‘‘It’s pretty bad,’’ said Nola, ‘‘when you can’t even trust the press anymore.’’ She started to walk toward the door.
‘‘What do you mean?’’ asked Nancy.
‘‘You know just what I mean,’’ hissed Nola. ‘‘You’re all in the pay of the Jews and the One World Government. You know that. Don’t try to deny it, you are. You know you are.’’ With that off her chest, she turned and just about dragged the officers out the door. It always amazes me when I hear someone I think is intelligent start ranting like that. This time was no exception.
When the door closed, Nancy sighed. ‘‘Well, so much for the sympathetic approach.’’ She grinned. ‘‘I’ll see what I can do for you,’’ she said, heading for the door. ‘‘Just give me a couple of days. I’ll be in touch.’’ And she was gone.
Hester and I exchanged looks.
‘‘I hope we’ve done the right thing here.’’
‘‘Don’t worry, Carl. You worry too much. You’re beginning to sound like George.’’ Hester smiled. ‘‘Speaking of whom… we’d better let him know what’s happening.’’
True. Because when it came right down to it, George had access to the resources that we only wished we had.
When we got to the back room, I greeted George with ‘‘George, you little Zionist, how the hell are you?’’
He looked up. ‘‘I knew it. Now you’re gonna want a ride in my black chopper.’’ He pushed his papers back across the desk. ‘‘So how’d it go?’’
‘‘I don’t know,’’ I said, sitting down near a stack of computer paper. ‘‘All right, I guess.’’ I picked up the first sheet. ‘‘She knew him, though. Didn’t like him.’’
‘‘She’s going to keep her eyes open for us,’’ said Hester. ‘‘We’ll see.’’
‘‘Well, while you were gone, I came up with something that may be very serious.’’
What George had found was a series of messages to an address in Idaho, and returns from the same place.
‘‘This man Stritch has some very interesting connections.’’ George indicated a handwritten list he had made. ‘‘Several of these names of organizations that are mentioned here are the same ones I heard at a very sensitive briefing about three months ago.’’
The FBI, it transpired, was working three of the mentioned groups regarding illegal weapons, Ponzi scams, bank fraud, a possible series of bombings where only very small devices were used, and planning things such as bank robberies, armored car holdups, etc. None of the planned things had happened. All of which told me that the FBI had people inside more than one group.
‘‘Small bombs?’’ asked Hester.
‘‘Really small,’’ said George. ‘‘Like they blow up mailboxes.’’
‘‘They getting these folks confused with teenagers?’’ I asked.
‘‘Oh, no,’’ said George. ‘‘Not at all. The little bombs are planted as proof that the mechanism works, for one thing. Very sophisticated, they tell me. But, more important,’’ he said, in a worried tone, ‘‘it proves that the strike teams they sent out actually reached their target.’’
Food for thought.
‘‘What kind of targets?’’ asked Hester.
‘‘Oh, investigators’ ‘in’ boxes in Sheriff’s Departments,’’ said George, deadpan.
I admit it, I looked at my ‘‘in’’ box. Broke him up.
Actually, as he explained when he’d recovered, what they did was get either close to or into government property and set off these little devices. Not only federal but state and local property as well. They’d started off with places like isolated forest and park ranger stations, and had expanded to include police stations, office buildings, a couple of post offices, a Coast Guard installation, and others.
‘‘Were these connected to the Oklahoma City bombing?’’ I asked.
‘‘No. Not at all. Nothing like that. So far, at least,’’ he said. ‘‘I haven’t heard of anybody even being slightly injured.’’
‘‘Just for the effect?’’ asked Hester.
‘‘Seemed to work in a few cases,’’ said George. ‘‘Several victims were really intimidated. But that’s not what they have in mind.’’ He shrugged. ‘‘According to my sources.’’
George’s sources, in this case, were from Washington, D.C., and were pretty damned accurate. What these people were doing was honing their skills. More than fifty incidents, in all sorts of locations. Practicing. But for what?
‘‘If anybody at the conference knew, they sure didn’t tell us,’’ said George.
Hmmm.
‘‘And Herman has been corresponding with the bombers?’’ asked Hester.
‘‘At least with their parent organizations,’’ said George, with the addition of the ‘‘federal hedge.’’ ‘‘Inasmuch as there is any true organization, of course.’’
‘‘Well, sure,’’ said Hester. ‘‘Inasmuch as…’’
‘‘Well, they’re pretty loose,’’ said George.
‘‘You wish,’’ she said.
‘‘Anyhow,’’ I interjected, ‘‘what’s old Herman been saying to these people?’’
Oh, yes. Herman. George leafed through the messages. ‘‘Basically,’’ he said, looking up, ‘‘he offered to provide a training area for them, and they accepted.’’
You could have heard a jaw drop.
After a moment, I asked George if, or when, a date had been set.
‘‘I believe so,’’ he said. The last message had been on June 3rd, and stated that they would be glad to take advantage of the training area, and that two to four selected local men could also be included to participate and observe the training. Further contact would be in person.
‘‘The message was accepted for, but not by, a fellow named Gabriel.’’ He waited, but just for a moment. ‘‘That would be Gabriel, you know, for which Gabe is short,’’ he announced.
‘‘We know,’’ said Hester. ‘‘I think we’ve met.’’
‘‘Our favorite colonel,’’ I said, remembering the tall man at the edge of the cornfield. ‘‘Well, somebody better tell DEA. None of this is dope-related, and never has been.’’
‘‘Maybe now,’’ said Hester, smiling, ‘‘we can have our whole case back.’’
Right.
Nineteen
We had a little problem. Since we’d gotten all our information in a somewhat irregular manner, we might have trouble telling George’s superiors about any of it. Especially when they found out what was in the computer, and they probably knew already. I mean, if I can tell, they can tell much faster. And in more depth. But if colonel Gabriel was for real, and he certainly appeared to be at the cornfield, we certainly couldn’t do this one ourselves. Well, maybe not past a certain point anyway. It was that point we were now trying to establish.
We decided to go to work on Herman, Nola, and Bill Stritch in earnest. They were the key, not only as to who did the shooting in the woods but also as to who did the shooting at the farmhouse. I was especially encouraged as it appeared to me that none of the Stritch family had shot anybody in the woods. That might enable them to talk with us without fear of being discovered as a shooter. We could always bargain away a co-conspirator charge in exchange for the name of a shooter. Just in case, though, we requested ballistic tests on all the 5.56 mm guns seized from the Stritch family. Just in case we came up with anything, like ejector marks on spent shell casings.
It was much more complex than that, though, because of the implication of the whole family in the death of Bud and the wounding of Lamar. And they were still in court making their appearances. We had to wait. What did we do?
There was almost nobody in the restaurant when we got there. Great. Just after we’d been served, several people, men and women, all in their late forties to mid-sixties, came in and were seated all around us. They seemed pretty well dressed for a Friday noon crowd. They began talking about the ‘‘damned Feds,’’ the ‘‘damned judges,’’ and the ‘‘conspiracies’’ of various sorts. Obviously, a support group from the Stritch appearances. Obviously a little biased as well. Thing was, I didn’t know any of them. I normally would have known at least one or two people in a group that size and age, if they were local.