by Gavin Reese
“WEIS WUT!” The patrol squad responded in near unison, a few of the older officers chuckled, and newly-hired Officer Brad Johnson looked on with obvious confusion.
“Feel better, Talbert, starting the day off with the call of your people?” The sergeant pretended to care.
“Ha-ha, thank you, guys, let’s move along now.” Surprised by the unexpected ribbing, Officer Brad Talbert angrily slumped his shoulders, bowed his head, and stared across the table.
Wow, Alex thought, this usually didn’t start until mid-September.
Templeton returned to the legitimate business at hand. “Back on track, the ‘Weis Wut’ festival is slated for September 25th and 26th, which means the event organizers will be out there at least a week or two ahead of time and the participants will show up in varying numbers from the 24th to the 27th. Expect to see an increased presence at the businesses in your beat, especially gas stations, convenience stores, hotels, and grocery stores. We’ve not yet had a reported incident here in town, but be extra vigilant with these guys and the effected minority groups.”
“Sir, sorry, what’s ‘Weis Wut?’” Landon saw Officer Brad Johnson didn’t understand Talbert’s ribbing, but then remembered that he had only joined the agency about six months ago after having previously worked for Detroit PD.
“You can ask Officer Talbert, or maybe, Detective Landon would be willing to share his more, uh, more personal experience with it.” Alex saw the sergeant had regained his stoic poker face and met the detective’s gaze to encourage him to answer Johnson’s inquiry before the group. Most of the other eight cops watched Alex and awaited his response.
Alex looked to his left and saw Talbert still displayed frustration and seemed unlikely to step in. “Well, sir,” he spoke hesitantly while deciding how much to reveal, feeling more than a little uncomfortable the sergeant used him as leverage to force Talbert to speak, “uh, ‘Weis Wut’ translates from German as ‘White Rage.’ It’s, uh, locally, a two-day white supremacist music festival hosted on private land in Tonopah every September. Bunch of sweaty, sandy Neo-Nazis jumping around punching each other in the mouth all day to a shitty Hitler Youth soundtrack. At least, from, uum, what I understand, sir.”
“Anything else you’d care to share, Detective?” Templeton’s tone conveyed a certain telling of the story, the only question seemed to be from whom it would come. Alex truly regretted having shown up to patrol briefing that morning.
“Seriously, fuck you guys.” Talbert hadn’t moved, and now seemingly spoke to the table in front of him. “I had one drunken night out and I’m gonna have to put up with this shit every year now.”
“No, Talbert, not every year,” Templeton had adopted a condescending, sarcastic tone, “just all the ones until you retire.”
Talbert looked annoyed and a little embarrassed in front of the guys. Alex knew the downside of maintaining close working relationships with the patrol officers allowed him to remain an equal-opportunity target for harassment. Cops only rib the guys they like, he reminded himself, but they’ll talk shit to anyone.
“Sir,” Johnson said to Talbert, “any relevant knowledge or experience you’d care to convey to this Again-Rookie-Officer to ensure my conduct and operations are as safe as possible would be greatly appreciated.” Alex understood Brad Johnson’s dry, sarcastic tone as a challenge to Talbert to tell his story.
“Eat a dick, Officer Krupke,” Talbert offered and delayed the inevitable public explanation.
“So here’s what I heard from the responding deputy…” Another officer, Scott James, tried to help get the story started.
“Fuck you, too, Scotty J.” Talbert sat back in his chair, as though resigned to at least telling the story from his own point of view. He cleared his throat and began. “For training purposes, I’ll explain to the new old-guy what you jokers are getting at. Someone, who can remain nameless to protect the not-so-innocent, decided to go play some pool a few years ago. Had a few drinks, started shooting stick with a few pasty white guys at the bar. They seemed like okay guys, they didn’t know that I, er, I mean, ‘he’ was a cop, so no worries. Everybody’s having a good time. The pool hall closed early, like around 10, but we, fuck it, we had some liquor on board and wanted to go somewhere else. These jackasses invite me to see a band out at their buddy’s place in Tonopah.” Chuckles and stifled laughter from around the room.
“Tono-what?” Brad Johnson asked, and his smirk led Alex to believe he had already some third-hand version of his story.
“Tono-fuck-all-you-guys, it’s the unincorporated shithole west of here surrounded by desert.” Talbert returned to his story. “Live band? Cool, I like music as much as the next guy. They drive me out there, ‘cause I’m polluted and have no ability to get there myself.” He paused a moment, unfolded his arms, and his hands began punctuating his speech. “We show up, and I start noticing a few dudes are rocking the red suspenders, jack boots, and swastikas. I think it’s just those couple guys, so I try to keep a drunken eye on ‘em. Then, the dudes I’m with, they ripped their shirts off and it’s like watching the Hulk, or maybe an SS werewolf, mutate right before my eyes!” Talbert’s syntax grew faster and more animated, and Alex thought he must actually enjoy telling this part of the story. “They have the spider web tats, the swastikas, ‘White Pride,’ they had it all hidden under their shirts, like fuckin’ undercover Nazis!”
“You have to tell him the best part, Talbert.” Alex knew Sergeant Templeton enjoyed this more than most DCPD officers because he had been the on-duty supervisor the night this happened.
“Getting there, sir. So, I’m still sober enough to understand how royally fucked I was. I take off like a shot, gone-baby-gone, four-wheel-running through the desert. That’s the whole thing.” Talbert stopped short, as though hoping his anti-climactic ending would quash any further inquiry.
Alex saw Templeton couldn’t let it lie. “The deputy sheriff that responded to Talbert’s 911 call for ‘officer desperately needs assistance’ said he found him on the main road to the property, a whopping seventy-five yards from the front entrance, hiding behind a scrawny bush the size of a cantaloupe.” Alex saw Templeton had trouble keeping a straight face while adding to the story.
“That’s bullshit, Sarge, you know that deputy hates me!” Talbert then turned back to address the other officers, particularly Johnson. “I had no idea where I was, so, after a couple minutes, when I was sure I was alone and wasn’t followed, I call 911 and used the GPS on the phone to tell the county dispatcher where I was. Then Deputy Dickhead shows up and takes advantage of the situation. Asshole acts like he pulled me out of a burnin’ building or some shit.”
His peripheral vision detected movement, and Alex turned his head right to see Detective Ronald Berkshire enter the open briefing room doorway and wave a stack of printouts at Templeton. “Sarge, can I interrupt for a few minutes to give your squad an update on the annual Talbert Family Reunion?” Berkshire continued walking to the podium as Templeton stepped aside and motioned him forward.
“Fuck you, too, Ronnie, you dirty sonuvabitch.” Talbert protested, although it seemed he held only a moot opinion on the topic. “You guys keep it up and I’m gonna start looking for openings in Maine.”
“Don’t you mean northern Idaho, Grand Wizard Talbert?”
Alex imagined that Berkshire loved this almost as much as the sergeant. “Chuckle chuckle, motherfucker.” Talbert leaned back in his hard, plastic chair, folded his arms across his chest, and straightened his legs out in front of him. Berkshire’s comment reminded Alex of the Idaho real estate sales literature anonymously placed on Talbert’s desk after his Weis Wut outing.
“Go ahead, Ron, we were just going over that ourselves.” Templeton yielded the podium.
Berkshire addressed the assembled cops and handed out intel sheets to the two patrol officers who occupied the front row. “G’morning, pass these around and drop the extra copies on the front table for the other
patrol squads. Turns out the F-B-I, A-T-F, and D-E-A just got confirmation that, for a change, they were right for once. A few of their simultaneous wiretap investigations ran into each other a few days ago, and they just got positive ID that one of their suspects on the D-E-A’s drug trafficking investigation showed up last week in the A-T-F’s gun-running investigation. Without divulging too much, here’s the skinny…by the way, this is all law-enforcement classified, do not share it with your wives, or Talbert’s girlfriend, Eva.”
Along with the older officers and Sergeant Templeton, Alex couldn’t help but laugh aloud at the joke.
“Fuck you, Ron, but at least you’re original,” Talbert objected, but Alex saw even he couldn’t help but smile.
Berkshire continued. “The D-E-A is working its usual multi-gazillion-dollar-international-drug-conspiracy case, A-T-F is working a lead on an uptick in same-day, multi-rifle purchases they fear may be headed south. Apparently, A-T-F gets upset when anyone runs guns into Mexico without their permission. And, last and always least, the F-B-I is looking into some info from the Southern Poverty Law Center that the hate groups in the Southwest are becoming more tightly organized and motivated to turn ideology into action. The common fear at Joint Terrorism Task Force has been, for a few weeks anyway, that these three investigations are related, and, now that they appear to have confirmation of their fears, all the federal alphabet groups will have to make nice with each other and us locals for a while.” Alex watched Berkshire review his notes at the podium as the passed-along intel sheet finally reached him at the back of the room.
“I need all of you to use extra caution, but also additional vigilance. If possible, we need to help out our federal Brethren-In-Blue without compromising their investigation or their wire taps, so if you see or run into Talbert’s cousins...”
“Eat a dick, Ron.” Talbert didn’t stop scanning the intel sheet while defending himself, and Berkshire didn’t stop talking to allow him to do so.
“…we need you to be courteous, act stupid, and document every one of these assholes you find. Complete a Field Interview card and get it to me that day. Be interested in their piece-of-shit truck, their broken down motorcycle, lie to ‘em that your dickhead sergeant makes you document every person you speak with. Check ID’s, check warrants, find out where they’re staying, ask for their help to locate a missing grandmother. Make shit up. We are allowed to lie to potential suspects, just don’t push your fable into 4th Amendment search-and-seizure territory. At this point in time, every possible scrotebag headed to Weis Wut needs to be documented and looked at, but we can’t do it overtly. I need your help and I need you to be sneaky. Put on your criminal thinking caps for a second and act more like these guys. It’s possible somebody in Tonopah is getting ready to take criminal, and potentially terrorist, action against minority groups or government targets, and you guys are the best chance to prevent that. Questions?”
Everyone either looked at each other or read the flyer, which Alex recognized as adult-student-speak for “no questions.”
“Okay, let me know if you guys need anything, thanks for your vigilance. Be safe.” Alex saw Berkshire look back toward Talbert and smile, which he suspected foretold of further humor at the officer’s expense. “Also, can someone get a copy of this translated into Talbert’s native German?”
Alex watched Talbert lean back in his chair and smile tensely, as though he had had enough for one morning. “You guys ever hear the story about ‘Running Ronnie, the Dry-Ice Bomb E-O-D Tech?’” Most of the squad laughed, having either witnessed or heard rumor of the incident.
Alex looked to the podium and saw the smug smile evaporate from Berkshire’s face. “Fuck you, Talbert.” The senior investigator collected his papers and conceded the podium back to Templeton to close out the morning briefing.
“Not so funny now, is it?” Alex looked on as Talbert watched Berkshire leave the room. The patrol officer soon met Alex’s gaze, and spoke directly to him. “Now he’ll leave me the fuck alone for a day or two.”
Fifty
American Bank Tower. Downtown Phoenix, Arizona.
Duke parked his gold Oldsmobile Alero on Adams Street just west of 1st Street, a short walk to American Bank Tower where he worked under an assumed name as a part-time security guard. His position with SSH Security required him to fill shift vacancies at several job sites around the Phoenix area, which both allowed Duke to become intimately familiar with the American Bank Tower’s infrastructure, layout, and employee habits and prevent his coworkers from becoming too familiar with him. He glanced down at the light blue uniform shirt and the name plate above his right pocket, which identified him as R. Page. Duke smiled as he remembered filling out the employment application with the pseudonym, Reggie Michael Page, to honor the gunman who shot ten people in a Wisconsin Sikh temple in 2012. The stupid, ignorant Human Resources staff didn’t even look twice at it, and the bullshit employment verification process only confirmed the name and social security number matched.
While still in the relative comfort of the Alero’s mediocre air conditioning, Duke adjusted his professional, temporary body modifications to ensure they were in place. Looking at his altered appearance in the sun visor’s vanity mirror, Duke admired how convincingly the “fat suit” added forty pounds to his appearance, the oral jaw inserts altered his cheek bones, and the salt-and-pepper wig and matching mustache all conspired to make him appear to be a different person entirely. Duke knew investigators would suspect “Reggie’s” involvement soon after the detonation, but expected the description offered by his coworkers and HR staff would prevent police sketch artists from making his own face international news.
As he exited the sedan, entered the oppressive concrete heat jungle, and saw American Bank Tower standing before him, Duke pleasantly remembered how easily he had acquired its blueprints through open source public records and only a small amount of deceit. The careless government paper shufflers at Phoenix’s Planning and Zoning and Code Compliance departments required nothing more than a few phone calls supported by a forged contract and city construction permit for interior alterations to the Tower’s basement before shipping high-definition copies of the structure’s blueprints and engineering data to a private mail box he temporarily rented under another assumed identity. “Stand proud and arrogant now,” he said aloud to the Tower before him, “you won’t be there for much longer.”
Duke carried a large, tan backpack and lazily strolled toward American Bank Tower, which were two of “Reggie’s” memorable traits he wished his coworkers to later convey to investigators. He spent innumerable hours practicing a slow, careless persona so security employees would provide statements with features and traits antithetical to his own. Hoping they would remember Reggie as a stereotypical underachieving security guard, Duke tried to appear physically incapable and mentally inadequate of carrying out coordinated terror attacks. Witness statements alone would be insufficient to keep investigators focused on the inept security guard if they recovered contradictory forensic evidence, but Duke hoped, at minimum, his theatrical efforts would delay them for the crucial hours required for him to successfully escape north.
The fat suit made him sweat far more than normal, which he felt positively contributed to “Reggie’s” persona. Entering the southwest corner of American Bank Tower, he walked the few remaining steps to the security desk to make his obligatory appearance with the other guards, whose lackluster greetings for “Reggie” demonstrated a general dislike of him. Duke saw Rocky and Tom, the two guards seated behind the desk this morning, were so preoccupied with something that only Tom momentarily looked up to acknowledge “Reggie’s” arrival. Tom did little to conceal his disdain for “Reggie,” whom he had already confronted for his lackluster performance and professional failings, but had no authority to discipline or terminate “Reggie’s” employment. SSH Security had recently hired Tom, who took the job very seriously despite his professed desires to enter federal la
w enforcement. Duke privately enjoyed the ironic and dark certainty that, after the bombing, Tom’s futile efforts to save American Bank Tower employees would assure his own death. In Duke’s mind, the man’s death was merely that of another abusive federal agent before his Jackboots could be issued.
“’Morning.” Reggie’s standard greeting, used even in the afternoons to ingrain it in the other guards’ memories.
“Yep.” Tom momentarily glared at him and watched his slow plod toward the back office where the guards kept personal belongings.
After spending a few minutes cooling off in the air conditioning, Duke stumbled back to the front security desk for an obligatory shift briefing. Standing to the left of the desk and both guards, he saw the pack of documents that had garnered their attention. Duke picked up the top document, a cursory inspection of which revealed images of doorway-sized metal detectors; despite his close proximity, both of the other guards ignored “Reggie’s” presence until his curiosity forced conversation.
“We getting new metal detectors installed?”
“Yeah, sure thing, Reggie, that’s all this is, just a simple metal detector.” Rocky scoffed, as though the clandestine devices were immediately recognizable.
“No, Reggie, these are concealed density meters, similar to what TSA uses for body scanning in airports,” Tom explained, “and the Tower is installing them soon. The building engineers dropped these documents off for us to learn how they operate.”
“Are we gonna have to set up a screening line like airport security now?” Duke asked in apparent, immediate dislike of any change to their job protocols. “I don’t think I like that idea very much.”
