Chapter 162: The Largest Illegal Gun Trading Place in the Northwest
The second-hand store wore its familiar face of deception, a faded 'Closed' sign dangling in the window despite the unlocked door, the interior conspicuously absent of customers. The whole setup reeked of a front operation, which, Theodore supposed, was precisely the point.
He followed Bernie through the door, and Bernie flipped the sign to 'Open' with the casual familiarity of a man who'd performed this ritual a hundred times before. They edged sideways through the narrow canyon of shelves, their shoulders nearly brushing the precariously stacked merchandise on either side.
The shelves wobbled with each passing but never toppled, a detail that struck Theodore as deliberate. He suspected they were bolted or glued to the floor beneath their seemingly unstable veneer, a bit of theater designed to discourage browsing.
Why else would they perpetually teeter on the edge of collapse yet never fall? It was the perfect metaphor for the whole operation: chaos as camouflage.
They emerged at the counter, and Theodore took a moment to survey the space. Nothing had changed since his last visit in December. The same odd-shaped items, objects he still couldn't quite identify even after months of wondering, occupied their assigned positions like loyal sentries.
Not a single piece appeared to have moved. He was beginning to suspect that the store's legitimate business had closed exactly zero sales in the past five months. The guns, on the other hand, probably moved with the efficiency of a Detroit assembly line.
The long-haired proprietor hunched over his ledger, pen scratching across the page in methodical strokes. He'd clocked their entrance the moment the bell chimed.
Theodore had seen his eyes flick up, but the man maintained his studious posture until they reached the counter, only then setting down his pen with deliberate slowness.
"What do you want?" His tone suggested he already knew the answer and didn't like it.
Bernie opened with pleasantries, his voice warm and conversational, the kind of tone that put people at ease before the knife slid between the ribs.
Then he cut to the point: he needed contact information for the boss's agents at George Washington University and American University.
The proprietor's eyes lifted to Bernie several times during this request, his expression souring with each glance. Finally, he straightened, his face settling into open hostility.
"I knew it," he muttered. "Nothing good ever comes from you two showing up."
He shook his head, definitive. "No. That's impossible."
Bernie's smile evaporated like morning dew on hot asphalt. The transformation was subtle but complete, the affable agent replaced by something more challenging, more immovable.
The boss shifted his weight, reading the change. "What do you want to investigate? I can help you investigate it right now." His words came faster now, conciliatory. "All their accounts are consolidated here with me."
Bernie didn't speak. He stood before the counter, spine rigid, face stern as a hanging judge, his stare boring into the older man with unblinking intensity. The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable.
To anyone passing by the window, it would have looked like a street tough shaking down a helpless shopkeeper, which, Theodore reflected, wasn't far from the truth.
The boss broke first. "Look, those agents at the universities, they're not exclusively mine. Their backgrounds are complicated. Complex. If I sell them out to the FBI, I'm the one who ends up in the ground. You understand?"
Bernie nodded, his expression conveying perfect understanding of the man's predicament. Then he suggested, quite reasonably, his tone implied, that the boss find a way to overcome that particular trouble.
"You have my word," Bernie said, his voice smooth as Tennessee whiskey. "We'll only inquire about some leads. We won't expose them. You know we're good for it."
The boss's jaw worked silently, weighing options that all tasted bitter.
Bernie let the silence build for another beat, then delivered the blade: "Do I need to contact Ronald about this?"
The air in the shop seemed to contract. The boss went very still for several seconds, his face cycling through emotions too quick to catalog. Then, without a word, he flipped the ledger to its back pages, tore off a sheet, and scrawled two names and addresses with quick, angry strokes. He thrust the paper at Bernie, his expression a complicated mixture of resentment and resignation.
"You promised." His voice was quiet, almost pleading. "I need you to keep that commitment seriously."
Bernie accepted the note with visible satisfaction, his smile returning like sunshine after a storm. "Of course." He pocketed the paper, then shifted gears. "Now, about the Ithaca 37 shotguns and Harrington & Richardson revolvers you've moved this month, especially sales near the universities."
The boss handed over the ledger he'd been working in, then limped toward the back room, returning moments later with a second volume, equally worn.
Bernie's eyebrows rose. "Business is that good lately?"
The proprietor nodded, gesturing vaguely southward with one gnarled hand. "Ever since the Soviets went to space, gun buyers have tripled. Maybe quadrupled."
Theodore glanced south through the grimy window, momentarily confused by the directional reference when discussing Russians in orbit, until he realized the man probably meant south toward the government buildings, where paranoia bred like rats in the walls.
Bernie flipped the new ledger to its first page and paused, scanning the date. The register was already a third full, but the first entry was dated April 12th. He set down the volume he'd been holding.
"We need records from before April 8th."
The explanation came quickly: the Ithaca 37 and the Harrington & Richardson revolvers had already been in the criminals' possession when they hit the Esso station.
The boss's fingers danced through the older ledger with practiced speed, landing on the relevant pages within seconds.
Sales figures for the Ithaca 37 were sparse; only three units moved. The Harrington & Richardson revolvers told a different story entirely: over thirty sold at rock-bottom prices ranging from five to ten dollars, depending on condition. It was a textbook case of moving volume on slim margins, the kind of business model that built empires in certain circles.
True to form, the proprietor's recordkeeping maintained its trademark minimalism, output recorded, buyers anonymous. The pages were a masterclass in strategic incompleteness.
Bernie copied down the sales dates, then offered a suggestion with the air of a man who knew it would be ignored: "Next time you sell guns, you might consider registering buyer information."
The boss's reaction was identical to every previous instance; he didn't even acknowledge the words. He collected his ledgers, tucked them away with the care of a man handling holy texts, and reminded them not to forget flipping the 'Open' sign back to 'Closed' when they left.
Theodore waited until their business concluded before venturing his own question: "Is it actually true that besides guns, you haven't sold any other merchandise in this store?"
The boss's head snapped up, indignation flashing across his weathered features. "Yes! You two come here constantly. Who would dare buy my goods with FBI agents haunting the place?"
"If this continues, even gun buyers won't dare to come."
He seemed entirely unconcerned that he'd just finished telling them business had been booming since April 12th. Cognitive dissonance, Theodore had learned, was a survival skill in this line of work.
Bernie pointed at the counter display. "How much for this?"
The proprietor reached into the cabinet beneath the register and produced a square metal flask, handling it with the reverence due a religious relic. He held it up to the weak light filtering through the front window.
"This," he announced with absolute certainty, "was carried by a general during World War II. Out of respect for Ronald and our long friendship, I'll let it go for fifty dollars."
Bernie examined the flask with the expression of a man inspecting a suspicious fish at market. Then he rolled his eyes, slipped the flask into his jacket pocket, and extracted two one-dollar bills from his wallet. He pressed them into the boss's palm with the solemnity of a man paying off a significant debt.
The proprietor deposited the bills in his drawer, his face brightening considerably at having made a legitimate sale. Never mind that he'd just been swindled out of forty-eight dollars by his own accounting, a sale was a sale in a store that never sold anything.
They squeezed back through the shelving maze and emerged into the late afternoon sunlight.
Back in the Buick, Bernie made an executive decision: they'd skip the second and third most largest illegal gun trading operations and head directly to American University. Time was bleeding away, and they needed to make progress before the day died completely.
American University occupied territory in Tenleytown, practically at the District's northern border, where D.C. kissed Maryland. The drive ate up the better part of forty minutes, and it was pushing five o'clock when they finally rolled into the neighborhood.
They located the public phone booth first, the one the female suspect had used to call the Maryland State Police. It stood at ground level beneath an apartment building, directly across from the university campus, close enough to hit with a well-thrown rock.
Neither American University nor George Washington University provided student housing, a detail that set them apart from most institutions.
Students at both schools fended for themselves in the housing market, typically banding together to rent apartments or shared houses in the surrounding neighborhoods. This particular building catered almost exclusively to the college crowd.
A student occupied the phone booth when they arrived, and two more waited in the queue outside. Theodore and Bernie remained in the car, engine idling, watching the small drama unfold.
Another student emerged from the apartment building and joined the line. The person in the booth clutched the handset between ear and shoulder, fumbling one-handed through his pockets for coins to feed the slot.
One of the waiting students rapped on the glass, miming a watch-checking gesture-"Hurry up" but received no acknowledgment. The knocker retreated, shaking his head.
In the span of those few seconds, two more students materialized from the building's entrance and joined the growing queue, chatting and laughing among themselves.
Clearly acquainted, the five quickly formed a loose social circle, their conversation carrying across the street in fragments.
Theodore checked his watch. They were approaching the approximate time the female suspect had placed her emergency call yesterday, peak hours for the phone booth, apparently.
Bernie climbed out of the Buick and strode toward the booth. The students intercepted him immediately, assuming he was another call-maker trying to skip the line. They gestured toward the back with theatrical indignation, end of the line, buddy.
Bernie's FBI credentials ended the protest. The students scattered like pigeons from a cathedral square. He pulled open the phone booth door, hung up on the startled student mid-sentence, and dialed AT&T's technical services line.
His request was specific: he needed records of all numbers dialed from this booth immediately before and after yesterday's emergency call.
The logic was sound. If yesterday's phone traffic matched today's volume, and Theodore saw no reason to doubt it would, then multiple people had been waiting in line when the female suspect made her call.
They would have seen her face. Some might even know her name.
Bernie's plan was elegant in its simplicity: identify everyone who'd used this phone booth in the relevant window, contact them, show them whatever description or sketch they could assemble, and confirm the suspect's identity through witness testimony.
The AT&T technician on the other end of the line complained. Theodore could hear the tinny voice expressing resistance even from ten feet away, but ultimately capitulated. Bernie rattled off the office number and instructed the technician to call directly once he'd pulled the records.
Call terminated, they headed onto campus.
The school security office connected them with the Campus Security Director, who, in turn, attempted to connect them with the university president, tried being the operative word.
The president was unavailable. More than unavailable, he was essentially unreachable.
According to the Campus Security Director, 12 individuals were arrested during yesterday evening's confrontation outside the State Department, and several of them carried American University student identification.
The president had spent his entire Sunday trying to secure the students' release from police custody and minimize the incident's impact on the university's reputation. He was, the director explained with obvious discomfort, truly unable to break away.
The director conveyed the president's apologies by having a man read from a script he didn't believe.
"When will he return?" Theodore asked.
The Campus Security Director's expression grew more uncomfortable. "He didn't say. But the matter seems... complicated. I don't believe he'll make it back today."
Theodore shifted his approach. "Can you ask the president to authorize our investigation on campus?"
The request was reasonable but carried weight. American University operated as a private research institution, established by the American Methodist Church in 1893 with initial funding from the church but maintaining independent operations. The university answered to a 23-member board of directors, five of whom represented Methodist interests. This was private property, owned by the board, with the president functioning as their hired property manager.
Securing presidential authorization was equivalent to obtaining the landowner's permission.
With that authorization, they could access student records, retrieve rosters of drama and literature students, secure cooperation from faculty and staff, even from students themselves. They could conduct comprehensive screening according to Theodore's profile, turning the entire university into a sorting mechanism.
Without authorization, they'd be reduced to standing at the campus gates asking random passersby if they studied theater or creative writing. It was the difference between surgery and surgery with a blindfold.
The Campus Security Director's face exhibited clear distress, the expression of a middle manager caught between competing authorities. "I'm just the Campus Security Director. I can't make that decision, I'd have to contact the president."
He disappeared into an office, returning several minutes later with his discomfort amplified.
"The president just left his location. I can't reach him now."
Theodore held the man's gaze for a long moment, watching him squirm, then adjusted tactics again. "Can you provide contact information for the Dean of the College of Arts and Sciences? We'll communicate with the dean directly."
Drama and literature programs typically fell under the Arts and Sciences jurisdiction. Getting the dean's information would open doors; they could communicate with relevant department heads, acquire professor contacts, access course assignments, and tap into daily student observations from faculty who actually paid attention.
Since the president remained phantom and authorization hung in bureaucratic limbo, they'd accomplish their objectives through the side door.
The Campus Security Director's face cycled through troubled once more. "I don't have the Dean of the College of Arts and Sciences' contact information either."
Theodore felt his jaw tighten. It was Sunday, and management had vanished like smoke. The only leadership physically present on campus was this perpetually troubled middle-weight administrator who seemed constitutionally incapable of providing anything useful.
Theodore changed his approach one final time, injecting urgency into his voice: "The criminals we're investigating possess firearms. They represent a direct and significant threat to campus safety."
The slightly overweight director's hand moved to his forehead, wiping away a sheen of sweat that had materialized during their conversation. He nodded continuously, his anxiety now visible in his body language.
"As Campus Security Director," he said with what sounded like genuine concern, "I'm deeply troubled by such a safety hazard on our campus. I will do everything in my power to cooperate with the FBI's work and eliminate this threat."
Theodore stared at him for several more seconds, reading the sincerity mixed with helplessness, then decided not to waste additional time extracting blood from this particular stone.
They left the campus and followed the address the second-hand store proprietor had provided, entering an apartment building adjacent to the university grounds.
The building occupied an unfortunate location, tucked into a corner where sunlight seemed reluctant to penetrate. The interior was dim even in late afternoon, the hallways lit by weak bulbs that created more shadows than they eliminated.
The structure showed its age in peeling paint and settling foundations, but someone, probably a tenant collective, maintained cleanliness standards. The floors were swept, and the corners were free of accumulated debris.
However, a faint smell of urine haunted the corridors, the kind of persistent odor that suggested either a plumbing issue or a drunk who'd mistaken the hallway for a lavatory one too many times.
Following the address to the second floor, they stopped at a door positioned at the top of the stairs, prime real estate for hearing everyone who came and went.
Theodore knocked, and the door opened almost immediately, as if the occupant had been standing just on the other side.
A young man appeared in the doorway, dressed in a plain tie, black formal suit, and polished leather shoes, the kind of outfit that suggested either a funeral or church service. His hair was cut and short, military-style, and he stood roughly Bernie's height, perhaps an inch shorter, about even with Theodore.
He positioned himself in the doorframe without moving aside, his bearing formal and rigidly composed, like a sentry at an important post. His expression was serious to the point of severity, carrying the gravity of a preacher about to deliver a sermon on sin and redemption.
"What do you want?" His tone matched his appearance, measured, solemn, sermonic.
Theodore and Bernie exchanged a glance, both reaching the same conclusion: they'd stumbled across a young pastor or seminary student preparing for evening services.
Unfortunately for him, neither of them was a believer in need of saving.
Bernie produced his FBI credentials, verified the young man's identity against the name on their note, then asked directly: "Between April 1st and 8th, did anyone purchase an Ithaca 37 shotgun or a Harrington & Richardson revolver from you?"
The young man displayed remarkable composure, no flinch, no visible alarm at having FBI agents at his door. He turned and disappeared into the apartment, returning moments later with a ledger significantly thinner than the volumes they'd examined at the second-hand store.
He flipped through pages quickly, his finger tracking down columns of entries, then delivered his report: "No Ithaca shotguns. Seventeen Harrington & Richardson revolvers."
"How many purchased by women?" Bernie asked.
The young man regarded him with an expression that suggested Bernie had asked an absurdly obvious question. "Most people who buy those are women. Men rarely purchase them, unless they're high school students trying to look tough with something they can afford."
Bernie pressed forward: "Do you remember these buyers? Could you recognize them again?"
The young man nodded, then immediately shook his head, a gesture that contradicted itself. "American University has over five thousand students, plus young people from the surrounding neighborhoods who all purchase from me. Even if I remember faces, it's useless, I don't know every one of them personally. I'm not a campus directory."
Bernie ignored the protestation and described the female suspect's height and general physique, keeping the details deliberately vague to avoid leading the witness.
The young man's brow furrowed in concentration, his eyes going slightly distant as he rifled through mental files. Then, with some uncertainty creeping into his voice: "Was she wearing a red beret, a red polka-dot dress, and short leather boots?"
Theodore felt something click in his mind, not confirmation, but a data point worth examining. The outfit description was decidedly retro for 1965, almost aggressively so. Current fashion followed the First Lady's lead: light wool coats in pastel shades, pillbox hats, dress suits that projected refined elegance.
What this young man described sounded like someone reaching back to the previous decade, deliberately costuming themselves in a style that would draw attention.
But the timeline didn't align properly. The outfit also contradicted Theodore's profile in significant ways. According to his analysis, the female suspect wouldn't have reached the point of wearing conspicuously retro attire when she purchased the revolver; that level of deterioration came later.
More importantly, the profile suggested someone skilled at camouflage, someone who understood how to blend rather than stand out. Wearing attention-grabbing vintage clothing would violate that fundamental character trait.
Bernie and Theodore exchanged a quick, weighted glance, a silent conversation conducted in a fraction of a second.
Bernie turned back to the young man. "Tell us more specifically about this person. Everything you remember."
The young man opened his ledger, searching through the entries with his finger as an index, then tapped a specific line. "She came on the evening of the 4th. Purchased a revolver."
He flipped forward several pages. "Then she came again last night, around eleven o'clock. That's when she was wearing the outfit I described."
[End of Chapter]