Endangered Species (15 page)

Denver had a long list of military-industrial targets where sabotage would make headlines. The Rocky Flats plant was already in the news—that’s where they made the plutonium triggers that were shipped to Amarillo for assembly with the warheads. The Rocky Mountain Arsenal, with its nerve gas stores, was on the north edge of the city. There were half a dozen military reserve centers. The space and rocket industry was served by a lot of big companies all along the Front Range—Martin Marietta, Ball Brothers, computer companies. A bit farther south, Fort Carson and its stockpiles were just outside Colorado Springs, and the Pueblo Depot held military supplies. There was even the Space Defense Command and NORAD headquarters inside Cheyenne Mountain, though Wager didn’t think they’d have to worry about that one. It could withstand a direct hit by an ICBM and had elaborate defenses against both conventional and biochemical assault. There were lesser targets, too, around Denver, which would generate both chaos and headlines: the air force personnel and finance computer center, the Denver Mint, NASA’s western facilities, with their new supercomputer, the St. Vrain atomic power plant, even some special-weapons development units at the Federal Center on Denver’s western edge. Wager didn’t know much about that very secret activity, but there were always rumors about the latest toys some of the feds out there had come up with. Mallory probably knew of even more targets, ones that Wager had no knowledge of. “There’re a lot of possibilities around here.”

The agent pushed his empty martini glass in a small circle. “So many it’s scary.” Glancing up, Mallory warned Wager, “This information is highly confidential, of course. I’m giving it to you because I want you to know what the stakes are.”

Wager understood the man. He understood, too, the large quantity of information Mallory had given him. “I’m interested in the homicide only. If this guy Marshall, or King, is cleared, he’s all yours. If I learn anything that might help you people, you’ve got it.”

That didn’t cover everything Mallory wanted. “If you charge him, we’d like access to him.”

“I have no trouble with that.” Depending on what Mallory meant by “access”; that could be worked out when and if the time came. It was Wager’s turn to warn the agent. “But my chief has to know what the stakes are too. I’ll tell him it’s confidential and that I’ve promised you it would stay that way. But he should know.”

“I understand.”

They talked a little about the next day—Mallory promised again to have a copy of King’s FBI sheet faxed to Wager and then drop by the homicide office later in the morning to brief Chief Doyle. Wager would use his new knowledge to go over everything he had on Marshall and the victim to see if anything new turned up. He and Mallory would then meet at eleven to compare notes.

On his way to the car, Wager asked another question that had been at the back of his mind, “Does King have any lieutenants in this area?”

Mallory nodded. “A Richard, or Dick, Simon. We don’t know much about him except that he lives up near Boulder in a mountain cabin. Tillotson said Simon has the Front Range region from Cheyenne, Wyoming, to Pueblo, Colorado.”

“Where near Boulder? Do you have an address?”

The FBI agent looked embarrassed. “Yes—it’s on Magnolia Road. But neither King nor Simon are there. I—ah—that is, when you called this morning, I asked one of our agents from the Denver office to check out the cabin. I got his report just before I boarded my flight. The cabin is vacated.”

Simon had slipped through their fingers, and that explained a lot of Mallory’s cooperative spirit. Wager asked the man for Simon’s address anyway—otherwise, it would be one of those tiny blank spots that irritated. As he jotted down the cabin’s route and fire-fighting numbers, he heard the jangle of distant sirens a few blocks to the north. A large fire, maybe, or a major accident—something that stirred up the rescue and emergency vehicles and echoed their mechanical wails from a dozen directions through the cold concrete walls of the streets. The noise’s piercing discord, its driving pulse, made a fit background for Wager’s feelings about Tillotson’s death. Every homicide had its urgency, but this one had gained an additional impetus as well as a dimension Wager wasn’t familiar with. If Mallory was right, then perhaps what Tillotson learned was vital enough—dangerous enough—for Marshall/King to risk a murder conviction. Maybe he planned a terrorist act that would make the death of only one person seem unimportant. Even if that aspect of the case was the FBI’s responsibility, the man planning that act, as a homicide suspect, was Wager’s responsibility. And despite what Mallory promised, if one of the agent’s bosses felt the FBI would gain from it—and if they got to Marshall first—they could offer him immunity from the homicide charge in return for information about his and other guerrilla groups. Marshall would not be the first murderer to disappear into the federal Witness Protection Program. At least Mallory had said nothing yet about expanding the case by bringing in the Denver FBI office. And Wager hadn’t asked him.

9/24

0746

B
UT AS HE
came in the next morning, his first call was from Special Agent Bunting. “Did the San Diego office make contact with you, Detective Wager?”

“Yes. I think we’ve worked things out.”

“That’s fine … fine. You—ah—discussed the case with a Special Agent Mallory, I believe?”

“Mallory. Right.”

“I understand he’s in town now.”

“Came in last night.”

“I see.” Wager was beginning to see too. Bunting asked, “Did he give you information that our office—ah—should be apprised of, Detective?”

“Nothing you don’t already know, I guess.” Wager smiled at the telephone. “Were you the agent that checked out the Simon cabin on Magnolia Road near Boulder?”

“No. … That was another agent. I of course didn’t see his report. But I’m sure Agent Mallory will share it with you on a need-to-know basis.”

“Right. And you people always work together on these cases, right?”

“Yes! Of course.”

“Fine. Then I’ll tell Mallory you called.”

He hung up and stared a long moment at the collection of Wanted posters, cartoons, notices, and messages tacked to the bulletin board. Wager had heard about the rivalries between FBI regional offices and how jealous each office was of its cases. Publicity was important to every law enforcement agency, including DPD. But it was really important back in Washington and therefore to the regional FBI offices. In fact, it was rumored that the agent in charge of the Denver office had a secretary whose primary job was to clip every press notice about local FBI activity and fax it back to Bureau headquarters. There was also a standing joke that the FBI didn’t mind who did the work as long as it got the credit.

There was another wrinkle: Mallory was an Afro-American, one of a group that was not as rare in the FBI as it used to be. But Mallory still had to put up with a lot of things that Anglos didn’t, and he would be eager to prove that he could handle the case as well as if not better than any other agent. Wager could understand that feeling. So far, Mallory seemed to have played fair, and Wager would too. And as for helping the Denver FBI office take away the San Diego agent’s case, Wager didn’t owe Bunting and his people one damn thing.

The papers Mallory had promised came through from San Diego a little after eight. It was obvious that the information was incomplete, and even what Wager was given had heavily inked gaps in the narrative of criminal activity. But the vitals were there: photographs and fingerprints, physical descriptions, brief biographies, lists of known associates and customary behavior patterns, threat assessments. Wager compared King’s photograph with the sketch of Marshall, and as Mallory said, they could be the same man. If Archy could find a fingerprint in the house that matched any of these, it would be definite. Even if it wasn’t, the physical likeness made King a strong lead.

Tillotson’s front and side photographs showed a young woman with large, frightened-looking eyes caught as they gazed slightly away from the camera. She had high cheekbones, accentuated in the photograph by shadowy, hollow cheeks; lips whose possible fullness was pinched with tension; and a long, rounded jaw. Accompanying Tillotson’s dossier was an abstract from the FBI lab’s report identifying the dental X-rays and hands of the victim as those of Pauline Elizabeth Tillotson, WF, DOB 7 August 1969. It also provided her Social Security number, gave her last known address as 3144 Country Day Road, Poway, California, and named her nearest relatives. Phyllis and Gordon Tillotson, mother and father. They lived at the same address. Wager jotted down the telephone number; as case officer, he was responsible for having the next of kin notified.

He telephoned the morgue and left a message for Doc Hefley, saying that the Jane Doe had been identified, then he called Archy Douglas. “The FBI lab came back with a positive on that arson-homicide victim.”

“Already? Jesus Christ, that’s a miracle! How the hell did that happen?”

“Hey, I didn’t ask questions; I just said thanks.” He told the forensics detective Tillotson’s name and vitals and promised Archy a copy of the FBI report. “How’re you doing on the fingerprints?”

“I finally got all the elimination prints. I haven’t had a chance to start comparing yet.”

“We have a possible suspect—and a complete set of prints. If I bring it over, how soon can you get a match?”

“How soon? Jesus, Wager, I’m still on duty from yesterday—I spent the whole goddamn night at the Blue Moon.”

“What happened?”

“You haven’t heard yet?” The outraged voice didn’t wait for Wager to say no. “Two people from patrol: Rosener and Markowsky. Both shot. Rosener’s in the ICU, Markowsky’s still under the knife—they’re asking for type AB blood, if that’s you. Sniper. Some son of a bitch phoned in a fight in the alley behind the Blue Moon. Said a man had been cut. A fucking setup.”

“Who’s on it?”

The rage ebbed from Archy’s voice, to leave him sounding very tired. “Assault. And Ross from Homicide—he’s part of the shooting team. Between you and me, Wager, I wish it was you.”

That explained those sirens last night and the silent emptiness of the homicide offices this morning; detectives who could give blood were lined up over at Denver General with the officers of the patrol division. Those who could drop current cases were out on the streets, looking for the sniper.

“Did you know either of them, Gabe?”

“I’ve seen Rosener around. I don’t know Markowsky.”

“Yeah—he’s just out of the academy. Rosener was his field training officer.” Archy added, “From what I put together so far, Markowsky was hit first, and Rosener returned fire. Then he tried to pull Markowsky to safety. That’s when the bastard got him.”

“Suspect?”

“Nothing yet. And those sons of bitches in the Blue Moon won’t say a thing. Check with Ross when you see him. Ask him to let me know what he’s got, OK?”

Wager said he would, but he had to add, “I know first things first, Archy. But this ID I’m asking you for is important too—I need it.”

A pause. “Jesus, Wager. I’m talking a cop-shooter here.”

And Wager was talking a possible terrorist, but he couldn’t tell Douglas about it. “I’m just telling you it’s important, that’s all.”

“Yeah. Your cases are always important, aren’t they?” The line clicked.

Like everyone else, Chief Doyle was out of his office; Wager had the dispatcher call him at Denver General, where the man was in line to give blood. A few minutes later, Wager’s phone rang, and Doyle, his voice revealing the tense anger that had spread like a virus through the whole department, asked Wager what he wanted. He told the chief about Agent Mallory and added that it involved classified information. “Mallory told me about it last night, and I don’t want to talk about it over the phone. He wants to meet with you this morning and fill you in.”

“Christ!” An angry silence. “All right; what time?”

“He said he’d call your office first. Your secretary’s probably talked to him by now.”

“All right. Tell Michelle I’m on my way in and that I’ll see Mallory whenever he’s available.”

Wager said he would. “How’re Markowsky and Rosener?”

“Markowsky’s out of surgery. They’re both still alive. That’s about it.”

Gradually, the routine demands of Crimes Against Persons drew the detectives back to the office and the ringing telephones on their desks. But anger hung like a bad smell in the air, and whenever someone asked a new arrival if anything had turned up, everyone knew what was meant, and everyone listened to the reply.

Elizabeth, her voice tense, had called to be sure Wager hadn’t been involved in the shooting and that he was all right. It felt kind of odd to learn that someone had been thinking about his safety, and after he hung up, Wager worried that he might have been too casual in shrugging off Elizabeth’s concern. It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate it; he was just unused to it. He tried to call back and tell her that, but her line was already busy, and he had chores to do as well.

One was to talk to the victim’s parents. Wager telephoned the police department in Poway, California, and asked them to send a courtesy officer to notify the Tillotsons about the death of their daughter. He’d left his name and number for further information, and a little after nine the call came from Mr. Tillotson.

“Is this the officer who called about Pauline—about my daughter?”

“Yes, sir. I’m sorry it happened.”

“What … Can you tell me what did happen, Officer? The police told us only that she’s dead. They said you’d have to explain ….”

He tried not to sound officious. “It happened on the twenty-first, sir. She was a homicide victim.”

“Homicide? My God …” Wager could hear words muffled through a hand over the mouthpiece. “The twenty-first? That was three days ago!”

“Yes, sir. We couldn’t get a positive identification until late last night.”

“Positive? You mean you’re not sure it’s Pauline?”

“Well, we are now, sir. There was a fire, and—ah—her body was badly burned. Identification had to be made from dental records and fingerprints.” He finished with lame consolation. “She was dead before the fire, sir.”