Whirlwind (18 page)

39

Dallas–Fort Worth Metroplex, Texas

T
he window and door of Unit 21 of the Tumbleweed Dreams Motel filled the viewfinder of Mark Danson’s Canon camera.

With his face clenched behind it, Kate noticed the fan of wrinkles around his eye as he rolled his long lens to focus. They were over a hundred yards from the unit in a small park. Dallas police had sealed the area and were setting up for the SWAT team to make an entry.

Kate’s pulse was still pounding as it had been since the news broke on the scanner.

By the time Danson had picked her up at the bureau, Tommy Koop had sent them the address for the motel in the southeast.

“I know that place,” Danson said as he keyed coordinates into his GPS then adjusted his portable police scanner so they could listen to updates.

Kate had watched the Metroplex blur by her window as Danson’s Jeep Wrangler sailed along the expressways to the scene. Marked Dallas patrol cars had moved into the area without lights or sirens and had set up an outer perimeter a few blocks from the motel. They stopped traffic from entering the hot zone. Danson drove along the boundary before coming to a park, which offered a line of sight on the motel.

He’d tucked his portable scanner into a pocket of his photographer’s vest, connected an earpiece to monitor transmissions. Then he’d crouched at a park bench, where he was now, using the backrest to steady his lock on Unit 21.

“They’re still setting up,” Danson said. “Take a look, Kate.”

He held the camera as Kate drew her eye to the viewfinder. The image of the door and window, with its drawn curtains was powerful; close and crisp, silent and ominous until—

“The curtains moved!” she said.

“Yup,” Danson said. “Someone’s definitely in there.”

Kate kept her face welded to the camera as her pulse continued its steady pumping.

Is that them? Is the baby in there?

* * *

Out of sight a block north of the motel, the Dallas SWAT team set up a command post in the parking lot of the Diamond Lake Flooring Depot. Team leader Mitch Osweiler used the hood of an unmarked Dodge to unfurl a map of the motel property and the floor plan, while outlining the inner perimeter and developing an entry and arrest strategy for Unit 21.

At the same time, plainclothes officers knocked on the doors of all occupied units, then quickly and quietly escorted guests to a safe zone beyond the perimeter.

While preparations got underway, the SWAT team commander Steve Elling and negotiator Andre Kuper joined FBI Agents Phil Grogan and Nicole Quinn in the motel office to talk to the manager, Shelby Nix. After quick introductions, Grogan said, “Where are we at with this?”

“Mr. Nix thinks our targets are guests in his motel,” Elling said.

Grogan glanced at the FBI flyer that Elling had already placed on the counter before Nix.

“You’re certain, Mr. Nix?” Grogan asked.

“I’m pretty sure, yes. They’ve got a baby and they made a heck of a lot of noise yesterday, arguing. People complained. It’s Unit 21, Luke and Ashley Johnson, from Houston. They paid in cash.”

“We ran the names with Houston PD,” Elling said. “No hits, nothing.”

“An alias, likely,” Grogan said. “Got a vehicle and a plate?”

“Mr. Nix here says that he thinks the vehicle’s a Ford pickup, but the plate came up for a 2010 Toyota in Fort Worth. Fort Worth PD confirms the owner reported the plate stolen from a mall parking lot.”

“We see you have a video security system, Mr. Nix. Would you volunteer the recordings for the FBI to analyze?”

“I’d have to check with the owners. But I gotta say, it’s not a good system.”

“We can always get warrants,” Grogan said, turning to Elling. “Okay, we’re ready if you are.”

“Hold it,” Quinn said. “When’s the last time you actually saw this couple, Mr. Nix?”

“Yesterday. I saw the guy get into his truck. Then later I saw the mother on the street like she was taking the baby for a walk.”

“How would you describe the baby’s condition?”

“I don’t know. I heard it crying pretty good the other day. Aside from that—” Nix shrugged “—okay, I guess, but I didn’t get a good look at it.”

“Okay,” Elling said. “But you told the dispatcher you heard activity in the room less than an hour ago. The TV was on?”

“Yes.”

“All right, if we’re good to go, let’s call into the room and our negotiator, Andre, will ask them to step out and we’ll do this peacefully. First, I want to make sure our SWAT folks are in position.”

* * *

Commander Mitch Osweiler directed his SWAT team to establish an inner strike zone by first sending in scouts to determine the line of fire and safety points. Once they were good to go, squad members wearing helmets, armor, headset radios and equipped with rifles and handguns began taking positions. Sharpshooters took key points while the utility man, the breacher and other team members lined up on the unit. The squad pressed against the motel’s blistering walls as they inched toward the room from either side. Across the courtyard, sharpshooter L. C. Stonewood used a concrete planter as cover.

The window and door of Unit 21 filled his scope.

A tense silence hung in the air.

“Good to go,” Osweiler said into his headset.

“Ten-four,” Elling responded into his radio in the motel office. He nodded to Andre Kuper to make the call.

Kuper dialed the room number, but the phone rang unanswered. A minute later he stepped from the office and, using an unmarked police SUV as a shield, spoke through his bullhorn.

“To Luke and Ashley Johnson.” Kuper’s voice cracked across the small courtyard. “To Unit 21. Luke and Ashley Johnson in Unit 21. This is the Dallas Police Department. We want to talk to you. For your own safety, would you exit now with your hands raised and your palms forward, please.”

Several long, silent moments passed.

Kuper tried calling in again, then repeated the police order through the bullhorn.

No response.

After several more minutes had passed, Elling made a decision.

“You’re good to go, Mitch.”

Osweiler spoke into his headset to his team. “Go! Go! Go!”

The entry team popped the door and rushed into the small room, sweeping it with their weapons, checking the closet, tossing the mattresses, the sofa bed.

Nothing.

The room was empty.

The TV was on. The bathroom door was closed.

A soft noise could be heard coming from the bathroom.

“Dallas Police! Exit the room with your hands raised now!” the squad leader shouted.

Movement was heard from the inside but nothing happened.

The order was repeated.

Nothing happened.

The team popped the door and a member with another behind him entered, guns at the ready, finding a woman crouched on the floor of the shower stall crying. Team members searched her for weapons then secured her wrists with handcuffs.

“Room clear. One female in custody,” the squad leader reported.

“Got an ID on her?” Elling asked over the radio.

A few seconds later Osweiler responded: “She says she is Daisy Culpepper. She’s intoxicated.”

Elling repeated the name to those in the motel office.

“Daisy?” Nix, the manager, was surprised. “That’s Daisy, from housekeeping. I fired her for missing too many shifts.”

* * *

In the park, Danson’s camera whirred with rapid-fire speed, clicking as he shot frame after frame of the action. He’d captured dramatic images of a distraught woman with bound wrists being escorted across the complex by the imposing, heavily-armed members of the SWAT team.

“Let’s go, Kate.” Danson yanked his earpiece from his ear, adjusted his camera’s strap and trotted toward the motel.

“Hey! You people, hold it right there!” a uniformed Dallas police officer ordered from his car, some thirty yards away.

Kate froze.

“They just gave the all clear!” Danson shouted to the cop. He held up his press ID and pointed to a TV news crew and a news photographer who’d also emerged from concealed positions and were hurrying to the motel. “Come on, Kate!”

Standing there paralyzed, Kate looked at the cop, then Danson, then the other newspeople who were ignoring the order and running to the motel office where the SWAT team was taking the woman.

I’m not going to be the only one left out on this,
Kate thought before running with Danson and the others toward the motel.

They were halfway to the office when Kate noticed several people stepping out to receive the woman. Among them, she’d recognized FBI Agents Grogan and Quinn.

Suddenly Kate heard the loud cry, slurred the way a drunk makes a self-pitied plea, and she realized that the arrested woman was yelling at one of the people in the group.

“Don’t fire me, Shelby! I came in to work! I cleaned that room! I cleaned every damn corner, every damn inch! Twice!”

As Kate got closer, more newspeople had materialized along with police officers who blocked them from getting near the office. Photographers continued shooting pictures. As the growing pack swarmed the area, Kate noticed several new figures who were not press: Jenna and Blake Cooper, along with Jenna’s sister and brother-in-law.

“Where’s Caleb?” Jenna yelled at the woman. “What did you do with my son?”

Jenna then saw Grogan.

“Agent Grogan!” Jenna shouted. “Where’s my son? Did you find him? You knew this was happening— Why didn’t you tell us?”

“It’s the parents,” someone in the pack said.

The news photographers, including Danson, shifted their attention to Jenna and Blake.

“PLEASE!”
Jenna shouted. “Somebody tell us something. Where’s our baby! We have a right to know! Why did we have to find out from the TV news?
HE’S MY SON!
”

Grogan spoke quickly into the ear of one of the senior Dallas cops, who dispatched uniformed officers to shield the Coopers from the press and get them into the office. As that happened, Jenna found Kate.

“You knew, too, and you never told us!” Jenna yelled. “But you want me to tell you everything and I did!”

It was true.

Kate burned with shame at Jenna’s reproach. The call had come in so fast, she’d had to move so quickly, she’d forgotten about her promise to keep the Coopers in the loop. Jenna’s words tore at her as they echoed from under the motel’s canopied reception area and over the courtyard.

40

Fort Worth, Texas

C
hildren’s screams escaped when the glass door opened to the enclosed play area of the fast-food restaurant.

A kid named T.J. had, according to the banner, turned seven years old and a dozen of his friends had his party going full bore. Like competitors in a cage match they attacked the nets, the tunnels, the slides and ball pit in the contained section known as Playworld.

A grandfather of one of the little partygoers watched the action from his booth, occasionally lifting his eyes from the
Dallas Morning News
to sip his coffee and ensure the action didn’t get out of hand. Thick, silver-white hair accentuated his chiseled face. He wore a navy polo shirt.

Eli Maddick.

That’s him,
Pavel Gromov thought after entering the restaurant and scanning the dining room for the man who’d described himself to Gromov over the phone last night.

White hair, sixties, said he’d wear a navy polo shirt. Yes, he’s the man I’m looking for.

Since Gromov and Yanna had arrived in Texas the previous day, Gromov had worked late into the night, talking with Yuri Korzun in New York. Korzun had reached out to his associates, calling in favors to help Gromov find ex-con Mason Varno, his girlfriend, Remy Toxton, and ultimately, his grandchild.

They’d exhausted the list of names of Mason Varno’s coworkers that Gromov and Yanna had gleaned from Triple E Carpenters. Korzun obtained telephone numbers and at Gromov’s demand, Yanna called, claiming to be a distant relative of Remy’s who needed to see her.

Yanna had surprised Gromov with her talent for acting. He listened to her emotional ruses, the way she smoothly played off names of the spouses of coworkers, woman to woman.

“Suzie, Billy’s wife thought you might be able to help me. I need to reach Remy, you know, Mason’s girlfriend? Yes, she was due to deliver a few weeks ago. Remy and I were friends, way back when I lived in America and we lost touch....”

But Yanna’s calls were to no avail.

Gromov had grown to believe that Mason’s coworkers did not know of Mason’s or Remy’s whereabouts. And Gromov had failed on another front. He couldn’t reach the person with the ex-con support group, the Fellowship of the Good Thief. After he’d considered a new approach he went back to Yuri, this time for help finding other ex-cons who’d served time with Varno.

It took several hours before Korzun called Gromov back with a contact.

“His name is Eli Maddick and he’ll be expecting your call.”

Yuri gave Gromov the background on Maddick, how all of Korzun’s associates in Miami, New Orleans, Houston and Dallas, vouched for him as a “consultant.” The speed and quality of his information is unsurpassed.

Korzun said that Maddick was a prison official who had resigned five years ago after allegations surfaced that he had controlled several inmates to make a brutal attack on other inmates. The men who were allegedly beaten at Maddick’s command contacted attorneys, who claimed their clients had had their civil rights violated. The FBI launched an investigation but soon all statements were mysteriously recanted and all complaints were withdrawn.

Maddick agreed to voluntarily resign and take early retirement.

Nothing was ever proven.

Since retiring, Maddick did “a bit of confidential security consulting,” using his expertise and contacts to help clients obtain information on the justice system.

It was late last night when Gromov called him on the cell number Korzun had provided and told him of his situation concerning Mason Varno. Maddick listened and said little. Then he gave Gromov directions, details and the time to meet before quoting his consulting fee, which was to be paid in cash, with nonsequential serial numbers. “I’ll have the information you need.”

Gromov and Yanna rose early to make the estimated four-hour drive from Lufkin to Fort Worth, to make it in time to the suburban fast-food restaurant where Maddick was now waiting.

“Eli?” Gromov said.

Maddick looked up from his newspaper at Gromov and Yanna.

“I’m Sergei, and this is my niece, Tatiana.” Gromov adhered to his practice of using false names. “We spoke on the phone.”

“Yes, have a seat.”

Yanna paused to slide a child’s jacket, ball cap and small sneakers farther along the bench seat that she and Gromov took.

“How was your trip—from Canada, wasn’t it?”

“Uneventful,” Gromov said. “Thank you for agreeing to help us. You were highly recommended.”

“So were you.” Maddick offered the beginnings of a bitter smile. “I was advised rather strongly that I should help you.”

“Good. You have the information?”

Maddick lifted the corner of the folded sports section of the newspaper, showing a glimpse of a large plain brown envelope.

“It’s all there.”

“Thank you.” Gromov nodded to Yanna. “We brought you a box of your favorite chocolates.”

Yanna passed a small cardboard chocolate box to Maddick. He peeked inside. It held five thousand dollars in unmarked fifties and twenties.

“I’ll enjoy these, thank you. I’ll give you some additional background on the information. Would you like to get a coffee first?”

Maddick, Gromov and Yanna looked like any other group of suburbanites socializing at a children’s birthday party. Only the subject was the Texas justice system and Maddick gave them a primer.

“Are you familiar with prisons, Sergei?”

“No, I know very little of prisons.”

Yanna looked away so her face would not betray his lie.

Maddick said that there were some 150,000 offenders in over one hundred fifty prisons, jails and other facilities in Texas, and if needed, he could help get information on just about anything.

“For now, I am interested in locating Mason Varno,” Gromov said.

Before he was paroled, Maddick said, Mason Varno completed a five-year sentence at Hightower Unit for robbery. The prison was near Dayton, northeast of Houston. The unit housed about 1,400 prisoners, give or take. Like prisons everywhere, the institution had its challenges with gangs, beatings and other issues. While Varno was inside, he took part in various programs and also sought the help of the Fellowship of the Good Thief Society, a faith-based support group.

“He kept to himself and managed to stay out of trouble,” Maddick said. “However, I was able to find out that he associated with four prisoners, and maybe not always on the best of terms, but there were four.”

Maddick’s intel indicated that among Varno’s circle, there was talk of plans for various enterprises on the outside and that Varno feared retribution on the inside for a disastrous drug deal prior to his incarceration.

“By the sounds of things, you would think he would’ve been almost happy to be inside, or so it seems,” Maddick said.

“Where are these four associates?” Gromov asked.

“Two are still in prison. One died in a workshop accident. Only one has been paroled. All of their information is in the envelope.”

Gromov began opening it.

“Now, while it would be a parole violation for the inmates to associate with each other while on parole, we all know rules are broken every day.” Maddick smiled.

Gromov looked at the first page of records. The ex-con’s name: Lamont Harley Faulk.

“A little warning about Faulk,” Maddick said. “You’ll see he’s serving time for aggravated assault. In prison he was legendary for knowing everything about everyone. He was drawn to white supremacist gangs. He once put out a man’s eye with his thumb, bit off one of his ears and ate it, then used a nail gun to leave him crucifixion-style against the wall of a barn. This was after a fit of road rage. The man cut Faulk off. Faulk confronted him at a red light, hauled him away to the barn where he nearly killed him. Faulk’s not quite right upstairs. He’s got a temper. He hates most living things, but apparently keeps his word. He’s pathological about that. It’s all there in his psych reports.”

Gromov studied Faulk’s records.

“I don’t know how you’d persuade him to tell you anything about Mason Varno,” Maddick said, nodding to Yanna. “Oh, could you please pass me my grandson’s things on the seat there? I’m afraid it’s time for us to leave.”

Yanna passed him the small sneakers, jacket and ball cap.

“Thanks and good luck,” Maddick said.

* * *

After Maddick left, Yanna moved to the seat across from Gromov.

She sipped her tea while he slipped on his bifocals to study the documents more closely. She thought it a strange juxtaposition how this powerful Russian mobster, no doubt a murderer himself, was sitting here amid the laughter of American children, preparing to hunt down a violent psychopath.