by Randall Wood
On hearing this, Ping had immersed himself in the prison’s library. With nothing else to do, he became an accomplished jailhouse lawyer and managed to delay his extradition for six years. Finally returned to California, he had begun a series of courtroom and jailhouse moves to delay his trial repeatedly.
Ping often fired his court-appointed attorney when a trial date approached, and the judge had been forced to grant the new lawyer time to review the case. This went on and on as the judge was forced, by the law, to bow to Ping’s motions. He had delayed a trial date twice since the beginning for the simplest of excuses: once for a claim of sickness; the other when he had broken his glasses while in the holding cell. At last report the glasses were new, and Ping was back in the courtroom. It had been nineteen years since the killings. The state had spent over fourteen million dollars on the case so far. No trial date had been set. The families were still waiting for justice. With any luck, Sam would give it to them.
He couldn’t wait to see the new glasses.
• • •
Jack squinted into the desert’s sun. The scene of the explosion was hot and windy. The string grid was laid out over a fifty-square-yard area. Officers were slowly picking through the squares. The sun shone off the hundred or so Petri dishes placed to protect the evidence from the wind until it could be cataloged, photographed, and bagged. A technician in a nearby van entered the information into a computer as it left the scene. He would soon have a good picture of the scene—complete down to the last shard of metal.
“We’ve already uploaded the pieces we found so far to the Bomb Data Center. No hits yet, but we keep adding to it. The ATF Arson and Explosives Repository will wait till we’re done collecting. It’ll take some time. We still have to do full body X-rays on the last two bodies; the first two were full of metal. Some of it bomb-making material.”
Jack turned to look at the Las Vegas Police Chief. A stocky man in a fight with his waistline, he had a reputation of being a hard man. Still sporting a Marine Corps haircut, he ran his department as if he was still in. He must be doing the job since had been in office for eight years. His people jumped when he spoke.
“Thanks, Chief,” Jack said. “Appreciate the job your people are doing. I had no idea what a mess this is.”
The chief looked the scene over slowly. “That it is. I haven’t seen a bomb site in a while. Oh, we get kids playing with Molotov cocktails out in the desert, or the occasional redneck pipe bomb, but nothing like this. Reminds me of Beirut.”
Jack nodded in agreement. He had seen similar scenes. “Anything from the man’s crew?”
“Bastards kept their mouths shut at first. You could tell they had an idea who may have done it and wanted to take care of business themselves. Claimed no knowledge of the guns in the trunk or on the bodies. Changed their tune when we told them about the claim in the paper, and gave me a history of their activities over the last few days. Nothing significant; just a weekend of fun centered around the fight on Friday night. I imagine there’ll be trouble for these boys in LA, once they get back to town and start deciding who’s in charge now.”
Which will break the killer’s heart, Jack thought to himself. Smart. Turn them against each other. Something the Bureau did with mobsters when the opportunity rose—unofficially, of course.
He paused to watch a technician wrap a road sign in plastic before he pulled it from the ground. It had a least four holes in it that Jack could make out from this distance. The crews would pick up every piece of metal they could see, and then go over the area with metal detectors to get the rest. It would be days until they had it all—if they ever did.
“Did you get any film of the crowd, Chief?” Jack asked.
The chief just grunted and led him off toward the van. He knocked on the side with the butt of his radio, and a young man with a spiked haircut opened the door. He slid a pair of headphones off and looked at the chief. Loud rock could easily be heard.
“Yeah, Dad?”
Jack took in the unexpected sight of the young man. He looked as if he had just gotten out of high school, and his hair held what looked to be a full tube of gel. An earring dangled from his ear, and tattoos adorned both forearms. His small department T-shirt was baggy, and his khaki pants needed an iron. He sat in front of a wall of electronic gear with an expensive laptop open in front of him. Jack turned to look at the chief.
“My son, Eric,” the chief explained. “Graduates from college next year. MIT. Computers are his thing. Takes after his mother,” he added.
“Hello, Eric. Jack Randall, FBI.” Jack stuck out his hand.
“Yes, sir!” Eric grabbed his hand and shook it aggressively. “I’m a fan. Russian mob case. I watched every minute. What can I do for you, sir?”
“He needs to see the film of the crowd that showed up at the scene,” the chief prompted.
“Right. I have it right here. I gave your people a copy, earlier.” Eric quickly replaced the scene map he was working on, and called up the video of the scene. Jack was disappointed by the number of faces he saw. Having Profit’s crew watch this for familiar faces would be a long shot at best. They could run it through the FBI’s facial recognition software to see if any felons were in the crowd, but the technology was still in the infant stages and not exactly reliable. But you never knew. Jack watched for a minute to be polite, and then thanked the boy and left as technicians were waiting to check-in evidence.
Jack put his hands in his pockets and strolled back toward the scene. He was thinking about what Sydney had said. He turned his head to look toward the strip. Anywhere between here, he turned and looked at the airport, and there.
“Hey, Chief. How about a ride to the airport?”
• • •
“What’s the verdict, Tom?” Stacie bellowed at the skinny man as she walked into his office.
Tom visibly jumped in his seat. Stacie’s voice was always at the maximum decibels she could produce—something he was sure she did just to mess with him. He was a man who liked it quiet. Classical music, at low volume, was as far as he usually went. Most people in the department thought he became a pathologist because the patients didn’t speak.
He calmly removed his glasses and gave Stacie his usual answer; it was a little game they liked to play.
“They’re all dead,” he replied. His gaze fell on the young woman who had accompanied her. Her shirt read FBI. Must be her former protégé she had mentioned was coming. The woman stuck out her hand.
“Sydney Lewis, FBI.”
Tom nodded as he shook her hand. “Stacie’s friend. You’re working the bombing I understand?”
“Yes. Can you tell us anything?”
“Well, we have all the pieces matched up to their owners. The main target suffered the most damage—both from the initial blast and from the subsequent fire.” He pulled photos from a file. “As you can see here, massive skull fractures from impacting the roof. Axial loading broke the neck here and here. His legs were blown off, and the right knee showed teeth marks, which we matched to him, so his last act was to break his own jaw. We were able to ID from a past pair of broken ribs and some dental work. Take your pick on the rest of them. Blast trauma, penetrating shrapnel, and fire. No soot in anybody’s lungs. They were all killed instantly. I did find something interesting inside the backseat passengers’ torso though. Follow me.”
Tom led them into the cutting room. The smell of burnt bodies hit them as they crossed the room. It was something you never got used to. The sights one saw at this job were bad enough, but with time, people got over them. A sudden bad smell could still trigger a gag reflex, even in veteran workers. Sydney once had a paramedic partner who was a twenty-year veteran of the streets, but he was also the biggest sympathy puker she had ever seen. One day, while driving a patient to the hospital, she had looked in the mirror to see him and the patient sharing a wastebasket. She had teased him about it for months.
Tom led them to a bench where several items lay bagged in plastic. After a quic
k search, he picked up one and reached in with a pair of chopsticks. A small tubular metal ring emerged and was placed under a lighted magnifying lens. He stepped aside and offered a look with no introduction. Sydney and Stacie literally bumped heads as they both leaned in to see. With a laugh, Stacie pushed her friend out of the way to see first.
“Can we trace the number?” she asked when she stepped back.
“I’m unsure just what that object is,” Tom replied.
Sydney scrutinized the object under the lens. She knew. “It’s a radio tracking device, like the kind used on birds. You clamp it on one leg and it’s good for about four months. After that, the water weakens it until it releases itself. It’ll only tell you what direction the bird is in. No distance or altitude. This was in the body?”
“Yes. It appeared to have entered through the abdominal wall and lodged in the diaphragm. It was in the car at the time of the explosion.”
“You think it belonged to your bomber?” Stacie asked.
“I wouldn’t rule it out. Do you have someone who can trace it for me?”
“Sure, I’ll have it sent upstairs. Is this priority, Stacie?” Technically, Stacie was not his boss, but they all knew she was running this show. He was surprised when she looked at her friend.
“Yes, have them put that in front.”
“You got it.” Tom reached for a chain of evidence form.
Sydney and Stacie left with a stack of files to review.
The state of Kansas holds 9,132 inmates in its prisons.
Approximately 6,118 are repeat offenders.
—SIXTEEN—
The chief was frustrated, but trying not to show it. The last two hours had been spent wandering around the Las Vegas airport. They had walked the entire arrival and departure areas, spent some time watching the taxis and shuttle busses come and go, and eyeballed the rental car area. They now stood in the main lobby with a sea of tourist coming and going around them. At least airport security had noticed them, and they now had the shift supervisor in attendance. His name was Roger, and he wasn’t pleased about having a man with FBI in one-foot letters on his jacket wandering around.
“What’s he after, Chief?”
“I’m not sure, Roger. I was asked to extend him every courtesy, so I am.” He was watching Jack, who was standing twenty feet away looking up at the ceiling of the terminal.
“Mr. Givens?” Jack called. “How long do you keep your security tapes?”
Roger walked over to where Jack was standing and, looking in the direction of Jack’s gaze, he saw the camera which monitored the main doors to the lower level.
“Since 9-11 we’re required to keep them for six months. We have a new system. It’s all digitally recorded, and we download twice a day. We store two months’ worth here, and the rest offsite at a storage facility.”
Jack thought about this. If Sydney’s theory was true, the bomber was obviously familiar with the road. Tropicana Avenue was the main route from the airport to the Strip. What if our killer just did his job and then went home on a plane? It would mean looking at hours of footage, and he wasn’t even sure of what they were looking for. Could he spare the manpower? He decided he would get it anyway. If they had some time later, they could review it.
“I’m going to need all the footage from the day of the bombing. Say, an hour before and six hours post. Can you arrange that please?”
“Take a little time, but I’m sure we can accommodate that. The lobby cameras only?”
Jack looked at him. “No, the whole terminal.”
Roger bit his tongue, turned and walked toward his office. He shot a look to the chief as he went by.
Jack watched him go for a moment, before turning to look over his shoulder. “Will you excuse me for a moment?” He quickly walked toward a man leaning against the wall across the terminal.
• • •
Oh, shit, Danny thought. I’m busted.
Danny had been walking through the terminal on the way to claim his bag when he spotted Jack Randall, complete with FBI jacket and two officers in tow, walking right in front of him. He had followed at a distance for over an hour, trying to remain unseen. Jack was spending a lot of time looking up at the ceiling. With his sunglasses and FBI jacket, Jack looked quite intimidating, and the crowd of tourists gave him a wide berth. He debated on getting some pictures when Jack suddenly left the officer with him, and walked directly at him. He’d also removed the sunglasses and had Danny fixed in his sights. It was too late to run.
“Mister Drake. Jack Randall.” Jack had his hand out.
Danny had no choice. He reached out and shook it. “Danny Drake. Guess you caught me.”
“Since gate 18.” Jack let the statement hang.
“So, is there anything you can tell me, or should I just go to hell?”
“Actually, I was wondering if you could tell me why our suspect decided to correspond with you.”
“To be honest, I have no idea. I’ve never written about Addicot, or this Profit character before. I just happen to get to the scene in Orlando first, lucky break,” Danny offered.
“Most good reporters make their own luck, Mr. Drake.”
“Maybe.”
“I was wondering if you and I might work together on this.”
“I don’t understand. Work together, how?”
“I need some help. My superiors tend to get . . . political, sometimes. A little sunshine from the press might serve to keep them on target, so I can concentrate on my job.”
“I see.” Danny stalled while his mind raced to keep up. Jack was asking him to publish information which he would provide. Tricky.
“How do I know I won’t end up in jail?”
“I’ll give you the truth. If you help me out, I’ll remember it when this is all over.”
“An exclusive interview?”
“If that’s possible. I’m afraid I can’t promise anything.”
Danny nodded, he knew how that worked. Jack could be “a high-ranking government official” in anything he wrote, so long as the information was true.
“I think I can make that happen.”
“Good. You do know what to do if you hear from him again, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do now. And it’s Danny, please.”
Jack smiled at Danny’s nervousness. How would he handle this?
“Do you have a cell phone number?”
He wants my cell phone number? Danny’s mind raced. He’s FBI. He can get it any time he wants. Jack Randall was extending him an offer that he’d be stupid not to accept. What reporter wouldn’t want an FBI source like this guy? He quickly pulled out his notebook and scribbled his numbers out. Jack took it without looking at it.
“You have a nice day, Danny.” Jack turned and walked away.
“What the hell just happened?” Danny asked himself.
• • •
“So what do we have?” Jack had everyone assembled in the conference room at the Las Vegas Police Department. The room was crowded, with the heads of the departments working the case, several technicians, the chief, his son Eric, and all the Bureau people. Stacks of paper, files, photographs, and laptops, covered the large table. A large photo of the crime scene was tacked up on the wall next to a graphic representation. Those present had the look of the overworked: eyes were red, clothes were rumpled, and posture was poor. This was to be expected—the crime was two days old, and they had been at it nonstop.
When nobody stepped up to the plate, he looked at Sydney, who looked at Stacie. Stacie stood up so she could use her voice to full effect.
“Site’s a real mess.” She bellowed, waking the half dead among them. “We managed to extract everything as rapidly as we could, but the wind was fierce the last two days. We recovered most of the bomb-making material, but after fuming it, we were only able to recover a partial thumb. It’s going through the database as we speak, but we’re not optimistic. Bodies have all been identified, and the manner of death was no surpri
se.
“Fire did a real job on the car, and it’s being set up to be fumed tomorrow. Our ordinance disposal people have looked it over, and they agree, this device was not very sophisticated. Looks like a simple battery pack and two servos connected to at least three detonators. We’re still recovering pieces from the site, but the boys put a drawing together of what it looked like before it was used—should be in your packets.” She paused for a breath while everyone dug into their files to see the bomb.
“Best thing we have so far is the tracer. A small tracer was found in the body of the right-side rear passenger. We’ve identified it as the type used to track migratory birds. The things have numbers, and we were able to trace this one to a lot sold to a bird sanctuary in southwest Michigan—the Kellogg Bird Sanctuary, to be exact. Yes, as in Corn Flakes. They reported a theft about two months ago. Locals wrote it up as vandalism, but we’ve sent the local FBI office to follow-up. We’re also attempting to identify the maker of the servos; we may have something in a day or two. Still cataloging fibers and other trace evidence—might have it all done by Christmas.” She flipped a few pages of notes. “This is all, for now. I give you Chief Williams.”
The chief frowned at Stacie, and unlike her, chose to keep his seat. “Our boy Russell’s crew, have chosen to keep their collective mouths shut. LAPD has a list of possibilities, which is a mile long; the man had quite a few enemies. Hotel staff reported nothing out of the ordinary and said that Profit and his crew were regular guests. They spent some time in the pit at the MGM, followed by a trip to Cheetahs Thursday night. Friday was the fight, followed by some more time at the craps tables at Caesar’s.
“Some evidence of drug use in the room, also some hardware found in the room, for what that’s worth. Handguns. Believe it or not, everybody had a permit to carry. Hotel tapes show no unknowns on that floor. We’re still reviewing the tapes, but the timeline is pretty solid—very few gaps. The only phone calls were to room service and the front desk. We’re pulling everyone’s cell phone records.
“Our resident gang expert sweated his informants. Nobody had any grudges against our victims—at least none they would admit. My guy will keep the pressure on, but his impression is that this was not the result of anybody local. Fight footage shows nothing remarkable. No contact with any unknowns, no one watching our boy too close.”
