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He was caught because he was young. He might have been brilliant in how he designed his bombs, but he didn’t account for security cameras, witnesses, fingerprints, and DNA. The ATF traced some of his supplies, he was found on camera at several different sites, and his prints were found on part of a device that had survived the blast. Matt led the raid that arrested him, but it had been a tough case for him—as it would be for any agent where eleven of the thirteen victims were children.
So far in this case, they didn’t have any hard evidence. The lack of prints or DNA on recovered components suggested this bomber was more experienced and mature. They were still combing over security footage, but the key angles revealed nothing suspicious. If he was a pro, they might be able to trace him through the device itself. That was the ATF’s job, but so far, this bomb had not matched any known bombers. While awaiting a better analysis of the bomb debris itself, Catherine turned her focus to the victims.
Neil Devereaux was a twenty-seven-year veteran of the FBI until he retired three years ago at the age of fifty-five. Catherine had met Neil several times through Tony Greer, the assistant director who oversaw the Mobile Response Team.
Born in Vancouver, Washington, he’d been assigned to the Seattle field office after graduating from Quantico. Shortly after, he met his wife and they had two children. His son, Eric, now twenty-six, was a medical resident in Washington, DC, and daughter Jillian, twenty-five, was currently serving in the Navy and based in Japan. Neil’s wife, Christina, died eight years ago of cancer, he hadn’t remarried, and according to Tony, he wasn’t involved with anyone else.
Christina was his true love. I was at her funeral and believed Neil when he told me there would never be another.
Nearly thirteen years ago, Neil had transferred to the DC office. His son was starting high school at the time and he’d been given a promotion, plus Catherine knew from Tony that Neil had endured some conflicts with his colleagues over the investigation into the suspicious deaths of two college students, Brian Stevens and Jason Mott. Neil had initially been called in to assist when the boys had been found dead on a federal campground, drowned in the lake. It had been ruled accidental, yet two years ago, Neil had requested the old files from that case. Tony had the Seattle office send them to him, even though that wasn’t standard protocol.
Now the Seattle office was going through all of Neil’s past cases and determining the status of bad actors he’d crossed paths with over the years in a professional capacity. Revenge or retribution was a powerful motive, which placed Neil near the top of their list as a target, after West End Charter itself.
Next, Catherine looked at Cal McKinnon. He had called in sick—domestic issues—and thus escaped death. He was a veteran of the Coast Guard, honorably discharged, went to community college in Seattle for two years, earned an AA in Business Tourism, then relocated to the San Juan Islands when he took a job with West End Charter nearly six years ago. Two years later Jamie Finch, a local waitress, moved in with him, and a few months after that they had a daughter, Hazel, who had turned three last month.
What would be his possible motive for the bombing? If he was having financial trouble, he could have set it up for the insurance money for his family, but then he would have to be the one dead—not Kyle Richards. It seemed on the surface that McKinnon was simply lucky.
Still, the agents on her team needed to dig deeper to make sure he didn’t have unsavory associates, unknown financial trouble, or enemies. McKinnon being the target was lower on the list—and nothing in his file or his personality suggested he had set it up. Target? Low. Suspect? Low.
Kyle Richards wasn’t scheduled to be on the boat, so the chance that he was a target or a suspect was next to zero. She put him at the bottom of the list. They would need to verify he wasn’t suicidal, but it seemed pretty far-fetched based on the timeline.
The Nava Software group that had been on board would be looked at closer. She had all their names and addresses—all from Seattle, here for a company retreat—but everyone seemed to have a low profile. No one was married, they were all under thirty-five, no known threats or mental health issues. One of the Seattle agents was talking to the staff in their office and family members to determine if there had been any threats against the company or any of the individuals. And FBI in DC was running deep background checks on all four. A computer blog had reported that an investor had wanted to buy out Nava, and the company declined, but Catherine didn’t see that as being a strong motive. Pending further investigation, she didn’t think the group was the bomber’s target.
Vince and Tina Marshall, married last month, lived in California, though Tina was originally from Washington. They arrived on San Juan Island Thursday morning, and their reservations had been made only two days before. That seemed odd to Catherine, but she wasn’t spontaneous—she planned out everything. Taking a vacation last minute would stress her out. Other people didn’t seem to mind.
Still, last-minute trips were often a red flag.
Vince Marshall, forty-eight, was a wealthy entrepreneur who owned a vineyard in California—where he lived—and a software company in Seattle, and he was an investor in several other companies—some of which he’d bought, then sold to be disbanded. Unlike Pierce Jeffries, Marshall was not a self-made man; he had inherited the vineyard and used family money to buy the software company—a trust-fund businessman. Catherine had known many such trust funders growing up, and they were not fondly recalled.
She sent a note to Zack to analyze Marshall’s various businesses. If someone lost their company because of Marshall’s business decisions, they might go after him. And in the articles that Catherine read were hints of shady business practices. Perhaps they were even shadier than suggested.
Though a bomb would suggest organized crime, and she didn’t see indications of that in the paperwork in front of her. Again: looking into that was a job for Zack. Those unknowns put Marshall higher on the list than the others.
Marshall was on his third wife, Tina née Foster. There was extensive divorce material on Marshall, even with no children from any of his marriages. Split assets, anger, accusations of infidelity on both sides. So common, she thought with a slight sneer. With a lot of money involved, that could be a motive worth exploring. Perhaps talking to his two ex-wives. But women, again, didn’t generally use a bomb to kill.
Marshall’s current wife was from Tacoma, Washington.Hmm...so was the Jeffries widow, Madelyn Cordell Jeffries. They were a year apart in age.
Catherine switched databases and pulled up personal information. Madelyn and Tina had both graduated from the University of Puget Sound. They were members of the same sorority—and both had worked at a golf course in Olympia, south of Tacoma, every summer while in college.
That connection seemed unusual, unless this trip was planned for the old friends to get together. Possible. She made a note to ask Mrs. Jeffries about her relationship with Tina.
There was little data on Tina Marshall. She had gone to work for Marshall’s winery as an event planner three years ago... This was interesting. Marshall’s second marriage dissolved a year ago.
Would a bitter spouse kill after their divorce?
Or maybe they were both the target.
Yet revenge killings rarely took out innocent bystanders on purpose.
Catherine made a note to look into Marshall’s second ex-wife, and she put the Marshalls higher up on her list of potential targets.
That brought her to Pierce Jeffries.
He was a self-made man, born in Seattle to immigrant parents from Poland. He was the fifth of seven children.
On paper, he seemed to be a philanthropist, and there was little negative press on him in the gossip rags or the business magazines. His oldest son worked with him day-to-day. He married when he was twenty, had three children. His wife died ten years ago of an aneurysm. It had been sudden and unexpected.
He married Madelyn Cordell five years ago, when she was twenty-four and he was fifty-one. According to the engagement announcement, they’d met at the country club where Madelyn worked and Pierce was a guest of a business associate. Pierce called it “kismet,” even though it took Pierce two months to convince Madelyn to join him for dinner. After that dinner—which lasted more than six hours and they talked about everything from their favorite books to World War II to Impressionist art—they saw each other whenever possible, and Pierce proposed four months later.
