“You got me, boss.” The third-generation Italian-American agent had spent an hour putting the report together. He wanted answers as much as Art. “You know what: These guys were stupid. They did things all wrong.”
Art coughed up a swallow of coffee. “You might find some different opinions on that one.”
“Sure.” Eddie’s eyes, crystal blue like cheap marbles, lit up. “They killed a whole slew of people—”
“A whole slew of people?” Art responded, flipping to the last page of the report: the casualty list. “The president, his national security adviser, the British foreign secretary, fifteen Secret Service agents, six local cops, six government aides — four American and two British — and two bystanders. Twenty-two injured. Shit, Ed. I’d call that a fucking accomplishment.”
“Yeah, but they were sloppy in some ways, and smart in others. Kinda cocky, yet paranoid.” Eddie’s face expressed mild bewilderment.
“What do you mean?” Art leaned back in the swivel chair he had borrowed from the front desk.
‘Take the rifle we found — the parts, anyway. The stamp markings were bored out. I talked to one of the ATF techs, and he said that it must’ve been taken apart and sanitized. And from what he said it’s not easy. It’s not the same as filing down some serial numbers like they did on the receiver. That’s solid steel, so a file does the trick. All that’s there is a shallow gouge. The numbers that are stamped on are a whole different story. When they make the guns there’s a lot of sheet metal used. He says it’s easier to manufacture and—”
“I’m up on how they’re made, Ed.”
“Okay.” Eddie had a tendency to get excited when detail work was needed. It was his forte, and a small embarrassment at times. He continued, “So the stamp in the sheet metal is another identifier. When you file it down you end up with a hole. You’ve gotta practically cut out the stamped part and weld on a patch flush with the rest of the metal. To me that sounds like someone who wants to cover his trail.”
Art continued to listen attentively as Eddie reached across the table and took the bag which forensics had delivered earlier. “Then they’re stupid. Kinda like they don’t care if it helps us ID ‘em. I’m not talking about flaunting anything. Just carelessness… no, indifference. It just didn’t matter.” Eddie shook the contents of the clear plastic evidence bag. Inside was a blackened, melted lump of plastic whose previous form had been narrowed down to some type of credit card, though any further specifications were impossible to obtain. “And that…” He motioned to another of the Ziplock bags. A single wallet-size picture shielded by the body was the only contents, showing a young man and an even younger female child, each dark-haired with obvious Mediterranean features. “I mean, we don’t know who the people in the picture are, but it’s a clue. If I was gonna do this, I’d wanna ditch this stuff before I did any shooting.”
“Ed, these guys were suicidal. They didn’t have to hide their identity.”
“Then why clean the weapons? Huh? Why the trouble?”
Art thought for a moment. “Apparently the shooters didn’t give a damn if they were fingered, but they wanted the trail to stop with them.”
Eddie nodded. “That’s what I’m thinking.” He tossed the evidence bag containing the plastic lump on the table. The other one he held up. “You’ve seen the picture?”
“Yeah.” Art took the bag and studied the faces through the plastic. “But I’m trying not to jump to any conclusions.”
“You think it, too.”
“What? That the shooters might have been Arabs? Just because of this.” He slid the bag across the table. “Come on.”
Eddie sniffed a laugh and pulled out a handkerchief. Damn cold! “How’s your jaw?”
The stitches were hard to the touch. “I guess I’m going to have a macho scar.”
“You were lucky.”
Art remembered having been ready to dash across to the 818 just before it blew. “More than you think, Ed.”
Another agent brought in a box of coffees. Eddie took one and slid a chair around. “We’re gonna run dry here in not too long. What’s next?”
“Like always. Who? Who were the shooters and where were they from? How? They got inside the security zone; that is not supposed to happen. How did they do it, and what help did they get?”
“Another ‘Who?’ “ Eddie said.
“Correct. And why? Suicide is something you think about. What pushed them to do this?” The inevitable assumption of some kind of fanatical terrorist bent on death, or glory, or whatever they called it, flashed in Art’s mind. Remember Beirut. Those people were crazy. And the picture. He couldn’t let a snapshot of two Middle Eastern-looking kids influence him right now. It could help, though.
Art exhaled heavily through his nose. “We have to start with ‘Who?’ The other stuff is going to all come from that.”
“So we’ve got two guys, almost surely male.” Eddie pulled the flimsy lid off the cup. He never could stand drinking through those flip-up openings. “We have nothing on a physical makeup yet.”
“Who has the bodies?”
“You mean the pieces,” Eddie corrected. “The county coroner. Stan is with him. You know he told me the only way they could tell right away that there were two bodies was the arm count. They found parts of three.” He laughed. “Maybe it was one guy and he was a Medusa or something.”
“You’re sick, Toronassi.”
The conversation was interrupted by another agent. “Sir, they want you outside.”
A minute later Art and Eddie were standing at the base of what had been the original rubble pile, which was now divided into several smaller mounds of debris as the sifting progressed. They looked up at the gaping hole in the front of the 818. Floodlights, still providing illumination in the early-morning din, outlined the damage. A full four floors were literally gone, blown out both front and back of the tall structure. Art wondered what times out here were like when the 818 was really a tall building. Now it was dwarfed in the shadows of its steel-and-glass successors to the east, and barely rose above some of the buildings along the Wilshire corridor to the west.
“Best guess so far is fifteen pounds of C-4,” Eddie said, referring to a military-use explosive. “Hellish.”
Art didn’t respond. He just turned away, amazed that anything had survived as evidence.
“Sir,” an overall-clad agent said.
“Jefferson.” Art extended his hand, not recognizing the agent.
“Agent Mike Stafford” came the reply, very formal and businesslike. “San Diego forensics.”
“Right. You work with Dan La Verne.”
“That’s right.”
“He’s a good guy. Has he still got that enormous dog?”
“Irish wolfhound, sir. He calls him Sir Galahad. I met the mutt at a barbecue he threw out at his ranch near Fallbrook.”
“What do ya know. Small world. What have you got for us?”
“This.” He reached into his breast pocket.
Eddie smiled. “Bingo!”
Art took the bag, smaller than the evidence holders. It held a single key, which appeared to be untouched by the blast. “Where did it come from?”
“Embedded in a piece of buttock we found a little while ago,” he answered matter-of-factly. “Over there. The location makes me think it was one of the bad guys. We found some other parts there earlier. This was deeper.”
“In his ass. Can you beat that.” Art held it up to the light cast by the floods. “Awfully clean.”
Stafford shrugged. “It was probably in his back pocket. We were able to pull some fibers out with it. Those might help us, but that…not with body oils and the like. We couldn’t pull a print, or even a partial off of it in a million years. I thought you guys might be able to use it.”