller pressed for the elevator. The door opened and they squeezed in. Somebody pressed the third floor. Nothing was said. No music, nothing to help the arrested relax. Dwyer was in the middle. Surrounded.

  The elevator stopped. The cops’ behavior changed, more alert. The door opened into a hallway. Dwyer saw the metal detector a few feet ahead. Standing on the other side were two po
lice officers. They stopped talking. One of them nodded to the officers with Dwyer. He was a short guy, and overweight. Old, maybe sixty. He had a ruddy complexion with thin hair, almost bald. Not a friendly look. He was dressed in a uniform that fit too tight, snug around his robust torso.

  Ever since Miller had taken over the command of the Tampa office, security had improved. Nobody wanted to be caught goofing off when Miller was around. He’d reprimanded a couple of agents in his first three months, which sent a message to everyone to toe the line and follow procedure.

  Dwyer felt a hand on his back. Someone was pushing him forward. Then told him to stop. He felt the handcuffs come off. He did what everyone does that's been cuffed. Brought his hands around front and rubbed his wrists. Psychologically it feels good, even if it doesn't help the circulation. He stepped forward and passed through the detector. Nothing happened. No noise, no alarms. He passed the short fat guy and could feel the cop staring him down.

  Agent Miller escorted Dwyer down the corridor and into a room for fingerprinting. Dwyer knew the basic principal of an ink fingerprint. His finger was cleaned with alcohol to remove any sweat. He was handed a paper towel to dry himself. Then an officer moved close, kind of in his space and held his hand palm side down. His fingertips were rolled on an inkpad to cover the fingerprint area. Then, each finger was pressed and rolled onto a card, one finger at a time. Then all his fingers were pressed into the bottom area of the card to produce a set of flat impressions.

  He was motioned over to a white wall and someone snapped a photo of him. Told him to turn right and left, more pictures.

  They took him into a room to wait. A small room with a square table and two chairs. Nothing on the walls but in the corner, high up was a camera. Dwyer knew he was being watched.

  Thirty minutes later there was a knock on the door. Miller came in with a police officer. He gazed at Dwyer for a moment.

  "We'll run your prints, see if you check out. Where you're from, where you're going. We'll know everything before we let you out of here. If you're clean, you can go. In the meantime, we're going to hold you for a bit."

  Dwyer didn't say anything, just nodded.

  Miller turned to the police officer and told him to take Dwyer to the cage.

  At the end of another corridor, Dwyer saw a steel door, dark green with a small window, wire mesh. The officer put his key in and opened the door. A buzzer sounded. Dwyer stepped in and was led to cell. The door slammed hard behind them. There were six cells, three on each side of the room. Each cell was separated by a cinder block wall painted white. In the front, floor to ceiling bars, dull green color. In each cage, a metal cot was fastened against the wall with a blue blanket folded on top.

  "How long will I be here?" Dwyer asked.

  "Don't know," the cop replied. "If you're clean, a couple hours, if not we'll move you to county."

  He shut the cage door, it locked and he walked away. Dwyer stood in the center of the room. Did what everyone does that's been in jail. He gripped the bars, pulled at them. They didn't move. He crossed the room and sat on the cot, looked around for a beat then laid back.

  Chapter 7

  Agent Miller sat at a long desk in the media room looking at a flat screen monitor. One of the new thin aluminum computers, twenty-seven inch LED backlit. His right hand was tapping on the mouse. He double clicked it to play the tape again. Beside him the other Federal Agent, David Hammons, the one with the mean eyes, was turned on an angle, one arm resting on the desk. His body facing Miller.

  Hammons had spent the last three years working with Miller in Tampa. He was a lot tougher than most of the other agents, even tougher than most agents on the force. He was bored, wanted to force a confession out of someone.

  The room needed painting; it was some kind of beige color, faded. Institutional furniture, desks, file cabinets, bookcases; all grey metal.

  Agent William Miller, dressed in dark blue pants and a white button down shirt, rolled up his sleeves and adjusted his chair. He moved in closer. He was watching the video for the third time when one of the arresting officers came in carrying two coffees for the agents.

  "You see the driver?" the police officer asked, handing Miller the coffee.

  "Yes, tall, thin, Caucasian, twenty-five or thirty. He got out of the van when the camera picked him up, but no way to tell if the guy we've got is involved," Miller said.

  Miller pointed to the screen. He saw a van pull to a stop, close to the front of Starbucks, close to the sidewalk.

  He replayed the video from the beginning. It was grainy; a little washed out from the brightness of the sun. Miller turned and looked at a whiteboard where they had a diagram of the intersection where the bomb exploded. On the right side was a list titled casualties, eleven dead and thirty-two injured.

  Miller watched it again.

  "The driver is nervous," he said. "He keeps looking around."

  "Waiting for a signal," Hammons fired back.

  The driver got out of the van and moved around the front. It was a Dodge Ram 250. Two-toned, blue and white. He kept looking in Dwyer's direction.

  "Not sure," Miller said. He glanced at the screen, watching the video play out again, looking for something that made sense. Looking for something they missed.

  "Look at this."

  He watched as Dwyer put his coffee down. He did something on the keyboard and zoomed into the picture. He focused on Dwyer and could see he was calm not like the driver. Maybe a lookout; maybe in charge.

  Miller made a note on his legal pad.

  Agent Hammons played the video again from the last few moments. "The driver crosses the street. Keeps looking back over his shoulder. See right there, they were signaling to one another. Dwyer is part of this."

  "I'm not so sure," Miller said.

  Miller studied the video and leaned back in his chair as he watched.

  The driver looked back over his shoulder. Crossed the street. Didn't walk, he jogged. No traffic. Kept looking back to his van, toward Starbucks.

  "There again, see that?" Hammons said. "Dwyer puts his coffee down. Must be a signal."

  The nervous guy, the driver disappears from the video. "We lost him." Miller said.Agent Hammons clicked to rewind the video, three seconds before the driver disappeared and stopped it. "See in the background?"

  Dwyer got up. Pushed a table over knocking the woman down. He kept walking. He was looking at the guy.

  Dwyer got to the sidewalk. Then the curb. Then he disappeared from the video.

  They watched the tape again from the beginning. "Why does he knock the woman over?" Miller mumbled to himself.

  It seemed like an overly clumsy exit from the coffee shop. It was not the way Miller would have left if he were trying to get out of there quickly. He would have been less obvious and not waited to the last moment.

  On his legal pad he wrote down his question about knocking the woman over. He was writing down his thoughts for later use when he interviewed Dwyer again.

  Hammons pointed to the screen. "He wants out of there. You can see how fast he moves, he knows it's about to go off. Must have planned this just right. Their timing was good."

  Miller stopped the video and turned to face Hammons. "Run the recognition software on the woman. I want to know who she is."

  Hammons moved to another computer and pulled up the video. He fast-forwarded until he saw the woman. Then paused the computer and zoomed in on her face. He clicked a program and another smaller window opened up on the computer desktop. Photos of women's faces were layering on top of one another. Then it stopped and there was chirping sound.

  Hammons spun around in his chair.

  "Got her. Kelly Paul. Jesus, who do you suppose she's related to?" Hammons said.

  "Speak to me."

  "That minister, the one on TV, Benjamin Paul. That's his daughter."

  "The Minister!"

  Miller went pale and pushed his chair to the other computer. "Knew I'd seen her before."


  "Stunning woman," Hammons said. "You ever see her father? He's a certifiable nut case. He's against everything, alcohol, gambling, stem cell research, abortion; you name it."

  "What's she into? Find out why she was there? Who was she waiting for?" Agent Miller said. "We need answers. Her old man's going to go public big time with this."

  Miller reached across the desk to use the phone. He was going to call his EAD, Executive Assistant Director for the National Security Branch, Robert B. Scully, and give him an update on the bombing and the connection to the missing woman from the hospital. Miller knew this was important. He knew the bombing was related to her, maybe her father. He didn't know how, but he knew they were connected. He typed his notes into the FBI's computer system along with Kelly Paul's picture. In a few seconds, all the FBI satellite offices would be notified of the missing woman, Kelly Paul, and the bombing.

  Agents Miller and Hammons watched the video again. They were looking for anything off camera, maybe in the background, anything that could be clue.

  On the bottom right corner of his computer screen a message flashed. Miller clicked the icon and a report opened up. He read it. Then read it again.

  "Holy shit," he said.

  The report was from the West coast office. Not something he was expecting to see. He pointed to the screen and Hammons leaned forward. His eyes darted from the note to Miller's face.

  Miller hit the polycom on his desk, dialed a direct line and EAD Scully's secretary answered.

  "Hate to be this rude Patricia, but let me speak to the chief," he said.

  "Having a day are you?" she said. "I'll put you right through."

  Miller sat in his chair waiting for the chief to answer and considered the angles on this case. At the moment, things didn't make sense. At the heart of his questions was why a car bomb exploded by a coffee shop? Then one of the victims goes missing from the hospital. The daughter of a prominent minister no less. One that had a huge following. One that is radical. One that would draw media attention. Then there was his suspect; his actions were questionable.