Infringement Page 2
Stanton tried his best to look at the faces of the people as Abaddon mowed them down, but in his zone he saw them merely as targets, which when hit, raised his fatality count. He didn’t care who they were, he took aim and fired at anything moving whether man, woman or child. As he manipulated the deadly and menacing Abaddon down the main aisle of the sanctuary, firing at those lying on the floor between the pews, he looked at the fatality count and realized he was close to his record. He intensified his focus and fired to his left, hitting a running adult male in the back of the head, 88. He fired at two teenage girls in colorful dresses trying to run ahead of Abaddon in the aisle, 89 and 90. A man tried to grab his hero from behind, but Stanton quickly turned him around and hit the man with the butt of the AR-15, knocking him to the floor. “Rat-tat, rat-tat”, fatality 91 and a new record.
Chapter 3
December 18th
Declan woke up with a slight headache and looked at his alarm clock to see that it was already ten minutes past seven. After a quick shower and a brief stop for his daily coffee, he made it into the Bureau field office about an hour later. He briefly looked over his notes regarding David Stanton from the night before and set them aside while his computer booted up.
Once his system was up, he checked his emails. Finding nothing pressing, he looked over his scribbled notes on David Stanton again. Declan ran Stanton’s name through the FBI’s National Crime Information Center, or NCIC, database which turned up nothing. He then accessed the FBI’s Terrorist Screening Center, or TSC, system and found no records on a David Timothy Stanton.
Declan picked up his phone and called an inside extension. After a few rings, a voice on the other end answered, “Costello.”
“Costello, hey, it’s Declan Parker.”
“What’s up, Parker?”
“Nothing, just following up on a call I received last night before I left. It was about an anonymous complaint on a Stanton, David Timothy. Ring a bell?”
“A bit.”
“The detective said an earlier call was made and info given to you. Something about radical ideology and the potential for domestic terrorism.”
“Yeah, I do remember that. It was an anonymous call about some alleged right-wing wacko or other.”
“Something like that,” Declan replied.
“I ran the guy through our systems and he came back clean. Nothing in TSC or NCIC, so I let it go.”
“I just did the same thing and he came back clean again.”
“There you go. I wouldn’t waste much time on this one, Parker. You’re not going to uncover the next Unabomber or anything here.”
“Wasn’t expecting to, but thanks.”
“No worries. By the way, if any other calls come in on this guy, just direct them to me. I’ll deal with it.”
“Will do.”
After hanging up with Special Agent Costello, Declan thought for a few minutes, looked over his notes again, and wanting to be sure he’d done a diligent job before determining nothing was there, decided to check and see if any background checks had been run for Stanton within the past two years. He typed Stanton’s name and date of birth into another system, which then checked them against yet another FBI database for prior searches in the NICS (short for the National Instant Criminal Background Check System), the nationwide system used for conducting criminal background checks on individuals attempting to purchase firearms.
After a few seconds, his search came back with two matches. An NICS check was run on David Timothy Stanton, DOB 7/22/82, on December 22, 2012 and again on April 19, 2013. Declan then ran a search through the FBI’s national database of registered gun owners and quickly located Stanton as the registered owner of two Colt AR-15 Tactical Carbine semi-automatic rifles, purchased and registered in December 2012 and April 2013, respectively.
“Interesting,” Declan said to himself.
_______________________
“Good morning, Pastor.”
“Good morning, David. How are things today?”
“No problems so far.”
“Looking forward to the holidays?”
“Very much.”
“Excellent. It’s a wonderful time of year. Have a good day.”
“You too, Pastor.”
Stanton carefully maneuvered his dull gray janitor’s cart into the men’s restroom just outside the sanctuary and took his time, meticulously cleaning the sinks and mirrors and disinfecting the urinals. He slowly and methodically mopped the tiled floor, careful not to deviate from his left to right, back to front pattern.
Almost two hours later, after knocking politely to verify it was unoccupied, he rolled his cart into the women’s restroom and followed the same deliberate routine, first cleaning the sinks and mirrors, then the toilets, and finally mopping the floor. When Stanton had finished with the women’s restroom, he parked his cart out of the way in the main foyer, and walked back to the parish office to pick up his sack lunch and his iPad.
As was his habit, Stanton sat on the plush ivory sofa next to one of the two large windows in the main reception area. He ate his lunch slowly, watching the bundled up children playing on the small playground at the church elementary school across the parking lot. He watched the children intently, listening to their laughter and the joy in their voices. He envied their energy and carelessness and, without being entirely cognizant of the feeling, he longed to be one of them. When had he ever felt that type of freedom, that type of joy? In truth, he acknowledged that he never had, particularly not when he had been a child. Stanton sat staring at the school kids, who looked to him so filled with joy and so blissfully unaware of the miserable painful lives led by so many other children in the world. He remembered such kids from his own childhood, the ones he would have given anything to trade lives with in order to escape the hell in which he had been forced by God to dwell in each day. He both hated and envied their happiness and longed to try again, to go back and live a life untouched by suffering; however, life was what it was. Stanton was who he was, and there was only one way back, which was, ironically, to move forward.
When he’d finished his lunch, Stanton turned on his iPad, logged onto the administrator’s page of his still offline website, and walked quietly into the church sanctuary. Once inside, he clicked on the “live feed” link and in a few seconds saw the four high definition camera views of the sanctuary fill his touch screen. He initially saw himself in two of the camera views and was very pleased. The clarity and color of the picture in each frame was excellent. The buffering was sufficient to stream a consistent and fluid video feed. Stanton walked throughout the sanctuary, being sure to avoid his “stage”, the pulpit, and was thoroughly satisfied with the camera angles and quality. With his test finished, he turned off his iPad, put it back into his backpack in the church office, went back to his plastic gray janitor’s cart, and resumed his work.
_______________________
After a group meeting on another matter headed by John Bleeker, the field office’s Special Agent in Charge, Declan grabbed a quick bite to eat and refocused his attention on David Stanton when he got back to his desk. He wasn’t entirely sure where to look next, but due to the fact that Stanton owned two AR-15’s, which wasn’t in itself illegal as they were purchased prior to the federal semi-automatic weapons ban, he just couldn’t let the matter go as nothing.
Declan pulled up Stanton’s motor vehicle and drivers’ license records and photo. The face in the photo looked familiar, but he couldn’t place where he would have seen it before. He printed a copy of Stanton’s drivers’ license: David Timothy Stanton, Height: 5’7”, Weight: 190 lbs, brown hair, brown eyes, no restrictions, not an organ donor. A black 2004 Ford Explorer was registered to David Stanton, license plate HRW 247.
Declan thought for a few minutes, then heard the familiar voice of Kevin Cameron, a career agent in his early fifties who was Declan’s friend and de facto mentor, pop up behind him, “Whatcha working on?”
“Uh, I’m trying to
get some information on a call I got last night before I left. Costello looked at it before and nothing comes up in TSC or NCIC, but I did find two grandfathered pre-ban AR-15’s registered to this guy.”
“What else are you looking for?”
“I’m not really sure. I guess I want to know why he would want not one, but two semi-automatic rifles. I just don’t know where else I can look.”
“I do, rookie.”
“Okay, spill it.”
“It’s easy, put in a PRISM request with the regional fusion center.”
“That’s a great idea.”
“Of course it is. They’ll be able to tell you anything and everything you want to know about your boy. Where he works, where he shops, who he emailed this morning and what he said.”
“How about ammo purchases?”
“That’s easy. Unless he’s bought ammo on the underground market, or stolen it, they’ll be able to tell you exactly how much he’s bought, when and from where, even going back to pre-ban purchases.”
“Sweet,” Declan replied. “That’s exactly what I need.”
“Glad I could help.”
_______________________
Declan accessed the fusion center request protocol, made sure he had the necessary information and credentials in front of him and placed a call to the regional fusion center. After providing his credentials and various information and passwords verifying his security clearance, the representative asked for his request.
“I need a history of all ammunition purchases for a subject.”
“Subject’s name?”
“Stanton, David Timothy.”
“Date of birth?”
“7/22/82”
“Current address?”
“9292 Parkside Ave., Apartment B.”
“Hold please.”
“Okay,” Declan replied.
A few seconds later, the representative said, “I’m sorry, but your security clearance isn’t sufficient to obtain the requested records on Stanton, David Timothy.”
“What?”
“Information relating to Stanton, David Timothy has been classified SCI. You don’t have SCI clearance for this compartment.”
“I’m not even certain I know what SCI clearance is, but why would his records be SCI?”
“SCI means Sensitive Compartmented Information. Essentially, additional controls have been placed on the dissemination of certain records and information relating to this subject.”
“By whom?”
“I don’t know and couldn’t tell you if I did, without SCI clearance of course.”
“You said certain records and info are SCI.”
“Correct.”
“Can you tell me what info I can access?”
“Not without a request.”
“Fine, I’m requesting all information and records on the subject available to my clearance level.”
“That’s very vague.”
“Agreed, but it’s my request.”
“I’ll forward any information at your clearance level to your secured email address.”
“Thank you.”
Chapter 4
December 19th
Unable to sleep for much of the night, Declan finally gave up trying. He’d stayed at his desk until close to 10:00 the night before, hoping a response to his fusion center request would come back; however, nothing had been sent to his secure email account. He’d been up throughout the night unable to shake the nagging question of why someone who checked out clean in all the FBI’s databases had been classified SCI. It made no sense.
Sometime around 4:00 a.m., determined to begin a serious investigation into Stanton, Declan got out of bed and headed to the gym. He worked out until 7:00, showered, stopped to grab a bagel and coffee, and headed to Stanton’s building on Parkside. By 7:42, he was parked half a block or so from the small four unit building, with a good view of the apartment door and Stanton’s parked black Ford Explorer.
_______________________
As was his custom on his off days, David Stanton slept until nearly noon. After making a small breakfast, he hopped on his computer and spent an hour or so making detailed adjustments to his website. He tinkered with the graphics, layout, fonts and font colors, trying hundreds of options in his search for the most suitable combination to effectively convey his intended message to a global audience.
After working on the site’s aesthetics, Stanton decided to focus on what, along with the live video feed, would become the site’s content. He pulled up a Word document saved as “Abaddon’s Message – Draft 16”.
“Tonight, on this eve of the celebrated birth of the Zionist Messiah, Jesus Christ, you shall witness the power and rage of the Destroyer, Abaddon, the Angel of the Abyss. Tonight, in defiance and justice, I, Abaddon, shall rise and wreak destruction and death upon the so called Bride of Christ and upon the people of this most sinful and depraved generation. In so doing, I shall usher in the Beginning, the ultimate destruction of the old order. Tonight, those who have eyes to see and ears to hear, shall witness a rebirth of our world, accomplished through the destruction of those still clinging to doctrines of oppression and falsity. Abaddon, the Destroyer, shall bring death, and with it, ultimately, life for a new, untarnished, generation. Tonight, the work of ages shall finally culminate in the passing of the falsity of religion and the long awaited birth of Truth. The blood of the sheep, shed in the sanctuary of lies, shall pay the price of Truth and usher in a new era, a new order, a world which will not tolerate the sins of the past. Eternity begins tonight. Witness this Beginning and stand in awe of Abaddon’s cleansing and righteous power. Abaddon, the Destroyer, is AT THE DOOR!”
Chapter 5
December 19th
“Declan, is that you, honey?”
“Yes, mom.”
“Oh, hi honey. Here, let me take that.” Declan’s mom took the bottle of wine he’d brought for her, along with the twelve pack of Fat Tire beer he’d brought for himself, his brother, and sister-in-law. “I’ll put these in the fridge. Do you want me to open one of the beers for you?”
“Thanks, mom. That would be great.”
“Would you like it in a glass?”
“No, the bottle is fine. How’s your marathon training coming along?”
“Great,” his mom responded. “I did sixteen miles this morning.”
“You continue to amaze me. What is this one, your tenth or eleventh?”
“Twelfth. I’m gonna go open your beer, and get a glass of wine for myself. I think I’ve earned it today. I’ll be right back.”
“Okay.”
Declan took off his coat and dropped it gently on the familiar upholstered bench in the foyer, just as he had for as long as he could remember. He walked into the family room and warmed his hands in front of the fireplace, rubbing them together slowly and taking in the crackling aromatic warmth radiating from the slow flames. His focus turned to a small framed photo on the mantle. It was a picture of himself, his older brother Evan, and their dad, taken outside of the family’s small rustic lake house three days after Declan’s tenth birthday.
The joy and energy in his dad’s eyes struck Declan. His dad’s glowing prideful smile as he stood between his two boys, each holding a fish so small it would scarcely feed a mouse, typified the understated steady peacefulness Declan remembered so clearly about his dad. Nothing rattled the man, not even the cancer which took his life a mere 362 days after that photo, on Declan’s eleventh birthday. Declan looked into his dad’s eyes, into everything he remembered, loved and missed about the man.
“Here, honey,” his mom said coming up beside him.
“Thanks,” he replied taking the open beer from her. “I was just looking at the picture of us with dad at the lake house that summer before he got really sick.”
“That’s my favorite picture of you three.”
“Mine too, I think. He just looks so strong still, so happy.”
“He was. He loved taking you boys u
p to that house.”
“I remember he’d sit there on that little pier fishing with us for hours, just waiting for someone to get a bite. He didn’t really seem to care if we caught anything.”
“He didn’t. Your dad was just happy to be out there with you and Evan, to have time to talk with you both. He loved you boys more than anything or anyone, except God. I know he’s still proud as can be of both of you.”
“I hope so.”
“Of course he is. You following in his footsteps in the FBI and your brother being a doctor? We’re both extremely proud of you boys. You’ve turned out as well as any parents could pray for.”
“I still miss him.”
“I do too, honey. Every single day, but I know I’ll see him again someday, relatively soon perhaps.”
Declan paused for a second, then, wanting to avoid the subject of God and heaven, asked, “Are Evan, Michelle and the kids on the way?”
“They should be. You know they never really get anywhere on time these days.”
“Trust me, I know. Evan even has trouble getting places on time when he doesn’t have the family in tow. What are we having for dinner?”
“My lasagna with salad and garlic bread.”
“I was hoping that’s what I smelled. Do you need help with anything?”
“Since you ask, it would be great if you’d help me set the table.”