A World Without Secrets (17 page)

I smiled. "You're on. But I get to do some searching also."

* * *

The following week I received a call from the Bureau telling me to report to headquarters at nine a.m. the following morning. When I arrived, I was directed to Personnel. Once there, I was told to be seated so I could begin filling out a thousand forms.

"Then I passed the tests?" I asked the woman who was showing me what I had to fill out.

"Apparently. At least the first tests. You'll still have to pass the rigorous academy course. Until that happens, you're a Special Agent Trainee. You have no authority to conduct an investigation, interview a suspect, or to make arrests on behalf of the Bureau."

By the time I had finished filling out the forms, I was getting writer's cramp in my right hand. It was so much easier to key in the data on a computer, and I expected that one day we'd be able to fill out forms simply by speaking the data, or perhaps only thinking it.

I had a week to devote to writing before I had to leave for the academy, and I spent as much time with Kathy as her job would allow because I'd be away for five months. We spent the weekend before my departure looking at condos.

* * *

I took an early commuter flight to Virginia on Sunday morning. I had given Billy a set of keys to my apartment door and the first-floor entrance door and asked him to check my flat occasionally to make sure everything was secure. I'd also filled the fridge with as much beer as it could hold, expecting that he'd like to grab a cold one while he was there.

Over the next twenty-one weeks, I went through the training program alongside the other recruits at Quantico. The physical fitness requirements were the most difficult for me personally. I was out of shape, and during the first month there wasn't a second when my body didn't ache somewhere. And quite often it seemed to ache everywhere. But slowly, things got easier and the pain deadened appreciably. I knew that by the end of the twenty-one weeks, if I made it, I'd be in the best shape of my life. I also knew that it would have been so much easier seven years ago when I'd graduated from college.

Like most New Yorkers, I'd never really liked handguns. Perhaps that came from the fact that so few New Yorkers were allowed to own them. Cops were armed, naturally, and most criminals who had graduated from committing petty crimes carried a gun, but elected officials in New York City had long ago decided that the general population had no right to have handguns. There seemed to be a contrary relationship between gun laws and violent crime in reported statistics. In those places where handguns were the most restricted, homicides were at their highest levels. That was reportedly true on a worldwide basis. While the U.S. had, by a substantial margin, the highest level of gun ownership in the world, its per capita gun violence ranked among nations having the lowest levels. Having listened to anti-gun spin-meisters over the years, I had refused to believe that until I actually investigated on my own and assembled my own statistics from official reports. Even so, I still didn't like handguns. But it was explained to me that every agent or investigator had to be able to use a gun, even if he or she never had occasion to draw it.

While training, I was exposed to a wide variety of different firearms and required to exhibit a minimum proficiency with a pistol, shotgun, assault rifle, and submachine gun, but I was expected to exhibit a higher level with my service weapon, a Glock 23 forty-caliber pistol. I spent an inordinate amount of time on the practice range, working until I could draw the weapon and fire it fast enough and accurate enough to pass. I believed I only had to get through the training and then never worry about it again, so I threw myself into the task and managed to qualify. My only problem occurred when it was explained that I was required to carry my weapon at
all
times while on U.S. soil.

"But I'm to be an investigator, not an agent," I had responded.

"That's only a file designation for your work assignments and payment schedule. When you graduate from the Academy, you'll be a Special Agent and considered field personnel. And
all
field personnel are required to carry their service weapon at all times."

"But I promised my girlfriend I wouldn't be carrying a gun."

"Then you'll have to explain the real situation to her."

I just grimaced and cursed under my breath.

Some of the training at the academy was a breeze, and I zipped through training in computer work and report writing. As a computer expert and writer, I hadn't anticipated problems with either.

The other training presented more of a challenge. Every trainee was required to study the basic fundamentals of law, ethics, behavioral sciences, and interviewing. Additionally, studies in investigative techniques, interrogation, and forensics were a key part of the effort. We also studied topics ranging from counterintelligence to cyber crimes to weapons of mass destruction.

The physical training included grappling, holds, handcuffing a suspect, and disarming techniques. We practiced proper vehicle operation, surveillance, intelligence gathering, and operation planning. Since Special Agents may be involved in bank robberies, kidnappings, bomb threats, and hostage situations, trainees participated in practice sessions with actors hired for the exercises.

There were days when I swore I'd never make it, but I did complete the training and graduate. The director himself presided over the ceremony and handed each of us our badge and ID at the event.

As I headed back to New York, I'd been wearing the pistol every day and didn't even think about it until I entered the metal detector at the airport and set off an alarm. TSA security and police looked anxiously at me, their hands ready to draw weapons. I put up my hands and said, "FBI," then slowly produced my ID. The TSA guard admonished me for not producing my ID earlier. I apologized profusely, telling him my mind had been on a very tricky case. Everyone went back to doing their jobs as I walked casually to my gate.

* * *

Kathy felt the gun the first time we embraced, and she pulled away immediately. "You said you wouldn't carry a gun," she said angrily.

"I'm sorry. I didn't intend to, but they told me I
have
to. I have to wear the stupid thing wherever I go. I have no choice. I don't want to wear it."

"You mean you'll have that thing on wherever we go?"

"Not everywhere. I can take it off when I'm in the house."

"Is that supposed to be funny?"

"Well, maybe a little. Look, I have to wear it. Just pretend it's a cell phone or something. It's on safety so it can't go off accidentally."

"What else aren't you telling me?"

"Nothing. That's everything. No knives, brass knuckles, blackjacks, or poison capsules in my teeth."

"You're trying to be funny again."

"Just trying to lighten the mood. I was as upset as you are. I told them I was to be an investigator, not an agent, but they said I'm field personnel, and all active field personnel
must
carry a personal firearm. No choice. Just ignore it. I don't intend to ever draw it."

Kathy scowled and then moved in and hugged me. "If you wear that to bed, I'll use it on you."

I laughed. "No problem, hon. I already had all the weapons I need in bed before I joined the FBI."

* * *

On Monday, I reported to FBI headquarters and was admitted after showing my ID. The beep from the metal detector was ignored as I passed through. I went to Personnel first and was directed to the office of my new supervisor. After a fifteen-minute wait, several people came out and I was told to go in.

"Welcome, James, I'm Brigman," the man behind the desk said. "ADIC Sobert has filled me in on your unique employment arrangements with the Bureau. I'm to assign you to the top two cases we'd like you to concentrate on, give you a desk with a computer terminal, and let you go to it. If you somehow manage to find something that the best damned investigative agents in this entire country have missed, you're to report that information to me. In the meantime, you'll have exclusive responsibility for these cases. Do you need anything else?"

It wasn't difficult to recognize the intense hostility in Brigman's voice. "No, sir. I don't even need the desk. I've loaded the Bureau's secure remote access Citrix software into my home computer and I have my IDs and passwords established. I'm ready to go."

"Very well, James. Here're the two cases." He handed me a piece of paper with two case file numbers on it. "If there's nothing else, go to it."

I stood up and extended my hand, but Brigman was looking at a report on his desk and ignored it. I dropped my hand and walked from the room. Brigman couldn't have missed the gesture even if he'd been reading, so I understood my position. My supervisor didn't want me there because he feared I would make him and other agents look bad. I couldn't care less about getting credit for solving cases. I'd be just as happy not to get any credit— as long as I got paid.

I hailed a cab after leaving FBI headquarters and headed uptown to my apartment. After changing into shorts and a tee shirt, I spent the next several hours reading through pages and pages of investigation reports on my computer. I was definitely a lot more comfortable doing it in my apartment than downtown.

Solving cases with the gizmo would be easy. But I knew that with the FBI, I wouldn't be able to get by with a statement about my information sources being confidential. I would have to be much more creative. It was necessary that I know everything in the files thoroughly to develop plausible responses for later when I was asked how I was able to solve the case.

The first case was a bank robbery. A video showed two thieves entering the bank brandishing sawed-off shotguns. Dressed entirely in black, including full-face ski masks, dark goggles, and gloves, they herded the few customers and staff to the center of the room. After forcing them to lie down on the floor, one watched them while the other spray-painted the lenses on the bank's cameras. Commands were single words, spoken almost as grunts to disguise their voices. The rest of the story was assembled by accounts from the witnesses. One robber had an earphone and grunted a couple of times into a mike, so there must have been three, or possibly more, involved. One was probably responsible for monitoring police frequencies to determine if a silent alarm had been activated or if witnesses outside the bank might have phoned in a report.

One of the thieves used plastic ties to secure the hands of the hostages to the ankles of fellow hostages. When done, the entire group was linked as one large ring. The leg of one hostage was further attached to a building support column, ensuring that the group remained stationary. Then one of the thieves took two duffel bags into the vault and filled them with money, mostly twenties and larger, while the other watched the entrance and kept an eye on the hostages. There was an exceptional amount of cash on hand in used bills, the bank having just received the weekend receipts from a large music concert and a monster truck rally, and the thieves concentrated on taking only the stacks of used bills.

The robbery took just twelve and a half minutes. The thieves exited the bank without hurting anyone, and it was another fifteen minutes before another customer arrived and discovered the crime. He used a pocket knife to cut some of the plastic ties and then the robbery was phoned in to the local police.

Police immediately cordoned off the area and began a search. Two teenagers found riding skateboards on the street behind the bank gave accounts of seeing two Hispanic men dressed in black clothes drive off in a light blue pickup truck. They described it as 'maybe a Dodge.' They were able to give reasonably good descriptions of the men, who appeared to be the robbers without their ski masks, but the teens hadn't had any reason to look at the truck's license plate. A bulletin was immediately dispatched to all law enforcement agencies to watch for the truck and the men.

The plastic ties used to secure the hostages were available in most home improvement and hardware stores, including the local Home Depot. There were very few other clues. An analysis was performed of the bank's videos for height and weight information. The FBI also computer-analyzed movement of the perpetrators and compared them to other bank robberies. No matches were found. Sketches of both men were prepared with the help of the two teenagers, and those images were widely distributed.

Since the bills weren't new, there wasn't a list of serial numbers to watch for. No one matching the descriptions had been picked up, and there hadn't been any reports of a stolen, light blue Dodge pickup truck. The robbers had apparently gotten away clean. It didn't appear there would be anything to go on until the robbers struck again, and during the past year, no one matching the basic description and MO had committed other robberies. The net haul from their one job had been two hundred twenty-six thousand dollars. Not a bad haul for less than thirteen minutes' work, I thought, though not as good as I'd been able to accomplish legally with the help of the gizmo.

Put plainly, the FBI and all law enforcement agencies were stumped. There just wasn't enough evidence to continue the investigation, which was why they had assigned it to me. It was impossible to track the unmarked, used money, and unless the robbers struck again there was no way of establishing a pattern for identifying the individuals.

I decided it would be necessary to visit the bank location, so I made plane reservations before disconnecting my computer from the telephone connection. I packed my suitcases, showered, and dressed, then called for a cab to take me to the airport.

* * *

I had purposely not used the gizmo since returning from Quantico. I didn't know if I was still under surveillance, and they might have even put something in my apartment while I'd been away. After checking into a motel in the robbery city and tightly closing the drapes, I put the gizmo on a wall and started looking at my apartment, beginning with the day I had been visited by Snow and Osborne. I stayed up for hours, watching the front door to my apartment in a fast forward kind of mode by constantly adjusting the 'minutes' keypad. No one except Billy and myself had entered during the entire period. Still, I decided to invest in some professional electronic 'sweeping' equipment when I returned. I had enough money to buy the best now.