The third column was just a random arrangement of numbers and letters with no patterns at all. Some were five or six digits, some were ten or more. And with no identification as to what they were. Maybe some kind of code, he thought.
The fourth column he couldn’t see any pattern to at all. It was simply all plus or minus signs. It looked like maybe seventy or eighty percent were plusses, the rest minuses, but with no pattern to them.
It appeared that his system had found these lists somewhere, then had sorted them by date, then by phone number (if that’s what all this really is, he thought.) So, did it mean anything? Or was it simply a list of calls from someone to someone? Or to multiple someone’s?
On an impulse, he grabbed his phone and called one of the numbers with a Texas prefix. “Houston First National Bank,” the voice answered. Roger responded with a simple “wrong number,” then called another number, this time with an international prefix.
“Thank you for calling Nordbank. How may I help you?” “I’m sorry. Maybe I called the wrong number. Where are
you located?”
“This is the English line for Nordbank in Hamburg, Ger
many, sir. May we help?”
“No, I did get the wrong number. But, thank you.” Roger then quickly called the same number back, waited a
second and then dialed the suffix. The number immediately
rang but turned into a contact sound like a fax line would give.
Maybe that made it bypass the operator and go right into the
bank system itself?
He hung up and leaned back in his chair, trying to determine whether there was anything here to follow. Without
some other kind of link to the list, he felt that he had simply
stumbled onto a list that meant nothing. With nothing that
spurred him into investigating the data further, he saved and
then closed the list in his system and moved back to looking at
the many other links that had come up. Roger saved almost
everything he researched with the thought that you never knew
when something might ring bells.
There were several items that mentioned D.C. schools
along with news broadcasts, journalists, children (of course)
and many crimes. WBAK had thousands of listings of every
sort. There were references to all of the school fires, but they
didn’t link to anything else of importance. There was a long
list of incidences regarding children and violence—robberies,
assaults, deaths, shootings. Most of them were crimes against
or involving individuals, but several mentioned groups. One
was a swim team that had died in a bus crash. Another was a
group that had been caught in a gangland shooting. Another
reported a group where a school building had collapsed and
injured several. There were several, but nothing that seemed to
link to the fires and shootings.
Roger had a personal policy of trying to never get impatient or frustrated in his research efforts, so he just kept on
looking at the lists. He knew that eventually there would be
some kind of a clue to what he was researching, or there wouldn’t be. He would shrug his shoulders and just keep on looking. Almost always, he would find the links he was looking for. And one good link would open up a path for an expanded search, and then a larger path, and on. Right now, though, he was seeing nothing. No links. No references to
names he was researching. Basically nothing.
Suddenly he remembered he had not called Paul Corbin in
D.C., so he picked up the phone and dialed. He got through
the switchboard, then to Paul’s desk and identified himself.
Paul’s immediate response was, “We’ve been working on
these things for weeks and you’ve solved it in a couple of
days? Tell me I’m right—please.”
Roger laughed and let him know that he wasn’t able to
work miracles—at least not that quickly. Then he went on to
ask about the so-called demon squads and how they figured in
these cases.
Paul asked, “What have you found? Are you talking about
specific groups? And working today?”
Roger gave him the little he had so far, mostly suspicions
from his messages with Jacob, but he basically said the groups
were real and still working. At which, Paul detailed for him
the conversation the trio of officers had had and their plan to
follow up with Sarge.
“Let me throw a couple more things into the pot, if you
don’t mind.”
“That’ll be okay, Paul. If it’s something that might impact
the search we’re on, then the more the merrier.”
Paul then gave him some information on the other cases
they were working—the fact that Senator Marks had been
killed, and Councilman Jessen wounded, by bullets that
matched the other crimes; the shooting at Speaker Mildowney’s party. He said that they had no leads at all except
that the bullets matched each other. No suspects; nothing. Roger affirmed he would add those names and events into
the search and would keep after it. Then they hung up. The search he was running was totally open ended. He
had the various names and events, to which he added the ones Paul had just given him, but he had made no restrictions. Anything that matched those items in any way was to be logged. Also, anything that just appeared odd or out of place. That’s why the list of numbers had come up. They were a major something and looked odd, but in this case didn’t link to any of the events. He had specifically entered anything he could think of regarding the possible demon squads, but the only things that had come up so far were rumors and theories and mystery books that referenced them. Nothing that ap
peared real or that linked to the other events.
He shot off a quick message to Jacob Asch to let him
know there was basically no progress, then decided to get
some real sleep, not just another nap at the keyboard. The
system would run without him and would have more information for him to review in the morning.
The ragged man was restless and paced back and forth.
He dripped sweat. The room had no heating or cooling, so was
hot or cold without relief depending on the season. It didn’t
bother him. His mind didn’t really dwell on things like that.
Life had been a lot worse in years past. This was just here and
now. Nothing else really registered.
The soldier was vaguely concerned that the bomb hadn’t
gone off. He didn’t read or listen to news, but would have
heard through the grapevine if it had. He hadn’t set the device
himself, of course, but worried that the lack of a result might
be blamed on him anyway. Someone always had to take the
fall. That’s just the way it was. But he did wonder why it
hadn’t gone off. It had been on the list and should have been
able to be marked off.
He looked over at the large handgun by the bed and
thought he would like to go out on his own. Doing something
himself would help ease the restlessness and give him something else to think about. Maybe just do a complete stranger?
That could never be traced and he knew he wouldn’t be seen.
You couldn’t see nothing.
He stopped pacing as his mind started to picture the action
that would take place. Perhaps it would be one of the street
girls. Or one of the teens that wandered the streets here from
uptown looking for some action. Driving daddy’s
Lincoln and
spending daddy’s money, acting bad. He laughed when he
thought that it would simply be too easy. The civilians just had
no concept of the ease of killing. They didn’t think that way. They had rules, even the ones who didn’t live by rules. You did things in certain ways. You made points. You collected trophies. You did things because they were necessary to pro
tect yourself or your business or way of life.
They had no concept of killing just because you wanted
to. Because it relieved stress and calmed nerves. Because
someone was out of place and you wanted them in their right
place. Someone did you wrong and there was no discussion—
just end it so it couldn’t happen again.
The hearts of the civilians would pound. The shaking
would go on and on. They would wonder if they had been
seen, look over their shoulder, run away. If they could take the
action in the first place. The adrenaline would rocket upward
and have them wired so tight they would be ready to scream,
then would drop so fast they often collapsed. They would live
with the aftermath forever. It would haunt them, plague them,
cause them to wish for forgiveness but never be able to accept
it even if it was given. There would be terrible memories forever. Civilians couldn’t handle it, even the bad ones. The only ones who could come close to killing and
maiming without thought or concern were the druggers—the
Colombians, some Russians, a few Mexican or Oriental gangs.
Not even many of them. Most of them would stage big events
and have the leaders there posturing. Most of them didn’t kill
just because it felt good. Walk up to someone they didn’t
know with a smile and just do them.
Just thinking about it helped relieve some of his stress and
his mind started to clear. He thought of going after a policeman; thought of how much that would put things right. He
could see the policeman on the ground; watched him struggle
and drain away. Then his mind switched again and he thought
of a police lady. She would make more of a statement. It
would be more fun to choose her, then watch her go down and
down…
“Jake, why can’t we get started on this? All of these events—all the time that’s gone by and we don’t even have a starting place. What are we missing? What are we overlook
ing?”
“Been thinking the same thing myself. I’ve never had
anything like this before. I’ve had single crimes with nothing
that ever comes of them, but nothing of this magnitude.
Somebody always turns in a friend; somebody brags in a bar;
something gets dropped at a scene. But this? Just nothing? It’s
just too perfect.”
Sylvia said, “Are we thinking too big? Or maybe too
small? Are we trying to put a major gang into this thing and
it’s all only one person? Or the other way around? It really is a
major conspiracy with dozens of people involved?” “But could this be only one person?” Jake asked. “Could
one person have been in all these places and done all these
things by themselves? I don’t think so.”
“I agree,” she replied. “It’s too big for one. Things too
spread out and moving too fast. But maybe just two or three?
Or, are we really looking at a gang or something?” “If we are,” Paul added, “the Secret Service is going to
have a fit. We have a major gang going after the president and
other officials? This city will tighten up so hard and fast nobody will go anywhere or get anything done. The government
will practically shut down.”
“Should we tell them? Let them know of that possibility?” “I, personally, am not ready to start that chaos. Besides,
we don’t have any proof to lay on the table. Just a wild
maybe.”
Sylvia said again, “I agree. We have to have something to
go on first. But back to where we started: Do we have any
thoughts of what this is all about? Where it might be going?
There’s got to be something.”
Jake leaned back in his chair and said quietly, “What if?
What if it’s only one guy, maybe with a small handful of others he’s leading, so to speak? He’s got to have a reason,
wouldn’t you agree? What could be driving him? What could
have affected him that would be driving him?”
They all sat quietly for a moment, then Paul said, “Okay.
What could be the theories, then? Something happened to him.
He got audited on his tax returns and they sent him to the
poorhouse. That would be something that happened to him
personally. Directly.”
“Or,” Sylvia added, “it was something that happened to
somebody else that he got upset with and decided to avenge?
Maybe he’s taken up the cause for all the other people that
have had IRS trouble. Maybe not him, directly, but for everyone else.”
“But, if it’s that, then we have the wide open theories
again. Somebody in Alaska got audited; somebody in Pennsylvania wrote an article in a Website; he reads it and starts to
attack the government. Without some kind of hard lead, that
thinking won’t get us anywhere.” Then Paul added, “I like the
first thought better. It lets us develop some theories to maybe
run with, at least until some hard clue shows up.”
Again, the trio was silent.
couple of guys. Maybe one leader with a grudge and a couple
of helpers. Or a couple of guys who know each other and
came to the same anger together. Joined up to do something
about something. Where would that lead us?”
The team lapsed into deep thinking again. Too many possibilities, they knew. Try to sort them out, boil them down to a
handful that they could think through.
Then Sylvia said, “I wonder if Sammie could run some
kind of index of the stuff he’s collected? Maybe a directory or
catalog or something? Something that would put everything
he’s got into some kind of groupings of the same kind of
events. Do you get what I’m saying? Anything about guns under one column. Kids under another. Political things under another. Schools, and so on. Something that we could look at
and maybe see a pattern, or a couple of them.”
“Yeah,” Paul replied. “Maybe several things could group
together and get stronger than just individual items on their
own. I like that.”
Jake was already picking up the phone and they heard him
explaining their idea to Sammie. “Right. Can they be sorted
like that? Yeah, I think that would be okay. Yeah, things could
be in more than one category. Might even give us more of a
linking picture. Yeah, how long would it take? Just a couple of
hours? Yeah, good. Yeah, call us when you get it done and can
you then send it to each of us? Yeah, printing would be way
too much paper. Besides, if we each had the file, the lists,
from you, we could then resort if we felt like it. How big
would it be? Would it fit on our laptops? Yeah, do it. Good.
Later.”
He looked at the others and said, “He’ll have it for us in a
coup
le of hours.”
Sylvia replied, “I would suggest we get out of here when
we get the data. Go home or something and study on our own,
in quiet. Let our brains dig through the stuff separately and see
what comes up. If anything happens, we could always call
each other.”
“Yeah,” Paul said. “If we don’t get called out, we could
spend the night thinking the stuff through. Then tomorrow’s
just a regular workday. We meet back here and see if we’ve
come up with something. Okay?”
They all agreed, then set about clearing anything from
their work piles they could so they would be free for the night.
By mid-afternoon, Sammie had sent them the file and they
were on the way to their respective homes, anxious to start
digging for a first thread to lead them.
CHAPTER 55
“What is it?” Paul mumbled into the phone.
“Dispatch, sir. Sorry, but you have another school fire. Do you have your notepad ready?”
He struggled to sit up and glanced at the clock. 2:14. You’ve got to be kidding. Doesn’t this guy sleep?
“Okay. I’ve got it.”
“It’s the Benning Elementary School, sir, at 100 41st Street, NE. Do you have that?”
“Yeah. Have the others been called?”
“Calling them now, sir. You were number one.”
“Okay. Tell them I’m on my way direct. I’ll see them there.”
“Yessir. Wish I could say have a good night.”
“Yeah.”
They rang off and Paul stuck his head under the shower, threw on yesterday’s clothes and raced out the door—without coffee. He lived on Dexter Street in the Northwest, near the George Washington University and he would usually head to the office downtown by easier, slower surface streets. He didn’t enjoy facing the rushes on the major routes. Now, however, at two in the morning, he headed for the fastest routes possible and, with his rooftop gumball clearing the way, drove hard to the school over in the Northeast.
Benning turned out to be just another school, nothing special, no reason why anyone should be taking out this continual grudge against it. Jake lived closer and so was already there and they started trying to find anything around the perimeter of the building. The school was basically one large building right on the street and was fully engaged, with the fire crews valiantly trying to keep things down and bring them under control, but there was no way the two men could get anywhere close to the building.