“Of the original nineteen, two are dead and another two are incarcerated.”
“Dead how?” Morales asked.
The ATF supervisor checked his notes. “One of throat cancer. The other one, a guy named Boyd Sylvain, was killed just about eighteen months ago. They found him shot to death in a Wal-Mart parking lot down in Encino. The PD are handling it as a mugging gone wrong.”
“And the two in jail?”
“Both for drugs. Both have been inside for over a year.”
“And the others?”
“We’ve eliminated six, for one reason or another.”
“That leaves nine.”
“Three have moved out of state.” He held up a hand, as if to forestall another question. “We’re following them up,” he said. “Should have something in the next couple of hours.”
“And the others?”
“We’ve got three in custody and a very nasty standoff situation developing with a fourth.”
“Nasty how?” Corso asked.
The ATF guy looked Corso over.
“He’s with me,” Morales said.
“So was David Warren.”
Morales turned red. “Yeah,” was all he said.
“The only reason I agreed to do the Bureau’s dirty work was to maybe get some sense of closure for the Warren family.”
“I understand,” Morales said.
ATF checked his notes again. “Got a guy named Larry Kelly out in the Dry Lake area. Another vet with a grievance. He’s taken the VA to court a dozen times. He put three shots through the door when we demanded entry. Says he’s got a wife and three kids in there with him.”
“Ugly,” Morales said.
“Worse. He’s got a garage out back of the house. First, the dogs hit all over the place. Then we did a wipe test on the workbench and got a chemical positive for C-4. God only knows what he’s got in the house with him. We’ve got a negotiator on the scene. Last I heard Kelly was refusing to talk to him. Says he’s not coming out.”
“You said you’ve got three in custody?”
ATF consulted his notes again. “Martin Wellsley, Gordon Jones and Mike Sanford. We found identical explosive devices at the homes of Wellsley and Jones. All wrapped up and ready to go. Sanford had the better part of thirty pounds of military-grade C-4 in his toolshed. Happens he’s still in the Army Reserve. You wanna guess where he does his reserve duty?”
“Twenty-Nine Palms,” Corso said. “In the armory.”
“Touchdown.”
“Any of them got anything useful to say?” Morales asked.
“Not a peep. Five seconds in, they all lawyered up.”
Morales nodded knowingly. “You guys did a hell of a job,” he said.
“You didn’t let me finish” the guy groused. “After they lawyered up, I sent an Assistant U.S. Attorney in to have a few words with each of them. You know, see if maybe we couldn’t find somebody who wanted to do less time than everybody else for cooperating with the investigation.” He made a face. “The AUSA was in the building anyway on another matter and I figured, you know…what the hell, why not?”
This time Morales kept his mouth shut and waited. ATF milked the pause for all it was worth. “Lo and behold if Mr. Wellsley and his mouthpiece didn’t decide that seven to fifteen sounded a hell of a lot better than twenty-five to life.”
“I’ll be damned,” Morales said.
“There’s a problem.”
“What’s that?”
“You know the standard deal we cut with them. You give us everything you know. You cop to it in open court. You’re a major player in the arrest and conviction of everyone else involved in the crime. And then and only then will we live up to our end of the bargain.”
Corso spoke up. “You don’t believe the guy?” he asked.
“Problem is, we do.” He waved his notes in the air. “Everything he says is well and good. The hitch is that he hasn’t got a hell of a lot to give us that we don’t already have, and some of what he is giving us is guesswork.”
“What’s he saying?” Corso asked.
“Pretty much the way you guys had it drawn. There’s this bunch of guys who wind up in the same support group in Pomona. All of them disabled to one degree or another. All of them feeling like the government owes them something. Like they’ve been big-time cheated by the system. To quote Mr. Wellsley, ‘…like they been used and thrown away.’”
“Just like that? By coincidence, they all wind up at Pomona?”
ATF threw a sly glance at Morales. “Your friend here is pretty sharp,” he said, before shifting his hard blue eyes to Corso. “No coincidence about it. Mr….”
“Corso.”
“Friend of mine in the VA system tells me it’s pretty much common knowledge…you get one of these group wreckers…somebody who’s poisoning the whole system with his attitude…you send his ass up to Pomona. That way he can’t claim you’re not providing him with the service he’s entitled to, but you don’t have to put up with his rants and raves either.”
“So they got all the real malcontents under one roof.”
“Tried a different therapeutic approach too.”
Corso and Morales waited for him to go on. “From what he tells me. This idea of ‘tough love’ was all the rage back in the nineties.” When nobody disagreed, he went on. “So they try something a bit less supportive and a bit more confrontational. They hire this guy Ben-Iman to facilitate the group. He’s not only got the credentials, but he’s one of those self-made types who came to this country with a quarter in his pocket, not speaking the language…” He rolled a hand around his wrist. “You know…the whole immigrant Horatio Alger story.”
“Which was the attitude got his butt sent to Pomona as well.”
“Of course.”
“A match made in heaven,” Corso added.
“So Ben-Iman’s a real Tartar. No-nonsense. Hold the whining. Bootstrap yourself back into society. Take responsibility for yourself. Stop blaming others for your problems.”
“I’ve heard worse ideas,” said Corso.
“Haven’t we all,” ATF agreed.
“And they can’t just stop showing up for sessions, or the government will cut their benefits,” Morales added.
“Or stop them altogether,” ATF amended. “Our man Wellsley says that’s exactly what happened to a couple of guys early on.”
“So every Wednesday night for five years…” Corso began.
“These guys are sitting there hating every minute of it.”
ATF looked over at Morales. “You check the VA records. You’ll find a bunch of people come and gone over that time period.” He waved a finger. “But you’ll find this little nucleus of discontent who was there the whole time.”
“So what happened?”
“So Ben-Iman is cutting them no slack. He keeps bringing in guest speakers who’ve had it harder, people who are physically worse off, people who started lower and still made something of themselves.”
“Our Mr. Nguyen, the bank manager,” Corso ventured.
“Bingo.”
“The guy in Malibu?”
“Death camp inmate.”
“The woman over on Figueroa…”
“Cancer survivor.”
“All of them guest lecturers?”
“Yup.”
The news had a sobering effect. Everyone took a minute to process the information. Corso broke the spell. “Whose idea was this thing?”
“According to Wellsley…he was approached by Larry Kelly about a year and a half ago.”
“The guy who’s barricaded in his house?” Morales asked.
“Yup. Wellsley says Kelly told it like it was. Said it was dangerous, illegal as hell and damn well might get them killed or sent away forever. But he also said it was a chance for them to get what was coming to them. Even up a few scores and all end up with enough cash to live out their lives somewhere else.”
“Five years in the same group and you probably get a pretty good idea who might go along with a crazy-ass scheme like this,” Morales said.
“Interesting point.” ATF held up that finger again. “Wellsley says he doesn’t know for sure, but he thinks Kelly might have asked somebody who turned him down. He says he heard Kelly say something about how they couldn’t afford to have so and so walking around.”
“Our friend from Wal-Mart maybe?” Corso asked.