Lisa’s fingertips caressed two small photos on the desk. Her children, Morrow figured, pegging the pictures as the wallet-size format from the type portrait studios offer at malls.
“How long before I can see them?”
“We’re working on that.” Morrow nodded to two other agents in the office who’d finished setting up a small video camera, then said, “I’m sorry for what you’ve been through and I know you’ve already given us your account, but as the case agent, I need you to talk to me and we need to record it. Okay?”
She continued looking at her children and Morrow asked if the paramedics had given her a sedative.
She shook her head; so did the Ramapo officer.
Good, Morrow thought. A sedated witness could be a challenge.
“I know this is difficult,” Morrow said, “but I need you to give me every detail of everything that happened while it’s fresh. Can you do that?”
Lisa’s breathing quickened. Her gaze lifted to the big windows and the center’s parking lot as if the murders were replayed out there.
“It was horrible.”
For nearly half an hour, Lisa took Morrow through it all, telling him all she could remember from the lobby, then inside. One of the gunmen sounded American, another sounded foreign, European, maybe. Their movements suggested those of men in their late twenties, early thirties, though Lisa couldn’t say for sure.
They wore motorcycle helmets with dark shields that hid their faces. They had full-body suits that motorcycle racers wear. They were wearing gloves. As for weapons, all Lisa saw were handguns.
“Do you recall seeing any distinguishing marks?”
Recognition rose in her mind then vanished.
Distinguishing marks?
Awareness rose again before dissipating. Lisa couldn’t remember. She shook her head.
“Are you sure?” Morrow asked.
Lisa blinked hard.
But something was there. Why can’t I remember?
Because it’s my fault.
Morrow pressed for other details. How were Lisa and the agent positioned? Show us the angle, show us the distance. Show us where on this floor plan. Where were the suspects? What were they saying?
“I know this is awful,” Morrow said, “but it might help if you reenacted where the killer positioned the gun before he pulled the trigger.
Before he pulled the trigger.
If she hadn’t dropped the gun, the agent might still be alive. Her guilt mounting, Lisa recounted how the agent had identified himself, directed her to get his gun, how she’d dropped it, how the gunman rushed to them.
She then lowered her head flat on the desk, atop the photos of her children, and positioned her fingers like a gun. With her trembling forefinger as the barrel, she pressed it to the side of her head.
“He never pleaded for his life like I did. He tried to help us.”
Lisa sobbed.
The Ramapo officer comforted her.
Morrow gave it a moment and looked to the window; that’s when he thought he saw someone at the edge of the lot. The press? As a precaution, he nodded for an agent to close the blinds.
Morrow returned his attention to Lisa, who was calmer. He had finished interviewing her for now and closed his clipboard.
“Thank you, Lisa.” Morrow gave her his card. “Call me at any time if you remember anything more at all. I don’t want to put you through this too many more times, but we’ll talk again soon. Matt Bosh is here and he’s going to help you now.”
A second man, who had quietly entered the office, took Morrow’s cue.
“Lisa, Matt Bosh. I’m with the FBI’s Office for Victim Assistance. We’re here to help you. First thing we want to do is get you into town to be with Ethan and Taylor, to make sure you feel safe and comfortable.”
Bosh had white hair and a kind face.
Lisa nodded her appreciation.
She found a measure of composure and searched her bag for more tissue, suddenly remembering the magazine and comic book she’d bought for Ethan and Taylor; how items had spilled from her bag during the heist.
How they were lost.
Like so many things in my life.
Overwhelmed by a terrible wave of sadness, she called out to Morrow before he left the room. He stopped and turned, hopeful she’d recalled an important detail.
“Did you know him? The agent?”
“No.”
“Did you know anything about him?”
“He was married. His wife is pregnant with their first child.”
“Can you tell me his name?”
“Gregory. Gregory Scott Dutton.”
Lisa turned back to the desk, stared at the pictures of her own children and tenderly collected them. Consumed with guilt because she was alive, she broke into tears again.
Watching her, Morrow grappled with his rising fury.
He didn’t know if it was for the cold-blooded executions of these four people, or for his own death sentence. It didn’t matter, he reasoned, heading for the door.
He took up his communion with the dead as if it were a shield and whatever anger he had, he kept caged. Glancing at the ID photos of the three guards and the young agent, Morrow made his way back to the killing zone, accepting that he was at war.
7
Ramapo, Metropolitan New York City
Time to roll the dice.
Gannon was at the tape, too far away to identify the woman in the office who was demonstrating a shooting to investigators.
Morrow, the FBI case agent, had to be among the small group gathered around the desk. Gannon needed to talk to him, but didn’t know how much longer he’d be alone here. In the office, he saw someone looking in his direction. Then the blinds closed.
Damn.
He had to do something. A long moment passed.
Gannon whistled through his teeth at a detective who was standing in the parking lot near the office, reading notes. The man approached.
“What’s the problem?”
“I believe Special Agent Morrow is inside. It’s important I speak with him, briefly.” Gannon gave him his card.
“Nobody’s giving any interviews.”
“Our stories go to every newsroom in the country and around the world. We can get information out fast. If you want to catch the bad guys, it might help you to talk to us.”
Considering Gannon’s point, the detective reassessed Gannon’s card, looked back at the office, told him to wait then walked to the building. Gannon saw him at the door, talking to two men also wearing the standard FBI uniform of conservative jackets, white shirts and ties. One of them looked at Gannon, then his watch.
Then the two new guys started toward him.
This was his shot.
“What is it?” The first fed asked.
“You’re Agent Morrow?”
“Right, who are you?”
“Jack Gannon, WPA. I understand you’re the case agent?”
“Yeah, what’s so important?”
“Can you confirm for the WPA that one of the four homicide victims is an FBI agent? And that it’s believed he was going for his weapon when he was killed?”
Morrow’s icy expression revealed nothing.
Gannon expected his questions to sting because they betrayed a leak. But that was not his concern. Leaks, tips, informants and anonymous sources were oxygen for reporters, and for cops like Morrow. The agent was about six feet, maybe taller, with a medium build. His chiseled, impassive face gave off the vibe of a man not to be messed with as he eyed Gannon.