October 8, 2002. As Monday evening turned into Tuesday morning, we barely noticed that a new day had begun. We were in the thick of the job, carrying out our assigned duties. Meanwhile, several big-screen televisions were mounted on one of the walls of the JOC, all of them tuned to cable news channels except one, which was set to a local Washington station, Channel 9. That morning a segment on Channel 9 reported on the death-head tarot card that investigators had found in the woods at Benjamin Tasker Middle School. The reporter described word for word what was written on the card, including the note in the hand of one of the snipers saying that we were not to release anything about the card to the press.
Everyone in the room stopped what we were doing. Stopped cold. The only sounds were the hum of the computers and the reporter on television. None of us on the intelligence staff, including Captain McAndrew, knew about this evidence. Neither, it turned out, did most, if not all, of the people in that room. Yet there it was being broadcast for the entire region to hear, including the snipers—who, we had just learned, had specifically directed the police not to release that information. We all stood there gawking at the TV in disbelief. Then the implications of what had just occurred started to set in. More than one investigator slammed files down on the tops of desks, and I heard chairs being kicked, and a cascade of swearing began to fill the room. I looked over at the glass partition that was Captain Forsyth’s office. His reaction was inescapable—his face was flushed. I could see anger swelling, even from across the command center. Suddenly, he flung his chair across the room, slammed his office door, and stormed out of the JOC.
Where he was going wasn’t obvious. But what was obvious—to him, to all of us—was that there had been a leak by somebody at the crime scene on Monday. Who leaked it? Was the leaker intentionally trying to piss off the killers? Or was this somebody looking to become a future talking head on TV, leaking evidence and facts for personal gain?
We had put together a great team of police officers and federal agents from across all jurisdictional lines. This team was now being undermined by somebody who wanted to be seen by the press as the inside source. This leak could easily spark trust issues among local, state, and federal law enforcement. “Dan,” I said to Cornwell, “if I knew who the rotten bastard was that’s leaking this shit I would personally kick his ass.” I’m sure I wasn’t alone in that sentiment.
There is always public interest in crime and police investigations, and the press serves a vital purpose to law enforcement, helping us get important information about suspects, and what to look out for, out to the public and possibly generate valuable leads. So we do what we can to work hand in hand with them. A good police reporter understands the need for police to keep certain details about an investigation out of the public eye, even as he or she works to get the story. But the problem with a case like this—one that captures national and world interest—is that it brings out the competitive nature of the news business. All the cable news networks and local stations want to scoop their competitors. Thus, responsible journalism takes a back seat to sensationalism. That’s one side of it. The other side is that the same heat—that very intense national and world interest—can sometimes cause a cop to succumb to the lure of possible fame and fortune.
No matter how it happens, it’s not helpful to any investigation, let alone one of this magnitude, to have to conduct it in full view of a mesmerized cable TV audience. The killers, who had yet to be identified, could track our every move; they would see us coming ten miles away. All these leaks were going to do was get more people killed.
I remember, during the course of this investigation, being in a closed conference room with about a dozen other people, all law enforcement, in which critical information and strategy concerning the case were being discussed. Ideas, investigative plans, and the course of the investigation from that particular point forward were all being hashed out. Then, within five minutes of that meeting breaking up, the details were being regurgitated damn near word for word on two of the major cable news networks.
In all my years of law enforcement experience, I had never seen anything like this. I looked at Cornwell, who was staring in disbelief at the talking head on TV. “The bastards have to be listening, Dan,” I said. “The people in that room couldn’t have had time to drop a dime and repeat the conversation. It’s on TV, and I just walked out of that meeting.” The media had to be pointing microphones at the windows and picking up the conversations. And they had to know that that briefing was going to happen—and where and when. “Dan, we got a damn rat in here,” I said.
“It has to be a fed,” Dan said. “Who the hell else could it be?”
Eventually the press leaks became so bad that everyone entering or leaving the operations center was screened, almost daily, for any planted bugs or microphones. White-noise machines were installed along all the windows in an effort to stop information from being picked up by powerful microphones pointed at the building. Reporters and news networks were hungry for fresh details. They had taken up a 24/7 encampment in the press area and around police headquarters and the operations center, and some of them would go to any length to get the scoop.
The shooting of thirteen-year-old Iran Brown had drawn the attention of President George W. Bush. During a White House press briefing, the president said he thought the snipers were people with sick minds who were getting off on terrorizing people. The White House was now being briefed daily about the progress of the investigation. This was a whole new stressor added to all of us working the case.
The gravity of the situation was now evident: People were not out and about, except to go to work. News broadcasts showed area gas stations covering their pump areas with large blue tarps in an effort to block the clear view of snipers who might want to shoot their customers. The few people who ventured out were ducking low behind their cars while fueling. People parked their cars as close as possible to their destination, then hurried into stores and buildings running in a zigzag pattern. Stores and businesses closed blinds or taped brown paper over storefront windows to prevent anyone on the outside from being able to see in. The nation’s capital, and the areas around it, had started to resemble a deserted war zone.
This was not the America I had grown up in, and I felt somehow responsible for the change. In my head, it was on me as a member of law enforcement to put a stop to this. It was an irrational thought—I was just another cop on a team, and it would take a team to stop the snipers. Still, the thought was there. As the sun set on Tuesday, there was a definite uneasiness—even a dread—throughout the operations center. Would there be another shooting tonight? Would the tarot card being released to the press spur the snipers to seek some form of revenge? Since the words on the tarot card indicated the killers had a god complex, it was a likely scenario. There were times when I wondered, Does the press care how many innocent people got killed? Is there a bloodlust on the part of the press? It was hard not to see them as part of a vicious, self-serving cycle: the more people who were shot, the more sensational the story; the more sensational the story, the more so-called experts they could put on TV to wildly guess what the killers were thinking and tell the public what the police should be doing about it; and the more the “experts” talked about the murders, the higher the TV ratings.
After working for more than two days straight, I badly needed a shower and some rest. Plus, I had to get the hell out of the operations center, if only for a few hours. I had to get back in touch with my reality, which meant going home and being a husband and a dad. Soon I eased car 662 out of the parking lot, past the tent city and the fortress of satellite trucks that lined the street. Tough to turn all this off, I thought.
I worked my way out of the immediate area and went north on I-270. The streets were quiet, and so was the interstate. There was very little traffic, other than police cars. What few remaining resources the state police had to add to the phalanx of police protection that we were trying to establish around all the schools had now been called on to help protect schools in Prince George’s County. My personal morale was low. Going home for a few hours to my wife and daughter would be an energy and morale boost. At least I hoped it would. It always had been in the past. My wife and kids were my sanctuary, and I desperately needed to be with them right now.