“I’m going to report you,” he said. “Count on it.”
Without another word, he turned his back. I almost grabbed him, but saw an officer I recognized on the Las Vegas Metro bomb squad and walked over to him. We work together often. I know them. They’re top-notch and it was good to see they were close to moving onto the lot.
Then I saw Jane Stone coming toward me. She wrapped her arms around me and said, “I’m so sorry, Paul.”
“Why is Venuti pulling me? What’s going on with the Department of Defense investigators? Venuti said we got a call from DOD and two investigators from their criminal investigative division are on their way to our office. They think a former drone pilot I know should be questioned in connection with the bombing. The rest he’ll explain when I get to the office. When did we get this tip? I was just at Beatty’s place.”
“Maybe fifteen minutes after the bombing. How well do you know him?”
“Fairly well. He said a pair of air force OSI came out to question him last night about a drone pilot training job he did in Taiwan. But what’s this about?”
“He’s part of a joint OSI-DOD investigation. They’ve been tapped into his communications for six months. You’ll get it from Dan. Where do you know him from?”
“From my brother-in-law, who died here. I met Beatty at Melissa and Jim’s house years ago.”
I had to look past her after I said that.
“Beatty was a top pilot in the Creech flight trailers until he developed what’s called ‘kill inhibition,’ meaning he didn’t want to press the trigger anymore. The air force tried to bring him around, gave up, and discharged him with a PTSD diagnosis a couple of years ago. He had trouble adjusting to civilian life. A lot of trouble. I’d gotten to know him from barbecues at Jim and Melissa’s house, so Jim asked me to try to help him.”
“You’ve mentored him.”
“That’s too big a word. All I’ve done is try to help him. He had a tough first year—suicide was possible—then things started getting better. Last fall he connected with a job broker who’s been getting him drone consulting projects.”
My voice trailed off. I couldn’t stand here and explain Beatty’s drone consulting business or my friendship with him any longer.
“Paul, you’re going to have to go in and get briefed.”
I shook my head and said, “That’s not right, I belong here.”
“Would this Jeremy Beatty know about the party here?” She asked.
“He was invited. He’s always invited.”
“Invited? Oh, through your brother-in-law.”
Her cell rang and she showed me the screen.
“That’s Dan wondering how long ago you left. I’ve got to talk to him.”
She was still on the phone as my headlights caught the white Tyvek of the FBI ERT—Evidence Response Team—suiting up. But I didn’t drive to the office. Twelve minutes later, after passing under the rusted iron arch of the Wunderland Trailer Park sign, I came up behind a black SUV blocking the thin asphalt road leading to Beatty’s trailer out at the end of Wunderland. It wasn’t one of ours; I drove around it and arrived in time to see Beatty’s computers being carried out of the trailer. A young Department of Defense investigator flashed a badge and moved to stop me as I started up the trailer-deck steps.
“That’s as far as you go,” he said.
I pulled my FBI creds and said, “It’s a terrorism investigation that brought me here, so I could ask you to leave. What are you doing here? Who are you? Identify yourself.”
He looked around for help. What he told me without saying anything is that he knew my name and he didn’t want to give me information. I stepped around him and looked in the trailer. The computers and the small drone were gone. A scan of the trailer walls was underway. I walked back out to the young investigator.
“When did you get a search warrant?”
“This morning.”
“Does it reference possible bomb-making equipment?”
“I can’t talk about it.”
“You can’t talk about the search warrant to an FBI agent?”
“I can’t discuss this with you.”
“Why is it you can’t talk to an FBI agent?”
“My orders are not to talk to you, sir.”
“Your orders?”
“My boss.”
“Is your boss waiting for me at the field office?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Give me the person’s name.”
“Sarah Warner.”
“Is Sarah in the Department of Defense Criminal Investigative Division like you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why are you looking at Jeremy Beatty?”
“I can’t talk about that.”
“Did Sarah tell you not to talk to any FBI agents or just me?”
“Just you.”
I pulled out my phone.