Fire and Ice

CHAPTER ONE

A CHILL IN the house reminded Pam Robinson that she had not reset the thermostat. She dashed downstairs to do so and returned to the warmth of her bed.

It was the most restful night she’d had in what seemed like months. Doubts had not disturbed her sleep. Feeling secure in her job as Senior Special Agent for the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives contributed to that. It relieved nearly all of stress that she had experienced recently. First came the untimely death of her longtime mentor and advocate Jim Simpson. Then she had faced a career decision that kept her distracted for weeks. Now, having decided against a return to Washington, she could go about her preferred duties with determination and apply expertise developed through fourteen years of post-blast investigative work.

A telephone call from Washington demanded her attention. Her bedside clock showed 6:22 a.m. She had neglected to set her alarm, too, although she usually did not need it. Ordinarily she awoke by six o’clock without being prompted.

Are you awake? asked ATF Director Richard Conroe.

Of course not. I’m talking in my sleep. What’s up?

A bombing incident, Conroe said. Details will be on your computer.

Not the Border Patrol again, I hope.

No, it was a church.

Where?

Shreveport, Louisiana. It’s an African-American Baptist church.

Hate crime, Pam said.

Undoubtedly. FBI is on it. How long would it take you to get there driving?

I’d have to check, Rick. Do I need to go?

I’m going to say yes, and I’d recommend activating the NRT. They’ve had a rash of church arson cases in Louisiana. These attacks get a ton of media attention, so we want to show a maximum effort.

But arson? That’s not me.

There was a blast associated with this one. That makes it you.

Okay, Rick, I’m on my way.

Pam slid from beneath the covers and donned her robe. She went down to her kitchen to start coffee before returning upstairs to the second bedroom she used as an office in her near north Dallas townhouse. Her desktop PC came to life quickly, and she read the message.

To: Rick Conroe, Pam Robinson:

Bombing/arson incident, Antioch Baptist Church, Shreveport, LA. Approx 07:00 EST. Caddo Parish requests assist from FBI, ATF.

She typed in the authorization message for the National Response Team based in Dallas and clicked SEND. Management of all ATF NRTs around the country formed her primary responsibility. Other than ATF Director Conroe and a deputy yet to be named, only she could authorize deployment of the post-incident mobile labs. Special Agents in Charge of Field Divisions could request NRT support, but even they could not activate one unilaterally. She engaged the Dallas unit because it was closer to Shreveport even though the incident had occurred in the geographic domain of the New Orleans Field Division. Travel time from New Orleans would delay a response by another two hours or more, and the urgency she’d heard in Rick’s voice influenced her decision.

A map program on the computer indicated a three-hour drive on Interstate 20. She studied it while sipping coffee. Her Audi needed fuel and she needed breakfast, so she made plans to stop somewhere after filling the tank. Then she remembered the McDonalds’s across the street from her office location in the Earl Cabell Federal Building. She decided to grab something to eat there, then leave her Audi and drive her ATF car to Louisiana instead. That’s why I have one assigned to me, right?

In addition to her usual go bag provisions, she added a down vest and a pair of Levis to her travel wardrobe. Her standard blazer and western duster usually provided enough warmth for early December in Texas, but she decided against taking any chances.

Pam encountered rush hour in full swing as she made her way downtown. She pulled into her assigned space in the secure underground parking facility and transferred her things to a pale blue Ford Fusion with the usual Official Government Use Only message inscribed on the front doors, then locked both cars.

Crossing Griffin Street on foot required particular vigilance in spite of the traffic lights, but she managed it without being clipped by an inattentive Mercedes or Lexus driver absorbed in a cell phone conversation. She ate standing in the jammed restaurant and succeeded in getting her coffee out the door without having someone careless bump into her and slosh it onto both of them.

KRLD gave regular morning traffic reports, but Pam did not need the radio to tell her that the junction of Interstates 35 and 30—Dallas’s notorious mix master—would be stop-and-go. It always was. Not having any real alternative, however, she survived the congestion, then traveled east to the divergence between I-30 and I-20. Once past the LBJ Freeway, she set the cruise control on seventy, then bumped it to seventy-five. In three hours or less her GPS unit would guide her to her destination.

CHAPTER TWO

BRIGHT YELLOW crime scene tape hung across the front of the small church. One police cruiser, two government sedans, and a civilian car sat on the edge of the narrow blacktop road. Pam parked behind them. She left her duster in the back seat and her blazer hanging on the hook, opting to wear her ATF windbreaker and ball cap instead.

A uniformed police officer and two men wearing suits stood with a fourth clad in jeans and an LSU sweatshirt. She noticed two additional men outfitted in blue coveralls examining an area on the side of the building. As Pam approached the standing group, the Shreveport officer noticed her holster.

Excuse me, ma’am, but are you with law enforcement? His drawl sounded thicker than any posturing television actor’s, but his was as authentic as grits and hog jowls.

I’m Pam Robinson from ATF, she said. She pulled her lanyard outside the folds of her windbreaker.

I’m Officer Gilmer, he said as he took her outstretched hand gently. These men are from the FBI, and that there’s the preacher here.

Pam Robinson? one of the men in business attire said.

That’s what my mother named me, she said, grinning as she accepted a handshake.

I’m Special Agent Tim Olney. This is Special Agent Carlos Silva.

Silva took her hand and held it. We know you by your reputation and your news appearances, Special Agent Robinson. You’re the best thing that’s happened for federal law enforcement since Elliot Ness.

Thank you, she said, blushing, but let’s clear up one thing. I go by Pam, not by a title. That’s my preference.

Silva nodded. Okay, Pam. This is Reverend Shanklin, he said, indicating the black man wearing the LSU sweatshirt. He’s the minister here.

I’m sorry to see this, Pam said as she accepted Shanklin’s two-handed clasp. Was anyone inside?

Sadly, yes. Our pianist was rehearsing. She liked to do that in the early morning hours when she could be alone. The people from the ambulance told me she died.

I am so very sorry to hear that.

Thank you. Shanklin stood a shade under six feet tall and had skin the color of a Hershey Bar. His resonant voice carried no trace of a Creole accent, and his hands felt soft and supple. I believe you said you are from ATF.

That’s correct, sir. I’m—

You also told these gentlemen to call you Pam. Please call me Leon.

Very well, Leon. Yes, the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives investigates crimes such as this. We assist with gathering forensic evidence and analyze the type of explosive used. Sometimes that can lead to identification and prosecution of guilty parties.

God will punish the guilty, Shanklin said, but he won’t rebuild our church.

Pam ducked under the crime scene streamers and surveyed the interior of the sanctuary by flashlight. Wet ashes littered the floor. A figurine of Christ on the cross stood blackened by smoke and soot. Fire had done at least as much damage as any small explosive could have. Small, she assumed, because all the outer walls still stood. Any device of substantial size would have devastated a wood-framed structure. Flames had scorched beams in the arched ceiling but had penetrated the roof in just one place near the altar rail. That gave her a clue as to the point of initial detonation.

What do you think? Olney asked her. He had followed her inside.

I think if they had carpet on the floor instead of hardwood, this could have been a lot worse. The boards are charred, but it doesn’t appear that they flamed.

That’s what the firemen said, he responded. The preacher told us the fire trucks got here pretty quick.

How long have you been here?

We arrived about an hour ago, he said. The fire was out by then.

Sounds of diesel truck engines caused both to return outside. Pam expected to see the NRT vehicle, but what appeared instead were two box vans from a rental company.

Like all Baptists, we hold services on Wednesday evenings, Shanklin explained. We’ll use a tent and folding chairs, just like in the old days. This attack is not going to stop us. We’re still a church, and God won’t care if there’s no permanent building.

Pam excused herself from the reverend and spoke with the FBI agents. Is the Klan still active around here?

It hasn’t been, Olney said, but there are plenty of bubbas with white supremacy leanings. We could be looking for a small group or an individual with serious racial prejudice. The whole country seems to be leaning to the far right. Extremism goes both ways.

Well, this bubba will be charged with murder when he’s caught.

The NRT truck from Dallas reached the site at one o’clock in the afternoon. Pam walked across the church lawn to meet it. A stout black man she had seen but not met formally opened the side door.

I’m Clete Purvis, he said. They shook hands. I thought you were going to be the new Deputy Director, but then I heard you turned it down.

I decided to keep my old job and stay in Dallas, Pam told him.

Got it. What’s going on here?

Fire bomb, apparently. She told Purvis what she had seen.

Have you pulled any samples yet?

No, I just did a visual. I won’t say what I think until after your crew does some analytical work.

That crew included Danny Milford and Ed Hooks, two Dallas agents she already knew. Pam donned white cotton coveralls and joined them scraping blistered varnish from pews and the scorched altar rail. She dropped samples into plastic bags and used a Sharpie pen to specify each location, then took them to the NRT van.

Explosives leave behind residue that can be evaluated for type and source, Pam explained to Reverend Shanklin, who looked at her bags with curiosity. Even pieces of broken window glass we find in the grass outside can provide trace evidence.

He smiled at her but said nothing.

Debbie Lansing had spent most of her day sitting in the vintage Dodge Ramcharger and watching the Antioch Baptist Church from across a fallow field. Nate called the big SUV a classic. It was a 1994 model, the final year of production. She considered it a big ugly heap, but it ran just fine.

She saw smoke and flames breach the church roof, the fire trucks arrive, the pastor reach the scene, and the men in dark suits get out of a government sedan. After five hours of surveillance she was quickly running out of patience.

Some woman just showed up, she told her husband by cell phone. It looks like the other cops know her.

They always do, Nate Lansing said.

Debbie raised a pair of binoculars. This one is medium height, blonde hair. She’s carrying a gun.