Steve Martini: The Rule of Nine

“The fact of the matter is,” says Thorpe, “none of you has anything but suspicions.”

“Then why are we here?” I ask.

“To make sure you haven’t spread those suspicions to the media or to anyone else,” says Olson.

Somewhere, someplace, someone has talked. They’re trying to find out who and stanch the flow before the tidal wave overwhelms them.

“If you recall, at the time of our initial interrogation we were instructed by you, by the FBI, that under no circumstances were we to reveal any information concerning the nature or details of the device,” I tell him.

“That’s correct,” says Thorpe.

“The question is have you revealed such information?” says Olson. “I put the question to you, Mr. Madriani.”

“No.”

“Mr. Hinds?”

“What would I know?”

Olson looks at him.

“No,” says Harry.

“And you, Mr. Diggs. Have you said anything to anyone concerning the device?”

“Nobody ever talks to me,” says Herman.

“Does that mean no?” says Olson.

“That’s what it means.”

“I remind you all that this is part of the ongoing criminal investigation. That you are talking to law enforcement officers in these regards. So any deception or misinformation could have criminal consequences. Do you understand that?”

Each of us replies in the affirmative and the court reporter takes it down.

“That’s all I have,” says Olson. “They’re all yours. We’re off the record.”

The stenographer starts to pack up his machine.

“You mean we’re not finished?” I say.

“Not quite,” says Thorpe.

It takes several minutes for the stenographer and Olson to gather their belongings and clear the room. The entire time Thorpe is seated in his chair in total silence, shooting furtive glances at us, so by the time the door closes the atmosphere over the table seems charged.

“Is this when we’re supposed to believe that we’re not being taped?” says Harry.

“You’re not,” says Thorpe. “I’m not asking for information. I’m imparting it. What I’m about to tell you is for your own safety.” He reaches down into a briefcase at the side of his chair and pulls out a large manila envelope. He lifts the flap and slides out several glossy photographs, eight-by-tens.

He assembles these into packets of three, one for each of us, and then slides them down the table toward us.

The top photograph appears to be something from a crime scene, a young man, a head-and-shoulder shot. You might think he was sleeping unless you looked closely and noticed the slight blue cast of his face, cyanosis.

“Do any of you recognize the man in the first photograph?”

I take another look, and then shake my head as I glance toward Harry.

“No,” he says.

“Never saw him before,” says Herman.

“He was found dead, an apparent drug overdose in an apartment in D.C. a few days ago. In his wallet was your business card, Mr. Madriani.”

When I look up at Thorpe, he is staring straight at me. “Do you have any idea how it got there?”

I shake my head. “No,” and then look at the photograph again. “Do you have a name to go with the picture?”

“James Snyder,” says Thorpe.

“Doesn’t ring any bells,” I tell him. “I can check our files, see if his name pops up in the computer, but I have no recollection of him at all.”

“I don’t think you’ll find anything in your firm’s records,” says Thorpe.

“Why do you say that?” I ask.

“Because we lifted a latent thumbprint from the back of your business card, the one that was found in his wallet. Ordinarily you wouldn’t expect to find much, especially if the card’s been slipped in and out of a wallet several times. You might get a smudged print. But this one was pretty clear. What’s more, the print didn’t belong to the victim. And it wasn’t yours. We checked. When we ran it through our computer, the thumbprint on your card matched an unidentified print we lifted from another crime scene. Next picture,” says Thorpe.

We flip to the next eight-by-ten glossy.

At first it is difficult to determine what the image is until I realize it’s a human body. It is charred, burned so thoroughly that the gases, body fat, and oils have erupted from the abdomen, leaving a darkened cave of encrusted and exposed ribs. Both legs end in sharpened stubs somewhere below the knee. The head looks like a burned volleyball, all the facial features gone.

“Okay, if you’re trying to scare me, you’ve succeeded,” says Harry.

“I wouldn’t expect you to recognize him, Mr. Hinds. I don’t think you ever saw him,” says Thorpe. “But both of you, Mr. Diggs and Mr. Madriani, did see this man, possibly more than once. He was at the scene that day near the gate to the naval base. He was one of the terrorists. In fact, we believe he was the leader. His name was Alim Afundi. We know that from the DNA we were able to extract from the body. He had been in federal custody at one point. I’m not at liberty to tell you where he was confined, but a DNA sample was taken at that time. He apparently escaped. Suffice it to say, we did not take him into custody at the scene in Coronado.”

“So contrary to Mr. Olson’s statement, the terrorists were not all killed at the scene?” says Harry.

“No,” says Thorpe. “We found his charred remains two days after the shootout in Coronado at a location near National City, a few miles north of the Mexican border, which is where we lifted the unidentified print matching the one found on your business card,” says Thorpe.

“But you don’t know who the print belongs to?” I ask.

“No. But we do have rumors as to who killed Afundi. There’s some sketchy information from sources across the border that the person who killed him is a Mexican hit man. According to the information, he’s a professional assassin known only by reputation, mostly among aspiring young guns trying to claw their way to the top of the professional pyramid. To them, none of whom claims to have actually seen the man, he is known variously as the Mexicutioner, sometimes Muerta Liquida. It means liquid death,” says Thorpe. “Others just call him Liquida.”

“Charming,” says Harry.

“From what we’re told by the Mexican authorities, he’s connected to the Tijuana drug cartel. But he also freelances. We think he may have been working with the people who transported the device to Coronado.”

“You mean the IED,” says Harry.

“Any of you ever heard the name Liquida?” Thorpe ignores Harry. “Perhaps during your sojourn down south?”

“You mean the trip to Costa Rica?” says Herman.

“That’s what I mean.”

Herman and I had gone south to find a witness and gather evidence in a criminal case. It was how we got caught up in the events surrounding the attack in Coronado.

“Do you have any description of this man Liquida?” I ask.

“Nothing,” says Thorpe.

I remember the pockmarked cheek and the evil eyes stalking me from a moving car that night as I hid in the shadows under a parked vehicle in San Jose. All I got was a fleeting glance as fear forced my face into the gravel, not enough to provide a reliable description. Still, I may have a name to go with the evil eyes.

“If Liquida was working with them, why would he kill this guy Afundi?” says Herman. “If Afundi was the boss, I mean.”

“Maybe to silence him,” says Thorpe. “We don’t know. As you can see, the body was badly burned. But the medical examiner did find what appeared to be some indications of torture before he died. It’s possible the two of them, Liquida and Afundi, got sideways, and Afundi came out second best in a grudge match.”