CHAPTER 13 Sampson
Sampson
I’M IN A CUBICLE in the basement of DC Metro Police headquarters, standing behind Dennis Chan’s high-backed office chair in the Technical and Analytical Services Bureau of DC’s Special Operations Division.
ATF agent Anna Rizzo is right beside me.
In front of Chan are two huge computer monitors that look like they belong at NASA’s mission control in Houston.
Ned Mahoney is also with us, making the tiny cubicle even more crowded.
I lean down and pat Chan on the shoulder. “Okay, Dennis, what’ve you got?”
Chan’s fingers start tapping on the keyboard as he mutters to nobody in particular, “You know, my uncle worked for the CIA a long time ago, back before it was even called the CIA.”
A video pops up on the right monitor showing the intersection of Thirteenth Street and N Street NW.
“Whenever something happened out of the blue,” Chan continues, “the agents used a technique they called ‘walking back the cat.’”
“Meaning what?” asks Rizzo.
“Meaning you take one piece of evidence and follow it right back to the beginning.” Chan leans in toward one of his screens. “Let’s walk back that cat.”
A time code runs on the upper left side of the image.
It starts at 7:58 a.m. today.
My mouth is getting dry and my chest tight as I watch a typical downtown DC morning: People on the sidewalks, traffic going by. Like any other day.
When the time code reads 7:59 a.m., a white van makes a turn onto the street. Virginia plates.
“No surprise, turns out the plates are stolen,” says Chan. “We learned that they came off a contractor’s van that was parked overnight at Gallery Place three days ago. We’re tracking down surveillance footage from security cameras. Maybe we can ID somebody taking the plates.”
“Don’t count on it,” says Rizzo. She and I exchange a look. We both suspect this guy is sharper than that.
On the video, the van comes to a sudden halt. The hazard lights start blinking.
The driver’s door opens. A man jumps out. He’s wearing white painter’s overalls, a white hat pulled down low on his head, a white face mask, and white gloves. He quickly strolls away and takes a right down an alley.
At the intersection, just a few feet away, a young woman in a blue jacket is pushing a double stroller with two babies. She stops at the curb.
Move, I think, please move …
It’s too late. A brilliant white-and-orange flash fills the screen.
Mahoney grits his teeth.
When the flash fades, there’s chaos everywhere—cars overturned, smoke in the air, and carnage on the ground. The woman in blue has fallen into the street. The stroller is a mangled mass of metal and ripped fabric.
“Christ!” says Rizzo.
I ball my hands into fists. Pure instinct. I want to punch somebody.
“Think it was an electronic timer?” Mahoney asks.
“Possible,” says Rizzo. “Or the driver could have yanked a sixty-second fuse when he stepped out.”
Chan taps a few keys. “All right, let’s start backtracking.” He explains as he goes.
“Once we had a clear photo of the van, we started the search process that links every traffic camera, store surveillance system, and private doorbell cam.”
I nod. All legal since the revision of the Patriot Act. After September 11, we all gave up a bit of our privacy.
It’s like watching an experimental film by a high-school student. We see the van approaching the intersection, then follow it back, block by block, street by street, with jump cuts and fadeaways. As the video plays, Chan keeps up a running commentary.
“So he came up Thirteenth Street Northwest, and from Twelfth Street Northwest … bastard was taking the scenic route.” Chan taps the screen. “There’s the National Museum of Asian Art.”
I lean in closer. “I bet the son of a bitch came up the Twelfth Street Expressway—a quick way to downtown.”
“I bet you’re right,” says Rizzo.
“And there he is,” says Chan, pointing to the reverse action on the screen. “On I-395 and making good time. Crossing the Potomac on the Williams Memorial Bridge … and now we’re in Virginia … and now we’re on the George Washington Parkway.”
I snap my fingers. “The airport! Reagan! That’s where he came from!”
Watching as the van continues backward, I wish that the driver had been pulled over for a broken taillight or an improper lane crossing—anything to disrupt the plan.
“You’re right,” says Chan. “Reagan National indeed. Parking garage one. That’s where he started.” He looks up. “The cat has been walked back.”
Mahoney picks up Chan’s desk phone. “Okay, in about five minutes, that garage is going to be swarming with agents. We’re locking it down. And then I’m heading out there.” He looks at me. “John, you coming?”
“Absolutely.” I turn to Rizzo. “How about you, Anna?”
She shakes her head. “Waste of time for me. I’m off to our ATF lab in Beltsville. While you two work the garage, I’ll be sifting through the physical evidence. Maybe we can pull out something useful.”
Mahoney nods.
I rub my eyes. “Long day ahead for all of us.”
Rizzo claps her hands together like a cheerleader. “Let’s get our asses in gear! I want this bastard. I want him bad.”
I can’t help but smile, just for a second. It’s not often that I run across an investigator as gung ho as I am.
I like Anna Rizzo. I like her a lot.