No Way Out, page 8
“This is the guv’nor’s position, not necessarily mine. Problem is, he’s got a history with an offender profile that blew up in his face. He had a profile done up by a criminal psychologist and it led to the arrest and conviction of Colin Stagg for the Rachel Nickell murder back in ’93. Problem is, the profiler took over the investigation and led us down the wrong road. Stagg was innocent, he sued, got lots of money. It was a big embarrassment on a high profile case.”
“I’m beginning to get the picture.”
“Years after, the guv’nor did a dissertation on offender profiling and he concluded that a lot of it was based on gut instinct and guesswork. At the best, it provided circumstantial information. Not enough in our courts, which tend to be very adversarial. You really need a strong case.”
“Why didn’t he just tell me all this?”
Reid tilted his head, indicating she should look behind her. She did and saw Grouze approaching. Not only that, but every seat in the long rectangular room was filled with inspectors. They had pushed their files aside and sat at their desks facing Grouze, Losner, Reid, and Vail, who stood with their backs to the windowed office of the detective inspector, who ran the Murder Investigation Team.
Grouze addressed the squad, pressing the need for a swift resolution because of the threat of further attacks, and going over the details of the bombing. He highlighted the three phone calls laying claim to it, and their potential lead involving the Army of English Anarchists. Everyone was familiar with BHP politics, so there were few questions. Vail stood in the background, her bottom against one of the wood desks, observing.
That is, until Grouze turned to her. “I’d like to introduce Karen Vail, a profiler with the FBI. Now,” he said, holding up a hand, “I know I’ve not been a positive sort on profilers over the years, and been known to throw a wobbly over profiling in general—and I don’t want to hear any bollocks from any of you—but she’s here, and the Anarchists have got us by the short and curlies, so we should listen to what Agent Vail has to say. We don’t have to follow any of it, but we should listen.” He turned to Vail.
Now there’s an intro for the ages. She pushed away from the desk. “Well, I don’t ever want to be accused of making your boss throw a wobbly.” Whatever that means. A bad Frisbee toss? She scanned the faces in her audience. No reaction—so far, so good. “So let me just give you a very brief background on bombers. My goal is to help you narrow down the suspect pool, so you can identify the type of person we’re looking for. That’s a good place to start, since we don’t know who these English Anarchists are. And we’ve got no way of verifying if these guys are really behind it just because they say they are, or even if they’re the same group or individual who made the first claim.
“The FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit has studied bombers for years. We’ve charted the commonalities in their crimes, we’ve looked at their demographic and behavioral characteristics and the things that motivate them, and we’ve studied the techniques these people use to deploy their devices and the techniques they use to keep themselves off the grid. Based on all this, we’ve developed investigative approaches that could help police agencies identify the type of person who’s most likely to commit this kind of crime.
“Now, time’s ticking. So before your boss gets his short and curlies balled in a fist, let’s talk about how this helps you catch these people. First, let’s look at the different kinds of bombers there are, which’ll lead us to motive. And if we can figure out their motive, we’ll know what their purpose really is. Sometimes what they say they want when they call in a threat isn’t really what they’re after. And we have to know that, or we’ll be chasing wild geese.”
“Wild geese?” one of the inspectors asked.
“I’ll get to that later. Moving on...A researcher named MacDonald categorized the different types of offenders: the compulsive bomber, the psychotic bomber, the sociopathic bomber, the Mafia bomber, and the military bomber.”
“Isn’t that a little too neat?” Reid asked.
“These are just general categories,” Vail said. “And yeah, you’re right. The assholes don’t read the research, so our attempts to fit them into cubbyholes screams ‘error.’ So we should look at these as guidelines. An offender is often a blend of one or more of these types. The point is to understand the concepts of why these people do what they do, to help us look for the right person and to cut through the crap, so we can zero in on what’s really going on.
“First. The compulsive type has been around explosives all his life and may even work in an industry that gives him the opportunity to blow shit up. So, he’d be a soldier, a stunt man, a demolition expert in a mining company or a construction company. That type of thing. Their motive is power and excitement. Sometimes that excitement takes on a sexual nature.
“Next one. Psychotic. As you might think, he’s driven by paranoia, schizophrenic tendencies, or even sadism. He can be just about anyone, but certainly a check of mental health databases may be helpful. Then again, that’s a large number, so it’d have to be combined with some other filter we devise so we can narrow down that list.
“The sociopathic bomber doesn’t feel remorse, guilt, and so on—they have no emotions in general, and that certainly applies to killing people. According to MacDonald, his goal would be profit, revenge, power, hatred of something or someone who’s pissed him off. He also may bomb to conceal another crime—a diversion.”
“But those categories,” Losner said, “don’t include political motives. And with Northern Ireland, we’ve certainly had our share of that.”
“You’re absolutely right.” Vail turned away from Losner and addressed the room. “Other motives we’ve observed include vandalism, protest, crime concealment, experimentation, fraud, burglary, and ideological—which obviously includes all things political, terrorism, religious, and so on. And remember, there are times when we get an overlap of one or more of these.” Vail sat down on the edge of the desk. “There’s a lot more detail to each of these categories, but for our purposes, I’m going to try to narrow it down a bit so we’re not here for the next three days while more bombs go off in the city.
“If we believe that the Anarchists are behind this attempt, then we’re dealing with a ‘group cause’ motive, something that Robert Ressler, one of my profiling unit co-founders, studied. I think we should focus on this—but we should also keep in mind that they could be using the bombing as a front for something else. Here’s an example: in the late eighties, a federal judge was killed by a mail bomb. Two days later, another bomb killed an attorney in the same town.
“A third one targeted another federal judge and a fourth the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People. It appeared that the judges, attorney, and organization were targeted because they were known for their work in civil rights. But the investigation turned up a series of connections between the accused bomber and his first two victims. The offender had a pattern of experimentation with bombs.
“In the early seventies, one of the bombs he built accidentally injured his wife. He was found guilty and did prison time. That conviction and his failed appeals gave him a deep resentment of the court system, and the federal judge in particular—the same judge he killed in his first bombing attack. The third and fourth bombs were meant to lead the FBI down the wrong path—red herrings—by making us think the crimes were racially motivated.
“So if we look at that case, we see a combination of motives and offender types: experimentation, sociopathic, revenge, concealment—with a deliberate attempt to make us think his motivation was ideological.
“Point is, the Anarchists may’ve had nothing to do with this bombing, and they’re being opportunistic, taking credit for something they didn’t do. Just to raise their profile. And if that’s the case, they’d know that until we have proof of their involvement, we can’t prosecute them just for saying they did it. No evidence, no conviction. I’m sure that’s as true in the UK as it is in the US.”
“So we’ve got to get some evidence,” Losner said.
That’d help, yeah. “The type of person we’re looking for is not your typical killer. He’s a male, often married with children, who has a good relationship with his loved ones. He’s probably not the product of a broken home, and he wasn’t abused. He is intelligent and well-educated. Chances are good that religion played a role in his upbringing, with a majority being Protestant. Catholics are a close second. Perhaps most importantly, there’s a very strong likelihood that he has an extensive criminal history.
“I should qualify all this by reminding you that this is a guide, looking at percentages and likelihoods. If your Anarchists fall into the 20 or 30 percent that don’t follow this profile, we’ll be off.”
“Sterling,” Grouze mumbled.
“And—” she looked over at Grouze—“just a guess here, but that’s probably why your boss is a bad Frisbee player.”
Reid made a face that could only be interpreted as, “Huh?” The other inspectors shared a similar, puzzled look.
Vail brushed it aside, spent another few minutes hashing out the profile, and then sensed it was time to turn the inspectors back to Grouze.
When the meeting was over, Grouze left the room in a hurry, possibly to avoid getting into it again with Vail.
“We don’t have a lot of time,” Losner said. “In less than a day, there’ll be another bomb.”
Reid pushed through a set of doors into the stairwell. “Ingram. Why don’t you set up a meet for us with Leon McAllister. We’ll follow up with Idris Turner.”
“Who’s Leon McAllister?” Vail asked as they descended the steps.
“The leader of the BHP.” As they reached the second landing, Reid said, “Oh—what was that about the guv’nor being a bad Frisbee player?
Vail shrugged. “He said he’s been known to throw a wobbly.”
Reid snorted. “It means to throw a tantrum, have a fit.”
Vail stepped outside, into the rain. “Why can’t you Brits just speak English?”
9
Vail and Reid arrived on New Bond Street to find a line of news vans and satellite-outfitted trucks against the curb, coiffed reporters primping behind their mikes, and cameramen setting up their shots. Vail and Reid “no commented” their way to the building’s entrance and ascended the stairs to Turner’s Antiquities, Contemporary Art & Rare Manuscripts—or what was left of it.
After signing in with the duty officer, they stepped into the soot-covered gallery. Vail gave a sweeping look around and saw a beefy man crouched over a hunk of metal in the far corner. His build, close-cropped hair, and thick neck gave him the look of a boxer. He uncoiled himself and his eyes searched their faces.
“Clive Reid, DCI on the ICS out of Kennington.”
“Ethan Carter, MI5, for JTAC. Thames House.”
“Karen Vail, FBI, for the DOJ. Quantico.” She chuckled. “These acronyms make me feel right at home.”
Carter twisted his lips into a frown. “ICS is the International Counter Terrorism branch. JTAC is Joint Terrorism Analysis Centre. What does DOJ stand for, Department of Jackasses?”
Vail nodded slowly. “Actually, sometimes, yes.”
Carter didn’t seem to know what to do with that, so he merely extended a hand to Vail, and they shook.
Hey, maybe I can master this art of being a good soldier. It’s not so hard.
“I was told to expect you. We really don’t need your—”
“I’ve heard it and I get it. But I’m here, and I don’t really want to be here, so I think that makes us even. Now, how about we wrap this thing up so I can be on my way?”
A knock behind them grabbed their attention. Reid stuck a key in the lock and pulled open the charred door.
“Can I come in?” It was Idris Turner, a jeweler’s monocle strapped to his forehead.
Reid moved aside. “Of course.”
“A might ridiculous that I have to ask permission to step into my own gallery.”
“Until we release the scene, that’s the way it’s gotta be, mate,” Carter said.
Turner grumbled and pulled the magnifying lens from his face. “Not like there’s anything left to care about.”
“Which reminds me,” Vail said. “What happened to the manuscript? The safe didn’t look so good. A fire that hot doesn’t leave much behind.”
Turner hesitated a moment. “It wasn’t here at the time of the explosion. I moved it a few days ago.”
Vail’s eyes widened. “Did anyone know that?”
His gaze shifted from Reid to Carter, and then back to Vail. “I don’t tell anyone where I keep my most valuable pieces. I never open the safe in front of anyone. In fact, I never open it during regular business hours. If a buyer’s interested, I arrange a meet. And even then, I will have added security, and I give myself a buffer to get the piece here safely. You can call it being paranoid, if you want. I call it being smart.”
She crooked her neck and peered into the adjacent room. “What’s the layout of the rest of this place?”
“Come, I’ll take you around.”
Vail followed Turner into the other portion of the gallery, which was meticulously designed with contemporary displays, earthy, rich colors, and tight halogen spots suspended from wires. When they were alone, Turner leaned closer to Vail and whispered, “I have a flat that’s not leased under my name. That’s where the manuscript is.”
“And no one knew this?”
“No.”
In a back workspace, off to the side, Vail spotted someone bent over a table, a large, lighted magnifying glass a few inches from his face.
“Who’s that?”
Turner followed her gaze to a man with thinning hair and a middle-aged paunch. “That’s Gavin Paxton. I mentioned him at the café—”
“Your curator and art restorer.”
“Good memory. Yes.”
Vail turned her attention back to Turner. “If no one else knew the manuscript was stored elsewhere, is there a reason they would believe it’d be in that other room? I mean, the attack was very specific to the contents in that safe, and in that portion of the gallery.”
Turner cocked his head, thought a second, then said, “Mr. Carter told me that the safe was the source of the explosion, and that because of where the explosive was placed, they likely wanted to destroy what was in it. It’s the only safe I have in the gallery, and I don’t publicize the fact that I keep certain antiquities offsite.”
“Who had access to the safe?”
“Only me and Gavin.”
“And I assume that anyone who knew that you had the manuscript—which was the entire country, based on the frenzy and extensive media coverage—would conclude that you’d store it in the safe.”
Turner shrugged. “Logical assumption.”
“So where exactly is this secret flat?”
Turner hesitated. His gaze moved around the walls above, behind, and to the side of Vail.
“Look, Mr. Turner. I’m here to help. I know you don’t know me, and you don’t know the FBI. But I’ve got no ax to grind here. And I recognize the importance of the find. Personally, I think it’d be pretty cool if a woman wrote Shakespeare.” She paused, then added, “It’s my job to help catch the people behind the bombing.”
Turner thought a moment longer, then said, “It’s nearby, on Moulton Street. Follow me.” He led her through a metal fire door into the stairwell. But as soon as he broke the seal, an alarm began blaring. Turner stuck his head back in and yelled, “Gavin, can you please take care of that?”
As they descended the steps, the noise stopped.
“You’re sure no one knows you’ve got this other place?”
“Oh, yes, Agent Vail. I’ve been very careful.”
“What if someone follows you—”
“I never take a direct route, and I always check to make sure I’m not followed. I took a course in surveillance, so I know how it’s done.”
Oh, he took a course. Great. He’s an expert.
He started walking down the stairs, and Vail followed. He pushed through the door and dodged the reporters who swarmed around them.
“Any leads on the case?” one shouted.
“Did the manuscript burn in the fire?” asked another.
Vail turned left and cleared the way, no commenting until they were free of the throng.
After crossing Bruton Street, Turner’s gaze covered the area, his head swinging both ways as he seemed to take note of everyone who was in the vicinity. He stopped and faced a man who was behind them.
Vail recognized him as one of the reporters.
“Can’t I have some peace?” Turner yelled at the journalist.
“Go back to the gallery,” Vail said. “If you’re good, maybe I’ll have something for you when we get back.”
Vail turned and started walking.
“You will?”
“We’ll see. I didn’t say it’d be anything he didn’t already know. Now—you were telling me about your ‘secret place.’”
Turner glanced around again before speaking. “The entrance is underground. I had it specially built and there are no plans, no permits on file with the city. And like the gallery, I’ve got state of the art security cameras.”
“Security cameras—so you’ve got footage from the night of the bombing.”
“Mr. Carter has it—MI5 was analyzing it in their communications lab.”
“I need to see it. And the video from your secret hideaway.”
“I’ve already looked at it. No one except me is on that recording. I checked all the way up to two weeks before. There’s nothing. Just me.”
“You were able to go through two weeks in just a couple of days?”
“It’s digital. I can search for any movement that set off the sensors in a matter of seconds.”
Vail stopped walking in front of Louis Vuitton, just before crossing Clifford Street. The limestone storefront featured twenty foot tall windows with overlying decorative mirrored circles that also lined the interior walls. She pulled her attention back to Turner. “Do the ones from the gallery use the same technology?”
