Chapter 158: More Than Just a Car Thief
Bernie asked Little Moreno for the addresses of his two friends.
Little Moreno hesitated, his fingers drumming nervously against his thigh.
Frank Moreno answered for him. He rattled off two addresses without pause, precise down to the house number, then added brief sketches of each family, who worked where, how long they'd lived on the block, the names of the fathers.
Though he hadn't seen who'd been with Little Moreno that night, he could guess easily enough. These addresses belonged to friends and colleagues, men he'd known for years. Little Moreno and their children had grown up together, always underfoot, inseparable since they could walk. Stealing cars for a joyride was exactly the kind of stupid stunt the three of them would pull.
Bernie turned back to Little Moreno. "Was it them?"
Under his father's steady gaze, Little Moreno, who'd clearly intended to cover for his friends, could only nod.
Theodore asked Frank Moreno, "Did you lose anything from your car?"
Frank Moreno shook his head, but his expression darkened. "No, but that goddamn car thief destroyed my car."
He kept that vehicle immaculate, washing it every Saturday morning, wiping down the interior and exterior until they gleamed. But when he'd picked it up from the impound lot, he'd almost walked past it, not recognizing his own Chevrolet.
The smell hit him the moment he opened the door, the entire interior reeked like a garbage can left to rot in the summer heat. Something had been spilled across the bench seat, leaving sticky brown rings that his fingers adhered to when he touched them. Two empty glass Coca-Cola bottles rolled around on the floor. Several half-smoked cigarettes had been jammed into the ashtray, their filters leaving round scorch marks on the chrome rim. Ashes, food scraps, and dirt covered every surface.
Bernie thought of the 7-Eleven he'd seen that morning. "What brand of cigarettes?"
"Chesterfield," Frank Moreno said immediately. "I'm positive."
He knew Chesterfields intimately, cheap and strong, a blue-collar favorite. He'd smoked them himself as a young man, and half the workers on his construction sites still did. He kept a pack in his truck for when he needed to smooth things over with the crew. He could identify a Chesterfield by the smell alone.
Theodore and Bernie drove to see Little Moreno's two friends next.
Both boys were confined to their homes, grounded by furious parents. These two hadn't been as lucky as Little Moreno, they'd been caught red-handed when they stumbled in from their joyride that night, reeking of cigarettes and cola and guilty exhilaration.
When Frank Moreno's car was stolen, both boys had been under their parents' watchful eyes, trapped in their own living rooms.
By the time they finished the interviews, the afternoon had burned away. The rain had stopped at some point, but the dark clouds still hung low and oppressive, rendering the sky a gloomy gray.
Theodore and Bernie drove back toward the Department of Justice Building, nearly getting mired in traffic near Capitol Hill. Fortunately, they were past the worst of rush hour; the congestion had begun to ease.
When they descended to their basement office, Billy Hawke and Detective O'Malley had also just returned. Both men looked worn from their fieldwork, ties loosened, jacket shoulders damp from the humid air.
They'd obtained the caller information for the alarm call from AT&T.
Bernie stopped Billy Hawke mid-sentence. "Interstate call?"
"The call wasn't from near the abandonment site?"
Billy Hawke shook his head. "No. The call originated from a public telephone booth outside a grocery store next to George Washington University. Northwest District."
He paused. "Unless this person has clairvoyant vision, he couldn't see all the way from Northwest D.C. to Maryland."
Detective O'Malley glanced at him, then interjected, "We checked the phone booth. It's on a busy street corner, dozens of people use it daily. The investigation's going to be difficult."
He pulled out his notebook. "We questioned the grocery store clerk. He estimates at least a hundred students use that phone every day."
The three men looked at Theodore.
Theodore wasn't surprised. "The car was stolen in the early morning hours of April 8th and discovered that same afternoon."
"The caller provided the exact abandonment location over the phone."
"But that location is extremely remote, difficult to find even with an address. We experienced that firsthand today."
"Moreover, nearly all the stolen vehicles we saw at the Maryland State Police impound lot showed signs of systematic dismantling."
"The State Trooper also mentioned that most callers strip the cars down to nothing before they bother to report the location."
"But this caller didn't dismantle the stolen vehicle. He left it intact, allowed it to be towed back whole."
Theodore paused, letting the implication settle over them like dust.
"The caller is very likely the car thief himself."
A brief silence fell over the office. The only sound was the distant clatter of typewriters from upstairs, the building's eternal percussion.
This was significant.
On the surface, this case appeared minor, a car thief who'd stolen two vehicles, driven them around, then abandoned them. He'd even voluntarily contacted the police.
But under Theodore's relentless investigation, this small car theft case had begun to assume larger dimensions, darker contours.
Bernie broke the silence. He shifted in his chair, gathering his notes into a neater stack. He recounted the progress of their afternoon interviews, his voice measured and deliberate.
Theodore began his analysis.
"Between 11:30 and 11:40 PM on April 1st, the car thief stole a police patrol car, drove it to the end of Rodney Road in Maryland, then abandoned it."
"In the early morning of April 8th, he stole a civilian black Chevrolet and abandoned it by the Anacostia River."
"When the second car was stolen, the key was already in the ignition, similar to the patrol car."
"The car thief may not have mastered vehicle theft techniques."
Bernie interrupted. "Stealing a car is actually very simple."
Everyone turned to look at him.
Bernie paused, then explained the mechanics of auto theft with uncomfortable precision. A wire coat hanger and a length of wire, that's all it took. Hook the hanger through the window seal, snag the lock mechanism, pop it up. Strip the wire, touch the right terminals together under the steering column, and the engine turns over.
Simple to execute, easy to learn. The success rate might be low at first, but once you understood the principle, it became almost routine.
Detective O'Malley and Billy Hawke regarded him with newfound curiosity.
While police officers naturally became familiar with common criminal methods, Bernie's level of detailed knowledge struck them as unusual. O'Malley's gaze lingered on him a moment longer, then cut toward Billy Hawke with an unspoken question.
Theodore, however, showed no surprise whatsoever that Bernie possessed this information.
He continued without pause. "Let me correct my analysis."
"The car thief may not have mastered vehicle theft techniques at that time, or his skills were rusty, which forced him to target cars with keys inside."
"When he stole the patrol car, it should have been his first offense. He was nervous, overstimulated by the transgression, and immediately abandoned the vehicle after driving it to the end of Rodney Road."
"But when he stole the second car, he was considerably more composed."
"He spent substantial time inside the vehicle, long enough to leave behind significant debris, before calmly departing."
"He made no attempt to clean the interior. More significantly, he voluntarily contacted the Maryland State Police on the afternoon of April 8th, providing the exact location of both stolen vehicles and guiding the police directly to them."
"He wasn't worried about law enforcement finding him. In fact, he subtly wanted the police to close in."
Theodore emphasized his next words. "This represents a significant psychological shift."
"Previously, the car thief would steal a vehicle, experience the thrill of the crime, then immediately flee the scene to avoid capture."
"But after that alarm call on April 8th, his psychological state had fundamentally changed."
"Ordinary crime could no longer satisfy him. He needed the police to close in."
"He believed he could contend with law enforcement."
"More than that, he believed the police couldn't defeat him."
"He needed authorities to discover his criminal behavior, to gain their attention and focus."
"He needed the police to pursue him constantly, to escalate the stakes, to provide him with more intense stimulation."
"He wanted to demonstrate that he was different. Superior to other criminals."
"This is a car thief with a profound need for recognition. He craves attention, craves being taken seriously. He wants to become the focal point of police attention."
Bernie had already pulled out his notebook, pen moving steadily across the page.
Billy Hawke fumbled for his own notebook a moment later, scribbling furiously to catch up with Theodore's analysis.
Detective O'Malley's frown had deepened into a canyon across his forehead.
He couldn't comprehend what the car thief in Theodore's description was actually trying to accomplish. The behavior seemed irrational, purposeless. If Theodore's analysis was accurate, this person was either mentally ill or a complete madman.
Theodore paused, giving Billy Hawke and Bernie time to finish their notes.
Detective O'Malley hesitated, then proposed an alternative possibility. "Maybe the car thief regretted abandoning the vehicles. Maybe he was afraid of getting caught, so he called the police to, "
Theodore shook his head. "If the car thief felt guilty, he should have returned the vehicles directly to their owners."
"If he feared capture, he shouldn't have contacted the police at all. Or at minimum, before calling, he should have returned to the abandonment site and cleaned up the debris to avoid leaving additional evidence."
"The distance from the abandonment site to George Washington University isn't far, maybe twenty minutes' drive. And the call wasn't made until that afternoon. He had ample time to reconsider his actions."
"Calling the police was absolutely not an impulse."
Billy Hawke had finished his notes. He looked up with genuine curiosity. "Were you already suspicious the caller was the car thief when you asked us to investigate that alarm call?"
Theodore nodded. "Contacting police, sending letters to law enforcement, or publicly announcing information through newspapers and other media, these are the most common methods employed by criminals with performance-oriented personality traits."
He paused, then delivered his conclusion.
"He will definitely continue to commit crimes. And his methods will rapidly escalate."
"If law enforcement agencies cannot provide a response that satisfies him, he will quickly lose control."
Detective O'Malley remained silent.
He found Theodore's conclusion absurd, even ridiculous. This felt like making a mountain out of a molehill, like those people who constantly insisted the Soviets were about to invade, seeing conspiracy in every shadow.
But he couldn't identify any specific flaw in Theodore's reasoning. Aside from the terminology he didn't fully understand, "performance-oriented personality traits" and such, the rest of the analysis seemed logically sound, even persuasive.
This cognitive dissonance unsettled him.
The idea of a car thief suddenly transforming into a criminal bold enough to challenge law enforcement felt unreal, like something from a pulp novel rather than actual police work.
Theodore located a street map and marked the locations of both thefts and both abandonments.
The theft sites were far apart, miles between them, and aside from both occurring in D.C.'s Northeast District, there seemed to be no connection.
However, both abandonment locations were situated along the Anacostia River, though the two spots were nearly a mile apart.
Theodore studied the map for a long moment, then marked the 7-Eleven convenience store he'd observed that morning.
Detective O'Malley's eyes narrowed as he watched the marks accumulate on the map. He looked up. "We don't have any evidence yet proving the robbery is connected to the car thefts."
Theodore was noncommittal. He proposed searching along the Anacostia River tomorrow.
Detective O'Malley merely gave him a penetrating look but didn't object.
Based on today's investigation results, tomorrow's workload would be substantial. They spent the next twenty minutes listing tasks, distributing assignments, then dispersed.
Theodore and Bernie didn't drive directly back to Georgetown. They had to detour to Arlington to check on the renovation progress at Theodore's house.
As the car approached the road in front of the State Department, a line of patrol cars blocked the intersection, parked horizontally across both lanes.
A patrol officer was directing traffic, shouting hoarsely that the road ahead was closed and all vehicles needed to detour.
His shouting proved ineffective.
Dozens of cars had simply stopped in the middle of the road, drivers craning their necks to peer past the police barricade.
On both sidewalks, reporters with cameras pressed against the police line, shutters clicking in a continuous mechanical staccato. Flashbulbs popped like small explosions.
One patrol officer broke from the line in fury, snatched a reporter's camera, yanked out the film, threw it to the ground, and stomped on it repeatedly with his heel.
He raised the camera high as if to smash it against the pavement. Reason stopped him at the last moment. He ultimately just shoved it back into the reporter's chest with a harsh warning against taking photographs.
The reporter didn't bother arguing. He quickly grabbed a spare camera from his assistant's bag, moved thirty feet down the sidewalk, and continued shooting.
The conflict had erupted shortly after accusations against America by a certain Southeast Asian nation were made public at the United Nations. Over two hundred international students from that country, attending George Washington University, American University, and several smaller institutions, had gathered in front of the State Department.
They carried signs reading "Please Stop Bombing My Homeland" and sang their national anthem loudly, demanding the Secretary of State stop lying to the American people and the world.
They didn't know that the Secretary of State had genuinely believed no American bombing runs had occurred before this revelation.
Twenty minutes later, exiles from that same nation, opponents of its current government, along with students supporting American intervention rushed to the scene.
The two groups sized each other up across the police line, tension crackling between them like electricity.
The confrontation quickly escalated into a shouting match. The shouting match rapidly devolved into a brawl.
Nearby patrol officers were first to respond, but they were too few in number and lacked proper riot equipment. They could only establish a loose perimeter to prevent the violence from spreading into surrounding blocks.
Within fifteen minutes, the main force of the D.C. Police Department arrived, two dozen officers in riot helmets, carrying wooden batons and tear gas canisters.
They moved in quickly, professionally.
With the assistance of nightsticks and a few well-placed tear gas canisters, the two factions were forcibly separated. The demonstration ended with twelve arrests and the crowd dispersed under threat of additional force.
The reporter had burned through half a dozen rolls of film, capturing every moment. Satisfied with his haul, he pulled his assistant into a waiting taxi and rushed back to his news bureau.
Patrol officers remained at the scene, maintaining order as the crowd slowly dispersed.
Large patches of ink had been splashed across the State Department's doors and exterior walls. The windows of several ground-floor offices were shattered, jagged glass teeth still clinging to the frames. Paper and debris littered the sidewalk.
The scene was a mess, the detritus of political fury made physical.
Theodore and Bernie sat trapped in the middle of the traffic snarl, unable to move forward or retreat, forced to witness the entire riot unfold before them like spectators at a violent theater.
The car remained motionless as chaos erupted and then gradually subsided. By the time the vehicles ahead finally began moving again, night had fallen completely, the street lamps casting yellow pools of light across the wet pavement.
[End of Chapter]