The Saracen Incident

by Jack Bowie

  “Was anyone on the second floor?” he asked.

  “Apartment’s empty. The tenant’s been out of town according to the owner.”

  “Check it out anyway. I’m gonna look around then we can go downstairs.”

  Thomassini disappeared down the stairs and Fowler continued his survey. It was a small, one bedroom apartment. The blast had taken out most of the living room. There were books and papers all over, mixed with occasional pieces of furniture and who knows what body parts. He hated bombings. It would take days to find and catalog all the remains.

  Fowler rubbed his fingers across the wall. The grit of explosive residue felt like a piece of number 20 sandpaper. He brought his hand up to his nose, tested the sample, then wiped his fingers on his trouser leg.

  He made his way across the living room and into the bedroom. Spartan hardly described it: a single bed, small end table, and a tall five drawer dresser. Nothing matched. Same kind of junk Fowler had in his first apartment. The blast had tossed the furniture around but the pieces were still intact. Clothes from the small closet were stacked in piles on the floor. A third portable light had been set up for the other forensic specialist who was logging the room’s contents.

  “Got anything for me?” Fowler asked.

  The specialist looked up from his work. “Yeah. You might find this interesting.”

  Fowler walked over to the bed. The specialist was using it as a sorting area; it was covered with papers and evidence bags.

  “Found a bunch of these in the dresser. Similar stuff in the closet and around the living room.” The specialist picked up a sack from the bed that was filled with sheets of paper. He carefully pinched one leaf between his gloved fingers and brought it up to the light. Most of the writing was Arabic but the pictures made the message evident: raised hands with fists and machine guns. “We also found a box in the hall closet with wire, timers, and electronics tools. Bomb Squad guys said they were consistent with explosives hookups. Looks like our friend got a little clumsy.” He dropped the flyer back into the bag. “So much for amateur terrorists.”

  Apparently forensics had already made their analysis of the crime. It was a wonder they bothered to call ISB at all. The damn technicians were going to write this one off tonight if he didn’t do something quickly.

  “Yeah, that’s great. Get every piece of this shit catalogued by location,” he barked at the tech. “And I want the name of every book in the place, including the cookbooks. Especially any address books or calendars.” The specialist flashed an angry look and turned back to the bed.

  That should keep the asshole busy for a while. Hopefully long enough to see what else this poor bastard left behind.

  * * *

  Fifteen minutes later, Fowler had found nothing of value in the rest of the apartment. The real damage had been confined to the living room, substantiating forensics’ call.

  When he made it back to the living room a Bomb Squad officer was still there picking particles off the wall.

  “What do you make of it, Pete?” Fowler asked.

  Peter Jacobson was a colleague Fowler remembered from the Navy yard bombing three years ago. He was a serious cop and another department old-timer. Skinny as a railroad tie, he never seemed to gain any weight, the bastard.

  Jacobson finished retrieving what looked like a small wire from a pile of debris and turned to the detective.

  “Good to see you again, Sam.” Jacobson smiled, exposing a mouth full of yellow-stained teeth. Fowler had never figured why explosives’ experts always seemed to be smokers. Away from a scene, Jacobson was a chimney. “A few traces of cordite. Looks like standard powder, not plastic. Small charge, probably only about half a pound. He could have been putting together a tester when it went off.”

  Fowler nodded in agreement. “Okay. But how come his tools were in the hall?”

  “Good question,” Jacobson said as he wrinkled his brow. “Beats me. But that’s your job anyway, remember?”

  “Yeah, thanks.” He turned to head out the door. “Oh, good to see you too, Pete.”

  Thomassini was waiting on the landing when Fowler left the apartment.

  “Let’s go down and talk to the owner, Rick. Anything else I should know?”

  “One thing sir.” Thomassini thumbed through the pages of his pad. “We have this girl downstairs. She was outside when the apartment blew. Says she’s a friend of Ramal’s from school and was supposed to meet him here tonight. She’s pretty shook up but I thought you’d want to talk to her.”

  Fowler weighed his options. “We’ll do the owner first then see her.”

  Chapter 3

  District of Columbia

  Sunday, 10:15 p.m.

  FOWLER FOLLOWED THOMASSINI down to the first floor and knocked on the main entrance. The door pulled back against a steel chain and an aged black face peered through the narrow opening.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Brown,” Thomassini said into the space. “Detective Fowler would like to have a few words with you and your wife. Could we come in?”

  Brown hesitated, then released the chain and let the officers into a clean but cluttered living room. A green tufted sofa filled one wall, facing a flat-panel Sony television on a plastic credenza. A carved pine mantle surrounded a badly chipped brick fireplace. Three other chairs and a Boston rocker completed the furnishings. Pictures of young children were placed prominently on the fireplace mantle and end tables. The apartment smelled of cooking oil and garlic as if the couple had just finished dinner.

  Brown was short, about five foot seven, and seemingly frail. A long-sleeved denim shirt hung loosely at his shoulders, tucked into a pair of baggy dark blue cotton slacks. The skin on his face hung loosely from prominent cheekbones and jaw. He was nearly bald, only a few threads of gray still remaining on the sides of his liver-spotted scalp. He motioned for them to sit on the sofa under the front window.

  “My wife’s restin’ in the other room,” he said. “It’s been a hard night on her. You don’t need to talk to her do ya?”

  “No, that’ll be okay,” Fowler replied as he took out his notebook. Despite the obvious physical weakness of Brown’s body, Fowler noticed his eyes were clear and bright. “Can you tell me what happened tonight?”

  “Frances, that’s my wife, she and I was sittin’ here watching television when we heard this awful boom. Came from right above us. Sounded like a cannon shot. I looked outside and saw all this glass and stuff coming off the house. I went out and see’d it was from the apartment. I told Frances to call the police and went upstairs. It was horrible. I didn’t think he was there but when I saw the body, I came right back down and waited for y’all.”

  “What time was that?”

  “It was 7:45. We checked our clock.” He pointed to an ornate bell-jar clock on the fireplace mantle. Fowler compared it to his watch and continued.

  “You said you didn’t think that Mr. Ramal was home. Did you see anyone going in or out this evening?”

  “Didn’t see or hear nothin’ earlier. We were eating dinner. A little after seven we did hear somebody comin’ down the stairs. Thought it might be him.”

  “You mean Mr. Ramal.”

  “Yep.”

  “Did you see who it was?”

  “Didn’t pay no attention.”

  Fowler closed his note pad and sat back in the sofa. The pain was now firmly encamped at his temples, pounding like a jackhammer. Between the headache, the acid in his stomach, and this all too forgetful witness, he’d be lucky to get back to the office before midnight.

  “How long had Mr. Ramal been renting here?” he finally asked.

  “Came about two years ago. He wasn’t no trouble so we kept him on.”

  “What kind a tenant has he been?”

  “Like I said, no trouble. He don’t throw no wild parties and keeps to himself. He’s gone most days, to school I guess, and comes back in the evenings. Doesn’t say much to nobody, just as fine with me, him being an Arab and all. Stays up ki
nda late though, we see his light from our bedroom.”

  Fowler sat forward. “How late does he stay up?”

  “Don’t know for sure. Sometimes all night, sometimes not. We’ve had a lot of students over the years, he’s pretty much the same as the rest.”

  “Did he have many friends visit?”

  “We don’t make a point outa looking at visitors. He didn’t get very many though.”

  Fowler heard police traffic on the stairs from where he was sitting. He looked out the window and could clearly see the steps up to the front landing. “I’m sure you don’t pry Mr. Brown, but did Ramal have anyone that came regularly, maybe other students?”

  Brown glanced toward his hallway and then back to Fowler. “No real regulars. And not many, well you know, foreigners like him either. We didn’t want no trouble after 9-11 and all.” His eyes wandered off to the window. “This one gal has been by pretty regular the last few months.”

  “Did she come by this evening?”

  “That’s her out there.” He motioned to a figure standing outside between two patrolmen.

  “That’s the girl I mentioned, sir,” Thomassini added.

  Fowler ignored the interruption and returned to Brown. “Does she stay very long?”

  Brown stared back at Fowler before replying. “Don’t stay the night if that’s what you mean. Always leaves after a few hours.”

  “You said you thought Ramal may have left tonight. What time was that?”

  “We heard ‘em comin’ down about 7:25.”

  “There was more than one?”

  The old man raised his eyebrows at the cop. The creases spread half-way over his head. He wasn’t so senile he didn’t recognize his slip. “Yeah. I guess I did see two folks leavin’. A tall guy and a shorter one. I thought the tall one was Ramal. It was dark and we only saw their backs.”

  Brown clasped his hands and rubbed his palms together. “They were carryin’ something though. Looked like garbage bags. I thought maybe he was takin’ out the trash but tomorrow ain’t pickup day. That’s Wednesday.”

  “Did they drop the bags anywhere?”

  “Didn’t see where they went. Just down the street I guess. Didn’t hear no car either.”

  Fowler was exhausted. His shift had ended an hour ago, and he still had to write up his reports. Between the late hour and the effort of dragging anything of value out of Brown, he was about to collapse. “Is there anything else you could tell us about Mr. Ramal?”

  “Nope, nothing else I can think of. What was the explosion? Some kinda bomb?”

  “We’re really not sure yet, Mr. Brown. We’ll keep you updated as we find out.”

  Fowler stood up from the sofa, pulled a wrinkled card from his pants pocket, and handed it to the old man. “Thanks for your help. We’ll try to get all this cleared up as soon as possible. If you or your wife think of anything else, please give me a call.”

  Fowler left the apartment shaking his head. Who the hell were Ramal’s visitors? And what was in those bags?

  When they reached the street, Fowler turned back to Thomassini. “Rick, have a couple of the patrolmen look up and down the street for any garbage bags. Maybe our visitors left something behind. But first take me over to talk with our witness.”

  Thomassini walked him over to a pair of patrolmen standing by a lamp pole. The woman wedged between them must be attractive; it didn’t usually take two of D.C.’s finest to watch a prospective witness. The patrolmen wandered back to their cars as the pair approached.

  “This is Susan Goddard,” Thomassini explained. “She came to see Ramal about 7:45.”

  Goddard turned to face him. She was young, mid to late twenties, dressed in standard student garb: powder-blue George Washington University sweatshirt, designer black jeans, and white Nike sneakers. About five feet eight, and slim, maybe a hundred and forty pounds. Wavy blond hair bounced above her shoulders as she turned and Fowler caught just a hint of perfume.

  She was probably very pretty, but tonight her face was pale and tears from her deep blue eyes had left dark mascara tracks down her cheeks. She hugged a blue nylon knapsack as if it would shield her from the night’s terrors.

  “Miss Goddard, I’m Detective Sam Fowler. I’d like to ask you a few questions if you’re up to it. Then you can go.”

  “I told the other policeman all I knew about the . . . explosion. I still don’t believe he’s dead.” Her voice quivered as she fought back the emotion.

  “You’re a classmate of Mr. Ramal at George Washington?”

  “Yes, sort of. I go to Georgetown but take some courses at GW. We’re . . . we were,” she corrected, “working on a project this semester.”

  “How long had you known him?”

  “About seven months. I met him in a class last semester. We got to know each other and he helped me with computer assignments.”

  “Did you meet any of his other friends?”

  “Mohammed didn’t have many friends. Just other students he’d met in classes. He was a sort of loner like me. I guess that’s why we got along.”

  “Had you two been dating long?” Fowler asked flatly.

  She paused and managed a small smile. Even in the dim light of the streetlamp it lit up her whole face. “Oh no. We didn’t date. It was just a friendship. ‘Two lost souls’ we used to say. Mohammed was busy with his thesis and I had my other classes. We just helped each other out.”

  “What were you going to do tonight?”

  The smile quickly disappeared. “We had a project for a course. Interactive media. We were working on a training system for CPR. Mohammed was doing the programming and I was writing the script. We got together a couple times a week to sync up.”

  Why the hell would a terrorist be playing with a bomb when he had a visitor on the way? Unless the visitor was part of what he was doing. But this coed hardly looked like your typical national security threat.

  “So you had been to his apartment before?” Fowler asked hoping to validate the forensic finding.

  “Yes, a few times. Sometimes we met at the library but Mohammed wanted to show me what he put together so far. What difference did that make?”

  “I’d just like to get a feeling of what his apartment looked like. Did he have a lot of posters or pictures?”

  “Not really. Except for a big Albert Einstein poster. You know, the one with all the curly hair?” Fowler nodded to be polite but didn’t have a clue what she was talking about. “Mohammed thought he was great.”

  “How about any favorite books or authors? Any particular reading style?”

  “Just a lot of computer books. He really wanted to be the best in his field. He worked very hard. I don’t believe what you’re saying about him.”

  “What’s that Miss Goddard?” Fowler gave a withering look to Thomassini.

  “That Mohammed was some kind of terrorist. That he was making bombs.” Goddard’s voice became increasingly strident. “He wasn’t involved in that kind of thing. I never saw any revolutionary books or pictures. Mohammed never talked about those things and I don’t believe he could ever have been a terrorist.” She paused to take a breath. When she continued, her tone was cold. “May I go now?”

  Fowler couldn’t tell if she was hiding something or had just erected a wall of protection from the strangers interrogating her. In either case, her new-found strength surprised him.

  “Just a few more things. When did you last talk to Mr. Ramal?”

  “Yesterday on the phone. We talked about getting together tonight.”

  “Did he say anything about having any other visitors today? Did you see anyone out of the ordinary? Around the building or on the street?”

  “I’m sorry Detective . . .”

  “Fowler,” he added.

  “Oh.” The detective saw something flash in her eyes, then disappear. She continued her original thought. “Detective Fowler. Mohammed didn’t say that he was going to see anyone and I didn’t see anything strange tonight, exce
pt the explosion and all of you. I have no idea who would want to hurt him. I just hope you find who killed him.”

  “Yes, ma’am. That’s what we intend to do.” He handed her his card and made the same request he had of Brown. “Rick, please see if you can coerce one of these busy officers to see Miss Goddard home.”

  “My car’s just around the corner,” Goddard replied. “I’m quite capable of taking myself home.”

  “How about if we have one of the officers take it back for you anyway? I’d just as soon not have you on the roads tonight.”

  Goddard frowned as if she was insulted but didn’t resist. Thomassini led her back to the waiting patrolmen.

  “Ms. Goddard,” Fowler called as they walked away. “We haven’t met before have we?”

  Goddard turn back to face Fowler. “No,” she said firmly. “I’m sure we haven’t, Detective.”

  “Of course. Thank you for your time.”

  Fowler watched as Thomassini gave his instructions to the patrolmen and they escorted Goddard to her car.

  “Thanks for the help, Rick,” he said when Thomassini had returned. “I’ll check with the neighbors tomorrow and see if we can pick up anything else. You’ll wrap up here?”

  “Yes sir. Sorry about the slip.”

  “Forget it. It’s been a tough night for everyone.”

  Fowler walked back to his car and tried to put the evening in perspective. No use in making the case any more complicated than it needed to be. Maybe it was just a dumb accident; a screwed-up college student in over his head. The damn Internet was full of stories of kids being converted into lone-wolf terrorists. At least there hadn’t been any other casualties. The guy made his choice and got caught. These days no one was going to lose any sleep over him.

  He called in at 10:35 and headed back toward headquarters. There were still two preliminary reports to enter before he could go home.

  Driving slowly back M Street, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d seen the Goddard lady before. The name didn’t ring a bell but there was something about her face.