(This is the continuation of a serial novel. For previous chapters click here.)
Darren Harrison was on his way to interview Jennifer Zallos when he heard the lookout for the fast chase broadcast over his police radio. “They’re on New York Avenue heading for the BW Parkway,” screamed the pursuing uniformed officer into his microphone. The officer was now a car length behind the fleeing vehicle. “Black Nissan Maxima … shots fired,” he yelled. “Still on New York … now coming up on Bladensburg Avenue … DC Tag 979 666.”
Darren Harrison was at the intersection as the black Maxima skidded violently to the left, turning onto Bladensburg Road. Harrison activated his emergency equipment. “Mary 6 … I’m at Bladensburg and New York in pursuit,” Harrison said.
With red lights and siren Harrison joined in the chase. No police officer ever misses the opportunity for a good fast chase. They rounded onto Bladensburg Road. The Maxima side swiped a station wagon, then bounced off the median before recovering and continuing down Bladensburg Road. Harrison decided to stay behind the more visible marked cruiser since it would be more effective in parting the oncoming traffic than Harrison’s unmarked car would have been.
“Notify Prince George’s County we’re headed their way,” the pursuing uniformed officer screamed. The adrenaline was now surging in both officers. Harrison was following the book, staying off the radio and allowing the primary unit to give the updated lookout.
“We’re coming up on Fort Lincoln Cemetery … I see P.G. up ahead. They lost it! At the entrance to the Cemetery. It’s a bail out,” the officer screamed while opening his door to pursue the fleeing suspects on foot.
Harrison barely heard the shots over his screeching tires as he skidded to a stop. The uniform officer had shot the driver of the Maxima at the same moment one of the passengers in the Maxima had fired back. The bullet caught the uniformed officer in the middle of his forehead, killing him instantly. The driver of the Maxima lay wounded on the street. Harrison could see the two others fleeing on foot, leaping over tombstones. Harrison gently kicked the gun that lay beside the wounded suspect, spinning it toward the curb. Then he drop kicked the wounded suspect once, squarely in the jaw, knocking him unconscious. Harrison heard the wailing sirens of the Prince George’s County Police. He looked back at the approaching marked units and pointed down to the now unconscious suspect, while holding up his police credentials for all to see. When the first P.G. unit arrived, a burly white officer emerged from the car.
“D.C. Homicide !” Harrison yelled. “The two others, black males in their teens, ran that way,” Harrison pointed.
Then Darren Harrison took off on foot. The P.G. officer tried to follow but there was no way. Harrison was still the athlete he had always been. The only obstacles to his speed were the tombstones and, against his adrenaline and rage, they were no match. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion now. He could feel himself growing stronger and calmer as he ran up the first ridge line. There he decided to stop and peer over the top rather than run. The one obstacle he always wanted to avoid was his own tombstone.
Harrison dove for the ground as he reached the top of the hill. He gazed over the top and saw the two suspects weaving among the tombstones. Harrison rose to his feet and barreled down the hill. He was gaining on them rapidly. He clenched his 9mm Glock firmly in his right hand with his finger wrapped loosely around the trigger.
The fleeing suspects were tiring. Their gait had slowed as Harrison’s had increased. He was anything but tired. One of the suspects turned to look over his shoulder and saw Harrison for the first time. They were 25 yards from each other and Harrison was closing fast.
“Police,” Harrison yelled, knowing it was no use. Both suspects spun around and opened fire at once. Harrison dove to the ground and found cover behind the nearest tombstone he could crawl to. The crisp, supersonic crack of 9 mm fire filled the air. Several bullets exploded against the granite tombstones sending explosions of dust into the air, now filled with the sounds of their ricocheting whine. Harrison waited for the shooting to subside. The ringing noise of the shots filled his ears. He felt the pounding pulse of his heart throbbing within his neck. Harrison raised his gun slowly over the edge of the tombstone and drew his sights on the two standing figures who were now approaching. They were coming to finish off their pursuer. Suddenly, Harrison heard the familiar sound of a low flying police helicopter cresting the hill and he instinctively knew that was all the distraction he needed. Crouched behind his tombstone Harrison began to fire. His entire body became immersed in the rapid, semi automatic explosions of the Glock. His massive forearms barely moved as they absorbed the jack hammer rhythm of rapid shots.
Through the smoke and flames belching from his gun, Harrison could barely discern the human silhouettes as they twisting in pain collapsing to the ground. When the last bullet had ejected from his Glock, Harrison released the empty magazine, letting it fall to the ground as he quickly locked and loaded a fresh magazine. Clutching his weapon with both hands, arms extended, Harrison cautiously approached the fallen and mortally wounded suspects. The helicopter overhead swirled clouds of dust which clung like red mud to the oozing wounds of the bleeding youths. Both were no older than 15. One dead and the other dying. Harrison kept his sights aimed at the dying youth as he slowly stepped closer. The boy lay motionless, staring blankly toward the sky as his eyes began to roll back into his head. He knew he was dying. Harrison saw that the boy’s gun had fallen far beyond his grasp. He holstered his weapon and knelt down beside the dying boy. It all seemed so pointless. Now, as the final pint of blood was draining the life out of this kid Harrison wished he could have slapped him. Slapped him for being so stupid and joining that generation everyone keeps saying is lost. Slapped him for leaving him with this nightmare vision that would now live within him the rest of his life. Slapped him for killing and for being killed.
“ I’m cold,” the boy muttered before lapsing into death.
“You all right?” yelled the Prince George’s County Officer to Harrison while trying to scream loud enough to be heard over the thumping sound of the helicopter.
“Not hardly,” Harrison muttered, while nodding his head slowly.
He’s Not Hurt
Around the same time Harrison was calling for an evidence team to respond to the cemetery, the formal and informal networks within the police department had begun disseminating the most crucial details of his shooting.
“ You hear about your man Harrison?” patrolman Dwayne Thomas asked Irwin Rogers as he passed the doorway of a 7-Eleven.
“ What?” Rogers asked, sounding concerned.
“He just had a departmental shooting. Three youngins jacked a car and ran a chase down New York Avenue. Bailed out at Fort Lincoln Cemetery, shots fired, a uniform officer was killed …”
“How’s Harrison?” Rogers asked impatiently.
“Harrison’s not hurt. He chased two of them down on foot. Got em both. It’s a Departmental Shooting now,” Thomas said.
“Thanks Dwayne,” Rogers said abruptly while dumping his coffee and jumping into his unmarked Ford. Rogers proceeded red lights and siren to Fort Lincoln Cemetery.
Television crews had already begun arriving. The media monitored police frequencies better than Rogers did. If it bleeds — it leads. Rogers drove as close to the cordoned-off crime scene as he could and then parked. As he walked toward the evidence truck he noticed Alphonso Foggs standing outside the vehicle being briefed by the uniformed officers. Good old Alphonso — Rogers thought to himself — never misses a photo opportunity.
Rogers entered the truck and saw Harrison seated in front being questioned by Sgt. Nick “the Dick” Fickenger of Internal Affairs. Fickenger’s fat and wrinkling bald head had become his trademark. Before Nick “the Dick” had been assigned to Internal Affairs, officers used to tease him about the uncanny resemblance his head had to an uncircumcised penis.
Rogers never liked Nick “the Dick.”
Darren Harrison looked up and smiled with relief as Rogers entered the truck.
“You all right?” Rogers asked with genuine concern.
Harrison nodded his head yes while saying no with his body.
“You want to wait outside Rogers?” Fickenger snapped.
“If I did, I’d be outside Nick,” Rogers said calmly.
“I’m conducting an investigation here and you are interfering,” Fickenger said.
“Don’t play that heavy handed shit with me Fickenger,” Rogers yelled. “Asking my partner how he is hardly interferes with what you would call an investigation.”
“Is there a problem?” Alphonso Foggs asked as he entered the cab of the already crowded Evidence truck.
“Sir, I’m trying to conduct an investigation and Rogers busts in here unannounced and interrupts the whole process. I’ve asked Detective Rogers to step out until I’m through and he refuses to, Inspector Foggs.”
Just like an IAD puke, thought Rogers. The whining little rat bastard. Rogers felt like he was back in grade school and the class snitch was tattling on him. Rogers knew that this was a time to be diplomatic. He knew that as much as he detested it, this was the time to kiss a little butt and stay in the game. As much as Rogers hated the prospect, he was going to have to be especially nice to Inspector Alphonso Foggs.
“Sir,” Rogers began, “all I was trying to do is ensure that my partner was OK and that he was given his right to counsel before questioning,” Rogers said calmly.
The fact that even police officers have constitutional rights is often a sore subject with the brass. Ranking members of the department want to have all the facts of a shooting as soon as possible to belay the concerns of their political superiors as well as the media and the public. This is understandable and the public has the right to know. Unfortunately, what police officers often forget during the emotional crisis of police shooting is that a homicide investigation is being conducted and the officer is the suspect. Often in the heat of battle, the emotional reactions of an officer involved in a shooting can cloud responses to questions, making them inaccurate. These inaccuracies can later be used against the officer, if not criminally then administratively. It is always best to retain counsel and pause long enough to compose yourself before submitting to questioning. Killing two people does not evoke a mild emotional experience. Rogers knew that if they were pushed, the brass would reluctantly concede to this constitutional reality.
“What’s your point?” asked Foggs, clearly annoyed.
“Sir,” Rogers said, “ I don’t believe Darren has had the opportunity to talk to an attorney.”
“What are you going to be his lawyer Rogers?” asked Foggs sarcastically. “This whole thing seems pretty cut and dry to me. I thought we were on the same team.”
Rogers had seen “cut and dry” before. When the political heat gets turned on, the brass cuts and runs while the working cop gets hung out to dry.
“With all due respect Inspector, I don’t believe that’s the point,” Rogers said. “Detective Harrison still should be given the opportunity to talk to an attorney before he is questioned any further. He’s upset and needs some time to calm down sir. I know you’re a fair man and so I’m asking you: Please give Darren a chance to get it together. We’ll meet you at Homicide with his attorney and give you a full statement.”
“Maybe we should let Detective Harrison make that decision Rogers,” Foggs said.
“Well?” Foggs asked, glaring at Harrison in expectation. “Do you want to talk to an attorney before you are questioned any further, Detective Harrison?”
“I think I’d feel better if I did sir,” Harrison quietly conceded.
“Well then by all means — take your time, Harrison. After all, we only have a dead cop laying outside along with three dead teenagers to explain to the media. But that’s OK. You two just take your time and get yourselves ‘together’ — here,” Foggs said sarcastically.
“Go on,” Foggs said with disdain, “the two of you get out of here. I’ll expect to see the both of you at Homicide in one hour with or without your attorney.”
Foggs left, slamming the door to the truck where he was immediately besieged by a swarming press.
“Congratulations Rogers,” snapped Nick “the Dick,” “looks like you’ve managed to ruin another promising detective’s career.”
While Rogers wanted to plant his fist along side the uncircumcised head of Nick “the Dick,” he pretended instead to ignore the remark.
“Come on Man — let’s go,” Rogers said to Harrison.
Harrison rose to his feet and Rogers placed his hand on Darren Harrison’s shoulder reassuringly while guiding him out the door of the Evidence truck and into an awaiting crowd of spectators and media.
“Hey Nick,” Rogers called before shutting the door, “nice head.”
Alphonso Foggs was finishing giving a statement to the throng of reporters. Rogers made eye contact with Dave Strickland of Eyewitness News. Strickland started to make his way toward Rogers for a comment when Rogers waved him off saying “Later Dave.”
Strickland honored Rogers request. They had known each other too long for Strickland to do otherwise.
The two detectives got into Roger’s Ford and drove to the Law Offices of Wannamaker and Dunbar on K Street. As he drove, Rogers pretended not to notice Darren Harrison quietly crying.
Timing is everything, Rogers thought while waiting for the elevator to take him take him to Homicide. It had been 24 hours since Darren Harrison’s departmental shooting and already Rogers knew his timing was off. Bad luck was sure to follow. Darren Harrison had been suspended, with pay, pending the outcome of the State’s Attorney’s Investigation of his shooting. Since the shooting occurred in Maryland, it was now up to Prince George’s County to determine if the shooting was legally justified. Another layer of bureaucracy translated into further delays in getting Harrison back on the case. Rogers knew he needed his partner back.
Arriving on his floor, Rogers stepped off the elevator and was quickly pulled aside by Detective Jerry Manley. Manley was a nervous and overly political newcomer to Homicide. How anyone in this man’s blood lineage was ever named Manley was beyond Rogers. He was a lanky, jittery man in his late 20s who looked more like he was middle aged. Manley never had trouble finding something to worry about. He worried about rumors, the economy of the District of Columbia, evaluations, promotions, citizen complaints, being fined, being fired, being sued, but most of all Jerry Manley worried about being white and not accepted by his black superiors. The truth is Alphonso Foggs loved him, because anytime Foggs needed a rat — Manley was his man.
“Irwin — got a minute?” Manley asked sheepishly.
“Sure Jerry. What is it?”
“I thought I should warn you — Foggs wants a piece of your ass. Did you see the Post today?” Manley asked.
“Not yet — no,” replied Rogers figuring that Debbie Peerless must have dropped her bombshell.
“Let me tell you something Irwin — the man is pissed! He wants to see you right away. You better watch you back,” Manley warned with mock sincerity.
“Thanks Jerry – I’ll try to do that,” Rogers replied.
Marvelous Manley, as he was known by his peers. When the man wasn’t worrying about his own business, he was busy worrying about mine, Rogers thought to himself. Jerry Manley would never make it 20 years. First you get shaky — then you get flaky.
Rogers walked down the hallway and directly into the office of Alphonso Foggs. He wanted to get it over with.
“Come in Rogers,” Foggs said after Roger’s first knock.
“I was told you wanted to see me Inspector,” Rogers said.
“Did you happen to read the Post this morning?” Foggs asked.
“ No Sir, I haven’t,” Rogers replied.
“Who do you suppose told the Post that Senator Cole’s daughter was staying at Alexi Defarshi’s house the night of the murder?” Foggs asked.
“No idea sir,” Rogers lied.
“Well it says here that the person is a ‘source familiar with the investigation’ which certainly could be you Rogers,” Foggs said while raising his voice slightly.
“Yes sir, it could be me or the beat officer on the scene that night or a clerk in records, but if your asking is — is it me — the answer is absolutely not,” Rogers replied firmly.
“Rogers, this city needs all the friends it can get on Capital Hill. We have a mayor who is under fire and let’s face it — not too popular on the Hill. We had a chance to make an important friend. It was going to be easy. All we had to do was keep our mouths shut and do our jobs and we would have built a bridge to a grateful senator. But no, that wasn’t good enough for someone. They had to destroy an opportunity and embarrass a United States Senator with a cheap media shot. Do you have any idea what a senator does when he’s pissed off Detective Rogers?” Foggs asked loudly.
“Sir, this is starting to sound like a lecture,” Rogers said.
Alphonso Foggs pretended to smile. It was an angry smile.
“This could be a whole lot more than a lecture, detective. If you want, we could make it a farewell speech if you know what I mean,” Foggs said while holding his smile.
“I take it you mean mine, sir,” Rogers said smiling back while trying to rebound, “Sir, you know I hate the press. Always have. Why would I want to compromise my own investigation by leaking information to the media? It makes no sense.”
“Why would you want to play Perry Mason yesterday at Harrison’s shooting?” Foggs asked.
“That’s entirely different. Harrison is my partner and I was only watching out for his legal rights. I’d do it again. Between you and me I never trusted that cracker, Nick ‘the Dick,’ from the first day I met him. I didn’t want to see him try and rack up points at Harrison’s expense. Darren was extremely upset sir and like it or not, he has rights too — just like these criminals on the street do — and one of those rights is to have an attorney. I was merely looking out for my partner just like I would expect him to do for me if the tables were turned,” Rogers said.
“ Very nice speech Rogers. Really touching. The fact is detective, we don’t need no Florence Nightingales in Homicide do you hear me?” Foggs asked.
“ Yes sir, I do,” replied Rogers, right on time.
“Very well. You’ve been warned,” Foggs said. “How’s Darren doing?”
Rogers didn’t know what to say for a minute. It was almost as though Foggs had a heart after all.
“It’s their age sir,” Rogers said, realizing the answer might not make sense after he said it.
“Fifteen’s plenty old to kill. They can pull a trigger just as easy as someone twice their age. Darren should know that. Shit, these young ones today will kill you twice as quick just for looking at them hard,” Foggs said while looking down at his desk while pretending to shuffle papers.
“I’m sure Darren would feel a lot better hearing that come from you sir,” Rogers said.
“I planned on dropping by after work, Rogers. Don’t you worry. Now go on and get out of here,” Foggs said, still shuffling papers. “And you be sure and let me know if you find out who’s running his mouth to Debbie Peerless. I got something special for their ass,” Foggs smiled while pointing Rogers toward the door.
The story Alphonso Foggs really should have been worrying about that day was not written by Debbie Peerless in the Post. The Post had been scooped that day by Tim Marley, of The Washington Times. Marley wrote a small, three paragraph article in the Metro Section that reported how the 101st Airborne Division had been temporarily assigned to Fort A.P. Hill in Virginia, just outside of Washington, D.C. The article went on to report that the 101st Airborne Division would be training for Advance Chemical and Biological Warfare Operations.
The Sermon on the Mount
Achmed had told the group to meet Mohammad Karun at the cabin on the mountain on the first day of the month of December. They should arrive promptly at noon to discuss the upcoming operation over lunch. The cabin was situated in the Shenandoah Valley, high atop an Appalachian mountain along the Shenandoah River. During the Civil War, Stonewall Jackson had staged his valley campaign along the Shenandoah. Now this small army of 19 was assembling to wage another kind of war.
Kyle Lipskey and Special Agent Parker had deployed their teams around the base of the mountain posing as inconspicuous campers with large backpacks that concealed their MP 5 machine guns. It was a Winnebago wonderland of microwaved surveillance. Tags of all approaching vehicles were instantly recorded and run through the department of motor vehicles. Then the full name and date of birth of the owner was run for a criminal history along with alien status and passport travel information.
In the case of rental vehicles, the rental company was contacted and the name of the authorized driver on the lease was checked. On the far side of an opposing mountain, two Huey helicopters were standing by. One was a medivac while the other was heavily armed. High-resolution reconnaissance photos of the cabin along with area maps of the mountain lay across Kyle Lipskey’s desk inside the Command Post trailer.
All 14 of the known members of the 15 identified cell members had arrived and Achmed had already been accounted for. Now the other five members of Viper’s network had finally surfaced. Only one of the previously unidentified cell members drove a rental car — a bright red Camaro that was rented by Ali Kavas, a rug importer and former business associate of the now deceased Achmed. Customs information indicated that all 19 members attending the meeting had resided in the United States for the past 20 years. None had criminal records and all were prosperous entrepreneurs who owned businesses that employed Americans. The meeting could have been mistaken for a business seminar were it not for the fact that Viper himself was to be the guest speaker.
“From a strategic standpoint, the logistics of the mountain favor us,” Agent Parker said while trying to reassure Kyle Lipskey. “There is only one road up the mountain and one road down. The tourists are minimal now that all the leaves are gone. We’re in good shape Kyle. We got him — I can feel it.”
“Lets hope so,” Lipskey said. “We all better hope he didn’t bring his bugs with him.”
“ Well at least the team has been vaccinated,” Parker said.
“But what about the rest of these people. How the hell will we even know who they are until it’s too late?” Lipskey asked.
“Better here than downtown D.C., Kyle,” Parker said. “We can only pray that he didn’t bring it.”
“They’re beginning the meeting,” said Al Mussadegh who was wearing a headset and preparing to translate from the Farsi. Mussadegh was on loan from NSA.
“Before I begin I must thank all of you for coming.” he translated. “We are about to strike the evil Satan in his homeland in retribution for his many sins. But first …”
“That’s him — it’s Viper — voice analysis confirms it,” Lipskey interrupted with a burst of relief. He also knew the person who addressed the group would have to be Viper.
Al Mussadegh held up his hand gesturing for silence while trying to concentrate on his translation, “but first I have brought you a message from our holy leader Reza. Listen to his words carefully while I prepare for you our feast,” the voice said.
A recorder was turned on and the recorded message was amplified over speakers suspended on the wall. It was the voice of Reza, a fundamentalist religious leader know to all in the room.
“Since the United States began their embargo against Iraq six years ago, 500,000 infant children have died from lack of medicine and basic medical facilities. Why does the great Satan want to see our Muslim babies die? Why do these infidels want to torture our mothers and children? When will their fathers become men and rise up as one to defend Islam against these murderers? In Washington, D.C., the Zionists have built a museum in memory of their Holocaust. What about our Holocaust? Until now, the world has heard only one voice howling from the desert and it belongs to the Jews. Let us begin to build our own museum to honor the suffering of our dead. Muslim children must not be allowed to continue to die. We must punish the beast and make him feel our suffering and our pain. When Satan sees his blood spilling upon his homeland, he will retreat back into the darkness that spawns his evil. Soon we will unleash upon their homeland the Mother of Satan himself. We must all be prepared to become martyrs for Allah. I give to you my most trusted leader, Mohammad of Karun. It will be Mohammad himself who will lead us in this holy war and take you now to Paradise.”
When the tape ended the cassette recorder clicked to stop, triggering the remote plastic explosive detonator switch. The Semtex explosive had been wedged between two large propane tanks outside the cabin. The detonation rocked the mountain and the echoing sound of the explosion reverberated for miles across the Shenandoah Valley. Flames and billowing black smoke rolled up into the clouds, filling the crisp mountain air with the smell of burning tires and melting car paint. The wailing sounds of slowly dying car horns heralded each vehicle’s final cremation.
Al Mussadegh ripped off the headset from his ringing ears. The entire Command Post shook from the tremor and Kyle Lipskey knew instantly what had happened.
“Choppers scramble — NOW!” Lipskey yelled into the microphone, signaling the helicopters to go airborne. “All units converge with caution. We have a detonation,” he screamed while grabbing his portable radio and exiting the Command Post. Once outside he looked up the mountain at the billowing smoke and wondered if it contained the deadly disease.
Lou Ciano just arrived outside the disintegrated cabin at the exact moment the red Camaro exploded. It had been parked far away from the main cabin, at the beginning of the driveway entrance. A large chuck of flying glass sliced through his scalp, knocking him unconcious.
“We have one agent down … I repeat … one agent down,” Special Agent Marcus Williams screamed. Williams clench his hand held radio in his left hand while clutching the trigger of his MP 5 with his right. “Be advised, we’ve had one secondary explosion so far,” he cautioned.
“We need a medivac,” Williams said slowly, trying to regain his composure while kneeling over the twisted body of Lou Ciano. Ciano’s skull was fractured and the pressure on his brain was forcing his eye to bulge out onto his cheek. The pupil now looked like the yoke of a poached egg as it slid down his cheekbone.
“Unit calling, this is Eagle One. I copy on that medivac,” said the pilot of medically equipped Huey as it soared up the valley toward the mountain site.
“Mark out a landing zone with flares as close to the patient as you can. My ETA is three minutes,” the pilot said in a vibrating voice that indicated he was airborne.
“Eagle One this is Time Ten,” Lipskey said calmly. “We are setting up your L.Z. just south of the ridge line at the picnic area. You should be able to see our flares overhead.”
“Roger Time Ten, I copy. I have a visual on your smoke,” Eagle Ones said.
“Move these picnic tables!” Lipskey shouted while he and Parker lifted a table and ran with it between them. A dozen agents scrambled to clear the area while tossing flares around the perimeter.
“All units maintain the perimeter,” Lipskey shouted over the sounds of the now hovering helicopter. “ Repeat … Do not advance. Hold your positions!”
The helicopter landed and Lou Ciano was gently loaded into it. Lipskey glanced over his shoulder for a moment pausing for one last look at his wounded comrade. He wished he hadn’t noticed the dangling leg of Lou Ciano twitching convulsively off the stretcher as the helicopter slowly ascended into the smoke-filled sky. The chopper hovered briefly before it listed forward and sped over the horizon toward the hospital and the awaiting neurosurgical team prepping for surgery.
Once Ciano was safely airborne, Lipskey directed the agents to check for human remains inside and around the cabin.
“No one could have survived that blast,” Parker said to Lipskey.
“I want a count of 19 bodies,” Lipskey said angrily, “or 38 fucking legs. Which ever comes first. We’re not moving off this mountain until we find all of them.”
Six hours and thirty six legs later, they found the tunnel. It led them several hundred feet to a small cave which in turn led to a crevice just large enough for a slender man to crawl out. From there, the final path down the mountain led to the river. Once at the river, like Stonewall Jackson before him, Ali Kavas, also known as Mohammad Karun, had managed to evade his would be captors once again.
(Feature photo of author George Munkelwitz serving in Vietnam.)
George Munkelwitz has been a law enforcement officer for 32 years. He spent 22 years patrolling the streets as a Prince George’s County Police officer. He served in Vietnam as a military intelligence specialist where he worked with the controversial Phoenix Program. Prior to the anthrax attack, he was writing the book “The Mother of Satan.” After the anthrax attack, an article appeared in the Washington Times magazine Insight, quoting his expertise in military intelligence, and mentioning his book. ABC news interviewed him but he felt the network treated him like a suspect and not an expert in the field. He never published the book after that interview. Nearly two decades later, his serial novel is finally published by Baltimore Post-Examiner.