He hardly wanted to handle the pursuit alone but he had no choice. Just after he'd landed, he'd seen a sign lying face up on the sand.
DANGER UXO
UNEXPLODED ORDNANCE
It featured a picture of an explosion coming up from the ground. Red years ago, the paint was now pink.
This area had been part of the military base's artillery range, and reportedly thousands of tons of shells and grenades were buried here, waiting to be cleared as soon as the Pentagon's budget allowed.
But O'Neil thought of the two hundred people who'd die in less than two hours and began to sprint along the trail that the suspect had been kind enough to leave in the sand.
The unreasonable idea occurred to him that if he took Kathryn Dance's advice--to move fast--he might be past the cannon shell when it detonated.
He didn't, however, think an explosion like that was something you could outrun.
# # #
Kinesic analysis works because of one simple concept, which Dance thought of as the Ten Commandments Principle.
Although she herself wasn't religious, she liked the metaphor. It boiled down to simply: Thou Shalt Not...
What came after that prohibition didn't matter. The gist was that people knew the difference between right and wrong and they felt uneasy doing something they shouldn't.
Some of this stemmed from the fear of getting caught, but still we're largely hardwired to do the right thing.
When people are deceptive (either actively misstating or failing to give the whole story) they experience stress and this stress reveals itself. Charles Darwin said, "Repressed emotion almost always comes to the surface in some form of body motion."
The problem for interrogators is that stress doesn't necessarily show up as nail biting, sweating and eye avoidance. It could take the form of a pleasant grin, a cheerful nod, a sympathetic wag of the head.
You don't say...
Well, that's terrible...
What a body language expert must do is compare subjects' behavior in nonstressful situations with their behavior when they might be lying. Differences between the two suggest--though they don't prove--deception. If there is some variation, a kinesic analyst then continues to probe the topic that's causing the stress until the subject confesses, or it's otherwise explained.
In interrogating Wayne Keplar, Dance would take her normal approach: asking a number of innocuous questions she knew the answer to and that the suspect would have no reason to lie about. She'd also just shoot the breeze with him, no agenda other than to note how he behaved when feeling no stress. This would establish his kinesic "baseline"--a catalog of his body language, tone of voice and choice of expressions when he was at ease and truthful.
Only then would she turn to questions about the impending attack and look for variations from the baseline when he answered.
But establishing the baseline usually requires many hours, if not days, of casual discussion.
Time that Kathryn Dance didn't have.
It was now 2:08.
Still, there was no option other than to do the best she could. She'd learned that there was another suspect, escaping through the old military ordnance storage and practice ground, with Michael O'Neil in pursuit (she knew the dangers of the base and didn't want to think of the risks to him). And the Monterey crime scene team was still going over the Taurus and the items that Paulson and Keplar had on them when arrested. But these aspects of the investigation had produced no leads.
Dance now read the sparse file once more quickly. Wayne Keplar was forty-four, high school educated only, but he'd done well at school and was now one of the "philosophers" at the Brothers of Liberty, writing many of the essays and diatribes on the group's blogs and website. He was single, never married. He'd been born in the Haight, lived in San Diego and Bakersfield. Now in Oakland. He didn't have a passport and had never been out of the country. His father was dead--killed in a Waco/Ruby Ridge-type standoff with federal officers. His mother and sister, a few years older than he, were also involved in BOL, which despite the name, boasted members of both sexes. Neither of these family members had a criminal record.
Keplar, on the other hand, did--but a minor one, and nothing violent. His only federal offense had been graffiti'ing an armed forces recruitment center.
He also had an older brother, who lived on the East Coast, but the man apparently hadn't had any contact with Keplar for years and had nothing to do with the BOL.
A deep data mine search had revealed nothing about Keplar's and Gabe Paulson's journey here. This was typical of militia types, worried about Big Brother. They'd pay cash for as much as they could.
Normally she'd want far more details than this, but there was no more time.
Fast...
Dance left the folder at the desk out front and entered the interrogation room. Keplar glanced up with a smile.
"Uncuff him," she said to Albert Stemple, who didn't hesitate even though he clearly wasn't crazy about the idea.
Dance would be alone in the room with an unshackled suspect, but she couldn't afford to have the man's arms limited by chains. Body language analysis is hard enough even with all the limbs unfettered.
Keplar slumped lazily in the gray, padded office chair, as if settling in to watch a football game he had some, but not a lot of, interest in.
Dance nodded to Stemple, who left and closed the thick door behind him. Her eyes went to the large analog clock at the far end of the room.
2:16.
Keplar followed her gaze then looked back. "You're goin' to try to find out where the...event's takin' place. Ask away. But I'll tell you right now, it's going to be a waste of time."
Dance moved her chair so that she sat across from him, with no furniture between them. Any barrier between interviewer and subject, even a small table, gives the perp a sense of protection and makes kinesic analysis that much harder. Dance was about three feet from him, in his personal proxemic zone--not so close as to make him stonewall, but near enough to keep him unsettled.
Except that he wasn't unsettled. At all. Wayne Keplar was as calm as could be.
He looked at her steadily, a gaze that was not haughty, not challenging, not sexy. It was almost as if he were sizing up a dog to buy for his child.
"Wayne, you don't have a driver's license."
"Another way for the government to keep tabs on you."
"Where do you live?"
"Oakland. Near the water. Been there for six years. Town has a bad rap but it's okay."
"Where were you before that?"
"San Diego."
She asked more about his personal life and travels, pretending not to know the answers. She'd left the file outside.
His responses were truthful. And as he spoke she noted his shoulders were forward, his right hand tended to come to rest on his thigh, he looked her straight in the eye when he spoke, his lips often curled into a half-smile. He had a habit of poking his tongue into the interior of his cheek from time to time. It could have been a habit or could be from withdrawal--missing chewing tobacco, which Dance knew could be as addictive as smoking.
"Why'd you leave San Diego, Wayne? Weather's nicer than Oakland."
"Not really. I don't agree with that. But I just didn't like it. You know how you get a vibration and it's just not right."
"That's true," she said.
He beamed in an eerie way. "Do you? You know that? You're a firecracker, Kathryn. Yes, you are."
A chill coursed down her spine as the near-set eyes tapped across her face.
She ignored it as best she could and asked, "How senior are you in the Brothers of Liberty?"
"I'm pretty near the top. You know anything about it?"
"No."
"I'd love to tell you. You're smart, Ms. Firecracker. You'd probably think there're some pretty all right ideas we've got."
"I'm not sure I would."
A one-shoulder shrug--another of his baseline gestures. "But you never know."
r /> Then came more questions about his life in Oakland, his prior convictions, his childhood. Dance knew the answers to some but the others were such that he'd have no reason to lie and she continued to rack up elements of baseline body language and verbal quality (the tone and speed of speech).
She snuck a glance at the clock.
"Time's got you rattled, does it?"
"You're planning to kill a lot of people. Yes, that bothers me. But not you, I see."
"Ha, now you're sounding just like a therapist. I was in counseling once. It didn't take."
"Let's talk about what you have planned, the two hundred people you're going to kill."
"Two hundred and change."
So, more victims. His behavior fit the baseline. This was true; he wasn't just boasting.
"How many more?"
"Two hundred twenty, I'd guess."
An idea occurred to Dance and she said, "I've told you we're not releasing Osmond Carter. That will never be on the table."
"Your loss... well, not yours. Two hundred and some odd people's loss."
"And killing them is only going to make your organization a pariah, a--"
"I know what 'pariah' means. Go on."
"Don't you think it would work to your advantage, from a publicity point of view, if you call off the attack, or tell me the location now?"
He hesitated. "Maybe. That could be, yeah." Then his eyes brightened. "Now, I'm not inclined to call anything off. That'd look bad. Or tell you direct where this thing's going to happen. But you being Ms. Firecracker and all, how 'bout I give you a chance to figure it out. We'll play a game."
"Game?"
"Twenty Questions. I'll answer honestly, I swear I will."
Sometimes that last sentence was a deception flag. Now, she didn't think so.
"And if you find out where those two hundred and ten folks're going to meet Jesus... then good for you. I can honestly say I didn't tell you. But you only get twenty questions. You don't figure it out, get the morgue ready. You want to play, Kathryn? If not, I'll just decide I want my lawyer and hope I'm next to a TV in--" He looked at the clock. "--one hour and forty-one minutes."
"All right, let's play," Dance said, and she subtly wiped the sweat that had dotted her palms. How on earth to frame twenty questions to narrow down where the attack would take place? She'd never been in an interrogation like this.
He sat forward. "This'll be fun!"
"Is the attack going to be an explosive device?"
"Question one--I'll keep count. No."
"What will it be?"
"That's question two but, sorry, you know Twenty Questions: has to be yes or no answers. But I'll give you a do-over."
"Will it be a chemical/bio weapon?"
"Sorta cheating there, a twofer. But I'll say yes."
"Is it going to be in a place open to the public?"
"Number three. Yes, sorta public. Let's say, there'll be public access."
He was telling the truth. All his behavior and the pitch and tempo of voice bore out his honesty. But what did he mean by public access but not quite public?
"Is it an entertainment venue?"
"Question four. Well, not really, but there will be entertainment there."
"Christmas related?"
He scoffed. "That's five. Are you asking questions wisely, Ms. Firecracker? You've used a quarter of them already. You could have combined Christmas and entertainment. Anyway, yes, Christmas is involved."
Dance thought this curious. The Brothers of Liberty apparently had a religious side, even if they weren't born-again fanatics. She would have thought the target might be Islamic or Jewish.
"Have the victims done anything to your organization personally?"
Thinking police or law enforcement or government.
"Six. No."
"You're targeting them on ideological grounds?"
"Seven. Yes."
She asked, "Will it be in Monterey County?"
"Number eight. Yes."
"In the city of..." No, if she followed those lines of questioning, she'd use up all the questions just asking about the many towns and unincorporated areas in Monterey County. "Will it be near the water?"
"Sloppy question. Expect better from you Ms. Firecracker. Do-over. Near the what?"
Stupid of her, Dance realized, her heart pounding. There were a number of bodies of water and rivers in the area. And don't ask about the ocean. Technically, Monterey wasn't on the Pacific. "Will it be within a half mile of Monterey Bay?"
"Good!" he said, enjoying himself. "Yes. That was nine. Almost halfway there."
And she could see he was telling the truth completely. Every answer was delivered according to his kinesic baseline.
"Do you and Gabe Paulson have a partner helping you in the event?"
One eyebrow rose. "Yes. Number ten. You're halfway to saving all them poor folks, Kathryn."
"Is the third person a member of the Brothers of Liberty?"
"Yes. Eleven."
She was thinking hard, unsure how to finesse the partner's existence into helpful information. She changed tack. "Do the victims need tickets to get into the venue?"
"Twelve. I want to play fair. I honestly don't know. But they did have to sign up and pay. That's more than I should give you, but I'm enjoying this." And indeed it seemed that Keplar was.
She was beginning to form some ideas.
"Is the venue a tourist attraction?"
"Thirteen. Yes, I'd say so. At least near tourist attractions."
Now she felt safe using one of her geographical questions. "Is it in the city of Monterey?"
"No. Fourteen."
"Carmel?"
"No. Fifteen."
Dance kept her own face neutral. What else should she be asking? If she could narrow it down a bit more, and if Michael O'Neil and his crime scene team came up with other details, they might cobble together a clear picture of where the attack would take place then evacuate every building in the area.
"How you doing there, Kathryn? Feeling the excitement of a good game? I sure am." He looked at the clock. Dance did, too. Hell, time had sped by during this exchange. It was now 2:42.
She didn't respond to his question, but tried a different tack. "Do your close friends know what you're doing?"
He frowned. "You want to use question sixteen for that? Well, your choice. Yes."
"Do they approve?"
"Yes, all of them. Seventeen. Getting all you need here, Kathryn? Seems you're getting off track."
But she wasn't. Dance had another strategy. She was comfortable with the information she had--tourist area, near the water, a paid-for event, Christmas related, a few other facts--and with what O'Neil found, she hoped they could narrow down areas to evacuate. Now she was hoping to convince him to confess by playing up the idea raised earlier. That by averting the attack he'd still score some good publicity but wouldn't have to go to jail forever or die by lethal injection. Even if she lost the Twenty Questions game, which seemed likely, she was getting him to think about the people he was close to, friends and family he could still spend time with--if he stopped the attack.
"And family--do your siblings approve?"
"Question eighteen. Don't have any. I'm an only child. You only got two questions left, Kathryn. Spend 'em wisely."
Dance hardly heard the last sentences. She was stunned.
Oh, no...
His behavior when he'd made the comment about not having siblings--a bald lie--was identical to that of the baseline.
During the entire game he'd been lying.
Their eyes met. "Tripped up there, didn't I?" He laughed hard. "We're off the grid so much, didn't think you knew about my family. Shoulda been more careful."
"Everything you just told me was a lie."
"Thin air. Whole cloth. Pick your cliche, Ms. Firecracker. Had to run the clock. There's nothing on God's green earth going to save those people."
She understood now what a waste of time th
is had been. Wayne Keplar was probably incapable of being kinesically analyzed. The Ten Commandments Principle didn't apply in his case. Keplar felt no more stress lying than he did telling the truth. Like serial killers and schizophrenics, political extremists often feel they are doing what's right, even if those acts are criminal or reprehensible to others. They're convinced of their own moral rectitude.
"Look at it from my perspective. Sure, we would've gotten some press if I'd confessed. But you know reporters--they'd get tired of the story after a couple days. Two hundred dead folk? Hell, we'll be on CNN for weeks. You can't buy publicity like that."
Dance pushed back from the table and, without a word, stepped outside.
# # #
Michael O'Neil sprinted past ghosts.
The Monterey area is a place where apparitions from the past are ever present.
The Ohlone Native Americans, the Spanish, the railroad barons, the commercial fisherman... all gone.
And the soldiers, too, who'd inhabited Fort Ord and the other military facilities that once dotted the Monterey Peninsula and defined the economy and the culture.
Gasping and sweating despite the chill and mist, O'Neil jogged past the remnants of barracks and classrooms and training facilities, some intact, some sagging, some collapsed.
Past vehicle pool parking lots, supply huts, rifle ranges, parade grounds.
Past signs that featured faded skulls and crossed bones and pink explosions.
UXO...
The suspect wove through the area desperately and the chase was exhausting. The land had been bulldozed flat in the 1930s and forties for the construction of the base but the dunes had reclaimed much of the landscape, rippled mounds of blond sand, some of them four stories high.
The perp made his way through these valleys in a panicked run, falling often, as did O'Neil because of the dicey traction--and the fast turns and stop-and-go sprinting when what looked like a potential explosives stash loomed.
O'Neil debated about parking a slug in the man's leg, though that's technically a no-no. Besides, O'Neil couldn't afford to miss and kill him.
The suspect chugged along, gasping, red-faced, the deadly backpack over his shoulder bouncing.
Finally, O'Neil heard the thud thud thud of rotors moving in.
He reflected that a chopper was the only smart way to pursue somebody through an area like this, even if it wasn't technically a minefield. The birds wouldn't trip the explosives, as long as they hovered.