Molon Labe! (41 page)

The Bureau was buzzing all the way to D.C. He
so
fit the case profile. Traps and traces on his phone had been activated this morning. Four supporting agents are standing by one block over.

Walking up the driveway, Swingle ventures around the left garage corner and looks through a window.

Rejoining Malmberg, he says, "Yep, it's parked inside."

Malmberg nods as he pushes the doorbell.

Within seconds the door is opened by a fit and handsome man in his mid-forties with medium-length blonde hair, about six feet tall.

"Raymond Foster?"

The homeowner coolly sizes up the agents, instantly pegging them for feds. "Yes. Who are you?"

"Mr. Foster, I'm Special Agent Malmberg with the FBI, and this is Special Agent Swingle." They flash their leather wallet shields. "May we — "

"Gentlemen, I'd like to inspect your credentials," says Foster. "And a business card from each of you, too."

Malmberg glances at Swingle. Most people went into a flutter at a surprise interview by the FBI. That Foster did not was unusual. The agents also weren't used to having their creds inspected, but if they refused Foster could claim that he didn't believe they were FBI and close the door.

As Foster pockets their cards, Malmberg tries again. "May we come in and talk with you?"

It's not a question. It never really is.

Foster returns their badges after a thorough scrutiny. "Here is fine. What do you want?"

Malmberg notices Foster's hawklike alertness. This would not be easy.

"Sir, it's probably less embarrassing if we did this inside. It'll only take a minute," says Swingle.

"What can I possibly have to be embarrassed about standing in my own front doorway?" Foster calmly replies. "We talk here, or not at all. Your choice."

"As you wish, Mr. Foster," says Malmberg.
What an asshole!
"Do you own a black 2006 Lexus?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Sir, please answer the question," Swingle says firmly.

Foster doesn't quite roll his eyes, but almost. He says in a clear voice, "Are you here to detain or arrest me under lawful due process?"

Malmberg senses that he's struck paydirt.

"No, sir, and don't overreact," Swingle retorts. "This is just routine questioning as part of a general inquiry. Now, do you own such a vehicle?"

Malmberg winces inside at Swingle's line. After eight years in the Durham PD, Foster knows that "routine questioning" is never routine.

Foster parries, "You need to tell me what this is all about and why you're really here."

Malmberg watches his partner bridle and say, "Sir, we're not obliged to discuss the nature of our investigation with the public."

"Oh, so an 'inquiry' has just been elevated to an
investigation
?" Foster retorts with a challenging stare. "Well, as
you
know,
I'm
not obliged to discuss my possessions with strangers who drop by unannounced."

He begins to shut the door.

Malmberg sees his fish getting away and can't stop himself from blurting, "Sir, we
know
you own a black 2006 Lexus."

"Most impressive," Foster says blandly. "Good day, Agents Malmberg and Swingle. Do call for an appointment if you must come by again."

Malmberg is now very anxious. Nobody they've interviewed over the past three days has been so blatantly uncooperative. Foster is definitely hiding something. Just before the door closes Malmberg takes a final gamble, trying to provoke any reaction to confirm his suspicions. A twitch of the eye. A stammer. A dropped jaw. A nervous scratching of the nose. A cough.

Anything, and Malmberg would have him.

"Sir, do you recall your whereabouts on Tuesday, February 8th?"

The door stops. Only half of Foster's face can be seen. He stares at the feds for one long second, a hard glint shining in his eye.

"Good-bye, gentlemen," Foster says, almost bored sounding.

The door closes, leaving the two agents standing on his porch, their department store suit jackets luffing in the breeze.

Malmberg sees no chink in Foster's armor, which to Malmberg is the biggest chink of all.
Think you're a pro, eh? Too much of a pro is amateur!

They walk back to their Bucar without a word and drive away. Around the block they pull up next to their colleagues.

Through his open window Malmberg says, "Did you copy all that?"
These idiots probably fucked up the radio link.

"Loud and clear, George. What a hard-ass. If it's him, we won't get him the easy way."

"Yeah, no shit, Frank," Malmberg spits.
As if you could get him at all!
"See ya back at the ranch."
Dork!

Malmberg peels away with authority. As they drive south on Highway 1 to the Raleigh FO, Swingle says, "Real smart. You tipped off Foster."

Malmberg hates to be criticized; it reminds him of his worthless, drunk old man. He fights a bilious surge of anger.
Just keep your cool, George.

"Well worth it," Malmberg snaps. "
You
saw the way he glared at us."

Swingle turns away and shakes his head.

"Fucker's dirty, Lyle," Malmberg mutters.

"Yeah, probably, but now he knows he's under glass."

"So, what? According to the guys in the Durham FO he had a rep for hating the Bureau and feds in general. Rattling his cage may trip him up."

Swingle considers this. "Decorated combat vet? Former cop? Three victorious gunfights — all headshots?"

Malmberg is silent, fuming.

"Somehow I don't think Foster's cage is so easily rattled, George."

"We'll see, Lyle. We'll see. I wonder who he called once we left?"

Fifteen minutes later at their Raleigh FO, Malmberg and Swingle barge in a technician's office. He looks up through his thick glasses and says, "You here about Foster, right?"

"No duh. Whaddaya got?" says Malmberg. "He make any calls?"

The tech shakes his head. "No calls, but one email. Wanna read it?"

Malmberg just stares at him.
Dorito crumbfaced punk!

"Okay,
okay
— here's a printout."

Malmberg looks at it, his face a grimace as if trying to focus. Swingle cranes his head over to read it and then frowns.

"Hey, what the fuck is this?" Malmberg says. "It's all gibberish!"

The tech applies his best shit-eating grin. "In our biz, it's called 'encryption,' not 'gibberish.' Anyway, he emailed his attorney. Maybe you've heard of him: Solomon Rothstein?"

Malmberg has had enough for the day. "Awww, fuck!"

"Oh, this is Not Good," Swingle moans. "I give it about 10 minutes before the SAC hauls us in to ask if we
really
know what the hell we're doing."

The tech says, "Yeah, I hear that Rothstein is the Prince of Darkness. Before you bag Foster, you better make sure you got about a dozen witnesses and a truck full of surveillance video. His fingerprints in blood would help. And then,
maybe
. . . "

10 minutes later

"Do you guys
really
know what the hell you're doing?" demands the SAC. "I just got off the phone with the US Attorney. This Foster 'person of interest' called his lawyer just after your contact interview. Talk about a 'Red Alert'! And you didn't even arrest the guy!"

Swingle says, "Yes, sir, we've heard. We're not exposed on this, I promise. Since we had no PC to arrest, we weren't required to Mirandize him. And we didn't force our way into his home. Everything was done by the Manual. Frank has the interview audio."

The SAC calms down a bit and says, "Yeah, I've listened to it. The interview was kosher, I agree. We just have to step carefully from now on, especially when you interview Foster's friends and associates. Rothstein is gonna stay on top of us on this."

"Yes, sir."

"Don't look so glum," says the SAC. "This'll cheer you up. A warrant for Foster's bank records. Since he didn't buy any gopher poison on his credit cards during the past year, maybe he wrote a check at some feed store."

Malmberg replies, "I wouldn't bet on it, sir. Probably paid cash. He works pretty damn clean."

The SAC smiles. "Not clean enough. Dumbshit used his own car, didn't he? Keep digging, boys. Don't screw up so I can keep Rothstein off our asses."

Snow Hill, North Carolina

March 2011

Malmberg hates this part of the job. Endless field interview and 302s.

"Lyle, if I smell another bag of grain, I'm gonna puke!"

"Not unless I puke first. What is this, George, our 27th ag supply we've been to?" Swingle whines.

Malmberg replies with a bitter chuckle. "127th, it feels like. OK, this is it. 'Snow Hill Farm and Ranch.'"

FBI agents always got people's attention in the hinterlands. They couldn't believe G-men in their little towns. This feed store manager was no different.

"Yes, sir, Agent Malmberg. Anything I can do to help. Let's ask Jenny. She's here most of the time."

Malmberg loves this kind of fawning.
Fuckin A you'll do anything to help! Maybe this Jenny isn't a cow like the others.

Jenny is called into Mr. Brunton's office, its walls adorned with years of outdated calenders featuring Tractors Of The Month and so forth.

After introducing themselves, Agent Swingle asks, "Jenny do you recall having seen the man in this photo in your store?"

She carefully looks at the reproduced driver's license photo. "He looks kinda familiar. Maybe he's been here once before. He's not a regular, that's for sure."

Malmberg thinks Jenny is good looking, for a country chick.
Nice ass
. He says, "Maybe once before? The man we're looking for may have bought some gopher bait or horse liniment. Does that ring any bells?"

This is borderline tainting a witnesses. Swingle shoots Malmberg a hard glance. Neither Jenny nor her manager notice; they're still looking at Foster's photo.

She looks up with a growing smile. "Yeah, gopher bait! I
do
remember a guy who bought some. Just a few months ago. December, yeah. That's why he stood out in my mind."

"Why was that?" Malmberg says.

Jenny looks at him like he's the silliest man on earth.

"Because gophers hibernate in winter."

Smartass little bitch!

Brunton adds, "Most rodents do," trying to be helpful.

Malmberg thinks he comes across like the
Jeopardy
know-it-all Alex Trebek.
Ooh, I'm sorry, George, but the answer we were looking for was "hi-ber-nate." Hibernate. Most rodents hi-ber-nate in winter.

Swingle asks, "Now Jenny, was
that
the man who bought the gopher bait in December?"

Her smile fades as she looks back at the photo. Time slows to a virtual standstill. The agents are hungry for the meat of confirmation, and she knows it. She wants to help the FBI, but doesn't want to get the wrong man into trouble, either. She finally looks up. "I couldn't say for sure."

Malmberg moves a few inches closer and says, "Jenny, now this is very important. Just answer us this:
could
it have been the same man?" His very proximity is almost sexual, though she doesn't notice him trying to peek down her plaid flannel blouse.

Jenny's eyes fall back to the grainy color photo. He's handsome, but cold and distant. He
does
look familiar, though, and the FBI seems to already know who he is and what he purchased at her store. The two agents obviously want him very badly. She's flattered they think she can help.

He could even be a terrorist.

She makes a decision.

"Well, now that I look at it again, yes, it
could
have been him."

Malmberg's glance at Swingle hums with triumph.

"I'm not positive, sir, but yes, it could have been him," Jenny says.

Malmberg turns to the manager. "Mr. Brunton, we'll need to drive Jenny to Raleigh for a statement. We'll have her back in a few hours."
Maybe.

Nobody asks Jenny. She is now just a commodity to be transported and inventoried in the commerce of law enforcement, a subcorporation of Justice.

Brunton is delighted to have been of help. "Yes, fine, fine. I'll cover for her in the meantime."

Jenny looks over her shoulder on the way out, suddenly having second thoughts. She feels as though she's fallen in a rushing river which is rapidly taking her downstream. And she realizes she can't swim, but it's too late.

When she began equivocating during the car trip to Raleigh, they gently steered her back on course. Malmberg knows they are cutting things too closely, but they are desperate to keep Jenny onboard. By the time she made her statement, she was "90% sure" that Raymond Scott Foster was the man who purchased with cash a box of Gopher BeGone on or about Saturday, 18 December 2010. Her deposition, along with the D.C. evidence, constituted probable cause for a Federal District Judge to sign a search warrant.

Raleigh FBI waits to execute the warrant at 10:03AM when Foster is en route downtown to meet a friend, have lunch, and then go to the gym. He won't be home until after three. Agents tail Foster, waiting for a call from the forensics team. At 2:48PM, it comes. The senior ASAC answers, listens for about 30 seconds, mutters "Thanks" and hangs up.

His face grim, he says to his fellow agents, "Nada. Not in the house, not in the car. No strychnine, no DMSO, no potassium permanganate, no glycerine, no Senator Hengel dartboard. They went through his place for nearly five hours and found nada. Fucking
nada
."

At 3:16PM Raymond Foster pulls up in his driveway. He senses something is wrong as a neighbor saunters over, frowning.

"Hey, Ray, the feds were in your house all day. What's up?" Foster replies with steely calm, "May I use your telephone, Ed?"

"Whaddaya mean he's got a fucking
alibi
?" yells Malmberg. "How could he be in goddamn
Durham
when he was up in D.C. offing Hengel?"