The Reformers: A Matt Blake Novel (The Matt Blake legal thriller series Book 2)

by Russell Moran

  The Logans had been married for 20 years, and were both 42 years old. They met at NYU when they were students, and married six months after they graduated. They had two sons, both in college. The Logans had a strong marriage, fueled by the fact that they loved each other. Jack was six feet tall, with a blond crew cut and a muscular build, kept that way because of his rigid workout routine. Bonnie, also blond, wore her hair in a pixie cut. She was 5’9,” slim with an attractive, athletic body.

  When they were in Philadelphia, Jack and Bonnie often worked on the same cases. Jack’s former position with the FBI was as a narcotics investigator, a job that often saw its share of homicides. Bonnie loved her work as a homicide detective. She worked on cases that were managed by others, leaving her with the challenge of analyzing the facts and solving puzzles without the blizzard of paperwork that the officer assigned to a case had to worry about.

  ***

  Bonnie had been on her new job for three weeks when she walked into her office on a bright September morning. Her phone rang. It was Joel Fenster, the Chief of Police himself, saying that he had an assignment for her. She thought this was an odd procedure, because any assignment would normally come from a deputy commissioner or chief of detectives.

  “Bonnie, there’s been a big shooting at the NYU Islamic Center on Thompson Street. Get there right away.”

  In her many years as a homicide detective, Bonnie had convinced herself that she could handle any kind of scene, no matter how revolting. She had a firm rule never to bring the gruesomeness home with her, although she and Jack often discussed their cases. What she found when she ducked under the yellow police crime scene tape at the Islamic Center hit her like a baseball bat.

  “Oh my God,” she said to the captain in charge of the crime scene, “do you have a body count?”

  “This is fucking unbelievable, detective. We have 95 bodies, and there’s no evidence of any explosion. This was done with guns. Our forensic people from CSU (Crime Scene Unit) have just started to sort this out, but they think that there were a bunch of shooters, based on the relative orderliness of the bodies. As far as we can tell—but we still have a lot of bodies to examine—every one of the shooters got away.”

  “Captain, do you have a preliminary thought on what happened here?” Bonnie asked.

  “I avoid jumping to conclusions, detective, but I think this is a terror-related execution. Who are you calling?”

  “My husband. You may have met him, Jack Logan. He’s the new head of the FBI Counterterrorism Task Force. He needs to know about this.”

  “Hi Bonnie, I already heard about the shooting at the Islamic Center. I assume that’s what you’re calling me about. I’m just outside right now.”

  Jack Logan flashed his badge and ducked under the yellow crime-scene tape. He walked toward the entrance past a group of uniformed NYPD officers. Thanks in large part to his predecessor, Rick Bellamy, the old bullshit competition between cops and FBI people was almost a thing of the past. An officer led him through the front door, where Bonnie was waiting for him at the command post. They moved toward each other but suddenly pulled back. Their natural inclination was to exchange a hug and kiss, but they had both disciplined themselves over the years to keep up professional appearance in public.

  “Holy shit,” Jack said.

  “Is that your professional opinion, Agent Logan?”

  “Yes, it is, wiseass. Knowing you, Bonnie, you probably have this 90 percent figured out already. So give me your take on what happened here.”

  “This mosque has been on the NYPD radar for years, as the captain-in-charge told me. It’s a gathering place of extremists and radical activities, including speeches and plans.”

  “It’s been on the FBI and CIA watch list too, Bonnie. If I said that publicly I’d probably be the subject of a New York Times editorial. It’s a Sunni mosque, and not very popular with the Shiites.”

  Ever since 9/11 every law enforcement officer in the country had to keep abreast of radical Islamic culture. Jack knew, as did Bonnie, that the Sunni Muslims had no love for the Shiites, and the feeling was mutual.

  “Let’s review a bit of history, Bonnie. Maybe it will help us to understand this shit. The Sunni branch of Islam believes that the first four caliphs after the Prophet Mohammed were the true successors. The Shiites believe that only the heirs of the fourth caliph, named Ali, are the legitimate heirs. So that clears it all up, no?”

  “No, Jack, I’ve been studying this stuff for years, just like you, and I still don’t get it. Are we telling ourselves that this carnage has something to do with a succession dispute from the seventh century?”

  “I don’t get it either, Bonnie. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. We can’t conclude that this shoot-out was pulled off by Shiites. At this point, we just don’t know. Let’s look at what we’ve got in front of us.”

  “Jack, you were in the Marines. Give me your gut feeling when you walked in here.”

  “My gut told me this was a military operation. It was a carefully planned military action, not a wild shoot-out.”

  “On that point, Jack, here’s what we know right now. First, look at the position of the bodies. They were lined up in neat rows on their knees, obviously at prayer when the shooters opened up. The CSU people will report their findings, but from the angle of entry wounds on just a few of the bodies and the blood splatter marks, it appears that the shooters were lined up, maybe evenly spaced across the back of the room.”

  “Type of weapons used?”

  “From the shell casings it looks like at least one M16 was used, or an AR-15, the civilian version. We’ll know more when the CSU people are done.”

  “Bonnie, how the hell can a group of guys just walk in with a bunch of guns and start blasting?”

  “We’ve found pieces of duct tape on the bottom of that long bench at the back of the room. I’m thinking that the shooters walked in looking like worshippers, reached under the bench to get the weapons and started firing. Of course, that would indicate inside help, someone who taped the guns to the bench.”

  “Any reports of gunfire from any witnesses?”

  “Yeah, quite a few people called 911. There would have been a lot more, but the shooting occurred around sunrise, the time of the Morning Prayer or Fajr—around 6:30 a.m.”

  “How long till the first police car arrived?”

  “Jack, you know as well as I do that cops are notorious bullshitters when it comes to reporting response time. But we’re just a few blocks from Police Plaza, so for the time being I’ll accept what I’ve heard, which is two minutes.”

  “Wow, Bon, these guys got out of Dodge fast. They must have had a getaway car waiting for them.”

  “With fully automatic machine guns in the hands of people who know how to use them, they could have done their deed in 30 seconds or less.”

  “How many survivors, Bonnie?”

  “Only six, if you can believe that. One guy wasn’t even wounded. He was lucky enough to be behind a pillar when the shooting started. He was probably busy hunkering down for his life. Two are in critical condition, but three have wounds that I’ve been told aren’t life threatening. The CSU people can do more here than I can. Hey, Jack, green isn’t a very becoming color on your face.”

  After almost 20 years of homicide work, Bonnie had trained herself to ignore a bloody crime scene.

  “You’re more accustomed to scenes like this than I am. I don’t know how you can take it. I need some fresh air. Care to join me?”

  “Sure. Over the years I’ve learned to get used to something like this. But 95 bodies in one room is a bit much even for me.”

  “Do you think you’ll be home late tonight?”

  “I’ll probably be working for a couple of days straight with time off for naps. I’ll let you know when I’m on my way home. But I’ll tell you what I want to do.”

  “Let me guess, watch a feel-good movie on TV?”

  “You got it, Jack. How about a nice
classic like When Harry Met Sally? We haven’t seen it for over six months.”

  “Count on it. See you soon, honey.”

  Chapter 22

  Bartholomew sat on the expansive deck of his elegant vacation home in Amagansett, Long Island. He cleaned his gun, a Sig Sauer P226. The Sig is popular in the military and law enforcement for its accuracy and reliability. He had the 357 version, which he used when he was a Navy SEAL lieutenant. It packs a lot more punch than the standard 9mm Sig. He was also an expert in the use of the M16, a fully automatic machine gun, also commonly used in the military.

  Bartholomew is a tall man at 6’2,” with short cropped sandy brown hair and deep blue eyes, eyes that some people called “penetrating.” At the age of 38, he had an athletic build, kept that way by a strict regimen of exercise.

  After he finished cleaning his weapon, Bartholomew put his feet up on a teak lounge chair and stared at the Atlantic Ocean, about 50 feet from his deck. He had paid $16 million for the house two years earlier. It boasted eight bedrooms, seven bathrooms, an indoor pool, a gym, and a billiards room. Bartholomew was a wealthy man and a widower. His fourth wife had died a year earlier in a yet-to-be-solved car accident in the Queens-Midtown Tunnel. She was on her way out to the beach house from their Manhattan condo, when her car apparently went out of control.

  Bartholomew was a former vice president for Amazon. He loved working for the company, especially because of its devotion to intricate data. “Opinions are bullshit,” Bartholomew would often say. “Data is the only thing that matters.”

  He was the CEO and majority shareholder of Midtown Metrics, a securities firm. The company was quite successful, and many commentators attributed it to the head man’s obsession with data. He also ran a successful hedge fund.

  Bartholomew’s last name was Martin, but he seldom used it. His years at Amazon taught him the importance of charisma when you’re a leader of anything. To anyone who knew him, Bartholomew Martin was simply known as Bartholomew.

  “James Ordin is here, Bartholomew,” said his assistant. Besides not using his last name unless necessary, he insisted that everyone call him Bartholomew, never Bart. James Ordin was one of his top aides. Ordin was also a former Amazon executive, and Bartholomew valued his devotion to numbers. Ordin was executive vice president of Midtown Metrics.

  “So talk numbers to me, James.” Bartholomew preferred to call people by their proper names, never a nickname. If your name is James, he’d never call you Jim. Robert was Robert, William, William. It encourages discipline, something almost as important as data. Just a few of Bartholomew’s strict rules.

  “They’re adding up beautifully, Bartholomew. From our six-month data point, the count is 726, and Metric Alpha is 37.”

  “James, do you really think that’s beautiful?” he asked softly. Another of Bartholomew’s traits is to speak in a soft tone.

  “Yes, it is if we look at the number in light of another set of data. Our target plan, adding up the total number of incidents to date, was 711, with Metric Alpha at 36. So the data tells us that we’re over 100 percent of efficiency.”

  “Thank you, James. As usual you gave me what I want to hear, objective data. But we need the gross numbers for Metric Alpha to go up. The efficiency ratio is excellent as you point out, but we need to improve Metric Alpha, the leadership targets.”

  “I met with Reginald yesterday, Bartholomew. What he has planned for in the next six months will drive the gross numbers for Metric Alpha through the roof.”

  “Through the roof, James?”

  “Sorry, Bartholomew, I meant to say ‘significantly higher.’ ”

  “ ‘Significantly higher’ is much more appropriate than ‘through the roof,’ would you not agree, James?”

  Bartholomew hated any trace of exaggeration. If an employee told him that “things are great,” he wouldn’t let the man leave the room until he described, with data, why he thought “things are great.”

  “So tell me about our website tracking, James.”

  “It’s fantastic.”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “Sorry, Bartholomew. Let me give you the numbers. Of the 1,300 sites we’re tracking, we’ve successfully infiltrated 1,283. We’ve also gotten identities on 97 percent of the users.”

  “How do we do that, James?”

  “Part of it is easy. I find it unbelievable how many visitors disclose their identity, including

  Facebook and Twitter user names. Some even put in their email addresses. These people account for 45 percent of the visitors.”

  “And what about the other 55 percent?”

  “Most get picked up by our algorithm.”

  “And what percentage gets picked up by the algorithm?”

  “Thirty percent at this point, but I remind you that we’re only in Phase One. As we continuously tweak the algorithm we’ll close in on the 100 percent mark.”

  “When can we begin seeding the sites with our own posts?” Bartholomew asked.

  “We’ve begun already, but we have to move cautiously to make sure our posts aren’t immediately targeted and taken down.”

  “Of course. Well James, you’ve given me excellent data as I’ve learned to expect from you. I know you want to get back to the city, but you’re more than welcome to stay here if you wish.”

  James would have loved to accept Bartholomew’s suggestion to stay at the lovely beach house, but, like most of his colleagues, James feared Bartholomew.

  “Will I see you at the office, Monday, Bartholomew?”

  “No, I’ll be away from Midtown Metrics for a few days, James. I’m sure you’ll keep things running smoothly.”

  Bartholomew had a much bigger operation to run than Midtown Metrics.

  Chapter 23

  “Matt, this is freaking me out,” Diana said. She just called me from her office at the university. “Did you hear about the attack on that mosque in New York?”

  “No, I haven’t heard a thing. I was interviewing a client.”

  “Well, this morning 95 people were killed in a mosque,” Diana said. “It wasn’t a bombing, and there’s no evidence of a suicide. According to the news reports, it looked like a military operation. As many as five gunmen opened up on the crowd of people saying their morning prayers. An FBI spokesman wouldn’t say anything because the investigation just started. According to the guy on CNN, the mosque had a reputation as a center for radical sermons. Matt, our client’s words are ringing in my ears. Remember that Al said there’s a war going on? I think we just saw a battle.”

  “Dee, do you think that so-called NFL group could be involved?”

  “Well here’s what we know about them, at least what we know from Al. They’re not suicide types. When they pull off an attack, they want to live to fight on. The news said that the police were on the scene within two minutes of the 911 call. So these guys shot up a mosque and killed 95 people and were gone in an instant. This is one strange group, Matt.”

  After Dee told me about this latest incident, my head went into overdrive. This NFL is a shadowy group of people, and my client is involved with them, if only on the periphery. Dee’s research showed that the other side of the war, the jihadi side, is quite serious about whacking dissenters. But now we learn that there’s a group that’s quite serious about whacking jihadis. My job, I keep reminding myself, is to represent a criminal defendant, a man who could get the death penalty if he’s convicted. What this weird anti-jihadi group could have to do with me representing Al Yamani I had no idea.

  “Matt, do you think it’s time to go to the government?”

  “The government? Do I have to remind you that the government is on the other side of The People vs. Ali Yamani? Our client is being prosecuted by the government. How can I talk to them?”

  “Let’s think this through, Matt. Just like Al Yamani said, there’s a war going on, a war between the jihadis and this weird shadow group. Al and the other two bombing defendants are caught between them. If yo
u talk to the government, I think it could help our client.”

  “And who do you suggest I talk to, Dee? The prosecutor from the US Attorney’s office? He’ll just think that I’m trying to get him to drop the case. There’s something you need to know about prosecutors, especially ones who have political goals, which most of them do. They want to win prosecutions, and they don’t give a rat’s ass about the welfare of a defendant like our client.”

  “I was thinking about somebody higher up than the prosecutor, a lot higher. I’m thinking about the Secretary of Homeland Security, our old friend Rick Bellamy. You and I helped him when he was head of the FBI Counterterrorism Task Force. We blew the lid off that Sideswipe Conspiracy. We helped him to prevent a bunch of nuclear attacks.”