“And the connection is?” Niki prodded Lewis to be more specific.
“They design and manufacture magnetic impulse guns for the military. Thought you’d know that. His shop is in the Old Mill District—in the old Power House brick building.”
“You seem to know a lot about EJ Enterprises. Why is that?” Ruth Colson asked.
“I’ve known Peter for more than 10 years. Used to be neighbors back when I was just getting my store going. He’s been a good customer. Still see him at the range now and then.”
It only took 15 minutes for Ruth and Niki to cross town. They pulled the white unmarked cruiser into a visitor slot in front of a large, three-story brick building with three enormous chimneys projecting through the roof. An American flag flew from the very top of the center stack. Adjacent to an upscale shopping and dining district, the old Power House building was overlooked by most locals and tourists since it did not house a restaurant, art gallery, or clothing boutique.
The detectives were dressed casually, looking very much like the passersby strolling past the shops, looking in the windows, some darting in to explore further and maybe make a purchase. There was little signage indicating the location of EJ Enterprises, only black block lettering on a glass door. Ruth and Niki entered the lobby where they were greeted by the receptionist.
“I’m Detective Colson and this is Detective Nakano. We’d like to speak with Peter Savage.”
“Just a minute. I’ll see if he’s in.”
A minute later a man approached the lobby from a hallway that connected to other rooms farther back in the business. Ruth’s trained eye sized him up quickly, a habit she had honed over a career working in law enforcement. He stood about six feet tall, medium build—maybe 170 pounds she thought—brown hair in a conservative cut. When he stopped to introduce himself, she noticed the eyes—steel gray, determined.
“Hello. I’m Peter Savage.”
The detectives offered their badges. Peter looked at each carefully, not rushing the inspection. “If you don’t mind, we have a few questions we’d like to ask,” Ruth said.
“Certainly. We can use my office.” It was at the end of the hallway, and Peter showed the detectives in, directing them to two chairs in front of his desk.
“How can I help you?” he asked pleasantly.
Ruth shared the photos of the two magnetic projectiles and the lab analysis proving they were made of metals used in rare earth magnets. She did not mention either homicide. “Tom Lewis suggested you might know something of these projectiles. They are very unusual.”
Peter read the report. “Neodymium magnets. Twenty-five caliber.” He raised his eyes to the detectives. “These would be fired from a Mk-9 magnetic impulse gun.”
“I’ve never heard of a magnetic impulse gun,” Niki said.
Peter smiled. “I’m not surprised. We manufacture the weapon for the military, primarily Special Forces. The technology is classified and sales are restricted—closely regulated by the Department of Defense.”
“Then it’s safe to say you don’t sell these magnetic impulse guns to the public,” Ruth said, angling for a clear yes-or-no answer.
“That’s right. We sell only to the U.S. Department of Defense. As I said, the technology is restricted. I can’t even sell to NATO allies, not even the Brits.”
“Have any of your weapons been stolen?” Ruth asked. She knew that nothing had been reported to the Bend Police Department about a burglary at EJ Enterprises; she’d verified that on the short drive following their conversation with Tom Lewis.
“No,” Peter said. “What is this about?”
“Am I to understand that you manufacture and sell these magnetic impulse guns only to the military, not anyone else? And your shop has not been burglarized?”
Peter nodded. “Yes, that’s right.”
Ruth shared a glance with Niki. “Then, would you mind telling me, Mr. Savage, how two of your weapons were used in crimes committed on the same day, 400 miles apart?”
“That’s impossible. You must be mistaken.”
“You read the forensics report. Those two projectiles—neodymium magnets—were removed from the skulls of a victim in Friday Harbor and a second victim here, in Bend.”
Peter stared back blankly.
“I’m open to suggestions,” Ruth said.
“I don’t know.”
“We’ll need to audit your inventory and sales records. Everything—parts and completed weapons—going back a year. Maybe more. Oh, and the ammunition—do you make that, too?”
“Yes.” Peter was still trying to understand exactly what was happening.
“Then we need to audit that as well. Maybe someone—one of your employees—has been stealing and selling this stuff on the black market.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“We’ll need to check your personnel files, too. I can be back with a warrant if necessary.”
Peter raised his eyebrows and exhaled deeply. “Of course, I have no doubt. When do you want to start?”
“Now is good.”
Chapter 5
Washington, DC
April 16
Cliff Ellison strolled beside the Reflection Pool; his polished black wingtips, pressed gray slacks, light blue oxford shirt, and red tie clearly separated him from the multitude of tourists enjoying this scenic and historic stretch of the Mall in front of the Lincoln Memorial. He snacked on a bag of popcorn while the woman next to him spoke in a low voice. The conversation ceased whenever a stranger passed by.
“Spare me the suspense, Angela. Just get to the point,” Ellison said. He seemed to wear a perpetual frown.
Angela Meyers was widely considered a political genius. Several times a year she was offered jobs by members of the Congressional Black Caucus who chided her for working for a middle-aged, white, male, career politician: Abe Schuman. And her decision had paid off, as Schuman was now Speaker of the House and only a few months away from winning the Republican National Convention. Angela was his principle campaign advisor and chief of staff.
“We ran into a minor issue, but everything is fine now.”
“That’s good news. I knew I could count on you.”
Angela Meyers flashed a brief smile. She was tall, equaling Ellison in height. But her slim figure was in stark contrast to his muscular build. “Naturally, we will continue to monitor the situation. If anything develops, we’ll deal with it.”
“Hmm. Discretion is vital.”
“No worries, Cliff.” This time Angela held the smile as Ellison studied her demeanor. Her face conveyed confidence. And yet the issue was important enough to warrant an in-person, private meeting.
They walked on in silence, save for the crunching of popcorn. When Ellison finished, he crumpled the bag and tossed it in a green trash can.
“You know,” Ellison said, breaking the silence, “I don’t understand why we can’t simply destroy the original records.”
“Cliff, we’ve been over this. The records include physical papers as well as electronic copies and other files. They are scattered in too many places. And if we did delete electronic files, we’d likely be caught since the file size and time of last update is automatically compared to the backup copy every time the computer systems undergo maintenance. Trust me on this: it’s best to leave this secret buried… deep and forgotten.”
“Yes, but things have changed. The files were hacked, and we were forced to take drastic actions. It could happen again.”
“No—” She cut off her reply as a tourist—a young man in plaid Bermuda shorts and a neon T-shirt—walked by at a brisk pace. “No, it won’t happen again. As I told you, that problem has been fixed.”
“What if you’re wrong and some other hacker suddenly has interest in this obscure bit of naval history? Maybe a historian, or a poli sci student working on his master’s thesis. Then what?”
“Cliff, come on. You already know the answer to that question. All of the files are flagged. I’m
notified the instant anyone accesses them. Their email address and their local server address are immediately sent to me. Relax. There’s nothing to worry about. Trust me on this.”
Ellison stopped and faced Meyers. He studied her eyes, searching for a sign of uncertainty, of weakness. “Okay… for now,” he finally said.
She checked her smart phone. She had been away from the Speaker’s Office for almost an hour. Checking the calendar, she said, “I need to get back. Schuman has an important meeting at 2:00.”
“Busy schedule? How’s Abe holding up?”
“He’s been on the road almost constantly for the past six months, coming back to D.C. for key votes, but otherwise he’s been on the campaign trail. I have to say, that man can charm just about anyone. He’s been smashing his closest rivals. Cleaned up in nearly every primary so far, but most importantly Texas and Florida. And he’s projected to win landslide victories in both New York and California.”
“That’s just the first step. The real question is, can he beat Taylor in November?”
With less than seven months until the Presidential election, and with Abe Schuman very close to being the presumed Republican candidate to challenge President Taylor, the talking heads had plenty of material to keep them going 24/7. Television ads were dominated by attacks on the other candidate, paid for by super PACS, of course. President Taylor and Speaker Schuman continued to elevate themselves above the muck, leaving the mudslinging to their supporters.
So far, Schuman was ahead in national polls by seven to 12 percentage points. With a huge war chest and a long list of prominent endorsements, the Speaker was well on his way to the Oval Office. He had managed to sell his agenda—domestic growth, stability in the Middle East, a hard line against terrorism, sensible immigration policies—to a broad range of voters.
“Are you kidding me? He’s going to crush Taylor. Under Schuman’s leadership, the House and Senate overwhelmingly passed a resolution condemning Iran for those bombings in New York two months ago. And with nearly the same margin, he ensured passage of a historic bill affirming our support for Israel in the event she is attacked—by Iran or any other country.”
“So? President Taylor vetoed that bill.”
“Exactly, and look what it cost him—the next day he slid another three percentage points in the polls. Just last week, during a speech at a VFW Convention in Minneapolis, Abe drew a standing ovation when he promised a vote to override Taylor’s veto.”
Ellison gripped her shoulder firmly. “You’d better be right about this. A lot of important people have invested a fortune in your boss. These people only get a return on their investment if Schuman is elected president. You do understand me?”
She pulled his hand away and looked him straight in the eyes. “Are you threatening me?” she asked.
He shook his head. “No, I like you Angela. Consider it a warning. You’re mixing it up with the pros here. And in this league, failure is not acceptable.”
Peter instructed his entire staff to stop what they were doing and assist the police officers. It turned out to be less disruptive than he had initially thought, as his accounting department was able to direct the detectives—Colson, Nakano, and two others—to all the records they requested. They went through manufacturing records, order and sales records, invoices, payments, and ammunition manufacturing and sales documents.
By early evening, the detectives had what they wanted, at least for now. But the tone of Detective Colson’s order was clear. “You are not to destroy any records. No one is to delete emails. This is an active investigation into a homicide. Failure to follow this simple order will likely lead to arrest and criminal charges. Am I clear?”
Peter nodded, as did the accounting staff. “I’ll make sure the rest of my employees understand,” he assured Detective Colson.
After the detectives left, Peter returned to his office and accessed the electronic archives for the Bend Bulletin newspaper. He went to the edition from the day following the murder of Emma Jones. The account was dry and devoid of many facts about the crime. He learned that Emma attended the local community college, as did her roommate, Kate Simpson. The paper reported that the murder had occurred during a burglary in the middle of the day. Although the specific house address was not printed, the story did give the street and block number which, when combined with the published photo of the house, was enough for Peter to nail it down.
He decided a conversation with Kate Simpson was necessary. Based on the limited information shared by Detective Colson, it certainly appeared that a gun made by his company had ended up in the hands of a killer. And Peter needed to know how it happened.
He found the house easily and parked in front. After ringing the doorbell, he stepped back, trying to be as non-threatening as possible.
Kate opened the door, perhaps thinking this stranger was another police officer or detective. She had been allowed back into the house only two days earlier, when the yellow crime-scene tape was removed, and since then a seemingly endless parade of law enforcement officers had come by, always with a new list of questions—most of which she had already answered.
Don’t they share what I’m telling them?
“Yes?” she said, not concealing her irritation.
“I’m sorry to bother you. Are you Kate Simpson?” Peter explained his reasons for being there.
“So, you’re not with the police?” she said.
“No, ma’am.”
With a shrug, Kate let Peter in. He noticed a glass of red wine on the coffee table.
“How are you holding up?” he asked. The dark shadows under her eyes couldn’t be missed. Her face was drawn, but despite this, Peter was captivated, especially by her eyes. They were the same shade of chocolate brown as her shoulder length hair. Understandably, there was no hint of joy or welcome. Her entire demeanor conveyed surrender—a recognition that she must accept the circumstances, even though she hated it. And yet, despite all she had endured—and would endure—the hardship could not suppress her simple beauty.
Kate’s mouth turned up in a mirthless smile. “As well as can be expected, whatever that means. Emma was my friend. She was like a sister. How should I feel?”
“I’m sorry. I know what it’s like to lose a loved one.”
“Yeah, I hear that a lot. Like it’s supposed to help, or something.”
“No. There’s nothing I can say that will help. I’m sorry.” Peter shrugged. “It sounds trite… because it is. I’ve been in your shoes—felt the pain, the loneliness…”
Kate looked into Peter’s eyes. She saw a measure of sadness and sincerity that had been absent in every other face that had expressed condolences.
“So tell me, how long does it take?”
Peter shook his head. “I don’t know. I still feel it.” As the words came out, she saw his eyes glisten. “Eventually, the grief passes, but not the pain of loss. It’s always there.”
“Great.” She sat down and took a gulp of wine. “Have a seat. Want a glass?” She extended the bottle.
“No. Thank you. I won’t be long. I was hoping you could help me.”
“I’ve already told the police everything.”
“I know. Detectives Colson and Nakano interviewed me earlier today. Naturally, they shared only what they believed absolutely necessary,” Peter said. “My company makes advanced weapons for the military. Our sales are tightly controlled, and our manufacturing volume is small. Yet the detectives believe that it was one of my guns that was used…”
“You mean, to kill Emma.”
Peter nodded.
“I don’t know how I can help you.”
“The newspaper said this was a burglary. If I knew what they stole, maybe that would help me find a connection.”
“They only took Emma’s laptop. They killed her for an old, crummy laptop computer.”
Peter cocked his head. “That’s all that was taken?”
“Yeah, that’s all. We don’t have anything worth st
ealing.” Kate motioned, indicating the few pieces of used furniture. The walls were decorated with some cheap prints and photographs. It looked very much like a rental occupied by college students.
“That doesn’t make sense. Why would someone break into your house?”
Kate shrugged. “The police said there wasn’t any evidence that the doors or windows were forced. They think Emma let the killer in.”
“Really? That’s different than the story in the newspaper. They made it sound like Emma surprised whoever had broken in. Would you mind if I look at the door locks?”
“Why not.”
Kate followed Peter as he checked the front and back doors. He didn’t see any scratches that would indicate someone tried to pick the locks. And the doorjambs and hinges were free of unusual marks. “Well, I don’t see anything that looks out of the ordinary.”
Returning to the living room, Kate refilled her glass and pushed the bottle toward Peter. He shook his head. “Can you tell me what happened that day?”
She cupped the glass in both hands, hesitating to speak. “I woke up late and was in a rush. I work part time at the Student Union. Emma was already up. She was sitting there at the table.” She pointed toward the small dining nook adjacent to the kitchen. “She was working on her computer.”
“She did that often?”
“No, that was the odd thing. Emma never got up early unless she had to be at class. I think I startled her.”
“What was she working on?” Peter asked.
“She said it was research for a history paper, but I don’t think so. She closed the file so I couldn’t see whatever it was.”
“And you don’t think it was for a term paper.”
“No. Emma was never a good liar. I could see she wasn’t telling the truth. Anyway, I got ready and left for campus. When I came home at the end of the day…” Kate started to cry.
Hunting Savage Page 4
