The Terrorist Next Door by Sheldon Siegel

In any event, we think that’s when he started building his bomb factory. We figure he set up shop in South Chicago to avoid attracting attention to himself or blowing up his condo in Hyde Park. Then Udell Jones came looking for crystal meth.”
    “Has he admitted killing Jones?”
    “He hasn’t said a word since he was arrested. He lawyered up right away.”
    “Big surprise. Any evidence of an accomplice?”
    “Nothing. The people at the mosque said he was a loner. We traced every call he made and every e-mail and text he sent for the past two years. We’ve been through his cell phone and hard drive. We checked his computer account at the U. of C. We looked for dummy e-mail accounts and coded messages. We checked for connections to international terrorist organizations. Nothing.”
    “The Patriot Act has limitations,” Battle observed, “especially if somebody is working alone. Did you find anything else on his computer?”
    “Instructions for making bombs. Floor plans for the Art Institute. Fundamentalist websites with anti-American vitriol.” Gold flashed a sarcastic smile. “Seems he was also visiting several porn sites, too.”
    “I suspect he didn’t mention it to his imam. Anything from our people who were talking to the members of the mosque in Polish Town?”
    “Nothing yet.”
    Battle’s voice turned somber. “Did somebody notify Christina Ramirez’s mother?”
    “Yes.”
    “Nothing prepares you for the loss of a child.” The veteran detective swallowed hard. “Estelle and I lost our older son in the first Gulf War.”
    “I didn’t know. I’m sorry.” Gold cleared his throat. “You heard about my wife and daughter, right?”
    “I did. I’m sorry.”
    “Thanks.” Gold felt a tinge of relief that they’d broached the subject. Five years earlier, Gold’s wife, Wendy, had died along with their unborn daughter on a snowy night in a single-car crash on Lake Shore Drive. Gold had dealt with the unspeakable loss by throwing himself into his work, and he hadn’t remarried. His BlackBerry vibrated. Mojo’s name appeared on the display.
    “What’s the Islamic Freedom Federation?” she snapped.
    “Never heard of it.”
    “They just sent me a text. They said they’re going to kill more people unless you free Hassan Al-Shahid.”
     
     

 
    Chapter 8
    “IT ISN’T ON ANY OF OUR WATCH LISTS”
     
    Gold’s heart was pounding. “Send a reply,” he barked to Mojo. “Now!”
    “I tried. It didn’t go through. There’s no return number.”
    Gold conferenced in Fong and asked whether he’d ever heard of the Islamic Freedom Federation.
    “No,” Fong said. “It isn’t on any of our watch lists.” His tone softened as he spoke to Mojo. “I need permission to trace the text, Carol.”
    “Fine.”
    The line went silent for a moment. There was tension in Fong’s voice when he returned. “The text was sent from a throwaway cell purchased for cash at a Costco in Glenview. Serviced by Sprint.”
    “He switched carriers again,” Mojo said.
    Gold added, “We need all of them to shut down access to the throwaways—now.”
    “Soon,” Fong said.
    “It had better be real soon,” Mojo snapped. “Do you know where the text was initiated?”
    “Southeast Side.”
    “Do you have any idea if we’re dealing with more than one person?”
    “Off the record, my best profiler thinks we’re dealing with one person or a small group with expertise in explosives and perhaps military training. Likely to be male between the ages of eighteen and thirty-five. Smart. Meticulous. A loner.”
    Gold frowned. FBI profilers seemed to use the same description for every perp. “Overseas connections?”
    “Can’t tell.”
    “Muslim?”
    “Don’t know.”
    “A guy with a few throwaways and gas cans has shut down the El and Millennium Park?”
    “No comment.”
    They spoke for a few more minutes before Gold pressed Disconnect and looked at Battle. “Fong has no idea if the Islamic Freedom