Shales’s thoughts were in turmoil. Like an aircraft in a spin: The horror of learning that he’d killed three innocent men, then being arrested for the murder of one. And then finding that Shreve Metzger had brought in a specialist to clean up after the operation, killing witnesses, setting that bomb.
Which all brought home to him that fundamentally what he was doing for NIOS was wrong.
Barry Shales had flown combat missions in Iraq. He’d dropped bombs and launched missiles and had some confirmed kills, supporting ground operations. When you were in live combat, even if the odds were in your favor, as with most U.S. military ops, there was still the chance that somebody could bring you down—Stingers, AK-47 fire. Even a single bullet from a Kurdish muzzle loader could do it.
This was combat. That was how war worked.
And it was fair. Because you knew the enemy. They were easy to identify: They were the ones who wanted to fucking kill you right back.
But sitting in a Kill Room, thousands of miles away, padded by layers of intel that might or might not be accurate (or manipulated), it was different. How did you know the supposed enemy really was just that? How could you ever know?
And then you’d go back home, forty minutes away, surrounding yourself with people who might be just as innocent as the ones you’d just killed in a tenth of a second.
Oh, and, honey, get some kids’ Nyquil. Sammy’s got the sniffles. I forgot to pick some up.
Shales closed his eyes, rocked on the bench.
He knew that there was something off about Shreve Metzger—the temper, those moments when control left him, the intel reports that just didn’t seem right, the lectures about the sanctity of America. Hell, when he started a pro-U.S. tirade he sounded an awful lot like the flip side of Robert Moreno.
Only nobody pumped a .420 boattail into the NIOS director.
And to order in a specialist for clean-up, to set IEDs and kill witnesses.
Torture …
Suddenly, sitting in this grim place, wafting of urine and disinfectant, Barry Shales realized he was overwhelmed. Years of hidden guilt were flooding in to drown him, the ghosts of the men and women in the infamous queue, people he’d killed, were swimming toward him now, to drag him under the surface of the inky blood tide. Years of being someone else—Don Bruns, Samuel McCoy, Billy Dodd…Occasionally, at the store or in a movie theater lobby, when Marg called his real name, he hesitated, not sure who she was talking to.
Just give up Metzger, he told himself. There was plenty of information on his Don Bruns phone to put the NIOS head away for a long time—if it turned out he’d played with the evidence and hired a specialist to eliminate witnesses here. He could give Laurel the encryption code and the backup keyfile and the other phones and documents he’d kept.
A memory of the lawyer came back. He didn’t like the man one bit. Rothstein had been retained by a firm in Washington, it seemed. But he wouldn’t say which one. When they’d met after Laurel had left, the attorney had suddenly grown distracted, taking and sending several text messages as he explained to Shales how the case was going to proceed. It seemed that his attitude had changed: as if whatever he said or did, Shales was fucked.
It was odd that the man hadn’t known much about Shreve Metzger, though he was very familiar with NIOS. Rothstein seemed to spend more time in Washington than here. His advice at this point had been simple: Don’t say a word to anybody about anything. They would try to make him cave, Nance Laurel was a duplicitous bitch, you know duplicitous, you know what I mean, Barry. Oh, don’t trust a thing she says.
Shales had explained that Metzger may have done some pretty bad things in trying to cover up the case. “Like, I think he might have killed somebody.”
“That’s not our issue.”
“Well, it is,” Shales said. “It’s exactly our issue.”
The lawyer had received another text. He regarded the screen for a long moment. He said he had to go. He’d be in touch soon.
Rothstein had left.
And Barry Shales was brought down here and deposited, alone in the silent, pungent room.
Moments passed, a thousand heartbeats, an eternity, when he heard the door at the far end of the corridor buzz open. Footsteps approached.
Maybe it was a guard to summon him to another meeting. With whom? Rothstein? Or Nance Laurel, who would offer him a solid plea bargain.
In exchange for giving up Shreve Metzger.
Everything told him he should do it. His brain, his heart, his conscience. And think of the torture of living this way: seeing Marg and the boys through a greasy glass window. He’d never see the kids learn sports, never see them on holiday mornings. And they’d grow up enduring the torment and taunting of having a father in prison.
The hopelessness of the situation bore down on him, surrounded him and strangled. He wanted to scream. But the consequences were his own fault. He’d made the decision to join NIOS, to kill people by pushbutton from half a world away.
But ultimately it came down to this: You didn’t give up your fellow soldiers. Right or wrong. Barry Shales sighed. Metzger was safe, at least from him. Cells like this one would be his home for the next twenty or thirty years.
He was preparing to give Nance Laurel the news she didn’t want to hear when the footsteps outside stopped and the door clanked open.
He gave a brief humorless laugh. The visit was not, it seemed, about him at all. A solid African American guard was delivering another prisoner, who was even larger than the turnkey, a huge man, unclean, hair slicked back. Even from across the room the man’s body odor spread out like ripples on a calm pond.
The man looked Shales over with a narrow gaze and then turned to watch the guard glance at them both, close the cell door and walk off down the hall. The new prisoner hawked and spit on the floor.
The drone pilot rose and moved to the far corner of the cell.
The other prisoner remained where he was, head turned away. Yet the airman had the sense that he was aware of every move of Shales’s hands or feet, every shift on the bench, every breath that he took.
My new home…
CHAPTER 81
YOU’RE SURE?” LAUREL ASKED.
“Yes,” Rhyme said, “Barry Shales is innocent. He and Metzger weren’t responsible for de la Rua’s death.”
Laurel was frowning.
The criminalist said, “I…there was something I didn’t see.”
“Rhyme, what?” Sachs asked.
He was watching Nance Laurel’s face grow still once more; this was how she responded to pain. Her prized case was again dissolving before her eyes.
Nothing’s going to stop me now…
Sellitto said, “Talk to me, Linc. The fuck’s going on?”
Mel Cooper remained silent and curious.
Rhyme explained, “Look at the wounds.” He expanded the autopsy picture, focusing in on the lacerations on the journalist’s face and neck.
He then moved another photo next to it: the crime scene itself. De la Rua lay on his back, blood streaming from the same cuts. He was covered with shards of glass. But none of them was actually sticking into a wound.
“Why wasn’t I thinking?” Rhyme muttered. “Look at the measurements of the lacerations on the autopsy report. Look at them! The wounds’re just a few millimeters wide. A glass shard would be much thicker than that. And how could they all be so uniform? I saw them but I didn’t see them.”
“He was stabbed to death,” Sellitto said, nodding.
“Has to be,” Rhyme said. “A knife blade is one to three millimeters in width, two to three centimeters in depth.”
Sachs: “And the killer tossed some glass onto de la Rua’s body to make it look like he was killed accidentally as collateral damage.”
Sipping his sweet coffee, Sellitto muttered, “Pretty fucking smart. And he killed the guard too, the same way. Because he’d be a witness. But who did it?”
Rhyme said, “Obviously. Five Sixteen. We know he was nea
r suite twelve hundred around the time of the drone strike. And remember that a knife’s his weapon of choice.”
Sachs said, “Well, we also know something else: Five Sixteen’s a specialist. He wasn’t doing this for the fun of it. He’s working for somebody—somebody who wanted the reporter dead.”
Rhyme said, “Right, his boss is the one we want.” His eyes were on the chart once more. “But who the hell is he?”
“Metzger,” Pulaski said.
“Maybe,” Rhyme said slowly.
Laurel said, “Whoever it was knew Moreno was going to be in the Bahamas and that an STO was going to be executed. And when.”
“Rookie, you get on the motive issue. You’re our Argentinian reporter maven. Who wanted him dead?”
Pulaski asked, “Find out what stories he was working on, controversial ones?”
“Well, yes, of course. And feathers he’d ruffled. But I also want to know his personal life—people he knew, investments he’d made, family, vacation places he went to, real estate he owned.”
“You mean everything? Like who he was sleeping with?”
Rhyme muttered, “I’ll let you get away with a preposition at the end of that sentence but I won’t allow the improper pronoun.”
“Sorry. I should’ve said, ‘with who him was sleeping,’” the young officer fired back.
Laughter all around.
“Okay, Ron, I probably deserved that. Yes, everything you can find.”
For an hour, then two, Pulaski, with Sachs helping, dug into the journalist’s personal life and career and downloaded what articles and blog posts of his they could find.
They printed out everything and brought it to the table in front of Rhyme.
The young officer spread the material out and the criminalist began reading through those that were in English. Then he summoned Pulaski. “Ron, I need you to be Berlitz.”
“Who?”
“Translate these headlines.” Gesturing to the Spanish-language articles de la Rua had written.
For another hour they went through the stories, Rhyme asking questions, which Pulaski translated quickly and with precision.
Finally, Rhyme gazed up at the whiteboards.
Robert Moreno Homicide
Boldface indicates updated information
Crime Scene 1. Suite 1200, South Cove Inn, New Providence Island, Bahamas.
May 9.
Victim 1: Robert Moreno. COD: Single gunshot wound to chest.
Supplemental information: Moreno, 38, U.S. citizen, expatriate, living in Venezuela. Vehemently anti-American. Nickname: “the Messenger of Truth.” Determined that “disappear into thin air” and “blowing them up” NOT terrorism references.
Shoes contained fibers associated with carpet in hotel corridor, dirt from hotel entryway, also crude oil.
Clothing contained traces of breakfast: pastry flakes, jam and bacon, also crude oil.
Spent three days in NYC, April 30–May 2. May 1, used Elite Limousine.
Driver Tash Farada. (Regular driver Vlad Nikolov was sick. Trying to locate. Prob. homicide.)
Closed accounts at American Independent Bank and Trust, prob. other banks too.
Drove around city with interpreter Lydia Foster (killed by Unsub 516).
Reason for anti-U.S. feelings: best friend killed by U.S. troops in Panama invasion, 1989.
Moreno’s last trip to U.S. Never would return.
Meeting in Wall Street. No record of terrorist investigations in area.
Met with unknown individuals at Russian, UAE (Dubai) charities and Brazilian consulate.
Met with Henry Cross, head of Classrooms for the Americas. Reported that Moreno met with other charities, but doesn’t know which. Man following Moreno, white and “tough looking.” Private jet tailing Moreno? Blue color. Checking for identification. No leads.
Victim 2: Eduardo de la Rua. COD: Loss of blood. Lacerations from knife wounds.
Supplemental information: Journalist, interviewing Moreno. Born Puerto Rico, living in Argentina.
Camera, tape recorder, gold pen, notebooks missing.
Shoes contained fibers associated with carpet in hotel corridor, dirt from hotel entryway.
Clothing contained traces of breakfast: allspice and pepper sauce.
Victim 3: Simon Flores. COD: Loss of blood. Lacerations from knife wounds.
Supplemental information: Moreno’s bodyguard. Brazilian national, living in Venezuela.
Rolex watch, Oakley sunglasses missing.
Shoes contained fibers associated with carpet in hotel corridor, dirt from hotel entryway, also crude oil.
Clothing contained traces of breakfast: pastry flakes, jam and bacon, also crude oil and cigarette ash.
Chronology of Moreno in Bahamas. May 7. Arrived Nassau with Flores (guard).
May 8. Meeting out of hotel all day.
May 9. 9 a.m. Meeting two men about forming Local Empowerment Movement in Bahamas. 10:30 a.m. de la Rua arrives. At 11:15 a.m. Moreno shot.
Suspect 1: Shreve Metzger. Director, National Intelligence and Operations Service.
Mentally unstable? Anger issues.
Manipulated evidence to illegally authorize Special Task Order?
Divorced. Law degree, Yale.
Suspect 2: Unsub 516. Determined not to be sniper.
Possibly individual at South Cove Inn, May 8. Caucasian, male, mid 30s, short cut light brown hair, American accent, thin but athletic. Appears “military.”
Could be sniper’s partner or hired by Metzger independently for clean-up and to stop investigation, or working for cartels.
Determined to be perpetrator of Lydia Foster and Annette Bodel homicides, and IED attack at Java Hut.
Amateur or professional chef or cook of some skill.
Suspect 3: Barry Shales.
Confirmed to be sniper, code name Don Bruns.
39, former Air Force, decorated.
Intelligence specialist at NIOS. Wife is teacher. Have two sons.
Individual who placed a call to the South Cove Inn on May 7 to confirm arrival of Moreno. Call was from phone registered to Don Bruns, through NIOS cover company.
Information Services datamining Shales.
Voiceprint obtained.
Drone pilot, who fired shot that killed Moreno.
FAA and Bahamas air traffic control—evidence of drone’s flight path and presence in Bahamas.
Crime scene report, autopsy report, other details. Crime scene cleaned and contaminated by Unsub 516 and largely useless.
General details: Bullet fired through and shattered floor-to-ceiling window, garden outside, poisonwood tree leaves cut back to 25 feet height. View to sniper’s nest obscured by haze and pollution.
47 fingerprints found; half analyzed, negative results. Others missing.
Candy wrappers recovered.
Cigarette ash recovered.
Bullet lodged behind couch where Moreno’s body was found, fired from drone. Fatal round.
.420 caliber, made by Walker Defense Systems, NJ.
Spitzer boattail round.
Extremely high quality.
Extremely high velocity and high power.
Rare.
Weapon: custom made.
Trace on bullet: glass dust, fiber from Moreno’s shirt and poisonwood tree leaf.
Crime Scene 2. No sniper’s nest involved; bullets fired from drone. “Kill Room” is drone command center.
Crime Scene 2A. Apartment 3C, 182 Augusta Street, Nassau, Bahamas.
May 15.
Victim: Annette Bodel.
COD: TBD, probably strangulation, asphyxiation.
Suspect: Determined to be Unsub 516.
Victim was probably tortured.
Trace: Sand associated with sand found at Java Hut.
Docosahexaenoic acid—fish oil. Likely caviar or roe. Ingredient in dish from NY restaurant.
Two-stroke engine fuel.
C8H8O3, vanillin. Ingredient in dish from NY restaurant.
Crime Scene 3. Java Hut, Mott and Hester Streets.
May 16.
IED explosion, to destroy evidence of whistleblower.
Victims: No fatalities, minor injuries.
Suspect: Determined to be Unsub 516.
Military-style device, anti-personnel, shrapnel. Semtex explosive. Available on arms market.
Located customers in shop when whistleblower was present, canvassing for info, pictures.
Trace: Sand from tropical region.
Crime Scene 4. Apartment 230, 1187 Third Avenue.
May 16.
Victim: Lydia Foster.
COD: Blood loss, shock from knife wounds.
Suspect: Determined to be Unsub 516.
Hair, brown and short (from Unsub 516), sent to CODIS for analysis.
Trace: Glycyrrhiza glabra—licorice. Ingredient in dish from NY restaurant.
Cynarine, chemical component of artichokes. Ingredient in dish from NY restaurant.
Evidence of torture.
All records of interpreting assignment for Robert Moreno on May 1 stolen.
No cell phone or computer.
Receipt for Starbucks where Lydia waited during Moreno’s private meeting on May 1.
Rumors of drug cartels behind the killings. Considered unlikely.
Supplemental Investigation. Determine identity of Whistleblower. Unknown subject who leaked the Special Task Order.
Sent via anonymous email.
Traced through Taiwan to Romania to Sweden. Sent from New York area on public Wi-Fi, no government servers used.
Used an old computer, probably from ten years ago, iBook, either clamshell model, two tone with other bright colors (like green or tangerine). Or could be traditional model, graphite color, but much thicker than today’s laptops.
Profile: Likely middle-aged male.
Uses Splenda sweetener.
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