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Chapter 12
Before I ranout to stir up shit, I made a quick stop at my hotel’s cramped business center. One of the first steps in any investigation, after gathering information, is research.
An internet search told me that, as a group, The Burning Land was suspected in several deaths, fires, and a whole host of crimes related to riots they helped start. I was shocked they hadn’t been designated domestic terrorists.
The FBI may have spoken to a couple of the group’s members, but that didn’t mean much to me. I wasn’t restricted by the rules of the FBI. I didn’t have to be polite or courteous. And I could spot a liar.
Everyone in the damn group had some kind of arrest record. One member, a guy named Jeremy Pugh, stood out. He was a little older, about thirty-seven, and was listed as a direct suspect in two fires. I was able to track down public records of his arrests for stalking, aggravated stalking, and assault with a deadly weapon. That gave me the impression of a dangerous man backed by the encouragement of a dangerous group. A note on a booking photo listed Pugh as six foot four and 250 pounds.
It didn’t take me long to find the warehouse where The Burning Land might ostensibly be headquartered. At any rate, one person in a web forum had listed this address as a meeting place in the past few months. I drove past slowly and looked through the open bay doors, any identifying signs missing above the patchwork of asphalt. A few young people in an unmarked bay sat talking on crates or on the concrete floor. My guess was they used this place because the rent was cheap, or maybe it was the base of some other activity that helped fund the group.
Since no one ever would make a small purple Prius for a police car, I drove past several times. Nothing changed. Then I started looking through the rest of the neighborhood. A block away stood a diner-coffeehouse with a sign that spelled out in familiar greenish lettering BARBUCKS. Clearly ripping off a well-known coffee chain, this place also sold beer. Something told me this was where members of The Burning Land would come for their caffeine fix. Besides, I could’ve used a shot of some about now.
The atmosphere was a step down from Starbucks. Plastic wrappers littered the floor, and the garbage can near the back door was barely visible under a hill of trash dotted with plain disposable cups. Sitting at a high top were two young men and a young woman who had to be part of The Burning Land. Between them I estimated they had fifty visible tattoos.
I ordered a cup of coffee at the counter, then took the high top right next to them, saying hello as I slid onto my stool.
A skinny man in his twenties with long, greasy hair scowled at me. He said, “Do you mind? This is a private conference. Go sit over there.” He used his bottle of Budweiser to point across the empty room to a sketchy table with empty cups on it. The other young man had gauges in his ears big enough to pass a finger through.
I kept my voice calm. “No, thanks. I’m fine here.” I wanted to be unobtrusive, but you can’t give bullies too much room or they never stop.
The man stood up. So did I. He was of average height, so he came up to my chin. I kept hold of my hot coffee. It would slow him down if he lunged for me.
The young woman at the table reached up to touch the young man’s arm. “Let it go, Tyler. He’s not worth the effort.”
I let Tyler see a hint of a smile. Just to see if that might set him off. Instead, he huddled with his friends. I kept my stool facing them so I wouldn’t be surprised.
This was a golden opportunity to pick up information. A smart cop will always talk to people before taking action. But we’d gotten off on the wrong foot. Now I worried about explaining to the local cops why I tore up a coffee shop mixing with these thugs.
Tyler glared at me again. “You have no idea how lucky you are, mister.”
“You mean because I have a job and live in an apartment?” This was fun. I might have to try unofficial investigations more often. All three of the young people just stared at me.
Then the front door opened. The cheap bell above the door tinkled. I looked up to see the man I’d read about. Jeremy Pugh stood in all his glory, though his thinning hair and body odor probably didn’t attract many prospective mates in The Burning Land. At thirty-seven, he wasn’t a kid. And it was hard to settle my concern about whether his 250 pounds were mostly muscle or mostly fat. He was just big. Like a linebacker five years after college. A gut hung over his belt, and he wore a TIJUANA FLATS TACO TUESDAZE shirt that was a size too small. His grungy, three-day stubble didn’t improve my first impression.
As soon as Pugh plopped onto a stool, the guy I’d confronted leaned in and whispered something to him. Then the big man turned to face me.
He said, “Who the hell are you, causing shit in here? This place is ours.”
“I don’t think that’s how the DC police would see it.”
He let out a laugh. “You really think those pussies would even come down here?” Then he scowled as he said, “How do we know you’re not a cop? Or worse, a reporter.” He had a hint of a Virginia drawl.
“Why would a reporter be so bad?”
That seemed to enrage the big man. “Are you kidding me? The way they cover us? They make us look like terrorists. Nothing but lies.” Spittle sprayed his table as he started to shout. He stood up and took a step toward me.
I kept quiet and tried to stay calm.
Pugh said, “This is our turf. We got a right to know who’s trespassin’ and why they’re asking questions.” Then he reached into my sport coat like he was looking for my wallet. I slapped his hand away out of instinct. It felt like an invasive, childish move. That’s why I treated him like a brat.
That might’ve been my mistake.
