by G. M. Ford
The ATF Emergency Response van was backed into an alley, directly across the street from the impound yard. The dented tailgate of the white Mazda pickup was clearly visible in the yard, a wire enclosure, separated from their present position by two sidewalks and four lanes of what would have been traffic had the police not blocked off the street at both ends and all points between.
An unmarked police cruiser had been parked across the mouth of the alley itself. Corso and Andriatta bent this way and that as they peered across the seventy yards separating their position from the Mazda pickup.
“They don’t know for sure it’s got a bomb in it though,” Andriatta said.
Corso kept his head down. “Those bomb dogs are pretty damn good,” he said. He nodded at the collection of bomb disposal equipment filling the strip mall parking lot behind their position. “They wouldn’t have dragged all that crap out here if they weren’t pretty certain.”
Behind them, a pair of ATF bomb technicians struggled into their protective suits. By the time the pair had donned their equipment, Andriatta had found herself a seat along the curb and was refusing to move until somebody fed her.
Corso followed Warren and Morales into the ATF Emergency Response van, where another trio of technicians manned an entire wall of electronic gear. In the center three monitors relayed the action from across the street. Each of the men at the truck had a camera rolling. The third view was a fly-on-the-wall picture coming from a remote camera they’d set up in an FBI car on the east side of the alley.
Inside the bulky, steel belted, Kevlar suits, the ATF technicians looked a lot like a pair of Sta-Puff marshmallow men walking side by side across the intervening street. They flanked the Mazda, using the key the cops had taken from the suspect to unlock doors and peer inside. As their blunt hands rummaged around inside the truck, everyone involved held their collective breath, then let it out in a whoosh when, “Nothing in the cab,” came cracking over Warren’s handheld radio. Warren responded with something Corso couldn’t hear, sending the technicians to the rear of the truck, where they again used the key on the back window.
Again the van seemed devoid of oxygen as the pair let down the tailgate and poked around inside the bed of the truck. This time the wait was shorter.
“Got a live device here,” one of them said.
“Back off,” was Warren’s immediate command. They didn’t need to hear it twice. The pair lumbered back out of the alley, made a quick left and moved far enough up the street so that the inside wall of a cinder-block building housing a flower shop was between them and the bomb. In unison they pulled off their visored helmets. Both were soaked with sweat. Each used a gloved hand to wipe the water from his eyes. And then again as they leaned back against the building sucking air with open mouths…everyone at the scene mouth breathing right along with them. In, out. In, out. That’s when Short showed up.
Wearing nothing more than a pair of blue coveralls, he wheeled his chair at warp speed, cutting across the street and rolling up the alley, before bouncing to a halt at the yawning rear end of the Mazda.
26
T he heavy breathing was over, the silence inside the van now deafening. Short’s back was to the camera, so it was impossible to see what he was doing. Three or four times he reached into one or more of the compartments contained within his chair and came out with tools. He’d lean into the rear of the truck, fiddle around with something, lean back out, replace one tool with another and begin again. The longer he worked, the higher the tension level rose.
“I hope to God he’s as good as you say,” Morales muttered. “I don’t want to be explaining to a subcommittee how it was we let a civilian blow himself all over suburban California.”
“He signed a waiver,” Warren said.
“Like that’s gonna matter.”
Warren lowered his voice. “We agreed,” he whispered. “If we got the chance, we’d try to take a device intact. That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?”
“I don’t know,” Morales said, hunching his shoulders, folding his arms across his chest. “Maybe we ought to follow protocol and detonate it.”
Warren’s face reddened. “You said we needed one intact.”
Morales hugged himself tighter. “I’m having second thoughts…”
“Calm down.”
“…big time.”
“You said the lab was getting nothing from the detonated devices.”
Morales unwrapped his arms long enough to point at the TV screen. “We’re breaking…” He paused long enough to shudder. “…God knows how many regulations here.” He dropped his arms to his side with a slap.
“This is what I hired him for.”
“Maybe…” Morales began, then he scowled and walked closer to the monitor. He tapped on the screen. “Is that smoke?” he asked.
Warren moved closer. No doubt about it. A plume of smoke was rising from the area above Short’s head. “Looks like it,” Warren said through clenched teeth.
The smoke continued to rise. Short continued to work.
“Get him out of there,” Morales said.
“It’s too late,” Warren said.
“I won’t be responsible for…”
“You already are.”
They stood silent now, shoulder to shoulder, noses pressed to the TV screen. Several agonizing minutes passed before Short finally turned the chair in a slow circle and started back down the alley. The smoke seemed to be following him. Wasn’t until the camera zoomed in again that they could see the cheroot clamped in his teeth and the ominous device resting in his lap.
“Is that the…?” Morales began.
“I think so…yes,” Warren answered.
“Where in hell is he…”
“Damned if I know.”
As he breached the mouth of the alley and rolled across the sidewalk, the sight of the device in his lap sent the pair of ATF technicians hustling up the block as quickly as their bulky suits would allow. Inside the van, everyone squirmed as Short rolled out into the street. He paused long enough for them to grab a breath before heading straight toward the van. “He’s not bringing that damn thing over here, is he?” somebody asked.
Warren’s mouth hung open, but he did not answer.
“Doesn’t he know the drill?” Morales hissed. “He’s supposed to…”
“I don’t think he much gives a shit,” Corso said.
And then Short and his wheelchair disappeared from the cameras’ view. An anxious minute passed. Hearts stopped. Nobody moved.
“Maybe he’s…” Morales began.
Someone pounded on the side of the van. Internal organs contracted like dying stars. Nobody so much as twitched.
The pounding started again. Louder this time. One of the ATF men began emitting a low, keening sound. The guy next to him elbowed him in the ribs. The noise subsided. Corso broke the spell, pushed the door and peered outside. He smiled and shook his head. Warren and Morales moved to his side.
Short sat in his chair, his head encircled by a cloud of dirty smoke. A shiny steel device covered his lap. He ran his good hand over the surface as if he were petting a kitty. He grinned through the smoke.
“What’s the matter with you people?” he wanted to know. “None of you ever see a bomb before?”
Seemed like everybody’s throat was too dry to speak. “Gimme a few minutes and we’ll see what we can find out about this thing,” Short said cheerfully.
They watched in silence as he wheeled over by Andriatta to a weathered redwood picnic table set among the trees, where he put the device on a tabletop and began to pull tools from various compartments in the chair.
A young female ATF arrived at the van.
“What?” asked Warren impatiently.
“IAFIS got a match on the prints.”
“Do tell,” Warren said.
She swallowed her apprehension and began. “Fernando Reyes. American citizen. Fifty years old. Parents immigrated from Jalisco in 1947. Joined the Army ri
ght out of Glendale High School in ’71. His unit was among the last to leave Vietnam. Did his twenty. Tried to re-up but failed the physical.”
“Why?” Morales asked.
“Why what, sir?”
“Why’d he fail the physical?”
She was green. Fresh out of school. She rifled through the legal pad in her hand. “Doesn’t say, sir.”
“Find out.”
She made a note. “Yes, sir.”
“Go on,” Morales prompted.
She paged back to where she’d left off. “After that he bounced around. Worked for an uncle as a landscaper for a while. Spent time selling recreational vehicles up in Fillmore. Applied to the state for permanent disability in ’98. Was refused.”
“What kind of disability?” Warren asked.
“Doesn’t say.”
“Find out.”
“Yes, sir.”
She gathered herself and continued. “After that, he pretty much disappears from the radar until 2001, when he gets arrested as part of a demonstration at the California Department of Veterans Affairs in Sacramento. Detained and released. No charges.”
“Demonstrating for or against what?”
“I’ll find out, sir.” She flipped a page. “He’s been living in Oxnard, in a mobile home he inherited from an aunt. Neighbors say he gets by on some kind of government check and by doing odd jobs around the neighborhood.” She flipped another page. “As far as they’ve been able to ascertain, he’s pretty much just a regular Joe.”
“Let’s get his complete military record,” Warren suggested.
Morales agreed. “If he’s got some kind of beef going with the vets, I want everything we can get on that, too. You get any resistance, use the Patriot Act to get whatever you need.”
She nodded and started for the door.
“Did he speak Vietnamese?” Corso asked.
She paused and looked to Morales.
“Find out,” he said.
“Vietnamese?” Morales asked.
“Just something I’ve been wondering about.”
“You want to enlighten us?”
“Let’s see what she gets.”
Andriatta ambled over from her perch on the curb. “Short says he’s ready for you guys,” she said. She tapped the side of her head. “That guy’s crazy,” she offered.
“Sometimes it takes a crazy to catch a crazy,” Warren said as they filed out of the van and headed across the lot.
“The stunt he just pulled—” Morales began.
“Like I said—” Warren interrupted.
“—could have killed us all,” Morales finished.
“He didn’t. And now we’ve got something to work with.”
Morales shrugged as if to say he wasn’t sure the risk was worth the reward.
Short had completely dismantled the device and had it laid out on the picnic table like the skeleton of some long-extinct monster.
“Looks harmless enough,” Andriatta said. “Kinda pretty, actually.”
Both Morales and Warren looked at her like she’d gone mad.
“You know…with all the different-color wire and all.”
Morales grunted his disbelief. Short wheeled a one-eighty. “Ah…the brain trust,” he said with a smirk.
“What have we got here?” Morales asked.
Short turned back to the pieces he’d arranged on the table. “What we have here is a very nice piece of work,” he said. “The stainless-steel work is machine-shop quality. This wasn’t manufactured in somebody’s basement with a hacksaw and two pairs of pliers.” He looked around to make sure he had everyone’s attention. “This thing was very lovingly and professionally constructed.” He pointed down at the collar apparatus. “Notice the flat two strands fixed inside the collar. Creates a circuit. Any attempt to cut through the collar breaks the circuit and sets it off. The rest of the thing is Teflon-insulated. The kind of stuff NASA uses in its rockets. The stuff isn’t all that easy to come by, at least not without attracting some attention. I’m betting it’s part of a burglary.”
“What else?”
“The electronics are digital and completely up to the minute. Stuff you can buy in any Radio Shack store.”
“What about the explosive?”
Short reached over and picked up what appeared to be an unbaked loaf of bread. He tossed it to Morales, who caught it with great care. “Military grade C-4—120 percent the equivalent of TNT. Very pure, very high velocity. Comes as a powder in fifty-five-gallon drums. The minute you begin to handle it, it plasticizes into something you can manipulate into any shape you’ve got in mind. It’s got excellent mechanical and adhesive qualities. Hell…a block that size…you could stretch it from here to the roof without it breaking.”
“Stolen from Twenty-Nine Palms?”
“Gotta be. This stuff is very tightly controlled. You’d need both an explosive authorization and an end user certificate.” He threw his good hand into the air. “We were in Beirut or someplace like that, I’d say maybe we could fake the paperwork. Here…I don’t think so. Gotta be stolen.”
“It have a shelf life?” Morales asked.
“Ten years, at least.”
Morales took a deep breath. “So, what do we do?”
Short thought it over. The wind slashed through the trees. “Long term, you try to trace the wire. Then you work the Secret Service to see what they know about the break-in at Twenty-Nine Palms. Short term, you follow whatever directions these people give you. That way, maybe you keep the carnage to a minimum.”
27
C orso pressed his face against the window and looked west. The glass was warm against his cheek as he watched the sun ease into the Pacific Ocean and disappear. He peeled his face from the glass and checked his watch—9:20 P.M. Were it not for the palm trees outside the window, the conference room could have been anywhere in the world.
“Diminished respiratory capacity,” Warren read. “Reyes failed the re-up physical because his lungs didn’t meet Army minimums.” He moved his finger down the page. “At the time of the physical, he only had an estimated 40 percent of healthy lung function.”
“A smoker maybe,” Morales said.
“That’s what the Army claimed.”
“What did he claim.”
“Reyes claimed it was exposure to Agent Orange. Claimed to have been sprayed with the stuff in ’74 while on patrol in the Mekong Delta. Told the Army doctors his lungs had never been right since ’Nam.”
“Same thing with his disability claims.” Andriatta read from a thick green folder with CONFIDENTIAL stamped across the side in red letters. “Claimed he was unable to hold down a steady job because he couldn’t breathe properly. Between…” She paused while she moved her eyes to the bottom of the page. “…between August of ’98 and earlier this year, he applied for state and military disability a total of sixtee—no eighteen times. Rejected on every occasion.”
“On what grounds?” Morales asked.
“The state rejected the claim because his military records showed no evidence of exposure to Agent Orange.”
“And the military?”
“The military blamed his condition on smoking and degenerative lung disease. Claimed it was not responsible for self-inflicted or genetically predisposed conditions. Referred him to the Veteran’s Hospital in Pomona for treatment.”
Morales straightened up in his chair. “Wait just a minute,” he said.
“Constance Valparaiso,” Corso chimed in. “Didn’t she work as a nurse at a hospital in Pomona?”
“Pomona Veterans Wellness Center,” Warren piped in. “Constance Valparaiso has worked there since June of ’96.”
“What’s a wellness center?” Andriatta asked.
“An outpatient clinic,” Warren answered. “Back at the end of the nineties the Veterans Administration shut down a whole host of hospitals all over the country. Consolidation, they called it. Supposedly getting rid of duplication of services.” He waved a hand in the a
ir. “Caused a hell of a stink at the time. People’s wounded loved ones were getting shipped three states away. Demonstrations all over the country. Instead of big old hospitals, they opened a bunch of outpatient clinics to service the population who didn’t need full-time care.” He looked around the room, picked up the unspoken question. “My wife’s got a nephew. Lost half a leg in the first Gulf War.”
“I’m telling you, I don’t believe in coincidences,” Morales said.
“We don’t even know if Reyes ever went to the Pomona clinic,” Warren said.
Andriatta said, “Reyes wasn’t looking for treatment; he was looking for money.”
“Still…” Warren said.
Morales was already on the phone. He wanted everything available on Constance Valparaiso. Everything on the wellness clinic. Wanted all victims checked for any connection to either and wanted it right now.
Warren dropped Reyes’s military record onto the table with a thump. “You all want the good news or the bad news?” he asked.
“Bad news first,” Andriatta suggested.
“Reyes used his platoon leader as a reference with the VA. Guy named Paris Mamon. We got ahold of Mamon, who assures us Mr. Reyes had no military training whatsoever in the area of explosives. Strictly a grunt with a rifle.”
“And the good news?”
“According to his platoon leader, he spoke pretty good Vietnamese.”
All eyes turned Corso’s way. “The video from the Vietnamese bank got me to wondering,” he said. “We know he had the victims wired for sound so he could keep track of what was going on during the robbery, right?” Everybody nodded. “What I wondered was how the perp knew what was being said. How he knew things were going wrong and he wasn’t going to get any money.” He looked over at Morales. “What was the victim’s name?”
“Anthony Huynh.”
“How’d the perp know what was being said inside the bank unless he understood Vietnamese?”
Everyone began to talk at once. Warren’s voice rose above the din. “What about Fazir Ben-Iman. Our clinical psychologist from the Rodeo Drive robbery…”
