by J. C. Fields
“What do you mean, narcissistic?”
She sighed loudly. “It means what it means. All he wanted to do was talk about how great he was and how he lifted his company up to be where it was, a global powerhouse.”
Thomas frowned. “We’re not a global powerhouse, we’re a software company.”
“Not according to Stephen. He was obsessed with your meddling in the day-to-day affairs of his company. He even accused me of being in collusion with you to take the company away from him.”
Taking a deep breath, Thomas crossed his arms over his chest. “I spoke to him after you left. He was quite agitated. I’ve never heard him talk like that before.”
Judith poured herself another Glenlivet. “He knows, Thomas. He knows.”
“Apparently, but how? How the hell could he know?”
“He was impatient and not the least bit shy.”
Remaining quiet, Thomas stared at the floor.
“Thomas, who told you he suffered from scopophobia?”
“His father. Stephen was diagnosed at the age of thirteen. Once he started meds, he got through high school and a master’s degree in college, but managing a multimillion dollar company pushed him over the edge.”
“He didn’t look like the picture you showed me. He was more world-weary. He resembled a man ten years older than the person you described to me.”
“I haven’t seen him in several years, Judith. People age.”
“That’s not what I’m saying, Thomas. He didn’t act like a man who has isolated himself for fifteen years.”
“He isn’t isolated. He meets with us every day on the internet.”
“I don’t know, it’s hard to explain exactly how I felt. But he scared me.”
Zimmerman was about to respond when the security intercom chimed. He walked to the unit. “This is Thomas.”
“Sir, its Bill Harris at the gate. I have an FBI agent here who would like to speak with you. His name is Sean Kruger.”
“Did he say what it was about?”
“No sir. His ID looks legit.”
“Very well, give him directions.”
He turned to Judith. “Wonder what this is all about. Could Stephen have called the FBI and told them we were trying to steal his company?”
Judith shook her head. “I don’t know. I guess it’s possible.”
Five minutes later, there was a knock at Zimmerman’s door. As he opened it, he was shoved back into the apartment and a man entered, shutting the door as he entered.
Zimmerman gained his composure and glared at the man. “What’s the meaning of this intrusion? You can’t barge your way into my home like this.”
The man produced a small Ruger SR22 with a suppressor screwed into the barrel and pointed it at Zimmerman’s head. “Shut up.”
Staring at the gun pointed at him, Zimmerman heard a gasp from Judith. “Oh, my gawd, Stephen, what are you doing?”
Randolph Bishop, in the disguise of Stephen Blair, turned to Judith and said in a calm voice. “Nice to see you again, Judith. I trust our little session today stirred your desire to cure me of my psychological idiosyncrasies.”
“You’re not Stephen Blair.” Zimmerman stared at the man holding the small gun.
“You are correct, Thomas. But I can’t let you tell anyone.” Bishop pulled the trigger and the 22LR hollow point struck Zimmerman above the left eye. His dead body slumped to the floor as Judith screamed.
***
FBI agent Tom Stark shook Kruger’s hand as they stood outside Thomas Zimmerman’s condo. “Thanks for flying in on such short notice, Sean.”
“No problem. Bring me up to speed.”
“Someone identifying themselves as you gained entry to this gated community last night. The guard saw the identification, thought it looked legitimate and called Thomas Zimmerman, who agreed to see the man. It’s all in the log book. They even have a CCT picture of the man sitting in his car while the guard called Zimmerman. I knew it wasn’t you; there’s no resemblance. But using your name raised questions.”
Three inches taller than Kruger’s six-foot frame, Stark was high school skinny with an Ivy League haircut on top of an angular face. They worked several cases together after Stark graduated from the academy.
“I appreciate it, Tom.”
“Zimmerman is an executive at a software company. Did you know him?”
Kruger shook his head. “Never heard of him.”
Stark handed a print out of the CCT picture to Kruger. He studied it for a few moments and shook his head. “He doesn’t look familiar, but his face is partially obscured by the fedora.”
“I asked the guard about it, but he said lots of fashion-conscious men in this part of Atlanta wear them.”
“Great. Okay, let’s see what you’ve got.”
“It’s bad, Sean. Hope you can help us.”
Kruger slipped the booties he was given over his shoes and inserted his hands into the latex gloves provided. When he entered the room, his eyes went to the outline of a body on the floor. “Is this where the male was shot?”
Stark nodded and handed Kruger an iPad with the digital pictures. After studying them for a few moments, he asked, “Where was the female found?”
“Back bedroom. This is where it gets gruesome.”
As soon as he stepped into the room, Kruger stopped. The scene was all too familiar for him. “Shit.”
Stark nodded. “Yeah, that was my reaction also.”
Kruger shook his head slightly. “No, that’s not what I meant, I’ve seen this before. Several weeks ago, I was in a house where a woman was murdered, and it looked exactly the same.” Pulling out his cell phone, Kruger searched for a number. When he found it, he pressed the call icon. Three rings later, the call was answered.
“Charlie Craft.”
“Charlie, it’s Sean. I’m going to have an agent named Tom Stark send you a packet of pictures. I need your perspective. Call me when you get it.”
***
“We haven’t released any information to the media about what we found in Brenda Parker’s home. There’s no way this is a copy-cat murder.”
Charlie Craft spoke to them via Skype. Kruger’s laptop was pointed toward the wall Kruger was staring at. The words written in blood on the wall dominated his concentration. Kruger turned the laptop back, and he saw Charlie look back at the photos of the woman’s body on his computer. “Same signature cuts and mutilation as Brenda Parker, Sean. It’s him.”
“I agree, Charlie. But what the hell did Thomas Zimmerman and Judith Day have in common with Brenda Parker?” Kruger continued to stare at the walls of the bedroom.
Charlie shook his head. “Apparently, Randolph Bishop.”
Kruger turned to Tom Stark. “Tom, dig into Zimmerman’s life. Maybe the answer is there. I have to catch the 6 p.m. flight back to Springfield.”
Chapter 16
Springfield, MO
“I’m looking at two suicide vests, Sean. They’re crude, but from what I can see, deadly. Plus there’s an arsenal of assorted weapons: Remington shotgun, the Beretta ARX 160, two AR-15s, a Glock 17 and 19, a SIG Sauer .45 caliber, a couple of CZ 9mm’s, and thousands of rounds of ammunition.”
Kruger stood outside a departure gate at the Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International airport, his cell phone pressed to his ear as he waited for his flight back to Springfield.
“Are you sure about the suicide vests, Sandy?”
“Yeah, I’ve spent enough time in Iraq and Afghanistan to tell. Looks like he’s packed them with ball bearings and small decking screws. If detonated in a crowded room, the result will be devastating.”
Kruger was silent for a few moments. “Leave everything where you found it and get out. We need guidance from the Attorney General before we move forward.”
“One more thing, Sean.”
“What’s that?”
“An ISIS flag is hanging on the wall.”
“Don’t let this guy out of your sight until
I get back to you.”
“Got it.”
Kruger closed his eyes as he ended the call. His right hand rose to cover them. After several moments, he punched a number into his cell phone. The call was answered on the fourth ring.
“Alan Seltzer.”
“Alan, we found one.”
***
Kruger arrived at his home in southwest Springfield a little after 8 in the evening, fourteen hours after taking off earlier the same day.
After kissing his wife and his daughter, he took his backpack to his office and returned to the kitchen where Stephanie was feeding Kristin.
She stopped and looked at her husband. “What’s wrong, Sean?”
It was several moments before Kruger could answer her. “Sandy found two suicide vests, guns and an ISIS flag in the basement of Safar’s house.”
Stephanie gasped as she raised her hand to her mouth. “Oh my gawd. What are you going to do?”
“Take him down. It’s the only thing we can do. Possession of an explosive device is a felony, covered under Illinois Article 29D on possession of a terrorist weapon that can cause bodily injury. The only problem is we found everything during an illegal search of his residence.”
She was quiet for a few moments, then smiled. “What did you do when you found the evidence about Norman Ortega?”
Kruger took a deep breath. “Used the ruse of a fire to enter his motel room?”
“Exactly. Why not now?”
He was quiet as he stared at Stephanie. Slowly, his stern look relaxed, and he nodded slightly.
“Maybe. We’re walking on egg shells, Stephanie. One false move, and his rights overshadow our attempt to stop him. We have to have everything by the book, or we lose the opportunity to get him off the street.”
She nodded. “What was so urgent in Atlanta that made you leave before Kristin and I were up this morning?”
“One apartment, two murders, one a bullet in the head and the other…” He hesitated for several moments. “Randolph Bishop struck again.”
Stephanie stood, walked to her husband and hugged him. “In Atlanta?”
Nodding, Kruger returned the hug. “Very upscale gated condo development. Bishop gained entry with a fake set of FBI credentials.”
Lifting her head from his chest, she looked at him. “No…”
“Yeah, he used my name.” He paused. “Because of that, they called in an agent from the Atlanta field office. He and I worked a few cases in the past, and he knew immediately from the security camera it wasn’t me. But he knew I needed to be informed.”
“Are you going to be involved in the case?”
Kruger remained quiet for several moments. “I already am.”
***
It was after 10 when Stephanie joined him on the wooden deck attached to the back of their house. He was sipping on a cup of chamomile tea, finding it helped him sleep better than a glass of wine. Their home faced east, which made the back deck a perfect place to watch storms move in from the northwest. Above them, stars shined brightly, while off in the distance, they disappeared. While the storm was too far away to hear thunder, occasional flashes of lightening could be seen.
Their home was in a newer subdivision of the city. The terrain was hilly, which allowed for a walk-out basement configuration. The large deck was off the upper floor, accessed through the kitchen, supported by tall eight-by-eight posts. The only sounds to be heard were tree frogs and crickets. Kruger relished opportunities to watch a storm approach. Growing up in this part of the country, approaching storms fascinated him when he was young. They still did.
Stephanie was quiet as well. Her attitude about approaching storms diametrically opposite of her husband’s. “How long before it gets here?”
Kruger consulted his cell phone and pulled up a local weather radar site. “The leading edge is just passing through Joplin, maybe an hour.”
“You should have been a meteorologist.”
Chuckling, he smiled. “I thought about it as an undergrad. But if I had, I never would’ve met you.”
“Good point.” She sipped her tea. “What are you going to do about Bishop?”
“Find him.”
“How?”
“Don’t know yet.” He was quiet for a long time. “What I need to know first is how his last two victims knew him. Was it random? If it was, it will be almost impossible to get a lead on him. If he knew them, maybe, just maybe, we can get closer to where he is.”
The first notes of thunder could faintly be heard as he watched the clouds grow closer, clearly visible with the constant flashing of lightening.
Their conversation changed as they watched the clouds grow closer. They discussed Kristin’s upcoming year of pre-school and Stephanie’s pending volunteer work at a nearby elementary school. When the first drops of rain fell to the deck, they stood and went inside.
***
Jimmy Gibbs stood in front of Bassel Safar’s front door and pushed the button for the doorbell. He stood back, like most door-to-door salesmen and waited. Fifteen seconds later, Safar opened his front door, but not the glass storm door. “Yes.”
“Are you Bassel Safar?” Gibbs asked with a large smile. He was dressed in an open collar blue oxford shirt, navy blazer, tan slacks and dress shoes.
Warily, Safar nodded.
Gibb’s smile remained in place. “My name is Phillip Griffith. I’m with Mid-West Theaters.” He held out a business card. “I was asked to come by and confirm your participation in our pre-opening gala event at the Metro Cinema 16.”
Safar’s concerned look faded, he smiled and opened the storm door. “Cool. Come on in.”
Sandy Knoll was standing against the wall on the front porch, out of sight when Safar opened the door. As the glass storm door opened, he rushed in, followed by Gibbs. With the practiced ease of many years of subduing opponents, Safar was thrown to the floor on his stomach while both hands and feet were roughly secured with flex cuffs. Knoll dragged the bound man away from the front door as Gibb’s closed it.
Safar spat blood and then demanded, “What the hell is this about? Let me go. I’ll sue your ass off.”
Knoll ignored the complaints and looked around. Seeing nothing, he walked back to the kitchen and found the Beretta ARX 160 in pieces on a table. Pages of a newspaper were spread out with gun oil, solvent and cleaning rods scattered next to the disassembled weapon. Next to the Beretta was an object he had not seen during his earlier search of Safar’s secret room. Smiling, Knoll went back into the sitting area where Safar was cursing in Arabic. Knoll kicked him in the ribs. “Shut up.”
Safar gasped, but shut up.
Knoll turned to Gibbs. “Beretta’s on the kitchen table, and we got a bonus.”
Gibbs smiled. “What?”
“Our friend here just screwed himself. Looks like a Russian-made grenade. Where’d you get it, Safar?”
“Who are you? I want a lawyer.”
“We’re not cops, Safar. Too bad for you.”
Realizing his situation was not as it first appeared, Safar’s eyes grew wide, and he put his head down on the floor.
“Yeah, I’d say a prayer or two, Safar. You’re going to need them.”
***
Kruger stood once again on the back deck. It was early morning, and his cell phone was pressed to his ear. Moisture from the previous night’s storm still dripped from the trees.
“Where is he?”
Sandy Knoll had spent the night taking inventory in Safar’s secret room. “He’s in a hot-sheet hotel room near Joliet.” He gave Kruger the address. “He’s under sedation until we know what you want to do with him.”
“How many people know he’s there?”
“Just my team.”
“Good.”
“What have you found in his house?”
“Enough to classify him as a terrorist.”
Kruger smiled. “Email the pictures to me, and I’ll pass them on to a higher authority.”
“Why
can’t we just make him disappear, Sean?”
“I wish it was that simple, Sandy.” Kruger glanced at his wristwatch. “There’ll be a van heading toward the hotel as soon as they have the address. There will be two very discreet and competent FBI agents who will take control of Safar. All your men need to do is check their ID’s and walk out. Do not identify yourselves; they’ve been instructed not to ask.”
“Wish we could follow it through.”
“Not part of our job description. We’re tasked to ascertain and prevent. We did both.”
“What about his house?”
“Are you done?”
“Yeah.”
“Go back to your car and wait. There will be an FBI swat team take it down at the same time they take control of Safar at the hotel. Once you’re sure they’ve found the weapons, head to the airport.”
“Got it.”
“And, Sandy?”
“Yeah.”
“Nicely done.”
Chapter 17
West of Atlanta, GA
The passage of time was meaningless for Stephen Blair. Day and night were the same. Only the occasional visit by the intruder broke the monotony. His sleeping patterns were also unknown to him. He didn’t know if he slept a minute or several days. His mental state continued to deteriorate, as he had no access to his normal medications. Meals remained untouched, and his weight declined. His only mental activity was writing computer code. Perception of the real world slowly slipped from Stephen’s grasp.
Randolph Bishop observed Stephen’s decline. On many visits he simply stood in the door of Stephen’s prison and observed. Most of the time, Stephen would be curled into a fetal position on the mattress. Other times he would find him sitting on the toilet in the small bathroom off the room, his head down, his arms resting on his knees. Verbal communication stopped after Stephen learned of Camila’s death.
During one of Stephen’s more lucid moments, he heard the door to his room being unlocked. He was sitting on the mattress, his back against the wall. The intruder opened the door and smiled.
