by Kirk Russell
When I came out of the meeting, I got a call from Jace, who said, “I’m calling for a different reason, but do you want a thumbnail sketch of the cell-tower attack I walked today? It wasn’t our sniper, so maybe you don’t need to hear it.”
“Tell me anyway.”
“Okay. It was north of here in a watershed behind Santa Rosa. An asphalt road runs up through trees to a grassy hilltop. There’s a chain-link gate at the bottom and another at the tower, both chained and locked. They cut both with bolt cutters. I know that because I found a chain with a padlock attached lying in weeds on the side of the road. No video cameras, no alarm, nothing resembling a security system.
“It was like the first five we saw, no shooting, just bolt cutters and a torch to get inside the chain link and into the backup generator shed and the main electrical-supply panel for the tower facility. They torched the main panel and all the conduit wiring feeding out. Everything shorted out. Grale, there are burn marks on the galvanized metal roof of the shed. It must have been scary as hell in there.”
“One of these days they’ll fry themselves,” I said.
“I could live with that. I’ve got video of the scene that I can send you.”
“Send it.”
“Sorry to dump that on you. I know we’re down to working the one-two sniper. And about that shooter, we may be taking a trip north, if you can do it. Farue called today about a former US Army sniper named Bill Mazarik who he says lives along the lake in Coeur d’Alene, Idaho. He knows him. He said they’re good friends but don’t see each other anymore.”
“What’s that mean?”
“You tell me, but he claims Mazarik is the guy to talk to about our cell-tower sniper.”
“Spell his last name.”
“M-A-Z-A-R-I-K. William Mazarik. I was thinking you could run his name by your Army-sniper-school contact. Farue says Mazarik doesn’t answer his phone except when his kid calls. Otherwise, the phone is just for emergencies.”
“Farue’s idea is we fly there and just ask Mazarik who our cell-tower sniper is?”
“That’s pretty much it. I’ve got an address, and if we go we can borrow a car from the Spokane office and be there in a couple hours or less. We can day-trip it.”
“Did you try calling Mazarik?”
“I did. No answer and I didn’t leave a message.”
“I’ve never had much luck with this kind of tip, and we’re in a dance with Farue, but let me see what I can find out.”
When I texted the sniper-school instructor, Roy Anders, I again pictured him as he used to look, tall, fit, and proud. Some are born for a uniform. Roy was one, and he liked procedure, so I didn’t know if he’d answer another text like the first I’d sent. He surprised me with a return call a few minutes later.
“I last heard Mazarik was in Montana then moved somewhere along the Idaho border, where he joined up with the Northern Brigade militia. I’ve been authorized to aid the FBI, but I can’t volunteer private information. If you ask the right question and we have the answer, I can give it. Otherwise, once discharged, they’re done. I can tell you Mazarik went out with an honorable discharge.”
“Roy, I’m going to interpret that as you saying the Army believes a former sniper is a risk. Can you tell me if Mazarik knew Gary Farue?”
“He did.”
“You’re certain?” I asked.
“Absolutely. Are you talking to Farue?”
“We are.”
“Farue may not have the facts, but he was in or is still in the Northern Brigade. Three ex-snipers settled in the Idaho-Montana area and got caught up in it.”
“Farue, Mazarik, and the unnamed third man?”
“Yes. I don’t know his current status, but I can say they all know each other.”
“You told me before that Farue didn’t make the grade and moved on, but what about this Mazarik? Is he skilled enough?”
“Highly skilled.”
“And the unnamed third man?”
“One of the very best.”
“Did the third man have a signature where he put a second shot very close to the first?”
“He had a habit that could be interpreted that way.”
“Would Gary Farue be aware of that habit?”
“He could be but I can’t confirm that. As I said, Farue moved on.”
“What about Mazarik?” I asked.
“He would be aware.”
“Farue has a cabin somewhere in Montana. Do you know where?”
“No.”
“Tell me what you know about the Northern Star Freedom Brigade,” I said.
“I know some things about them. I know they look for disenfranchised ex-military and in particular those trained to operate alone.”
“Do Farue and Mazarik fit that?”
“Mazarik did, Farue no. The Northern Star Freedom Brigade usually goes by Northern Brigade or NB. No matter what they call themselves, they hold views inconsistent with democracy. They discuss ‘canceling’ various politicians and judges, but look in your Bureau files. The FBI investigated them. Mazarik and the unnamed man are highly skilled snipers.”
“Mazarik isn’t in our file, neither is Farue,” I said. “We have hearsay on another sniper who has lived in that area on and off in the last five years. He could be Mazarik. We don’t have a name on him. Brigade members are careful on the phone, or so I gather. Are you available if I have more questions?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll be back when I have the name of the third man. We will also request the Army give us his name immediately.”
Anders replied, “I’m sorry about the protocol.”
I sat several minutes after hanging up, then called Fuentes and talked through a one-day trip to Idaho tomorrow.
“Go,” Fuentes said, “but I still want to see a lot more of you here. Copy both me and Mara on your report, and if you learn anything, who’s reporting this to a joint terrorism task force office?”
“Agent Blujace reports to the San Francisco office.”
As that call ended I got one from an upbeat Sue Egbert.
“I’m letting the guardian know his niece made the drop and is away. I also got cleared to have a couple of agents watch her house tonight, but she won’t be there. She’s leaving for Long Beach.”
“Thank you for that.”
“She was good. No, she was great. We’re tracking two suspects right now, though neither is Nicolas Knowles. He didn’t show.”
“Thanks for calling. I’ll check with Julia,” I said.
I did and left a message. Half an hour later I got a text from her saying, Call you tomorrow from California.
14
Coeur d’Alene, Idaho, April 24th
I went well into the night with the LA office bomb squad. We had more data to look at and the ATF report on the Lake substation. DHS had also provided a two-year record of California ammonium nitrate deliveries. Ammonium nitrate was the prime ingredient of these bombs. We also went over a list of possible bomb makers, or rather those with known skills and radical political leanings.
That night Fuentes and I ate Thai food together and talked through the Anza, Lake, and Olin bombings before moving on to the cell-tower sniper, where I argued once more that while there might not be coordination between terror cells, we were seeing a strategy aimed at weakening communications along the electrical transmission pathways. Fuentes listened, then yawned and changed the subject.
“If we see more bombings like Anza, Lake, and Olin, we’ll need you working bombings only. Between us, ATF, DHS, LAPD, we’ve got enough skilled people in evidence collection and analysis. But those guys are largely ‘defuse and analyze’ types. You’re the hunter. We need your investigative skills. We need you tracking down bomb makers. Do your trip tomorrow and stay on this sniper, but if we see another wave in LA, be ready to focus on bomb makers.”
“I’m not coming off this sniper. He’s too good. He’s doing a lot of damage.”
“Then cat
ch him and solve a problem for both of us.”
Jace and I met in Spokane the next morning. We picked up a Bu-car at the FBI office there and headed to Idaho. Forty-five minutes later we were in Coeur d’Alene looking for a microbrewery. A Coeur d’Alene police lieutenant had told Jace yesterday that Mazarik had been arrested at the brewery six months ago after an argument with an ex-girlfriend who worked there.
As we parked in the lot and got out, she asked me, “How’s your niece doing?”
Jace knew Julia had lived with me since the Alagara bombing, and from time to time she’d coached me on teenage girls. I mentioned in passing that Julia had broken up with her boyfriend. Jace was very intuitive. She was intuitive and she was tough. She was hard on herself and just as hard on others, but I always got the feeling she had a softness for Julia, a recognition of what Julia had endured.
“She’s having a hard time,” I said.
“Are there things she’s not comfortable talking about with you?”
“A whole list of things. She’s good friends with the prime founder of Witness1 and has fallen in with a mix of other activists, some with blurred lines. Julia has a good head and is independent, but her world got turned upside down when her boyfriend turned out to be a criminal who was likely using her. She’s humiliated. She doesn’t trust her judgment. I need to figure out how to reach her and to help her. I need to be more than I have been.”
I turned to Jace.
“She believes she was drugged and raped. Her now ex-boyfriend has threatened to upload a video he made to the Internet. She’s certain he will.”
“And she has no one to talk to.”
“You’re good, Jace. You’re right, that’s a problem. It’s too awkward and uncomfortable to talk to me, and she’s about half in shock and trying to run from everything that has happened.”
“Who wouldn’t feel that way? I can totally understand.”
The drive had been cloudy and blowing. We got a little rain as we crossed the lot and walked through the open door of the microbrewery. A woman called out in a cheerful voice, “Sorry, we’re closed.”
“We’re looking for Nikki,” Jace said.
“That’s me.” She came around from behind the bar. “Who are you?”
“FBI.”
Nikki was blond and dressed as if every single day matters. Several strands of hair were damp with sweat and stuck to her forehead. With a finger she swept them aside, then we all sat down at a table. She was across from us.
“How do you even know about Bill and me, and why would you care?”
“From an argument you had with him, and an arrest,” Jace said.
“That’s creepy. Can you show me your ID again?”
She examined our creds and slid them back, saying, “Bill wouldn’t hurt anyone. You don’t have to be afraid of him. He’s not some crazy guy, and what happened with us was just sad. That’s all it was. Just sad. But you’re not here about Bill and me. So is this about the Northern Brigade? No one around here calls them that, by the way. Well, they do, of course, and so does the FBI.”
“What do locals call them?” I asked.
“Croft’s kooks. Ashton Croft’s militia. Mostly they camp, drink, shoot their guns, and listen to talk radio. But they also do military drills and troll the Internet. Those are their main skills. Bill and a couple of other ex-snipers joined so they could shoot for fun for a while and be told how good they are. The other two were more serious about it than Bill.”
“What are their names?”
“I think you should ask Bill that. I don’t feel comfortable giving names.”
“How did Croft’s kooks get their rep?” Jace asked.
“Rep for what?”
“For being dangerous,” Jace said.
Nikki stared at us, then answered. “That’s why Bill broke with them.”
“What is?” I asked.
“Two young guys, kids, really, from California were growing pot in a rental house. They disappeared but their cars and all their stuff were still at the house. They were at a bar late at night and never made it home. One of the militia guys told Bill they were gone gone. I think Bill heard more than he told me. He quit that day, and Croft’s guys have ridden him ever since. They bad-mouth him. They pressure anyone who hires him. Four of them showed up at his house and made death threats after he quit. It’s why he doesn’t answer his phone. Ask him about that. Even though they’re all a bunch of losers, they don’t like quitters. Go figure.”
“We will,” I said, and then asked her, “What happened with you and Bill?”
“Is it any of your business?”
“Not really.”
“Then let’s leave it there.”
As we were leaving, she said, “Don’t worry about Bill. He’s got issues with the federal government, but he doesn’t kill anything anymore. A coyote ate his cat out front, and he wouldn’t shoot it. He’s just so used to guns being around he’s not going to get rid of them. You don’t have to be afraid of him.”
“When did you last talk to him?”
“Maybe a month ago. He comes in here every so often. We were together six years, and now we’re pretending we’re just friends.”
There was a faint dusting of snow falling but sunlight on the road as we wound around the lake to Carlin Bay. We passed long piers and plenty of boat docking. We looked at houses along the water and got all the way down to Martin Bay before figuring out we missed the turn to the Carlin Bay Airport.
Ten minutes later we were on a dirt road with three houses, well spaced. None had marked addresses. The first had a big mastiff on the deck that stood up and looked at us but didn’t bark. It looked to me like the dog was thinking, It’s your call. Nothing has happened yet. Decide what you want to do, and we’ll take it from there.
Outside the second house I asked a woman unloading groceries from her car which house was Bill Mazarik’s. She pointed at a kit-built log house set back from the road in the trees near the end of the street.
Bill Mazarik was maybe fifteen to twenty pounds lighter than in his Army days, and from photos he was lean then. He wore sweatpants, a Denver baseball jersey, and running shoes without socks.
Jace pulled out her creds. He waved them away and she handed him a card instead.
“I know why you’re here. Come on in.”
Inside, the warm air smelled like wood smoke and dog. Mazarik’s dog was an old black lab, who lifted his white chin to look at us, then laid it down again. His tail thumped hard several times, then went quiet.
“I have tea, coffee, water, or beer, but agents don’t drink, do they?”
“I’d love some water,” Jace said.
“I’ll get it, and I’m making coffee anyway.”
“Coffee for me,” I said.
Protocol is you don’t accept anything offered. You do the interview; you don’t sit down over a drink. But over the years, if you’re an investigator you figure out everyone is more comfortable if there’s some hospitality. Even the condemned prisoner likes the gesture of the last meal. It’s a human thing.
I looked around the front room as he went to his kitchen. Simple and humble, pretty clearly a man living alone, a couple of beer bottles on the wood floor next to an armchair where his long arm could reach them. A book lay open, a cork coaster keeping the pages flat. The book was a how-to primer on teaching yourself to navigate using the stars. I didn’t see any political diatribes.
When he moved out of view in the kitchen, I followed, wanting to keep him in my line of sight. He was aware. A faint smile formed as I appeared in his peripheral vision.
“I have a prescription,” he said. “I’m taking a pill. Does the agent with you want ice with her water? I’m sorry, what is her name again?”
“Jace.”
He asked Jace if she wanted ice. She didn’t, and he swallowed two pills, then filled a glass with water for Jace. While the coffee brewed, he stumbled, sloshing water out as he carried the glass to Jace. He apologiz
ed and got a dishtowel to wipe up. He refilled her water. I saw his left foot and the way he moved, his self-consciousness. He brought out two mugs of coffee, handed me one, and I no longer read the shaking as nervousness.
He looked from Jace to me and said, “Talk to me. If it’s about the militia, I’m not in it anymore. The Army was here a year ago asking about someone I’d heard was in California. I’m not going to give his name unless you already have it.”
“Gary Farue?” I asked.
“I know Gary. I don’t like him much, but it’s not him I’m thinking of.”
“I feel like I’m on a game show,” Jace said, but it didn’t affect him. He wouldn’t give us the name.
“Do you talk with Gary Farue?” I asked.
“Not often, it’s better that way.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means I don’t need to see him ever again, and I’ll sometimes take a call from him to make sure that doesn’t happen.”
“Are you aware of the cell-tower shootings?”
“If you’re asking if I watch TV, yeah, I do. It would be hard not to know about the mysterious, highly accurate shooter. He’s all the buzz in my circles.”
“Then you know why we’re here,” I said.
“Pretty much.”
“What are you hearing?” I asked.
“Let’s get clear first. I made a mistake joining Croft’s militia. It was just a way to target shoot, which I missed doing. I quit Croft. I agree with some of the things he says, but he’s a bastard. I was US Army for thirteen years. That doesn’t just go away.”
“Why did you join in the first place?”
“To be honest, they admired my shooting when I didn’t have much else to be proud of, so I hung out with them for a few years.”
“What views do you share with him?”
“You’re city folk, right?” He nodded at Jace. “Your card says San Francisco.”
“Yeah, the FBI office is there. I can’t afford to live in SF.”
“And you?” he asked me.
“In Vegas but where I can look out in the desert from my back patio.”
He pointed a finger at me and said, “You and me, brother, I know what you’re saying.”
