Freed relented, “Okay big shot, who is this Buckala? A contractor friend of yours, a Pisano, what? Clue me in. Please tell me how he knows so much and we don’t.”
“Condescending…” Mitchelli moved his chair to stand up and MacJames firmly grabbed his arm, stopping him.
MacJames interrupted, “He’s undercover narcotics for Buffalo PD. He is currently on paid leave. He was an informant for internal affairs; members of his unit were stealing drug money. The gangs started mailing notes to internal affairs detectives naming the cops. Buckala helped collaborate the gang’s information. They put him on paid leave for his own protection. Internal affairs worried one of his former partners was going to kill him.”
“How the hell do you know this Buckala?” Freed asked.
“We were in the same firearms instructor’s course five years ago,” Mitchelli replied. “He’s good; he had more narcotic busts in one year than the entire Buffalo PD narcotics division. He knows the streets, and is currently available.”
During their three weeks of training, Buckala told many cop stories to Mitchelli, which the other police officers never refuted. Disliked by many in the department, Buckala was regarded as a rogue. He embarrassed the Captain of the Narcotics Division with his extraordinary number of arrests, shaming the rest of the division. His participation with the internal affairs investigation did not increase his likability. The city council criticized the Narcotics department, putting the Mayor in an awkward position. If he sided with the city council he would lose many police votes, but he quietly championed Buckala’s one-man crusade.
Buckala was in his early thirties. He grew up in immigrant Polish and Italian neighborhoods. He was raised street smart. His body was like a fireplug, five foot nine inches tall, squared shoulders round chest, long black hair almost to his shoulders, and dark brown eyes. He had a long black handle bar mustache, and sometimes a full beard. He wore baggy pants, usually jeans, and his shirts were never tucked in his pants; they concealed his full framed Glock 19 pistol, which held twenty, nine-millimeter rounds in a cross draw holster on his belt. If Freed didn’t believe Mitchelli fit the mold, Buckala was going to break it. He wore boots that looked much too large and he was a chain smoker. His voice had a Brooklyn accent, but he never left the east side of Buffalo. He lived and worked on the fine line between criminal and police officer. He was a cop who got his hands dirty by forcing and bribing information from Buffalo’s criminals. He was a throwback; he looked like he walked out of a Buffalo steel mill during the late sixties.
Mitchelli looked around the room; Moss was leaning back in his chair, his tie loosened. Moss knew enough to stay out of this conversation. MacJames looked Mitchelli straight in the eyes. He stared back into her beautiful green eyes behind her cheap department store glasses.
He started speaking while looking at MacJames, “I can work by myself while you think things over. I’ll call Sal to see what he knows and go from there.”
Freed exclaimed, “Christ, you’re not working by yourself, I won’t have it! You’ve never been on a stake out before! I’ll check out Buckala; until he’s on board you work with Moss and me. Give me a day to figure this out.”
Freed had relented, he had little choice. With Stuart’s support, the entire federal government was backing an Italian contractor turned federal agent. With options he could not win, Freed was forced to guide his team into harm’s way. Freed would contact Buffalo PD directly and arrange for Salvatore Buckala to join Task Force E.
“I’ll work on Buckala,” Freed barked. “Pat, get Dom in here, I want him to checkout Peter on the range, give him his new phone. Make sure Dom tags his vehicles; I don’t want him getting lost. By tomorrow night, I want Peter in the field. Angela, you can finish the briefing.” Freed left the room with his head down and Moss followed him out.
MacJames was upset. “You could have shown a little respect, Robert is no idiot. Tell me how many crimes you’ve solved. Arresting drunks at a football game doesn’t make you a detective.”
“What makes Freed a good detective, losing 21 officers?”
“You arrogant SOB.”
“Ok I’m arrogant, why the hell am I here, chief?”
“I didn’t mean that, don’t call me chief.”
“The hell you didn’t, boss!”
MacJames interrupted, “Damn it, stop calling me boss!”
“Get over it.”
“What did you say to me?”
“At least I’m an SOB who tells the truth.”
“I told you Secretary Stuart demanded we recruit a civilian operative.”
“No you never said demanded, but I knew that. I visualize things Angela, like planning a project, step by step. All the details run through my mind. Your civilian recruit can’t shut it off. I’m not a government employee. In the private world, we work at a much faster pace. I’ve been thinking about Sal from the first day I sat in this conference room. He should be here not me. I’m not wasting a month going nowhere when the best street cop in the county is sitting home watching TV.”
MacJames raised an eyebrow, “What makes you think you know what’s best? You’re the only one that plans anything?”
“How did you know so much about Buckala?”
“Well…I have followed his career somewhat.”
“Don’t bullshit me, boss. You researched his background long before Secretary Stuart told you to find me.”
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t give me that crap! Why didn’t you mention it to Freed?”
“Before we were forced to hire you he would have never been considered, you opened the door for Buckala. Rookie detective, you have more pull than you think. Secretary Stuart is quite impressed with you. Peter, don’t let it go to your head, it could end up killing you. Bob’s no dummy. I’ve seen him deteriorate, I’ve talked to his wife; those missing agents are ripping him apart. This is probably the biggest assignment any of us will have in our careers, and even though you think we’re lazy government employees, we want to win.”
“My wife would’ve agreed with you,” Mitchelli responded. “I know I’m a big-mouthed son of bitch--I’m a builder. I’m surrounded by problems every day. My team players are aggressive contractors; I have to stand my ground or they’ll walk all over me. I’m a son of bitch, but I’m not an ingrate, I got this; I’ll back off, and shut up, at least until I have a couple of weeks under my belt.”
MacJames had never seen this side of Mitchelli’s personality, for that matter any man. Several minutes ago, he was ripping someone’s career to shreds, the next minute he was admitting his faults and vowing to play ball. She had never heard a man admit he was wrong, especially her three husbands. Mitchelli was rough, possibly crude, but not obtuse.
The technical expert in the Buffalo office, Dominique Coarseni, entered the room. He was in the Army Rangers for ten years, a specialist in explosives. As a veteran, he was promptly accepted into the FBI and had been assigned to the Buffalo office for the last five years. Mitchelli looked Coarseni over; his physique was anti-Mitchelli. Coarseni was five foot four inches, a hundred and twenty pounds soaking wet. He had to look up to MacJames; he was balding and had a tendency to speak very fast.
Coarseni quickly said, “You must be Mitchelli, hi, Dominique Coarseni, call me Dom, I got you a new tricked out phone, you’ll love it, you’re getting security systems installed on your cars, boats and home, sweet stuff you’ll love it, you guys eat? I’m starved. Forget that range qualification, I read your file; we don’t have time for that bullshit. You like Italian? I know this great restaurant you’ll love it. Hey that was great how you tossed up that asshole O’Shid, I loved it. The guys have been watching it all afternoon.”
“What are you talking about,” MacJames interrupted. “Watching what? How did you know about O’Shid?”
“The video where Mitchelli makes O’Shid all floppy armed,” Coarseni responded. “Maybe it was e-mailed, it could be on YouTube by now. Its great stuff, did you
see it?”
Mitchelli broke out laughing as MacJames sprinted out of the room in an attempt to get the video classified. Coarseni spoke too fast, but got right to the point. He knew he was going to get along with this agent.
CHAPTER 11
Sal Buckala’s own department had turned its back on him, yet Freed was forced to recruit him on his team. Reluctantly Freed had contacted Buffalo PD and they quickly approved Buckala’s temporary assignment to Task Force E. Buffalo PD wanted Buckala out for good. Buckala’s phone had been disconnected in an attempt to stop the threatening phone calls from his fellow officers.
Freed drove with MacJames to Buckala’s house on Paderewski Drive on the east side of Buffalo early in the afternoon. Paderewski Drive was adjacent to Buffalo’s old central train terminal, constructed at the turn of the century. The magnificent gothic structure was a national landmark. Her grey tower stood watch over the eastside of Buffalo, a reminder of the city’s prominent past.
As they parked in front of Buckala’s house, MacJames looked up. “Oh my God, the train terminal dominates the neighborhood, it’s like a backdrop out of a Batman movie.”
Freed looked up and said, “Cripe it must be 20 stories, it dwarfs the houses.” He rubbed his forehead. “Angela, it’s a backdrop to the destruction of my career.”
They could hear the TV inside as they approached Buckala’s house, it was similar to the other houses on the street, except his house was in disrepair. They rang the doorbell and Buckala walked across the wood floor in his heavy boots carefully peering out a side window. He demanded to know who was at the door prior to opening it, the TV blaring in the background. Freed replied FBI, and they presented their credentials holding them in front of the window.
Buckala slowly opened the door. He was wearing black boots, jeans, a tee shirt, and a brown cross draw holster. His pistol holstered in front of his left hip and a dual magazine pouch on his right hip. His tee shirt and mustache were covered with potato chip crumbs. He smelled profusely of cigars and coffee. He looked more like a Bosnian street fighter than an Italian Buffalonian cop. He checked their credentials and asked them in, offering them coffee. As they walked in, Buckala quickly disappeared into the kitchen.
All the furniture was old; he lived in his grandparents’ house and he had never purchased new furniture. The only thing new was a forty-inch flat screen TV placed on top of an antique teacart. It was quite apparent from the numerous lace doilies placed on all the furniture that Buckala did not decorate this home. On a coffee table, in an ashtray with a doily underneath was a thin twisted cigar calmly producing a column of smoke that drifted directly upwards towards the ceiling. He brought their coffee out from the kitchen in antique cups and saucers. He apologized for not having any cream and asked them to sit down.
Freed started talking then stopped and asked if Buckala could turn the TV off; a soap opera was on with two women screaming at each other and it was so loud he was having a hard time speaking over them. Freed explained Buckala’s temporary assignment to Task Force E and gave him the formal Buffalo PD approval letter. Freed sipped his coffee and upon tasting its pungent, bitter flavor almost spit it out. His lips puckered and he swallowed slowly. MacJames sipped the coffee very slowly and found it very flavorful, it reminded her of the coffee she had in Italy years ago. She tried not to breathe through her nose; Buckala’s breath stank of cigars.
Buckala exhaled. “Well as you can see I’m a very busy man, I’ll check my schedule and get back to you.” He stood and walked into the kitchen, his boots clunking on the floor as he walked.
The plume of smoke from the cigar was between MacJames and Freed as they looked quietly at each other, silently wondering what was next. Buckala returned carrying a pot of coffee and a small tray of Italian cookies; he set them both on the coffee table.
Buckala spoke again, “Hey what can I say, my brain’s turning to mush watching TV. Other than death threats, no one else has even spoken to me in the last two months.”
MacJames and Freed were relieved. They explained to him in detail what Task Force E was and who its members consisted of.
Buckala looked puzzled, “Excuse me I don’t get it. My own department doesn’t want me. You two flash the pass, come in my house and ask me if I want to join your Task Force P.”
“E,” said Freed, “it’s Task Force ‘E,’ you know--for Erie.”
“Whatever, E, P; you Feds must have special names for everything you investigate. What’s with that?” MacJames and Freed said nothing. “Anywho, I’ve been set up before I’m tired of playing the fall guy. I know the street, like no other cop. I put criminals away! Because I’m a good cop, I’m an outcast.”
MacJames tried to convince him. “Salvatore, we agree with you; our investigation needs your detective skills. You were strongly recommended by Peter Mitchelli; he insists he work with you.”
Buckala took a puff off his cigar. “Well, this Peter Mitchelli must be a smart agent. I’m impressed, he knows I’ll keep him alive and solve this case. Now tell me who the hell is this genius Mitchelli?”
MacJames exclaimed, “Peter Mitchelli, you don’t know him?”
“I don’t know any Special Agents in Charge with the FBI. This guy must have some balls and a hell of a lot of pull to get me out of hibernation.”
Freed snarked, “Oh yeah, he’s got pull.” Freed looked at MacJames, “He’s not a federal agent. He’s a civilian operative whose involvement in the case is to be kept low key. By the way I’m the Special Agent in Charge of the Buffalo office, not Peter Mitchelli.”
Buckala shouted, “Christ almighty, you poor dumb bastards must be desperate, son of a bitch! Peter Mitchelli, the Auxiliary Sheriff! I knew he was connected. I frickin’ knew it, no one believed me. I knew he was connected. Yeah I remember him. That frickin’ reservist; for the first two days of class everyone gave him the silent treatment because of him being in the reserves, oh excuse me the auxiliary. You know we would have harassed him, high school shit, hazing. Him being so big, no one dared. He walked on that range as if he owned it; cool as a jewel. You imagine thirty sets of union eyes staring at you, thinking you’re a wannabe. Even the instructors were pissed over his Lieutenant’s rank. But when he prequalified for the instructors course and a lot of regulars guys didn’t, we backed the frick off.”
Freed asked, “Why do you think he’s connected?”
Buckala leaned in and lowered his voice. “He looks like those mafia guys on TV; you know an Italian contractor and his size. The way he looks and shoots, we thought he was a hit man. He moves like a frickin’ tree cause he’s so damn big, so we teased him--we called him ‘The Don,’ like the movie. Then we saw him shoot--he shoots like an obsessed son of a bitch! He’s not fast, but he’s steady, boom, boom, boom, right on target, his reloads like he practices in his sleep. He out-classed everyone in the course, and never bragged about it. He’s one smooth dago.” He took a long drag on his cigar and set it down in the ashtray and smirked. “So ok, we think the guy jerks off with his Glock at night.” Buckala paused and looked at MacJames, “Excuse me, ma’am; it’s a figure of speech.”
“Don’t call me ma’am, carry on.”
Buckala continued, “We figure we’ll show this guy up with shotguns. He goes through Hogan’s alley with a shotgun as if he’s got a vendetta against the targets; even the SWAT guys shit their pants.”
Buckala took a sip of coffee and another puff of his cigar, “He’s mixed up in this mess, wow this should be real interesting. Well Robert, do I complete your crew of misfits or do you have a mini-me of General George S. Patton?”
Freed had unintentionally assembled a team of Italians: Coarseni, Mitchelli, and Buckala. They planned to meet at the FBI building at 6 p.m. the following evening. Freed was more on edge than ever; he was worried Stuart’s plan was going to blow up and terminate his career.
***
Freed, MacJames, Moss, Coarseni, Mitchelli, and Buckala gathered at the FBI conference room ready to r
estart Taskforce E. Freed, MacJames, Moss and Coarseni were all wearing suits, Buckala was dressed in the same clothes as the day before, less the potato chip crumbs. MacJames knew enough to sit next to Mitchelli because Buckala’s cigar smoked clothes stunk up the entire room. Mitchelli was in black jeans, brown low-rise work boots, and a black pull over shirt. The meeting started with Mitchelli apologizing to Freed in front of everyone for his lack of respect. Freed was stunned, Mitchelli’s apology was professionally unprofessional. No one in the federal government apologized.
MacJames kicked Freed in the leg. He jerked then humbly thanked Mitchelli, “Totally unnecessary; we’re all on the same team.”
Buckala chimed in, “It’s not a team; it’s Task Force T.” He looked at Freed. “Right, Roberto?”
Mind Kill- Rise of the Marauder Page 11