[Jack Randall 01.0] Closure

by Randall Wood

  “Well?”

  Jack looked up to see Sydney standing in the doorway of his office. She had that look on her face he remembered so well. She used it to manipulate him back when they were dating. He hated to admit it, but it usually worked.

  “You really want him?” Jack said.

  “Yes, I think he’d be a good asset.”

  “All right. Write up the paperwork, and we’ll try him as a temporary consultant. But your name goes on the sponsorship papers. I’ll write a letter of recommendation. The Director said I could have anything I needed, so when you have it all ready, let me know and I’ll get him to stamp it. Is this phone number current?”

  “At the top of the file cover? I believe so.”

  “All right. I’ll call him and ask him if he’s interested.”

  “Thanks, Jack. I owe you one.”

  “Go away.”

  She smiled as he shooed her out. Picking up the phone, he punched in the numbers with the eraser end of a pencil. It rang twice.

  “Hello, Chief? Jack Randall from the FBI. I was wondering if I could talk to your son?”

  The state of New Hampshire holds 2,434 inmates in its prisons.

  Approximately 1,630 are repeat offenders.

  —TWENTY-NINE—

  Sam consulted his map as he drove north on I-75. He was about an hour out of Tampa and on his way to Jacksonville. After watching the news coverage of the shooting, he was convinced the reporters had not gotten the full story. They reported on the roadblocks despite the fact that the Cadillac had been found. This made Sam think that they had a description of the rental car, too, but had kept it from the press in the hopes that he would still use it. Sam took the thought further, and decided to change his exit plan. He was now at the wheel of a new rental car. Color and make were as far from the other as he had been able to choose from the limited selection. Bypassing the airport was another choice. He decided to catch a flight from Jacksonville. It would cut his available preparation time in Memphis, but he felt it was better to be safe.

  After committing his exit number to memory, Sam traded the map for the file on his next target. Thomas M. Curtis: white male, short at 5'7", fat at over 240 pounds and full of hate. Curtis was over seventy years old, but had been the leader of the white supremacy movement for decades. A former minister with the Christian Identity Movement, he had ultimately converted to atheism. In the late 1970s he became a member of the Knights of the Ku Klux Klan, becoming Grand Dragon for the state of California, where he also worked as a plumber. Here he had found a better fit for his anti-Semitism, and broadened his approach to include a monthly pro-white newspaper.

  This led to radio and television appearances followed by regular demonstrations. As the technology had presented itself, Curtis branched out into websites containing his views. Telephone hotlines, email, and racist merchandise had been marketed to young, low educated followers. He began to support racially slanted rock bands and more youth soon joined the ranks. As the skinhead movement migrated from Great Britain to the United States in the 1980s, Curtis had welcomed them with open arms. The skinhead gangs with their neo-Nazi insignia, heavy tattoos and shaved heads had been a natural match for Curtis’s brand of white supremacy.

  Now with young, easily influenced, and disposable soldiers available, Curtis began staging rallies and provoking racial minorities. The on-camera confrontations were broadcast by the media, and the growing white supremacy movement received the free publicity it sought. When a group of skinheads in the northeast took Curtis’s words too far and killed a trio of black men, the subsequent trial had been front-page news.

  The skinheads who committed the crime were too ignorant to hide Curtis’s correspondence coaching them on how to perform the act. They were also too weak in character to hold up to police interrogation. Soon warrants were issued, and Curtis found himself on trial in connection to the murders.

  Although he was found not guilty of the murder charges, he was soon after sued by the Southern Poverty Law Center on behalf of the victims’ families. The trial was short, and the jury awarded thirteen million dollars in damages to the families. Upheld on appeal, the judgment was one of the largest civil verdicts of its kind in United States history. Curtis’s assets had been seized to help compensate the families: his home, business, and life savings had all been forfeited. The revenue from his newspapers and websites were accounted through the court, and the majority had gone to the families’ fund, as well.

  Despite the defeat and subsequent poverty, Curtis had continued to spread his message of hate. In a pathetic attempt at revenge, he began advocating the Lone Wolf model of extremism. Also known as the Leaderless Resistance model, it promoted individuals or small groups conducting underground activity, as opposed to aboveground organizations. This, in theory, left the least chance of being caught by law enforcement. A published Letter to the Editor in the monthly newspaper gave advice on how to operate as a Lone Wolf, and Curtis often used the phrase in his speeches, hoping to inspire impressionable youth to act. He had become the leader of the largest domestic terrorist group in the United States. Yet, the police could never pin anything on him. Curtis had learned from his mistakes, and took every step necessary to shield himself from being prosecuted. Like other terrorist leaders, he never got his hands dirty. It was much easier to send one of his mindless disciples to do his bidding for him.

  As the years passed, Curtis found a smaller and smaller audience for his beliefs. The skinheads grew up, and the ever-increasing diversity of the United States left little room for his antiquated ideas. His rallies were attracting smaller crowds, and in some areas, the counter-protest crowd was larger and louder. Yet, the snake still had its head, and in some areas of the country an audience could still be moved by a hate speech from Thomas M. Curtis.

  Another generation was coming of age, and Curtis hoped to have influence on it. People brought their kids to hear the speeches, and the message was taught while they were most impressionable. Hate crimes were again on the rise. The next rally was in Memphis. Sam had two days to get there.

  It was time to cut the head off the snake.

  • • •

  Jack looked up from the forensic report he was reading. A handwriting analysis had confirmed that the letter found in the refrigerator was written by the same person who had written the others. Jack flipped to the last page to get the answer. Why it took ten pages to answer a simple yes or no question was frustrating to him. He knew the reason, of course: lawyers. All the extra paperwork was simply so it would stand up in court. He tossed the file into the pile on the floor next to his desk. He had graduated from In and Out baskets on his desk to In and Out piles on the floor. All this, and he had told them to give him “just the pertinent stuff.”

  He reached for another file. This one was titled Ballistic Report. He felt the urge to do a Johnny Carson imitation and hold it to his head while he predicted the content. Before he could open it, the phone rang.

  “Randall.”

  “Jack? It’s uh . . . Bob. I got an answer to your request.”

  “Okay.” Jack waited.

  He paused. “Are you kidding?”

  “It’s a secure line.”

  “Did you forget who you’re talking to? Where we had lunch last time, in about thirty minutes, okay?”

  “Hold on.” Jack took a second to remember the place. “Okay, I remember. Thirty minutes.”

  “Fine.”

  Jack sighed. He hated the cloak-and-dagger stuff, but if he wanted the information, he’d have to play along. He got up and grabbed his coat. It was freezing out.

  Thirty minutes later found him in the lobby bar of a local hotel. He ordered a drink for appearances, and found a corner table from where he could see the entrance. He soon saw his friend walk by the entrance without entering. This was getting ridiculous. He appeared again two minutes later, and Jack waved him over.

  As the man quickly seated himself, he scolded Jack. “Could you call a little
less attention, please?”

  “Will you relax? We know each other. It’s in your file, it’s in mine. Nobody cares if we meet for a drink. Your job’s gone to your head.”

  “Maybe. Your request didn’t go through channels though, did it?

  “Well, it just doesn’t meet the homeland security guidelines, does it? Nevertheless, I need the help. What did you find?”

  The man opened his briefcase and pulled a computer disc from its pocket. He placed it on the table and slid it over to Jack.

  “Can I get you anything?”

  Jack smiled as his friend visibly jumped at the surprise question from the waitress.

  “He’ll have a martini, vodka. I’ll have another Amber Bock.”

  “Yes, sir.” She smiled. “Anything to eat?”

  “Just the drinks. Thank you.”

  When the girl had departed, Jack looked at his friend. He looked pissed.

  “Jack, I don’t need a drink; I need to leave.”

  “If anybody ever needed a drink, it’s you. Relax, and tell me what I have here.”

  The man took a breath and, after a quick look around, explained. “After 9-11, the NSA began acquiring more super computers. It was covered under the intelligence budget, but the reasons weren’t exactly published, you know? Anyway, we use them for wire and phone taps. They’re all linked with the phone companies’ computers, and we program them to record conversations that are triggered by key words. The volume is enormous and the languages are a real pain, but we’re getting good information on several cells in the US alone, not to mention overseas.”

  “How do you get them all? I mean—it only records after it hears a certain word?”

  “No, it records everything. But it only flags it if it catches a word or phrase we programed it to key off.”

  “That has to be millions of calls a day?”

  “Billions is more like it. Right now, we rotate the coverage from area to area. New York and DC get it all the time, other cities and states as we can or if we get a tip. We need more people, and it takes time and a lot of money to build super computers.”

  “So, can you help me or not?”

  “That’s the calls from south-west Florida you asked for. What else do you need?”

  “I need you to drink this.”

  “What?”

  Jack watched his friend jump again as the waitress approached from behind and set down the drinks. Jack pulled a twenty from his wallet and placed it on her tray.

  “Keep it,” he said.

  “Thank you.”

  Jack motioned to the drink as he sipped his beer. His friend grabbed it, and half of it was soon gone.

  “I need you to be ready to trace calls from the area of the next shooting when it happens. Can you do that?”

  “Yeah. How will I know when it happens?”

  “I don’t know. Watch CNN. Listen to the news on your phone. Keep a flag on your computer. You’re a smart guy.”

  “All right. I’ll need some key words to put in. No more than ten.”

  Jack pulled out a napkin and jotted a few down. The rest of his friend’s drink disappeared as he waited. A few more words, and Jack was done. He pushed it across.

  Jack worked on his beer, while the list was scrutinized.

  “Should work. There’s only eight?”

  “Add the victim’s name and the location when you hear the story.”

  “Okay. Are we even after this, or are you gonna keep me hanging?”

  “It’s not like that. I consider this a favor. Now I owe you one. You should save it for a rainy day.”

  “Rainy day—aren’t you a funny guy? You know where to reach me.”

  “Yeah, I do,” Jack replied. He watched the man leave the bar, looking over his shoulder. He pulled out his laptop and booted up the disc. He was amazed at the volume of information. This was homework and he didn’t have time right now to digest it. Perhaps he could pass it to someone, but who?

  • • •

  Eric stopped in the doorway of the room as his escort kept walking and talking. He was wearing a suit, and it was as new as he was nervous. He had been there all day being lectured to about policy and procedure. His file had been gone over with him in a small room, and he was questioned thoroughly about every aspect of his past. He had followed his father’s advice. He kept his mouth shut when he wasn’t asked a question, and was honest and forward when he was. So far, he had made it past all the people, signed a number of documents, been pictured and fingerprinted, and was now being led through a maze of corridors and gates. Each time he slid his card through a security checkpoint he braced for alarms and armed G-men bursting out of every doorway. So far it hadn’t happened. He now stood in the doorway, fingering the new pass around his neck. The escort noticed he had lost his principal.

  “It’s okay, son. You’re allowed here, too. Let’s find your new boss.”

  Eric followed as ordered with a sheepish look to the stares he was getting. He was easily the youngest face in the room, and the hair was no help. He hadn’t had time to cut it before his father had loaded him on the plane. He was very relieved to see a familiar face approach.

  “Eric! Good to have you here.” Larry crushed his hand in one of his famous handshakes. “You remember Dave, John, Susan, and of course, Sydney.”

  Eric smiled as she waved him over to her table. She stuck out a hand, which he awkwardly shook.

  “I guess I have you to thank for this?” he asked.

  “We all liked what you did with the computer rendition of the crime scene,” Sydney said. “So we had you checked out. We need a good computer guy. Most of the good ones go to the NSA, or make video games. But don’t thank me; you may grow to hate me for it later.”

  “Okay. Well, what do I do?”

  “We all have assigned duties per Jack. A lot of it is boring—I’m not gonna lie to you. But this is what catches the bad guys. See all this paper?” She gestured around the room to all the tables. “Somewhere in this pile is a clue to who this guy is. The trick is to know it when you see it. Thanks to technology, we can increase this pile ten-fold with a phone call. But sometimes you get too much information, and processing it all becomes the problem. I imagine Jack will have you helping to reduce the information pile down to what is deemed important, and organizing what we do have into one of your impressive presentations.”

  Eric nodded as he surveyed the room. “Do you always work in this big room together?”

  “No, but with what we’re working on, it helps to be able to ask a question to everybody at once. You’ll see what I mean after a while. Is that your Bureau laptop?”

  “Yeah, I just got it. It’s amazing.”

  “Yeah, they are nice. Just don’t lose it.”

  Jack walked in and Sydney waved him over. Eric jumped to his feet.

  “Relax, Eric. If you do that every time you see me, you’ll wear yourself out. I see you’re all processed in?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Just Jack is good. Wondering what you’ll be doing?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  “Come with me. I have something right up your alley.”

  Eric smiled at Sydney as he was led away. Larry shared a smile with Sydney, too.

  “Think he’ll stay?” he asked.

  “I imagine he’d be making video games if money was his thing,” she replied. “Maybe his dad was a good influence on him. All we can do is give him a taste and see what he does.”

  Larry grunted and returned to the file he was reading. Sydney soon followed.

  • • •

  Eric sat with a look of pain on his face. Jack had just given him a disc which he had loaded into his new secure laptop. What Jack didn’t understand was the disc was merely an access code to the computer with the information. Eric was looking at thousands of voice recordings. Jack wanted him to listen to them all.

  “Just where did you get this?” Eric asked.

  “I’m afraid I can’t tell you t
hat, and you can’t tell the team what exactly it is you’re working on either. I have an idea that one of those recordings is our shooter. Is there some way you can run a search program, like the one they used, and narrow it down further?”

  “It would take a while to write a program like that.”

  “How long is a long time?”

  “Days. Maybe a week, just for the basics. A month to do it right.”

  “That long?”

  “Sorry. It’s not so much a talent thing; it’s a volume thing.”

  Jack held up a hand. “Don’t bother trying to explain it. I’m sure I wouldn’t understand anyway. I need it done, Eric. Can you do it?”

  “I have some ideas. I think I can bastardize some voice recognition software to help me. Are you presuming the shooter is male?”

  “For this, yes, but we can’t rule it out a hundred percent.”

  “If I can eliminate the female voices, it will cut it down substantially. I can start there.”

  “Good. What do you need?”

  “A quiet room, an internet connection with some serious bandwidth, some spending money, and a set of headphones. Some caffeine.”

  “That’s all easy.” Jack reached for the phone.

  The state of New Jersey holds 27,246 inmates in its prisons.