Chapter 16: Threat Assessment

I stared at Hughes and Delahoye in disbelief, even as the brass started asking questions. “That is simply crazy. Why in the world would international terrorists want to kill a small-town cop?”

Around us the rest of the captains and lieutenants kept asking questions. The Chief waved them to silence and said, “They are right. This makes no sense. Who would want to kill Sergeant Reaper? Aside from the FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team, I mean?”

It was Delahoye that answered. “We are not making this up. As part of the surveillance system, we have had a certain mosque in Minneapolis under investigation. A young Somali-American FBI agent was assigned to infiltrate the mosque. He grew up in Minnesota and was a Muslim. He was as fine a young agent as any we’ve ever had.”

“He was as fine?” I said.

“Mahmud Hassan, that was his name, was found late Saturday night in the basement of the mosque. An anonymous caller reported a dead body. The cops investigated, and the local office of the FBI was notified. That was when his handler got involved and reported it up the chain of command. Yesterday morning Homeland Security was notified. Hassan was found tied to a steel chair. He had been tortured and then killed.” She took a deep breath. “They didn’t get all that creative. They simply worked him over with a sledgehammer. I’m told that almost every bone in his hands and feet were crushed. Eventually they put a bullet in his ear. His handler said it was probably a blessing when it happened.”

I gulped and nodded. “The simplest methods are still popular because they can be so useful. I saw even worse in Iraq. What did he know that he told them?”

“That’s just it, Sergeant. He didn’t tell them. Special Agent Hassan had been giving us information for several weeks that the local affiliate was planning a major action, something big and newsworthy, here in the States. We had been shutting down the pipeline for getting people to the Middle East, so they decided to stay and kill infidels here. Unfortunately, all he had learned was that there was a kill list, a list of targets, but not who was on it. They were incredibly paranoid and security conscious. Several innocent locals had already been killed, simply because they were suspected. It had gotten to the point where Hassan was passing information by way of old school dead drops. When Hassan’s handler checked, he found the final information in the dead drop. If Hassan had broken, they would have cleaned it out.”

“Jesus,” muttered Hank. Several others said something similar.

“When this is over, Special Agent Hassan will be receiving the FBI Star, our highest award, and full honors at his funeral,” she finished.

“Still, what in the world would Somali terrorists want with me? That’s the part that makes no sense,” I said.

Hughes nodded with a wry smile, but answered, “The specific threat was that you were named along with two other law enforcement professionals as primary targets of the action cell. We cannot name the other two individuals, but we can say that they are very high profile national figures – much like you.”

“Me?”

Delahoye smiled. “Sergeant, I know you don’t believe this, but you are quite well known. Just your nickname alone, the Grim Reaper, ensures that once somebody learns about you, they remember you. You were the first living recipient of the Medal of Honor since Viet Nam. You have been involved in several officer-involved shootings, against odds, all of which ended up in the national news. Six months ago, you were at a nationally televised football game defying the President of the United States by standing and saluting while your brother and his teammates knelt during the anthem; a photo of you doing that was on the cover of Sports Illustrated the following week. Your lectures at the police academy in Forsyth have been recorded and have been used in television shows on PTSD. You are friends with Tolley Hunter, one of the top singers and actresses in Hollywood, and have been seen and photographed with her on several occasions. Face it, sergeant, you are more than just a small-town cop.”

I just sat there and stared in disbelief, even as some of the others stared at me. “I repeat, this is nuts. I am not going to believe that a bunch of Islamic nutjobs in Minneapolis have ever heard of me. These guys have probably never heard of Georgia, let alone Matucket!”

Hughes opened a folder and slid out several pages. “These are copies of papers found in the dead drop. Trust me, they have heard of you and Matucket.”

I took the pages and spread them out. Some of the writing was in Arabic, which I didn’t read, but some was in English. Several items were crossed over with a magic marker, redacted they called it. Still, there was my picture, pictures of me with both Tolley Hunter and Kelly, my address, and Mapquest maps from Minneapolis to my house.

I looked up at the two Feds. Delahoye said, “Sergeant, I think you are so close to the tree you can’t see the forest. You may consider yourself a small-town police officer, but that is unimportant. These people think you are much, much more. I do not claim to understand that, but it is simply a fact. You and your department need to consider what to do about it.”

The Chief said, “So what did you do with the other two targets?”

“Just like now, the targets and their security details are being informed of the issue. We plan to leave it to them to handle,” answered Hughes.

“Their security details? Just who the hell are these other targets”, demanded Captain Abernathy.

“We are not at liberty to say. That information could compromise other investigations.”

I looked at the others in confusion. This was getting just plain weird. Matucket was not a large city, and the MPD did not have unlimited resources. On a television show, a protective detail would be assigned to the target, surveillance would be established, and detectives and undercover officers would be questioning everybody. What wasn’t shown was the manpower costs of that sort of response. Two officers per shift as protection, perhaps another two officers per shift as surveillance and distance protection, and a supervisor to oversee the whole thing. That’s maybe a dozen officers assigned to a single individual. If you need to protect family members, start multiplying. New York City has 35,000 police officers and can probably find a few to spare for that sort of project. Matucket has 196 police officers; we don’t have any spare bodies just laying around.

“When do you expect them to get here?” asked Crowley.

“No idea. They are off the grid now. We can’t even be sure that Sergeant Reaper is their primary target. The action cell numbered about six or seven individuals, a mix of American-born Somali-descended fundamentalists and Somali immigrants. None have ever been in any serious police trouble, other than the normal issues that blacks and Muslims face in this country. Their leader is a firebreather who preaches jihad, but who mostly stayed in the mosque. Now, they are in the wind. The individuals have gone missing and have not been seen since Saturday evening. We think they are traveling in a white panel van, not that that helps much.” Hughes motioned to Delahoye, who handed over a stack of photos. Some were mug shots and others were from telephoto lenses. Some of the information on the photos and detail sheets was blacked out. The two of them gave brief descriptions of the terrorist cell, but I simply zoned them out. If the Feds were leaving this in our hands, with no assistance, Matucket might just well have a problem.