The elitist persona of law enforcement officers’ education perpetuated this physical separation from their surroundings. Competition was so fierce within departments that young officers worked harder at their physical and intellectual abilities than their investigative expertise. Today, cops were no longer hanging out in gin mills after work; they were in gyms, jogging in the park, or working on their MBAs. They transformed themselves physically and mentally ineffective as plain-clothes men. They knew the law, and their training and physical fitness was far superior to any criminals. But sadly they investigated criminal activity from the outside…not from within! From a penthouse window it is impossible to tell if the street curb is dirty, or for that matter who dirtied it.
The Department of Homeland Security’s responsibility was the coordination of Federal, State, and local law enforcement agencies in the defense of the United States of America. The Justice Department had agreed although not directly under the thumb of the Homeland Security Department, the Federal Bureau of Investigation would lead the investigation. Stuart’s advisors made the case that since no bodies had been discovered, the potential crime was at the very least kidnapping, not murder. Kidnapping is the FBI’s area of expertise. The FBI believed it possessed the most experienced personnel and state of the art technical equipment. Most of the agents missing were with the federal government. Robert Freed as the commander of the FBI Buffalo field office was in charge of the investigation “Task Force E.”. In addition to answering to his Bureau superior Angela MacJames FBI Deputy director, he would report to Secretary Regan Stuart.
Robert Freed’s life ambition was to become an FBI special agent. Growing up in a Midwest upper middle class family, he naively oozed American values. Taped to the wall in his bedroom since he was eight years old was a poster of Jay Edger Hoover firing a Thompson submachine gun. Jay Edger Hoover held the director’s office of the FBI for the longest term. Freed’s personal life had taken second place to his career in the Bureau. He accepted numerous transfers to any place, even snowy Buffalo, New York, in efforts to advance his career. He truly believed the only way to conduct an investigation was the FBI way, by the book.
It was Hoover’s FBI book. The director was instrumental in molding the FBI’s stringent investigative standards, which Stuart believed crippled the investigative effectiveness of the agency. After a briefing from the head of Task Force E FBI field office commander Robert Freed, Secretary Stuart scripted the following in his personal journal:
Every day I find my worst fears are coming to fruition. The greatest generation’s uneducated farm boys and city longshoreman who fought with vigor to win World War II have been replaced with men of superior intellect and athletic bodies who cannot find their way out of a public restroom. I fear my nightmares will never end. I will not make the same arrogant mistake again.
It was not that Stuart thought Freed was incompetent. Thorough FBI training had brainwashed him to an honest razor’s edge. He could not in any way relate to whom he was trying to arrest or the strategy which to lure them out. Stuart believed that government agents held their credentials in such high esteem, they could not think outside the box. To catch a criminal, you need to think like a criminal. With more agents missing every month Stuart theorized he needed someone outside law enforcement; someone who had more in common with the criminals. Government investigators were debilitated mentally by the stringent bureaucratic rules they had to obey. With every passing month, with no leads making their way to his desk, and under continuous pressure from the President, Stuart concluded that grit, rather than a trained investigator was needed to jump-start the investigation. His highly trained federal agents needed someone who would act as a conduit between them and the community. The intellect of this individual would be unfettered from modern police peer pressure and their trained mentality: an interpreter from the community who knew the area and its citizens. The community field operative would uniquely interpret field data, offering a different perspective than federal agents. The United States government needed a civilian.
CHAPTER 2
Doctor Rubin knew the family’s medical history well. He believed Peter Mitchelli’s stress and depression was largely genetic, possibly passed down from both sides of his family. He felt circumstances from their family business fueled his temper. Dr. Rubin was a perfectionist and focused on discovering the root cause of Peter Mitchelli’s mental torment. The problem was Peter Mitchelli hid his true feelings and his past. Rubin continued his studies, hoping his wife would give him at least an hour of peace.
In a previous family session, Beth had explained her brother’s issues. “Unfortunately as a young boy he was influenced by my brother Phil and my grandmother’s worries.”
“Worries! They would depress the hell out of Jesus. All they talk about is the great depression and money. Peter’s stupid enough to listen to them. You have a plate of pasta with them and you’ll want to slit your wrist.” Pauli put his hands around his throat, crossing his eyes.
Anita spoke up, “You’re spoiled Pauli, I never had a home when I was a child.”
Pasquale yelled, “Pauli shut your fat mouth!”
Beth continued, “Even as a young boy Peter would obsess about the family business; he kept asking me if Mom and Dad had money for groceries. His obsessions were not normal for a young boy. My girlfriends went crazy for him, his olive complexion, tall, and buff, he stood out from the other boys. He ignored them, nervously studying and concerned about Dad’s business.”
Pauli laughed, “Give me a break, look at him, Doctor, he’s homely. Come on. He’s psycho obsessed about the success of our business.”
Beth ignored her baby brother. “Pauli you wish you had his large brown eyes and long eyelashes. Even older women would comment on his beautiful eyes. Oh they envied his eyelashes. They claimed his eyes smiled, but deep down he was miserable.”
Pasquale held Rose’s hand, “I was so proud, when he was seven years old, he wanted to be a priest.”
“Peter a priest!” Pauli rolled his eyes. “If an altar boy screwed up he’d threaten the little shit with a gun during mass.”
“Pauli keep quiet,” Pasquale continued. “He heard me say many times after arguing with Rose, ‘my mother told me to be a priest.’ Peter was a faithful boy, never doubting the word of his parents. At the end of the second floor hallway by the children’s bedrooms, we had a prayer kneeler and above it, I hung a picture of Jesus, you know Fritz, the one where his eyes follow the children as they passed? Below the picture was a wooden crucifix. Peter would pray every night before he went to bed at the kneeler, the picture of Jesus keeping a close watch.”
Looking upset, Rose interrupted Pasquale. “He was naïve; I overheard him praying; asking God to take all the suffering away from his family and place their burden on his shoulders.”
Pasquale took Rose’s hand in his. “Rose, that was beautiful!”
Rose looked lovingly at her troubled son. “Peter, I love you but you were only seven, it was crazy! A seven year-old should be praying for toys or games, not asking God to let him protect his family.”
“Doc, what the hell is with that? I think that’s crazy too.” Pauli raised his voice as he explained their morning routine, “Get this Doc--you know early to bed, early to rise? We shared a bedroom. He would wake me up at five in the morning, shower, get dressed, and make our own breakfast including coffee.”
Rubin asked, “Coffee as children? You drank coffee?”
“Oh yeah we were drinking coffee in elementary school. We became accustomed to it. You know coffee breaks; we worked construction whenever we weren’t in school. We were older than our years, believe me that could explain a lot. Peter insisted we make our beds before breakfast--come on that’s wacked for a kid in elementary school; he’s a big taskmaster. Peter would do homework; I would read the sports section. Phillip watched his religious show, Praise the Lord, or more infamously known as PTL. Then at seven thirty, we would catch the bus. Isn’t that an
obsessive routine for a kid in elementary school, come on Doc?”
Pasquale explained, “Fritz, I went to mass at 6 a.m. every morning, I enjoyed being with my children early in the morning. It never occurred to Rose and me that these were odd habits for our children.”
“Doctor, I’ll tell you when he started to go nuts.” Pauli looked at his parents. “One day when Peter was nine we were walking home from the bus stop. An older group of kids from the adjacent neighborhood started harassing and teasing us. The older boys were wearing sneakers, faded jeans, and sweatshirts. My mother had us wearing Buster Brown shoes, slacks, and sweaters. The boys circled around Peter and me looking to tease us as they cut through our neighborhood. The boys began taunting us over the clothes mom made us wear.
“The largest light-skinned Irish boy started chanting, ‘buckle boys, with the buster brown shoes, and the hometown touch.’”
“I wanted them well dressed for school,” Rose gasped. “I never thought kids could be so cruel.”
Pauli continued, “Mom we hated those clothes, we looked like skippies. They all began to chant in harmony, ‘Buckle boys, with the buster brown shoes, and the hometown touch.’ The six boys started spitting on our shoes, and knocked us to the ground. I began to fight back, but I was a chubby seven year-old and was no match for the six athletic older boys. Peter was afraid when the taunting had started. He didn’t want to fight; he had never scuffled with anyone outside of our family. When Peter saw me thrown down, he pleaded with the boys to stop, but they continued cursing and spitting on us.”
Dr. Rubin asked, “Peter, can you talk about this fight?”
Peter hesitated then calmly spoke up. “No, I don’t want to talk about it. It’s pointless. Pauli, shut your fat mouth and drop it!”
“Pointless, well the next time you go ‘skitzo,’ we’ll see how pointless it is, tell them the damn story,” Pauli yelled back.
“Pauli, go easy on your brother. Peter, I do think it is important we hear it from you.” Rubin was sympathetic to Peter’s frailties.
“Don’t be a big baby Peter,” Pasquale pressed. “Tell us what made you crazy!”
“Ok pops, I hope this makes you understand your crazy son,” Peter said. “The biggest Irish son of bitch called us mafia because our parents drove Cadillac’s. When I finally got the nerve to stand up to the punk, he called me a dumb wop and punched me in the face. I fell to the ground the left side of my face burning as it swelled. I stood up again and the bum sucker punched me in the gut before I could straighten my body; I fell, my face smashed onto the road, I couldn’t breathe. I was afraid, I felt like such a damn coward. I didn’t know it at the time but he had knocked the wind out of me. I lay on the ground attempting to breathe. I rolled on my side and saw Pauli crying.”
Pauli was quick to interject, “I wasn’t crying; that was sweat! You were crying! I watched as two of the boys held Peter down and the tall kid spit a huge honker on Peter’s face.”
Beth and Rose gasped in unison, “oh my God, that’s disgusting!”
Peter paused for a moment, then spoke quietly, his tone much lower. “The smaller bullies began screaming ‘dago, greasy dago.’ They started kicking me in the head. I moved my arms up, trying to protect my bleeding face. Finally, I could breathe again without grunting. The boys were kicking me but I could barely feel the blows, my vision changed, at first blurry, then it narrowed. I looked up at the grey pewter clouds above, my blood boiling…”
Dr. Rubin interrupted him. “Peter, it was your adrenalin, you were frightened, maybe in shock, and your body’s instincts took over.”
Peter looked at Dr. Rubin, “I had to fight; ok Doc? My adrenalin was going nuts. I know it sounds crazy.” He spoke softly, “though I walk thru the valley of darkness I fear no evil, though I walk thru the valley of darkness I fear no evil.” His hands trembled as he spoke.
Pasquale interrupted, “See he should have been a priest, he’s a good religious boy. He turned to God to conquer those bullies.”
“Dad, I’m asking God to help me get through this group session, not the fight,” Peter sneered.
Rose let go of her husband’s hand. “Let him speak, SHUSH!”
Peter was silent he looked down at the floor. Pauli continued, “Dr. Rubin, he’s no priest, believe me. His shoulders went back, his fist clenched; he looked like a psycho grammar student, a real elementary school killer. He wanted to kick some fourth grader’s ass, right Pete? While they were kicking the shit out of me, Peter began swinging his book bag above his head like a lasso. Inside the book bag were large hardbound books on World War II checked out from the library. We wanted to look at the pictures over the weekend. He looked like David getting ready to slay Goliath.”
Pauli stood up and held his arms above his head, “Man it was pretty sick, his arms bent at first, whirling the bag above his head, centripetal force and the weight of the bag forced it away from his body almost perpendicular to his head. The largest Irish boy moved to tackle Peter. Peter struck him in the shoulder, the force of the bag knocked him head over heels into the ditch. Peter shifted his weight slightly shuffling his feet and bam! He struck another boy in the face, knocking him off his feet flat on his back. Then he struck the third and fourth boy with his bag. He was a frickin’ maniac, swinging that book bag. He scared the shit out of the other kids.” Pauli jumped around the room whirling his hand above his head, “Wham bam, thank you ma’am--he bagged the hell out of those guys.”
Peter attempted to stop Pauli, he hated the group sessions with Dr. Rubin. “Let it go Pauli,” he yelled.
Pauli was too excited to stop. “Shut up, and let me finish,” he continued. “That tall Irish shit stood up and staggered towards him. Peter gave him an uppercut with his frickin’ queer book bag, and the bag’s buckles ripped opened the punk’s forehead above his eye, as the asshole fell to the ground. The other little pricks shit their pants; their tall punk friend just got the shit kicked out him, twice, they kept their distance from my crazy brother swinging his queer book bag.”
“Crazy! Pauli get off it; I wasn’t crazy,” Peter insisted.
“You were that day, you were frickin’ sick! Man, Doc, you should have seen him, suddenly he seemed much larger and intimidating. You should have seen it; the second largest punk lowered his head and rushed Peter trying to tackle him. Pyscho Peter struck him in the side of his body as he sprung. The moron missed and hit the street face down, ripping chunks of skin off his white boy face.” Pauli ran his fingers down his face, mock screaming in agony. Dr. Rubin scribbled in his notes trying to catch every detail.
Pauli continued, “The tallest punk stood staring at Peter in total disbelief that this was the same boy he had taunted, spit on, and hit in the face. Peter threw his bag down, his face smeared with blood, his eyes winced with hate. He looked like one crazy mother Fuc…”
“Pauli, watch your mouth!” Pasquale was very religious, “Only cowards swear.”
“Yes father, the frickin’ punk pulled a knife on Peter and walked towards him. He couldn’t help but stare at Peter’s bloody face.”
Dr. Rubin asked, “A nine year old pulled a knife?”
“You bet Doc, I’m not making this up. Ask Peter, my priestly brother. Doc, I’ve seen some gory fights, but Peter’s face was a mess. The boy yelled, ‘your mom is a dirty dago whore!’”
Pasquale jumped to his feet, “He called your mother a whore! Why didn’t you tell me that? I would have gone to his house and given it to his father!”
Beth tried to soothe him, “Dad, calm down it was over thirty years ago, relax.”
Pauli continued while Peter held his hands over his face. “Peter kicked the knife out of his hand just like in the movies. The punk struck Peter in his face, the blow glanced off his bloody cheek; the punch had no effect on my psycho frickin’ brother, the other boys were stunned. Peter was frickin’ supercharged.” Pauli started screaming like a samurai, “Yoowa hooya!”
“It was the adrenalin.”
/>
“Yeah Doc, whatever, Peter’s the adrenalin freak. Then Peter turned his head, the boy looked into his crazed eyes. Whatever he saw scared the shit out of him, the moron just dropped his arms straight and Peter punched him in the body and then the head. The punches he threw had no style but they landed.” Pauli mimicked his brother’s punches, flailing his arms wildly.
“Sorry I was never an athlete like you,” Peter sneered, upset with his brother’s antics.
Pauli shot back, “I was always the better athlete, you never finished football you quitter.”
“Pauli he was a good player,” yelled Pasquale. “He beat the hell out of the quarterback, even the coach! You never had a game like that!”
“Yeah, Dad that’s another example of psycho Peter. Anyway Doc, the second largest punk approached Peter. Peter swung wildly hitting the boy repeatedly. The boy dropped and began to choke from the punches to his stomach; then gagged and threw up, crying and pleading for Peter to stop.”
Rose cried out, “Pauli stop, the poor boy.”
Mind Kill- Rise of the Marauder Page 3