The Death Row Complex (44 page)

Track Seven was entitled, “Message From a Terrorist,” and in smaller lettering beneath, subtitled, “Dear Mr. President.” Katrina quickly recalled the translation of the terrorist threat from the original greeting card, the one received at the White House all those lifetimes ago. It had begun exactly that way.

Katrina focused on her breathing to stay calm as she carried the CD out into the lab. With slightly trembling fingers, she turned on Jason’s CD player and put in the CD, then skipped to Track Seven.

Distorted guitars and drums began their frenzied crashing at once. Katrina waited for the vocals to come in, trying to convince herself that she was just being paranoid, that the stress had finally gotten to her. Then the lyrics began, and she realized she could not have been more wrong.

Dear Mr. President,

Your nation of puppets will soon know at last the price of fighting against our Islamic State. Those of you who survive Allah’s justice will reflect upon 11 September of 2001 and consider that date
insignificant…

It was the message from the card. Verbatim. Blinking back frustrated, incredulous tears, Katrina started the track over again, struggling to make out the screaming vocals over the overbearing guitars. She could only catch some of it.

She clawed open the CD case and pulled out the sleeve, unfolding it into its eight panels. The sleeve contained acknowledgements from the band collectively and from each band member individually, production studio and artwork information, equipment, and copyright information. She flipped the sleeve over to look for the song lyrics.

Katrina’s eyes were instantly drawn to the Track Seven lyrics. They were written in Arabic script.

The CD was still playing when Katrina realized that Sean McMullan was standing right next to her. He was looking over her shoulder at the Arabic text. The cacophony had become a soundtrack for a hell Katrina could no longer even understand.

McMullan seemed to realize this, and he sounded almost sorry when he said, “I think I have some questions for your postdoc, Katrina.”

“So do I.” She looked at her watch. “He’s at the convention.”

“Oh, great,” McMullan said. “The hardest place I can think of to get to him, find him, and pick him up without a problem.”

Katrina sighed. “At this point, we won’t even be able to get in until the day’s sessions are almost over. Jason could already be gone anyway. We could get down there and run around looking for someone who has already gone home.”

“Then we go to his apartment and wait for him there.”

“OK,” Katrina said, “except that we don’t have a car. Yours is at the convention center and mine… in the parking lot at San Quentin, I think. I don’t remember. But neither of our cars is at SDSU and we are. Call Gilman.”

McMullan looked down and sighed. “I can’t,” he said. “I didn’t exactly tell him that I was pulling you out of jail. We’re on our own.”

Both Katrina and McMullan fell silent, each of them engrossed in the latest roadblock. At first, neither noticed when the door to the lab quietly opened and closed. But then, someone laughed.

Katrina foggily looked up to see Josh Attle.

“You guys closet Lethal Factor fans?” Josh asked cheerily.

Katrina reached forward and turned off the CD. The silence was golden.

“I feel a little awkward saying this,” Josh said, “but I thought you were in jail?” His face was clouded with concern, and Katrina sighed.

“Yeah, I got out,” she said, without offering more.

“Good,” he said. “I never doubted those guys were whacked for thinking you could have done anything wrong.” Josh winked at Katrina.

She offered what she hoped to be a sincere smile and turned back to McMullan. As she did, Josh nodded and stepped past them toward his lab bench.

“We need your car,” McMullan said abruptly.

Josh turned back around. “Huh?”

Katrina looked at McMullan and then at Josh. “I can’t explain it,” she said, “but soon enough, I promise you’ll know what’s going on. Please?” The “please” was a gesture. Katrina knew that McMullan could merely take the car, but she had no reason to cause problems with Josh. Or to believe that he would say no.

“I wasn’t planning on being at the lab for very long,” Josh protested. “I was planning on just doing something quick here and then going home. I’d rather not end up stranded.”

“Take a taxi,” McMullan said. “It’s on the FBI. Where are your keys?” Josh reached into his pocket and produced them. McMullan took the keys and then reached forward to pop the CD out of the player. He returned the disc to its case and dropped the case into his own pocket.

11:37 A.M.
PST

Behind the wheel of Josh’s decrepit car, Katrina sped inland toward Santee.

McMullan was staring blindly out the window. “I don’t think anyone else heard,” he finally said.

Katrina looked at him, not understanding. “Heard what?”

“I was right next to you when Wong died,” McMullan said. “I heard what he said to you. That it was your activator. But he was barely whispering, and I think the press was too far away to catch it.”

Katrina wondered where he was going with this. “Yeah?”

McMullan’s eyes bored into her for a moment. “That’s
good
, Katrina,” he said. “If the press heard that, you’re screwed. If they didn’t hear, then maybe we can still contain this. Provided, of course, that we get to Jason and clear the rest of it up for good.”

Katrina had not even been thinking about the ramifications of Jason’s involvement with respect to her, but now, she gave McMullan a grateful look and then sighed. “Yeah, I guess you’re right,” she said.

The struggling motor of Josh’s car protested when Katrina asked for a burst of speed to pass another car. As she approached the rural town of Santee, the ratio of full-sized trucks to passenger cars increased dramatically.

Katrina turned onto Jason’s street and approached his apartment. A familiar beat-up car came into view, parked halfway onto the curb next to the apartment building. “That’s Jason’s car,” she said. “He’s home.”

Wordlessly, the pair climbed the stairs to Jason’s apartment. McMullan rapped on the door. They waited in silence for a moment, but there was no answer. McMullan knocked again, even harder than before. “Come on Jason,” he said. “Let’s not make this harder than it has to be.”

Nothing.

“Jason, we just want to talk to you,” Katrina shouted. “We know how things look, but I still can’t believe you could have done this. So open up!” Still nothing.

Katrina exchanged a glance with McMullan and stepped back reluctantly. In one quick motion, McMullan fired a practiced foot forward to connect with the door. There was a brief cracking sound, and the door swung open.

Jason was not in sight.

McMullan drew his pistol as he stepped forward into the living room, and Katrina followed. Slowly, they stepped through the kitchen and toward the bedroom. At its closed door, Katrina looked toward McMullan, and their eyes locked. He nodded gently, and Katrina reached forward and opened the door. And there, on the bed, was Jason.

The frozen expression of agony on Jason’s face was the same one that had brought Sean McMullan into Operation Death Row. The same expression that had been on the faces of sixty-eight condemned inmates at San Quentin. The cause of death was obvious from the characteristic black lesions covering Jason’s body, the lesions for which anthrax—from the Greek for
coal
—had been named.

11:54 A.M.
PST

Back behind the wheel of Josh’s car, Katrina wiped a tear-stained cheek and sighed before starting the ancient engine again. But then she paused. She had no idea where to go. The discovery of Jason’s poisoned body destroyed what she had thought was the last piece of the puzzle.

From the passenger seat, McMullan interrupted her thoughts. “Does Jason speak Arabic?”

“Good point,” Katrina said. “Not on your life.”

“Then someone else was involved with this.”

Katrina thought for a moment and then said, “Let me see the CD again.” McMullan produced it from his back pocket, and Katrina removed the sleeve from the jewel case. She flipped through until she found the credits, and began scanning through.

Jason had personally thanked several people. The only names Katrina recognized were James Watson and Francis Crick. None of the people he acknowledged had Middle Eastern names.

She bypassed the acknowledgements from other band members and found another section of the credits. And a line jumped out at her immediately. “Produced by Ziad Qattan at JDR studios, 4859 Prospect Ave., Santee, California.” Katrina pointed to the name.

“Let’s go,” McMullan said.

“It’s only two blocks away,” Katrina said and engaged the gear shift of Josh’s car.

Three minutes later, Katrina and McMullan knew they had found the right place. The crash of live heavy metal descended upon them even as they were still pulling into the parking lot. Katrina screeched into a parking space, and they jumped from the car. Following the sound, they climbed a staircase and opened a door.

The music they had heard was a full band, but only one young man was in the room. He was wearing headphones and playing a guitar. A microphone was inches from the speaker of his guitar cabinet. The guitarist stopped playing when Katrina and McMullan entered the room. The guitar dropped out of the mix, but the remaining music continued playing.

The guitarist shot Katrina and McMullan a look of rage.
“God damn it!”
he shouted. “You totally ruined a fucking awesome take on one of my solos!”

A moment later, the remaining music stopped as well, and a voice came over a loudspeaker. “What happened, Brian? I thought that was a good take.”

“Some fuck-heads walked in,” the guitarist shouted.

A door opened from within the studio, and a thin man entered the room. His tattooed skin was dark, but not black. He might have been Middle Eastern. “What’s the problem?” he asked.

“Are you Ziad Qattan?” McMullan asked.

“Yeah, who wants to know?” There was no accent.

“Agent Sean McMullan, FBI,” McMullan said and produced his badge. “And I have some questions for you.” McMullan turned to the guitarist. “Sorry, but your recording session is over. Scram.”

When the guitarist was gone, McMullan pointed to the CD sleeve. “Did you write these lyrics, the ones in Arabic?”

“Oh
shit
,” Qattan said. “I
knew
something like this was going to happen. I
told
Jason it was a bad idea. At the time, we were both drunk, and he thought it would be hilarious. I went along with it.”

Katrina looked wide-eyed at McMullan. Was this a confession?

“Something like what?” McMullan pried.

“You jackasses think I’m a terrorist because we wrote a song and I’m an Arab. Racial profiling at its finest. Freedom of speech at its lowest. God bless America.”