by Joe Nobody
Relieved, Griffin confessed to his plan. “Darn it, that woman has outmaneuvered me again. She owes me a lunch and has somehow managed, yet again, to dodge her obligations.”
“I just got off the phone with her a minute ago, and she sounded bored to me,” the greeter responded, offering a thinly veiled suggestion that lunch might still be salvageable. “By the way, do you know what happened to her cell phone? She was at her neighbor’s apartment using a landline. Said her mobile wasn’t working.”
“No idea,” Griffin lied, barely managing to suppress a guilty smile.
After a few more exchanges of small talk, Griffin took his leave. Once in his car, he decided to drop by Kit’s place, just to be sure she was okay. Yesterday’s events were troubling in so many ways, especially since his friend had insinuated herself in the Diablo arrest. He didn’t think his actions were being paranoid; the DOJ attorney could end up on somebody’s target list.
She answered while he was still knocking, the smile on her face enough to brighten an already sunny morning. “Griffin! Damn, I’m glad you came by. I was just thinking about driving over to check on you. Come on in.”
He entered her apartment, his first impression summed up by the word, “cluttered.” Dirty dishes accumulated in the sink, a stack of unopened mail covered her desk, and the day’s discarded shoes collected in a pile until she found time to put them away.
“Sorry,” she said, as though suddenly aware of the mess. “I’m not nearly as neat as you are.”
“No problem,” he shrugged. “You’ve been working some outrageous hours lately.”
Blinking a few times in rapid succession, she looked down at the carpet, “To be honest, it doesn’t matter how many hours I’m at the office. I’m just a slob… always have been, probably always will be. Do you hate me now?”
Shaking his head and laughing, he responded, “No, of course not. What I am upset about is the fact that you owe me a meal and have been doing your best to avoid paying up.”
The suggestion seemed to cheer her up. Flashing a genuine smile, she conceded, “Lunch, Marshal Storm, is on me. Just give me a minute to put on something more presentable.”
Twenty minutes later, they arrived at Griffin’s restaurant of choice, which happened to be just down the road from the FBI’s offices. After a meal of sizzling fajitas and decadent queso, the duo pushed back and headed for the exit.
“Hey, since we’re without cell phones and thus living the life of hermits, why don’t we stop by and see if my pal at the FBI has identified Royce’s mystery man while we’re in the neighborhood,” Griffin suggested, nodding toward the distant building.
“I thought you’d never ask,” she replied with a flirtatious tone.
They entered the federal offices of the local branch, both of their faces well known to the security guard manning the front desk. After signing in, the watchman reached under the counter and pressed a special button that opened one of the four elevators programmed to stop at the FBI’s floors.
They found Sal exactly where both would have predicted, sitting at his desk and staring at one of the three computer monitors residing on its surface.
“Hey,” the local cybercrime fighter greeted. “I just sent you a message, Griffin. I don’t have a name… or at least not a real name for your suspect, but we did find a match via the facial recognition algorithms.”
“You sent a message?” Griffin asked, realizing he’d messed up. “Via email?”
Sal was puzzled by the response, “How else would I send a message, wise guy? I was going to use smoke signals, but I figured you had enough of that yesterday. What in the hell is going on?”
Knowing that any explanation would take hours, Griffin sidestepped the question. “Sorry, I’m a bit off my game. Playing dodgeball with a pipe bomb tends to shake me up a bit. What did you find?”
“Yeah, I heard about your little mishap. Are you messing around with a married woman?” the computer whiz teased. Then, without waiting for a response, he continued, “Your perp is Neven Sagas Terret, or at least that’s what he told the Indianapolis Police two days ago. Obviously, that is a fake name.”
Kit frowned, “How do you know it’s fake?”
“Because all three of his givens are palindromes, and there is no such person on record anywhere in the United States,” Sal replied with a grin.
“So, he was arrested in Indiana?”
“Yes. From what I’ve been able to ascertain, he assaulted a police horse. Not a very smart guy, that’s for sure.”
The curiosity of the visitors piqued, Griffin inquired, “So, he was there when the car rammed into all those people? Do the Indy cops still have him in custody?”
Sal shrugged and then pivoted in his chair and reached for the keyboard. After a flash of keystrokes, he studied the monitor and stated, “No, Mr. Terret was released OR six hours after he was booked.”
“Shit,” Griffin hissed, showing his disappointment. “Is there an address?”
“Nope. He is listed as transient. No identification was provided to the Indy authorities.”
It was Kit’s turn to curse. “How in the hell does a transient without identification get released without bail or a bond? I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
Griffin was already beyond Sal’s mysterious report. “Okay, Sal. Thanks a ton, buddy. I owe you one.”
“No problem, Griff, and hey, take it easy for a few days, man. From what I heard, that was a close one yesterday.”
They returned to Kit’s car in silence, each using the short walk to process the bizarre situation Sal had just described.
“What do we do now?” Kit finally asked before pulling away.
“I don’t know, but I’m very concerned. Sal used email, and I’m beginning to think someone has access to all of our communications. That could mean that our bad guys know that we are on to them. Either that, or Royce’s paranoia is contagious.”
“How would anyone convince a judge to release a suspect like that?” Kit asked rhetorically.
“How did they know who I was… or where to find me? How did they hack the traffic lights?” he continued.
“So, what do we do? Contact the feds? Reach out to Washington? Call in the Marines?”
“And say what?” Griffin countered. “That we think there is an organized criminal entity that is hacking El Paso’s emails and traffic lights? That some criminal mastermind is protecting extremist protestors? What exactly would you like to report?”
“That was attempted capital murder yesterday, Griff. Royce thinks our Mr. Terret might be good for two more counts given the circumstances surrounding the El Paso protest. That’s a pretty serious crime spree. And consider… there is no way this guy is working alone.”
“But why?” Griffin asked. “What is the motive? What are these people trying to accomplish?”
She had to ponder his question for a bit, finally offering, “I don’t think we know just yet. But that doesn’t mean we don’t bring in some help. The crooks we’re up against are ruthless and extremely skilled.”
The marshal wasn’t buying it. “Look, I know you’re the Justice Department’s golden girl, but think about this for a minute. Do you really want to go charging into your boss’ office and lay this out with what we know? It’s thin… real thin. From where I’m sitting, I would say the odds were 50-50 that you would get laughed out the door.”
“Given these people seem more than willing to commit murder, I’m not sure those odds bother me,” she replied with a defiant tone.
“Up to you,” he smiled. “I got your back one way or the other.”
“I appreciate that,” she nodded. “But I’m not letting you off the hook that easily. What would you suggest we do?”
Now it was Griffin’s turn for reflection. After a bit, “My gut tells me that our Mr. Terret, a.k.a. the Trash Can Bomber, is the key. He has to be taking orders from somebody… could be an organized conspiracy.
If I were calling the shots, I would go to Indianapolis and try to pick up his trail. If I can cuff him, the entire ball of yarn might unwind.”
“It’s not like we’re welcome at our offices right now,” she shrugged. “But… how would we travel? If we use our credit cards or cell phones, these criminals are going to know.”
Griffin chewed on a knuckle for a moment, “Let me take care of that. In the meantime, we need communications. Let’s go shopping.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“We arrest people all the time with throw-down phones. Sounds like they might work for us in this case,” he suggested, then held up his burned arm. “Fight fire with fire, I always say.”
One of the main responsibilities of the US Marshals Service was to transport federal prisoners to and from various facilities and jurisdictions. Occasionally, that task was accomplished via aircraft.
In fact, the service operated what might be described as its own airline, including a small fleet of modified airliners that were equipped with cages, shackle posts, and specially trained security personnel.
“We don’t have anything scheduled for Indianapolis, Griffin,” stated the logistics officer of the day. “I do have a flight leaving from Albuquerque to Terre Haute tomorrow morning.”
Griffin knew there was a large federal prison outside the western Indiana town. “How far away is Terre Haute from Indianapolis?”
“Oh, ‘bout an hour’s drive… give or take.”
“Is there room for me and a guest?” Griffin asked.
The man behind the computer monitor smiled knowingly, “Got a date, Griffin?”
“Yeah, a cute, little blonde I’ve known for a while,” the marshal fibbed. “But keep that under your hat, okay? I don’t like mixing my business with pleasure, unless it’s to get a cheap flight back east.”
“Actually, I’m glad to hear it, Marshal Storm. Given no one has seen you with a woman since you transferred into this district, I was beginning to wonder about your sexual preferences.”
“Just don’t tell Agent Sands over at the FBI. I think he’s been eyeing my ass as of late, and I still need him to think I’m available, so he’ll hunt down the guys who tried to snuff me out the other day,” Griffin countered.
Peering back at the marshal with a “You’re kidding, right?” expression, the scheduler decided not to ask. If Griffin really thought Sands was gay, well, there were some questions best left unasked. Instead, he merely mumbled, “What happens in logistics, stays in logistics. Yes, there’s room for you and one other on the plane. It’s a light load tomorrow.”
“Thanks,” Griffin brightened, accepting a printout that included his authorization and directions to the regional airport where the flight would originate.
The next morning, well before sunrise, Kit and Griffin rode in her Jeep toward the New Mexico city. They arrived at the airport, Griffin’s requisition and ID all that was required to gain entry onto the tarmac.
With a few winks and nods from the assigned marshals, the couple was allowed to wait, boarding the repurposed 737 airlines last.
Kit had never experienced a “jailbird” before, and her apprehension surfaced when Griffin nodded toward one of the folding jump seats typically occupied by a stewardess during the takeoffs and landings of civilian flights.
“They’re not all that comfortable, but they are safe,” Griffin reassured.
The three-hour flight passed without incident, both the pilot and co-pilot taking turns to venture back and exchange friendly remarks. Kit, flashing her best smile at the men who controlled her destiny while at 36,000 feet, was even given a tour of the cockpit.
As the plane began its descent, she frowned, “I just realized, we can’t rent a car without ID or using a credit card. How are we going to make it to Indianapolis?”
“Leave that to me,” he grinned.
“I have to warn you, if this scheme of yours involves hotwiring a convertible for a joy ride, I’m going to have to take you in,” she declared, only half in jest.
They landed just east of Terre Haute, rolling to a stop at Hulman Field.
After a questioning look from his traveling partner, Griffin explained, “Tony Hulman was a local businessman who also owned the Indianapolis 500 racetrack. Just about everything around here is named after his family.”
They disembarked, finding a grey panel van and a single sheriff’s patrol car waiting. Griffin immediately headed for the bored, idling cop.
Her name was Deputy Hood, and after showing the female officer his shield, Griffin asked if he and Kit could hitch a ride to the Circle City.
“Sure,” she replied, “help pass the time.”
The drive through the Hoosier state was picturesque, especially for the visitors from arid West Texas. More than a few times, Kit pointed and smiled as the police cruiser rolled through gentle, green hills and fields full of waist-high corn. “This reminds me of my years at Yale,” she remarked at one point. “Everything is so lush, teeming with life.”
They arrived at the Marion County jail, which the deputy explained served greater Indianapolis. “The county and city government are all one organization. They call it, ‘Unigov.’”
Griffin’s badge was again required at the jail. After being shown to the records department, they asked to see any and all information available on one Mr. Terret.
“We don’t have any such arrest on record,” the clerk responded with a frown. “Are you sure you have the right name?”
Kit was positive, spelling each of the suspect’s three given names from memory. “We flew up from El Paso because of his arrest,” the federal prosecutor continued. “I’m positive I saw this man’s file on a computer screen.”
Shaking her head after trying several different spellings, the clerk raised her hands in frustration. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but it looks like you flew all the way from Texas for nothing. No one by that name has been arrested in Indianapolis for the last 30 years.”
Tired from the cramped flight, Kit’s temper started to flare. Griffin, sensing her boiling frustration, rested a calming hand on the attorney’s shoulder. “Stay cool,” was his unspoken message. Then turning back to the record’s clerk, he cooed, “Thank you for double-checking. I’m sure there’s been some sort of mistake on our part. Could you provide us with a list of the public defenders who were being assigned cases that night?”
“Yes, sir, I can positively do that.”
Trudging out of the jail, Kit was in a tizzy. “I studied the display over Sal’s shoulder. He was in a federal database, a system that practically every law enforcement agency in the United States depends upon. And then, all of a sudden, poof, an arrest record is deleted. Who has the power to do that? How can that happen?”
Nodding, Griffin agreed. “We’re dealing with some very capable people, and it seems to me that they are growing bolder. We have to get to the bottom of this.”
His support seemed to cool her jets, at least for the moment. “So, you asked for the list of public defenders thinking that our phantom would have been assigned a lawyer by the court. Nice. Where do we start? A cab? Uber driver?”
“How about the phone book?” he asked, producing his throw-down cell phone.
They found a small diner not far away from the lockup, both travelers realizing they were famished when a sniff of the meatloaf special hit them at the front door.
After ordering coffee for Griffin and hot tea for the lady, the marshal asked the waitress for a phone book.
While waiting for their meal, Griffin began flipping pages, browsing through the L’s to find phone numbers for the seven lawyers given to them at the jail.
The marshal consumed his bacon cheeseburger and fries in record time, Kit far daintier as she nibbled at a tasty chicken salad. Twice she distracted him, then reached across the booth to snatch a sinful french-fry while he was looking away.
On her third attempt, she baited him, pointing ove
r the marshal’s shoulder, “Does that man have a gun?”
When Griffin craned his neck for a better vantage, she darted for a fry. His hand shot out, catching her wrist as it hovered over the ketchup. “Hey, lady, that’s a felony!” he grinned. “You’re busted.”
“Oh, officer,” she blinked rapidly in flirtation. “You’ve caught me red-handed, but I don’t want to go to jail. Please, is there anything I can do… anything at all?”
The marshal’s face went blank, stunned by her response. Kit had never even hinted at anything like that before. This was new, and while it was clear she was only joking, his heart was pounding hard in his chest. Don’t read too much into it, he thought.
After a pause that was a beat too long, he tried to recover. Smiling, he said, “Well, if you could prove to me that really are serious about supporting law enforcement, I might be inclined to let you off with a warning.”
She chuckled as he released her hand but didn’t pursue the exchange further. Griffin was disappointed on so many levels.
While she finished her meal, he dialed numbers from the book. “Do you have a client named Terret?” he asked over and again.
On the fifth number, he got a match. “Why yes, I do,” admitted the friendly voice on the other end. “I was assigned his case a short time ago.”
The local lawyer agreed to meet the duo from Texas, but only if they were buying the coffee. “I’m happy to cooperate, but you do realize that I’m severely limited by client privilege, so I can’t tell you much.”
“Why is he your client?” Griffin asked, grinning at Kit over the phone.
“Because of the pending charges against him,” the lawyer responded, now sounding annoyed.
“You might want to call the county clerk and confirm that. I don’t believe there are any charges still pending against Mr. Terret.”
“Huh?”
“Just call and verify he’s still on the docket. We’ll meet you at the coffee shop in half an hour,” Griffin answered.
