The Blue Wall Of Silence
The Blue Wall Of Silence
Paul Snyder
Copyright © 2020 by Paul Snyder
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Contents
Dedication
Preface
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Acknowledgments
Dedication
When I started writing The Blue Wall Of Silence, I asked myself, what if someone were thrown into a world of local and federal corruption where violent action, even death, is close during a period of civil unrest.
Six months later, I finished the first draft the same week George Floyd was arrested. A police officer Derek Chauvin knelt on George Floyd’s neck for over nine minutes while George said he couldn’t breathe, he would die, and then in his last dying breath cried for his mother.
Police killed George Floyd with pride and no accountability and in plain sight of Minnesota's public, the nation, and the world. Civil unrest started nationally and continued worldwide with no end in sight.
I sent the first draft to my editor Carol Waltz with the note I had a manuscript where the stakes of life and death were high for everyone, their families, the community, the nation, and the world, addressing the national issue of criminal justice reform.
This book is dedicated to the police officers who gave their lives in the line of duty, to the federal agents who have gone up against corruption, and all who have suffered the brutalities of the blue wall of silence.
Preface
The blue wall of silence is a term used in the United States to denote the informal code of silence among police officers not to report on a colleague’s errors, misconducts, or crimes, including police brutality. If questioned about an incident of alleged misconduct involving another officer (e.g., during the course of an official inquiry), while following the code, the officer being questioned would perjure themselves by feigning ignorance of another officer’s wrongdoing.
--Wikipedia
1
The building was in the midst of five hundred and forty-seven acres of predawn darkness on a Marine Corps Base in Quantico, Virginia, forty miles south of Washington D.C. Jim Temple passed many of the glass-enclosed workspaces, darkened, with the lights turned off. He held a folder with DNA markers from blood samples tight against his blue windbreaker.
When Executive Assistant Director Sandra Jackson asked him to arrive four hours early, he imagined the FBI Laboratory to have a quiet, deserted quality his home had had at sunrise. But this morning, his section was lighted and festive, like an academic auditorium when school is in session.
Temple moved through the crowd of federal agents and executives dressed in tan pants with blue windbreakers, while others wore suits, dresses, and nice shoes. Their faces were confident, and hair well-groomed, eyes kind. He walked rapidly behind a desk to a wall of inboxes filled with forensic analysis for law enforcement agencies nationwide.
Temple placed his folder with results for a double homicide into Sandra Jackson’s incoming file box. Many nodded with warmth as he stood there, silent, with the group gathered around Sandra Jackson, who wore a tight-fitting purple shirt with long sleeves, white pants, fancy shoes. “Good morning, Temple,” Sandra greeted him. “Wait in my office. I’ll be there in a moment.”
He glanced at the glass door and walked rapidly to the entrance. The sound of his heels on the floor was an interruption he did not want. Everyone looked up as though he were the center of attention, and while angling his shoulder to push the office door open, a strange tightness replaced the warmth he felt earlier.
A podcast about the ocean and sea life played on Sandra’s iPhone. He dropped into a chair beside a coffee table and a tall ficus tree near the window. Temple faced a picture of a beach on the wall while the podcast's host talked about dolphins soaring through the sea.
He likened The FBI Laboratory to home but was born far from here, in Washington D.C., the nation’s capital. Temple’s family, a group of respected conservative journalists, had been ruled by his uncles while Jim was in high school and devoting his life to the thespian arts.
Recruited out of Georgetown University as an actor, his theater and performance studies made him an ideal candidate for the FBI’s undercover work. He scored tens across the board on the Kolbe A Index. Later, during a well-publicized investigation in Oregon, the FBI found Temple to have a high likability in the media.
Political pundits for news outlets assessed him as the FBI lifer with Adonis-like looks. After five tours in Iraq, he was tasked to Alaska before returning to Quantico, a seasoned GS-13 working in biometrics and teaching recruits. It seemed like only yesterday when he’d applied for a pay level increase, figuring he’d cap out at the GS-14 pay level, and he now smiled with a newer confidence as Sandra Jackson walked into her office.
While Sandra studied paperwork at her desk, it was as though she saw things in her mind no one else had seen. She took in a deep breath and faced him. “You were part of the 2004 MAXCAP initiative.” Her voice was appreciable.
“I should have known what was going to happen and prevented it.” Temple shut his eyes and shook his head, but when he opened his eyes, Sandra’s look now held a touch of sadness. “People were being killed in Oregon in 2004. But the FBI was switching gears, and I left Eugene, Oregon, and I attended MAXCAP’s four-month course on national security and counter-terrorism and counter-intelligence. From there, I went to Iraq.”
“You want closure on the 2004 murders?”
Temple shifted to the edge of his chair. “Yes, of course.” It was the answer he hoped would reach her.
“What about your career? An SES pay scale? You are senior executive material. I mean, this whole thing about going after murderers is a special agent’s work.” The intensity of Sandra’s tone lowered. “Instead of fieldwork, you should be thinking about staying in the office longer, bigger bonuses, and retirement.”
He looked over to the ficus tree, the green leafy plant near the window, his mind replaying past events. The FBI switched gears in 2004 with MAXCAP as a man in Eugene, Oregon, was exacting his form of justice, without legal authority, by killing congressman McTague during an indictment, then robbing his bank, plus the killing of a police officer, Detective Webster, and his family. Temple’s gaze went back to Sandra. “I should reconsider the future of my career. But I did that already in 2004. And it led to this guilt ov
er the murders and bank robbery. Let’s put my career on the back burner. What can I do to make this right?”
“The 2004 robbery loot from the Eugene branch of the People’s Bank was spent by a twenty-two-year-old, Meghan Green, last month at Marina Grocery in Seal Beach, California.”
Temple stayed silent for a confusing moment. “I hope there’s more.”
“Meghan Green resides with thirty-one-year-old Andrew Webster.”
“Andrew Webster, a fourteen-year-old at the time, slept through the killing of his family because of hearing problems.” Something must be done now. “Somehow, Meghan Green received the robbery loot from the bank robber who killed the congressman and Andrew’s family. If I can get to the murderer and bank robber, right now, I can close a handful of cases.”
Sandra gave him a large white envelope. “That’s why everyone’s in the office so early. All of us are pulling for you. Inside the envelope are your plane tickets, credit cards, rental agreements for your car and home. You will be flying out of Dulles for John Wayne Airport in Orange County, California.” Sandra studied Temple closely. “Would you like to know who your contact is with the Seal Beach Police?”
Temple shrugged his shoulders. “Does it matter?”
“It’s Detective Jennifer Davis.”
Temple clasped his hands on his lap, then flashed a grin. “From Alaska? She and Steve Davis are in Seal Beach, California?”
Sandra squared her shoulders and returned the papers to the folder. “They move from state to state with no fear of RICO statutes and life in prison.”
“In Alaska, we learned of a toy manufacturer who claimed two-state residency, Alaska, and California.” Temple stiffened, annoyed by the contract killers. “We know the toy manufacturer funneled cash from California to a Kodiak, Alaska town founder for the contract on Wilkerson’s life. But we still don’t know the name of the toy manufacturer or the Kodiak town founder. Steve and Jennifer Davis do know the name of the Kodiak, Alaska town founder. When I’m in Seal Beach, I’ll get an affidavit from Jennifer Davis on the name of the Kodiak town founder, and we’ll pressure him for the name of the toy manufacturer in California who funded the contract on Wilkerson’s life.”
Sandra glanced at her watch. “Take all the time you need.” She stood from her desk. “You’ll have your GS-14 pay raise when you return.”
“Thank you.” Temple found his feet and rushed to leave.
2
Meghan Green was ready to sign the remodeling contract when the builder made it clear she didn’t need the remodel. She needed a teardown. Visually incongruous to other homes, her beach house's architecture was like the Spanish Missions of California, the outposts built between 1769 and 1833 by Catholic priests of the Franciscan order.
For weeks, the architect, her uncle Wayne delayed the remodeling contract. Meghan knew why this morning. She was dressed in a white cotton hoodie with grey sweatpants. After putting on white tennis shoes, she went downstairs to find Wayne, and Snickers, the neighbor’s Irish Setter puppy.
Wayne was small and robust but blind without his glasses, which made surfing difficult, though not today. Earlier, he’d been riding her surfboard behind the house. After surfing, Wayne had brushed Snicker’s chestnut coat to a bright gloss.
Wayne was laughing in the front room, throwing salmon dog treats on the white carpet. Snickers playfully bounced around the coffee table, chasing the salmon snacks as though they were little seagulls on the beach. They were having a wonderful time.
With her long red ears flopping over a pink collar, Snickers barked at Meghan. A moment later, the dog rose on her hind legs and landed two of her big red paws on Meghan’s belly while her dark eyes met hers, then Wayne insisted on hearing about the property’s value and history first. “I have a feeling your house doesn’t need a remodel but a teardown.”
Concern swept through her. Was Wayne right to demolish my trophy beach house? She loved her home but agreed to explain. “This house was a very personal home, built seventy years ago by a lawyer. It has five bedrooms and six baths and is valued at six million. But it’s not because of the house, but the land. There are two lots.” Meghan’s eyes sparkled. “Plus, tons of curb appeal on a beach where private parking’s a premium. We have private parking on both Second Street and Ocean Avenue. My boyfriend, Andrew Webster, owns Sun Coast Properties. This house was a jewel in Andrew’s treasure chest. But now, I own the home, with stunning views of the Pacific Ocean and the San Gabriel River. There’s no pool, but lots of land. It’s the most amazing location in Seal Beach and even Orange County.”
A flash of humor crossed Wayne’s face. “You don’t need a contractor, just a tractor.” Wayne started speed talking. “Bulldoze it. I’ve got a shovel in my pick-up truck. Let’s tear it down now. I’ll show you why. You’re going to have children with Andrew, right?”
Wayne had spent a lifetime teasing her, and this morning, she was pleased by his interest in her boyfriend, Andrew, and their plans for a family. “We’ve talked.”
“Let’s use the property’s original designs for a revisioning.” Downstairs, the five rooms were on both sides of a wide central hallway. Tan marble flooring went in a straight line to the beach. They walked along walls, off-white and rough-textured. The room entries were arched like the Spanish Missions, and when they reached the beach, the Irish Setter puppy, Snickers, jumped into the first room on the left.
Wayne was stunned by the kitchen. “It’s bigger than the kitchen in your mom’s apple pie restaurant in Oak Glen.” Big enough for twelve Irish Setters to hunt for salmon treats, it had a stainless steel ten-burner commercial gas range with two ovens. Bar stools surrounded a kitchen island with overhead lighting. The island had a stainless-steel sink, a dishwasher, two refrigerators, and a white granite countertop for Meghan to make her family’s famous apple butter. Outside, the San Gabriel River flowed into the Pacific Ocean beyond the breakwaters lining Alamitos.
The dining room, opposite the kitchen, was a beach hut, more cluttered than the garage's workbench, with small herbs, ferns, and palm trees near a long and gray acacia wood dining table, spilled over with blue beach towels, Wi-Fi tablets. There was floor to ceiling windows, and a hurricane was off the coast.
Wayne gasped at the giant surf when Meghan picked up a dead Boston Fern frond. A yellow note pad, cursive handwriting, her roommate Julie Thomas’s writing, in black ink, said, “Everyone in the house will die.” She shook her head, deep-in-thought. In my house? Everyone killed? After some common sense, she inferred Julie watches scary movies.
Meghan crumpled the yellow paper. Outside, dark clouds dragged along the horizon. Down on the sand, hundreds of white seagulls huddled in small groups, evading wintery winds. She looked at Wayne. “It’s a beautiful day, cold, but good for surfing at the Seal Beach Pier.”
Wayne agreed, and she searched for more notes about murderers or dead people. Intrigue hammered her. Julie speaks her mind to a fault. She hasn’t said a thing. This is my kitchen, my dining room. How could I not be safe? Meghan threw the dead Boston Fern frond and Julie’s note in the trash.
Wayne waved a hand down the hallway. “What’s this room, with no door?”
“The lawyer made phone calls near a retracting sewing machine table and a dropdown ironing board.”
Wayne looked inside. “It was a private telephone room. It’s a throwback to the fifty’s generation. Scratch the white paint off the wall, you’ll find, written in black ink, if your lawyer was in entertainment, the names and phone numbers of movie stars, Dean Martin and Doris Day, or personalities like Steve Allen.” Wayne went to the end of the hallway. “Okay, so you have a big foyer at the front door. A bigger room to your left. An interior door to the garage to your right. Where’s the living room?”
“The front room is the living room.”
“Let’s go inside.”
Natural light flooded through bay windows to white carpet, wall to wall like a fresh blanket of snow. Wayne rounded the couche
s near a glass coffee table and looked at the fireplace with a white marble mantelpiece. To the left was a towering oak bookshelf. “I like the old Cambridge University leather-bound books in your library.” Wayne left the room. “And the office, down the hallway?”
“It’s Dan Reynold’s room. He’s Andrew’s superintendent, residential construction.”
French doors opened to an area, forty feet by forty, with windows facing Second Street. Snickers charged between their legs and jumped onto the blue comforter on Dan’s bed, looking back to Meghan, dancing in circles, and then looking up to her, again, for support, happily wagging her red tail. “It was the lawyer’s library, where he greeted those needing counsel.”
“Does it have a dressing room?”
Meghan opened an interior door. “It’s right here.”
It was a walk-in closet, with dozens of shelves and drawers and dark wood paneling. Off to the right, there was a full bath, with a walk-in shower, floor to ceiling glass, full of brass fixtures.
Wayne paused to collect his thoughts. “You’ve converted a gentleman’s parlor to a bedroom. We’ll figure this out with new heating and smart technologies. I’ll start on the blueprints. Let’s go upstairs.”