Mind Kill- Rise of the Marauder

by Peter Casilio

  She asked, “If I didn’t push you away would you have told me you love me?” She moved in front of Mitchelli and looked up into his eyes. As they kissed, Mitchelli’s eyes focused to his wife’s picture on the nightstand. He backed away from MacJames.

  “Stay clear Angela, please. I don’t want to hurt you or your career.”

  “No way.” She could see his face tighten. “You didn’t have to tell me you loved me.”

  Mitchelli looked into her eyes, “You didn’t have to show me your pistol was hot.”

  “Impressed?”

  “Up until you threw the spare magazines at my chest. You play rough, MacJames.”

  “You can take it, Mitchelli.”

  ***

  Mitchelli walked to the end of his dark street. A low front was moving through the area, bringing with it clouds that blocked the moonlight. He glanced at his bulky dive watch its luminescent hands indicating it was almost two a.m. Mitchelli had to meet up with his team members at the end of his street. Their mission tonight was to plant a dead body at Handly’s house.

  Mitchelli’s influence was exceeding Secretary Stuart’s expectations. Stuart’s civilian was unintentionally influencing Task Force E’s chief detective, Robert Freed. The Mitchelli investment had been paying dividends the government-trained bureaucrat had not expected. Freed, who typically played it by the book, Hoover’s book, was making decisions that were not in any FBI manual.

  Prior to meeting Mitchelli, Freed would have never considered placing a corpse with heroin at a suspect’s residence. Freed owed his life to Mitchelli. Mitchelli’s investigative success had focused Freed’s eyes beyond his beloved FBI manual: to his career and pension. Freed’s unquestionable faith in his Bureau was shaken. Stuart had ordered MacJames and him to find a civilian operative. Reluctant at first, now he took pride in his selection. Mitchelli had redirected the investigation, thus saving Freed’s downwardly spiraling career. Freed initially considered Mitchelli an anomaly. The odds had been stacked against Mitchelli contributing anything to the investigation. Freed’s anomaly theory helped him rationalize the Bureau’s failed investigation. His mind alternated between the missing men and Mitchelli’s deadly effective performance at the grain elevator, which had saved his life along with Buckala’s.

  Freed had to keep his successful operative out of harm’s way. He knew it was only a matter of time until the mob zeroed in on Mitchelli. He would not have it; he was freelancing beyond the manual and the law. His justification was the nation’s security, the twenty-one missing agents, and his new friend who had saved his life. Mitchelli’s daring actions had pushed Freed’s obligation beyond his own career success. Freed had promised to protect the Mitchelli children, and with that, their father. The FBI manual and the law were a blur. The team had to draw the suspects out, bait them before they went after the Marauder. Whether it was fate, luck, or Freed’s intuitive detective skills in selecting him, Freed was stuck with Mitchelli.

  Mitchelli was dressed entirely in black, from the soles of his black sneakers to his black long sleeved turtleneck. He stared from the end of his street into his neighborhood at the black Marquis; reassuring himself the men were vigilant and MacJames was in his house with his children. Where did Coarseni have the camera installed? Who involved in the investigation sold my identity to Handly? Does Angela think I’m crazy, is she pacifying me? Will she pull my credentials? Am I the Marauder? Or is it a coincidental link with the FBI’s interoffice gossip? Marauders Next! Mitchelli the Marauder; Raider, Bandit, Pirate, Marauder, Mafia, Mitchelli. Ann, what have I done?

  A black suburban pulled alongside Mitchelli, the window’s heavy tint made it impossible for the occupants to be visible from outside the SUV. Mitchelli opened the door. The dome lights stayed dark and the dashboard was completely black. Coarseni had disconnected the interior lights. As an extra precaution, he had also removed the license plate bulb, and the plates were not traceable.

  Freed was driving, Coarseni and Buckala were in the back seat, and Mitchelli rode shotgun. The team gave Mitchelli the best seat because of his injuries and they wanted him to do as little as possible. He would move behind the steering wheel as the others placed the body.

  “Dom, where did you install the cameras at my house?” Mitchelli asked, looking over his shoulder.

  “I knew it; I knew you’d ask. Didn’t I tell you he’d ask, didn’t I Sal? Ok, ok, one’s in the streetlight catching the front and east sides of your house, the other’s in the back above the hammock covering the back and west sides of your house. Give me your phone, I’ll program it for you. You can watch your house on your phone.” Mitchelli passed his phone to the backseat.

  Mitchelli sarcastically asked, “Which felon are we dropping off this evening and how much heroin is he carrying?” The threesome started laughing then began to argue.

  “Bob, I thought we agreed we weren’t going to drop off his brother-in-law. What the hell is with that? His wife is going to go bonkers.”

  “Dom, we did have that discussion and I made the final decision. It’s a sign of compassion—his family can have closure and a proper burial.”

  “Bullshit, the piece of shit almost cut your head off, and you’re pissed. You don’t give a rat’s ass what his sister thinks! You frickin’ G-men always have to make out like you’re doing the proper thing.” Buckala patted Bob on his back, “Roberto, you made the right decision. Besides, his fatal bullet wound is hidden in the back of his mouth. He’s so stiff now they’ll never figure it out what killed him.”

  “You’re a real genius Sal, the frickin’ brother-in-law is also the heaviest, now we’re going to bust our balls lugging him around stashing him at the house.” Coarseni patted Freed on the back. “I’m frickin’ going out on disability if I have the slightest cramp, Bobbo. I’m telling you, I’m milking it.”

  Buckala reached between the two front seats and turned on the stereo, “I’ve selected some motivational music.” The rhythmic music started, a song by Oinga Boinga, Dead Man’s Party.

  Coarseni started laughing, “You’re a sick bastard, Sal. Funny, but you’re sicko! Peter, isn’t he nuts? He’s a nutcase right? You sick son of bitch!”

  The black SUV made its way along the country roads of Clarence. The roadway was lined with maple trees, their limbs hanging over the road from the weight of their foliage. The houses along the road became more numerous as they neared the most affluent residential development in Erie County, Tatum Landing. The development was centered around a large quarry a mile in diameter. In the 1800s, limestone excavated from the site was used in constructing the infrastructure of Erie County.

  They drove into the development at the Goodrich Road entrance. The most expensive houses were the last constructed. The homes were located on a fault line that towered abruptly two hundred feet above the flat land of Clarence. On a sunny day from atop the escarpment one could see the skyline of Toronto. Mitchelli’s mind sprinted back to his childhood. He could remember riding his bike along the escarpment as a child. He had followed the deer trails through the woods. He had played on the two hundred foot cliffs. As a boy, he had climbed the shale-faced cliffs, pretending he was mounting an assault on the bluffs above Normandy on D-Day. He had imagined his mission assignment had been to destroy the large artillery pieces atop the bluffs, preventing them from firing upon the troops landing on the beaches below. Now his adult assignment was to help find and stop drug smugglers who have killed or kidnapped twenty-one federal agents, before they killed him and his family.

  They pulled into Handly’s street, appropriately named Deer Run for the deer trails that preceded the development. The FBI had arranged with the utility company to have the streetlights turned off, a covert effort to keep the street as dark as possible.

  They pulled in front of Handly’s house situated on a double lot. The English colonial was monstrous, more than ten thousand square feet. The three-story mass at the center of the house towered above the two-story ends. Large black shutte
rs accented the synthetic white limestone façade. The white façade, black shutters, and symmetry of the windows gave the house a Federalist motif. The motif was a ruse; the owner was no Federalist.

  The stereo was quickly turned off. “Jesus, Peter,” said Coarseni, “this house gives yours a run for the money.” He stared at the mansion. “There’s no way the garbage business paid for this bitch. Peter, you think the garbage business could pay for this pig, do you, huh?”

  Buckala studied the lights on the house. There were two porch lights and three lights by side load garage. The lights had to be eliminated. An ice storm three years ago shutdown power throughout the county for over a week. Now the most expensive houses in the neighborhood had backup generators. Cutting the power would only turn the lights off for a short period until the automatic generator spooled up.

  Freed stopped at the corner of the lot, the house visible through the front window. Coarseni pulled a long rifle from behind the second row seat. The gun’s four grip and stock were flat black. Mounted on the rifle was a night vision scope. The low power optics were more than adequate for the pellet gun.

  “Dom, you have rubber pellets for the lights?”

  “Peter, you’re not the only one that knows guns. It’s not just rubber, it’s a semi-soft density polymer.”

  Sal responded sarcastically, “Yeah shit head rubber!”

  Annoyed, Freed sniped, “Knock it off guys, and shoot out the lights.”

  Buckala lowered his window. Leaning on Buckala, Coarseni took careful aim at the left porch light. The three other team members impatiently waited as Coarseni delayed firing at the porch light. Thump, the rifle moved forward from Coarseni’s shoulder as the spring pushed the pellet out the barrel, the opposite recoil from gunpowder. An immediate thud followed as the round imbedded in the simulated limestone, missing the light.

  “You couldn’t hit the side of a barn! Give me that damn gun.” Buckala grabbed the pellet rifle from Coarseni and took aim. He quickly fired, Thump, then a crackle of glass breaking, and the left porch light went dark.

  “Beginners luck, Sal. That’s all it is, beginners luck.” Coarseni reached for the rifle but Buckala was already taking aim on the second light. Freed waved his hand, motioning Coarseni to back off. Thump, thud, Buckala had missed the second porch light.

  “Son of bitch!” Buckala raised the gun to his shoulder.

  “Give me another crack, Sal. Come on, anyone can miss,” He whispered in desperation.

  Buckala lowered the gun. Freed and Buckala had the same thought instantaneously. Buckala raised his window as Freed lowered his window.

  Annoyed Coarseni exclaimed, “Bob’s no good with a long gun, give me another chance.”

  Buckala passed the long gun to Freed, he looked at Mitchelli and nodded in approval. Mitchelli turned his hips perpendicular to the backrest, and without leaning on anyone took aim. Thump, crack, the right porch light went out.

  “Bullshit that beginner’s luck, ten bucks he misses the next one then it’s my shot.”

  Freed slowly pulled the SUV forward and stopped within view of the three lights on the side load garage, and one on a wing wall. He had to make them believe the Marauder could not miss. Mitchelli aimed at the garage lights furthest from the street, thump, crack, thump, crack, thump, crack. Mitchelli took three shots in less than five seconds.

  “Holy shit. That’s pretty good, let’s make it challenging.” There was a low muffled sound as Coarseni broke wind.

  “What do you think, you’re on a date Dom? Shit that stinks!” Buckala hit Coarseni in the shoulder as Mitchelli took aim.

  The SUV started rocking. Mitchelli, Buckala and Freed turned to look at Coarseni who was holding the hand grip above his door with his right hand and his seat back with his left swaying his body back and forth rocking the truck.

  “Dom, get your head out of your ass and knock it off.” Freed the consummate professional fought back his laughter. Mitchelli immediately took aim at the large light on the wing wall. Thump, crack, the light did not go out.

  “Son of a bitch, I told you it was beginners luck. Pay up, Marauder bitch, I want my money.” Mitchelli put the gun down, the stock resting on the floor by his seat. Buckala and Freed stared at the light in disbelief that it had not been hit, and then the light gradually dimmed, flickered, and went out. Buckala and Freed glanced at each other and smiled.

  “Son of a bitch I just lost forty bucks,” Coarseni whined. “Mitchelli, don’t let it go to your head. I sited that rifle in, you lucky shit.”

  Freed pulled to the end of the street and got out. Mitchelli slid into the driver’s seat. Freed opened the rear door and jumped in the back, the dead body was in a black body bag.

  “Peter, remember stop in front of his house by the bushy pine tree. Line the tailgate up with the tree, we’ll jump out and secure the bait. Give us five minutes before you drive back to pick us up.” The plan was loose at best. Buckala had done some quick surveillance during the day. The house had a rear patio that was concealed from Handly’s neighbors by the two lower end wings of the house that wrapped around the sides of the patio. They were placing the body on the patio that overlooked the opulent pool. The men pulled black shear masks over their heads concealing their faces. They also wore black gloves. As the SUV stopped by the pine trees, the three men rapidly deployed without making a sound. The electric tailgate opened vertically, and the three men quickly grabbed the body bag removing it from the SUV, then with a push of a button the tailgate closed. The men disappeared into the black night as the black SUV drove down the street with all lights turned off.

  ***

  “Leo your oatmeal is done, it’s getting cold!” a voice yelled from the first floor. Leo Handly rolled over in bed pulling a pillow over his head. His black silk sheets and quilted silk comforter wrapped around his body as he rolled over. “Leo, get out of bed! I want my Audi dropped off this morning, and I don’t want a dirty loaner car!”

  “Patty, damn it! I’m getting up. Stop your bitching!” Handly pulled the pillow off his head and stared up at the ceiling, his body straight as a board.

  “I’m not bitching!” The sound of a dish shattering interrupted her comments. “Leo, look what you made me do.”

  “My God, she must have ten thumbs,” Handly muttered under his breath. Suddenly there was an even louder crash of dishes and a horrific scream. The scream pierced the air. Handly froze for a moment then jumped out of bed opening his nightstand, and pulled out a chrome plated pistol. He ran down the curved stairs and into the contemporary all-black kitchen only to see his wife staring out the patio door with a broken oatmeal bowl at her feet. Patty Handly was wearing a shear pink short negligee, her false breasts and black shear patties clearly visible.

  “It’s Tommy, oh my God, its Tommy! What have you done, Leo? What the hell have you done you bastard?”

  Handly ran to his wife grabbing her, looking into her face, “Patty, what is it? You scared the hell out of me!”

  “You killed him Leo, what the hell did you get him mixed up in, you killed him! Who would crucify him at our house, who?” As she pounded Handly in the chest, he held his arm across his body to block her blows, temped to pistol whip her. He restrained himself and put the pistol in his pajama waistband. Patty Handly pointed towards the sliding door. “Call the police, I don’t care if you go to jail, we’re calling the police. You got Tommy killed!” She was hysterical.

  Handly turned and looked over his shoulders to see his brother-in-law hanging upside down, as though crucified inverted. He was wearing no clothes, his pail Irish skin was a ghostly grey. “Mother frickin’ bastards, those mother sons of bitches.”

  Handly came to his senses and grabbed his wife. With one hand on each shoulder, he pushed her into the next room. He sat her in the living room in a wooden French provincial chair. She was crying uncontrollably. He slapped her face twice. “Patty, we’re not calling the police.” He slapped her face again. “Did you hear me? Listen to
me or you’re going to end up as dead as your brother. Don’t leave this chair or I’ll break every bone in your body!” He stood up and walked to the kitchen looking over his shoulder at his wife to make sure she wasn’t following him. She sat in the chair staring blindly at the wall, sniffling and shivering. Handly picked up his cell phone off the black kitchen counter and dialed. He placed the phone to his ear, never taking his eyes off his brother-in-law. “Kathy, Tom’s in my back yard hanging around. Yeah, he’s not going to be collecting a pension. I am going to call…” Suddenly Handly noticed two of his missing bricks of heroin were taped to each of Tommy Orion’s hands. “Kathy he’s got two bricks in each hand. I’m not calling the police. Have the boys get over here quick with a truck, and send Janet over to baby sit Patty for a couple of days. Have her bring her medicine bag, she’s going to need it.” Handly hung up the phone and placed it back on the counter. He pulled his pistol from his waist, opened the patio door and walked to the corpse hanging ten feet from his kitchen table. He cautiously checked the perimeter of the yard. His head moved left then right, the gun held waist high, moving in unison with his torso. He stood by his brother-in-law’s body and could see flies were coming out of his nose. Handly gritted his teeth as if they were welded together, they made a metallic clicking sound and then he screamed, “You’re dead. I will skin you myself. You’re DEAD!!!”