The Covert Element (19 page)

A memo from the FBI was among the documents. It indicated
that facial recognition programs had also failed to identify the dead.
That probably ruled them out as known terrorists, but not much
else.

I checked my watch. I still wear one of those things. Even
though the current trend is to rely on one’s phone for such
information, I’d never quite mastered looking somewhere other
than my wrist. I guess when technology relocates my phone to my
wrist, I won’t need the watch any more. Or at that point, will the
phone have
become
a watch? These things could be confusing if you
thought about them too much.

7:45 a.m. I could pick up some pastries and still meet Gunner
at the LEC by 8:00. I slipped out the back, being careful to close the
screen door quietly.

As it had done so many times before, the Episcopal Church
carillon chimed the hour as I entered the LEC lobby.

"Good morning, Mr. Becker. May I help you?" The uniformed
receptionist behind the glass was cordial this morning.

"Donuts for the Chief Deputy. And important news as well."

"I’ll let him know you’re waiting."

It was taking Gunner a while. I glanced around. Perhaps I’d
drawn unfair conclusions about the discomfort of the plastic "pod"
chairs in the lobby. So I sat in one. Two seconds later I felt my back
and legs sliding downward. I stood up before hitting the floor.

Nope. My prior chair assessment had been right on.

The door to the inner offices opened, and Gunner’s face
appeared beside it. I thought I caught a glance at the donut box.
Anyway, he motioned me inside. I followed him down the hallway
to his office.

I may have mentioned this before, but it seemed to me that the
piles of papers, files, and stray evidence were always located in the
exact same places every time I came to visit. I wondered if the
clutter was a strategy to impress. You know . . . empty desk, empty
mind?

Gunner relieved me of the white cardboard pastry box and
opened it expertly, finally laying it to rest on top of a pile of
paperwork. Gunner helped himself to a chilled éclair – custard
filled, not whipped cream.

I cleared a chair for myself, then grabbed two paper cups. Mr.
Coffee poured us each a fistful of Gunner’s caffeinated asphalt. I
rejoined Gunner at the desk, choosing a cream danish as my artery-clogger for the morning.

No words had, as yet, been spoken. Someone had to break the
stalemate.

"Things are mighty quiet around here, Gunner."

"Um hmm," he said, through a mouthful of éclair. He washed it
down with some coffee.

"So . . . did that bit of info I left here the other day get you
anywhere with BCA?"

"Ha! Hardly. The special agent I talked to said I shouldn’t bug
him with third-hand information – especially when it was obvious
that the story would get out sooner or later. He followed it up with a
heapin’ helpin’ of ‘mind your own business’."

"Oops. Didn’t mean to get you yelled at."

"Nah. Don’t worry ‘bout it. I shoulda known better than takin’
that worthless tip to BCA. I was just sort of, you know, desperate to
get in on the case. Let my zeal get the better of me, as they say."

"Who says?"

"I don’t know. ‘They.’ Whoever said it first."

"Never heard that one before."

"Quit screwin’ with me. I’m bunched up enough over havin’
this mass killing thing in my county and not bein’ allowed to do
anything about it."

"Sorry. Just trying to lighten the mood."

"Well, leave it heavy, okay?"

"Sure."

Gunner finished off the éclair and selected a chocolate-covered
cake donut.

"The Mexican Massacre," I said, tracing a newspaper headline
in the air with my thumb and middle finger.

"Now why are you sayin’ that? You know it’s just gonna make
me feel worse."

"That’s what the BCA is calling this crime – ‘The Mexican
Massacre.’ "

Gunner sat up and spat a chunk of half-chewed donut into his
garbage can.

I winced.

"How the hell do you know what the BCA is callin’ my crime?
Somebody there been talking to you and not me?"

"Hmm. I suppose the answer to that is ‘Sorta.’ "

"Sorta? What the hell does that mean? Sorta. They talking to
you or not?"

"Let’s talk hypothetically here for a moment."

"Oh, crap!"

"What?"

"That means you know something, but you flushed it out
through the back door. Now you’re tryin’ to figure out if I want to
know it or not."

He looked at me.

"Am I right?"

"Maybe. But it’s pretty good info. Do you want to hear it?"

Gunner mulled it over, hand on chin and everything.

"Where’d it come from," he asked finally.

"BCA."

"How’d ya get it?"

"Can’t really say."

"Nobody injured in the process?"

"Gunner! You know me. I like shortcuts, but I’m not careless.
Sheesh!"

"All right. I figure that BCA is law enforcement. And I’m law
enforcement. And this whole thing went down in my county, so I
got jurisdiction. Shouldn’t be any reason I couldn’t know what the
BCA is doing, now is there."

I waited.

"Well . . . is there?"

"Your call, Gunner."

"Okay. Shoot."

"Everything? You want to see documents, like forensic reports,
ballistics, and so on?"

"You got all that? Shit, yes. Gimme it all."

"Okay. Here’s the long answer." I handed Gunner the jump
drive with all the BCA documents and information. "You just plug
that into your computer and then click on stuff."

"I know how to use a thumb drive. Whattya think I am, stupid."

Now that hurt
.

"Okay. But you didn’t get that from me."

"No. I did not." Gunner raised his right hand in pledge.

"Now . . . can we talk about some of what I found interesting in
those documents?"

"Seems only appropriate, seein’ as I never got ‘em from you."

Gunner smiled.

"Right . . . ."

I proceeded to tell Gunner about the unknown victims, the
single gun, the ME’s preliminary findings, pretty much everything I
could remember.

"So," I said, "what do you make of this new information?"

The seasoned law man scratched his head.

"Let’s go with your idea that they were poisoned or somethin’
before he shot ‘em."

"Or she," I said.

"Or she," Gunner said, through gritted teeth.

"How would whoever it was get the poison into all those guys at
the same time?" Gunner said. "Some kinda gas? And the killer was
wearing a mask?"

"Doesn’t seem to me like you’d be able to gas twenty-three men
without somebody holding his breath and making a break for it.
Besides that, how does the killer sneak up on them with the gas
mask on?" I said.

"Gas doesn’t seem right to me."

"Nah. Me neither," Gunner said. "How ‘bout liquid? He . . . or
she . . . poisoned the water supply. They all drank from it and died."

"They all drank the poisoned water at the same time? Doesn’t
seem likely. But what if somebody they knew – maybe somebody
they trusted – gave them the poison all at once . . . like in a toast!"

"That would get the poison into all of ‘em at once all right. The
poison could be fast acting and they’d all drop over before there’s a
struggle. I like it." Gunner was getting worked up.

"Me, too. But why does a drug gang poison its own guys? It
doesn’t make sense."

Gunner pondered.

"Unless . . . ," he said, "unless the killer was a traitor. Maybe
somebody connected to a rival gang."

"So you really think we’ve got
two
Mexican drug-cooking gangs
in Ottawa County? I mean, the guy . . . the killer . . . would have to
be Mexican, too. Right? Otherwise he’d stand out like a steak at the
PETA awards."

"You’re right enough that gangs around here are mostly ethnic.
Couldn’t slip a black guy into a Mexican gang, or a Latino into a
Chinese bunch. So where does that leave us with the traitor or spy
angle?"

My turn to think.

"Maybe ‘traitor’ is the key. They used to be a member, but
something happened to really turn them on the gang. Like . . . . Aw
hell. I can’t think of anything bad enough for somebody to execute
twenty-three guys."

"And I don’t see gang-bangers bein’ smart enough or patient
enough to plan this whole thing. They do drive-by shootings and
stuff. Terrorists are the planners."

We looked at each other.

"Naw," Gunner said. "Where’s the terror? Most folks ‘round
here don’t even know a Mexican – least not personally. Any regular
person is gonna figure this for one drug gang versus another one.
And nobody’s gonna give a hoot. I don’t see this as terrorists."

"So who are we left with?" I had run out of ideas.

"Damned if I know."

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Two weeks before the Ottawa County Massacre.

Eldridge Buffington Claremont, III thought he had the sweetest
job in the world. Born and raised between a Manhattan penthouse
and a "cottage" in the Hamptons, "Bing" possessed the bearing of
aristocracy, without the encumbrances of responsibility his
forefathers had undertaken to maintain, and increase, his family’s
wealth.

When Bing was fresh out of Princeton, his father had arranged
employment for him as a retail stock broker in a respected New
York brokerage house. Bing’s father "Ridge" knew the value of
earning one’s living, having done so all of his life. Gaining
experience in the trenches of the financial world would be an
excellent spot for Bing to acquire perspective. But Ridge hadn’t
wanted to overtax his son. So he had provided Bing with a fertile
portfolio of well-to-do clients for him to service in his new job.

It would be a cakewalk for any modestly enterprising college
graduate to earn a six-figure income trading stocks and bonds for
rich family friends. Bing took the opportunity as punishment.
Regardless of his father’s explanations to the contrary, Bing didn’t
see the need for him to work for a living. The family was wealthy
beyond any reasonable measure. He wasn’t cut out to slave at a desk
all day. His talents were better suited to garden parties and
philandering.

Out of respect for his father, and no small concern over
whether Dad might cut off his trust funds if he didn’t take the job,
Bing worked the stock brokerage business for nearly a year. At that
time, he felt he had paid his dues in this menial position long
enough, and told his father so. Ridge did not concur. So Bing
returned to his job as a stock broker, vowing to find a better way to
live his fully entitled life.