Buckala pleaded with the medical examiner. “Doc, I met with him less than two weeks ago, he’s critical to our investigations, let’s cut him down now and see what they carved.”
“No frickin’ way,” barked Torbin. “Who the hell are you giving orders, this is a homicide case, not narcotics and you’re on suspension, mister! My people need time to survey the crime scene; there are too many people in here as is contaminating the scene.”
Coarseni turned toward Freed. “Bob, I’m with Buckala; this wasn’t a coincidence. Take the lead for Christ’s sake.”
Freed looked at Torbin and then back at the medical examiner. “Break out the gloves,” he ordered. “We’ll all get our hands bloody.”
Egos were being bruised. “Look Bob,” Torbin said. “This is a local gang murder, you were contacted as a courtesy. I’m directing this investigation; stay the frick out of it.”
Freed fired back at him, “How many urban gangs stick their victim’s reproductive organs in their mouth, Tom?”
Coarseni stuck his finger at Torbin, “Yeah his balls and dick!” Buckala tugged on Coarseni’s arm to get him to back off.
“Breakout the gloves, Doc,” Freed repeated. “No one’s leaving until we figure out what the hell they carved on his gut.”
During the course of the argument, the medical examiner’s assistant had continued to move the intestines and flap of skin. He was manipulating a mirror three inches in diameter with a light around its perimeter. He patiently moved the mirror, probing from the perimeter of the flap of skin making mental notes as he probed. He went from side to side, occasionally wiping the blood off the mirror. He mouthed what he thought the words were to himself, then took several more sighting with the mirror to verify his conclusion.
“Marauder’s Next,” the assistant confidently exclaimed as the others continued their argument.
“Are you sure?” asked the medical examiner. “The letters are upside down?”
“Yes, Sir, I had no problem reading the letters upside down; I had to mark the letters with my finger when I went side to side on the torso skin. I kept losing my place in the letters. Mars Next didn’t seem to make sense, maybe for NASA, but not for a murder.”
Coarseni’s face turned white and he grabbed Freed and Buckala, pushing them towards the door out into the driveway.
Freed pushed back. “Dom, what’s wrong? Damn it, stop pushing me.” Freed pulled his arms up chest high and pushed Coarseni’s hands off him.
Coarseni was shaken. “It can’t be,” he said. “It just can’t be, how could it be. No frickin’ way, Sal.”
Buckala grabbed Coarseni’s shoulders, who stood almost a foot shorter than him. “Dom, what the hell got up your ass? You’ve had to have seen worse than this.”
Coarseni looked at Buckala with a blank face, and then ran to the end of the driveway motioning Freed and Buckala to follow. He was creating distance between Task Force E and the other police agents.
Coarseni whispered, “Bob, the Marauder, you haven’t heard?”
“Heard what?” he yelled at Coarseni.
“In the office; that’s what they call Peter Mitchelli.”
“Dom, what the hell are you talking about?” Freed asked. “Only a small group in our office knows of Mitchelli.”
Coarseni gasped, “You think? No way! It started with the training video, then yelling at you in the conference room, then the shooting at the grain elevator. They all know of him, he’s grown into an interagency legend. There’s all sorts of nicknames floating around, but the most common is Mitchelli the Marauder.”
Buckala asked, “Dom, are you talking about water cooler bullshit, gossip?”
“Water cooler, interoffice e-mail, international e-mail, for Christ sake Washington e-mail,” said Coarseni. “Jesus, is it such a stretch! Don’t you get it? Mitchelli’s a mariner, his boat’s named Time Raider. Mariner, bandit, pirates, raiders, pillagers, Marauder, like The Pirates of the Caribbean. Marauder stuck, it goes with Mitchelli. Remember the B-26 bomber from World War II, they nicked named it the Marauder. Our office has been using it as a call sign for Mitchelli, the Marauder’s banging frosty freeze MacJames. The frickin’ women in the office think it’s sexy. Bob, we have a leak in our office, a rat snitch, it has to be.”
Freed immediately phoned Moss, his second in charge. He directed Moss to get two teams guarding Mitchelli’s children. He wanted twenty-four hour guards immediately, “Tonight!”
Freed told him, “We’ll ask the Secret Service for help if need be. Pat, put them outside his house for now until we can get ahold of Peter and explain what’s going on.”
Moss asked, “Bob, are you worried Peter’s going to explode, wreaking havoc?”
Freed, “Marauder fits doesn’t it, I’m worried about everything. The case is just getting online and we can’t have the Marauder, I mean Mitchelli, side tracking the investigation.”
Moss paused then responded, “Bob, Secretary Stuart believes he is the investigation!”
Freed snapped back, “Pat, don’t you think I know that! My God, I hate to admit it, a damn auxiliary Sheriff, a builder. We dragged him in, got him involved to make Stuart happy. Christ he wanted a fisherman, we gave him a pirate, the Marauder. Let’s hope Dom’s wrong and this turns out to be nothing.”
Moss sympathetically replied, “Bob you’re on edge from Sunday night. You could have been killed. You should take some time off.”
Freed screamed into the phone, Buckala and Coarseni turned in amazement, “God Damn it, Pat! Mitchelli got shot twice Sunday night and he’s on a date, right now, dinner and drinks with MacJames!”
Coarseni grabbed Freed and looked at Buckala, “Sal, he’s your protégé, you don’t think he’s scoping out Leo’s Lair?”
Buckala’s mind raced. He remembered the stories he had told Mitchelli while they were on surveillance. He remembered how patiently Mitchelli had listened, as though studying everything he said while they had both smoked Turkish wild root cigars. “I’d scope it out. He’s on a frickin’ mission or he’d still be in the hospital. Yeah he’s there.”
Coarseni quietly whispered, “That son of a bitch, he’s not going to let up.” Coarseni remembered Mitchelli negotiating, manipulating Dr. Stazi, the big-breasted doctor in the hospital. “Stazi! I couldn’t take my eyes off her tits, rubbing them in his face, and he’s focused on getting the hell out of there so he can finish this thing. He’s a nut case. Who’d want to leave store-bought boobs?”
As Freed listened intently to Buckala and Coarseni, his eyes widened with every word. The three came to the same conclusion; they should have foreseen Mitchelli’s obsession the first night Mitchelli had taken them to Ghetto Beach. Mitchelli had been focused intensely from the beginning of his involvement in the case. He had stayed on task while they had joked and argued over dinner amongst themselves; not Mitchelli, he was serious about his new job.
“Pat,” Freed said, “we think he’s going to Leo’s with MacJames tonight, I’ll catch up to you in an hour.” He hung up the phone.
Buckala said, “Bob, maybe they only have his call sign ‘Marauder,’ and they’re missing his name. We don’t want to panic and lead them to Mitchelli sending a Task Force to guard his house.”
Ignoring Buckala, Freed questioned Coarseni. “Dom, the boat, house, and his cars you had them alarmed right?”
“Yah, yah, yah,” Coarseni replied. “All the best stuff. I even put a magnetic static alarm on the hull of his boat. If someone tried to stick a booby-trap, like a bomb, KABOOM! to the hull, it changes the consistent static charge along the hull and triggers the alarm. It dials me, Mitchelli, and Moss simultaneously. I’ll have cameras installed at the dock and house tomorrow; I have the units in storage.”
Buckala walked to his car with Coarseni close behind, “I’m going to Leo’s. Roberto, we’ll call you if he shows up.”
Coarseni seemed to calm down. “Ok,” he said. “I’m riding with you, don’t smoke any of that stinky root s
hit.”
***
After dinner, Mitchelli and MacJames drove downtown to Chippewa Avenue for a nightcap. The interior of the car was pitch black except for the white glow from the German gauges on the dashboard. Mitchelli’s cell phone rang and the blue tooth interrupted the stereo music. Freed’s name appeared on the navigation screen.
Mitchelli answered. “Bob, you’re welcome to join us for a drink.”
Freed tried to act calm--he didn’t want to alarm Mitchelli, or let MacJames think he was tracking her personal life. “Us,” he said, “you’re with Angela, great. Peter, I just wanted to follow up with you regarding the conversation we had this afternoon concerning the assistance you’ve requested. We are going to assign two men outside your house 24/7. I’ve assigned a local team to follow your kids; we need to get together tomorrow to discuss the details.”
MacJames interrupted. “Bob, can we make it mid afternoon? I am expecting a morning interview.”
Freed hesitated, “Yeah, sure Angela; let’s make it two.”
Mitchelli detected a strain in Freed’s voice. “Bob, are you ok?” he asked.
“Yes we’re good,” Freed said. “Got to go, will fill you in tomorrow. You two have a good time tonight; you’ve earned it.” He continued apologetically, “Peter, remember my promise, so relax.”
Mitchelli looked puzzled. “You bet Bob, thank you.”
“Ok got to go, good night--have fun, kids.” Freed hung up the phone and the music resumed.
“Wow is he a changed man,” MacJames remarked. “I’ve never heard him so compliant; normally it takes memo after memo followed up by multiple reports before he gives in.” She grabbed Mitchelli’s hand. “Peter, maybe our Robert Freed is a changed man, the Mitchelli influence.” She heard the words and could not believe they came from her. He’s not a changed man, something’s wrong. He overheard they were going out tonight yet acted surprised we were together. Freed is a terrible liar. ‘Have fun kids!’
The couple looked at each other and simultaneously exclaimed, “‘Have fun kids!’”
“Ok I’m slow on the uptake,” Mitchelli said. “I’ll admit that--what the hell is he thinking? Why don’t you talk to Bob about taking some time off, he may be cracked.”
While she did not want to alarm him, MacJames agreed something was wrong with Freed. “Let’s cut him some slack, maybe he just didn’t know what to say. He’s been under a lot of pressure for over two years. He thinks of me as his little sister.”
Mitchelli laughed, “Angela, can you hear what’s coming out of your mouth? Listen to what you’re saying, little sister.” The wine and medication had relaxed Mitchelli’s personality. “I’m like his stepbrother, the one from his father’s third marriage. The lovable misfit stepbrother that is always getting into trouble, he calls me lumpy because I’m Chubby, oh maybe it’s the Beaver.” They both broke out laughing at Freed’s expense. “Angela, something’s up, you know it. Which one of us his holding back now?”
“Touché,” she said. “Keep your eyes on the road.” She turned up the volume on the stereo. He’s taken too many painkillers and drank too much wine to be that sharp.
The city lights reflected off the Mercedes’ silver body panels and glass roof as it drove through downtown Buffalo. The V8 engine’s throaty dual exhaust played like a symphony as they started and stopped at the numerous city intersections. Mitchelli lugged the car through its seven gears barely exceeding two-thousand RPMs. The power of the German engineered machine was impressive. He restrained himself from a juvenile exposition of its performance. He tapped the throttle and the torque would press MacJames back in her seat. They traveled south on Hurtle Avenue, then west on Main Street towards downtown Buffalo. When traffic on Main Street ended in the heart of the city, they veered right down Pearl Street and made a left on Chippewa Avenue. The Mercedes coupe pulled elegantly up to the glass doors at Leo’s Lair. The valet opened the passenger door just as MacJames looked up at the kelly green neon sign above the glass doors. She stood on the sidewalk staring at the sign while Mitchelli admired his silver coupe as the valet drove it away. MacJames had enjoyed several glasses of wine at dinner and was quite relaxed. Mitchelli stood next to her, their hands clasped, hanging below their waist.
MacJames asked, “Are you--”
Mitchelli interrupted, “Crazy?”
“That’s not what I was going to say,” she exclaimed. “Are you kidding me? I thought you were kidding when you said we were coming here.” Their bodies squared off in front of the door and their lips locked in a kiss. They separated and she whispered, “You’re driving me mad.” They continued their kiss when another car pulled up, the valet brushing against them as he ran to open its door.
The handsome couple entered Leo’s Lair for their nightcap. The large horseshoe bar was filled three patrons deep. The music from the live band was eighties pop, the soloist was singing a “Blondie” song. A small group vacated one of the elevated booths that overlooked the entire bar, and the couple took their place. A server quickly came over to take their orders: MacJames ordered a cosmopolitan, Mitchelli a single malt scotch. Mitchelli held MacJames’s hand as he scanned the room. On the other side of the bar a large man sat in a booth smoking a cigar, its tip glowing as he inhaled. It may have been the attractive blonde sitting next to him that caught Mitchelli’s eye, though unlikely; the only women on his mind were his wife and MacJames. Smoking in bars had been illegal in New York State for several years. The man smoking the cigar had clout, perhaps he had bribed the state enforcement officer. The sensuous blonde at his side was uncomfortably propped against him, straining not to wrinkle her designer suit. The waitress filled their glasses without any acknowledgment from the man or woman.
MacJames yelled over the music, “Did you find what you were looking for?”
Mitchelli raised her hand to his lips and replied, “She’s sitting next to me.”
The blonde’s cell phone rang and she quickly pulled it from her purse. Mitchelli’s eyes locked on her sudden movement. MacJames immediately looked up to see what had suddenly caught her boyfriend’s attention. The blonde put her hand over her ear opposite the phone. Unable to hear, she pushed her way to the edge of the booth then headed outside to talk beyond the loud music from the band.
Mitchelli stood up. “Angela, I’ll be right back.”
MacJames’s eyes never left Mitchelli. She watched him quickly walk across the crowded dance floor, following the curvaceous blonde out the front doors. Through the window, she watched the blonde walk fifteen feet left of the entrance doors as Mitchelli went several feet to the right of the doors. She pulled a long slim cigarette from her purse, lit it, and began speaking into the phone. Mitchelli watched from a distance then slowly closed the gap between himself and the blonde. He desperately searched his pocket, pretending to look for something he had misplaced. As he walked towards her, his motioning caught her attention. Annoyed, she moved her phone away from her ear and pulled the pack of cigarettes out of her purse again. She motioned to Mitchelli, offering him a cigarette. He stopped fidgeting and calmly walked to within a foot of the blonde, gently removing the cigarette from her mouth and placed it between his lips. She cocked her head to her left and glared at him.
Watching through the window, MacJames’s jaw dropped as she watched this unfold. She wanted to scream. Mitchelli took several puffs on the blonde’s cigarette and grabbed her cigarette pack from her hand. Then with the grace of Cary Grant, he moved the cigarette from his mouth to hers. He pulled a new cigarette from her pack while the blonde looked on. She stood erect, thrusting her butt and her breasts outward, extenuating her perfect figure. She then moved closer to Mitchelli, extending her lighter so she could light his cigarette. He appeared to thank her and walked several feet away, giving the appearance of not wanting to overhear her phone conversation.
MacJames mumbled, “Peter, you’re one smooth son of a…; what the hell are you up to? Who are you Peter Mitchelli? Good God! Who are yo
u?”
The blonde turned her back to Mitchelli, but glanced over her shoulder every so often, checking out his body as he smoked his cigarette. She finished her phone call and walked towards Mitchelli. He appeared to thank her acting as if he had lost his cigarettes. They continued talking while smoking the last puffs from their cigarettes. She kissed Mitchelli on the lips. He then pointed to the window almost directly at MacJames inside as though explaining he was with a friend, then placing his hands together and gestured, thank you. He followed her into the restaurant, and they each went their separate ways: the blonde to the man smoking the cigar, and Mitchelli to MacJames.
Mind Kill- Rise of the Marauder Page 27