The Seventh Message

by William Johnstone

  The forensic pathologist paused, and glanced down at his report, and then back up, his eyes bright with a glint of humor. "But we did have some luck. We found several strands of black hair four inch long in the cloth wrappings. John Doe had brown hair. I have sent the hair sample to your lab for DNA analysis."

  Walter Kent’s expression brightened. "Finally something."

  Zumbeck nodded agreement. "There's more. We found an impressed thumbprint."

  "But I thought there were no fingerprints on the body," said Ramirez.

  "That's right. This print wasn't on the body, I found it on the underside of a piece of moleskin used to stop bleeding from the inflicted wound. A beautiful print preserved in the adhesive."

  "We can run that through our database," said Ashley. "Did you find any identifying marks on the body, like a birthmark?"

  Dr. Zumbeck took a deep breath. "I believe we did, but it won't help you. On the right shoulder we found a burn mark inflicted after death. The burn probably removed what you have suggested, a birthmark or an identifying scar."

  The Medical Investigator stood. He stared into the eyes of his guests. "A combing of the pubic region revealed no foreign substances,”… his voice trailed off for a moment… ”but we found a tattoo in a not so obvious place on the body."

  Dorothy Hogan stopped taking notes, and became aware of total silence in the room. She observed Ashley's expression, a mixture of surprise and elation. Ashley shifted her position and leaned forward. "A tattoo?"

  "Yes, but I can't take credit for that discovery. Medical Assistant Morrison, found it." Zombeck then turned to his assistant seated next to him. "I'll let her explain."

  Dorothy Hogan had paid little attention to the doctor's assistant, but now saw a petite, middle-aged woman in a white lab coat wearing glasses halfway down her nose.

  Ms. Morrison stood, and cleared her throat. "I worked with Doctor Zumbeck during the full work-up of our forensic autopsy. From my vantage point I noticed a tiny patch of skin tissue that appeared to be a skin rash or abrasion. At first I didn't think much about it, then I realized the color was not in keeping with the normal gray-white skin color of a male Caucasian. I moved closer to view this anomaly.” She shifted from foot to foot, and cleared her throat again. “I performed a manual reorientation of the tissue to discover the cause of the discoloration. Based on this examination I found the color was the result of a partially exposed red tattoo."

  Ramirez asked, "What was the tattoo?”

  "A rosebud. A red rosebud."

  "It must have been small?"

  "It was three centimeters, about an inch in diameter, bright red."

  Dorothy Hogan looked up from her notepad and saw an expression of confusion on Walter Kent's face. She knew he would ask the question on everyone's mind.

  "Why did the killer, so careful to hide the identity of his victim, miss such an obvious marking?"

  Doctor Zumbeck began to pace. "The killer did not see the tattoo, Agent Kent, because it was not obvious. It was, in a sense, well hidden in plain view." He faced them. "It would have been obvious had the victim been circumcised."

  Everyone took a few seconds to process this information. Agent Kent remained stoic. Ramirez laughed, and Ashley kept her composure. Dorothy bowed her head, and continued writing.

  Kent asked, "Do you have a photograph of this tattoo?"

  "Yes. Ms. Morrison had our staff forensic photographer take several shots."

  "Color photographs?" asked Ramirez, not trying to hide his grin.

  "Rest assured, Agent Ramirez, the color saturated photos are in sharp focus and most revealing." The doctor took his seat. "We have prepared three sets of these images. One set for our records, one for the report and one you may take with you today. I have included a picture of the victim's face, but the features are mutilated–useless for identification."

  Dr. Zumbeck snapped his report folder shut. "If there are no questions I have one for you. To whom shall I release the body?"

  Dorothy Hogan summarized the discussion that followed. She wrote the body of John Doe 136 would be assigned by the OMI to the Kirk Funeral Home, embalmed and returned to the State and placed in storage for a period of time not to exceed six months. If not claimed by the next of kin, a burial would occur at the expense of the State of New Mexico.

  Damn, she thought. There are rules for everything.

  SIXTEEN

  RASHID AL YOURIS ARRIVED at eight o’clock and greeted Mike Johansson with a vigorous handshake. The waiter escorted them to a private alcove off the main serving area of Calwood’s International Cuisine. Their table, set with fine china and crystal, stood enclosed by walls on three sides leaving one access point for service personnel. A small chandelier sparkled overhead. The scent of garlic flavored the air.

  They ordered without reference to the menu, and small talk followed. Mike asked Rashid about his wife Hessa, and her adjustment to the kids growing up and leaving the family nest. Had she recovered from her cancer treatment? Did Rashid enjoy teaching at the University?

  Rashid countered with inquiries about Mike’s daughter and the grandchildren, careful to avoid any mention of his wife who’d recently passed away.

  When the food arrived the conversation turned to food and wine. After dinner, during coffee service, the Big Swede’s expression turned serious. “What do you think of our Commander in Chief?”

  Rashid glanced up from his coffee. “Still in training.”

  “What about the jihadist Caliph Abd al-Ghayb hiding out on the Pakistan border, in Iran or maybe Manhattan?”

  “He’s an ass, but dangerous.”

  Mike laughed. “Remind me not to ask you to write any lengthy obituaries.”

  “There are a few obituaries I would like to write, but that wouldn’t solve America’s predicament. My students ask why we are in such a mess in the Middle East. Is it our leadership? Is it religious fundamentalism or is it an unavoidable clash of culture? I tell them it is all of that, and much more.”

  “That must confuse the hell out of them.”

  “Yes, they are confused. So are the political and religious leaders around the globe. Everyone has lost sight of the underlying cause of the conflict.

  Mike arched an eyebrow. “And that is?”

  “Greed and a lust for power.”

  “Not unique in history. Today nuclear technology and oil money prompts cultural conflict and war. Not long ago economic and political ideology underwrote the Cold War, and before that, in the thirties and forties, it was racial superiority and extreme nationalism.”

  “Yes, yes.” Rashid said, with a touch of excitement. “History is full of madness and always will be, but that is no reason to accept it much less to tolerate it.”

  “You’re right. We must not excuse it. We must, however, deal with the madness. Good or bad policy is in the hands of politicians. That’s the domain of leaders the world over. Whether they are right or wrong, and it’s a little of both, there will always be consequences. Dealing with these consequences is what it’s all about.”

  Rashid assumed a skeptical expression. He knew Mike to be pragmatic, but never this earnest. The Big Swede was leading up to something. He suspected the trout almandine had been the bait, and that an attempt to set the hook would soon follow.

  “As you know, Rashid, conflict with Islamic radicals has been brewing a longtime, but no one considered it a major problem until 9-11. That day we woke to a dangerous enemy.”

  “You’re preaching to the choir, Mike. What’s your point?”

  “The threat of terrorists’ activity, inside and outside of the United States, is real. The intelligence community has a monumental job to do. Unlike years ago, the current FBI's domestic counter terrorism program is the primary mission of the agency, and it’s big.”

  “Again I ask, what’s your point?”

  “My point is, I need you back.”

  Rashid clamped his teeth together and glared at Mike. He needs me back? He must
be insane. Going back after even a few years would be like starting over. And there is my work at McClellan University.

  “Before you say no, hear me out. You and I have been through a dozen governmental reorganizations. It goes on all the time, but it’s usually only a change in name or a shuffling of personnel, not a change of function or a new mission. Well, it’s different this time.” Mike faced Rashid. “The changes are genuine and significant. To say it’s a new ball game is an understatement. It’s a new sport.”

  Rashid had never seen Mike this energized before.

  “Everyone knows about the creation of Homeland Security, and the National Intelligence Director’s appointment years ago. Not reported is the staggering burden these changes have put on the intelligence community.” Mike stopped and faced Rashid. “Imagine the challenge of coordinating seventeen highly classified and independent organizations.”

  Rashid’s reaction was immediate. “Why should I believe it’s any different now than in the past? All the changes are on paper. Nothing will change. Never has, never will.”

  “Rashid, you’re not listening. It has changed. The wall of silence between agencies has crumbled. Sure some organizations are slow to come around, but most act as a unified community working together to track down the bad guys.”

  Rashid shifted in his chair and fidgeted with his tweed sport coat. “All right, I’ll take your word for it. What’s that have to do with me?”

  Mike resumed his seat. “The Director of National Intelligence, who controls all our budgets and sets the program goals, has created a new clearinghouse called the Terrorism Threat and Investigation Center. This organization, T-TIC, will consist of representatives from each of the seventeen intelligence agencies. The center will streamline all the intelligence gathered in the war on terror. It will be the dot connector.”

  “The what?”

  “They will connect the widely dispersed dots of information needed for rapid response. The information collected by the clearinghouse will pass directly to the Secretary of Homeland Security and the National Security Council that advises the President.

  Rashid nodded. “T-TIC is a direct link to the Commander in Chief?”

  “That’s right. Each of the agencies must appoint an Agency Ambassador, and organize an in-house task force to feed T-TIC.”

  “That is new, Mike.”

  "Yes, it's the government’s answer to the ongoing changes in technology and the enemy’s growing sophistication in the digital world. As a newly appointed Assistant Deputy Director of the FBI, I am responsible for selecting the Ambassador to represent us, and creating the in-house task force I call the JTTF teams.”

  “What’s a JTTF team?”

  “To beef up the FBI’s response, I will form Joint Terrorism Task Forces–teams of highly trained specialists. These mobile forces will serve any of the fifty-six Field Offices around the country when a threat is identified. They will be a cross between a SWAT team and a Military Special Ops Unit.”

  ”Congratulations Mike, I’m impressed. That’s a big job advancement. Who will be the bureau’s Agency Ambassador, anyone I know?”

  Mike leaned back, looked Rashid directly in the eyes, beamed broadly, and allowed a long pause to linger.

  “You’re crazy, Mike. Out of your mind!”

  “You have to be to survive in my job. Our old outfit, the Office of Domestic Counterterrorism, had a small handful of experienced people. The ODC no longer exists, and most of its people have retired or died off. The new people are just that–new and inexperienced. They will develop over time, but we can’t wait for that to happen.”

  “What you’re asking is unfair to me and my family.”

  “Perhaps, but necessary. You are a rare commodity, Rashid; you speak five languages, you understand the Muslim culture and history and you have thirty years of agency experience. Plus, I can’t think of anyone I trust more that you.”

  “I’ve worked hard to get ahead at McClellan University,” Rashid explained. “If I leave I will lose my position and a chance at tenure, not to mention the income. I can’t turn my back on that. Hessa would never forgive me.”

  “There’s something you should know.”

  “What?”

  “Last week I met with Chancellor Henderson and Dean Oliver of the College of Social Studies at McClellan University.”

  “You what?”

  “Hear me out. Without getting into classified information, I explained the situation. They agreed to maintain your faculty position. You will assume the duties of a tenured professor with full pay right on schedule. You can arrange your classes to consist of assigned outside readings and let your graduate students handle most of the day-to-day stuff. You will appear in class twice a semester. The rest of the time you will be granted research leave.”

  “This takes spying to a new level or perhaps a new low.”

  “Finally,” Mike continued.

  “There’s more?”

  “Yes. I phoned Hessa this morning. At first she was hesitant to have you come back to the Bureau. But when I explained the dangers we face and why we need a person of your skill and experience, she understood why I’m making you this offer. She agreed you should take it for the country and for the American Muslim community. If you decide to take the job, she’ll support you 100 percent. She confesses she likes the idea of going back to Georgetown and seeing her old friends again.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I am authorized to provide housing and incidental expenses for special assignment personnel critical to the mission. I can’t think of anyone that fits that description better than you. I’ve leased a colonial townhouse with a view. I think she’ll like it.”

  “You old bastard!”

  “Just say yes, Rashid. Just say yes.”

  SEVENTEEN

  THE MEDICAL INVESTIGATOR’s briefing on John Doe 136 ended shortly before noon. When the field office crew returned, Walter Kent ordered a meeting in his office at one o'clock to plan a case strategy.

  Ashley skipped lunch. Food held no interest for her. She propped the picture of the red rosebud tattoo against her desk phone, and stared at it. What a lucky discovery, she thought, a real lead to the identity of the victim.

  She couldn't help but be amused by the photograph. Why would anyone want a tattoo on the penis? And why a rosebud? Did that have any significance? She imagined the etching process. Indelible ink forced into the dermis layer of skin with an oscillating tattoo machine. She wondered if he had undergone a general anesthetic.

  Two agents walked by her desk in conversation. Ashley quickly tipped the picture face down. She didn't want to become the subject of lurid humor around the office. Instead, she wanted to come up with an investigation procedure that would put her case in high gear. She snapped on her computer and started searching. A plan formed in her mind.

  DOROTHY HOGAN and Ashley entered Walter Kent's office a few minutes before the one o'clock meeting. Kent acknowledged them. "Come in, have a seat. Ramirez will be here shortly. He's completing a meeting with the press on crime statistics." Kent stretched his arms over his head. "I feel our meeting this morning may shed some light on the Mummy Case." Ashley winced when she heard Kent use the name given to her assignment by Ramirez. It had caught on around the office. She hated that name because it showed disrespect.

  Kent caught Dorothy’s eye. "I'd like you to type your notes on the briefing today. We won’t get the OMI's official report for days."

  "Yes, sir. I'll get on it."

  Agent Ramirez entered and sat next to Ashley. "Sorry to be late, Walter. Media update, you know."

  "I understand." Kent stood, and began pacing behind his desk. "I'd like to resolve this matter quickly. If the case supports our mission, fine. If not, I'll forward our findings to Lea County, and get on with other business." He stopped and observed Ashley. "Agent Kohen, this is your case. Based on what we know so far, what do you think?"

  Ashley leaned forward. "It migh
t take some leg work, but we’ll learn the identity of John Doe from the tattoo.”

  Ramirez looked at the ceiling, then at Kohen "All we have is the tattoo. That's it. The hair and the thumbprint belong to someone else."

  Ashley snapped back. "Short of a positive ID, I can't think of a more unique marking than that tattoo."

  Kent stopped pacing. "It may be a one-of-a-kind, I'll grant you that."

  Ashley continued. "Tattooing is an art form. It's not a do-it-yourself skill. It’s also become a heath issue because of the increase of HIV and hepatitis infections. The State of New Mexico licenses the tattooing business. I already have a list of the State's license holders. In case there are some Mom and Pop Shops not licensed, I'll run a cross-reference with the yellow pages and Craigslist online."

  Ramirez nodded approval. "A good start."

  Ashley continued. "I have a plan. I call it the concentric circle search."

  Walter Kent sat down and crossed his arms. "Never heard of it. Is this something you dreamed up?"

  “Starting with the burial site, I will select a four county region on the assumption the victim lived in that area. I will map the location of each tattoo shop.” Ashley stood and walked to the dry erase board mounted on the sidewall. She drew a small circle, then another until her drawing resembled a bullseye of circles. “I’ll superimpose these circles over the map of the county region centering the smallest circle in the most dense location pattern, which is Roswell. I'll work my way out in all directions.”

  "An interesting approach," Ramirez said

  Walter Kent nodded. "I like your plan, Ashley. I hope you and your partner have early success."

  "My partner? I don't need a partner to conduct this search."

  "Yes you do. That's the way we work in the Bureau. I never send an agent into the field alone. This is your case, Ashley. You're the lead. Ramirez will be your partner for now."

  "But Ramirez is your second in command. I can't imagine why you would pick him as my partner. He is far too valuable to this Field Office to spend his time on a case that’s not high profile." Ashley hoped her true feelings didn't show on her face.