Dr. Rubin remembered at this point Peter’s entire body began to shiver. He had become more and more despondent as his family spoke of his wife’s days in the hospital. Dr. Rubin was close enough to see his patient’s eyes, they didn’t tear, not one drop. Instead they turned dark in color, from brown to dark brown and then to pure black. The doctor remembered how looking into Peter Mitchelli’s dark eyes had frightened him. A cold chill ran down his neck to the bottom of his spine. He looked up from his notes, as if to search for an open window that had let a cold wind blow into his lair. He knew better and shook his head. He had sworn an oath to help the mentally ill. Although Peter’s trembling hands and shivering body gave the illusion he was vulnerable, possibly even fragile, Dr. Rubin knew he was not. The diagnosis was in those devil eyes; they scared the hell out of the old German doctor.
The doctor continued to read his notes recalling how Beth held her tears back as she spoke, “Dr. Rubin, he said one more Rosary with Ann, running the beads through her beautiful fingers. It was so depressing; the streets covered with wet snow. He looked so sad leaving without her. He asked his family to join him for the meeting with the doctors.”
Patrick spoke up, “Monday, the pulmonary doctor started by describing how Ann’s lungs were eighty percent damaged, her body strained from lack of oxygen had caused her liver and kidneys to fail. The cardiologist explained that Ann had suffered a major heart attack while in the induced coma.
“At this, Ann’s nurse, a gentle women who had cared for Peter as much as Ann during her stay, cried quietly. The pulmonary Doctor removed his Yakima and wiped his eyes and looked at the floor. The neurologist explained that Ann had suffered a major blood embolism in her brain and this was the reason she had not come out of the coma. Ann’s Parents, Beth Phillip, and Paul all wept, Mary held Peter’s hand while I tried to stay calm asking the doctors all sorts of pertinent question. Ann was brain dead, her liver and kidneys were shutting down, and she was being kept alive by twelve intravenous stimulants and a respirator.”
Peter finally spoke in a low unemotional tone. “I listened intently, searching for encouraging words that Ann, the love of my life would wake and speak to me, look at me with her beautiful brown eyes, hold my hands and comfort me like she had done before. Ann was my rock. When I spun out of control, Ann would right me; she made me realize what was important.”
Patrick continued, “The family gathered around Ann, and watched as Peter opened her eyes to look at them one more time. We cried as Peter said the Rosary, running the beads through Ann’s fingers.”
Beth was wiping tears from her eyes as she spoke next, “We cried continuously, the family gathered around Ann and told her how much we loved her.” She stopped and blew her nose. She restrained herself from hysterics. “Ann was a saint.”
“Damn right, she put-up with Peter,” Pauli smiled.
Beth continued while Peter stared out the window, “Pauli stop; then the young nurse came in and shut the IV pumps off, and removed the oxygen tube. Pat said, ‘she will go quickly now,’ and she did; her pulse immediately dropped to almost nothing and her heart stopped, the monitor alarms were shut off. Peter didn’t cry, he could not say good-bye. He could not bear the thought of waking up without Ann in his life.”
Beth looked at Peter, “After an hour, they persuaded Peter to leave. He would have to tell his children their mother, the love of his life, would never be coming home. We were worried about our brother. Phillip would stay with Peter for the next week keeping vigil on our volatile younger brother.”
Dr. Rubin raised his head from his notes and noticed his hand was trembling as he placed his pipe in the ashtray on top of his desk. He ignored a tear that ran down his cheek. He extended his arms outward perpendicular to his chest and turned his hands palms down attempting to hold them steady, but they shook uncontrollably. He steadied one hand enough to wipe the perspiration from his brow. He realized he had wasted his time attempting to get Peter Mitchelli to discuss his inner most thoughts. The terrified doctor knew his mistake. He feared Mitchelli’s deathly black eyes were the window into the mental inferno of his Mind Kill…
CHAPTER 5
Robert Freed assigned four agents the task of electronically searching county records for a civilian operative. The agents accessed records via the super computer in FBI headquarters in Baltimore Maryland. The base criterion was a college educated male, thirty to fifty years old. The operative would be a man, regardless of MacJames’s protest. The operative would need to devote at least thirty hours a week to the investigation. Entrepreneurs were the most likely candidates. The profile leaned towards a business owner or executive able to work flexible hours. The company’s management team must be cable and strong in order to carry on business operations in his absence.
Special Agent in Charge Pat Moss reviewed the agent’s selections and forwarded his recommendations to Freed. The process had not gone well. It took years to recruit and train an operative; pressured by Secretary Stuart, Freed had two weeks. Moss and Freed agreed the candidates presented were poor. Typically, FBI applicants had at least a Criminal Justice degree, or they were recruited candidates from other law enforcement agencies. Both methods were unacceptable to Secretary Stuart. He insisted he wanted someone well known among the community who did not fit the law enforcement stereotype.
“Why don’t we just select a police wannabe? We’ll pigeonhole him in a cubicle.” Freed felt it was a waste of valuable time and investigative resources searching for an operative. He wanted a candidate selected as quickly as possible so his team of professionals could focus on the investigation. “You know tell him to shut up and answer the phone while we do our job. He’ll be thrilled; we’ll give him temporary credentials. That way he can show his kids.” Freed put his feet up on his desk.
“Bob trust me, Stuart is going to insist on personally interviewing the candidate, maybe take him to dinner,” MacJames replied as she slammed a stack of papers on the table in front of her. “You can put your career on the line for some simpleton you can push around, but I won’t. If we don’t have a strong candidate he’ll find someone else to do our jobs.” MacJames out ranked Freed, but Freed was in charge of the investigation.
“Have you looked at the applicants?”
MacJames opened the files, “Yes, some have potential.” She flipped the pages over with pictures of the applicants on the cover. “This one looks promising; he owns his own business in the city.”
“Yeah a pizza and wing shop!” Freed put his hands over his face. “I thought so too. He wrestled at Buffalo State College; he was a heavy weight champion. Two agents went to interview him. He weighs over four hundred pounds and can barely walk.” He rubbed his face and asked, “Why bother looking at the rest? I keep telling Pat there’s something screwed up with his computer program. The computer’s best candidates are jokes.”
MacJames held up a picture of a good-looking man. “What about this insurance salesman, black belt, ex-marine. He’s not bad looking either.”
“Oh, you go right for the good looking meat. He was high on my list; I personally interviewed him. He could pick me up over his head. Turns out his wife, a blonde bombshell ran off with the nineteen-year-old computer nerd from his office. He’s been crying for two weeks. I thought he was going to kill himself, I had to call 911.” Freed slammed his hands down on his desk, “This is ridiculous!”
“Stuart disagrees and he’s the boss. Put yourself in his place--he has to report to the President and tell him every month more men are missing without a trace. Bob, tell me what leads you’re working on?”
“None, and you know it! I feel so damn useless. All I can think about is what those twenty-one men are going through. I can’t look my kids in the eye without thinking about their poor families. My God, they haven’t seen their fathers in two years.”
MacJames stared at the picture of Freed’s family on his desk, “Your family’s beautiful. You’re lucky to have kids.”
Freed kne
w how MacJames longed for a family. She had no life outside of her career. “Angela, I’m sorry I mentioned the kids.”
“Don’t be sorry. Three husbands and no kids; it wasn’t meant to be.” MacJames leaned back in her chair as she spoke. “Thirty years ago a local mob boss would make his enemies disappear.” Before she could start to feel sorry for herself, she changed the conversation back to investigation. “Without a body, there was no evidence. The syndicate never touched a police officer unless he was dirty.” She turned and looked at Freed. “Unless they are held as collateral in case we get too close. The bastards will negotiate; deal the agents away and attempt to run.”
“Too close, I’m worried were not even looking in the same county. God I hope they’re not dead.” His shoulders fell back as his chest pushed out. “They’re alive, I’ve convinced myself. Searching for the missing agents will draw the kidnappers out into the open.”
“Bob, we can’t forget about probable cause, those agents are missing for a reason. They were close to something big! Narcotics, a terrorist plot, something so large the kidnappers don’t want to jeopardize their operation by leaving a dead body behind.”
“Tell Stuart I’m all over probable cause, I can’t convince him.”
“Bob, if Stuart thought we were incompetent, we’d be on the street.” MacJames worried about her friend Freed. The two-year investigation had shattered his spirits and his wife had told her he was barely sleeping. “Bob, I can review the files, why don’t you head for the range early?”
***
Frustrated, Freed decided to blow off some steam shooting at the County SWAT Range. He had made it a monthly ritual with his friend special agent Pat Moss. They would shoot several hundred rounds of ammunition on the county range, then work out at a local gym and have dinner. If a local agency was qualifying, they would join them on the firing line. The two men from the FBI loved to outshoot the local police officers. It reinforced their belief that the FBI was superior to any other law enforcement agency.
MacJames stayed behind to review the candidate’s reports; she insisted it was not a problem. She told him, “One of us needs to have a clear head.” She would meet up with them later for dinner.
The SWAT Range is located in a sparsely populated area of Erie County. Freed and Moss drove together and parked their government issued dark blue Ford Crown Victoria with a myriad of cars that ranged from Porsches to Range Rovers. These were definitely not the government vehicles that typically occupied the parking lot.
“Pat, that’s the first time I’ve seen a Rolls Royce.” Freed stood in front of the car, admiring it.
“Jesus, what agency do these guys work for? I want to submit my résumé.” Moss held up his cell phone and took a picture of Freed standing next to a white supercar convertible. “I think that car’s over three hundred grand.”
They walked to the steel Kansan hut, where shooters gathered for instructions and organized their equipment. Thirty or so middle-aged men wearing black baseball caps with the Sheriff’s emblem embroidered across the front filled the room.
Freed asked the range officer, “These guys don’t look like police officers, who are they?”
He sarcastically responded, “Wow you FBI guys are real sharp. They are volunteers, the Sheriff’s Auxiliary unit.”
“Volunteers?”
“We call them Civilian Volunteers, or CVs.”
Freed mumbled to himself, “Civilians, this is my lucky day.”
“Yeah, What did you think of the cars out front, impressive?”
“They give these volunteers guns?”
“No, the Sheriff’s Office doesn’t give them anything; they buy them, believe me they can afford it.”
“Are they trained?”
“Thirty day wonders! They received a month’s worth of training at central police and the Criminal Justice Departments registers them as Peace Officers.”
“You said Peace Officer right, not Police Officer?”
“Yeah Peace Officer, don’t get so excited over these tin badge wannabes. Most of these guys make twenty times what we make.”
Freed and Moss had no idea the Sheriff’s Office had a volunteer unit. Curious, he quickly located the group’s Captain and approached him to question him regarding the composition of his unit. Freed introduced himself and asked the Captain his name. He was a short stocky man in his fifties with red thinning hair.
The Captain replied, “Nice to meet yous, Stephan Zachovich, Captain Erie County Sheriff’s Auxiliary Volunteers, excuse me, has anyone seen frickin’ Mitchelli? God damn it where the hell is he! Excuse me.”
Freed was taken aback by the tone and language the Captain used. Just at that moment, a large ten-wheel Peterbilt dump truck roared past the parking area into the range. A cloud of dust engulfed the truck as it parked by the Kansan hut, a location reserved only for instructors. The truck was flawless: aluminum rims, bright white cab, silver body, and on the side was the logo for Mitchelli Construction. Freed recognized the company logo; he had seen it around town on trucks, construction sites, and real estate signs.
As Freed fixated on the logo, the cab door opened and a mammoth man, six-foot three inches tall, well over three hundred pounds jumped out of the truck. He had on a black bullet resistant vest with SHERIFF embroidered on the back in gold letters, and carried a black range bag marked SHERIFF. He hefted off the cab floor and placed on his broad shoulders two cases of ammunition. Although overweight, he moved quickly. He looked like a retired professional wrestler. As he walked in the Kansan hut, the Auxiliary Sheriffs became quiet and looked at him, waiting for instructions. He placed his bag and two cases of ammunition on the desk at the head of the room. Unlike the other auxiliary deputies, he wore a hat with the CAT emblem on it and wraparound sunglasses, which completely hid his eyes.
He walked immediately over to his Captain, ignoring Freed and Moss in their black tactical uniforms with FBI embroidered on their hats, vest and sleeves. “Captain--”
“Lieutenant, you’re five minutes late. Where the hell have you been?”
Mitchelli answered, “One of my drivers was sick, I had to cover for him, sorry.”
Captain Zachovich snapped back, “You’re always sorry, Mitchelli. What kind of outfit do you think I’m running here?” Then he slapped Mitchelli on the back and said, “Apology accepted, let’s get this frickin’ show on the road!”
Freed watched as Mitchelli diligently reviewed the range safety rules with his men. He led the men outside and instructed them on how to make their firearms safe. He told them to remove the magazines and rack the slide several times while pointing their pistols down range. Then they should lock the slide back visually and physically inspecting the chamber, verifying it is empty. Mitchelli then directed them back in the room where he instructed and tested them on disassembly of their Glock pistols. He explained the qualification course of fire. He ran the range as they shot a practice round and then proceeded to their qualification round of fire. His commands were simple, to the point, and carried out by the auxiliary Sheriffs.
Freed and Moss did not shoot. They watched in amazement and disbelief that a contractor was able to give such proficient law enforcement firearms instructions. Mitchelli led his group of volunteer deputies safely and proficiently through their range qualification. Freed and Moss certainly looked for flaws. They made fun of his belly how he wore brown construction boots instead of black tactical boots. They were surprised how well the volunteer group of businessman, physicians, lawyers, engineers, and professors shot. Wearing Bermuda shorts, golf shirts, and topsiders they did not look at all like police officers qualifying on the range. Nevertheless, their performances with pistols were proficient.
Freed and Moss did not move from their picnic bench where they sat watching the evening unfold. As the sun began to set they watched the group disperse to their Rolls Royces, Cadillacs, and Range Rovers. Mitchelli is the last to leave along with his Captain. They are surprised when he hugs his Captai
n and receives a kiss on the cheek from him; obviously, they are close friends. Moss and Freed giggled like girls and comment to one another, “Isn’t that sweet!”
Mitchelli climbed into his truck and the Caterpillar engine roared to life. A puff of smoke came out of the chrome exhaust stack; snorts from the air brakes. The chains on the tailgate clanged as they swayed side to side when the truck rumbled over the stone driveway. They counted six gear changes as Mitchelli’s truck left the range; he did not miss one. They watched the truck from the range as it drove down the road and its lights disappeared behind the tree foliage.
Mind Kill- Rise of the Marauder Page 6