[2017] The Whistleblower Onslaught

by David P. Warren

  * * *

  As he drove, Lee hit a single button and waited.

  “Yeah.”

  “Anything yet?”

  “Nothing yet. We're going through all the employers we can ID to see if anyone with the Social Security number was hired, but this is a big job.”

  “Keep at it. Don't forget that double payment I promised,” Lee said and hung up.

  Lee parked the car and walked into Matthew's Coffee House at 6:00 p.m., carrying the files that used to belong to Burt Snider. Sandoval and Edmonds were seated at their usual booth. They had a coffee cup in front of each of them and a third waited for him.

  Lee sat down and said, “Good evening, agent Sandoval, agent Edmonds.”

  “Mr. Henry,” Edmonds said.

  Lee looked at his coffee and said, “This looks great.” He took a sip and put the cup down. The agents looked at him expectantly. “Turns out we were right,” he said. “Mr. Snider is our man.”

  “How did we establish that?” Sandoval asked.

  “We found some evidence. Here is the file on Jerry Anders, who is now one Frank Adams from Boise, Idaho.” He dropped the file on the table in front of them.

  They both reviewed the file and then asked, “Did he give this to you?”

  Lee left the question unanswered. “Can you get the word out on Frank Adams? There is a Social Security number and an Idaho DL with a picture of our man on it in there also.”

  “Did Mr. Snider share with you where Mr. Anders or Adams might be?”

  “He initially moved to Las Vegas, but Snider doesn't know that he stayed there.”

  “How did you get him to share this information with you?”

  Another question Lee chose not to answer. Instead, Lee said, “Here are ten other files from Mr. Snider's collection—some other folks that he has serviced in the not too distant past. All of this should give you PC for a warrant. And to focus the warrant a little bit, you want to go beyond his charming little home to his self-storage garage. It's called Last Frontier Storage on Saratoga Street. You want garage number L 117. There are numerous other files like that stack in front of you in the two file cabinets in that storage garage.”

  Sandoval furrowed her brow. “What did you do to this guy?”

  “He's fine. We had a very nice conversation, and I encouraged him to see things from my perspective.” They were both looking at him when he put the cup down. “What?” he asked.

  “What are we going to walk into when we approach this guy with a warrant?”

  Lee shrugged. “Probably not too much. I mean, how can he resist you guys with a search warrant?” Lee stood and said. “Thanks for the coffee. I have to go.” He paused and then added, “Oh, one more thing. Here are the keys for both locks on L 117. Makes your access easier.” He dropped the keys on the table and said, “See you later.”

  “He turned these keys over to you?” Edmonds asked.

  Lee said, “Not exactly,” and then walked out of the coffee house while Sandoval and Edmonds stared at the keys and the files on the table. Then they regarded each other with a grin and began to dig through the files.

  * * *

  At 7:00 p.m., we stand in Joey's room watching what looks like an entire surgical team. Dr. Mitchell walks over to us and says, “Do we proceed now?”

  I nod as my heart sinks. He looks to Lisa, who nods with closed eyes.

  Dr. Mitchell turns and walks back to the bed. He says, “We begin.” In some mysterious but predefined order, we see hoses and tubes removed one at a time, alarms shut down, fluids taken from hangers, and machines turned off. It is all done within five minutes. Dr. Mitchell says to the room, “7:08 p.m.,” and a nurse notates a chart. He walks over to us and says, “Now is your time to be with your son,” as our chairs are placed next to the bed.

  We walk over to our son and kiss him. We tell him how much we love him, and then we sit by him, touching his arm, taking his hand, and talking to him whenever we are able to find words. We share everything we can while we wait for the inevitable loss that will haunt us forever.

  Nurses check on Joey, and on us, at least every hour all through the night. At 7:00 a.m., we are still awake, and Joey is still alive and breathing on his own in a room that is quietly free of machine noises, alarms, and beeps. We are exhausted, but neither of us will leave, fearing that we will miss the last moment of Joey's life. The hospital brings us bagels and coffee for breakfast, and we occasionally walk around the small room to stretch.

  At noon, Dr. Mitchell appears. He examines Joey and looks at Lisa and me, waiting expectantly. “He's doing it all himself,” he says. “His pulse is strong, and blood pressure isn't too low. I'll be back at 3:00 p.m. to check on you.”

  At 3:00 p.m., nothing has changed. Joey is still hanging on. Dr. Mitchell walks in at 3:10 and examines Joey. He looks at us and nods. “Pulse and BP are still strong.” He reflects a moment and then says, “It may be time to make another decision. I can give him some IV fluids to keep him hydrated if you would like.”

  “We want to,” I say, and Lisa agrees.

  “I don't want to get your hopes up too high,” Dr. Mitchell says. “Sometimes it can be a couple of days before the patient lets go.”

  “We understand,” I say. “But give him what it takes not to starve him while we wait.”

  “You have to sign additional forms for that, okay?

  “Yeah, more than okay.”

  Within twenty minutes, we sign forms and two drips are set up. We agree to take turns with a two-hour nap and a shower. Lisa leaves to take her turn, not at all sure that she will be able to do any sleeping, while I talk to Joey about the weather, beautiful places we need to visit, and the Walters case and its upcoming trial. I talk of anything and everything. Every half hour, nurses buzz around him, take his vitals, and give me a smile or a satisfied nod.

  At five thirty, Lisa walks in wearing clean clothes. She still looks tired. “How is he?” she asks.

  “The same. Still hanging on.”

  Lisa hands me a Starbucks coffee and a roast beef sandwich. “Thank you,” I say. “Were you able to sleep?”

  “Not for a second. I was totally consumed with getting back. But the shower felt good.”

  “I'm going to run and do the same, okay?”

  “Sure. Take some time for a nap if you can.”

  “I'm sure I won't be able to sleep,” I say. “I'm already anxious about getting back, and I haven't even left yet.”

  * * *

  “You look familiar. Where have I seen you before?” a man walking between the casino and the restroom stops to ask Jerry.

  “I don't think I know you, but I do have the kind of face that everyone says they recognize.”

  “Did you go to school in Boston?”

  “No, grew up in Idaho,” Jerry says.

  “Hmm. I could have sworn …” he lets his words trail off. “Oh well, have a good day, man.”

  Jerry took a deep breath. This was the third similar conversation with a stranger since the ads starting running seeking the public's help in locating him. It was just a matter of time until someone could place him. Did he wait until faced with that recognition before leaving, or did he go now? He told himself that there was really no choice. Tomorrow was payday. He would collect his check and then drive for North Carolina. He had heard Charlotte was a nice city, and big enough to allow him to be swallowed up in the sea of humanity. Tonight he would pack the car, and tomorrow he was gone by lunchtime. He felt better just having made the decision. He checked his watch. Two more hours in his shift and in this job. He walked outside to take a cigarette break and reflect. He desperately wanted to hear Vickie's voice again. He would give her a call when he made it to Charlotte. Maybe she could be made to understand that he had no choice. Maybe she could even forgive him. Then his thoughts strayed to Joey Winslow once again. He wondered if the kid was still alive.

  * * *

  August 31, 2016

  We are back in the news. T
he media is buzzing about the little boy who had been taken off life support after eight months and is still hanging on. We have no idea how they got that information. Articles in newspapers and online picture Jerry Anders and address the kidnapping. This inspires articles about the Walters case and the fact that Jerry Anders demanded its dismissal to help his brother-in-law and Consolidated Energy CEO Michael Constantine. They address the dismissal of the case that Anders forced, the stipulation to reinstate the case, and the fact that trial is now only a couple of months away. Pictures of Joey go viral on the Internet, with captions about the little boy who hangs on.

  Just before noon, Dr. Mitchell examines Joey. He looks at us and says, “He is still strong, but I want to do some more testing. Is that okay?”

  We nod. “What are you thinking?” I ask.

  “Too early to say just yet. I will set up some imaging.”

  Dr. Mitchell disappeared, and within twenty minutes a technician appeared and told us that they were ready to run some tests. Joey was wheeled from the room, and we were told that Dr. Mitchell would be with us in an hour. We walked to the hospital cafeteria with some combination of fear and renewed hope.

  “You doing okay?” I ask Lisa as we walk down the hospital corridor, following the green line to where coffee awaits.

  “I think so,” she says. “This can't be bad, right?

  I nod, but I have no idea what to make of all this.

  * * *

  “Team two in place?” Sandoval said softly into her phone.

  “Roger.”

  “Team three in place?”

  “Roger,” another voice said.

  Sandoval nodded to Edmonds, and they took positions on either side of the front door and pounded hard. “This is the FBI, Mr. Snider. Open the door.” Silence. “Open the door, Mr. Snider.” No response.

  Sandoval gave a nod, and two officers hit the front door with a battering ram. As they did, Sandoval's phone crackled to life. “He's trying to get out through a bathroom window. We have him,” Dan Ortiz of team two said.

  As Sandoval and Edmonds stepped through the broken front door, Ortiz and his team brought Snider back inside through the back door.

  “Mr. Snider?” Silence. “Mr. Snider, we have a warrant for your arrest. We have a second warrant to search your residence and your storage unit.” She attempted to hand him the warrants, but he did not take them. She spoke into her phone. “Okay, team three, we have him. Hit the storage unit.”

  “That son of a bitch,” Snider mumbled.

  Sandoval knew he was referring to Lee Henry and wanted to smile, but she didn't. Instead she said, “Mr. Snider, you are under arrest for wire fraud, mail fraud, money laundering, and counterfeiting of credit cards. You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to be represented by counsel. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you. If you waive your right to remain silent, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. Do you understand these rights?” Silence. “Do you understand these rights? Use your words.”

  “I want an attorney.”

  “Good for you; I knew you could do it. You can call your attorney after we book you.”

  * * *

  Lee sat down on the plane and waited for takeoff. He dialed, and the phone rang.

  On the second ring, he heard, “Don't have anything yet.”

  “Time is tight. There is a whole new wave of media surrounding this son of a bitch. It might be enough to make him fly.”

  “We're working it as fast as possible.”

  “All right. Just so you know, I'm giving the name, DL, and Social to the FBI so they can start working it through their files as well. See if you can get there first. I'll call you when I land in Vegas. It should be within the hour.”

  “Got it. We'll stay on it until we get a hit.”

  Lee sat down in his seat and dialed agent Becky Sandoval.

  “Hello, Mr. Henry.”

  “You got anything on the whereabouts of Frank Adams?”

  “We are going through all fourteen persons known as Frank Adams identified as living or working in the greater Las Vegas area. I think that so far they have narrowed the list by half.”

  “And when you get to the likely guy, you will let me know?”

  “I can't do that, Mr. Henry. I'm not permitted to give our official information.”

  “Agent Sandoval, I got you this far, remember? I am not going to interfere with your investigation. Your local agents will go make the bust. I just want to backstop this project.”

  “You'll step back, and let our agents go get him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Without getting in the way?”

  “Yes.”

  Sandoval was quiet for a moment and then said, “Okay, but no one knows this but you and me, understood?”

  “Understood.”

  * * *

  Dr. Mitchell walks into Joey's room a half hour after Joey was returned. He wears a grin and shakes his head. “Well, I have some news.” We stare at him not wanting to delay the news by interjecting words. “The swelling around Joey's brain has been reduced by about 50 percent. The charts show his vitals are stronger as the anesthesia slowly begins to fade.”

  “He's going to make it?” I ask, holding my breath.

  He looks from me to Lisa and says, “We can't be sure, but we have just seen amazing and unexpected improvement. I'd like to have your permission to give him low levels of anesthetic and reduce those levels slowly. We have to see if he can come out of the coma after all this time.”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” Lisa yells excitedly.

  “We can't get too far ahead of ourselves, however. First, we don't know that he will come out of the coma, and second, we don't know how his brain has been affected by the long-term swelling and whether there will be permanent damage.”

  “We understand,” I say, taking Lisa's hand.

  She nods and says, “As long as he comes back to us, we can deal with anything else.”

  Dr. Mitchell nods. “I have to say that this is pretty amazing. I've never seen anything like this.” As much as he wants to control our excitement, he is grinning again. As he walks away, it occurs to me that I have never seen him smile before.

  Chapter 36

  September 2, 2016

  As soon as the plane touched down at McCarren Airport in Las Vegas, Lee could see that he had a voice mail message from agent Sandoval. He grabbed his carry-on from the overhead and walked briskly off the plane and into the terminal toward the rental car shuttle.

  He played the voice mail as he walked. “Mr. Henry, I got your message. We are still running Frank Adams and the Social and driver's license you gave us through our computers. I have alerted our Las Vegas office, and Carl Timmons is working the matter. I will get back to you when we have the guy identified.” There was a pause, and then she added, “We picked up Snider and his identity treasure trove. Thanks for the anonymous tip.”

  When he picked up his Toyota Camry rental car, Lee raced from the lot. He dialed a number and waited. As always, it was answered on the second ring. “Yeah, we're still working on it.”

  “Okay. The FBI is on it too. See if you can get there first. After all, I gave you guys a head start. I'm here in Vegas and ready to chase whatever you find.”

  “We'll call you as soon as we get it.”

  Lee drove toward the strip not sure of what his next step would be.

  * * *

  Jerry was getting frustrated. His plan was to be gone by noon. He walked into the office operating manager's at Maggie's Casino for the third time that day. “Are the checks in yet?”

  Supervisor Jason Lyons said, “No, Frank, not yet. I told you I'd buzz you when they arrived.”

  Jerry checked his watch. It was just after 4:00 p.m. This was his third attempt to pick up his check.

  “You need some money for an appointment or something?” the manager asked.

  “No, I'm okay. I just want to
get some bills paid.”

  The manager nodded. “Are you off work now?”

  “Not until four thirty.”

  “All right, check back then.” As he spoke, his phone rang, and he checked the readout. “Hang on,” he said, “this is going to be about the checks.”

  “Hello.” Silence. “I see.” More silence. “Yeah, that's fine, thanks.”

  He hung up and smiled at Jerry. “Checks are being messengered over from the payroll people, Frank. They should be here in twenty minutes. Stop by when your shift is over, and I should have your check in hand.”

  “Okay, thanks,” Jerry said as he walked out of the office. He hadn't planned on working all day that day, but no problem. He reminded himself that the car was all packed to go, so another twenty minutes wouldn't matter.

  * * *

  Lee's phone rang. “Yeah?”

  “We have him.” I'm sending you a company picture and address. Check your phone in about one minute.”

  “Nice work. I'll be looking for it.” As he hung up, there was a ding. Lee looked at the phone, and there was a picture of Jerry Anders. He now had black hair and a close-cropped wraparound beard, the goatee portion bushy, but the deep-set eyes and facial structure were unmistakable. Under the picture, it said “Frank Adams employment photo.” He was a maintenance guy at a casino called Maggie's. Lee put the address in his phone and raced toward the destination. He checked his watch. It was 4:45 p.m.