CHAPTER
28
There wasn't much to go on, yet Maggie made note of everything. Small details that appeared insignificant at first glance, could end up breaking a case. Despite the grainy black-and-white video she might find something. Except A.D. Kunze expected more than something. He expected her to supply a conclusive profile, one irrefutable enough he could use for a search warrant. He made it sound like she should have names, addresses and social security numbers just by examining the black-and-white, three-second delayed movements of these young homicide bombers.
Unfortunately he wasn't the only one. Television and movies had turned profiling into a sort of magic act that had people believing with a few clues and a wave of the hand, you could pull the rabbit out of the hat, so to speak. Even Kunze insisted there was a scientific formula?which was almost as bad as magic?that if a suspect showed certain characteristics or traits?characteristic number one, two and five from a theoretical psychological profiling chart?then, of course, the suspect fit a specific category. Organized, disorganized. Anger, vengeance. Ritualistic, chaotic. Two out of three and voil?, just look for the nearest sociopathic narcissist with a speech impediment dressed in a double-breasted navy blue suit. If only it were that easy.
Maggie had a premed background, a bachelor's degree in criminal psychology and a master's in behavioral psychology. Early in her career she had earned a forensic fellowship at Quantico. Yet, even she believed profiling was more about observation than anything else. The trick?if there was one?was seeing what others missed, taking account of what may appear obvious to others. And just as important as paying attention to what was left behind, you needed to pay attention to what was absent.
Notably absent in this case so far? Hours had passed and no one had taken credit for the attack. Not even a suicide note or video?yet. Already it didn't quite fit into a mass killing category like Virginia Tech or Columbine High School. Also absent was that none of these young men looked nervous or anxious. None of them seemed to fit the profile of a homicide bomber or a mass murderer.
"Is this the one?" Yarden asked.
He had been waiting on her almost to the point of being annoying. Ordinarily she'd rather be left alone to run through each tape, over and over as many times as necessary until she was sure no detail had gone unnoticed. But this was Yarden's territory. Actually his mastery of the control panel and ability to follow instructions were saving them valuable time.
"Yes. If you could rewind it from when we first see him."
It was the track on the corner monitor from the third-floor camera in what Yarden had marked as NW1. This would be the third time Maggie had asked to see this particular track.
There had to be something here that she was missing. What was she not seeing?
Yarden began the tape, fingers ready to freeze-frame or zoom in. But Maggie let it play. She wanted to examine Bomber #1, focusing only on him, picking him out of the distant crowd then watching as he got closer and closer.
His head didn't swivel or dart around. His hands stayed by his side in a comfortable, easy stride. There was nothing to indicate he was nervous or anxious. He didn't glance around, worried about being followed. He didn't look around for cameras, didn't even seem to care whether or not one caught him on film.
He wore a jacket, jeans, tennis shoes, a baseball cap. Nothing sagged, bulged or flapped over to hide any weapons or to disguise his appearance. Nor was there anything to indicate he belonged to a gang. No backward cap, no special hand signals, no T-shirt with a message. He appeared to be dressed in regular street clothes.
Maggie guessed his age at somewhere between eighteen and twenty-six. Like the others he was undeniably Caucasian. Light-colored hair curled over the collar of his jacket but not over his ears. Sideburns were long but trimmed, and on the morning after Thanksgiving, Maggie couldn't help but notice he had taken time to shave. Was that something a twenty-year-old took time out to do, especially if he knew he was going to the mall to blow himself up?
Maybe it meant nothing. She knew homicide bombers often followed their daily routine even on the day of their deaths. They didn't want to alarm or tip off family members or friends. Still, she wrote it down in her small notebook.
She wasn't used to jotting things down. Never had a problem keeping it all in her head. Writing stuff down, that was her partner, R.J. Tully. He scratched out notes about everything and on anything that was available: a napkin, a dry cleaning receipt, a ticket stub. Maggie had been content to commit details to memory until A.D. Raymond Kunze came along. Now it seemed important to keep a record of her thought process. He couldn't sideswipe her if there was documentation. Suddenly she was becoming one of those bureaucrats she hated, concerned about covering her ass. Was it that, or did she simply not want Kunze to win, to break her spirit?
On the video Bomber #1 crossed right below the camera. Not even a glance in its direction. Did he even know it was there? A clean-cut, good-looking, college-aged guy with his entire future ahead of him. Nice clothes, athletic physique, an air of confidence. She wanted him to look up, just for a second so she could see his eyes. So that she might be able to get a glimpse of why he did this? But she already knew. She had already seen this series three times before and each time she had willed his eyes to glance up. Come on, just one glance. And each time Bomber #1 simply walked on by.