by Gavin Reese
“No, these are covert density imagers that will go into each of the doorways and automatically scan everything that goes through for package density consistent with anti-personnel-sized bombs and IEDs.” Tom’s nonchalant statement chilled Duke to the core. “We just need to know what they’re looking for and how to react to the alarm going off.”
“Okay, so, what, now we’re supposed to be the bomb police too? They don’t pay me to handle bombs.”
“No, Reggie, it’s got this ‘auto-sighting threat identification’ technology that works with the interior surveillance cameras. It covertly identifies the suspected package and automatically dials 911. It even sends a live HD video feed to police dispatch and runs the perp’s picture through facial recognition software, and then sends that information to Phoenix PD dispatch computers.” Tom paused and, Duke thought, worked to maintain civility with Reggie despite an apparent desire to punch his mouth every time it opened. “All you have to do, Reggie, is listen for the alarm to go off at the desk, look at the monitors back here to identify the suspect, and answer the phone when it rings. The cops are going to call us when the alarm goes off, just like a burglary alarm in your home. You just need to visually confirm the information they already have and follow their directions.” Tom handed him another copy of the information flyer provided to them.
“Wow, I bet we get a lot of false alarms with all the stuff women carry in those massive purses.” Now reading over the manufacturer’s flyer, Duke began to quietly panic. This new technology would stop attacks exactly such as his. “So, when are these going in?”
Tom paused and breathed deeply as though to compose himself before he answered. “Construction starts next week in the underground parking garage entrance. They’ll be operational by early October.”
“Reggie” shuffled off to the stairwell without another word, engrossed in the promotional flyer. He fought his sudden anxiety at how this would impact his plans, and decided to quickly retire to one of his camera-free hiding spots scattered around the building to review the material and determine a best course of action. As Duke neared the stairwell entrance, he overhead Tom speak to Rocky behind him.
“What the fuck does that guy care? That worthless piece of shit spends all his time creeping on women in the stairwells, this won’t change his day-to-day at all. Ain’t nobody who thinks that rug is his real hair.”
Perfect, Duke thought, he’s gonna give a great witness statement.
Fifty-One
Westbound US Highway 60. Wickenburg, Arizona.
Duke had only three days to drive roundtrip between Phoenix and the northern Idaho panhandle without calling off sick from a shift with SSH Security. The imminent installation of American Bank Tower’s new bomb detection technology threatened his timetable and, thereby, the entire movement. After leaving work as soon as possible without raising suspicions, he had returned home only long enough to change clothes and pack a small bag. He headed north to meet with Jeff Schneider, his primary conspirator and leader of the New American Reich, at his home in Sandpoint, Idaho, a mere twenty-two-hour drive away.
Duke knew he had precious little time to complete what he required, but failure and delay remained unacceptable alternatives. The government illegally monitored too many of its citizens’ communications, so he could not risk an email or phone call that could potentially alert authorities to him or his partners. He had to meet his contacts in person and adjust their timetable, for he simply could not stomach the idea of scrapping all their planning, efforts, and subterfuge just because American Bank intended to add new security measures. Duke felt the operation now involved far too many people to keep it secret any longer than necessary, and believed he had insufficient time to identify and scout another worthy target in Phoenix within their current proposed timeframe. Schneider needed time to communicate with his associates, none of whom knew or had ever heard of Duke, and all believed their man exclusively ran their operation. Just another Cleveland, Duke thought, and just as obsessed with the respect and admiration of his dedicated followers.
Now familiar with his relatively well-traveled route, Duke had first driven to his destination almost a decade ago in search of like-minded, local white supremacist leaders outside Arizona. Those friendships became alliances, which further refined into Brothers-In-Arms. Before cell phones and email, Duke and his partners had communicated with handwritten letters and phone calls. Technological advances and systemic, domestic government spy missions forced them to develop encrypted ciphers, dead drops, and use compartmentalized cut-outs to prevent their identification and apprehension. Duke understood each involved party had long ago committed a “substantial step,” as defined in Arizona state laws. Each of them, since agreeing to participate in their conspiracy, had helped complete at least one task to further their collective criminal efforts; this “substantial step,” Duke knew, allowed local and federal law enforcement to arrest and charge them for their overall criminal conspiracy. He felt confident that everyone involved had both ideological and selfish motivations to ensure their continued operational security. If the feds catch one of my partners, and can prove I knew what they were up to, I’m just as guilty as them. Discipline and operation security are now more important than ever.
Having originally chosen his target date as 15 October to coincide with the Islamic holiday of Al-Hijiri, which marked the Muslim New Year and the anniversary of Mohammed’s migration from Mecca to Medina, Duke considered moving the date to 11 September, for obvious reasons. He doubted, however, that provided enough time to ensure their success and his escape. There’s no other fuckin’ sand nigger holidays in September this year, he thought as the Alero propelled him further into the desert night, but I could always start some chatter in the White Pages about bombing a few nigger-lovin’ corporations into submission. Duke considered the consequences of using his fellow supremacists as fodder. Weis Wut Fest is the last week of September, it’d be a good enough cover to buy me a few days to really get off the grid. He pondered the new subplot and timeline as he drove on through the pitch black Arizona desert night. I hate to throw those soldiers to the wolves, but it’s a damned sight better ‘n the wolves gettin’ me. By the time the cops decide whether the whites or the Abba Dabbas are to blame, I’ll be livin’ high in cool pines.
Three days to get back, he thought, I can’t risk having Tom and Rocky remember me leaving early and calling off again, not this close to them telling me about the scanners. Duke pushed the accelerator a little closer to the floor. Not too much, can’t risk the fuckin’ paper trail of a goddamned speeding ticket, either.
Fifty-Two
Dry Creek Investigations Bureau. Dry Creek, Arizona.
Detectives Alex Landon and Ron Berkshire sat across the Criminal Investigations Bureau conference room table from DEA Special Agent Donnie Williams to discuss the potential resource needs arising from their initial investigation into The Chosen Few. Alex’s frustration had become evident to everyone in the room as Williams repeatedly poked holes in their investigation.
“Look, Landon, I understand your frustration here, so let me make sure I also understand everything you’ve got.” Williams sat back in his chair and reviewed his handwritten notes. “You have a Confidential Informant who’s not really a C-I, not yet signed up as C-I, not yet vetted as a C-I, and is also the suspect in a felony child abuse case, which means any US Assistant District Attorney in the country won’t look the other way and work with him, at least until they know you’re not filing on him, right?”
Alex hesitated, his quiet rage evident and further exacerbated by the answer he knew he had to give. “Yes, technically all true, but-”
“And, Ron, you’re telling me the social media and chat room threats you’re seeing are all consistent with someone in this local area and with your informant’s particular skillset, training, and personal struggles?”
“Yes, also true, but-”
“But nothing, guys. Landon, you might be new here, but I kn
ow you know this much. We have to have more, something objective, independently verifiable, before we can use this information. I can’t devote assets and resources based on what you have without endangering my own job.” Williams paused, as though to let that sink in. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t believe your man. The problem is, you have a few pieces of circumstantial intel that don’t yet mean anything criminal, at least not the way an A-D-A is going to look at it.”
Alex felt relieved when Berkshire began speaking and gave him a moment to collect himself. “What we do have, potentially, is a new, previously undocumented white supremacist hate group whose affiliates approached a retired Army Captain for information on acquiring or building IEDs, maybe for their own personal ends, maybe for furthering the group’s criminal objectives. That alone should be enough for us to get some additional resources to run this down to confirm its validity.”
Williams looked again at his notes. “The Captain’s brother approached him, right, not the other guys his brother introduced him to?”
“Yes, but the others were asking the Captain questions about his combat experiences in Iraq and Afghanistan, and specifically asked what he knew about IEDs before his brother approached him.” Berkshire’s voice showed his own frustration, despite his apparent attempts to conceal it.
“So, it’s possible they were just curious, and the brother is trying to come up with something to make a name for himself in the group?”
Landon answered. “Yeah, sure, it’s possible, but we think it’s too dangerous to write off. Our agency doesn’t have the resources to set up anything beyond occasional spot surveillance on the leader’s house, which is so isolated that we can’t use a simple ruse to talk to the residents, or go out there for a knock-and-talk, which is how we normally conduct business. We can’t put round-the-clock teams out in the desert to watch these guys, and a consensual conversation at the front door would do nothing but jeopardize the investigation.”
“Guys, it sounds like this is a rock-and-a-hard-place. There is not enough evidence to devote federal resources in light of the other ongoing investigations, which I don’t see being tied to this in any way. This looks to be an isolated problem completely exclusive of Operation Trifecta, but, if you disagree, now is the time to let me know. Give me a good reason I can send up the chain.” Williams looked back and forth between the two detectives and saw tacit agreement. “I’m sorry that you don’t have the manpower and resources to run this down on your own without tipping your hand, but giving up assets to this will only potentially compromise the bigger investigations. I am certain we can work on this together after Operation Trifecta is completed, and I know by then there will be a number of agents looking for something productive to do.”
“What happens to all of us when these guys acquire some devices and detonate them in downtown Phoenix, maybe during a Latino march or pro-immigration rally? How do we answer for our collective inaction on this?!” Alex felt his frustration intensify and transition to outrage.
Berkshire leaned forward and paused before he spoke. “If D-E-A isn’t interested, I understand, this is outside your normal purview, but we wanted to speak with you one last time before we started calling our contacts at A-T-F. I’ve been around J-T-T-F long enough to know the federal agency politics, and I would like to continue having a relevant assignment there. The SAC asked us to work through you on this, so that’s what we’re doing. How do you want us to move forward?”
Williams sat back in the chair, as though pondering his position and watching the two detectives to assess their reaction. “Let me be completely straight with the two of you. Ron, your rhetorical question does not fall on deaf ears, just realistic ones with bureaucratic and political limitations. I know you have enough reasonable suspicion to justify devoting investigative resources, but this case is well outside D-E-A’s normal mode of operations.
“I can’t sell it to my boss as an internal investigation because there’s no drugs angle, and I can’t sell it to J-T-T-F right now because there’s no apparent tie to Operation Trifecta. I think it’s asinine that the SAC directed you to work with me on this, but that’s commonly how the F-B-I rolls. So, do you have names for the players in this, at least the brother and his friends, for us to start work-ups? Maybe they’re on our radar already and we can tie them in that way.”
Alex joined back in. “Our informant is Jonathan McDougal, his brother is Billy McDougal, and the three guys Jonathan met only gave first names, or nicknames. Cleveland, Mikey, and Paul. I have DOBs for the McDougals, but nothing yet for the others. We got a license plate off a Jeep Wagoneer Cleveland was driving, but its registration came back to an elderly female we can’t associate with hate groups or with any white males Cleveland’s approximate age.”
Alex saw Williams sat frozen; the federal agent stared back at him with a pen in his right hand, but wrote nothing. “Billy McDougal? Any chance that kid’s mother named him William?”
“Yeah, that’s what Jonathan said, but he’s always gone by Billy. Most of his credit and criminal histories are under ‘Billy’ with ‘William’ as an A-K-A.” Alex saw recognition on the agent’s face.
“Any chance Jonathan and Billy met these other cats at The Watering Hole Saloon in Tonopah?”
“Yeah…that’s the bar, but I didn’t think you’d know it by name.”
“My partner and I were there when the meeting took place,” Williams explained, with obvious disbelief on his face. “I popped inside for a few to get eyes on the group. We got Billy’s name from his license plate when he and another white guy, who I now figure was Jonathan, drove off, but we didn’t know how they played into this. We already knew Ned Foster, who goes by ‘Cleveland,’ but the two other guys with him had fake license plates and dropped surveillance before we got to see where they landed. Fuck me.” Williams dropped the pen and picked up his cell phone. “Who’s your contact at A-T-F?”
“Jason Healy.” What a small criminal world, Alex thought.
“Jason’s good people, I’ll call him after I speak with my SAC and get approval to brief the three of you in on our investigation. We’ll want Healy’s expertise on this and I need to catch you two up on what led us to Foster and Billy McDougal. Do you think we can sit down with Jonathan?”
“It’s possible, but I can’t make any guarantees. Our last meeting didn’t go so well.” Alex thought back to their argument behind the Tonopah Gas ‘N Go station after he and DCPD SWAT’s lead sniper spotted Jonathan surveilling Cleveland/Foster’s place. Jonathan had told Landon he didn’t believe DCPD took this investigation seriously, and Alex had made it clear Jonathan would end up in handcuffs if he compromised the investigation. “He’s generally pretty agreeable, but we had some words recently.” Alex took out his cell phone, anticipating this meeting would need to be almost immediate.
“Shit happens. Informants aren’t friends, and you can’t expect ‘em to act as such. Call ’im and see if he can meet us at my place, if that works for you two? Think you can be at the D-E-A office in about three hours? Give me time to make some calls and brief a few bosses?”
Alex looked at Berkshire, nodded ‘yes,’ and felt grateful for the sudden and powerful traction. He saw Berkshire appeared skeptical, and he spoke for the two of them. “Yep, we’ll be there, with bells on. Why didn’t you know about us discussing The Chosen Few and The Watering Hole meet-up at the J-T-T-F briefing a while back?”
Williams thumbed through his smartphone’s contents and didn’t look up to answer Berkshire. “Well, just like you, Detective, that’s an extra assignment for me. I was probably out buying dope when that meeting happened. I only hear about half of the information that the task force director doesn’t email out to the whole group. Wish I’d known earlier, this whole thing would’ve been a lot easier for all of us.” He looked up as he raised the phone to his ear. “You guys got anything else for now?”
“No,” Berkshire replied, “that’s it for now. See you in a fe
w hours.”
Williams gave them a thumbs-up as his supervisor answered the call and he rose to leave the Dry Creek office. Alex’s cell phone rang before he and Berkshire could discuss anything further, and he saw the caller ID displayed “Wall-Mobile.”
“Hey, Wall, kinda busy, can I call you back?”
“No, it’ll be short. I just thought you should know I have to file on Jonathan McDougal, L-T’s orders. Said we have to treat it like every other case, so I have to file the felony and hope the D-A drops it. We’re gonna have to go get an order for him to surrender any firearms, too, if the grand jury indicts, just to further insult the man. This whole thing pisses me the fuck off, and I assumed you and Berkshire would need to know in case he was involved in anything else you guys were doing.”
“Fuck. Alright, thanks for calling. I’ll let Ron know, he’s here with me now. Do you need anything from me on the filing?”
“Nope, I’ll let you know what happens next.” Wall disconnected the call without a goodbye or parting insult.
Alex looked at Berkshire, and felt the ominous approach of bad news. “Fuck me runnin,’ Ron. L-T ordered Wall to file felony on Jonathan, putting it up to the D-A to dismiss or take it before a grand jury.”
Berkshire softly shook his head back-and-forth several times as he initially spoke. “It was inevitable, Landon, anything that involves crimes against kids or DV, we have to file if there’s PC, even if it’s only by the skin ‘o the teeth. There’s too much liability in doing nothing, for the same reasons you just posed to Williams. If something bad happens after we did nothing, the zeroes on the end of that check never stop.” Alex and Berkshire sat in silence, each processing the ugly truth. “I don’t like it, either, but I can’t fault the L-T for calling us out. It is his job to help us keep ours, and sometimes that means making sure we continually walk the straight-and-narrow. I just hope the charging D-A has a 2-14 and the balls to do what we can’t. If the case gets in front of some rookie assclown trying to make a name for himself as a tough and objective prosecutor, Jonathan might be fucked.”
