The Killdeer Connection

by Tom Swyers

  “I’m glad. It sounds like your granddaughter is okay, then.”

  Moore nodded.

  “Good. So, you still think I had something to do with these bombings?”

  Moore rolled his eyes. “It doesn’t matter what I think in the end. The Joint Terrorism Task Force calls the shots. I’m just a cog in the wheel of justice. This thing is far bigger than just me.”

  “Just so you know, I didn’t have any information about the Killdeer Society when I talked to you on the street. It wasn’t until later that I ran across some information, when I was going through some of Salar’s stuff. I thought it all had to do with his death. Never did I imagine it would somehow have a link to terrorism.”

  “You should have called me with the information when you got it.”

  “Oh, come on now. Like I was somehow supposed to know this stupid bird was going to play a role in a national terror plot. I wasn’t going to call you immediately with anything—not after what you put me through the first two times we met. Your investigative style didn’t exactly instill a sense of trust on my end.”

  Moore rubbed his hand over his face, down to the chin and back. His ebony skin was shiny with old sweat; the slight jowls at his jaw sagged from exhaustion. “Maybe it wasn’t the best approach. It’s how we’re trained.”

  “You know, I thought about giving you this killdeer information through my attorney, but I never got the chance. You decided to put me up here before I could do anything.”

  “When people start getting killed, we have to move fast. Act first; sort it out later.”

  “Yeah, and I’m in the pile of broken things to be sorted out. You messed up my life—probably forever—even if the charges are dismissed. Are you going to sort out my life for me?”

  “We have to weigh the lives of many against the life of one,” he said, tapping the table with his index finger as he spoke. “Besides, it’s still not too late to turn things around—if you decide to cooperate. You’ll have to work that out with the Justice Department.”

  “I have been cooperating. I called and warned you about the explosion today. But in your mind, or the minds of your superiors, this doesn’t help me. It probably hurts me because it links me to the event. But ask yourself: would I plan an explosion that put my son’s life in jeopardy? I also told you about the man who pistol-whipped me. That’s cooperating. Why don’t you show me some pictures of suspected terrorists who match my description?”

  Moore bent down, opened his briefcase, and extracted a thick manila folder. He put a stack of about a dozen pictures on the table in front of David.

  “There ya go. That’s what our people have come up with since this morning. Do you recognize any of them?”

  David lifted the stack and dealt the photos one by one onto the table, like he was playing solitaire. Not more than halfway through the deck, he froze at a face he recognized. With a triumphant huff, he dropped that photo in front of Moore. “That’s him,” he said, tapping it.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. Don’t need to see the rest. That’s him. I’m sure of it.”

  “Do me a favor and humor me. Look at the rest.”

  David went through them all. “It’s still this guy.”

  Moore picked up the picture and looked at the name on the back.

  “Who is he?” David asked.

  “That’s Ali Rahman Yasin. He’s reportedly connected with ISIS.”

  “Well, that’s your guy.”

  Moore sat there, looking puzzled.

  “What’s wrong?” David asked.

  “Nothing . . . It’s just that we didn’t know he was in the United States.”

  “Unless he has a twin brother, that’s him.”

  “Had you ever seen him before the other day?”

  “No, that was the first time. But I believe he was following me all over North Dakota. Say, can I get a copy of those pictures?”

  “Sure, I don’t see why not. I’ll give a set to your lawyer. Let me ask you this, though, and you don’t have to answer. Why don’t you think he killed you like the others?”

  David smirked. “You sound disappointed.”

  “I didn’t mean anything personal by it. It’s just that your being alive doesn’t add up factually because everyone else is dead.”

  “You’re saying that my being alive implicates me.”

  “In the eyes of others, it might.”

  “Well, that’s exactly what they want you guys to think. This Yasin guy didn’t see me get a good look at him. If he did, I might be dead today. They wanted to keep me alive and have you guys pin this all on me.” David lifted his cuffed hands off the table. “From where I’m sitting, their plan worked like a charm.”

  Moore squirmed in his seat. He looked at David’s bloodshot eyes and then looked down at his hands fidgeting on the table. Then he did it again. It was as if he wanted to say something but couldn’t.

  “You know, Julius, if being alive implicates me, then do you believe I faked my injuries in Valley City?”

  “Not necessarily. Others might see an internal conflict going on within the terrorist cell at the same time it’s carrying out its mission.”

  “Here’s the way I look at it. If I’m dead, it’s over because I’m dead. If I’m alive, I’m as good as dead because it implicates me in something that will put me away forever or put me on the lethal-injection table. Sounds like a catch-twenty-two to me. What do you think?” While New York State didn’t carry the death penalty for murder, the federal charge of terrorism did when it involved an act of terrorism.

  Moore got out of his seat and stood up. “Look, I just wanted to thank you personally for what you did. I know it might not mean much to hear that, you being in jail and all. I just want to let you know that I owe you one, and I like to think I repay my debts in life.” He slowly extended his hand to David.

  David just sat there for a second, looking at Moore’s hand. He could see the calluses on his palm and a scar running up his index finger to his wrist. His hand shook, ever so slightly.

  David didn’t know what to think as he stood up. The man who had seemed most likely responsible for putting him behind bars seemed to be reaching out to him. David was guarded. He felt vulnerable. He didn’t know for sure if Moore wasn’t some killdeer doing a broken-wing act to trick him, or if he was genuinely trying to offer thanks.

  With his left hand dangling in a handcuff, he threw caution into the wind and shook the agent’s hand with his right. David was in a world where he needed all the friends he could get.

  Hope is a man’s best friend when he’s unjustly behind bars. Sometimes it seems like his only friend. David decided to take a chance with Moore and hope that this man might be a friend, or at least be true to his word.

  THIRTY-ONE

  David learned the following morning that his initial appearance before a federal magistrate was set for two days later. Bail would be discussed at this hearing. There was nothing he could do in the meantime except wait. He was twice a prisoner: a man confined to a small cell, and a man trapped by his own thoughts.

  At midafternoon, he heard the guard say, “Wake up. You got visitors.” David was lying in his bed with the blanket pulled over his face.

  David had tried to erase the demons dancing in his head by sleeping as much as he could. There was always the chance he might enjoy a pleasant dream. It beat dealing with the certainty of the nightmare that confronted him while he was awake.

  “Who is it?” David asked.

  “Your wife and kid.”

  David snapped out of bed. Christy’s here. They’ve released him from the hospital. It was welcome news, the best news he could imagine. He embraced it. He needed something to embrace, someone to embrace. He needed Annie. He needed his son.

  David snapped out of bed. “I’ll be with you in a sec,” he said while running his hands through his hair to fix it. Turning on the sink faucet, he washed his face and stubble quickly and patted it dry with some toilet
paper.

  “Okay, I’m ready.”

  The door buzzed open, and David walked the blue line in front of the guard through the cellblock entrance door to a room where he was treated to cuffs and shackles.

  When David walked into the visitors’ room, he saw Christy and Annie sitting behind a glass partition. He smiled as best he could, fully aware that despite his best efforts, he looked like crap. He didn’t care. He tried to keep smiling after he figured out he wouldn’t be allowed to hug them.

  When he sat in his chair, Annie’s and Christy’s mouths hung open a bit. David looked like a ghost of himself, and he had been in jail only one day. It was distressing how fast his appearance had become gape-worthy.

  David picked up his phone, and Annie and Christy shared one on the other side. David put his hand flat on the glass. Annie managed to smile and placed her hand over David’s on the glass. Christy followed suit.

  “It’s so good to see you both,” David said.

  “You too, sweet,” Annie said. “Are you okay?”

  “Yes,” he reassured them, but he was lying. He had to put on a brave face. That’s what husbands and fathers did in David’s mind. They took the weight on their shoulders, tried to be strong for their family. Truth be told, David was terrified. Alarms had sounded throughout the night. There were rumors of several fights breaking out among inmates. The guards seemed on edge all morning.

  “Christy, are you okay?” David asked.

  “Yes, I’m feeling better. I just took in too much smoke.”

  “What happened to you?”

  “I’m sorry, Dad. I probably shouldn’t have gone that close to the fire.”

  “Not now, Christy,” David said, waving his hand in front of the glass. David didn’t feel he was in a position to lecture Christy about anything from behind bars. His authority as a father had been left at the front gate. “I probably shouldn’t have gone to North Dakota.”

  “What happened out there?” Annie asked.

  “I’m still trying to figure that out, along with everything else. I really don’t get any news in here. Have they arrested anyone else for the bombings?”

  “No, you’re it at this point,” Annie said.

  “Unbelievable. Was anyone killed in Albany?”

  “No, fortunately not,” Annie said. “But there are about twenty-five injured.”

  “How many of them were first responders?”

  “About half,” Christy said.

  “What housing unit are they holding you in here, David? The lady at the front desk said that there are a lot of different ones.” Annie asked.

  “I’m being held in protective custody.”

  “Is that like solitary confinement?” Christy asked.

  “I guess it is in a way. But they aren’t concerned about me hurting others. They’re concerned others might hurt me.”

  “Oh, David,” Annie said. “I’m so worried about you.”

  “It’s okay, Annie,” David said.

  “Why would anyone want to hurt you, Dad?” Christy asked.

  “They think I’m a high-profile case. They’re afraid one of the inmates here might try to make a name for himself by going after me because they think I’m a terrorist. But that’s not going to happen while I’m in protective custody. So don’t worry.”

  “We want to bail you out of here,” Annie said. “But Jim said that might be a problem because it’s a terrorism charge. He told me to tell you he’s working on it.”

  Jim had already alluded to that possibility. It stung even more hearing it from Annie. The last thing David wanted to hear was that he was stuck in jail. He couldn’t get to the bottom of what was going on from behind bars. The feds and Chief McNeal seemed lost. It looked like they wanted to somehow pin as much as they could on David because they didn’t have anyone else. Jim had enough on his plate already by having to defend David. He didn’t have time to figure out who was behind the bombings. He was focused on the prosecution’s inability to prove it was David, not on finding out who actually did it.

  But David wasn’t going to let Annie and Christy know how he felt. That only would cause them anxiety. He didn’t want to hurt them more than he already had. He knew they were going to go through their own personal hell dealing with his imprisonment. He only could imagine the crap Christy would endure at school and that Annie would endure about town. He wanted them to worry as little as possible about him. David needed to play down the impact of jail. “It’s not so bad in here.”

  “Is there anything we can do to help you?” Annie asked.

  “Yes, you can set up a commissary account with the jail for me.”

  “What’s that all about?” Annie asked.

  “It’s like they run a store here. If I have money on account, I can buy anything from Pop-Tarts to underwear from it. They deliver it to my cell. I can also buy calling minutes, so I can make phone calls.”

  “We can do that,” Annie said.

  “Thank you. Visit me as much as you can. That would help a lot, too.”

  “Okay. They told us we could visit you only twice a week,” Annie said.

  David was disappointed to hear that, but he wasn’t going to show it. Not if he could help it. “I’ll take two visits then, and I’ll look forward to each one.”

  They continued to talk about anything and everything, but the conversation always returned to jail. Even though his family was right in front of him, David felt separated. The glass framed his family, like he was looking at a large photo of them. He tried to take a snapshot of them in his head so he wouldn’t forget them. He wanted their faces imprinted in his mind when he returned to his cell. He wanted to remember every detail about them. He knew that his memory of them would help fight the demons he would face when he was alone.

  THIRTY-TWO

  It was Wednesday, and David had been in jail for a week. Every day he hoped that either bail or dismissal was right around the corner. Hope kept him alive, but waiting was killing him. He felt helpless. He had lost all hope that the FBI or the Indigo Valley Police Department would find and charge someone else. David wanted to find the killer and the terrorists himself. He had been making great strides before his arrest. He’d felt like he was teetering on the cusp of a breakthrough. But he couldn’t do anything from behind bars.

  Now, David felt like his destiny was to end up railroaded on both murder and terrorism charges. He felt like the wheels of justice were going to run him down, then run him over again and again—and there wasn’t a thing in the world he could do to stop it.

  What was that poem about divine retribution? How the mills of God grind slowly, yet they grind exceedingly small. Maybe the poet, didn’t mind waiting until “with exactness grinds He all.” But David needed his justice now so he could get on with his life, his family, and his law practice.

  The previous Friday, David had made an initial appearance before Magistrate Shirley Buchanan in federal court in Albany. Jim was there to represent him. The US Attorney had gone to the grand jury already and secured an indictment against David for lying to the government about his knowledge of the Killdeer Society and its operations. It was a one-charge indictment, and the US Attorney presented it at the initial appearance hearing. Jim waived the formalities and entered a plea of not guilty on David’s behalf. Then the magistrate granted the government’s motion that David be held without bail until a detention hearing so that the Justice Department could further investigate his background and decide if it would oppose his release. Jim said the government was buying time to see if they could indict David on actual terrorism charges. The detention hearing was scheduled for the upcoming Friday, the day after Thanksgiving.

  After the initial hearing, David returned to jail totally at a loss about what to expect going forward. As a defendant, he hadn’t been part of the grand jury process, so he and Jim only could guess what was going on behind closed doors. But guessing was part of the waiting game. He realized that it was time to get his mind off his case, o
r he was going to drive himself crazy.

  Because David had been on his best behavior during his entire stay, the guards took a liking to him. They allowed him to be a runner and then a worker in the jail. He didn’t much care what he did, so long as he was out of his cell, talking to guards or inmates, doing something other than focus on the sorry state of his life. The pay wasn’t the greatest. He earned eight dollars per week. But he would have done it for free. Heck, he would have paid the jail out of his own pocket to get time every day outside of his cell. Idleness brought out the demons.

  At first, he delivered meals or commissary food as a runner to prisoners in their cells. Then he worked in the supply room. But for the last few days, he’d been assigned to clean the corridor in the Special Housing Unit—a euphemism for the solitary-confinement tier on the top floor. They called it SHU for short.

  The baddest of the bad ended up there. Those charged with vicious crimes earned cells in the SHU. The jails were so overcrowded in New York City that violent gang members from Rikers Island were housed there. So were any inmates who had attacked other inmates or guards while at county correctional.

  It was early morning Wednesday when they opened the SHU corridor for David to clean with his mop and bucket. This time, the guard also gave him a wastebasket and paper towels and instructed him to wear a pair of powder-blue latex gloves.

  Then the guard told him that some prisoner had written an anonymous letter, saying that the SHU men planned to attack the guards. All the SHU prisoners had refused to give back their plastic food trays. The guards were concerned they were going to make weapons from the trays and turn on them.

  The guard instructed David to keep quiet and just do his job. He opened the corridor door, and they both entered. The two dozen powder-blue SHU cell doors were sealed off from the corridor. There was a small, thick, square window of Plexiglas with meshed wire on each sliding metal door. Prisoners could be seen and heard through the Plexiglas if they hollered loud enough. Today, they were all yammering; they had decided to protest something. The prisoners had thrown feces and urine on the floor through the meal slots near the bottom of their doors. That disgusting mess was the task of the day. It was up to David to clean it up. He wiped the floor while the guard watched.