He had been driving for about two hours, making relatively good time on the icy road. Large, heavy wet flakes of snow were falling profusely. His windshield wipers set on intermittent were keeping up with the falling snow. Having developed a taste for classical music, he unbuckled his seatbelt to reach into the backseat for his compact disk case. He was thumbing through it to look for Vivaldi’s Four Seasons performed by the London Symphony. At that moment, he rounded the curve only to see a moose dash up the embankment and onto the highway from the left shoulder of the road. He swerved to the left to avoid the animal, but the moose slipped and went down on the ice. Its rear legs went under it, but its front legs were straight, so it was in a sitting position. He slammed on the brakes, and the car had just begun to fishtail when he collided with the moose. He was doing forty-five miles an hour when he squarely broadsided the moose just behind its shoulders with the right front fender of his car. The thousand pound moose flew straight ahead and off towards the right shoulder of the road in the middle of the curve while the air bag activated. It momentarily blinded Robert Wha Lee and filled the driver’s side of the front seat. The car spun into a one hundred and eighty degree clockwise turn and slid another twenty meters backwards in the left lane, directly into the path of an eighteen wheeled tractor trailer rounding the curve. The driver saw the moose flying off the curve and watched it before he saw Robert Wha Lee’s car coming towards him. Immediately before impact by the tractor trailer, the airbag of Lee’s car deflated. The tractor trailer was doing fifty miles an hour when it hit the rear of Lee’s car. It crushed the trunk and sent the car flying off the road, where it rolled down the embankment of the raised highway and came to rest against a tree. Lee’s head snapped back to be stopped by the headrest, but then he was rebounded forward against and over the top of the steering wheel to smash his head into the windshield. The driver of the eighteen wheeler slammed on his brakes and jackknifed the truck, coming to a stop in the center of the road. The tractor was ninety degrees to the trailer, but the entire rig stayed halfway on the highway and halfway on the shoulder of the road. Before leaving the cab, the truck driver put in an emergency call on his citizen’s band radio, reporting the accident to the Ontario Provincial Police. Then he left his truck, uncertain whether to see about potential victims in the car or to put out emergency markers. He decided that it would be better from a legal standpoint not to be involved in any more accidents, so he put out the triangular warning signs fifty meters ahead and behind his rig. He felt better about that, as his tractor was blocking much of the right lane, and being on a curve in a snowstorm didn’t help.
He ran down the embankment to Lee’s car and looked in through the driver’s window. He saw an unconscious Robert Wha Lee leaning against the steering wheel with blood on his face. The windshield had a circle of broken glass where he had impacted against it. The truck driver didn’t know what to do, but seeing no indications of any fire danger, he looked around, and decided not to attempt to move Robert Wha Lee or provide any kind of first aid for fear of a lawsuit. The trucker ran back to his truck to report that an unconscious and bleeding driver was still trapped in the other vehicle. In thirty minutes, an ambulance and Provincial police cruiser arrived on the scene. The emergency medical technicians worked to extract Robert Lee while the police officer directed the twenty or so vehicles that had accumulated around the accident site so as to have enough room to move the jackknifed truck. Then he guided the tractor trailer driver to straighten out his rig to unblock the road. Traffic resumed flow, albeit it at a much slower pace. He walked over to check on the moose. Seeing it was still alive, but crippled and unable to move its rear quarters, he returned to his cruiser and removed a .30-06. He slowly approached to within ten feet of the bull moose then worked the bolt to chamber a round and sent a 180-grain bullet into the animal’s brain, immediately ending its agony. It was something he did not like to do. He had seen too many moose automobile collisions. Returning to the scene, the EMTs now had Robert Wha Lee on a gurney with an intravenous line into his arm, a blood pressure cuff on him, and cardiac telemetry going to the regional hospital.
“How does it look, Fred?” the officer said to the senior EMT, whom he had known for several years.
“Well, he might have a fractured skull, he certainly has a concussion, but he is stable. We’ll get out of here in about two minutes. I haven’t checked his wallet for any identification, but we can do that when we get him to the hospital.”
The officer nodded, and the EMTs loaded Lee into the ambulance, slammed the doors, turned on the lights and sirens while the officer held up traffic to allow the ambulance to pull on the highway. When the ambulance disappeared, he walked over to Lee’s car to examine it. The trunk lid was up, and Lee’s suitcase was crumpled, with the lid up. His clothes were half out of the suitcase, revealing the false section in the bottom which was bent in half. The documents revealing him as a Secret Service Officer were in view and caught the officer’s eye. He searched the rest of the car, then put the suitcase and clothes into the trunk of his cruiser, turned on his lights and pulled onto the highway. At the local police office, the officer removed the suitcase from his cruiser, taking it inside for close examination. When he read the hidden documents, he called his supervisor. His supervisor read the documents, and then called the Superintendent. When the Superintendent reviewed the identity papers, he called Ottawa to report it to his superiors, who in turned called the Royal Canadian Mounted Police and the American Embassy.
The Superintendent then called the hospital to ascertain the condition of Officer Robert Wha Lee. The emergency room nurse stated that no one by that name had arrived. When the investigating officer described him and the accident time and place, the nurse remarked, “Oh, that gentleman has a driver’s license and other identity papers under another name. His condition is stable; he has a concussion and is unconscious at the moment. We are radiographing him and running blood tests to determine the extent of other injuries, if any.”
Four hours later, a sergeant of the RCMP arrived at the District Office of the Provincial Police to examine the hidden papers. “Fold the suitcase lid down with the false section in place; put the clothes in on top of them, as if these documents were never discovered. Bundle the bag up in double plastic bags.” After doing so, he and the investigating officer went to the local hospital where they examined the documents in Robert Wha Lee’s wallet. He then instructed the hospital emergency staff to place the bagged suitcase in Robert Wha Lee’s room and that it was not to be opened. He called Ottawa to inform them that the victim was traveling under an assumed name with two sets of documents. He took the liberty of suggesting that the American FBI be called. Like bureaucrats everywhere, the RCMP Captain took it as a mild insult that a subordinate would suggest something that he might not otherwise do or be so inept that he would not think of it himself. He did agree that it was appropriate, and so called the American Embassy to report Robert Wha Lee’s condition and that he was traveling under a false identity.
The FBI found this somewhat curious and called the Treasury Department. After an hour, the Treasury Department decided to send their own officer to investigate. Close to midnight that same day, Secret Service agent Zachary Tolsten arrived at the District Office of the Provincial Police Headquarters. The investigating officer was called in. Aroused from his sleep, he was not in a particularly good mood but described everything he found and saw. With the investigating RCMP Sergeant, Agent Tolsten requested that they take a field fingerprinting kit to the hospital along with a digital camera. Robert Wha Lee was still unconscious when they arrived. He was fingerprinted and a photo taken. His fingers were scrubbed until all traces of the ink were removed. Although his scalp was shaved and sutured, his features were still clearly defined. The fingerprints and digital picture were transmitted by portable computer to the Treasury Department where confirmation of Lee’s identity took less than five minutes. Examining the forgeries, Agent Tolsten also took digital photos of them and all the contents of Lee’s wallet and personal belongings. Close examination revealed nothing out of the ordinary. All of the documents looked like those carried by the ordinary American citizen every day. He requested through the RCMP Sergeant that the hospital assign Robert Wha Lee to a private room and that he be recognized as Robert Zin Wang.
The hospital called the telephone number given on the HMO card. The address for the company was listed in Washington, D.C. After a few minutes, the person responding for the HMO said that Robert Zin Wang was fully covered, and that all expenses incurred would be paid by the HMO. No treatment was to be withheld. All invoices were to be sent to the address listed on the card. That certainly satisfied the hospital administrator and the billing department.
At the Treasury Department, it was decided not to reveal Lee’s true identity. The emergency room staff nurse with whom the Provincial Police Superintendent spoke was instructed not to mention any possibility of a second identity to anyone under any circumstance. One of the cards in Lee’s wallet was for a health maintenance organization. When the Treasury Department ran a check on it, they found no such HMO actually existed. In an unusual spirit of cooperation in the intelligence community, really to avoid charges of a cover-up within their organization, the FBI was called in to investigate the anomaly of Robert Wha Lee, his HMO, and why he was carrying false identity papers that were not issued by the Treasury Department. As a Special Treasury Agent and bodyguard to two presidents, who had to report all of his travel destinations and difficulties, it was not at all understood why Robert Wha Lee had any need of a false identity. Indeed, he had informed his superiors of his destination of the Lodge of the Pines with its address, phone and fax numbers.
The next morning, a utility van from Robert’s Heating and Air Conditioning Company, of Silver Springs, Maryland parked in front of Robert Wha Lee’s suburban home. Three men in coveralls emerged and walked to the front door. One inserted a lock pick gun and opened the front door. Another walked around to the side of the house to visually inspect the heat pump. The next door neighbor, something of a busybody, was raking leaves in the back yard. “Who are you people? The owner isn’t home there. Maybe I should call the police!”
The man smiled at her, and said, “Not at all, lady. Robert Lee gave us the key to the front door. He asked us to inspect his furnace and heat pump while he is fishing in Canada. He said he doesn’t believe it is working right, and he wants to get ready for winter. We are going to clean his furnace, replace all the filters, check it out and make any repairs or adjustments and do the same to his heat pump as well. We’re having a special on it this month. Are you interested in having us do the same for you? It is only $99.95 this month only. We do a great job!”
Satisfied that nothing was amiss, the lady shook her head no and returned to raking leaves. The three FBI agents thoroughly searched his house and placed a hidden microphone in each room, sometimes in a ceiling light, sometimes in other locations. His telephone line was tapped outside his house.
When he recovered consciousness, and his mind cleared, Robert Wha Lee panicked. The first thing he asked was, “Where’s my suitcase?” The attending nurse informed him that the Provincial Police had it bagged, and it was in the closet. As soon as the nurse left, Robert Wha Lee staggered over to the closet, opened the plastic bags and experienced tremendous relief to see that the secret false bottom was more or less in place and that the documents contained therein were undisturbed. Returning to his bed, he slept for eight hours.
Upon awakening, he was famished. He buzzed for the nurse and requested food. The nurse smiled and said, “Breakfast will be served in less than an hour, can you wait that long, Mr. Zing?” Smiling back, Robert Lee said he could but that he would like to use the telephone. The nurse removed a telephone from the bottom of the bed stand and plugged it into the wall outlet for him. The first call he made was to the Treasury Department to inform them that he had an accident and was hospitalized. He was fine, but would return to Washington in a few days, as soon as he could drive. When they asked where he was, he informed them. He also told them that his private HMO was going to take care of the paperwork and bills. This accident was not incurred in the line of duty, and the government shouldn’t have to pay for it. He carried his own supplemental insurance for just such emergencies.
Four days later, Robert Zin Wang was discharged. He caught a bus to Toronto where he purchased a new suitcase and discarded the crushed one. He hid his false identity papers in his wallet under the concept of hiding them in plain sight. Then he caught an airplane to Washington, D.C. The following day, he reported for duty, sutures in his scalp and all.
Chapter 34
“Look, Chief, we have the murder of a gangland chieftain. He died with a bullet in his brain. It turns out he was the leader of the Caballeros, which has over five thousand members in it. If we don’t find his killer soon, the Caballeros are going to go on a rampage against two of the rival gangs in the area. We’ll have blood running down the gutters in East L.A.”
“What’s the problem here, Captain, don’t you have enough men in your gangs division? What, do you need something more? Where do you stand in your investigation?”
“Yeah, we’re overwhelmed, all right. Yes, I could use more men, more state of the art communications equipment, and I have only one SWAT team for all of East L.A. It’s going to blow, Chief, and we better be ready. The mayor will come down on you, and you will come down on me. Feces flows downhill, and I don’t like that. What I need the most, though, is information. What I need is some indicator of why he was killed. I need a motive; I need a reason. My people on the street say they have no idea why this hit was made. Rival gangs deny all knowledge of it. My sources are usually very good, so I think there is more here than meets the eye. If we don’t crack this case soon, we could have twenty thousand Mexicans from half a dozen gangs battling twenty thousand blacks battling ten thousand Vietnamese and Koreans. At least, if it is narcotics related, which it most likely is. For the last two years, there has been a truce that has held. Everybody has been satisfied with their territory. Now, it looks like somebody is suffering growing pains. Our colleagues from the other municipalities tell me they haven’t heard anything at all regarding a turf war. That’s unusual. We usually get signals a couple of weeks in advance of anything happening. I want your permission to talk with the FBI to see if they can shed any light on this thing.”
“All right, Captain, be my guest. You can talk to anyone in downtown L.A. or anywhere else you want. You can go to the Mayor of L.A. if you like. Just get this thing moving. You’re right, feces flows downhill, and it might bury you.”
Captain Frank Jacobi walked out of his boss’s office straight to his unmarked sedan and made for the federal building in downtown L.A.
“Can I offer you a cup of coffee, Captain?” asked Wrangell’s secretary. “No thanks, Ma’am, I’m fine.” After a thirty minute wait, Captain Jacobi was escorted into the office of SSA Ed Wrangell.
“What can I do for you, Captain?” asked Wrangell, knowing full well why Jacobi was there.
“I need information on the Miguel Monzani murder. I am getting absolutely nothing off the street. If I don’t come up with something soon, I am afraid that East L.A. will explode into gang warfare. I’ve brought our file on Monzani for your information, just in case we have something you don’t. I would appreciate reciprocity.”
Wrangell picked up his phone and asked his secretary to come in. “Copy the contents of this file and return it to the good Captain, please, Marilyn.” She took the file and left, returning five minutes later with the original, which she handed to the Captain.
“Frankly, Captain, we don’t have a lot on him. You probably have a lot more than we do. Our interest stems merely from the fact that he was a waiter who had frequent contact with an individual who is the object of a national security case. Your records might be of considerable value to us. I will go through your file and dovetail it with ours. If I find anything I can divulge that will be of interest to you, I will gladly share it. At the moment, that’s the best I can offer you.”
“Tell me, SSA Wrangell, do you FBI guys ever have a case that isn’t national security associated? Do you ever share anything with us poor locals? After all, your resources are far greater than ours.”
Wrangell smiled, “I can assure you, Captain, we want this Monzani case broken wide open as much as you do. I will do everything in my power to assist your investigation as long as it does not jeopardize ours. That’s the best I can do.”
“Well, thanks for the time. Here’s my card if you ever find anything you can share.” He handed Wrangell his business card and let himself out. Wrangell opened the file and began to read. He was surprised at the amount of information the East L.A. police had accumulated on Monzani. He had numerous arrests but no convictions. His gang was believed to exceed five thousand members. He had established a well-defined territory for drug distribution, believed to have several methamphetamine laboratories in operation, ran two chop shops and a stolen car ring, and kept street crime at modest levels in his district. His territory encompassed about four square miles of East L.A. The report stated that Monzani thought it was bad for business to have heists relieving his clientele of their money. He had several mistresses at various times and owned the restaurant where he worked as manager. Several lieutenants had been identified and had dossiers of their own. One of them was named Gomez, who disappeared from sight months ago. It struck him that many of the trucks and vans used by Gonzalez had been purchased by his gang members, the Caballeros.
The meeting was called by Monzani’s lieutenants. It was a strategy meeting to consider a successor to Gomez and what actions to take regarding Monzani’s murder. Signs of encroachment by rival gangs into the Caballeros’ territory were beginning to appear. Gomez’s presence was something of a surprise, but no one objected. Gomez leaned his chair against the wall along the side while the lieutenants expressed various opinions as to who had killed Monzani and why. After all had spoken, Gomez rose and quietly said, “You’re all wrong. He was killed by a Chinaman. I don’t know all of the connections of the Chinaman, but it was this Chinaman who set up Jesus Gonzalez in Mexico, had him raiding into the States, and supplied him with guns and supplies. When the Army knocked over Gonzalez’s camp in Mexico, they caught Gonzalez. Gonzalez spilled his guts to the feds. The feds were closing in on the Chinaman. Miguel was a go-between for the Chinaman and Gonzalez. All those vehicles the gang bought went to Gonzalez. The Chinaman wanted to close the loop by eliminating Miguel. I don’t know why the Chinaman wanted to cause all this trouble. Maybe the Chinaman had ideas about what was going on overseas. Maybe he worked for a foreign government; it seems so. I think Miguel said something wrong to the Chinaman. Maybe he threatened to expose him. I think that is why he died.”
“And who is this Chinaman of whom you speak? Where do we find him to ask him?”
“I don’t know. I saw him several times in Gonzalez’s camp. That’s why Miguel sent me there, to figure out what was going on. This Chinaman that killed the Russian in the whorehouse was one of the Chinaman’s people. I recognized his picture. He was always with the Chinaman. The Chinaman left another babysitter with Gonzalez in Mexico. I don’t know what happened to him. I came back just before the Army raided the camp. I saw the raid coming and told Miguel so. Miguel obviously did not tell the Chinaman, or if he did, the Chinaman did not tell Gonzalez, or Gonzalez chose to ignore it. I don’t know which. We should find this Chinaman and ask him, as you suggest.” With that, Gomez sat down.
“There was a Japanese who came into the restaurant and talked with Miguel and ate in the back room. I think his name was Ito, though. We followed him to the COSCO shipping company offices one day. We can point him out to you any day you wish to go, Gomez. If he is the Chinaman of whom you speak, we can ask him.”
“Then, I will go with you early tomorrow. I will meet with you here at five o’clock in the morning and observe where he works. I don’t want to be late and miss him. You will meet me here, and we will go?”
“Yes, I, Bernardo, will meet you here and we will go with binoculars tomorrow. In the meantime, we should all consider who we should elect to replace Miguel.”
As they sat sipping coffee in an old Dodge pickup the next morning, Bernardo said, “There is his car” as it pulled into the reserved parking space. Gomez picked up the binoculars and watched Chan as he entered his office.
“It’s him. He is the one who came to the camp in Mexico and supplied all the guns. He is no peon. He is someone who is important.”
“We know where he lives. Now he has no bodyguards. They used to pick him up and bring him to work and then home again. We will have a talk with him, perhaps tonight before he can hire reinforcements.”
