by Alan Zendell
He showed me around the crime scene, pointing out where two bullets had been dug out of the walls – a third had penetrated the connecting door into the adjoining room. “The one that hit up near the exit door was fired by one of the victims,” he said. “The slug that went through the connecting door was, too. Good thing it happened in the late morning and no one was there.”
The other victim hadn’t fired his gun.
“The bullets that killed the two victims and the other one we found in the wall were all nine millimeters. The crime lab says they were all fired from a Glock except one, which came from a Walther P99.”
“Two guns with one doing almost all the shooting? Strange.”
“You bet it is. After you’ve been through a few like this, you look at the positions of the victims and the bullet hole pattern, and a picture emerges, but it isn’t happening here. We’re having trouble re-creating the scene.”
I didn’t tell Henry that the service revolvers issued to my unit were Walther P99s, not an uncommon weapon, yet another coincidence to be reckoned with. Instead, I asked what the problem was.
“I’ll show you,” he said. “Two weapons means either one shooter with two guns or two shooters. Look where the bullet holes are.” The room had two double beds, each of which had a rough outline of a human body on it in yellow tape, indicating where the victims had been found. Henry was standing by the bed farthest from the door, pointing at a hole in the wall inches from the headboard. “From the angle at which this bullet entered the wall and the position of this victim sprawled on the bed, it’s clear that it was fired from here.” Henry had danced across the room and crouched against the far wall, just to the right of the connecting door.
“Okay, I’m with you so far.”
“The victim apparently got off a shot at the killer, which nicked him before it hit the door. See this?” He pointed to a spray pattern of dark spots on the door, and some more on the rug. “The lab says it’s Type A blood.” The blood spatter was at chest height on Henry, but since we didn’t know how tall the shooter was or exactly how he was standing, that didn’t tell us much about where he’d been hit.
“Now look at this one,” Henry said, fingering the hole near the entrance door to the room. “It came from the victim’s gun, too. Either he was firing at a second shooter, or the shot went wild when one of the slugs that hit him spun his body around.”
“I’d say a second shooter is more likely, given that Walther round,” I offered.
“I agree, but it’s not that simple. Forget what you see in the movies. If the two killers were at opposite ends of the room, it’s unlikely that the victim could have fired at one, then whirled and fired at the other, and come close to hitting them both, especially if he’d already been shot. You been through firearms training? What would happen if you fired that way without aiming or having both targets in your line of sight?”
I saw his point. I wouldn’t have come close.
“There’s one more bit of information,” Henry said. “The bullet that killed the guy who fired back was from the Walther. Neither of the two Glock wounds was fatal. Let’s say the killer with the Glock is over by the connecting door. He gets off a shot and hits the victim in the shoulder which throws off his return shot. Then, the killer puts a second shot in the victim’s hip, shattering it. The coroner says that would have immobilized him and been excruciatingly painful, enough to make him pass out and lose a lot of blood, but not kill him right away. The shot from the Walther shattered his windpipe and carotid artery, but that wound hardly bled, which means the victim had already almost bled out from the first two shots; conclusion – the fatal shot wasn’t fired until some time later.
“Only two scenarios fit the observations. Plan A: the first shooter thinks he killed both victims, the killers search the room, and as they’re leaving, this victim, barely alive, gets off a badly aimed shot and is killed by the second shooter. That fits the facts, but I don’t like it. If both victims were armed, the killers should have both been firing at them from the outset.
“Now, Plan B. The first shooter arrives alone, shoots the two Arabs, and leaves thinking they’re both dead. The second shooter arrives a while later. He’s fired at by the dying victim, and he returns fire, killing him.”
“Your working hypothesis is Plan B?”
“Until I come up with a better one.”
I felt guilty not mentioning what I knew about the Walther, but I wanted to ask William if there was any chance that one of our people might have been there before I said anything.
“What do we know about the two dead guys?” I asked. Both men had been in their late twenties. “Why were they on the terrorist watch list?”
“All the usual reasons. They came here on student visas which were extended beyond their original terms. Their visas expired last year and INS has been looking for them ever since. They were both linked to militant madrassas and they frequented a mosque known to have been attended by some of the nine-eleven hijackers.”
I’d brought my case with me. I opened it, took out the envelope Karminian had given me, and assembled my detection equipment. Henry raised his eyebrows, and I said, “I don’t expect to find anything, but I have to check.” I tested everything in room. It was clean.
We went outside and locked the door. “What were the times of death?” I asked.
“Between 10:45 and 11:00 a.m. The phone tip came in at 11:05.”
Putting my equipment case in my rental car, I opened Karminian’s envelope, took out half the papers and gave them to Henry. “A housekeeper found these in there a couple of days ago. The motel manager gave them to me and made a copy for you.”
“Karminian? I talked to him yesterday. He said he didn’t know anything but what he’d told the media. I marked him for a follow-up interview after forensics was done. How’d you get him to open up?”
I shrugged. “First impression, he seems like a decent guy who’s on our side. He hates jihad-crazy Muslims but seems afraid of police, probably a result of growing up in Soviet Armenia. I wouldn’t be too hard on him. In any case he seemed desperate to show these to someone. It must be my honest face.”
I told Henry what Karminian had said about the circled Arabic words. He thanked me, shook my hand, and got into his car for the drive back to Baltimore. Before he left, I said, “We’ve been talking about the shooters as though we knew they were male. Is that significant?”
He smiled. “Just FBI chauvinism.”
I got in my car and turned on the A/C. According to The Post, Wednesday had been sweltering, worse than today, over ninety at 11:00, with the humidity and smog so bad, the Weather Service had issued a Code Red, a day to stay indoors with the air conditioner set on high. Since it was mid-morning and it wasn’t racing season, the only people around would have been housekeepers, most of whom would have been indoors at any given moment. Anyone approaching the victims’ room could easily have gone unnoticed, except…Karminian had already been suspicious, and he struck me as someone who paid close attention to what went on outside his window. I reluctantly turned off my engine and got out of the car.
Karminian was behind the counter when I entered his office. He did the same double take he’d done earlier, as if he had two flashes of recognition and was deciding which one to react to. “Mr. Brice. How did your meeting with the FBI go?” he said.
“Very well, Mr. Karminian. I gave agent White the papers you found. He was disappointed that you didn’t acknowledge having them when he interviewed you, yesterday. Would you like to tell me what’s really going on here?” His face took on a look of such terror, I felt sorry for him.
“Please, Mr. Brice. I have tried to help you. Do not involve me anymore. I will not say anything to Mr. White.”
Interesting response. I wondered what it meant.
“I can see that you’re upset, Mr. Karminian. What are you afraid of?”
He seemed to deflate. “That,” he said, pointing to the crime scene across the lot,
“and everyone associated with it. Did you think no one would know you were here?”
He wasn’t making sense, but suddenly I understood. “You’re referring to yesterday. Is that what this is about? You think you saw me here yesterday?” I’d already decided that I would return here tomorrow, that is, on Wednesday, before the murders took place. I hadn’t thought it through beyond that, but apparently, from Mr. Karminian’s point of view that had already occurred, and he’d seen me lurking around at about the time the two men were killed. It was me he was afraid of.
“Why are you doing this to me?” he said, nearly in tears. “I told you, I will say nothing to Mr. White.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t understand. But tell me, please, why did you trust me with these?” I held up the Arabic papers.
“I would only have given them to someone who hates them as much as I do. I may not know who you are, but I know what you feel. Whatever you are doing, I trust your intentions.”
“You have nothing to fear from me, Mr. Karminian.”
I trusted his intentions, too, so I got in my car and left. It took twenty minutes to get back to my hotel in rush hour traffic. I spent them thinking.
I felt exposed, but I took Karminian at his word. He wouldn’t mention seeing me on Wednesday. Henry could elicit that information from him if he wanted to, but he had no reason to ask. On the other hand, I had to be prepared to deal with others finding out, both about that and about the way I was living my days, and those concerns raised a more important question.
How was this different from what I’d feared would happen if Ilene told me what I was going to do before I did it? The fact that I’d already decided to come back to the motel on Wednesday morning before Karminian told me he saw me there was what made it different. It wasn’t like people forgetting I existed on my missing Wednesdays, either, because from Karminian’s point of view, I hadn’t been missing, I was there. I wasn’t making the rules, just trying to infer what they were.
The most important issue was how my free will was affected. What if I changed my mind again and went home? Would that affect Karminian’s memory of seeing me there, and if it did, what difference would that make for me?
None, I decided. I was responsible for my own freedom of action.
25.
It was almost 6:30 when I reached the hotel. I called Ilene and told her about my change of plans. She wasn’t happy.
“You intend to walk in on a murder scene with bullets flying around?”
“No, of course not. If I could keep those guys from being murdered without getting shot at myself, I would, but you don’t have to worry. I just want to see what unfolds, and maybe get a picture of the killers leaving the motel room.”
“Why don’t I believe you, Dylan?”
“C’mon, Ilene, this isn’t like last week. I don’t have the motivation to save these two that I had with Samir and the other guys in my unit, and changing what happened on the pier wasn’t what put me at risk. Getting directly involved in this would be a mistake for several reasons. God knows what causality problems I’d unleash if I interfered.”
“Speaking of which, when are you planning on getting home?”
I still hadn’t thought that far ahead. “I assumed I’d catch a train after I’d learned all I could at the motel. That should get me home Wed…Oh, I see.”
“Then maybe you can explain it to me. I woke up next to you, yesterday, and you were here when I got home from work. What happens when you don’t come home tonight and you wake up in Maryland on Wednesday instead? Will my memories of Wednesday have changed when I wake up tomorrow morning?” She was referring to Friday.
“Damned if I know. I’ve been dealing with conflicting sets of memories since this began. Why don’t we wait and see what happens?”
“It’s bad enough that you’re not coming home tonight, but now you’ve added another dimension. If you’re not here when I wake up tomorrow morning I won’t know what to think. It might mean you were hurt again, even killed. Damn it, Dylan, I don’t like this a bit.”
“Slow down, Ilene. I have control of my actions, and this time, I know what I’m walking into. If I sit in a locked car watching the motel room from a safe distance, there’s no way I’m going to get hurt. C’mon, Honey, I’ve been doing this kind of work a long time.”
“And you’ve been telling me it was perfectly safe for twenty years, but last week you were almost killed.”
“Things don’t always go according to plan, but I swear, last week was the first time I was ever directly in harm’s way. I’ll avoid trouble, I promise.” I don’t know if I convinced her, but there was no point arguing about it.
“What are you going to do this evening?” she asked.
“I need to find a camera. After that, I’ll probably just stay here wishing I was with you.”
I really didn’t want to lie, but after what I’d seen earlier, I couldn’t tell her what I had in mind. I said goodbye to Ilene and called Gayle.
She was doing fine being chauffeured to work with her walking cast, sounding as if she was having no trouble adjusting to being met by a limo whenever she had to go anywhere. We got through some small talk and I asked her if Rod was still in Washington. He was taking a morning train back tomorrow, which in Gayle-speak, meant Friday, too.
“Where’s he staying?” I asked. “Turns out I’ll be spending the night in the Maryland suburbs not too far away.”
With a twinge of guilt I told her I might call to see if he was free for dinner. She was surprised, but didn’t object.
“I’m really not sure what I’ll do, later, so don’t mention anything if you talk to him, okay?” Agreeing that that made sense, she gave me his cell phone number and said he was staying at the Washington Hilton.
I had no intention of inviting Rod to dinner, but a visit to the Hilton seemed in order. A half-hour drive into Washington with a quick stop to spend five hundred dollars of William’s budget on a high megapixel digital camera with a zoom lens had me in the hotel parking lot with an hour of summer daylight to spare.
There were several ways I could approach this. I decided on a bold move that would probably infuriate William when he found out, telling the registration clerk I was on security-related government business and asking to meet privately with his manager. My team didn’t usually carry identification on covert operations, but I had impressive-looking credentials for situations like this.
“How can I help you Mr. Brice?” the manager asked, closing the door to his office and showing me to a seat.
“I’m investigating one of your guests. I can’t discuss details, but it’s an urgent matter of national security. I need the room number for a Mister Rod Burdak, and I’d like to rent a room adjacent to his for the night.” When he looked alarmed, I added, “Don’t worry, I won’t cause a scandal or endanger anyone.”
“Mr. Brice, I have a responsibility to ensure the privacy of my guests. Surely…”
“I assure you, sir, my request is covered by federal Homeland Security statutes. If you’d like to consult with your attorney I’ll be happy to provide him with citations,” I bluffed. “But time is critical. I can return with a court order and a squad of US Marshals if you prefer, but the delay might make my surveillance pointless.”
After a little consternation, he produced Rod’s reservation record, which included registration of a rental car with the parking valet. The car was currently checked out, and another confrontation was averted when a room adjoining Rod’s turned out to be vacant.
I only needed the room for a few hours, but the manager smiled apologetically and said the best he could do was offer me the government rate of two hundred dollars which made him feel like he’d won something. He’d cooperate, now, but William would erupt when he saw my expense voucher. I’d explain that it was too late to cancel my room in Columbia when I took this one, and I couldn’t sleep here without risking running into Rod. I also couldn’t sleep here because the room might have
been rented to someone else Tuesday night, and I wasn’t about to turn last night’s dream into reality when I woke up Wednesday morning, but William’s need to know didn’t include that.
I had to hurry – Rod might be back any time. In addition to the small, silent drill I’d used on the submersible, my equipment case contained an audio recorder with an ultra-sensitive microphone on the end of a flexible tube the size of a chopstick. I drilled a one-eighth inch hole through the wall into Rod’s room, making sure it was hidden by the desk, having been assured by the manager that the furniture was arranged the same way in both rooms. I pushed the mike through and set the recorder to turn itself on whenever it detected a sound louder than forty decibels. All I had to do was leave it in place and come back for it later.
A call to the parking valet verified that Rod’s car wasn’t back yet. If I was quick, I could have a look inside his room. Any decent burglar could have gotten past the hotel’s door lock, and my unit had been trained by the best.
I hadn’t expected to find anything interesting lying out in the open, and I didn’t. The room had a small safe – either he’d taken the papers he’d gotten from Ari with him or they were locked securely inside. His laptop was on but it was password protected.
I knelt under the desk and made sure the mike was flush with the wall, virtually unnoticeable unless you were looking for it. Then I walked around the room speaking normally, saying, “I’m standing by the window,” or “I’m leaning against the far wall.” I tried it from the bathroom, too, but it would be a long shot for the mike to hear anything over running water and an exhaust fan.
The blinking message light on his desk phone caught my eye as I was about to leave. I pressed the button and was granted access to the hotel’s voice mail system. Rod had two messages, both from the same person, who spoke rapidly in a guttural-sounding language I didn’t recognize. I turned the handset volume to high and replayed the messages with the ear end of the receiver against the microphone. Finally, I dialed the hotel operator and asked her to turn my message light back on, so my wife would know there were messages for her when she returned.
