Roaches Run Read online

  He tried unsuccessfully to rehabilitate his public reputation. In 2020, he sought a role in the national response to COVID-19 but lacked the credentials to make a meaningful contribution. Next he tried to rebuild his reputation as a tough law-and-order guy by criticizing groups like Black Lives Matter, only to see mounting public support for police reform following the deaths of George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, and others. Then, at the first of the year, he stated publicly there was no need to fortify the Capitol during the congressional session to certify the Electoral College vote. He adopted the wrong position at every turn, he reluctantly admitted to himself.

  Though he was repulsed by rioting in the inner cities, he made an exception for the January 6 breach. He chided those who labeled January 6 as an “insurrection” while referring to protests in Portland and elsewhere as “peaceful.”

  Beneath Landry’s exasperation was an unquenchable hatred toward three individuals whom he held primarily responsible for derailing his career in law enforcement and national security. That was why, last summer, he conceived of a plan to destroy those three individuals. With all of the insanity going on in Washington, he believed this was the perfect time to carry out his plan.

  He hoisted his squat body from his desk chair. Smoothing his slightly greasy, graying hair, he approached the cubicle outside his nondescript office. “I’m headed to Ashburn for the briefing,” he told Vanessa Wilson, his administrative assistant.

  “Duly noted,” replied Wilson. She did not look up. Wilson was reed-thin, with raven hair and a sardonic smile. A devout Bible reader, she was reminded of a line from 2 Corinthians 1:19 whenever she interacted with her boss: “For ye suffer fools gladly, seeing ye yourselves are wise.”

  Landry detested Wilson. She was a busybody and a troublemaker. As soon as that harassment complaint she’d filed against him was dismissed, he was going to fire her ass.

  “I’ll check from time to time to see if there are any messages,” he said. He knew she wanted to avoid returning to the office because of COVID-19. She had only been in the office a handful of times since March 2020. Furthermore, the pandemic had taken a toll on her; she had lost her mother — also a federal employee — to the coronavirus last year. Landry had no sympathy. The way he looked at it, it just meant there was one more unproductive fed six feet under. He was also secretly gleeful that he had an excuse to call her into the office on a Saturday of a holiday weekend when he knew she would rather be home.

  Landry took the elevator to the underground garage. His chunky form lumbered across the empty parking area toward his vehicle. He thought of Ruth Hammond. Thick saliva formed in his throat. He hawked up a glob of phlegm. It landed with a splat on the concrete. He swept his hand across his mouth to catch the remaining spittle and wiped it on his trousers.

  He pulled out of the parking garage onto Maine Avenue and then onto the freeway. He crossed the 14th Street Bridge, maneuvered the car into the far right lane, and swooped down the ramp onto the southbound lanes of the George Washington Parkway.

  Gravelly Point and Reagan National Airport were to his left, bordering the Potomac River. To his right was a patch of marshland and a National Park Service sign announcing the Roaches Run Waterfowl Sanctuary.

  Roaches Run wasn’t really a bird sanctuary, in his mind. Rather, it was a staging ground for taxicabs and limousines that trolled the airport. No one even noticed the crescent-shaped asphalt parking area at Roaches Run. It resembled a pit stop at a race track.

  Landry believed that, if a survey was conducted of 100,000 commuters who drove by the “waterfowl sanctuary” on any given day, 99.9 percent would not remember it and the 0.1 percent who did never visited the place. That was why he parked a panel van at Roaches Run earlier in the week. He was hiding in plain sight.

  Landry made a sharp turn into the parking area and pulled up next to the van. A smattering of taxis and limos filled the lot. No one walked nearby. He turned off the ignition, exited the car, clicked the fob, and walked casually to the windowless back door of the van on the passenger’s side. He climbed inside and locked the door behind him.

  **

  BREAKING NEWS

  Holiday Gatherings Expected at Washington Landmarks by Tom Mann, City Editor @The Chronicle Newspaper

  An enthusiastic crowd is expected to descend on Washington this weekend to celebrate the Memorial Day holiday. Many restaurants and hotels will be open for business, a respite from the coronavirus pandemic that decimated the tourist season last year in the nation’s capital.

  The National Park Service is expecting the National Mall and historic landmarks — including the Lincoln Memorial, Washington Monument, and Jefferson Memorial — to welcome a limited number of visitors.

  Since the Inauguration in January, the city of Washington is seeing increased attendance at public events. Regrettably, the most heavily attended event in the past six months was a rally on the Ellipse that was the jumping-off point for the ransacking of the U.S. Capitol.

  A U.S. park ranger preparing to greet the crowds at the Washington Monument said, “I think a lot of people want to be here to make up for the emptiness we all felt last year, but they know it’s not yet totally safe to do so.”

  To those who do come to the city, Lafayette Square has joined this year’s list of places to visit. Last spring, the park was the focus of peaceful protests that followed the killing of George Floyd.

  “I think we can use this holiday to reaffirm our commitment to systemic change for racial equity and to pay homage to those who died at the hands of the police,” said one visitor from Minneapolis.

  The president will lay a wreath at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier at Arlington National Cemetery. The cemetery will be open to the public, although face masks and social distancing will be required.

  Last year, the cemetery was only open for gravesite visitation to family pass holders. Members of the Army’s 3rd U.S. Infantry Regiment, The Old Guard, wore face masks as they placed flags in front of headstones for “Flags-In” at the cemetery.

  “At least Washington will recognize the solemn nature of this holiday, even if we have to wait for the crowds to return,” said one local vendor.

  Flags are flying at half-staff for a three-day period under a presidential order in remembrance of those who died to safeguard the nation.

  “This weekend we also pay tribute to the men and women who died of the coronavirus, those who survived the pandemic, those who continue to persevere through tough economic and social conditions, and those who remind us that Black Lives Matter,” said Sen. Abe Lowenstein, chairman of the Senate Intelligence Committee.

  Unlike most members of Congress, Lowenstein will remain in Washington for the holiday. That is one of the few things that hasn’t changed from last year. And there will be no ceremony, virtual or otherwise, honoring the Washington Nationals for winning another World Series championship, since the banner will fly in Los Angeles, home of the L.A. Dodgers.

  **

  KATZ SHAVED and showered. He grabbed another cup of coffee, unplugged the coffee maker, and went to his car. The morning air was crisp and the sky was clear. He made two calls as he started the engine. The first was to learn from Santana whether there were any new developments concerning Morley. There weren’t. The second was to Sherry Stone, who headed the investigation into Hugh Spates, the man suspected of killing Morley. She had directed Santana to call Katz in the middle of the night about the body’s discovery.

  “I don’t know about you, but I expect Spates to continue his plan,” Katz said.

  “No doubt,” she agreed. “Spates is a delusional a-hole. I expect him to move forward as though nothing happened.”

  “Exactly. That’s what I told Curtis.”

  “I know,” she replied. “I was with him when he called you. You sounded pretty sure of yourself.”

  Katz tipped the rearview mirror to check for oncoming traffic before pulling from the curb. “I am,” Katz explained. “Spates has the same DNA as ever
y other member of the criminal class, whether a small-time hood or a white-collar criminal. Once they put something into motion, they act as though they’re bulletproof. It’s what makes them dangerous, but it’s also the root of their undoing.”

  Stone grunted her concurrence. “Where are you?” she asked.

  “I just left the house. Why? Do you need a ride?” Stone shared a townhouse with Santana five minutes away on Prince Street.

  “No,” she replied. “I’m at the station. I’ll take a car from the motor pool in a little while. Say, guess who else is going to be at the briefing?”

  “Abe Lowenstein?” he asked.

  “No,” she laughed. “He’s welcome to join, but I suspect he’s only in town to monopolize on media inquiries rather than actually do any work.” She paused and then said, “Phil Landry.”

  “Talk about delusional assholes,” he said.

  They both disliked Landry, whom they held responsible for manufacturing a terrorist plot to bring surface-to-air missiles into the nation’s capital two years ago. They were only too happy to see his nomination sabotaged by others, resulting in his demotion to a meaningless job.

  Stone had another reason for detesting Landry, but that was personal and Katz didn’t need to know about it.

  “Landry keeps turning up, like a bad penny,” Katz said.

  “I’m actually afraid he’s up to something,” Stone said.

  “What makes you say that?”

  “He never accepted his rejection for the homeland security post. He wants back in. People like that never quit. Landry’s up to something. And it’s no good. Mark my words.”

  **

  AS LANDRY locked the door, he manually switched on lights inside the van. A bank of television monitors glowed. In front of the screens, three computers and a keyboard rested on a console beside a comfortable leather swivel chair. Landry sat down, entered a code, and waited for the program to open. As he waited, he rehearsed the scene he had choreographed for tomorrow.

  Landry had arranged for three individuals to go to the GreyStone Hotel. They would each retrieve orange H-Pack backpacks and head to a different corner of Lafayette Square. The backpacks would be filled with explosives timed to detonate at 11 a.m.

  Landry had selected security personnel to be stationed at the corners of the park. He had specifically chosen three trigger-happy goons. Like him, they felt threatened by the reforms taking place in local, state, and federal law enforcement.

  The computer program opened.

  Landry entered three names: Ahmed Suleiman. Maria Pena. Ari Hammond.

  As he adjusted himself in his chair, he went through a ritual he repeated several times each day. He checked his cell phone. He felt his wallet in the back pocket of his trousers. Then he glanced at the lanyard around his neck. “Shit,” he uttered. He had left his PIV card in his office computer.

  **

  WILSON ASSESSED the situation. By forgetting to remove his PIV card from the computer, that fool had granted her unimpeded access to a treasure trove of information. But unless she kept wiggling the mouse every few minutes, the computer would lock and she would lose access to the Outlook program for his government email account.

  She wasn’t sure what she was searching for, other than incriminating evidence of something. That evil man was up to no good. She felt it. For months, she had fantasized about searching his files. But she always hesitated.

  If he ever found her snooping around his business, he would fire her. As a result, she avoided doing anything that would give him a reason to get rid of her. As it was, she knew he would seek her removal as soon as her harassment complaint was resolved. But she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of getting rid of her for cause beforehand.

  The phone rang.

  She ignored it. Her eyes surveyed the folders cascading down the computer screen. She recognized the names of most of the files as projects that Landry handled on a day-to-day basis.

  Then her eyes fell on a folder titled “Personal.” She clicked on it. Inside were three subfolders titled “Target A,” “Target B,” and “Target C.” She opened the first subfolder. The subject was Ahmed Suleiman. She opened the second: Maria Pena. And then the third: Ari Hammond.

  The phone rang again.

  **

  “PICK UP!” Landry shouted into the phone. The ringing stopped. A recording came on. “Hi. This is Vanessa. Leave a message. And have a blessed day.”

  Landry ended the call. He tried to remember whether he closed the door to his office when he departed. If he had, there was nothing to worry about. She didn’t know the combination to the cipher lock on the door. But what if he hadn’t?

  Unfortunately, there was no time to go back to the office and retrieve the PIV card. Assuming the worst, that Wilson might go snooping through his computer files, there was a strong likelihood she wouldn’t assign any significance to the folder. Landry didn’t think Wilson was smart enough to identify a dead body in the road if she stumbled upon it. There was probably nothing to worry about, he concluded.

  Landry called Ahmed Suleiman.

  **

  SNOWE PARKED her car on the gravel shoulder of Eisenhower Avenue, climbed over the guardrail, and headed down to Cameron Run. In her rubber boots, she waded across shallow water that trickled down the channelized stream to the Potomac River. Ahead of her, buried in the bushes and newly budding trees, a brown and green camouflage tent came into view.

  She donned her mask. As she approached the tent, smoke wafted up into the sky and she smelled burning wood and leaves. Maggie Moriarty sat by a campfire, dressed in soiled jeans, a tattered flannel shirt, and unlaced hiking books. In front of her, a pot of coffee balanced between two logs. Moriarty stared vacantly at the low-burning fire and poked the embers with a stick that she held in her shaky hand.

  “How are you doing?” Snowe asked.

  Moriarty looked up zombie-like and shrugged. She wasn’t wearing any facial protection.

  “Where’s Katie?”

  “What’s it to you?” Then, recognizing the visitor, she snarled at her probation officer. “Don’t you have better things to do than badger parents about their kids? You should be home taking care of your own. Oh, sorry, I forgot, you don’t have any kids.” She smirked. “Maybe that’s why you take such interest in mine. Maybe you’ve got some guidance about how to be a good parent.”

  Snowe ignored the hostile tone. “Mind if I sit?”

  Moriarty removed the stick from the fire. The tip was burning. She twirled it around like a wand. “There’s plenty of room,” she said.

  Snowe sat on a rock. “You’re right,” she said. “I don’t know a lot about the day-to-day challenges of raising a child. But I know a little about what’s expected of a parent, and it looks to me as though you’re failing miserably. Look around. You’re living out in the open. There are no bathroom facilities. There are no other children. This camp lacks the physical infrastructure and emotional support systems that a child needs. No sidewalk to ride a tricycle or place to color with crayons, no….”

  Moriarty poked the air with the stick. “Shut your trap. Don’t talk to me about infrastructure and support systems.” She pointed the stick menacingly at Snowe. “I don’t need any of your social welfare bullshit. Go back to where you came from and take all your textbook crap with you.”

  Snowe realized she was taking the wrong approach. She was speaking at Moriarty rather than talking to her. She knew she was wrapped up in her own emotion and could not retreat. “And then there’s drugs, Maggie,” she said. “You’re using again. The test results came back. Social Services is going to lodge a formal action against you next week to have Katie placed in foster care.”

  “No!” Moriarty staggered to her feet. She waved the smoldering stick as though it was transformed from a wand to a sword. “You’re not going to take Katie!”

  Snowe looked around. “By the way, where is she?” Moriarty just glared at her defiantly. Snowe got up and walked
to the tent. Peeking inside, she saw Katie lying fully dressed on top of a grubby sleeping bag. Her long blonde hair was stringy and her clothes were wrinkled and dirty.

  The sleeping bag wiggled and a man’s head emerged, his eyes straining as he squinted at her.

  “You go away!” Moriarty hollered from her post at the campfire. “You’re no good. You’re just going to cause trouble. Get the hell out of here!”

  Snowe shook Katie awake and said softly, “Come on, Katie, let’s go.” The sleepy girl let Snowe lead her out of the tent. Snowe stepped on a syringe as they made their way outside. The man in the sleeping bag emerged from the tent wearing boxer shorts and a T-shirt. “What do you think you’re doing?” he hollered. “Let go of my little rag doll.”

  Jesus Christ, Snowe said to herself. Little rag doll!

  **

  “AHMED?”

  Ahmed Suleiman said nothing. He held the phone to his ear and looked across the table toward his uncle Trey. The old man was wearing a mask. A chessboard was positioned between them.

  Suleiman knew the voice on the phone belonged to the man who stood outside the mosque about a year ago, soon after he and his family had celebrated Eid al-Fitr at the end of Ramadan. The man had spoken about a terrorist attack that had just occurred at Naval Air Station Corpus Christi, Texas. The man also talked about the October 2019 assassination of Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi and the need to avenge his death.

  “Your move, Sully,” said his uncle.

  Suleiman glanced at the chessboard. His queen was dead and his king was cornered by a bishop, a castle, and two knights. Uncle Trey was two moves from checkmate.

  “You win,” Suleiman said, nudging his king to topple it and quickly rising from the table. As he turned, his hand inadvertently swiped the standing pieces. A pawn tumbled to the ground.