Rick Mofina - Every Second

“The RCMP and Canada’s citizenship people have no record of the passport’s recovery.”

“Well, I didn’t think I needed to call them once I’d found it.”

Varner snapped a new and final photo on the table then jabbed it with his forefinger. “That’s you, right here!”

The suspect looked at the new photo and shook his head.

“The bus driver doesn’t remember you as a passenger,” Varner said.

“I sat at the back with my hood pulled up. I slept most of the way.”

Tilden leaned forward, slammed down his palms. The suspect flinched.

“Cut the crap!”

Tilden jabbed the photo, too. “You’re Adam Chisolm Patterson, of Chicago, and we know you’re in this deep. You’re one of the Young Lions, and, buddy, you’re facing enough charges to lock you away for all eternity. If you want us to put in a good word with the US attorney, you’d better cooperate.”

“Cooperate?”

“We want the network,” Varner said. “Names, contacts, codes-everything.”

The room went still as the air-conditioning cycled off.

The suspect began shaking his head and sniffling. His handcuffs clinked as he raised his hands to brush his tears.

“Here’s the truth. I swear. In my backpack, there’s…” He grew apprehensive, reconsidered, stopped and lifted his head in defiance. “I know my rights. You haven’t Mirandized me yet. I want a lawyer, and I want to inform the Canadian consulate in New York or the embassy in Washington that you’ve detained me.”

Tilden shook his head in disappointment.

“Don’t you think we already know what’s in your backpack?” Tilden said. “Why’re you making it hard for yourself with this bullshit, Adam?”

“I refuse to answer any questions.”

The investigators stared hard at him for a moment, exchanged glances, then left.

Tilden and Varner entered the adjoining room.

Pierre Norbert, the tour bus driver, stood at the one-way glass, studying the suspect as he was taken from the holding room to a jail cell.

“What do you think, Mr. Norbert?” Varner asked.

“I believe the man in that room is the man in the pictures you showed me-Adam Patterson-and I saw him sitting with the others before the explosion.”

“And you don’t recall seeing him on your bus?”

“I don’t.”

Varner nodded to a trooper.

“Thank you for your cooperation. You’re free to go, Mr. Norbert. Your bus company will be sending another bus and a fresh driver to help with the other passengers. We have their statements.”

After Norbert left, Varner, Tilden and investigators from several other agencies huddled at the room’s table for a case status meeting. Varner had been informed that the FBI director in Washington was awaiting an update and wanted the Bureau to issue a written statement release ASAP.

“Here’s what we know.” Varner started the meeting, flipping through his notes. “Ten passengers-seven Canadian nationals, two German nationals and one US citizen-were injured in the explosion. Three have lost limbs and are in critical condition. The others received various minor injuries. The critical ones have been sent to area trauma centers, the others are being treated in a hospital in Catskill.”

Varner flipped a page.

“Todd Dalir Ghorbani of Springfield, Massachusetts, who posed as a state trooper, is confirmed dead. We obtained his prints from his employer. Our intel points to him as the bomb maker.

“Jerricko Titus Blaine is the suspect who charged SWAT and detonated the backpack IED. His remains failed to yield enough for us to recover fingerprints. DNA analysis will take time. One SWAT team member identified Blaine as the suicide bomber, while another was uncertain. However, one reported seeing Blaine touch a newspaper box in front of the diner during the walk out seconds before the explosion. We recovered a print from the box that is consistent with Blaine’s. DNA comparison from toiletries Blaine left at his cousin’s apartment will confirm the suicide was Blaine.

“Jake Sebastian Spencer of Minneapolis, Minnesota, is also deceased, as is Doug Gerard Kimmett, of Binghamton, New York. In both cases confirmation came after local PDs in Minnesota and Binghamton managed to secure fingerprint records, which were originally unavailable, for comparison.”

Varner turned to another page.

“Now, we don’t have any record for Adam Chisolm Patterson. The photo we obtained from Illinois was of poor quality. No fingerprints, no criminal history, nothing. We’ve sent the surviving suspect’s photo to our FBI office in Chicago, and they’re working with Chicago PD to circulate and confirm his ID with his former college, so we can proceed with charges.”

Varner looked around the room.

“We haven’t yet determined where and what their intended targets were, but we’re determined to learn the full extent of the plot by questioning the survivor and the hostages,” he said. “Now I’ll turn it over to Marv.”

Tilden touched the tip of his finger to his tongue and read from his notes.

“The bomb techs located two unexploded IEDs in backpacks at the scene and removed them for examination and detonation. ATF people tell us that early on-scene analysis of the bloodied clothing, fragments and debris, collected from the explosion, are consistent with evidence collected at sites linked to Todd Dalir Ghorbani.”

Tilden double-checked something on his phone.

“The gas station’s security cameras were not working. Last week an RV clipped the exterior cameras, knocking out the system. It was to be repaired tomorrow. And…”

Tilden found another note.

“We also discovered at the scene, concealed in the fabric of a backpack, a pound of cocaine.”

Varner’s phone vibrated. He read and relayed the message.

“The director wants a full press conference at the media center within twenty-four hours to answer all outstanding questions wherever possible.”

A ripple went around the table to acknowledge the underlying role of political optics in high-profile cases.

“And we’ve just learned that Dan Fulton’s condition has deteriorated. Doctors do not expect him to survive.”

Albany, New York

Lori Fulton was surfacing.

Floating to consciousness, as her senses awakened to medicine and antiseptic smells mingling with freshly laundered linen.

She was groggy, her body stiff and heavy. She could feel bandages on her arms and face. She opened her eyes to see a nurse standing near, adjusting her IV. A uniformed female officer sat in a chair near the window.

It was evening.

“How are you doing, Lori?” The nurse keyed notations into her chart.

“Where are Billy and Dan?”

“Here, in this hospital. Billy’s right there. He’s asleep and doing fine.”

The nurse whizzed the dividing curtain open so Lori could see his bed across from hers. Glimpsing her son’s face and hair, she struggled to get up as the nurse gently pushed her back.

“Take it easy. You need to rest.”

“No, I need to go to him!”

Lori struggled to a sitting position and began swinging her legs weakly but with determination to get out of the bed.

“Okay, hold on. We’ll get you over there, Mom.” Turning to the officer, she said, “Could you get the wheelchair in the hall for us?”

The officer got the chair and helped the nurse get Lori into it. After affixing her IV bag to the chair’s pole, they wheeled her to Billy’s bedside.

Lori took one of Billy’s hands in hers then caressed his cheek and hair. His head was bandaged. His face laced with cuts and scrapes. She nearly leaned out of the chair as she reached to kiss him and whisper as he slept.