The First Victim lbadm-6

by Ridley Pearson

  Melissa had stayed with the trailer in an act of investigative journalism that confirmed her nose for a story. According to the video’s time stamp, twenty minutes passed before that trailer door came open. A large figure of a man, too dark to see clearly, ran through the rain. The camera panned down the block, passing darkened stores too obscured by the weather and the darkness to identify. And there in the corner of the frame appeared Melissa’s profile as she rushed to the window to peer outside and follow the man. Stevie gasped at the sight.

  ‘‘A bar,’’ Melissa said for the benefit of the camera. She passed in front of the lens, this time moving to the rear of the van, the camera still running. A moment later another break in the recording was signaled by gray fuzz and waving colorful squiggles.

  A brief shot of that same man running through the rain, back to the trailer, the time stamp indicating a passage of five minutes. Another cut. The van was moving now, the camera aimed out the windshield. ‘‘He boarded a bus,’’ Melissa said for the benefit of her tape. The van swung a full U-turn, blurring the identifying lights and buildings and annoying Stevie as it bounced so violently as to be nothing but blurred and jerky imagery. Then she identified a city bus up ahead and realized moments later that Melissa was in pursuit. The chase led out and down a street still too jerky to recognize, past an I-5 on-ramp that Stevie felt certain she could find. The bus took a series of turns, made stops and continued on, the camera running tape all the while. Twenty minutes of this pursuit passed until the city’s downtown landmarks were easily identified. The bus traveled north on Third Avenue, the van immediately behind, Melissa jerking the vehicle to the curb at every stop in search of that same figure disembarking from the bus.

  ‘‘No. .’’ she said, ‘‘I don’t see him.’’

  The bus started back up. The van followed.

  One block passed, then another. Stevie felt the tension in her chest and a bubble stuck in her throat, Melissa’s determination palpable even across the videotape. At last the bus veered and sank into the bus tunnel, with the van following until Melissa realized she could not enter. She swore aloud and the picture went dark.

  This was the last image on the tape: that city bus dropping down into a tunnel reserved for buses only, and the camera falling as it briefly caught a shot of a frustrated Melissa behind the wheel. ‘‘Damn camera’s too big. .’’ she mumbled to herself, her last words recorded on tape.

  Her request for the digital camera made sense then-something light and portable, easily carried. That request had been met on Monday. Perhaps she had intended to follow this same man again. Perhaps she had even boarded a bus or entered the bus tunnel as a pedestrian.

  Perhaps. . perhaps. . perhaps. . Stevie caught herself tempted to toss the juice glass across the room, but placed it back down and poured a refill. As with any good lead, the tapes presented as many questions as they offered answers. She could look up the locations of car washes in the Yellow Pages and drive to them one by one. She hoped that particular car wash was listed, but there was no saying it was. She could try any number of wild attempts like that, or she could act like a journalist and get down to business. Suffering under a headache and the pressure of time passing much too quickly, aching over Melissa’s disappearance and the tape’s implication that she had aggressively gone after the story, Stevie resorted to what she knew best: journalism. The story started with Gwen Klein. It was as simple as that.

  The LSO was crowded, its fiberglass seats filled with a cross section of the city’s diverse population. She wore a baseball cap and kept her head down, not wanting to be recognized as she wandered the enormous room. Of the seven teller windows, four were in use. Stevie drew glares as she avoided the lines and headed straight to the front where small name plaques identified the tellers. In front of the third teller the sign read: Hello! I’m: GWEN. Stevie memorized that face, the Irish nose, the square-cut bangs that cantilevered out in a frosted blonde cascade. She went heavy on both the brown lipstick and the pale purple eye shadow. Klein delivered a self-important attitude via a demeaning, intolerant impatience. She was of average height with slouched shoulders. Stevie remained in line just long enough to take all this in, then feigned discouragement and walked back outside.

  At 4:07 P.M., the building’s rear door opened and several employees including Klein walked to their cars and drove off. This event eerily matched what Stevie had seen on Melissa’s tape. Klein collected her kids from day care and led Stevie to 118th Street NW, a congested neighborhood of small clapboard houses. The van pulled in to #1186. Mom and the two kids left the car and headed inside the home.

  With News Four at Five rapidly approaching, Stevie had no choice but to drive quickly to the studio and perform her on-camera duties, but her mind remained on #1186 118th NW, to which she returned immediately following the broadcast.

  At seven o’clock, running low on patience, she left her car and headed to the front door. Answers could no longer wait.

  Stevie hoped that the sharp attack of her knuckles on the front door might telegraph her attitude, her intentions, to the occupants, especially given that both a doorbell and a brass knocker were available.

  To her relief it was Gwen Klein herself who answered the door. Klein recognized Stevie immediately, her face lighting up at first-the flush of a glimpse of celebrity-and then tightened in reaction to the association with news media. She stepped back and grabbed the edge of the door.

  ‘‘Please. . it’s a personal matter,’’ Stevie said.

  ‘‘I have nothing to say to the press!’’

  The door began to swing shut. Stevie unleashed her only weapon. ‘‘You shut that door and I’ll have a camera crew camped on your front lawn for the next two weeks.’’

  The door stopped, partially open. A moment later Gwen Klein stepped outside, out of earshot, and pulled the door to within an inch of closing. She crossed her arms at her waist as if fending off a chill.

  ‘‘Ms. Klein, I’m not here to make accusations, nor can I afford the luxury of wasting time.’’ She did not want to mention Melissa’s disappearance, not to someone like Klein, who if involved with supplying counterfeit licenses probably knew little of the overall operation. But Klein was the place to start, Stevie felt sure; Melissa had started with this woman. So would she.

  ‘‘I don’t know what you-’’

  ‘‘And let’s dispense with the protestations of innocence or ignorance. I have no time for it. We both know exactly why I’m here, and if you play this otherwise, I’ll turn and walk away and you’ll have lost your chance.’’

  ‘‘Chance at what?’’ Blank-faced and suddenly silent, Gwen Klein waited nervously.

  ‘‘Do you follow the news?’’ Stevie asked, met only by that same blank stare. ‘‘Are you aware of the ship captain who drowned? The ship captain responsible for transporting the container of illegals? The man’s death was not an accident, Ms. Klein.’’ She lowered her voice for effect and said, ‘‘You have to come to grips with the fact that he was murdered. Killed, because someone didn’t want him questioned by the police. . the INS. . whoever. Are you listening?’’ Klein’s eyes went glassy and distant, as if looking right through Stevie.

  ‘‘How long until whoever is paying you for those driver’s licenses decides you too are a liability?’’

  Klein’s mouth sagged open. As her jaw jutted out to speak, Stevie cut her off.

  ‘‘I want the whole story. The truth, start to finish. Who contacted you, what they offered, how it worked, how long it’s been going on. If,’’ she said strongly, ‘‘you are willing to share this with me openly and honestly, I’m willing to forget all about your sad little life and your bad decisions. You have children.’’ The woman winced. ‘‘I’m not here to expose your behavior to your children, your neighbors, your employer.’’

  ‘‘But how did you-’’

  ‘‘Never mind how. What matters is the truth. It’s all that matters. I need the truth. You give me the truth, I go away.
I can’t remember your name. Do you understand what I’m offering you? I can use the First Amendment to protect you. What do you think they will offer you? What do you think they offered the ship captain?’’

  The woman’s head snapped up. She looked left and right, as if afraid of the neighbors or someone else watching her. She met eyes with Stevie. Hers were hard and cold as she said, ‘‘Not here. Not now. You’ve got to leave.’’ She stepped backward into the house, her hand blindly searching out the door.

  ‘‘I need answers,’’ Stevie cautioned, ‘‘or I’ll tear your life open on your front lawn.’’ She warned her, ‘‘Don’t underestimate me.’’

  ‘‘Not here.’’

  ‘‘We’ll talk.’’

  The door closed further.

  Stevie rushed her words. ‘‘We have to talk. You have to choose sides. Me or them?’’

  The door slammed shut. A full minute later, Gwen Klein pulled back a drape and peered out at Stevie, who remained on the front steps. Klein would want to discuss Stevie’s offer with her husband, Stevie thought, so she would give her the night. One night. In the meantime, Stevie decided to make as if she were leaving. She climbed into her car and drove off. She came around the block, switched off her lights and parked. It was going to be a long night.

  CHAPTER 21

  "I tell you, this girl, she stupid and she scared.’’ The Mexican kept his congested voice intentionally low despite the loud groaning of pleasure from the big screen. He spoke in a clipped Hispanic mix of thick accent and misplaced grammar. He’d been sick for a while now. In the pulsing flicker of light, six silhouettes could be seen in the various rows of the theater, all sitting well apart from one another and none anywhere near the two men who occupied the center of the back row.

  The reflected light from the screen caught the other man’s profile as he unstuck his right sole from whatever glue was down there, spilled soda or otherwise. He averted his face from both the brightness of the screen and the unspeakable acts portrayed by the two naked women in the grainy film. He understood the necessity of choosing such places for their meetings-the choice had been his, after all- but it didn’t mean he had to like it. He kept his voice calm and quiet, negating any remote possibility of being overheard. ‘‘I can handle the reporter. Our friend will settle down.’’ He never mentioned names, not ever. He knew all the tricks available to law enforcement. He trusted nobody. ‘‘Let’s keep cool heads. This too shall pass.’’

  ‘‘It’s coming apart on you.’’

  ‘‘Nothing is coming apart on anyone. A few speed bumps is all. It’s to be expected with something this size. Shit happens. It’s no reason to lose our cool.’’

  ‘‘What do you mean, you handle reporter?’’ the Mexican asked.

  ‘‘Not like that. Let’s just keep cool about this, okay?’’ the other man encouraged.

  ‘‘I do the girl?’’

  ‘‘Absolutely not. She’ll be fine.’’

  ‘‘I tell you, she not fine. Very upset. Last week it was the car wash in the middle of rainstorm. No brains at all.’’ He pointed to the screen. ‘‘This? This is the only thing girls do right.’’

  He felt knots in his jaw muscles form like hard nuts. He told himself to settle down. ‘‘Admittedly, it’s not a perfect situation. She made a poor decision by coming to you. That’s regrettable. But she’ll stay on schedule with the deliveries. You watch. When she comes back, you tell her that we’re taking care of the reporter, that everything’s fine.’’

  ‘‘And if she don’t come back? If she misses the delivery?’’

  There was no silence in the theater, the pale-skinned teenagers on the screen filling every moment with either excited panting, exaggerated licking, or pleasure-ridden cooing. The other man rode out a particularly frantic climax before whispering to the Mexican, ‘‘If we have problems with her, we’ll go looking to resolve them.’’

  ‘‘That sounds better. I tell you what. . in the middle of a god-damn rainstorm!’’

  ‘‘But we talk first, you and me. She’s not the only one making poor decisions. No more fork lift fires. Comprendo?’’

  The Mexican pursed his lips. The man shaved infrequently, bathed infrequently and had the teeth of an old horse. ‘‘Speed bumps. . like for the automobile? This kind of speed bump?’’

  ‘‘It’s an expression. That’s all.’’

  ‘‘No, I get it. Speed bumps. I get it.’’ Proud of himself, he plunged his meaty hand into the cold popcorn and stuffed his mouth with it. He offered the bag to the other. Speaking through the mouthful, he said, ‘‘You stay for next show?’’

  He glanced to his right. The seat was empty. Brian Coughlie was gone.

  TUESDAY, AUGUST 258 DAYS MISSING

  CHAPTER 22

  When INS Field Operations Director Brian Coughlie was announced by the building’s doorman, Stevie McNeal was wearing only a terrycloth robe, her hair wet and freshly combed out. She had dragged herself out of bed an hour later than usual, having kept the Klein home under surveillance until two in the morning. She studied Coughlie on the apartment’s small black-and-white security monitor: He stood talking to the doorman as if they were old friends. Just the way he carried himself bothered her-overly comfortable, chatty, casual; but with the underhandedness of a card shark. Coughlie was part actor. A large part, if she were the judge. His unannounced visit bothered her, bordered on invasion of privacy or some form of harassment-the feds muscling their way into the media’s business. Then it occurred to her that if she played this right, she might turn the tables and milk him for information.

  To do so, she would have to play part actor herself-she would have to pretend not to be repulsed by him. She told the doorman that she would call down for him when she was ready, enjoying a renewed sense of control.

  She slipped into a pair of jeans, pulled on a camisole top and a white T-shirt, making sure she wasn’t advertising herself. She didn’t want him getting any ideas.

  A few minutes later Coughlie was standing in the middle of her substantial living room enjoying the view. She wondered how a public servant on a government paycheck felt surrounded by such opulence, how much envy and anger played for his emotions, how much of the long-established discord between the press and law enforcement stemmed not from ideology but paycheck envy. She could imagine his attitude: The container deaths and Melissa’s safe return meant little or nothing, another file to close.

  What drove a person to sign up with the INS in the first place, she wondered. What kind of person volunteered to be a glorified border guard?

  ‘‘Nice view,’’ he said, as if expected to compliment.

  ‘‘The nature of your visit, Agent Coughlie?’’

  ‘‘Brian.’’ He fingered a carved piece of black stone a friend had brought back from Egypt. He held it upside down and admired its base. He offered her a small pamphlet that she accepted. ‘‘You asked Adam Talmadge about this: investigative techniques used in our preliminary interviews.’’

  ‘‘I asked him about the training to identify political prisoners and victims of torture.’’

  ‘‘Political refugee interviews,’’ he corrected. ‘‘We’re not the bad guys, Ms. McNeal.’’

  ‘‘You’re part of the system. . Brian. And the system is part of the problem.’’

  ‘‘My trouble with this view,’’ he said, his inflection implying a question. ‘‘Looking down on something is not the same thing as looking it in the eye.’’

  ‘‘Lessons in perspective?’’

  He offered: ‘‘How would you and your cameras like to pay a visit to Fo-No, our Fort Nolan detention facility? A chance to see our operation firsthand?’’

  ‘‘Look it in the eye. Gain a little perspective?’’

  ‘‘You got it.’’

  ‘‘And what do I offer you in return?’’ she asked suspiciously.

  ‘‘Nothing.’’

  ‘‘I’m supposed to buy that?’’

  ‘‘Does it so
und like I’m selling? Are you always so skeptical?’’

  ‘‘You came here to drop off a pamphlet and offer me access to your detention facility? I’m supposed to accept the Santa Claus routine?’’

  ‘‘We have to be enemies on this? Tell me why.’’

  ‘‘You can’t buy cooperation from me,’’ she warned. ‘‘A pamphlet and a visit of Fort Nolan and I’m supposed to give something back- withhold a story, supply you with sources-what is it your boss is after?’’

  ‘‘We could discuss Melissa Chow.’’

  ‘‘They shared that with you?’’

  ‘‘A missing persons case believed tied to illegal aliens?’’ he asked rhetorically. ‘‘You want SPD including us, believe me. And the FBI and the King County Police. There is talk of a task force. It’s our job to find this woman.’’

  ‘‘A job? I suppose so,’’ she said, mulling this over.

  ‘‘Let’s talk about this whistle-blower.’’

  ‘‘Oh. . okay. I get it,’’ she said sarcastically. ‘‘Terrific.’’

  ‘‘Do you?’’

  ‘‘They couldn’t get the name out of me, so now it’s your turn to try.’’

  ‘‘You want to find her, don’t you?’’ He didn’t deny her accusation. ‘‘We need to question this guy. He could help clarify the details, give us the specifics you’re unable to give us.’’

  ‘‘Or is it the videos?’’ she asked. ‘‘That’s it, isn’t it? They’ve sent you to try to talk me out of the videos. Well, forget it.’’ She immediately regretted mention of the videos because his florid skin and tightened expression informed her that he’d never heard of them, though he recovered quickly.

  He said, ‘‘The videos are especially important to us.’’

  ‘‘I just bet they are,’’ she said.

  ‘‘They show what? People? Buildings? The container? The ship?’’