by Mike Bogin
He paused to add resonance. The first thing you need to do when combating a skilled enemy is think.
“Advanced Sniper Training schools are primarily situated in the U.S., UK, Russia, China, Germany, Vietnam, North Korea, and Israel,” he continued. “Attendees are predominately nationals of these countries, with up to 25 percent participation coming from ally nations. Prior to 1990, the Soviet Union regularly trained Eastern Bloc allies along with soldiers from the now-independent nations of Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Tajikistan, Uzbekistan, Turkmenistan, and Azerbaijan. Each of these six post-Soviet states has a majority Muslim population hostile to the USA. This shooter has been militarily-trained. Within the Tri-State Area, there are more than twenty thousand legal immigrants who have done foreign military service. Intelligence estimates further add up to one thousand area residents, both legal and illegal, who have received paramilitary training.”
Dansk, as if on cue, picked up the thread.
“Based upon multiple variables including foreign military service, age, height, employment, and political persuasions, Federal authorities have created a list of three hundred individuals of interest. Wiretaps and LoJack systems are in place to monitor communications and movement. Intel Division will be conducting visual surveillance on these individuals. Each of you, working in partner teams, has been assigned six individuals and those close to them, including family members, friends, and coworkers.”
Dansk offered no explanation as to how they had drawn the apparent conclusion that the shooter was an immigrant.
“Immigrations has never collected shoe-size data. The shoe size, thirteen specifically, will narrow the field by eliminating most current persons of interest. This department has created an app that allows for instantaneous confirmation and elimination. Photograph the shoes and upload the photo and we will guarantee a response within fifteen minutes. By this time tomorrow, let’s get that list cut in half. We want to see that list down 90 percent by this Friday. Five days, detectives. Observe all activities and get in those photos.”
Her tone and confident delivery reinforced the message that Intel Division was an irresistible force. They would overwhelm and smother any individual perpetrator who was foolish enough to test them.
“Text messages will appear on your cell phones confirming your partner along with your website address and initial logon for uploading shoe photos and surveillance commentaries for the persons of interest assigned to you,” she explained. “Those of you without partners should go to briefing room D now. The rest of you, find your partner and take a seat beside each other. Begin the logon process and set your new passwords, then proceed to the profiles for persons of interest. If you are unable to logon, you and your partner should move to room M where tech support will be available to assist you. You have three more minutes to logon. Anyone remaining in this room three minutes from now should be live inside your assignment website. Once you are live, hit the streets. Be safe. If you spot a weapon, call in for backup and maintain visual surveillance. Do not move in. No heroes. No mistakes.”
Owen and Tremaine moved fast to get onto the website, establish their new passwords, and open up the photo files. Each of the persons of interest was identified by name, country of origin, and last known addresses for workplace and home. They were out the doors and moving within five minutes, already using Google Maps to plot out a street map displaying each address.
Tremaine shook his head as he turned the key to start the car engine. “Cinderella,” he laughed. “We’re all off to search for the shoe that fits.”
Owen was preoccupied by another train of thought and slow on the uptake. Every person of interest was foreign-born. Not even one U.S.-born domestic terrorism suspect. Did somebody know something?
“Cinderella?” said Tremaine. “You know, evil stepmother, pumpkin coach, crystal slipper? I guess this makes me Prince Charming.”
“Tremaine, you are an idiot. I swear to God.”
Nothing Owen could say would wipe away Tremaine’s smile.
“The first thing I’d be asking is why he is targeting rich people,” Tremaine commented while they drove. “Dansk won’t get into that any more than you do, O. What’s that about?”
Owen replied succinctly. “Murder is murder.”
The first person on their list was a Romanian working inside a commercial bakery with thirty workers. Owen and Tremaine spotted three people who were sufficiently similar that each could match the file photo. Unable to agree, they photographed faces and shoes for all three and uploaded these to the website. Within thirty seconds, the technology confirmed which of the three the person of interest was, plus it confirmed no shoe match. It did so by sending just an icon of a shoe with a broad red line through it.
They were on to number two before 10 a.m. Nobody was home, no known workplace. Tremaine and Owen split up and walked the neighboring properties until Owen saw someone seated inside the insurance office directly across the street.
Owen went inside and chatted with the person at the front desk. “I’m trying to return a computer to the folks across the street there,” he lied. “Hate to repair it and then just leave it in case somebody steals it and then I get blamed, you know?”
“That place?” one of the claims adjusters asked.
Owen nodded yes.
“They all left. Went home to Poland. Sounds like more jobs in Warsaw than in New York.”
On to number three.
The Somalian sat inside a white garage attendant shack, time-stamping parking slips. For two solid hours, the attendant never left his booth. Tremaine got sick of watching the slender young black man do nothing and came up with the idea for Owen to get out of the car with the camera while Tremaine acted as if his parking slip would not work in the machine. It took two cars backed up behind Tremaine, honking for him to clear out, before the attendant came padding out from his booth in flat leather slippers. Owen got the photo and had already sent it off by the time he met Tremaine in front of the building.
Stakeouts are long and tedious at the best of times. On a humid day at the end of July, Owen and Tremaine didn’t want to be smelling themselves or one another. They watched the fourth house until after seven p.m., whereupon Owen called it a day.
The boys were already asleep when he got home. They had spent the afternoon swimming and playing at Flushing Meadows Pool and Skate Rink. Owen slapped a thick cheese wedge between two slices of white bread and was eating cold creamed corn straight out of the can when he found Callie upstairs in bed watching a cooking competition show.
“I had dinner waiting for you,” she complained. “There’s a plate of meatloaf and cabbage in the fridge. All you had to do is put it in the microwave.”
Owen nodded, meaning both yes and sorry, without any real enthusiasm. He flopped onto his side of the bed and kicked his shoes off onto the floor.
“Tough day?”
“Full-court press, for now at least.”
“The shooter?”
“Um-humm.”
“You don’t sound so excited,” Callie observed, turning down the TV.
Owen thought about it. “The grass is always greener. I guess it’s good to be at full strength. ” Seemed like he was more questioning now. Maybe that just happened as you get older. Why only immigrants?
“There was a retired CIA guy who was really interesting on the radio today,” said Callie. She had not had an adult conversation all day long, running between swimming and skating with the boys on her day off work. “The guy went through all four of the shootings. There were valets, police officers, waiters, workers, and drivers, all sorts of people right in the same places at the same times when he shot rich people and he never shot at any of them.”
“So?”
“So that’s interesting, don’t you think? He isn’t using bombs and blowing up anybody around. He
is precise. It’s like, be scared if you’re rich, but if you’re a regular person, don’t worry.” Callie reached the nail clipper off her nightstand to trim the nail on her right big toe.
“I heard that there were thirty-six gang murders last year,” she went on. “Nobody called in the Intel Division for that. Those were just street hoodlums getting killed, them and nine people caught by stray bullets.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? That we only work hard for rich people? Are you buying into that BS?” Owen snapped back. “I don’t give a shit if he wet the bed or if his mother didn’t love him. He killed people in my city. That’s all I need to think about, that and how we’re going get his ass.” He didn’t need to hear that crap in his own house. Nobody had put him in charge of asset allocation decisions the last time he looked. If NYPD thought that protecting leaders of industry was more important than pouring limited resources into gangbangers, that wasn’t his decision. But he had no problem with the decision, either.
What the hell was up that they were only checking out immigrants? That’s what was bugging him. At least confirm that somebody else, FBI, NSA, Defense Intelligence, somebody, anybody, was looking at Americans, too. There were Americans who knew how to shoot and had size thirteen feet, plus DOD knew their shoe sizes, too. Was anybody making that list?
“They have us out chasing foreigners with big feet. Size thirteens.”
“You wear size thirteens sometimes,” Callie reminded him. “Big feet, big hands, big everywhere, if you know what I mean.” Callie reached over for Owen’s zipper, thinking that her idea wouldn’t hurt anybody, but Owen rolled away from her hand.
“Jesus. What is your problem? Since when don’t you want me to do that?” she asked.
“I’ve just got a lot on my mind.”
“Duh. That’s the whole point. Let’s shift some energy from that head to that head.”
Owen turned to Callie and recognized that he was acting ridiculous, getting angry with her for no good reason, turning down her advances. Dumb! He unbuckled his pants, zipped them down, and yanked his pants and underwear down to his thighs.
Callie glanced at his naked crotch. “Too late, boys. You both missed the moment.”
“Aw come on, Big O is waiting for you.”
“I’m thinking my Big O is purple and hiding in my dresser drawer.”
“I wouldn’t mind watching that.”
“Dream on.”
Owen burrowed his head into his pillow and closed his eyes, opening them again as Callie relented. She began nibbling her way, and then concentrated all her energy on teasing and circling with her tongue, flicking at his sensitive spots. She moved over to straddle his legs and then bobbed over him until Owen let out a long sigh of relief.
Afterward, Callie wiped the inside of her ear and pulled her fingers through her matted hair.
“Sorry.”
“I thought cops knew how to aim.”
Owen pulled back to check her face; he wasn’t sure whether she was just kidding or bitching at him again. He had already had enough attitude for one day.
Callie remarked “Protein rinse.” She wasn’t pissed. For a change.
“They have us cruising for foreigners with size thirteen feet,” he told her. So much for taking his mind off work. The distraction had lasted all of four minutes.
“That sounds stupid.”
“It is stupid,” Owen agreed. “The most sophisticated division in the most advanced police department on earth and we go spinning our wheels.”
“What I mean is that people don’t have size thirteen feet,” Callie corrected. “Look in the closet. You wear twelves in Bostonian, thirteen in your tennis shoes, fourteen in the Red Wings I bought you. I got thirteens and had to take them back, remember? Shoes run different sizes. Didn’t anyone think of that?”
Owen wondered…had anyone considered that? If they were searching for a size thirteen Nike, what size would they be looking for in another shoe, in a combat issue boot, for instance? If that never occurred to him, and Tremaine didn’t think about it either, could everyone have missed it?
Owen kicked off his pants and pulled the covers over himself. Somehow, Intel Division had resources enough to pull the division back in-house, yet the best they could do was to chase foreigners with size thirteen feet? The whole division was chasing butterflies, and he and Tremaine would be doing it again tomorrow. What was Al Hurwitz doing in the meantime? For the first time, Owen realized that working inside the FBI, working with Al, was the most productive work he had done. All of a sudden he wanted to listen, really listen. Callie’s comment had shaken something loose.
“Jaysus, Mary, and Joseph,” Owen thought. Callie was right.
A good cop has to listen. Listen and process. Had he really been listening?
Major Gonzalez had walked him through how the military processes troops rotating home. Ten days of debriefing and soldiers are supposed to jump right back in as husbands, as fathers, as employees. “We’re not identifying even 10 percent of the men and women who need to get help,” Gonzalez had said.
“The military is the most socialistic institution in the United States,” Gonzalez had explained. “Guaranteed housing and medical. Food and clothing. The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs makes $242,000 a year. A recruit straight out of Basic, with signing bonus, makes $37,500.”
A full colonel he knew, with sixteen years in the service, was making just north of $100,000 per year, while a master sergeant with the same years of service was getting north of $60K. With the average CEO getting a million every month and plenty of them getting ten times that much, contrasted with millions of employees taking home $15,000 a year for full-time work with zero benefits, the civilian sector looked far from fair. Any soldier set on fighting for this country might someday want to bring that fight back home.
Owen and Gonzalez had both gone through the generic commentary sent out by the FBI’s Behavior Analysis Unit, starting with how money stresses were the number one issue leading to divorce. The statistic hit Owen like a poison arrow.
Money stresses were also the number two issue leading to substance abuse and criminal behaviors. The man responsible for these shootings may have been motivated by a personal experience or a series of circumstances driven by money problems.
“Millions of Americans face losing their homes right this minute,” Gonzalez had said. “What distinguishes this shooter is likely that his actions are grounded in a personal philosophy. He is also certainly charged by the adrenalin high of risk-taking. The shooter is functioning, in his own mind, as a patriot and, possibly, as a hero. Even if he hasn’t lost his own home or his own family, what soldier in any company fighting overseas hasn’t seen families of other soldiers disintegrating all around him? The most threatening aspect to his character is that he sums himself up in just four words, ‘I Kill Rich People.’ It’s not just what he has done. That is who he is. He doesn’t seek to justify himself or to gain attention to himself or even to acquire his own wealth. No manifesto, no ransom, not even a threat, really. That is a statement of fact. Whoever he is has been subordinated to a purpose. He has reduced himself to an action. ‘I Kill Rich People.’”
Reducing everything to just one word—murder—was counterproductive. He had to get inside the shooter’s head. Owen was suddenly bursting with ideas. He thought about calling Tremaine, but it was Al Hurwitz he wanted to bounce things off of. Strange.
CHAPTER NINE
Wednesday, July 25
In order to get down to real business, he and Owen met at 7 a.m. in the corner of a Starbucks. Turner could be recording anything Owen had to say on the 23rd floor as soon as Owen entered Bureau offices.
“That colonel was sent to keep your Intel Division busy and keep them out of the way. Bet on it,” Al told Owen. It was adding up. Al figured that NSA and DOD were contr
olling potential fallout: high probability that the major had called it.
“They’re thinking that this shooter is an American soldier,” Al continued.
“Owen, it doesn’t matter that they have the shooter’s physical description and even his shoe size. Without inter-agency consensus, nobody is ever going to put out a description and seek public help to find this guy. I guarantee you that the DOD wants to stay a mile away from the fallout. It makes the military look bad, so in comes their magic eraser. Do you remember when that Army major at Fort Hood killed thirteen people? The Army public relations system instantly spun him into a crazed Moslem psycho; by the time they were done you’d have thought he got onto the base by climbing the fence.
Al came to the point: “This country spends more taxpayer dollars on the military than we spend on everything else put together, but we have two million soldiers who have performed above and beyond and a whole lot of them haven’t been treated right. Think about it, Owen. Open the newspapers. There are more articles and editorials going after Emerson Elliot than about the shootings! The real message, loud and clear, is all about managing the story.
Russian soldiers returning from their failed war in Afghanistan brought down the Soviet Union two years later. Soldiers have been the catalysts of revolutions throughout history, since way before Caesar crossed the Rubicon. Nobody teaches you in eighth grade history how American soldiers have rebelled lots more than once.”
Owen wanted to work the case, not to take lessons in history. Putting out a description to the public might drive the shooter so deeply underground that we might never get him, Owen thought.
Dansk had ordered him to report back on the FBI. It occurred to him that Al could just as well be using him to get insider information about Intel Division. But if that were true, then why meet at Starbucks?
