“What?” Edward frowned a bit.
“Use the simplest theory to fit the facts, because that theory is probably the closest to reality,” the Captain said, “A thirteenth century philosopher, William of Okham said: ‘Entities must not unnecessarily be multiplied’.”
“So, speculating that this case is perhaps a riemanium theft, with the gems as a diversion, and the riemanium possibly in the hands of domestic terrorists,” Sumner sketched out his position, not sure how to handle a cop who quoted 13th century philosophers. “Such a theory would violate this Occam’s Razor of yours?”
“Not just my principle,” Brian said, and thought better of describing its scientific applications, “That’s what I’ve called the two gang or riemanium buyer options in the report. We know the thieves drove from the central Berkeley/Oakland area to the east Mount Tamalpais area, with a change of vehicles, in a fixed time. The time frame and numbers don’t fit either of these options well. Then, there’s the gang’s profile, evidence at the safe house and on the corpses, evidence at the warehouse where we believe they kept the truck, a lot of things. I consider those very remote possibilities.”
“Did Holbin tell you of my little talk to the heads of local law enforcement on Saturday?” Sumner’s frown deepened.
“Yes, he did,” Brian said simply. The second mention of his boss’s name, meant to put Sampson in his place, rankled him.
“Does it make any difference to you to know that the President and the National Security Council are taking the possibility that this theft is the work of domestic terrorism completely seriously?” Edward asked gravely.
“Whether we assume it is a jewel theft, or an act of terrorism, it doesn’t seem to me to change this department’s prosecution of the case.” Sampson decided he did not like Sumner, but he also decided to be careful with his words.
“You mean you wouldn’t shift personnel assignments and work priorities if it turned out to be a threat to national security, instead of a jewel theft?” the agent’s question was weighted.
“At this time,” the Captain felt his anger flare and as quickly he throttled it, “I have every available officer out looking for the fifth suspect around the clock. Police agencies around the Bay area are working with us, and the Governor has offered us every resource of his office and of the state. I don’t see what more we could be doing.”
“To begin with, don’t put all your resources behind the hunt for this fifth suspect,” the agent slammed his point home, “There’s a high probability that the riemanium is already in the hands of a second party. The gang might have hidden it, and by now your fifth suspect may have recovered it, sold it to an eager buyer, and skipped the area altogether on his gains. There’s also a strong possibility that the second party in question has some dangerous political intentions in holding the riemanium. A little intelligence gathering, say, on the better known radicals and revolutionary organizations in the area might be in order.”
So this was it, the Captain thought. The bottom line.
“We’re the Highway Patrol,” he stiffened, “Not the FBI.”
“Quite true,” the agent’s smile was ugly, “However, on an issue of national security, perhaps your department could see its way toward ‘modifying’ some of its procedures.”
“My officers are trained to do the very best jobs they can,” Sampson folded his hands, “But they are trained strictly as police officers. I need all their skills devoted solely to the tasks for which they were trained, in order to get my department’s work done.”
“I see how the land lies,” Edward said sarcastically, “I’m sure you do keep files on such activities and individuals, and I’m sure you would gladly provide the Bureau with copies of them, upon request.”
“We maintain files on some individuals who’ve given us trouble in the past,” the Captain was all business now. “We’re not in the habit of singling out specific organizations or activities. In the spirit of cooperation between law enforcement agencies on this matter, my office would gladly provide your Bureau with copies of the files on anyone you name. Provided that is, we have them.”
“In the ‘spirit of cooperation,’ 111 be sending an agent over this afternoon with a list and a truck,” Edward stood abruptly, “Thank you for your time, Captain. I’m certain Chief Holbin will be most interested in our conversation.”
Edward extended his hand. Sampson rose, but did not take it. The third mention of Holbin’s name had been the final straw.
“Thank you for dropping in,” the Captain refused to conceal his disdain, “Chief Holbin understands the job I was hired to do.”
Edward exited, leaving a bad smell in Sampson’s office. Brian fumed inwardly as he sat back down. He had wanted to punch out that bastard FBI man, no doubt about it.
Brian realized that police agencies in large metropolitan areas maintained black files and red squads to keep track of troublemakers, particularly with the growth of anti-war sentiment and protest. Undoubtedly, Edward would ferret them out and utilize them to the Bureau’s advantage. But to honestly suggest that the Highway Patrol put together some type of red watch to help out the FBI? Sampson could only chuckle softly to himself.
“Hey Brian,” Marcus knocked on the Captain’s doorjamb, “Are we still on for some conversation?”
“Sure,” Brian smiled despite his memory of Edward, “Just got done talking to the west coast director of the FBI. The goddamned jerk.”
“Guess I passed him on the way in,” the PI took the chair recently vacated by Edward, “How’d the Fed get you so steamed?”
“Damned arrogant asshole,” Brian searched across his desk, “Tried to get my boys to do his job for him.”
Finding what he was looking for, the Captain handed Marcus a manila folder, duplicate to the one he had given Edward.
“That should be everything you need.”
“I appreciate it,” Mark said and glanced through the file, “Me and the missus have taken up temporary residence in Alabaster, to get as close to our fifth suspect as possible. Here’s how you can reach me.”
He scribbled new address, phone number and FAX on the back of his business card and handed it to Brian, who methodically placed it in his wallet.
“Anything new on your end?” the detective asked.
“Not a thing,” Brian confessed, “It’s damn strange that two pounds of bomb grade riemanium could just vanish into thin air so quickly.”
“Hopefully, it’s lying on the side of some road somewhere, under a bush or in a ditch. If it is, it’ll be found. And if this Peregrine has it, then we’ll find him.”
“Now that you’ve relocated to Alabaster,” the Captain said, “I think I can arrange for some help for you. We have a team of officers assigned to Marin on this case. That information is in the file. I also know someone on the Alabaster police force. Joe Manley. He’s an excellent officer. Ill give you his name and number now, and I’ll call him this afternoon to tell him about you. What are your plans?”
“First, 111 interview Rosanne Casey,” Marcus said, “I know you all did a good job, but I need to cover all the bases. Just the way I work. Then I’m going to make copies of your sketch of Peregrine/Baumann and take them around to the places in Alabaster for which we have numbers from the safe house. I’m also going to do some computer hunk ing through a few data bases I’ve used in the past. Then it will be old-fashioned gum-shoe work. It still surprises me that our fifth suspect’s fingerprints never made a police record. That strikes me as odd, especially if he’s a professional, as all our other evidence indicates.”
“Good point,” Brian smiled, “What’s your theory on that?”
“He could have been a juvenile when arrested,” the detective picked off the points on his fingers. “Had his records sealed or expunged upon turning eighteen. Then again, he could have been outside the country for most of his life, either from birth or from his family living overseas.”
“Interpol might have something then,” the
Captain considered the idea.
“I’m planning to check. Finally, and aside from the possibility that he was never arrested, Peregrine or someone he knows might have removed all trace of his criminal record wherever he had one. These days, police departments are putting records on microfilm and in computers. A knowledgeable hacker, or someone with inside connections, could quite literally erase his own criminal record, even his identity.”
“An intriguing possibility,” Brian said, interrupted by an intercom call. Once done with business, he turned again to Marcus. “I guess I’ve got work piling up out there. Marcus, watch out for this Edward Sumner. He thinks all of this is “domestic terrorism.” He’s a prick. I’ve got a feeling he won’t like any independent investigation on this case. He doesn’t know about you yet, and my advice to you is don’t introduce yourself. I’m certainly not going to tell him you’re Neal’s hired PI.”
“Thanks,” Mark stood to leave, folder under his arm, “And thanks for the warning.”
“One more thing,” the Captain said, standing as well, “I know you’re answerable and accountable only to Neal, but I’d appreciate you keeping me up to date on what you uncover. I’ll do the same for you. I don’t want to steal any of your thunder Marcus, but you’re working on this twenty-four hours a day. I can’t. You’ll probably solve this before we do. If you do, put me in the picture somewhere. Somewhere in the background will do just fine. Edward is going to try and read me wrong to my boss because I won’t turn my department over to him. Any surplus glory you could throw my way would be greatly appreciated.”
“If I do crack this, 111 do that,” Mark smiled and the two men shook hands.
Marcus had dropped Gwen off at home bright and early that morning for her car, so he had all day to pursue the case. Thick fog clouds rolled over the UC San Francisco campus near Golden Gate Park, alternating with crinkly cool, late morning sun amidst airy California architecture and trees leaning on the breeze. It reminded Marcus of his own school days, so long ago, on the GI bill. He noted that fashions were certainly different as two coeds in shorts and form-fitting spandex sauntered by. He located the administration building despite such distractions, and with a little persuasion, and the lie, based on the police report’s profile, of being a visiting relative, he managed to ferret out Rosanne’s schedule for the day.
“Hello, Rosanne,” Marcus said as she left her nursing class for an hour’s break, recognizing her from a picture in Sampson’s file.
“Police, right!” Rosanne bristled.
“No,” Marcus found his ID, “Private investigator. Can we talk?”
“I’ve told everything I know to the police,” she started walking briskly toward the campus library.
“It’s important. I’m trying to find Michael before the police do,” he said, true as far as that went.
“Do you know Mike?” she asked.
“Not personally.” he said, “You know he’s suspected of being in on Saturday’s theft.”
“And of taking the missing riemanium. I know.” she sighed. “Mister, I know Mike and he didn’t do it.”
“Marcus Dimapopulos. Mark.” he offered, “Have you heard from Michael since the robbery?”
“No,” she frowned, “But I’m sure there’s a reason for that. Mike did not steal any gems or any riemanium. I’m sure of it.”
“What makes you so sure?” Marcus said.
“I...I just am,” she was firm. “I was his lover. I knew him. I knew his soul. He could no more commit that robbery than I could, well, kill you.”
“And if I were attacking your mother and you had a gun?” Marcus offered.
She looked baffled for a moment, then bit her lip.
“You’re saying there might be ‘extenuating circumstances’ then?”
“I’m saying that no one can say what another person will do in this life, no matter how well you know that person,” Marcus matched her now slowed pace. “I’m not trying to harass you, Rosanne. But I still want to interview you.”
“All right then,” she sighed, resigning herself.
They did not go to the library. Instead, he took the interview on the cafeteria’s outside terrace. Seagulls glided above a view of the Golden Gate, the park frayed by traffic and the bridge laden with cars. Sooty white buildings and harshly colored billboards down the hill played hide-and-seek with the fog. Telephone pole transformers fizzed when hit by a fog bank, an occasional undertone to the ever present din of traffic. She spent about thirty minutes going over her and Michael’s two month relationship. Marcus took notes and asked questions, but failed at first to uncover anything beyond the police sheets.
Peregrine, aka Michael Baumann, passed himself off as 22 years of age and an independent computer programmer/consultant. The address and telephone number Rosanne had for her “Mike” were correct enough, a now vacant SRO near Washington Square Park rented by the week, until recently, under yet another pseudonym, a Robert Fitzooth. The room yielded the same set of enigmatic fingerprints. Not only had Diamotti bankrolled his Peregrine’s cover, but “Michael” had spent the time needed to flesh out that cover. The gang had invested a good deal in Rosanne Casey, in setting her up as the gullible, unwitting access person into Security Pacific.
“When was the last time you saw him?” Marcus asked.
“Guess it was the Friday night before that robbery,” Rosanne sipped a soda, “Actually, it was Saturday morning. He came in around 12:30, and I was already in bed.”
“You weren’t expecting him then?”
“He said he’d be over. But he also said he’d be working late.”
“How was he dressed?”
“Hmm, let me think,” she paused and crunched on a potato chip. “He was dressed in black. Black canvas shoes. Black pants and black sweater. Even his t-shirt under the sweater was black. He also had a black bandana, and his black bag.”
“Bag?” Marcus noted. Not in the police report, he also noted.
“Yes. He always carried this black bag,” she remembered. “Canvas bag, about two maybe two and a half feet long, with a shoulder strap.”
“You didn’t mention that to the police,” Mark pursued.
“He always had it with him,” Rosanne shrugged, “Guess I just forgot.”
“Anything you can tell me about the bag?” he wrote in his notebook, “Anything in it? Any tags or initials on it? Anything at all?”
“I guess he kept a change of clothes in it. Or could.” she said. “When he left in the morning, he was wearing a dark brown sweater and his red high tops.”
“Anything else?”
“Can’t think of anything else. He kept it zipped most of the time. I remember once, when we were on the BART, going to a movie, he took out a little black appointment book from the bag and wrote something in it. Oh yes, and I remember seeing some embroidery, in yellow thread, on the shoulder strap. Kind of an T with some letters on it. A ‘B’ and an ‘N’...”
Marcus sketched something on a napkin:
“Yes, something like that,” Rosanne said. “Is that significant?”
“It’s a good lead,” the detective admitted, chewing on the pencil’s eraser. “What did you do after Mike arrived?”
“We made love,” she blushed, pleasant for Marcus to watch. “Then we slept. He got up real early, around six, showered and dressed and left before six thirty. That’s the last time I saw him. Do you know anything more about Mike?”
“The police haven’t found him yet,” Marcus closed his notebook, “And no one’s renewed the rent on his room. It doesn’t look good, him not being around, if he didn’t have anything to do with the robbery.”
“I know,” Rosanne bit her lip, “I don’t know what’s happened to him, but I’m sure he has a good explanation.”
“I hope so,” the detective smiled wearily, “Since you’ve been so cooperative, you’ll be one of the first people I call when anything breaks.”
“Thanks,” she looked forlorn, “I just can’t be
lieve he’d be involved in that jewelry theft. None of this makes any sense to me.”
They made small talk until she had to go to her next class, about her studies on a UC scholarship for returning women students 30 and over. She showed him her talented anatomical sketches, and spoke of perhaps pursuing medical illustration. Currently, she was looking for another part-time job after being fired from Security Pacific. Not wishing to reveal his employer, he said nothing. He excused himself when she stood for her class with a thank you and a promise to keep her informed.
He pondered the clue she had provided him as he reached mid-span on the Golden Gate driving north, parts of the bridge still enshrouded in fog. Black dada Nihilismus was one of the most extreme of the Hooligan groups to emerge with the start of US intervention in southern Mexico after 2001. Clandestine and cellular in organization, virtually none of its members had been arrested to date, despite the massive property damage attributed to the BdN. One brick wall off Telegraph near Berkeley’s former Peoples Park displayed the group’s abbreviated five point program:
He did not know much more about BdN than that, though he was sure to learn all he could. What the association between Peregrine and BdN did was to expand Marcus’s mental image of this fifth suspect. The Alabaster area night club phone list said that he hung out with young people, and the BdN connection further delineated his milieu. If he were an anti-war activist, associated with a dangerous fringe group, then perhaps he could be found in photos or videos of Bay Area peace demonstrations. The detective made a note to hunt down such material—police, press and private—to aid his investigation. Briefly, he wondered if the FBI was onto something with its terrorism theory.
It was sunny and warm in Alabaster, and Gwen’s old Ford Taurus was parked in the motel lot. So was a familiar Mercedes. Marcus smelled his wife’s cooking upon entering the cottage; lean hamburger, garlic and sauteed onions simmering in a tomato-based sauce. Neal waited for him, seated on a chair in the living room.
End Time Page 12
