A Triple Thriller Fest (21 page)

His eyes were already beginning to glaze over. He tried to speak but could make no sound.

“It’s all right, Al, I’ll get help. Hang on,” Nicole said.

She grabbed her radio and called for paramedics, instinctively knowing it was too late. Samuels slumped lower against the counter, and Nicole sat on the floor beside him, lifting his upper body and cradling him in her lap. She tried to apply pressure to his neck, but the pulsing of blood was already beginning to slow. Helpless to prevent his slipping away, Nicole held Al Samuels, her tears blurring the vision of her partner, as he bled to death in her arms.

She sat that way for several long moments as customers held each other and gaped, traumatized by the violence that had erupted around them. Finally, two more FBI agents entered the front door and approached Nicole where she sat on the floor, leaning against the counter, cradling her dead partner. They were quickly followed by two paramedics who had originally been called to the traffic accident at the corner intersection. Nicole looked up at the men, her eyes blank, her mind uncomprehending. The senior FBI agent squatted down next to her and placed his hand on her shoulder, looking into her eyes.

“Maybe we should take him now, Nicole,” he said softly.

She pulled Al closer.

The kneeling agent turned his head and nodded toward the paramedics, who moved forward. Again, Nicole tightened her grip on Al Samuels’ body.

“It’s all right, Nicole,” he said, reaching for Al’s weapon, still clutched in the dead agent’s hand. “We’ll take care of him.”

Nicole stared down at the lifeless body of the man she had worked with daily for slightly over a year. Tears streaming down her face, she spoke in barely a whisper. “How many times have I told you, Al—that tie doesn’t go with that shirt. Oh, Al,” she said, shaking her head and sobbing, “why you, Al? Why you?”

* * *

Once clear of the Natomas area and the emergency vehicles racing down El Camino toward the multiple fires and gunshots, Krueger directed the driver of the van to turn north on Fulton Avenue and enter the Haggin Oaks Golf Course parking lot, where they stopped next to a Ford Expedition parked in a far corner of the lot. Krueger directed the driver and his remaining companion to exit the van and get into the Ford. He then climbed into the rear of the van with the hostage. He sat on the wheel-well next to the terrified woman, who lay on her back on the floor of the van, her head covered with an oily rag. Otto removed the rag, and the woman turned her head slightly, blinking her eyes and glancing up at her captor.

“I’ve got two choices, lady,” he said, brandishing his pistol near her face. “I can kill you, like those people in the bank, or I can leave you here.”

Trying to speak through her sobbing, the woman pleaded, “Oh, please,
please
, don’t kill me. I’ve got two children.”

“Now hear me good, lady. I’ve got your purse,
with
your driver’s license, and I’ve got your home address. Don’t forget that. I
know
where you live. I’ve also got your cell phone. One of my men is gonna be sitting in a parked car close by for the next several hours. I suggest you sit here calmly and wait for dark before you try to find help. If you make one sound, just one noise that he can hear, he’ll get back in the van and bring you to us. And you’re not gonna like what we do to you. Do you understand? Do I make myself clear?”

She nodded slowly, the tears running down her cheeks.

He continued to stare at her, then lowered his hand and ran it slowly over her face, down past her throat, pausing as he reached her breast. She whimpered and her body shuddered. “Just remember—we can come to your home if we need to, cops or no cops. They won’t watch you forever, and when they’re gone, we’ll come. It will take a long time for us to finish with you, but it’ll end with a bullet in your pretty little face. You tell the cops
nothing
—you could see
nothing.
We wrapped a cloth around your head and you were unable to see. You understand me?”

“Yes,” she said, her voice choking.

He gathered up her purse and the large oily rag that had covered her face and exited the van, locking all the doors. Then he entered the Ford Expedition, which was already occupied by the other two men. They started the engine and drove away, making for the freeway entrance to I-80 and driving west, taking the on-ramp at the I-5 North intersection.

“They killed Ralph,” the young bandit said from the backseat of the Ford after they had driven for several miles.

“They knew we were coming,” Krueger replied.

“How could they, First Sergeant?” the younger man asked as they sped past the airport and then over the bridge where they had previously hanged Lieutenant McFarland.

“Because we’ve still got a spy in the brigade. But that won’t be for long. And when I get my hands on him …”

Krueger remained quiet the remainder of the trip north until they took the cut-off just beyond the city of Corning and headed east, up into the mountains.

The evening news ran footage of the robbery and hostage situation, including shots of the victims being taken out by stretcher, one hostage shot and killed and another injured, and one of the robbers also killed. Agents had directed the paramedics to take the body of Al Samuels quietly out another entrance, and no film was available of his remains. However, the report of an FBI agent killed in the line of duty was front-line news.

* * *

Later on
The O’Reilly Factor,
Senator Malcolm Turner took the opportunity to point out that this was a tragic story of yet another American citizen, driven to the brink of desperation by oppressive federal government involvement.

“Excuse me, Senator,” the host, Bill O’Reilly said, “but I don’t see how a bank robber—a killer, in this case—can blame the federal government for his actions.”

“Bill,” Turner postured to O’Reilly
,
“have you read the recent history of this unfortunate young man’s life? Here’s the case of a young American …” Turner paused momentarily. “Perhaps, Bill, I should say a young
Californian
—a husband, father, and dedicated son, by all accounts—who sought only to right what he saw as the wrong being perpetrated on his mother by the unfeeling and federally controlled Internal Revenue Service.

 “My Sacramento staff have spoken to the deceased man’s wife, and she explained that her husband’s father died about two years ago, and that the IRS has been pressing his mother—she’s sixty-nine years old, Bill—the IRS has been hounding her for back taxes, and finally, in a cold bureaucratic way that only the IRS can employ,” he paused as if contemplating the tragedy, and then shook his head in disbelief, “finally, they foreclosed on her home. Now you tell me, Bill, and your listeners will understand this, where is a sixty-nine-year-old widow going to live? And you know what galls me, what absolutely drives me up the wall? They wanted nine hundred and sixty-three dollars from this poor old woman. Can you believe it? Less than a thousand dollars, and they foreclosed on her home. She and her husband had lived in this modest little home in Daly City for over thirty years. It’s just unbelievable. Absolutely unbelievable. Now we have two widows, several fatherless children … Bill, this is exactly why Californians need to turn out at the polls next month and vote ‘yes’ for secession. ‘We’re mad as hell, Bill, and we’re not going to take it anymore,’” Turner shouted, firing his well-recognized slogan. He continued to shake his head in disbelief.

“Senator,” O’Reilly said softly, “this is indeed a tragedy for this young family, but surely you don’t condone bank robberies as a way to right a government indiscretion or oversight? And
murder?”

“Of course not. I’m against violence in all forms, Bill, you know that. But that still doesn’t excuse the government for driving this young man to do what he felt necessary to get the money to save his mother’s home.”

O’Reilly just shook his head in disbelief at the senator’s comments and redirected his attention to his other guest, displayed on a split screen besides O’Reilly. “Mr. Greenlaw,” he said, “what say you?”

“Bill, our hearts go out to these poor families, both the tragic victims of this robbery attempt and even the unfortunate family of the misguided young man who committed these crimes. And of course we wish them well as they pick up the threads of their lives. But Senator Turner misses the point, as usual. If this man had not had such easy access to guns, this tragedy would never have happened. We need to tighten gun control, Bill—you know my stand on that issue. Registration, no assault weapons …”

And so the program went on, with neither the guests nor Bill O’Reilly concentrating on the dead FBI agent, as Nicole Bentley continued to watch from her Walnut Creek apartment, still in shock from the day’s events. Unknown to the swarm of people at the site of the shooting, Nicole had gone into the ladies’ room as Samuels’ body was being removed and vomited until nothing more would come up. She had killed her first criminal … but was he a criminal, or just an unfortunate man who couldn’t cope with the system? And her partner—her friend—had bled to death in her arms.

For the next several days, the incident continued to make headlines, with the San Francisco Chronicle—firmly in support of the secession movement—running the banner: “Widow’s Son Dies in Misguided Robbery Attempt.” Little was made in the article of Al Samuels or the bank customer killed in the fracas. And the gun control lobby focused solely on limiting acquisition of weapons, claiming the FBI had fired prematurely. Killing the misguided young man should have been avoided.

* * *

In the U.S. Senate confirmation hearings, Judge George Granata was grilled about the bank incident and his plans to deal with such actions. His appointment was eventually confirmed, and Director Granata took office amid a flurry of inquiries about Bureau policy and tactics. But in a week, interest in the stories faded, replaced by the president’s upcoming trip to Japan and the continuing story of the hour, California’s court-ordered special election on the secession referendum, only forty-five days away in November.

Nicole Bentley was put on paid administrative leave while a shooting board conducted a routine investigation of the incident. The board cleared her of any wrongdoing, but she began counseling—a mandatory requirement for agents involved in a fatal shooting.

A handwritten note from Dan Rawlings, offering his condolences on Samuels’ death and the tragedy of her loss, went unanswered through the following month, part of which Nicole spent with Al’s wife, Linda, and her three children.

It was emotionally wrenching to watch Al’s family. Though it was in no way her fault, Nicole couldn’t help feeling a sense of guilt over her partner’s death, to say nothing of the trauma she experienced as a result of having to shoot the gunman. She doubted that she would ever be able to erase the sounds, sights, or even the smells of that bloody afternoon from her memory.

Chapter 16

Yolo County Administration Building
Woodland, California

In mid-October, less than two weeks before the election, Dan Rawlings was visited by three members of the board of supervisors. It was not unusual for supervisors to drop in to visit or to promote a particular agenda item, but Dan was immediately cautious regarding their intentions.

“So, Dan, how’d your weekend go?” Charlie Paulson asked.

“Fine, Charlie, just fine. And you?”

“The usual. Football games, family sports. Listen, Dan, we’ve come to discuss a sensitive issue, and the others … well … the others sort of asked me to be spokesman.”

Marjorie Tomkins and Harold Hawkes sat quietly on the couch in Dan’s office. Dan noticed that Marjorie was fidgeting and Harold wouldn’t hold Dan’s eyes. Jack Rumsey, in one of his never-ending homilies, had warned Dan that if a man wouldn’t hold your eyes, at least for a moment, watch out.

“Charlie, I’ll help any way I can. You know that.”

“Of course we do. Dan, we … that is, the board, feels you’re doing a bang-up job, and of course, the land reform issues have been, well, have really caused us a lot of grief, what with those dead-set on development and the old timers wanting to keep the farms intact.”

Dan could see that Charlie was having a hard time getting to the point of their visit, and he wasn’t certain if this deputation was representative of the full seven supervisors or just the three now before him.

“Charlie, you know I love this valley as much as anyone, and the land development issues are certainly divisive. But is that what you actually came about today?”

“I guess … well, not really, but it does affect the valley. In fact, Dan, it affects all of California.”

Secession.
Well, I expected it sooner or later
, Dan thought. “California’s a big issue, Charlie.”

“Yeah, it is, Dan, and we … that is, Marge, Harold, and me, we came to see how you felt. We’d like to know where you’re gonna stand, so to speak.”

Dan rose and moved to the window where he did most of his contemplation. Dan saw the reflection of his three visitors in the glass as they quickly stole looks at each other while they thought he was looking away. He waited until they stopped exchanging nervous signals and slowly turned around, his hands clasped behind his back.

“Charlie, what’s the collective board’s official position on the secession of California?”

Dan was calling their hand, blunt and forthright. He figured these three hadn’t actually polled the full body, and the issue had not, at least officially, been brought to a vote before the board in public session. A majority of California’s other counties had already officially addressed the secession—some against, but even more in favor.

“Well, we haven’t talked with all the supervisors, but us three, we wanted to get an idea of where you were gonna stand—what you were gonna recommend to the board. Have you thought about that yet? You know we can’t put it off much longer. Many of the counties have already taken a stand, and in a couple of weeks, we’ll all have to vote. It looks like, well, at least the polls say the referendum will pass again. We’ve got to decide how we’re going to go.”