Tom led them into the cutting room. The smell of burnt bodies hit them as they crossed the room. It was something you never got used to. The sights one saw at this job were bad enough, but with time people got over them. A sudden bad smell could still trigger a gag reflex, even in veteran workers. Sydney once had a paramedic partner who was a twenty-year veteran of the streets, but he was also the biggest sympathy puker she had ever seen. One day, while driving a patient to the hospital, she had looked in the mirror to see him and the patient sharing a wastebasket. She had teased him about it for months.
Tom led them to a bench where several items lay bagged in plastic. After a quick search, he picked up one and reached in with a pair of chopsticks. A small tubular metal ring emerged, and was placed under a lighted magnifying lens. He stepped aside and offered a look with no introduction. Sydney and Stacie literally bumped heads as they both leaned in to see. With a laugh, Stacie pushed her friend out of the way to see first.
“Can we trace the number?” she asked when she stepped back.
“I’m unsure just what it is,” Tom replied.
Sydney scrutinized the object under the lens. She knew. “It’s a radio tracking device, like the kind used on birds. You clamp it on one leg and it’s good for about four months. After that, the water weakens it until it releases itself. It’ll only tell you what direction the bird is in. No distance or altitude. This was in the body?”
“Yes, it appeared to have entered through the abdominal wall and lodged in the diaphragm. It was in the car at the time of the explosion.”
“You think it belonged to your bomber?” Stacie asked.
“I wouldn’t rule it out. Do you have someone who can trace it for me?”
“Sure, I’ll have it sent upstairs. Is this priority, Stacie?” Technically Stacie was not his boss, but they all knew she was running this show. He was surprised when she looked at her friend.
“Yes, have them put that in front.”
“You got it.” Tom reached for a chain of evidence form. Sydney and Stacie left with a stack of files to review.
—SIXTEEN—
The state of Kansas holds 9,132 inmates in its prisons.
Approximately 6,118 are repeat offenders.
The Chief was frustrated, but trying not to show it. The last two hours had been spent wandering around the Las Vegas airport. They had walked the entire arrival and departure areas, spent some time watching the taxis and shuttle busses come and go, and eyeballed the rental car area. They now stood in the main lobby with a sea of tourist coming and going around them. At least airport security had noticed them, and they now had the shift supervisor in attendance. His name was Roger, and he wasn’t pleased about having a man with FBI in one-foot letters on his jacket wandering around.
“What’s he after, Chief?”
“I’m not sure, Roger, I was asked to extend him every courtesy, so I am.” He was watching Jack, who was standing twenty feet away, looking up at the ceiling of the terminal.
“Mr. Givens?” Jack called. “How long do you keep your security tapes?”
Roger walked over to where Jack was standing and looking in the direction of Jack’s gaze he saw the camera that monitored the main doors to the lower level.
“Since 9-11 we’re required to keep them for six months. We have a new system. It’s all digitally recorded, and we download twice a day. We store two months worth here, and the rest offsite at some storage facility.”
Jack thought about this. The bomber was obviously familiar with the road if Sydney’s theory was true. Tropicana Avenue was the main route from the airport to the Strip. What if our killer just did his job, and then went home on a plane? It would mean looking at hours of footage, and he wasn’t even sure of what they were looking for. Could he spare the manpower? He decided he would get it anyway. If they had some time later they could review it.
“I’m going to need all the footage from the day of the bombing. Say, an hour before and six hours post. Can you arrange that please?”
“Take a little time, but I’m sure we can accommodate that. The lobby cameras only?”
Jack looked at him. “No, the whole terminal.”
Roger bit his tongue, turned and walked toward his office. He shot a look to the Chief as he went by.
Jack watched him go for a moment, before turning to look over his shoulder. “Will you excuse me for a moment?” He quickly walked toward a man leaning against the wall across the terminal.
* * *
Oh shit, Danny thought. I’m busted.
Danny had been walking through the terminal on the way to claim his bag when he spotted Jack Randall, complete with FBI jacket and two officers in tow, walking right in front of him. He had followed at a distance for over an hour trying to remain unseen. Jack was spending a lot of time looking up at the ceiling. With his sunglasses and FBI jacket, Jack looked quite intimidating, and the crowd of tourists gave him a wide berth. He debated on getting some pictures when Jack suddenly left the officer with him, and walked directly at him. He’d also removed the sunglasses and had Danny fixed in his sights. It was too late to run.
“Mister Drake. Jack Randall.” Jack had his hand out.
Danny had no choice. He reached out and shook it. “Danny Drake. Guess you caught me.”
“Since gate 18.” Jack let the statement hang.
“So, is there anything you can tell me, or should I just go to hell?”
“Actually, I was wondering if you could tell me why our suspect decided to correspond with you?”
“To be honest, I have no idea. I’ve never written about Addicot, or this Profit character before. I just happen to get to the scene in Orlando first, lucky break,” Danny offered.
“Most good reporters make their own luck, Mr. Drake.”
“Maybe.”
“I was wondering if you and I might work together on this?”
“I don’t understand, work together how?”
“I need some help. My superiors tend to get...political...sometimes. A little sunshine from the press might serve to keep them on target so I can concentrate on my job.”
“I see.” Danny stalled while his mind raced to keep up. Jack was asking him to publish information that he would provide. Tricky.
“How do I know I won’t end up in jail?”
“I’ll give you the truth. If you help me out I’ll remember when this is all over.”
“An exclusive interview?”
“If that’s possible. I’m afraid I can’t promise anything.”
Danny nodded, he knew how that worked. Jack could be “a high ranking government official” in anything he wrote, so long as the information was true.
“I think I can make that happen.”
“Good, you do know what to do if you hear from him again don’t you?”
“Yes, I do now. And it’s Danny, please.”
Jack smiled at Danny’s nervousness. How would he handle this?
“Do you have a cell phone number?”
He wants my cell phone number? Danny’s mind raced. He’s FBI. He can get it any time he wants. Jack Randall was extending him an offer that he’d be stupid not to accept. What reporter wouldn’t want an FBI source like this guy? He quickly pulled out his notebook and scribbled his numbers out. Jack took it without looking at it.
“You have a nice day, Danny.” Jack turned and walked away.
“What the hell just happened?” Danny asked himself.
* * *
“So what do we have?” Jack had everyone assembled in the conference room at the Las Vegas Police Department. The room was crowded with the heads of the departments working the case, several technicians, the Chief, his son Eric, and all the Bureau people. Stacks of paper, files, photographs and laptops covered the large table. A large photo of the crime scene was tacked up on the wall next to a graphic representation. Those present had the look of the overworked. Eyes were red, clothes were rumpled, and posture was poor. That was to be exp
ected. The crime was only two days old, and they had been at it nonstop.
When nobody stepped up to the plate, he looked at Sydney, who looked at Stacie. Stacie stood up so she could use her voice to full effect.
“Site’s a real mess.” She bellowed, waking the half dead among them. “We managed to extract everything as rapidly as we could, but the wind was fierce the last two days. Recovered most of the bomb-making material, but after fuming it we were only able to recover a partial thumb. It’s going through the database as we speak, but we’re not optimistic. Bodies have all been ID’d, and manner of death was no surprise. Fire did a real job on the car and it’s being set up to fume tomorrow. Our ordinance disposal people have looked it over, and they agree, this device was not very sophisticated. Looks like a simple battery pack and two servos connected to at least three detonators. We’re still recovering pieces from the site, but the boys put a drawing together of what it looked like before it was used, should be in your packets.” She paused for a breath while everyone dug into their files to see the bomb. “Best thing we have so far is the tracer. A small tracer was found in the body of the right-side rear passenger. We’ve identified it as the type used to track migratory birds. The things have numbers, and we were able to trace this one to a lot sold to a bird sanctuary in southwest Michigan, the Kellogg Bird Sanctuary to be exact. Yes, as in Corn Flakes. They reported a theft about two months ago. Locals wrote it up as vandalism, but we’ve sent the local FBI office to follow up. We’re also attempting to identify the maker of the servos, may have something in a day or two. Still cataloging fibers and other trace evidence, might have it all done by Christmas.” She flipped a few pages of notes. “That’s all for now. I give you Chief Williams.”
The Chief frowned at Stacie, and unlike her, chose to keep his seat. “Our boy Russell’s crew has chosen to keep their collective mouths shut. LAPD has a list of possibles a mile long. The man had quite a few enemies. Hotel staff reports nothing out of the ordinary and say Profit and his crew were regular guests there. They spent some time in the pit at the MGM, followed by a trip to Cheetahs Thursday night. Friday was the fight, followed by some more time at the craps tables at Caesar’s. Some evidence of drug use in the room, also some hardware found in the room for what that’s worth. Handguns. Believe it or not, everybody had a permit to carry. Hotel tapes show no unknowns on that floor. We’re still reviewing the tapes, but the time line is pretty solid, very few gaps. The only phone calls were to room service and the front desk. We’re pulling everyone’s cell phone records. Our resident gang expert sweated his informants. Nobody had any grudges against our victims, at least any they would admit. My guy will keep the pressure on, but his impression is this was not the result of anybody local. Fight footage shows nothing remarkable. No contact with any unknowns, no one watching our boy too close.” The Chief paused to adjust his seat. He flipped through his notebook for more points to cover. “Search of the room turned up no listening devices. Phones were clean. No cameras.” He looked up at Sydney. “That doesn’t help your theory.” He went on. “We’re also reviewing the staff and security personnel, but since they’re all checked prior to employment by the hotel and the gaming commission, I’m not optimistic. A long list, with not much to follow up on.” He looked at Jack. “We’ll forward anything we have to you as it comes up.” He flipped his notebook shut.
Sydney stood up and opened the file in her hand. “Overall picture is not pointing in any specific direction. Working on the theory that the target was under surveillance, we have yet to determine how. Video from the hotels is still under review. We also have film from airport security to look at.” She shot a frown at Jack. “Should take a few days. Pending that, we’re open to ideas.”
“Inside guy?” Jack asked.
“Negative.” Larry spoke up. “Got a call from Dave in LA The man’s crew has been with him for years, and all agencies deny having a man on the inside. He’s still going through a mountain of background. You know Dave, he’ll pick till he’s done. Till then, we wait.”
Jack tapped his pen on the table before he spoke. “Thanks everybody, some good work all around, looks like we wait for more. Until then, everybody get some sleep. We’ll pick it up tomorrow.” Jack rubbed his face, he needed a shave.
Sydney watched everybody file out, leaving piles of paper on the table. She caught Eric looking at her as he left. He shut the door behind him.
She turned to see Jack grinning at her. “Nothing like teenage hormones, huh, Syd?”
“Very funny. What is he, twelve?”
“Twenty-one actually, and taking a year off from MIT for some reason the Chief didn’t elaborate on. Genius IQ. I was quite impressed with his graphic of the scene. Weren’t you?”
“Yes,” she finally admitted. “Why, thinking of hiring him?” Sydney asked.
“Something tells me he wouldn’t get much done on your team,” Jack joked.
“Well, I’m at the stage where I’m happy they still look anymore.” She began to stack up the files.
Jack looked her over. She was as beautiful as when they had been in college. Sydney was a very smart and driven woman. Why she was still single he knew only too well. Despite her good looks and intelligence, she was married to her job. She liked bugs, and bullets, and dead bodies. Something most men had a problem with. He wasn’t sure what to say.
“I don’t believe that for a second,” Jack replied.
Sydney turned her head and looked at Jack. He still knew what she was thinking after all these years. Why hadn’t they stayed together? She had found herself asking that a lot in the last year. Someday they would have to have a conversation on the subject, but this was not the place.
“Thanks, Jack. Girl needs to hear that once in a while.” She picked up the stack of files. “I’m going to go back to the hotel and get something to eat. Following that, I plan to try to get through at least one file before using it for a pillow. Good luck with your phone call.” She smiled over her shoulder at him as she left the room.
“Thanks,” he replied. He wondered which call she meant, the one to the boss or the one to his wife.
—SEVENTEEN—
The state of Kentucky holds 16,622 inmates in its prisons.
Approximately 11,136 are repeat offenders.
Sam sat on the steps of the courthouse with several other people enjoying their lunch. The weather was typical southern California; seventy degrees with mild humidity, and a slight wind out of the west that Sam watched by observing the decorative flags displayed around the square. He slowly worked on a yellow legal pad in his lap between bites from his deli sandwich. Several people around him were doing the same thing, most with a cell phone going at the same time. Dressed in a suit and sporting a briefcase, he blended right in.
Unlike his fellow lunch eaters, Sam was not deep into some legal document or planning his next courtroom strategy. The young paralegal next to him would probably have been shocked to learn that Sam was drawing a range card. A detailed sketch of the town square with the courthouse at the top center of the page. From his position, exactly twenty-two yards south by south-west of the side entrance to the building, Sam could see several possible positions he might utilize. He sketched in obstacles such as trees and bushes, power lines, and a fountain. He took counts of traffic, both pedestrian and motor. All of this went into notations at the bottom of the drawing. Wind direction and speed went on the margins. The angle of the sun and possible reflections were noted on a separate piece of paper, as well as possible dead space, space that would be behind cover from his vantage point. In the pictures he had seen when downloading the articles, he knew there would be protestors tomorrow. Some would be waving signs that might block his view. He looked down the square as he finished the last bite of his sandwich. Time to take a walk. He looked at his watch. On the side of the band was a small compass. Taking a bearing to the tall building he had first noticed when he sat down, he committed it to memory. With his head up and looking directl
y at his destination, Sam began walking down the street with a careful, measured stride, avoiding eye contact with other pedestrians. His size and facial expression cleared his path for him and he soon arrived at his goal. Sam turned and again using the compass, shot a reciprocal bearing back to the steps. He was left maybe a degree at the most, not enough to worry about. His pace count placed the range at 720 meters. Long, but not out of his range of skill.
He looked up at the old building. A five-story structure of brick and stone, it had caught his eye due to the scaffolding erected across the front. The first three floors had been sandblasted already, and more scaffolding was stacked close by to be added soon in order to reach the last two. Mortar repairs had been made and the windows had been replaced. The top floor had a debris chute emerging from a window and descending into a dumpster sitting on the sidewalk. A sign directed pedestrians to use the covered walkway in the parking lane. Workers sat on the scaffolding eating their lunch. One nodded to Sam from two stories up and he returned it before proceeding up the steps and into the building. No receptionist. He was instead greeted by a directory next to a phone, which listed the building occupants. Two floors of lawyers, the third housed an investment office and the top two were inhabited by a data systems management consulting firm. A word-perfect sign announced that the offices were currently vacant for remodeling, and provided a temporary address and phone number. The sign also apologized for the inconvenience, and thanked people for their patience.
“Oh no, thank you,” said Sam.
He turned to the one elevator on his right and pushed the call button. It arrived with a too-loud chime and the doors opened to reveal an empty interior. He quickly punched 4 and the door-close button. When he reached the fourth floor he was met by a copy of the sign below, only now stuck on the new drywall with blue masking tape. He could hear voices in both directions and smell fresh paint. Keeping the door open with one hand, he leaned out to gaze right and left. No one in sight. He looked for a sign indicating the stairs and saw it glowing through a piece of hanging plastic. Taking a chance, he left the elevator and proceeded to the exit. After helping the door close silently behind him, he ascended the stairs to the fifth floor. Listening at the door he heard nothing at all. Opening the door he saw only bare studs, hanging wires and stacked drywall. Plastic sheeting flapped in the breeze from the open windows. This floor was a few days away from the attention of the crew below. Sam resisted the urge to tour the floor based on the creaky floorboards and dusty conditions, so he withdrew to the stairwell. He descended the stairs to the ground floor. Here he discovered two doors, one an interior door with opaque glass, the other a steel exit door with a sign reading “Emergency Exit Only—Alarm Will Sound.” Sam pulled a small piece of sheet-magnet from his pocket. After a pause to listen for anyone approaching, he opened the exit door a few inches. Silence. With the construction going on and the windows removed, the alarm had been deactivated just as he had guessed. He peered out the small opening he had made to see a narrow alley that led off to the north. Traffic and pedestrians could be seen moving across the gap. He carefully placed the sheet-magnet over the metal plate that the latch fell into. He then shut the door. The magnet prevented the latch from catching. Sam pushed the door open and let it fall shut. The door had a good seal and there was minimal wind in the alley. It should stay shut without the latch holding it. The door could be pulled open until someone removed the magnet. Perfect. He left the stairwell and entered the alley. With a casual walk, he paced the distance to his second choice of perches. His first choice looked very promising, but a careful sniper always had a contingency plan. Sam was anything if not thorough. As he walked and counted, he was already forming a shopping list in his head.