Chapter Fifty-Eight
NEW ORLEANS FIRE Department trucks, ambulances, marked and unmarked police cars, and vehicles from a slew of federal agencies had descended upon Dorado Freight. Mobile command centers and tents had gone up to process what was already being called an act of terrorism by the media.
The scene had been cordoned off until the NOPD bomb squad finished a thorough clearance of the entire facility to ensure there were no additional IEDs.
The morning rain mixed with the remnants of the four explosive devices and gave the air around the pier an edge of acrid metallic notes as if to remind those standing among the bodies and wreckage of their own mortality.
But by the Grace of God…
The press was being held outside the front gates for safety reasons and to preserve an active crime scene.
Local media had arrived before sunup, with national news networks steadily increasing their presence in the intervening hours.
All of them were scrambling for sound bites and video.
Helicopters were grounded due to weather but would be up as soon as they had clearance.
Stanton stood by what was left of the truck as a team of CSI technicians continued to take photos and bag evidence.
His FBI windbreaker was soaked, collar turned up against the downpour.
Water dripped from the brim of his Bureau-issued cap.
Beside him, J.J. squinted through the rain taking notes on a small pad streaked with ink.
They had been on the scene since before dawn, waiting for the go-ahead from the bomb squad.
The blasts had done minimal damage to the pier but maximum damage to the two vehicles.
The seven dead bodies were covered in gang-affiliated tattoos.
None of the victims carried driver’s licenses or passports.
Audie Lloyd had been getting twitchy. Icy was breathing down his neck, pushing the Mexican sicario angle.
Lloyd wanted results and he wanted them fast.
“Are we sure there is no video surveillance system?” Stanton asked. “Seems strange that this place wouldn’t have security.”
J.J. shook her head. “There are cameras, but someone ripped out the server. Wires are torn and twisted where it was set up in the office.”
“Ripped out before the blast?”
“Hard to say.”
Stanton scanned the two-vehicle wreckage and seven bodies.
“This was Chris Walker. No doubt in my mind.”
“You share that with Bates yet?”
“I called him on the way here and filled him in. It was time.”
“IEDs, more dead bangers, and a missing cop. We have a pattern,” J.J. said quietly.
They moved closer to the minivan.
“Look at these head wounds,” Stanton said. “He took out the guys in the truck with a shotgun, goes dry when approaching the minivan, and transitions to a pistol. Confirms they are all dead with security rounds. And that smell; these were fertilizer-based IEDs.”
“Why would Walker be meeting foreign nationals on the pier of Dorado Freight? And why was a detective from NOPD here? The GPS on his vehicle puts him on this pier about the time of the incident and then he just disappears?”
Stanton looked to the end of the pier where the NOPD dive team was surveying the conditions.
“He didn’t just disappear,” Stanton said.
“You think Walker put him in the drink?”
“We’ll know soon enough.”
J.J. flipped through her notes. “NOPD says the GPS in Gormley’s cruiser pinged by the office. Last location was the end of the pier.”
Stanton looked back over the destruction.
“Are we sure one guy did all this?” J.J. asked. “It would take serious skills to pull this off.”
“The kind of skills they teach in the SEAL Teams and in the CIA,” Stanton said.
She glanced at her damp notebook. “According to what I’ve been able to put together, Walker was a philosophy major at NYU, working on a doctorate. This doesn’t seem like the work of a philosopher.”
“My CIA contact said he was unstable. Manic depressive. Possibly schizophrenic, maybe on the spectrum. He was drummed out of the CIA for reasons that remain classified.”
“That’s a big piece of this puzzle.”
“It is.”
“A theory,” she said. “Walker was working for the cartel. They somehow burned him or failed to pay him, so he ambushes them with these IEDs and takes off with the dough?”
“How does Detective Gormley fit in? Dirty cop? There’s more to it.”
They turned to see Lieutenant Cornelius Bates making his way down the pier, umbrella in hand, his stretch-fabric shirt immaculate despite the weather. Four uniformed officers followed, boots splashing through puddles.
“What a fucking mess,” he said as he shook both agents’ hands. “Let me ask you, respectfully, to stay out of our way on this one.”
“We’ve got IEDs and possible transnational narco-terrorists, Bates. This is federal,” Stanton said firmly.
“I’ve got two dead cops and two missing cops. We’ve got a serial killer targeting my unit.”
“Why would someone do that?” Stanton asked.
“Who fucking knows? You share that you have a person of interest in the cases and that he just so happens to be a Navy SEAL. Now we have bombs going off and bodies stacking up in New Orleans. I’d say we’ve found our guy.”
“The question is why. Why is he doing this? We answer that, we find him.”
“He’s obviously a crackpot who’s working for the cartels.”
“Then why is he killing them?”
“He’s killing rival cartels. This guy is a merc who is selling his skills to the highest bidder.”
“And Detective Gormley?”
“There were multiple 9-1-1 calls reporting an explosion. Gormley responded. This psycho kills him and probably shoved his car into the river. This is a city homicide. Fuck, it’s a mass shooting, Jarrett, and an attack on a local business.”
“Gormley just happened to be in the area?” Stanton asked, pushing.
“Yeah, it’s all hands on deck these days. Everyone’s putting in extra hours.”
“I am sorry for your losses,” Stanton said, softening his tone. “You have the Bureau’s complete support. We’ll find Chris Walker and then we’ll unravel this thing. Until then, never hesitate to reach out if there is anything we can do.”
Bates’s face was calm and controlled.
“Thank you, Jarrett. I’ll be in touch.”
As Bates walked off to the end of the pier with his entourage to get an update from the dive team, Stanton noticed a female uniformed officer watching their exchange. When she caught his eye, she turned away.
“You buying that bullshit?” J.J. asked her boss.
“Not for a second. Let’s get out of the rain.”
They turned and walked back to Stanton’s Tahoe.
“We need to dig deeper,” he said.
“You worried about what, or who, we might find?”
“I’m just after the truth.”
Half a football field away, Walker lay flat inside a rusted boxcar that smelled of oil and iron, its floor lined with burlap sacks. Rain hammered the leaking roof above him.
He ignored it.
Through the open hatch, he had a clear line of sight to the dock. He moved the camera lever with his thumb like a sniper pressing the trigger.
Gloria’s Nikon F2 was fitted with a 300mm telephoto lens, long and heavy. Wildlife. War zones. Today, it was the latter.
Walker adjusted the lens and focused on the FBI agents.
Then he aimed at the broad-shouldered man in the tight shirt with the umbrella, recognizing Bates from the news footage Belle had pulled up on her computer.
Bates ran the COPE unit, the same unit staffed by the late Rayne, Hendrick, Dupuis, and Gormley.
They were all tied to the Garden District Staub investigation even though they patrolled the Ninth.
Who were the two FBI agents talking with him? Were they all involved?
As the FBI agents walked off, Walker turned his attention back to Bates, who was talking with the dive team.
Who was Walt Kimbel, and who was the Afghan?
He zoomed in on Bates and snapped another photo.
He wasn’t sure who else was involved, but he did know one thing.
He was looking at a future target.