SAM AND JONAS
SAM HAD STARTED TO DOZE. The very idea of his son being gay exhausted him beyond his comprehension. He was trying to weigh the evidence. Each new piece put him back to sleep.
Jonas sat down on the sofa near him. “I got something. Wake up. You may not like it. You will not like it.”
Sam tried to pretend he’d been awake. “What do you mean? Who?”
“What, not who. Because you’re a cop. Because you’re you. Our John Doe?”
Sam was trying to jump-start his brain. It wasn’t going well. “I still don’t know what you mean, Jonas.”
Sam had an urge to talk about his maybe-gay son. With someone who had recognized the fact before he did. He wished he were awake enough, or courageous enough, to engage Jonas about Simon. He wasn’t.
Jonas angled his laptop toward Sam. “This is your original photo from the Boston Globe. The guy closest to Elliot is the one we can’t find. After this day he’s a digital cipher. Never on Facebook. Or anything similar. No images or tags of him on the accounts of the other people in the photo. Nada. I was beginning to think he died right after the 9/11 attacks.”
“Is that it? He’s dead?” Sam asked. Sam’s brain wasn’t in a high enough gear for him to decide whether the guy being dead would be good news or bad news.
Jonas made a few deft swipes with his fingertips. “We have the woman’s name. On 9/11 she was just starting her senior year at Boston University. And”—Jonas slid a new photo into place—“here she is in 1999 with a guy who might be our John Doe. It’s a good photo of her, but he’s in profile. I think it’s him, but it’s not a no-doubter.” He arranged the images side by side. “What do you think? Him?”
“Does the facial recognition software think it’s him?”
“The software matched her, not him. This JPEG is digitized from newsprint. Not ideal. And we’re going back in time—real time and digital time—to 1999. For facial recognition newer is better. More pixels are better. Color is better. 3-D is best. Facial recognition is just a complex algorithm. Some variables—eyes, width of the nose—are crucial to the algorithm. Clarity aids measurement.”
Sam’s mouth was hanging open. “Are they in a classroom?”
“Yeah, the photo is from the Crimson, that’s the Harvard newspaper—they’re attending a lecture by some famous somebody in Cambridge. If—if—that’s our John Doe he may have been a student, too. Maybe at Harvard.”
Sam said, “Elliot went to Harvard. That could be where they met. Good work.”
“I looked in some Middle Eastern databases where I could poke around in English. The guy shows up a decade later, but only once, and only briefly. And it’s weird.” Jonas dragged another picture to the row of photos on the screen. The photo was of a sheik speaking to another sheik. “Ignore the two sheiks in the center. That’s our guy standing at the desk to the right. Next to the third sheik who’s sitting. See?”
“What is a sheik exactly?” Sam asked. “Is that a religious thing? A tribal thing?”
“It’s an honorific. It’s not important.”
“You’re sure that’s him?” Sam said. “I see some resemblance, but I wouldn’t have …”
“The software is certain. Good straight-on facial shots. This is a recent photo, 2009. He’s older. Hair is different. He has a beard. He’s lost weight. It’s him. The photo was taken in a town called Duba.”
“I don’t know where the hell Duba is,” Sam said. “What’s his name?”
Jonas said, “Neither did I. It’s a resort on the Red Sea in Saudi Arabia. This puts him in Duba, I think maybe with one of his uncles, in November 2009.”
“You know his uncle? You must have a name.”
“The newspaper is in Arabic. This photo is from a cache of the print edition, but the photo is not in the online Arabic version, or in the English language edition. I used translating software on the caption in the Arabic edition, which isn’t a reliable way—”
“Jesus Christ, Jonas. Please tell me his name.”
Jonas rearranged the images on the screen. “Sometimes you find news articles online that aren’t in print editions, but it doesn’t usually happen the other way. There had to be a reason to scrub the photo from the digital editions. If I had time I could probably find a cache with the original page for confirmation.”
Sam started pacing. He saw Clare’s car pull to a stop outside. Emily barked twice to announce the girls’ arrival. Sam said, “They’re back. I need his name, Jonas.”
“I should find someone who can confirm the translation. But it’s sensitive—I don’t want to just throw the question out online. Do you know anyone who speaks Arabic that you could trust with this?”
“Speaks Arabic? Trust with what? I can’t wait any longer. Tell me.”
“The newspaper is Al Jazirah, Sam. I think our John Doe is Haziq bin Laden.”
71
HBL. “YOU’RE SURE?”
“The software is sure.”
“Those bin Ladens?”
“Them. I printed a family tree for you.” Jonas switched the screen to an article in the Washington Post. “You may know this, but it turns out a whole mess of bin Ladens were in the U.S. on 9/11. U.S. National Security approved a Saudi government request to airlift them out of the country right after the attacks. I have links if you want. It’s real.”
“I remember. The mainstream media gave our president a hard time about it.”
“Can’t imagine why,” Jonas said. “Haziq—our John Doe—was on the repatriation flight to Saudi Arabia with his extended family.”
Sam said, “His relation to Osama?”
“Brother’s son. Osama bin Laden’s nephew. Another big family, by the way.”
“Your theory about why the guy disappeared for all those years? Notoriety? Because of his name? I’m sure you have a hypothesis.”
Jonas said, “The obvious one? Yeah, he was lying low. After the attack. Not the best time to be a bin Laden.”
Sam kicked at nothing. “Other bin Ladens resurfaced long before 2009. This is too important to guess about. I need to see if any of this means anything to Alan.” Sam began to compose a text to Alan, burner to burner.
Jonas said, “You told me you have Alan’s phone.”
“I have his smartphone. I’m sending this to his burner. From my burner.”
“Wait, wait. Alan has a burner? You have a burner?”
“This is a Hail Mary, Jonas. I’m praying Elliot doesn’t have possession of Alan’s burner. If I’m wrong? I don’t want to think about it.”
Sam typed: HB in MA with Osamas nephew? Mean anything to u?
Jonas went back to his laptop. He flipped from a New York Times article to one on the Fox site. “You’re right—various bin Ladens began showing up again in Western media long before 2009. One even wrote a book. That may not be why our guy was so low profile.”
“Motherfu—” Sam said. “Shit. The connection between this guy and Elliot? All we really know is, what, that Elliot attended a fund-raiser with a Saudi prince’s great niece and a bin Laden nephew prior to 9/11? Dozens of other people attended that event. The charity isn’t controversial. It doesn’t explain anything. It certainly doesn’t explain why Elliot would care one way or another if the news got out that he was there.”
From the front of the house Grace said, “Two bucks, two bucks.”
Jonas told Grace to shut up. Clare told Jonas not to tell his sister to shut up.
Jonas told Sam he would keep looking.
Sam told everyone that he should have verified Alan had his burner before he sent the text.
Grace didn’t care. She said, “Two bucks. Two bucks.”
72
ALAN
I JUMPED AS MY BURNER vibrated twice in quick succession.
Amanda whispered, “The Buffer. Go!”
Raoul. I whispered, “Where?”
She pointed toward the bedroom. It didn’t feel like a great solution, but options for hiding places were limited. I wen
t.
I stood with my ear near the door as I checked the texts. Not about the kids please.
The first was from LA Amy. BBB?? On my way. Confirm. What? Jesus.
I heard Amanda say, “How did you find me here?” The bedroom door had the substance of a shoji screen. Her voice was as distinct as if she were in the room with me.
Raoul spoke next using his familiar voice, the one that played distant notes of his childhood in Catalonia. He had other accents for formal settings that scrubbed away those notes. A linguistic chameleon, he could sound like he was born in Omaha or Guadalajara. He said, “I’ve been trying to find you. You know that. A friend told me about your meeting at Gibbs and Brown.”
“Tanya? Damn Tanya.”
“A friend. I waited outside their office, followed you here. I thought I would learn where you were living, but instead—”
“Are you stalking me?”
“—this isn’t where you live. Whom were you talking to just now?”
“I was on the phone.”
“Let me see your phone. I don’t believe you.”
“No! You can’t have it. Raoul, those days are over. I have moved on.”
“They don’t have to be over.”
“Please leave. Now.”
“Are you working here? I see two water bottles. Has it come to this for you? For money? We can go back. I am ready to go back to what we had.”
“I’m doing a favor for a girlfriend, collecting some of her things. As you can see, this place is closed up.” Her voice shook a little as she added, “I have retired from the business, and from you.”
“Don’t lie. The water in those bottles is cold. Atlanta? Corporate training? You’ll make less than half of what I paid you. And you will grow bored, Amanda. Three months? Six? There will be no stakes, no risk. No reward, no passion. No adventure. That’s not you. That’s not your life.”
“And you, you’re my life? How did that work out for me? Leave. Please. Let me be. Let me go.” Amanda’s voice was firm. It was also sad.
Raoul didn’t respond to her. They went silent. Neither of them seemed to move. I did not hear footsteps, or creaking floors. I imagined an embrace between them.
I checked the second text. It was from Sam.
HB in MA with Osamas nephew? Mean anything to u?
Elliot in Boston with Osama’s nephew? I immediately wondered if Sam’s text had been autocorrected, if he’d meant Obama. Obama was his parents’ only child but he had a bunch of half siblings. Any of their sons would be his nephew. As would the sons of Michelle’s brother. Did Michelle’s brother have a son? I did not know. I typed:
???
A minute passed without a sound from the other room. I wondered what the hell was going on with Raoul and Amanda.
And with Sam Purdy and the nephew of either Barack Obama or Osama bin Laden.
I tried to imagine how my life had progressed to a point where the answer to that question could be such a crucial consideration for me.
A gust of wind caused the glass to rattle in the bedroom window.
73
DOCTOR LILA
YOU THINK?” MY SUPERVISOR said.
“Yes,” I replied. “Together my two patients committed a murder.”
“That is quite an allegation. On what do you base it?”
“Bits and pieces from one therapy added to bits and pieces from the other therapy. One plus one. And news reports about the death in question. From Google. Given what I suspect happened, I need your help understanding my ethical obligations going forward.”
He closed his eyes for a few seconds. I feared he was trying to rediscover his arrogant center. He said, “I am intrigued, of course, but also more than a little lost. Obligation to do what? Barring child endangerment, you not only have no ethical obligation to report a prior crime, but you also have no liberty to do so. That knowledge is protected by the patient’s privilege. It is not a gray area clinically. Or legally.”
“I understand all that,” I said. “I am wondering about my obligation under the ‘duty to warn.’”
He uncrossed his arms and uncrossed his legs. He leaned forward. “You’re thinking Tarasoff applies to this? I must have misunderstood. I thought you were talking about a prior murder, not a threatened one. An imminent one.”
“I am talking about both. A prior murder. And possibly an imminent one.”
“We, as therapists, only have a duty to warn when we have a patient who has made an overt threat. Has either of your patients made a clear threat, one that could be considered imminent?”
I gave it some thought. “Clear? No. Not exactly. But I have reason to think they do intend to harm someone. Soon.”
His posture relaxed. He thought whatever imminent threat I might pose had passed. He said, “Tell me about their intent to harm? Why?”
“Same answer as before. Bits and pieces from one therapy plus bits and pieces from the other therapy. News reports I got from Google. One plus one plus one.”
He sighed. The sigh, I thought, was dismissive. He said, “Go on.”
“The risk of harm to the new victim is high. It may not meet the letter of the current Tarasoff standards, but I believe I have a clear duty to warn in this circumstance. I know it’s unusual. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t.”
“Please tell me what you were told that you believe constitutes a threat.”
“The first one said that he was looking for a way to take a specific individual ‘down.’ I clarified with him. I said, ‘Down?’ He said, ‘Permanently, yeah. I have to find a way to end this harassment. I can’t live like this.’ That is close to an exact quote.”
“But those words could mean a number of things. Most of them benign.”
“But given their history? The earlier murder? I don’t feel I can take the risk.”
He contorted his face as though he had food caught between two molars. “Is there some countertransference we should discuss? Something that might be influencing your judgment about these men?”
“No. I understand that concern, but I am confident that I am perceiving these events without any … distortion.”
He got up and walked to his desk. He checked his cell phone for messages. He returned to his chair. “So your question to me is about your ethical obligation to warn a potential victim based on, what, a little of this and a little of that and your clinical intuition that these two patients are planning to hurt—”
“Kill.”
“—kill someone? Absent an overt threat? It’s not a lot to go on. Clinically.”
“The threat is implied. No, I think it is more than implied—to me it is almost clear—when I combine what I know from the two therapies. With what I’ve read online. These two men have demonstrated that they are willing to kill. The next victim? I believe he is at risk.”
“‘Implied’? ‘Almost clear’? ‘Believe’?”
“Yes.”
I expected him to argue. He didn’t. He said, “What about immediacy?”
“It could happen at any time.”
“Is that imminence, Delilah? Or speculation?”
“It’s risk to someone’s life. The stakes couldn’t be higher.”
“Are you able to identify the intended victim?”
“I am. It’s the Boulder County district attorney, Elliot Bellhaven. He has been identified by both patients as their prime … focus and adversary.”
74
SAM AND JONAS
SAM DIDN’T FIND ALAN’S reply to his text—???—helpful. It provided Sam no confidence at all that Alan, and not Elliot, was in possession of the burner. He typed:
Verify Fijis original name?
Ten seconds later Sam got a return text from Alan.
Callie wtf?
Sam said, “Clare and Grace are downstairs?” Jonas nodded without looking up from his laptop. “You’re sure?” Jonas nodded again. “Your dad still has his burner. He’s not in custody.”
Jonas said, “Jackpot. I sear
ched for the names together. Get this: The Saudi prince’s great niece or fourth cousin or whatever she is, and Haziq bin Laden were married in 2005 in Saudi Arabia. The same week Katrina hit New Orleans.”
Sam thought for a moment. He said, “Our guy is not gay? That changes things. I was thinking he was gay.”
“What? We don’t know that. He could be straight. He could be gay. She could be his beard.”
“His beard?”
“Being gay isn’t a great thing in Saudi Arabia. Or in Islam. He would need cover. A beard. A wife. Kids would help, too. They have three already.”
Sam said, “How the hell do you know all this?”
Jonas said, “How do you not? If he’s gay, it might explain his low profile. Right? And maybe why that photo in Duba was scrubbed. Haziq could have been there to see the sheik next to him in the picture? That sheik could be prominent, too. The scrubbing could have been because of the sheik, not Haziq.”
“I hear guesses, Jonas. We have no evidence, either way. What else would cause Elliot to be so determined to keep this part of his life secret? And cause this Haziz bin Laden to keep such a low profile?”
Jonas said, “Haziq. Has to be. If Haziq bin Laden is gay it explains things. If he’s not? This may all be a waste of time. All we may have is evidence that Elliot was at a fund-raiser with a guy who happened to be a relative of Osama bin Laden. Big whoop.”
“Lauren thought it was important,” Sam said. “She found that photo. She hid that photo from Elliot.”
“Yeah?” Jonas said. “Then that might be it.”
“Yeah.” Sam put one of his big hands on each side of the kid’s head. He touched his own forehead to Jonas’s. He said, “I’m going to go do my best to help your dad. You keep all this to yourself. Thank you for all your help. All … your help.”
“You’re going with the gay thing? With Alan?”
“We’re out of time, Jonas. I’m going to give it to him. Leave it up to him.”
Jonas said, “I don’t like it. Say Haziq is gay. Elliot’s been an ass, but he shouldn’t get crushed for being with Haziq. So Elliot was with a guy in Boston before 9/11? And maybe the guy was his boyfriend. That’s not a crime.”
“Wrong weekend. Wrong guy,” Sam said. “Elliot might have a knack for wrong guys.”
Compound Fractures Page 36
