by Mike Bogin
“Hope that it was a group,“ Al told him. “Pray it’s not one crazy person.” Al started rolling the base of his empty coffee mug on the tabletop. “So what makes them tick? Do they know the victims? Personal resentment? Jealousy? Egotism?”
“The irony here, which you will certainly appreciate, is that rich people are not a protected class,” Al said. “I guess we don’t have different classes in this country, just people who have drivers and never have to get on the subway or take a bus. They live in buildings behind doormen and locked doors. They have the cameras and the security systems and the bodyguards and the fancy-schmancy gates on their houses in Westchester, but they aren’t a protected class. Race, religion, old people…we have special protections for every one of them. If we have a hate crime, the Bureau can come in to work the case. But just being rich doesn’t get the Bureau involved.”
Owen listened while Al’s analysis dipped and dived into explorations of motive and method while also off-handedly mentioning tidbits about Al’s fascination with brain science. He was impressed; the old guy was obviously fascinated by minutia that even experienced investigators would seldom think to consider. A data analyst hired for skills in UNIX, self-taught in SQL Server and SAP, and seemingly the Bureau’s investigative brain. Al offered his advice to “look for what isn’t there as much as you take in what you can see” more than once. According to Al, the most fascinating science, the real world-changing astrophysics, came from the greatest voids. “I love black holes. Black holes make you use your kop.” Again he tapped his finger to his forehead. “I sometimes think what would happen if, instead of organizing, more people kept to themselves and committed just one action, one ever, and then went dark. We have drones and satellites watching us overhead, filters in email and telephone communications. But how do you catch the guy who never conspires? Again, I digress. Pardon me.”
When they were finished, Owen wondered if he would ever be talking again with this funny old guy. Al Hurwitz’s gray hair looked like it was cut at home over the bathroom sink, his eyeglasses fitting askew, a pot belly and pants cuffs frayed from his walking on them whenever he hadn’t pulled them up; Owen decided Al was one of those characters who either was so good at his job that he didn’t have a life or so bad at life that he put everything into his job. Probably over sixty and still having his mother reminding him to do his chores. But damn, the guy knew his stuff.
From the parking garage, Owen directed a message to Christiana Dansk. Based upon I KILL RICH PEOPLE, they needed to recalibrate. New York may not have been hit, but the city was full of rich people, dangling like a ripe peach.
He was down to the parking garage before he remembered to get validated. Round trip to the 23rd floor or $45. His choice.
* * * * *
Monday, July 9
Owen was running through the Haitian neighborhoods over to Las Rosas Bakery for honey buns and just beginning to work up a sweat. North Corona might not be the same place it was when he was growing up, but it wasn’t so bad, either, he thought. He was also thinking how that was another argument with Callie he didn’t want to have. When his pocket buzzed, he reached out his phone a read Dansk’s order. Get back to FBI HQ.
I KILL RICH PEOPLE index cards had come in to at least eight more radio and television stations and the Bureau had called a media and local law enforcement conference.
Owen skipped the honey buns. The worn-thin NYPD blue sweatshirt and gray gym shorts he was wearing didn’t cut it. He had to get back home, get showered, shaved, and changed.
His mother and father used to argue; black ugly screaming matches with shattered glass on the floor and holes in the walls afterward. Owen knew he didn’t want that, not for Callie and Liam and Casey and not for himself. Now, there he was, ducking his head low under the same shower in the same bathroom in the same house and going out on the job. Late nights. Missing Liam’s practices.
After stepping out from the shower, Owen smelled the towel and switched it for a new one before drying himself off, but when it was humid there was just no way to get good and dry. He could hardly pull on the dress shirt with it sucking against his skin. Both of his suits were wool blends for wintertime. He stared at each one, deciding what was better: to sweat through a suit or to go with his regular work clothes, slacks and a sport jacket? But, God love him, this was exciting. Driving twenty miles an hour over the speed limit and passing on the shoulder were fringe benefits. He wasn’t out selling insurance, that was for sure.
Security cameras photographed Owen as he entered the Federal Building parking garage at 11:40. He wound his way down four floors before he shoe-horned his way into an open spot. Purposeful men in suits, women in smart black or dark blue outfits left him feeling out of step in his brown herringbone sports jacket and tan slacks. A dozen people rode the elevator, none speaking. On the ground floor, Owen repeated the routine he had learned two days before. Shield, ID, service revolver onto the tray, through the metal detector, then hand scanner, retrieve everything, and on to the terminals to log his presence in the building. A pop-up message directed him to Room 2344A then faded out before being replaced with a color map displaying a flashing star: YOU ARE HERE. The star turned into a moving dot that bounced its way along a highlighted map going to 2344A.
Inside the 23rd floor lobby, the receptionist pushed a manila envelope under her glass slot. Owen accepted it and glanced again at her. She was a different receptionist, this time a slender black woman with startling huge golden eyes and the high, pronounced cheekbones of a fashion model. Inside the envelope was a printed instruction page, a temporary day pass already printed with his name and identification, a plastic parking fob, and another of Al Hurwitz’s cards reading Data Analyst.
“Lieutenant,” explained the stunning administrative assistant, “You are being issued an Associate Partner Identification that will remain valid throughout your participation with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Your pass is pre-laminated with the photo and thumbprint that I have just taken and comes in a clear plastic holder than must be worn in clear sight at all times while you are in this building. Your Partner Identification may be worn either on your belt with the clip provided, or you may choose to wear it around your neck using your own lanyard. Allowing anyone else to borrow or possess your Partner Identification is a violation of federal law. If your Partner Identification is lost or stolen, you are responsible for reporting the loss immediately. You are also issued with a temporary parking permit that is equipped with an embedded chip that will allow you to enter and exit through the monthly parking gates beginning tomorrow. If your temporary parking permit is lost or stolen, you are responsible for reporting the loss immediately. You have been issued this Blackberry device. It is not a toy. Anything transmitted on this device is a matter of federal record. You are to keep this device with you at all times. Do not alter the default settings. When you hear and feel the vibrate notification, read the communication and respond to it without delay.”
Owen completed processing at 12:03 p.m., clipped on his identification, pressed his parking permit into his pants pocket, and followed the highlighted map directing him to the conference room. Things were moving too quickly for him to find out why. Why the new ID, why the Blackberry?
Following the efficient flow of initial processing, Owen sprinted to locate 2344A. Intel Division wanted nothing to do with the Bureau and suddenly Owen was carrying an FBI ID and one of their Blackberries? Dansk might fall out of her high heels when she found out about it, he thought.
The room turned out to be standing room-only, as senior production management from network television stations and eight radio station holding firms were present in the 20 x 30 conference space along with six men and two women whom Owen sized up as Bureau agents. No cameras, no microphones other than the wired microphone on the lapel of a tall man graying at the temples with a striking resemblance to a professional model f
or a men’s erectile dysfunction drug.
Special Agent Matthew Turner announced himself in a terse manner suggesting both impatience and gravitas. “Gentlemen and ladies, most of your stations have received identical notes from persons unknown. In view of the recent events this past July 4, followed by the Sag Harbor shootings of July 7, for some of you the leap between these notes and those murders might appear credible.”
Turner slowly scanned around the room, his eyes connecting with each face. “There is no evidence, none whatsoever, that supports any such assumption. On behalf of this agency, I want to thank you for doing the right thing. We are conducting an ongoing investigation. At this time, there is no evidence whatsoever that the murders of six individuals in Nassau and Suffolk Counties are in any manner connected to each other or tied to these threats. Suffolk County Police and Nassau County Police, with the full support and assistance of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, are pursuing all leads in their effort to apprehend the persons responsible for shooting six men, resulting in their deaths. No evidence has suggested that their affluence had any correlation to this criminal event. It is both irresponsible and highly counterproductive to afford these notes any airtime or print media.”
Several hands went up before Turner waved them down and continued. “We are well aware that one hundred percent responsibility and prudent cooperation can never be expected in a free society. Mr. Elliot has chosen to ignore the public interest.” Elliot’s morning program had been devoting itself to I Kill Rich People, drawing precisely the connections that Turner was hoping to prevent.
“Local and federal law enforcement agencies have tripled personnel across the length of Long Island,” Turner continued. “With court authorization, a prepared security procedure has been put into effect from Montauk west, with random searches of vehicles on any roadway, day and night, along with advanced surveillance employing all available technologies.” Turner made eye contact with each of the media heavyweights individually, his long pause lending weight to the words.
“Obviously, specifics on technologies and methodologies cannot be discussed. What I can say, verbatim, is that a safety net is tightening all across Long Island, and that rapid response teams are in place already to assure that elite personnel can reach every location on Long Island within ten minutes or less.”
Jim Redmond, a media heavyweight with more than fifty years in television, sat to the front with his famous comb-over hairstyle and bulldog personality. “What makes this a Long Island issue and not something that is equally a concern in the City?” he demanded. “Are you seeking specific suspects? Is this one person or a group? Are they targeting rich people? I’m speaking for everyone here: Media will cooperate, but that is a two-way street. Give us something to work with.”
Owen snuck a glance down at his phone, which vibrated with an incoming text: Where r u? Boys’ haircuts???
Turner was standing to his full height. Calm, well-practiced response. Deep voice. Methodical. “Bureau policy is never to discuss ongoing investigations, whether or not the investigation is being conducted under FBI jurisdiction. But, again, there is no correlation evidenced between the shootings and the notes. Further, suggesting that anyone is taking aim at rich people is irresponsible. Mr. Redmond, be assured that we have a considerable array of resources ready to deploy should the need arise. But we are not going to yell ‘fire’ in a crowded theater.”
Redmond shook his head. “This is our top news story. We can’t oblige you by ignoring it.”
“Nobody is saying to ignore the story,” Turner rejoined. “Report it for what it is, murder. Don’t sensationalize it. I am asking that you do the right thing. We are at the height of summer vacationing all along Long Island beach communities. We placed a highly visible police presence onto Long Island to provide reassurance that life goes on as normal. Whether that presence is seen as reassuring or is looked upon as confirmation that there is reason to be afraid is entirely dependent upon the slant you people decide to take. We don’t need this story to become today’s version of Jaws. There is no great white shark.”
Turner was convinced that any one of the media bosses would sell out his own children if it meant higher ratings, but the immediate boil that needed lancing was the worst of the whole bunch. “Every one of you works with sponsors,” he said. “Call on them to put a clamp on Emerson Elliot. Bring to their attention exactly who they are sponsoring, what they are sponsoring: Emerson Elliot turning mass murder into a carnival side show. This is not a constitutional issue. This is about responsible behavior.”
Owen heard a low whisper singing, “Yiddee biddee bim bam.” Al Hurwitz, obviously happy with himself. “If I were a rich man,” Al added.
Owen’s phone buzzed again. Call me! Callie texted. Owen held the phone low and texted back soon.
Soob—thanks, autocorrect—was not the response Callie was wanting.
“Come with me,” Al asked, giving Owen a tug to the crook of his arm. The old guy was not law enforcement in behavior and a little too familiar. Owen shifted his attention to Al.
“This isn’t important,” Al whispered. “More show.” He signaled Owen to follow.
While they walked down the interior hallway, Al explained how the whole conference was much ado about nothing. “Turner wants to be center stage, but the resources aren’t flowing to him.” The conference had not been ordered through D.C.; the Office of the Director would have been represented if the Bureau had the point on any federal investigation.
“Five billionaires dead, counting Merrill, so you know there is a federal investigation. But typical NSA shenanigans.” Al peeked for any special response to the Irish word and was disappointed when he saw none. “Once the spooks have it, the rest of us are out of the loop. So we go about things our own way.” Al turned into a doorway where a Hispanic major in army greens was seated.
“Major Ed Gonzalez,” Al offered, “Owen Cullen, NYPD.” Handshakes all around. “Let’s get to work.”
Owen needed no explanation to know at least one of the major’s skills: recognizing the marksman and sniper badges on Gonzalez’ chest. What he wondered more than anything else was what was he doing there, an NYPD Detective-Lieutenant now with an FBI ID clipped onto his waistband?
“Let’s, the three of us, see if we can’t get ahead of this, shall we?” Al began. “Other than the suggestion built into the first person singular pronoun in I KILL RICH PEOPLE, which may or may not be tied to the shootings, we have no proof that this is one perpetrator. We have no fingerprints, no hair samples, no physical evidence whatsoever. Inasmuch as there are no known suspects and a deep abundance of rich people, we’ll work on building profiles and then try to narrow the field. Until they make a mistake, that is what we can do.”
Owen found Al’s working efficiency startling; was so much at odds with the man’s almost slovenly outward appearance. Al pulled up the notes he had written out, with assistance from Bureau resources in D.C., before continuing.
“I have already emailed to each of you the complete copy of an initial pass through the Behavioral Analysis Unit. Access will require you to establish a login and password for the case file, which can wait until later. Key points from the BAU report are that the actions do not coincide with documented political extremist movements, that the perpetrators display no inclination to suicide, that while Sands Point required a high degree of calculation and site preparation, the opposite was true to Sag Harbor. The Sag Harbor shootings might have been carried out by anyone with basic skills and motivation.”
Al bent his face down and looked over his eyeglasses toward their expert army sniper. He had participated in dozens of investigations, but he saw no conforming patterns here, he explained.In a dozen other respects, the events are extremely distinct from one another,” he continued. “Sands Point was a pre-planned, well-publicized party with an A-list of guests, the majority of who
m were Jewish. Sag Harbor involved two victims who just happened to be cruising in their boats in that area at that time. On the one hand, a level of sophistication that suggests a government operation, CIA/MI6/Mossad, yet the presumptive target, the mayor, went through unscathed.”
Al Hurwitz found himself in the uncomfortable position of having to generalize in order to offer any context at all. “Terrorism is all about resonating effect. There is always a general shudder amongst world leaders whenever any leader has a close call. Jews across the world are now frightened by specters of a new Bond-like foe rather than teenage suicide bombers.”
He could see the pieces, but nothing added up to fit into a complete image. “Sag Harbor was entirely different from Sands Point, so much so that we need to give weight to the possibility that we may have multiple perpetrators. The Sag Harbor shooter is proving potency; he has the capacity to pluck away the life from the victims. He can turn their pleasure into pain. If there is a message in the Sag Harbor shootings, it would have to be that the fun is over, that there is no such thing as safe relaxation. Either one of the Sag victims might have been targeted for the regular litany of reasons: rage, jealousy, greed.”
Sag Harbor was so easily executed in comparison to Sands Point that Al could not get his mind around a correlation. “Sands Point is completely different. Sands Point is all about proving power and asserting the victim’s vulnerability. If there is a message from Sand Point, that message is that anyone, anywhere, and at any time, is vulnerable.”
Al disliked the fact that he was forced to speculate, preferring the factual rather than the hypothetical, but having too few tangibles. “Not enough to go on to draw any conclusions,” he maintained. He was well aware that the inferences he was able to spot were severely limited. “I can say this much: if this is one shooter, then his motivations are impersonalized. These events, night and day, complex and simple, world-stage and pedestrian, are so different that the single thing I can say with confidence is that this shooter has just begun. If he is going after rich people, then I’d be getting into my Mercedes and getting the hell off Long Island.
