Hard Target

by Alan Jacobson

  “I think I’ll leave that one alone.” Uzi sat forward in the chair. “Anything you can tell me on the stuff I sent over?”

  Vail rested her elbows on her desk. “Lots. I pulled in a guy from ATF. Turk Roland. He’s with ABIS, their Arson and Bombing Investigative Services subunit.”

  “He as good as you?”

  “If we’re talking bombs, he and Art Rooney are the best. Rooney’s out on medical. We call Roland the Turkmeister.”

  “The Turkmeister?”

  “He just co-authored a new study for the NCAVC,” she said, referring to the National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime. “I read through it, learned a lot.”

  “So maybe getting you into trouble was a good thing.”

  “Let’s not go there.” She pulled a file from a stack beside her computer and splayed it open. “Here’s the deal. As much research as there is on serial killers, there’s very little on bombers. That’s why this new study was so important. Basically, bombers are classified by motive. There’re several categories, from experimentation to vandalism, excitement, revenge, diversion, political-ideological, and criminal enterprise. Let’s focus on the last two, since my impression is that whoever’s done this is operating in a group and has gone through significant effort to blow up the veep’s choppers. The planning alone rules out a lot of our potential suspect pool.”

  “Cool. Then what does that leave us with?”

  “Assuming we’re not dealing with some Middle Eastern terrorist sect, bombers in general tend to be white males, averaging five-ten, a hundred eighty-five pounds. Your UNSUB will likely have one or more body tattoos. He might have some form of disfigurement because of accidents while building or testing his bombs. So look for facial scarring or missing fingers.”

  “So we’re looking for an average white guy with tattoos and missing fingers. Shouldn’t be too hard to find. Reminds me of this play I once saw about a one-eyed woman from Guadalajara with a wooden leg.”

  Vail tilted her head. “Are you mocking me?”

  Uzi leaned forward in his seat and rested his forearms on his knees. “Yes. I’m making fun of you, but this is good stuff. Go on.”

  “I take my work very seriously.”

  “Me too. Go on.”

  Vail eyed him for a moment, then continued. “He’ll live in a middle-class neighborhood. He’ll be heterosexual. You’ve got about a fifty-fifty chance that he’s married. If he is, he’ll have one to three kids.”

  Uzi’s eyebrows rose. “You’re shitting me.”

  “Here’s the kicker. Unlike serial killers, these guys tend to come from fairly stable home environments. Your UNSUB’s parents earned a decent living, and both parents were probably present through his childhood. In fact, he likely had a warm relationship with both of them, though it was a bit better with the mother—”

  Uzi began lifting papers and file folders, as if searching for something.

  Vail stopped talking and watched Uzi rifle through her desk. “Uh, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “I’m looking for your crystal ball.”

  She turned away. “Look, Uzi, you’ve been through this process before. You know what a profile consists of.”

  “He’ll have one to three kids? He had a warm relationship with his mother, but less so than his father? Come on. I mean, how accurate do you think this is?”

  “I can only tell you what the research shows. Like I said, we know much more about serial killers. And this isn’t my area of expertise. But after talking with Turk, I have confidence that this info is in the ballpark. Besides, this is only meant as a way to narrow the field a bit, not hand you the name and address of your offender.”

  Uzi sighed. “Okay. What else?”

  “Your UNSUB will have a good relationship with his kids, and probably with his wife, too, but that’s not as certain. He’ll be bright, and educated through high school—maybe even some college. But socially he’ll be an underachieving loner.”

  “What about religion?”

  “Most likely Protestant. Possibly Baptist. Not fervent, but it does matter to him.”

  “I was just kidding.”

  “Actually, I thought it was an excellent question.”

  “Oh yeah? Then I was serious.” He winked, then asked, “What about military service?”

  “Are you joking now or serious?”

  He dipped his chin and eyed her from an angle. Squinting, he said, “Serious.”

  “Then it’s another good question. There doesn’t seem to be a hugely significant association with military service, though a fair percentage, maybe thirty percent of known bombers, did serve. Army and Marines. But I think a better way of looking at it is that these people do tend toward a fascination with explosive devices, ordnance, ammunition, and so on. Whether your UNSUB officially recognized these interests in an organized military fashion might not be the case. But I would look first at the military and use it as a comparative database.”

  “Organized military fashion. So he might’ve gotten his kicks elsewhere, like with a militia?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the ‘underachieving loner’—socially—that would also fit with a militia.”

  “Could,” she corrected. “Could fit. Remember, these are guidelines, not absolutes.” She paused, glanced at her notes, then rocked her head back. “All that said, here’s something that’ll sound the radar. Bombing is the assassination method of choice for militia groups.”

  Uzi’s eyebrows rose. “Is that right?”

  “If you look back thirty years,” she said, consulting her notes, “they’ve typically used bombs to get even with their enemies. Pipe bombs, fertilizer bombs, even artillery. But C-4 would be relatively new for them. At this point, I should tell you that profiling them might be a tad bit harder because you’re dealing with group behaviors.”

  “Does this throw your profile out the window?”

  “Not necessarily. And we could still be talking about an individual here.”

  “Then let’s go on. Will he be employed?”

  “Yes. Chances are good he’s in a decent financial position. First of all, he used C-4. He had to have gotten it from somewhere. Unless he stole it—which ATF would know about—it’d require money and contacts—which again could suggest an organized group. Groups provide the ability to pool resources and influence. And the comfort to draw up and execute such an aggressive plan.”

  While Uzi considered what she had said, Vail glanced again at her notes.

  “Here’s something that may be of immediate help. It’s likely your guy did time as a juvenile. Probably even multiple felonies, which might help narrow things. As an adult, he’s probably had three felony arrests.”

  “So he’s a guy who’d been in our system.”

  “Yeah, but there’s a caveat here. If he is with a group, the bomb maker is the one who’s been in the system. The top dogs might not show up in our database. But—”

  “We’ll get the guy with the dirty fingernails to roll on his bosses.”

  “Look for bombing/explosive and burglary/robbery offenses. If he did do time, that’ll likely be the deal.”

  “Are these guys like serial killers— Will any power rape type of thing show on their sheets?”

  She shook her head. “Even though there’s often a sexual component to some bombers’ motives, rape or sexual assault isn’t their vice.”

  “Okay,” Uzi said. “Let’s step back a second. I think we can assume this bomber is part of a group, and this group has political/ideological motives, or is interested in revenge. Agreed?”

  Vail shifted in her seat. “The branch is creaking.”

  “William Ellison was a bright guy. Could he have been our bomber?”

  “He certainly had access, and he had intimate knowledge of the mechanical aspects of the helicopter, more than enough to take the thing down. But is he the guy who built the bomb? Maybe. Not necessarily. From the info you faxed me, Ellison fits cert
ain aspects of the profile. But he also falls outside it in a lot of ways. Big thing is that he didn’t have a criminal history. He was single, didn’t appear to be in a significant relationship, and his childhood was not exactly what you’d call stable or warm and fuzzy. There was a note in there about his father, who skipped when little William was two.”

  “I saw it.”

  “And given his high-end job at the Marine base, I assume he wasn’t missing any fingers.”

  “No disfiguring marks, either,” Uzi said. “And he didn’t have any overt government inclinations or he would’ve failed the Yankee White background check. It’s pretty intense.” He thought a moment, then said, “Can we assume that Ellison was the one who placed it?”

  “Best not to deal in assumptions. Logic is better. So let’s look at it logically based on your scenario. Bottom line, the day after the chopper is taken down, Ellison’s erased. Professional job from what I saw in the file. Nothing personal in the crime scene. Just a surgical hit. Very clean.”

  “Which suggests and supports the group theory.”

  “Forgetting their reliance on bombs to eliminate their enemies, I’d agree. Go with what you’ve got and deal with the facts: Ellison worked on the choppers, the choppers exploded, then Ellison is eliminated. Logic suggests it was done to cover their tracks. Who’s pulling the strings?”

  “ARM?”

  Vail sighed, leaned back in her chair. “Prime suspect. But you need proof. A smoking gun.”

  “More like discarded C-4.”

  Vail closed her file. “I think you’ve got enough to run with.”

  “Maybe.” Uzi reached over and closed the door and lowered his voice. He was about to take a risk, but he trusted Vail and believed that whatever he told her would remain between them. “I’ve got another theory. Douglas Knox, the NFA and ARM.”

  Vail’s eyebrows rose. Her eyes darted from side to side as she processed what Uzi was suggesting. “Conspiracy?”

  Uzi shrugged.

  “For what reason? I mean, that’s big stuff, Uzi.”

  “Glendon Rusch’s pro-gun-control policy.” He briefly recapped his meeting with Bishop, then sat back and waited for her response.

  She twisted her lips in thought. “Well, as conspiracy theories go, it’s intriguing. Up there with Oliver Stone’s JFK theory. But we’re not talking Hollywood here. You have to actually prove it.”

  “I’m not stupid. I know it’ll be next to impossible. These people know how to cover their asses. And Knox has deep contacts just about everywhere you look.”

  “Have you floated something by the AG?”

  Uzi had not thought of going straight to Winston Coulter. He was, after all, head of the Department of Justice, and the DOJ was the FBI’s parent, so to speak. If Coulter authorized an investigation, Knox’s displeasure—and resulting heat—would fall on Coulter, not on Uzi. And with Uzi’s new reputation for blowing the whistle, hiding behind the AG’s shield was fine with him.

  “Think I should?”

  “I don’t know. Probably best to wait till you’ve got something more...explosive.” She squinted. “Sorry—couldn’t resist.”

  “What do you think of my theory?”

  “Honestly?”

  Uzi made a face. “No, lie to me.”

  “Fine,” Vail said. “It scores pretty high on my bullshit radar.” She leaned forward. “I’m not saying it’s not what’s going on here, but a few accusations and numbers thrown around by a guy who may be a paranoid conspiracy nut himself... I’d need more than that to even consider it. I dealt with Knox once, and he was firm but fair, and at the end of the day, supportive. I don’t know him near well enough to draw up anything even resembling a behavioral profile, but going just on gut instinct, I can’t see him being part of a conspiracy to assassinate the president-elect.”

  Uzi twisted his lips in disappointment, but knew she was right. His proof was as thin as his theory was compelling. But that was just it: it was a theory. He needed evidence—and until he got some, he was nowhere.

  2:32 PM

  119 hours 28 minutes remaining

  Uzi’s cell was ringing. He set his iPad onto the dashboard, having finished dictating his thoughts on the salient parts of Vail’s profile. While trying to keep his left hand on the wheel and one eye on the interstate, he fished through his overcoat, which was folded beside him. By the time he rooted out the phone, the caller had left a voicemail: it was Madeline telling him to report immediately to the attorney general’s office.

  He returned Madeline’s call, hoping she could provide some background on the meeting. She could not. Uzi left a message for Shepard, then exited the interstate and arrived at the Department of Justice several minutes later. He checked in with Winston Coulter’s personal assistant, then turned to take a seat. But before he was able to sit, the woman told him the attorney general was ready to see him.

  Uzi hesitated a moment, trying to figure out the reason for the meeting. Not only was it called at the last minute, but Winston Coulter was notorious for making people wait, a trait Uzi figured was part of the power game a lot of Washington bureaucrats played. Yet Uzi had been ushered in the moment he arrived.

  Given the peculiarity of the situation, Uzi’s interest was piqued, to say the least. But maybe this visit, whatever its purpose and no matter how unprecedented, would give him the opportunity to discuss the restrictive order Knox had placed on them in accessing the NICS database.

  Uzi walked into the spacious office, where a portly Winston Coulter sat behind his desk chattering on the phone. He did not acknowledge Uzi’s presence, keeping his gaze fixed on the ceiling. Uzi immediately realized that standing in someone’s office while he ignored you was infinitely more intimidating than waiting by yourself in a comfortable anteroom.

  Uzi stood there a moment, then began to peruse the wall hangings. Certificates, law degrees and decrees, the usual photo ops with politicians. The office, though personalized, contained all the trappings and decorations Uzi had seen a hundred times.

  “No, he’s here now,” Coulter said. “I’ll take care of it. Thanks for the heads up, Victor.” Coulter slammed down the phone and met Uzi’s gaze. “Agent, seems we’ve got a bit of a problem.”

  Uzi stepped closer to the large maple desk, but did not sit. “With what, sir?”

  “I just got off the phone with Victor Ripclaw. You know who Victor Ripclaw is, Agent?”

  “Name rings a bell, but I can’t—”

  “Victor Ripclaw is the managing partner with Hayes Patino Sinclair Ripclaw. You’ve heard of that law firm, haven’t you?”

  “One of the largest on the east coast.” And one with enough clout to be able to pick up the phone and get through to the attorney general of the United States.

  “Exactly right, Agent. You know why Mr. Ripclaw called me?”

  “Sir, with all due respect, if we could get to the point—”

  “His client is Nelson Flint. Is that blunt enough for you?”

  Uzi closed his mouth. That was a revelation of significance. “Nelson Flint’s with Hayes Patino Sinclair Ripclaw? Doesn’t that strike you as odd, sir?”

  “Whether it strikes me as odd or not, Agent Uziel, is irrelevant. Mr. Ripclaw is quite upset over your two visits to Mr. Flint’s place of business.”

  “It’s a right-wing militia compound, sir. I wouldn’t exactly call it ‘a place of business.’”

  “You didn’t call it a place of business. I did. And the point, Agent Uziel, is that you should not have been there unless you had a warrant.”

  “With all due respect, sir, the first time we were there they gave us access voluntarily. The second time we never set foot on their property. Regardless of what their Madison Avenue lawyer claimed, we didn’t need a warrant. We just went there to ask questions during the normal course of our investigation.”

  “With your guns drawn?”

  “We did not draw our weapons, sir.”

  “That’s not what I was t
old.”

  “I don’t know who—”

  “Listen here, Agent Uziel, I do not want another Ruby Ridge or Waco on our hands. Now that’s pretty clear, isn’t it? You get my point, don’t you?”

  “Yes, sir. We were aware of the risks—”

  “And yet you went anyway.”

  Uzi sighed. “I’m sorry if we upset them, sir.” Actually, he wasn’t—but he sensed a bit of contrition was called for.

  “Did you find anything?”

  “No.”

  Coulter tossed his pen onto the desk. “Agent, Mr. Ripclaw did us all a favor by calling my office instead of filing harassment charges and sending a copy of his complaint to the Post. The Bureau’s had enough black eyes the past several years. We don’t need any more. What you do reflects on me, and I don’t want to have to answer for it, do you understand?”

  Uzi looked away. “Very clearly, sir.”

  “Good. Now—” The buzz of Coulter’s phone gave Uzi a second to think. Coulter lifted it, listened for a moment, then said, “Send them in.”

  Marshall Shepard and Douglas Knox walked through the door. Uzi felt the heat rising beneath his collar, and he immediately wished he’d removed his leather overcoat before entering Coulter’s office.

  Coulter exchanged a glance with Knox and Shepard. “Agent Uziel and I have been having a little chat. Weren’t we, Agent?” Coulter paused, looked hard at Uzi.

  “Yes sir, a little chat.”

  “I got a call from Hayes Patino Sinclair Ripclaw,” Coulter continued. “Seems Agent Uziel and his partner have been harassing Nelson Flint and his colleagues. Went to Mr. Flint’s place with their firearms drawn.”

  Shepard and Knox simultaneously looked at Uzi. They were not wearing their happy faces.

  “The managing partner gave us a heads-up before filing charges.”

  “Uzi,” Shepard said, “you’ve got some explaining to do.”

  When one of the most influential attorneys in the country lit a fuse, the resulting fallout often consumed those in close proximity. Like a neutron bomb, it left the office standing but destroyed the people inside it. Uzi hoped Shepard could escape the damage. Still, he should’ve seen it coming: taking the heat for the actions of people under your command came with the territory. Shepard was guilty by rank and proximity.