Mind Kill- Rise of the Marauder

by Peter Casilio

“I don’t have to get my legs waxed!”

  “What!”

  “I have very little hair on my body…do you think I have hairy legs?”

  “I think your legs are perfect, please just pull these damn things out of my arms before Stazi changes her mind.” MacJames abruptly grabbed both pieces of tape and pulled them off with one quick pull, jerking his arm and his body. Mitchelli closed his eyes; the pain in his arm was nothing compared to the sudden jerk to his bullet wounds. “Christ, the bullets didn’t hurt that much, did you enjoy that? Was that for my comment about Stazi’s bedside manner or the waxing?”

  “Neither, that was for not pulling your hands away from her big boobs. What the hell was that little show for?”

  “I’ve known her since college. I didn’t enjoy having my hands held to her chest.”

  “Give me a break, Mitchelli. You sure as hell looked like you were enjoying it!”

  “She did that just to get under your skin. Remember I was trying to convince her to let me leave. Let’s focus on the task at hand, get these things out of my arms.”

  Mitchelli held his breath while pulling the two-inch track needle out of his vein. MacJames gasped. He quickly took a cotton ball and held it on the track hole, then asked her to put a short piece of tape over it, he emphasized short. She was amazed how eager he was to leave the hospital. MacJames repeated the torture treatment of removing the tape on his other arm.

  “Angela, are you trying to keep me in the hospital?”

  “Did she put your hands on her chest in college?” MacJames was whimsically sarcastic, “Does she place her hands on all her male patients’ groins?”

  “She didn’t have those breasts in college; her first husband bought those for her. I can’t answer your second question, although none of her male patients complain about her.”

  MacJames stood over him as he sat on the bed, she put her hands on his face, “Peter are you ok, are you sure you should be leaving.” She held Mitchelli’s face to her chest. “If you pull your head away, you’re a dead man.”

  “Store bought can’t compete with the real McCoy.” As MacJames released him, she could tell he was having trouble breathing. “Angela, I have to leave. We need to make a stop on the way home. “

  “Peter, you’re going home to rest, what stop is that important?”

  “I’d hoped you would understand, I need to stop at St. Paul’s church in Clarence. Where is my gun and truck?”

  “Church? ‘Where’s my gun and truck’? My lord we’re in Buffalo, New York you sound like a Mississippi redneck. Honey, we have to get you home.”

  ***

  MacJames found herself helping Mitchelli out of his truck and escorting him into St. Paul’s Church in Clarence. She had insisted he go home, but without avail. She could read Mitchelli’s face, tone, and mannerisms. Though she had only known him a short while, her instincts had been on target since the first time they met. She knew if she didn’t take him to the church, his mind would lapse into a state, possibly a migraine. When she had agreed to take him to his church, the trembling in his hands had lessoned. She convinced herself that she would make the visit as short as possible and get him home to rest.

  Mitchelli had called the church and asked Father Oreille to meet him in front of the altar. Father Oreille apologized for not coming to the hospital; he had just returned from out of town. The priest had offered to come to Mitchelli’s home so he could rest, but Mitchelli insisted he had to see him in church.

  The shooting at the grain elevator was stuck in Mitchelli’s head. He thought of every detail over and over again searching for a clue, or something he could’ve done to prevent his injuries. Was it skill or dumb luck we were not all dead, or taken hostage? What-if scenarios played out in detail in his mind. What if the knife had been held to his neck—would he be dead? Why did the two men stay concealed in the shadows at the base of the grain elevator? He did not have to review Freed’s report to know that the dollar value of the heroin in the bags and submersible was huge. One, two, possible three hundred million dollars of heroin, which would be sorely missed.

  Buckala and Freed were rushing to meet MacJames and Mitchelli at the church. They were embarrassed they did not visit their partner during his stay in the hospital.

  As Freed’s car raced from Buffalo to St Paul’s Church in Clarence, Buckala commented Buffalo PD’s tradition of giving an officer injured in the line of duty at least two police escorts home from the hospital. “Get it, Roberto? Do yuh ha?”

  At the church, Mitchelli introduced Father Oreille to MacJames and then asked the priest to hear his confession. MacJames sat several pews away from the statue of St. Peter while Mitchelli and Oreille sat directly in front of it. St. Peter towered over the two men; the statue was four feet off the floor and at least fifteen feet high. St. Peter was depicted as a warrior; the killer of Christian persecutors, holding a sword in one hand, and a small cross in the other like a shield. Mitchelli and Father Oreille quickly went through the preliminary functions prior to Mitchelli’s confession.

  “Father...” Mitchelli’s eyes winced as he looked at Oreille.

  “My son please tell me your sins, there’s nothing to be embarrassed about.” He leaned towards Mitchelli, “I’ve heard it all, you’ll feel much better after you tell God your sins.” His body jiggled as he laughed. Mitchelli looked away, the priest put his hand on Mitchelli’s shoulder. “Don’t be afraid I know you’re timid.”

  “Father I killed three men two nights ago and shot the hell out of a fourth scumbag.”

  Oreille’s face was void of expression, “Peter you’re kidding?”

  “No not at all, you’re were right I feel much better.”

  MacJames watched as Oreille’s face turned ghostly white and his hands began to tremble. She thought to herself, Oh Peter, what are you telling him, is it your guilt over me? As Freed and Buckala arrived and sat in the pew next to her, she realized what Mitchelli was confessing. He’s telling him about the men he shot, he’s telling him he killed three men. She looked at Freed, her eyes bulging open. Freed understood instantly.

  Father Oreille stuttered, “My son…” He stood up, but his knees weakened and he began to fall. Mitchelli grabbed him and moaned in pain.

  MacJames screamed, “Help him!!!” Freed and Buckala ran to help. Buckala helped Mitchelli while Freed assisted Oreille.

  Oreille was clearly shaken by the confession. “Are these your accomplices?”

  MacJames answered for him, “Father, we’re with the FBI. From your reaction, I probably can guess what Peter has told you. Without further interruption to Peter’s semi-private confession, I can tell you that his work with the government is classified and his confession to you is one that must be kept strictly between you and God. Father, is that understood?”

  “Yes, my dear, are you inferring Peter’s actions were in the pursuit of justice?” Father Oreille grabbed MacJames’s hand.

  She answered, “Father I cannot disclose any details.”

  “I understand, but it’s important God and I have the same understanding of Peter’s killing of the three men. I only wish to give the appropriate penance.”

  MacJames hesitated, “He should receive no penance yet!” In that moment, she remembered Mitchelli’s face as Stazi had held his hand to her chest.

  “Father, he done good,” said Buckala.

  Oreille looked at Freed for further confirmation. Freed stuttered, “Yeah I still can’t believe it…Well, Father, I never wanted him…Hell, Father it was a damn miracle! Forgive me, Father.” Freed was still at odds with Mitchelli’s involvement in the investigation.

  Oreille asked the others to give Peter some privacy for his confession. Once alone from the others, he said, “Peter, God will forgive you.”

  “God will forgive me for all the men I’ve killed?”

  Doubtful, Oreille responded, “All the men!” Only our final salvation in heaven is certain.”

  Mitchelli realized his mistake, �
�Father men will come after me, and I will kill them.”

  “Do you regret you actions?”

  “I have no remorse for the men I’ve killed, I feel nothing. I have a job I must finish. Father, there are many dangerous men, evil men who will come to kill me. Father, they don’t want me to finish this job. My heart’s cold, my mind black with hatred. I’m asking God to help me to understand my lack of remorse not for his forgiveness.”

  “My son, God has placed you in a state of grace so that you may eliminate those who heinously terrorize others. Why God has placed such an evil burden on your shoulders, it is not ours to question.”

  “Father, I have prayed to God. that I may be brave, when I need to protect my family. I believe God has listened . Two nights ago, I looked the devil in the eye. I was not afraid, nor shaken. My decisions were deliberate and fatally accurate. I dispatched three criminals to death.”

  “Peter, curiosity begs me to ask if you have ever killed before, have you?” Oreille looked upon Mitchelli’s face, but upon catching a glimpse of his dark eyes, he recanted. “No, I’m sorry--Certainly I am wrong in asking. God is merciful, we shall not question God and I shall not judge you.” My lord, his eyes reveal nothing but death. I must bend the truth to save his soul.

  Mitchelli hesitated for a moment. He looked at the statue of St. Peter and thought of Ann. “I have obsessive thoughts,” he said. “I’ve had them my entire life. I struggle to control them. Father, I question my own sanity. I pray that these compulsions within me can be used to destroy the evil men that have hurt so many. Is this how the Holy Spirit works within me, or am I crazy? If I’m crazy, I am truly doomed.” As he spoke, Mitchelli looked deep into Father Oreille’s eyes, as if searching for answers within them.

  Freed, Buckala and MacJames watched, but they could barely hear what was being said between them. Father Oreille’s color had returned and he placed his hands on Mitchelli’s shoulders and prayed, moving his hand shoulder to shoulder, then making the sign of the cross above Mitchelli’s head. He asked Mitchelli to show him his wounds. Mitchelli slowly removed his scrub shirt. MacJames, Freed, and Buckala quickly ran up and helped him, thinking he was hurt. Fortunately, there was no one else in the church to witness the spectacle of Mitchelli standing topless in front of the statue of St. Peter while a priest, a woman, and two men looked on. Father Oreille went into the sacristy and came out holding a small velvet bag that had a gold braded rope drawn to hold its contents securely inside. He removed a crystal sphere from the bag about the size of a tennis ball. He removed the crystal stopper, which had a metal crucifix as its handle.

  “The Vatican summoned me to Rome last week,” he said. “The Pope had granted me an audience. There were thirty other priests in the audience and we each took turns kneeling before the Holy Father. When I knelt before him and kissed his ring, He presented me with this holy water. The Pope gave the other thirty priests no such gifts. This water is from a spring at the foundation of St. Peter’s Cathedral. Michael Angelo, the original architect of St. Peter’s Cathedral, drew this water from the spring they encountered while excavating the foundation of the building. The Romans called the spring the tears of St. Peter. The Holy Father gave me this water three days ago. His only explanation was the Holy Spirit had compelled him to give it to me so I may anoint someone struggling in a state of grace. The Holy Father has blessed this water; I will anoint your wounds with it. The anointing is not my blessing but that of St. Peter, your patron saint and the Holy Father. I will pray for your soul and that you may tame the Holy Spirit that rages inside of you. Remember, God works in strange and mysterious ways; we must not question his ways.” Lord, our savior forgive my lies, I must do what I can to save his soul. Oreille looked upon Freed, who had a doubtful expression on his face. He raised his hand to Freed’s forehead and repeated, “The Lord works in strange and mysterious ways, do not question his ways.” Freed blushed.

  The members of the Task Force walked out of the church and stood by Mitchelli’s truck. Freed and Buckala thanked Mitchelli for saving their lives two nights ago. Embarrassed, they apologized to Mitchelli for not visiting him in the hospital, and they explained what they had been doing since the incident. Mitchelli studied the scar on Freed’s neck left by the knife that had been held to his throat.

  “How’s the neck, Bob?”

  “Fine, my head is still attached,” Freed joked.

  Buckala presented Mitchelli with his refurbished shoulder holster and his Walter pistol. Mitchelli quickly examined his pistol. Buckala had taken great care in immaculately cleaning it. The blue finish on the pistol shined with a thin layer of gun oil. Mitchelli quickly checked the action, racking the slide. He locked the slide back and examined the chamber. The pistol passed inspection; it was perfectly cleaned and oiled.

  MacJames could not help but notice Mitchelli’s transformation as he loaded his pistol and Buckala helped him put his holster on over his bandaged shoulder. His body had straightened and his eyes were focused. She could see that Mitchelli was on mission, possessed even. Could she control him? Could anyone?

  CHAPTER 17

  Even though MacJames had allowed her professional work to get personal by falling in love with Mitchelli, she still had a job to do. Stuart had insisted she keep a close watch on his star secret weapon. Stuart had requested a regular status report on the details of the operation and Mitchelli’s progress.

  One day after bringing Mitchelli home from the hospital, MacJames drove to his house and let herself in, expecting Mitchelli to be in bed. She was astonished to see him sitting in the Tuscan designed kitchen having breakfast with his children. Kaitlin perceived her expression of shock as excitement to see her, and quickly ran from the table to give her a hug. The hug brightened both of their mornings. MacJames was not used to being around children and the hug made her feel genuinely wanted. Kaitlin missed her mother and the attention MacJames gave her made her feel special.

  MacJames asked sarcastically, “Peter, did you workout this morning before having breakfast with your children? Seriously, you need to rest; you should still be in the hospital. I may take you back at gunpoint if need be!”

  Kaitlin asked, “Ms. MacJames you have a gun? My dad has a ton of guns.”

  “Oh, Kaitlin I was just kidding,” MacJames said quickly. “It’s an expression. Peter, help me out here.”

  “Nope, you can handle this, I need to rest. Remember I should be in the hospital.”

  Mitchelli’s mother-in-law, Grandma Lillian, chimed in. “Kaitlin, Peter, let’s get you to school, your father needs to rest, no more crazy talk of guns. A real lady doesn’t make idol threats with a gun.” She looked at MacJames; there was no doubt in her expression: no one was good enough for her son-in-law and no one could replace her daughter. “Were not rednecks, Kaitlin.” Lillian left in a huff to drive the children to school, leaving MacJames and Mitchelli alone.

  “Angela, help me to the couch.” His face quickly winced from the excruciating pain. “I had to show my family I was ok. They were hysterical last night when they came home from school. Shit if they only knew what really happened, who the hell would believe it?”

  MacJames helped Mitchelli into the great room, the ten-foot tall ceilings and oversized furniture dwarfed MacJames. She helped him to one of the twin couches placed parallel to each other in front of the large wood-burning fireplace. The couch faced the nine-foot windows looking into the backyard pond and creek.

  Though it was not her nature, she brought him his coffee and pain pills. She was not used to doting over anyone, especially a man. However, she was falling in love with him, and thus becoming more accommodating. It had been years since she had cared for another man, but she enjoyed taking care of Mitchelli. She brought him Freed’s report, along with the Coroner’s autopsy notes on the three dead men. She also had the background information on all four of the gangsters from the shooting. She passed each stack of papers to Mitchelli, gradually laying papers across his upper legs.


  “What the hell, Angela! If you’re so worried about me resting, why are you burying me in reports? I thought you were the analyst. I’m the dumb contractor remember? The Auxiliary Sheriff.”

  MacJames gently sat next to Mitchelli on the couch. “Peter, frankly none of us are quite certain what you are,” she said. “Freed thought the smugglers knew you, didn’t they ask who you worked for?” She studied his face for a reaction; his eyes winced ever so slightly. “He wasn’t sure, Freed and Buckala are still numb over the grain elevator incident. They know how close they came to dying, and they’re struggling with the fact a ‘dumb contractor,’ an Auxiliary Deputy saved their lives. Freed may put a poster of you over his beloved Hoover. All of you should take some time off.”

  “You’re the Assistant Deputy Director for the entire Northeast; why don’t you order us to take time off?” MacJames looked away from Mitchelli as he spoke. “Because you’re a competitor, that’s why. After two years of no clues, this investigation has got something to sink its teeth into and you want to win; sending Freed and Buckala home may jeopardize your victory.”