The Man Who Lost His Shadow, page 7
He exchanged a look of disbelief with his partner just as the lead FBI agent tapped him on the shoulder.
“Ready for the interrogation, detectives?”
The two of them couldn’t wait for it to be over. Then they could go after their new suspects.
*
Two uniformed officers wheeled in a giant flatscreen TV, and a minute later all the men in the room watched as two FBI agents adjusted the velvet looking gloves and mesh headband around Mohamed Iqbal’s head. One of the agents knocked on the door and Dr. Halpern immediately entered.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Iqbal,” she said to what looked like a pitiful mannequin. “My name is Dr. Halpern, and I was hoping to ask you a few questions. Would that be okay?”
The teacher nodded his head slightly, and Dr. Halpern opened her tablet.
“So what are we looking at here?” Agent Murphy asked. “Some kind of polygraph?”
“More or less, yes,” Agent Harris said, turning from the screen to inform everyone else who was watching. “The FBI has been developing for several decades now. This, you could say, is the latest version of it. It’s regarded as foolproof. Uses neuroimaging techniques to detect if the subject is lying or not.”
On-screen, Dr. Halpern cleared her throat and thanked the two FBI Agents, who nodded and left the room.
“Mr. Iqbal, I hope the gloves aren’t too tight, are they?”
The elementary school teacher seemed to wake up from a reverie upon hearing the soft, lilting voice. For a moment he simply stared at the doctor, and finally shook his head.
“No.”
“Good, good,” Dr. Halpern said calmly, glancing at the tablet in her hand. From the camera perched to the right-hand corner behind her, the group of law enforcement officers twenty meters away could see dynamic light patterns shimmer on the slender screen in her hand.
“Okay, so let’s just start with the simple stuff. Is your name Mohamed Iqbal?”
Everyone in the briefing room had seen enough polygraph tests to know the doctor was establishing a baseline. But it’d never been as thrilling as this before; the patterns on the tablet pulsed dark blue, almost like a throbbing circle.
Dr. Halpern’s voice was pleasant and perhaps pleased with the answer. “Could you tell me what your occupation is?”
“I’m an elementary school teacher.”
A lighter shade of blue, that halfway through the throbbing turned deep purple. Each cluster of law enforcement was beginning to discuss their own understanding of the pattern.
“Why are you here, in this room with me, Mr. Iqbal?”
There was a pause. The voice had been gentle, almost cheerfully inquisitive, but the suspect looked guilty. He bowed his head and held his tongue for what felt like a long time.
“Mr. Iqbal?”
Everyone waited. The sounds of the bullpen began to filter into the room.
“Iqbal? Are you okay?”
Mohamed Iqbal looked up, and his eyes were filled with tears.
“No. No, I’m not…”
Instinctively every pair of eyes in the briefing room looked towards the pixilated image of the tablet.
A blue-green shade slowly faded in, and just as slowly faded away, scattered like a bar graph that fluctuated between three peaks.
Dr. Halpern seemed to be paying even more attention to the tablet than the men, even though she sounded completely focused on the suspect’s pain.
“I can understand, Iqbal. You must be so confused right now. Let’s try to figure out what went wrong, together, alright?”
“I – I made a horrible mistake…”
A quick inverted triangle, different shades of maroon and red, flashed on the screen.
“What mistake?”
“I – I don’t know why I did it. I’m – I’m sorry, but it just happened!”
Mohamed Iqbal was agitated now, and most of them missed the shape and color on the tablet because they were arrested by his face.
If the doctor was disconcerted, she replaced the emotion with sympathy and pressed on. “What happened, Iqbal?”
“I – I shot and killed those people!”
The doctor was silent, and Merson suspected it was because she was stunned by the tablet in front of her. Most of the men around him breathed in sharply, a few shaking their heads in disbelief.
They were staring at a throbbing, deep blue, perfect circle.
Dr. Halpern regained her composure, but her voice lost some of its softness.
“Why did you do it, Iqbal?”
The elementary school teacher hesitated, his eyes frantically scanning the metal table in front of him as though for an explanation.
“I – I don’t know, I just wanted to do it…”
Waves of blue and red, digital dots crashing against the side of the tablet.
“What made you do this, Iqbal? I don’t understand…”
“I was…I don’t know, I saw this Tom Cruise and Bill Murray movie, and it just felt like a good idea…I wasn’t thinking. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, it just happened, and I feel terrible that I’m responsible…”
Red and maroon droplets fell downwards in an inverted triangle.
“Did you commit this crime alone?”
“I was alone. I was just me, I swear!”
A perfect blue circle.
“How did you manage to do this all by yourself?”
“It just happened, I don’t know how, I just shot all of them!”
Mohamed Iqbal was gesticulating wildly now, and Agent Harris looked towards his agents. They nodded and rushed out of the briefing room. Less than half a minute later the interrogation room door opened and the two men in suits took up positions behind the suspect.
“And why are you confessing, Iqbal? Why did you give yourself up?” Dr. Halpern asked calmly. She didn’t bother to acknowledge the two men. It was as though the suspect took up all her attention.
The elementary school teacher hesitated, let his arms drop to his side, and bowed his head.
“I – I was bored…”
Another, deep blue, perfect circle that throbbed three times before fading away.
The stillness in the briefing room was punctured by Agent Harris’s phone. He quickly answered it and listened carefully for almost a minute.
“Okay, keep me posted,” he muttered before ending the call.
Everyone turned to look at him, and the lead FBI Agent shrugged his shoulders.
“There’s a gas leak at the Hotel. They’re shutting down the crime scene temporarily till they get the matter fixed.”
No one said anything. The door opened, and everyone turned to see the young Doctor step in, looking perplexed. She walked up to the front of the room, scanning the tablet in her hand as though catching up on a novel. The complete silence finally made her self-conscious.
“Well, Doctor?” Captain Wilson asked, watching her anxiously. “What’s the expert opinion?”
She looked around, trying to come up with an appropriate answer.
“I – I’m not sure,” she said, glancing at the lead FBI Agent, “but…I think he’s telling the truth.”
Chapter Nine
Bremmer Plaza Hotel was one of the oldest hotels in the city, not to mention the poshest. It was the main hotel used by high profile movie stars and pop singers during their tour stopovers, and every once in a while, an organization rented out its fabulous ballroom for a convention or meeting or conference of some kind.
The hotel had its own courtyard, with thick tall walls that buffeted it from the noise and lights of the city. That courtyard, normally used for dropping and picking up hotel goers, was currently crammed with news vans and law enforcement vehicles, with sirens and camera lights vying for visual control. The local police had given up trying to informally cordon off the area and restrict the press, because as each member of the fourth estate aggressively reminded them, they had a right to be there.
The man currently staring out of the hotel’s front door, surveying the ongoing media circus, was Agent Daniel Serren. He was four years elder than Agent Samuel Harris, but a loyal deputy who long ago realized he belonged in crime scenes than conference rooms. He preferred giving up the career ladder than the yellow tape and black body bags. It wasn’t a macabre sense of fascination with death. It was the task that each crime scene offered, of straightening out a mess or trying to untangle enmeshed threads and figuring out what went wrong.
This was without a doubt the greatest crime scene Daniel Serren had stepped into.
Not even the vultures with cameras and microphones vying on the perimeter could dampen that.
The FBI investigated hundreds of mass shootings every year. There was a procedure that was followed. The same way the local police would type up a report on a carjacking. There were standards that had to be met, actions carried out in a time-sensitive manner. And normally it would all happen like clockwork, through different officials in different roles just doing what they were trained to do.
But this time there’d been plenty of complications.
For once, the first responders to the scene, the local police, didn’t do what they were supposed to do. They didn’t secure the scene and just stay put. It was a lost quality. Staying put and letting the big boys come and handle things. Instead, the police had tried to assume control. They took charge of the medical response, which might have been tolerable given countless men and women were spilling blood and flesh all over the place, but it didn’t stop there. They began messing with the crime scene, a crime that was unforgivable in Agent Serren’s eyes.
And then the ATF had shown up.
Two years ago, Agent Serren would have ordered them to assist him. But a lot can change in 24 months. If he hadn’t been following the Congressional amendments, he wouldn’t have believed it when the ATF agents curtly informed him that they were in charge of the crime scene.
But despite spending almost a decade amidst corpses and bullet casings, Agent Serren still possessed people skills. He managed to talk the men into a joint sweep of the crime scene.
“I mean,” he finally added at the end of his pitch, gesturing to the huge ballroom behind him. “Just…look at this place.”
The ATF agents may have been cocky due to their agency’s newfound importance in national investigations. But they weren’t stupid or devoid of a sense of duty. They knew they’d need all the help they could get.
There were twenty FBI officers, internally known as the CSI or Crime Scene Investigation team, standing in front of Agent Serren, waiting for instructions. Even their experienced and mature faces looked a little shaken by the sight around them. Agent Serren wasn’t immune to the carnage either. But as the lead Agent, he had a job to do.
“Listen up, we’re coming to this one pretty late. And there’s probably already been a lot of contamination. These ATF agents will be in focusing on the bullets, while we pay our attention to the bodies. Jack, Ruby, I want you guys to start the visuals from the outside, then move towards the Ballroom, alright? Rest of you, you know what to do, so let’s do it!”
The next thirty minutes were unlike any that an FBI Agent who retired just three years ago would have experienced. The men and women who fanned across the Hotel lobby and into the Ballroom had undergone over two dozen training sessions and countless seminars that taught them how to use the equipment they were currently setting up and plugging into portable power sources. A few local Police officers who stood near the entrance managed to catch a glimpse of the action, and with each minute that passed, looked increasingly spellbound.
Two officers unpacked a large crate and stood aside as a giant drone rose suddenly, like a metallic dragon taking a minute to fully awaken from its slumber. None of the other FBI agents even gave it a second look, as the drone began to rise and move slowly towards the Ballroom, beeping continuously. The two men followed its progress on a laptop and seemed to be pleased with the footage and simultaneous photographs that were streaming onto their screen.
Several agents carried fist-sized electronic kits, and one after the other began bending down and capturing the fingerprints of the corpses that were strewn on the floor. The moment a new face and matching biometric information popped up on a laptop set up at the reception desk, two agents swooped in to drop a body bag over the corpse and move onto the next one.
Four ATF agents, who behaved just like the FBI officers in terms of respect and deference towards Agent Serren, covered every inch of the hotel lobby, with long, wide, cylindrical torch-like devices held with both hands, from which an intense blue line streamed out, bathing bullets strewn on the floor in different colors. A computer terminal read the signals emanating from the devices and instantly categorized the shell casings by make, model, and every other possible detail.
The crime scene was being analyzed meticulously, and Agent Daniel Serren was pleased by the efficiency of it. Until a couple of policemen burst into the lobby shouting at the top of their lungs.
“Hey, what the hell!” One of the FBI agents cried.
“Agent, agent!” The two men cried, searching for the person in charge. “There’s a gas leak from the restaurant kitchen. We need to clear the lobby right now!”
The agents stopped what they were doing and looked towards Agent Serren for instructions. He was annoyed, aware that he’d need to obey the safety precaution even if it meant wasting precious time. “Alright, but no one gets back in without my say so.”
The drone faltered and swooped towards the floor, where it remained abandoned as the agents trooped out through the front doors of the hotel, huddling together, aware of the turn of cameras towards them. Agent Serren was the last to step out, and he hissed towards his people.
“Don’t look towards the cameras. We don’t want to give them anything to talk about!”
“Excuse me, are you in charge of the investigation?”
“Who the hell wants to know?” Agent Serren retorted, turning around. A second later the irritation on his face vanished, and he flashed a grin back at the man who clasped a hand onto his shoulder.
“Warren! What the hell are you doing here?” he asked, extending a handshake.
“Just thought I’d drop by and see how my favorite junior was doing,” Warren replied, wearing a faint smile. It didn’t linger long, and Agent Daniel Serren knew it wasn’t a coincidence that he’d run into his former senior from Quantico.
“Do you know anything about who did this?”
The question was both blunt and extremely unprofessional, and it was clear Warren understood that from the way Agent Serren’s face tightened.
“I know, I know,” he said, holding up a hand apologetically. “I’m not at the FBI anymore. But Daniel, I’ve got skin in the game. That’s why I’m asking.”
He looked around quickly, and gently pulled the Agent aside.
“Guess what my new gig is,” he asked grimly. Daniel shrugged. “I’m the head of security for Governor Barlow. Started three months ago.”
There was no time for congratulations or inquiries about the job. The career path wasn’t exactly strange. Warren had left the FBI after three years of service and now worked in private security. Many law enforcement agents did the same thing every year. It was a lucrative path.
But Agent Serren was familiar with politics to let the dots connect immediately. He knew what his former colleague was about to say a second before he said it.
“Governor Barlow was at the event today. Not in an official capacity. Just as a private member of the NRA. Of course, the whole damn thing was politics as usual. But Daniel,” Warren said, stiffening a bit and looking him straight in the eye.
“I think this was an assassination attempt on the Governor.”
Daniel Serren didn’t blink. It was impossible to know what he was thinking. He merely asked. “Why do you think so?”
“Well, for starters, his Chief of Staff just informed me that they’d received a death threat last night. And…Jesus, Daniel, they nearly got him today!”
“They?” Agent Serren asked sharply.
Warren hesitated. “I don’t know who or how that’s your job. I wish I were on duty today. I wasn’t. The Governor’s fine, just a flesh wound, though the media’s already started making him out to be a martyr, and he’s going to milk that. But that’s why I’m asking you, what do you think the motive here was?”
Agent Daniel Serren sighed, considering his answer.
“Fuck, Warren, how badly could someone hate your guy to mow down 250 plus people to get to him?”
They fell silent for a moment, lost in thought.
“Maybe it really is that guy you people have in custody. The teacher?” Warren asked, shaking his head in disbelief at the thought.
This time around Agent Serren was quick to react.
“No way. I don’t buy it for a second. A single elementary school teacher shooting down so many people over such a big hotel? Impossible.”
“Really?”
“I’d bet my life on it being at least five people. Has to be. Maybe more. We’ll get to it soon enough. The forensics will get us a clear picture.”
“A group…” Warren muttered, absentmindedly scanning the cameras in the courtyard. “Maybe I’ll go through the threats we’ve gotten over the years. Look out for any possible group that could do this….”
Agent Serren turned to check on the entrance. The police officers were waving the all-clear.
“Okay, I’ve got to get going now, Warren. Make sure you let me know if anything comes up, alright? Sorry to remind you, but the FBI’s investigating this one. Whatever this turns out to be. Mass shooting, assassination, or both.”
*
Almost two hours earlier, in an apartment less than three miles from the hotel, Marco Hernandez was preparing his usual Sunday lunch. It was a ritual he’d begun over eight years ago when he first broke up with his girlfriend and vowed that women were a waste of time. He’d called six of his closest friends, and they’d showed up with nothing more than packs of beers and a pack of cards. Over the course of a morning, afternoon, and evening, the men in his tiny one-bedroom apartment played cards, gave frivolous suggestions regarding the cooking, and talked incessantly. It was a ritual Marco had followed every Sunday since then.
