“Where did you buy your shoes?” Freed asked him.
Mitchelli quietly responded, “I don’t know; my wife bought all my clothes.”
Freed looked at MacJames embarrassingly, “I’m sorry about your wife. But you don’t buy any of your clothes?”
“I buy my work clothes at the farm center.”
“What’s a farm center?” Freed anxiously asked. Mitchelli smiled and did not respond.
They sat at a private table on a patio overlooking the Potomac River. The waiter took their drink order; Freed ordered light beer, MacJames and Stuart ordered red wine, and Mitchelli ordered a Jack Daniels, neat. Stuart was intrigued. Mitchelli was not a light beer guy, he was not a light anything guy. He was roughneck and when appropriate he can temper his mannerisms and dress for the image he chooses to project. He was not a government employee trying to fit in with his peers, nor was he struggling for the attention of his superiors. Stuart changed his drink order to Jack Daniels. Freed attempted to change his order to Jack Daniels also, but the waiter ignored his request.
“Mr. Secretary, I would like to thank you for this intriguing opportunity.” Freed and MacJames were silent; they still could not envision what was going to come of this experiment.
Stuart spoke up, “My boy, thank you. I can only imagine how suspicious you must feel. You and your family have undertaken quite the burden. I hoping that no one could have anticipated your participation in this investigation, and it must stay that way. Maybe it will give us an edge, small enough to gather at least one clue, one piece of evidence that we can use in the resolution to this mystery.” Stuart leaned forward and took a sip of his whisky, “Son, I’m quite impressed with your background. Your family has a good reputation; I’ve checked. I have been very critical of Robert, but he did a hell of a job finding you.”
Freed was surprised; this was the first time in almost two years Stuart had come close to giving him a compliment, and it was for his accidental discovery of Mitchelli. He thought to himself, Mitchelli’s life has changed, and my professional career has entered the twilight zone. The most important investigation of my career is going to be centered around someone with no qualifications or experience.
Stuart changed the subject, “Enough shop talk, what interest do you have outside of your family’s business?”
Mitchelli smiled sadly. “Before my wife died, I loved to hunt.”
“Great--a hunter,” chimed in MacJames. “Why do men enjoying killing animals?” She chose to ignore his comment about his wife.
“I like the solitude, interrupted by the excitement when you spot a deer.”
“Is it more exciting than romance?” MacJames boldly asked.
Mitchelli was surprised by the Deputy Director’s frankness. “Romance? I’ve never compared hunting to love. I suppose that depends on who you’re with.”
“Who said anything about love?” MacJames ran her fingers around the rim of her wine glass. “You’ve been in love with every woman you’ve been intimate with?”
Mitchelli raised his eyebrow and answered after hesitating. “I cared for them very much…I married my high school sweetheart, I guess I don’t have your wealth of experience pertaining intimacy.”
Stuart interceded, “Mac, the French would say love is a hunt of the heart.”
“Sir, I suppose both hunts are exhilarating,” Mitchelli replies. “I concede holding a woman’s hand for the first time, the touch of her delicate fingers, running your hand along her neck, then around her chin while looking into her beautiful eyes is magnificent just before you kiss.” MacJames touched her hand to her neck and then sipped her wine.
Freed destroyed the moment for her. “Hunting is grown men playing cowboys and Indians; childish,” he said.
“Childish? Cowboys and Indians?” Mitchelli snarked. “I guess it’s not as childish as playing cops and robbers for a living. Did you ever go hunting or even take a walk in the woods? Have you ever skinned that pistol? Do you know what it’s like to kill…anything?”
Freed’s face blushed. “No.”
“Well, Bob,” Mitchelli continued, “I enjoy being in the woods, especially with a gun. There is something uniquely American about a man walking through the woods with a firearm. The history it invokes, settlers searching for food, hunting, protecting their families. I know I may sound like a gun freak but to me it is a privilege. When I’m alone in the woods, I listen to the sounds, the wind, the clicking of branches, the birds, and squirrels; the forest is a quiet riot. I pray and I contemplate my life without interruption. Usually I end up solving some problems that I am facing or at least feel a little more at ease over them. Let’s say you see a deer, probably by luck. Your adrenalin flows like Niagara Falls, you hear nothing, you feel nothing, your heart is beating like a drum, and instinctively you raise your shotgun and fire.”
“You pray and then slaughter a deer. Come on that’s ridiculous.” Freed’s tone was annoyingly sarcastic.
“Ok it is strange,” Mitchelli conceded but continued. “You don’t even hear the shot, you’ve racked the slide chamber another round and don’t even know it. When the deer drops, you stay put, letting it die in peace, while you eat a sandwich and calm down. You don’t want to prematurely approach the deer before it has died, causing it to run. Your hands tremble from the excitement; you can hear your heart pound.” Stuart and MacJames looked at each other, surprised by Mitchelli’s candor.
Freed responded, “Yippee kayea, cowboy. What type of shotgun do you use?”
“A Remington 870 Express, my riot gun.”
“That’s a murderer’s gun, not a hunter’s gun,” said Freed.
Mitchelli defended his response. “I like the short barrel; it’s easier to carry through the brush. The black gun, extended magazine tube, and the extra rounds carried in the sidesaddle intimidates the other hunters so they stay away. I don’t like a crowd when I’m in the woods, it defeats the purpose.”
Freed pressed him, “Ok, tough guy, why don’t you use an auto load shotgun, like a Binnelli or Browning?”
“Well probably for the same reason I don’t drink light beer; I’m a purist,” Mitchelli replied. Stuart and MacJames laughed at his dig at Freed’s light beer. “When it comes to firearms, Bob, in most cases I prefer older nostalgic designs rather than new.”
After dinner, the group placed orders for more drinks: Freed requested his light beer, while MacJames, Stuart, and Mitchelli opted for Yamazaki, single malt Japanese scotch. Mitchelli was leaving a positive impression on the Secretary, in addition to getting him drunk. Mitchelli pulled out of his jacket a leather cigar case with four torpedo cigars, his favorite, and offered them to his host. Freed declined, but then relented when Stuart and MacJames accepted. MacJames laughed at Freed’s insecurity around the Secretary. She wondered if he was ever going to loosen his tie. Mitchelli intrigued her; she undid several buttons of her blouse, exposing her cleavage, anticipating a glance from Mitchelli.
Stuart, slightly drunk, was in the mood to quiz his new dinner acquaintance. “Peter, are you a history buff? Do you know what chief of law enforcement in 1958 told the United States Congress that there was no organized crime in the United States?”
Peter didn’t hesitate. “Jay Edger Hoover.”
Freed did not wish to relive this conversation; he hasn’t had the time to check any of Stuart’s allegations against his idol; he was preoccupied trying to find Mitchelli.
“Very good my boy, excellent. Tell me, why did Hoover, the highest ranking law enforcement officer in the country, make such a preposterous statement?” His words were slightly slurred.
Mitchelli responded, “It’s alleged, but highly probable that the mob had photos of Hoover dressed like a women, and also engaged in homosexual activities with his lover. Supposedly, Hoover was a gambling addict and frequented mob-owned dog and horse tracks where he ran up large gambling tabs that he never paid. The mob blackmailed Hoover by sending copies of the illicit pictures to him. Hoover lied to
Congress to protect his own indiscretions.”
At this, Freed’s mouth dropped open and MacJames laughed uncontrollably, spilling her wine on him. Stuart puffed away on his cigar, blowing smoke in the air victoriously, as if he was Winston Churchill celebrating a British Victory in World War II.
Freed asked incredulously, “Peter, what proof do you have?”
Mitchelli explained he had read several books on the Italian Mafia, specifically on the Magadino family based in Niagara Falls, but had also seen several documentaries on Hoover and the mob. The mob had Hoover in their hip pocket, and it was well known that he was a cross dresser and liked to gamble.
Now Stuart laughed, “My young friends, I have surprisingly learned more at this evening’s dinner than anticipated. I’ve thoroughly enjoyed the evening with our Italian liaison, but one of us has along week ahead.” And with that comment, they ended dinner.
***
Most of the instructors were not discriminatory towards Mitchelli’s auxiliary police officer status; they wanted to give him as much of their expertise as possible in the short amount of time they had. He enjoyed learning and soaked up the information. During lunch and coffee breaks, he called his children and managed what work he could over the phone. He ate dinner alone in his hotel room while reviewing what he had learned during the day. With one more day to go, other than dinner that first night, the week had been uneventful.
Two hours a day were dedicated to physical combat training with a full day scheduled for Friday. Mitchelli would join a class of twenty FBI cadets, ranging in age from twenty-three to twenty-six years of age; Mitchelli was the old man at forty-five. The head instructor was an FBI agent by the name of Stanly O’Shid. He was six foot-four and two hundred and forty pounds. He possessed the body of a NFL middle linebacker. His complexion was fair, his eyes and hair were light brown, and he was in his early thirties. He had a high-pitched whining voice and spoke to the cadets as if they were in the Marine Core basic training. Two other instructors, with approximately the same physical build, assisted O’Shid, but they were in their late twenties. With the exception of one instructor that wore a suit, all the others wore grey sweat pants and shirts. Freed and MacJames attended all of Mitchelli’s classes, but today they observed his instruction via closed circuit video. They were in a conference room with their laptops trying to catch-up on their workload, occasionally watching Mitchelli’s instruction on a fifty inch TV.
O’Shid was standing on a large red padded mat, speaking to the cadets who were seated along the mat edge.
“Now we are going to demonstrate how not to get out of a strangle hold,” O’Shid shrieked. “I need a volunteer and I want the volunteer not to hold back, this is a full contact drill. Lootennantt Mitchellis, how about you?”
Mitchelli was tired and sore; he had been wrestling with men twenty years younger and much lighter than himself all day. O’Shid had been continually mispronouncing his rank and name to purposely annoy him.
“Lootennantt Mitchellis, come show us how a reserve deputy gets out of a life threatening strangle hold.”
Mitchelli recommended one of the younger cadets and O’Shid yelled back at him, “Lootennantt Mitchellis, they don’t have those secret Mafioso dirty contractor moves like you!” He motioned where he should stand on the mat.
Freed’s eyes were glued to the TV and he told MacJames to watch, “This should be really good. Ok, Mr. Jay Edger Hoover historian lets see how you do now.” MacJames was infuriated; she did not want Mitchelli hurt, or to see him quit on his last day of training. The Secretary would be livid.
Mitchelli stood in the position on the mat about two feet from O’Shid. He looked very old standing next to the younger fit instructor. Two assistant instructors were about ten feet away, one behind O’Shid, the other behind Mitchelli.
O’Shid yelled, “This is a full speed no hold bar drill, let me have everything you got, you fat wop!” He closed his hands around Mitchelli’s throat. Mitchelli was surprised; O’Shid squeezed hard enough Mitchelli could hear his throat cartilage crunch. “Come on fatso, you big tub of lard.” He removed one hand to strike Mitchelli across his face, then again with his backhand.
MacJames swore out loud; she was infuriated with Mitchelli’s treatment. “Bob, did you have anything to do with this?”
“Just watch, let’s see how the Hoover expert handles himself.” Freed giggled with excitement like a little girl.
Mitchelli looked O’Shid square in the eye and flexed his neck, forcing his chin solidly inward as if to cut off O’Shid’s fingers wrapped around his throat.
O’Shid smirked, “Come on tough guy, that scowl’s not scaring me!” He squeezed Mitchelli’s neck harder and looked into Mitchelli’s black empty eyes again. What he saw stunned him.
Mitchelli drew his arms back, his fists were clenched, they pointed upward, his elbows were bent ninety degrees as if he was on a chest machine at the gym getting ready to do flies. He pulled his arms as far as he could behind his chest, then when they could not go any farther, he thrust them forward, ramming his forearms together, striking O’Shid’s elbows. The arrogant instructor was surprised. He loosened his hold slightly and his face turned to stone. Mitchelli cocked his arms again and released them with even more force and pulled his neck away as his forearms struck O’Shid’s locked elbows. This time, Mitchelli dislocated both of O’Shid’s elbows. The entire class could hear the joints crack; they cringed and groaned at the sound. Mitchelli reloaded his arms one more time and fired. O’Shid’s elbows were totally dislocated at this moment, his grip on Mitchelli’s throat minimal. Mitchelli dropped his hands under O’Shid’s arms, pushing between them and splitting them apart to release the hold on his neck. Mitchelli brought his arms down around O’Shid's arms, locking them on the sides of Mitchelli’s waist, and then drove his forehead into the instructor’s face, smashing his nose. The Irishman could not hold his blood; his face was covered with it. Mitchelli then moved one of his legs behind O’Shid’s, trapping his foot while driving his right palm in the instructor’s chest.
O’Shid’s body flew back at the instructor behind him, his hands helpless flailing, his elbows dislocated, his face covered with blood. The second assistant instructor behind Mitchelli jumped on his back and attempted to put him in a headlock, but Mitchelli’s chin was still pressed tightly to his neck and the instructor could not get his forearm in position. The instructor’s head was just above and to the side of Mitchelli’s. He took his fingers and drove them under the instructors jaw, pushing his fingers upward into the soft fleshy bottom of the jaw, lifting the instructor upwards off his back, cracking and dislocating his jawbone. When the instructor’s hold broke, he threw him to the mat.
The third assistant instructor kicked Mitchelli in the face with his foot, and then made the mistake of side kicking his torso. Mitchelli grabbed his calf and held it; he then kicked him in the groin, dropped his limp leg, and punched him twice squarely in the face, knocking him to the mat and drawing blood from his mouth and nose. He curled into a fetal position, his hands covering his groin.
The fourth instructor, who had stood there bewildered this entire time, actually drew his Sig Sauer nine-millimeter pistol as he approached the older cadet. Mitchelli closed the distance moving quickly towards him. The agent made the mistake of holding the pistol away from his body with one hand. Mitchelli quickly grabbed the weapon, and with both hands, one on top of the slide, the other to the rear immobilizing the hammer, he twisted the pistol barrel one hundred eighty degrees directly at the instructor, who easily lost his grip, and dropped to one knee under Mitchelli’s brute force.
Mitchelli towered over the agent, holding his wrist with his left hand, bending it back, the top of the agents hand nearly touching the back of his forearm. Mitchelli holds the Sig in his right hand and paused. For a moment he remembered his childhood fight when Pauli is urging him to beat the hell out of the Irish bully Mitchelli then straightened his body, and let go of the instructor’s
hand. He stripped the magazine out of the pistol and racked the slide three times, making sure the round had ejected. He then locked the slide back and quickly inspected the chamber. He racked the slide forward, pulled the trigger, moved the slide back while pushing the slide release, pulling the barrel from the slide and throwing all the parts onto the floor. The parts slid against the floor and hit the wall like child’s toys.
As Mitchelli walked towards O’Shid, a cadet quietly asked, “If this was the wrong way to get out of a strangle hold, when can we see the correct procedure?” The other cadets began to laugh, then stopped as they looked at Mitchelli’s face.
Mitchelli lifted O’Shid’s torso slightly off the mat and held his face a foot from his. Mitchelli spoke as if he had gravel in his throat, “O’Shit! How did you like those reserve lieutenant Mafioso moves?” He dropped the instructor and straightened his sore body to face the cadets. “Class dismissed!”
Mind Kill- Rise of the Marauder Page 9