Mind Kill- Rise of the Marauder

by Peter Casilio

  “So Freed, what was your impression?”

  “When he’s angry, watch out.” The firemen began to take pictures with their cameras of the smoldering vehicles and the bodies with severed heads.

  “It’s Pat isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, I think we met at the hospital.”

  “Pat, I can’t tell you much, but it’s not as it appears.”

  Pat Mitchelli raised his right eyebrow, a family trait. “Oh, so that’s not someone’s head on the trooper’s hood?”

  “Well yes, but we can’t jump to conclusions until we investigate.”

  “Investigate, hmm, couple miles down the road they’re scraping a man off the street with a shovel; I’m no investigator but I see three shot up trucks two of the them burning, at least five dead bodies, three without heads and my brother locked and loaded.” Chief Mitchelli turned to his men and yelled, “Cooper, don’t get too close with that foam; there could be a secondary explosion, keep your distance.”

  “Chief, your men need to stop taking pictures,” Freed said. “It could endanger your brother.”

  Pat Mitchelli looked at Freed his eyebrow arched. “His neighbors have been calling me. You’ve established quite a fortress at his house. Kind of overkill for gang retribution, don’t you think? Cut the crap and tell me what the hell he’s involved in.”

  “His children may be in grave danger. There’s not much I can disclose, it’s a matter of national security.”

  “No pictures!” Pat Mitchelli instantly ordered his men, “All unnecessary men return to the engine now! Jerry, put that camera away.” Several of the troopers began to order the firefighters to put their phones away. “My brother is a vital component of our business. We thought he was out recuperating from his gunshots wounds, you know resting. Looks like he was having his own Battle of the Bulge here.” Pat Mitchelli looked at his brother’s truck and shook his head, “His truck was two years old. It didn’t have a scratch on it, not one scratch. He parked it in the rear lot at our office so no one would park near him. He was worried someone was going to dig his doors. Can you believe it, he was worried about door digs, Agent Freed; how many bullet holes are in that truck?” Freed did not answer, there were too many to count. “Jesus there must be over fifty. Would you agree it’s hard to count since the fire burned all the paint off the truck? He must be involved in something pretty damn bad, it’s bad real bad. His brothers and sister should know what’s going on. Get him uninvolved before his kids become orphans.”

  “It’s better you and your siblings don’t know.”

  “Why is that, do you think they’ll be stunned their brother started a human head collection?”

  “Your lives could be endangered.”

  “That’s bad, really bad, so what the hell are we going to do. Wait until we get a phone call he’s been shot, blown up?”

  “Pat, your brother has unique characteristics which …”

  “Shit, this is bad, really bad!” Patrick Mitchelli quickly interrupted. “When he worked in the field his specialty was demolition. I can see he’s perfected that with vehicles. Who’s paying for his truck?”

  Freed’s face tightened along with his tone, “I was your brother’s biggest critic. I have to admit his crude, unorthodox methods are effective.”

  “EFFECTIVE! Don’t you think we know that, he’s the hammer in our business. He can gently hold a customer’s hand, battle with a contractor who is falling behind, then collect three month’s late rent from a tenant. I want to talk to him. Who’s going to pay for his truck?”

  “He’s not…it...I’ve tried.” Freed stuttered, “The government will replace his truck.”

  “I got it; he’s not talking. I’ve been calling him for over a day trying to get an answer on why there are government cars at his house and men coming and going. I’m a town councilman and the neighbors have been calling me complaining.”

  “Your brother’s not ignoring you; I think his phone isn’t operational.”

  “I used to be the first to know when his phone broke or his truck wouldn’t run. I’m the technical Mitchelli; I would have it fixed for him.”

  “Pat, it’s quite complicated.” When Pat raised his eyebrow again, Freed continued, “We have people who take care of his phone and will fix it, we’ll replace his truck. I’ll call you as soon as his phone’s operational.”

  “I’m going to talk to my brother. He gets like this from time to time. Angela may want to call his doctor, she knows who to contact. You keep those agents on their toes at my brother’s house nothing had better happen to my niece and nephew.” Pat Mitchelli grinned. “Freed, I don’t think you have enough agents to keep Peter out of trouble.” Pat took several steps towards his brother then turned. “He’s obsessive about everything, you know. And it’s only gotten worse since Ann’s death. In time his obsessive orbit will decay, he’ll come back to earth, but then look out. He’ll have everything figured out, right, wrong it doesn’t matter. Freed, you listen up: stay out of his way. Once he gets the plan figured out that’s what he’ll follow. When he gets like this, the family refers to it as his slow burn. From the looks of this mess, you’d better take cover.”

  Pat walked over to his younger much larger brother. Peter Mitchelli glanced at his oldest brother and said nothing. Pat spoke to him as only a loving concerned older brother could. Freed could not hear what Pat was saying, but could tell Mitchelli was listening. He turned to his brother intermittently. After several minutes Pat placed his arm around his brother’s back. Peter Mitchelli moved only slightly. Pat left his brother to direct his firefighters.

  The State Police Captain walked by Freed to approach Mitchelli. Freed intercepted the Captain and would not let him near Mitchelli. The Captain was furious; he wanted a statement from Mitchelli. Freed did not want Mitchelli questioned by anyone outside his team. Freed was also concerned for the safety of the stern Captain. He knew what Mitchelli could do when angered. The Captain was indignant and began to curse, swearing at Freed and threatening to call the District Attorney. Freed held his ground, his back to Mitchelli. Just then, MacJames arrived with Coarseni and Buckala. They approached the State Police Captain from behind, flashing their credentials to the other troopers, protecting the crime scene.

  “That dirt bag killed six men and held my trooper at gunpoint. I think that sick son of a bitch shot their heads off and you want to let that freak keep his shotgun? He’s not leaving here without a statement; I’m taking him in for questioning.” The Captain looked at Mitchelli. “He’s a freak, nothing but a dirt bag. I’ll have a hundred troopers here within the hour if you don’t let me take him in.”

  “Captain, if you touch this man, or detain him in any way, or mention his name in a report, you will be placing the security of the United States government and its agents in grave risk. At which time, I will have no choice but to charge you with conspiracy to overthrow the government of the United States.”

  “What! Do you know who you’re talking to? You’re mad!”

  “Holy shit! I’ll give you one guess who the frick cut these heads off,” Coarseni said as he hit Buckala on his arm. “Come on tough guy, what nut wacked these heads off?”

  “Shut up Dom…Mama mia, this is going to send one hell of a message.” Buckala made the sign of the cross as he spoke.

  MacJames couldn’t help but stare at Mitchelli. She ignored the severed heads, she had to. Mitchelli the colossal, stood towering over the gravel pit as he overlooked the scene, standing guard; the sandy pit lit by the red raze of the sunrise. His face and neck were bleeding and his clothes soaked in blood. He stood vigilant at the rim of the gravel pit, shotgun at his side, pistol at his waist. He looked into the distance, alone, desperate, searching for an answer.

  Coarseni’s phone rang. He answered and passed the phone to MacJames as she approached the Captain.

  “Commander, thank you for returning my call, can you speak to a Captain--” MacJames looked at the Captain’s nametag. “Dunn. Captai
n Dunn. He’s having issues with one of our operatives, as we discussed with your assistant.” MacJames held the phone away from her ear and with the other hand, held her credentials up to the Captain: DEPUTY DIRECTOR, FBI. The Captain’s eyes widened and he grabbed the phone from MacJames.

  “Hello, Captain Dunn…” He held the phone to his ear, his tone upset. The message he received could not be heard, but the Captain was shaking from the fierce reprimand.

  MacJames was the only one who was confident she could communicate with Mitchelli. The others were quite simply afraid. She stood by him at the rim of the pit. Saying nothing, just standing next to him, she looked at his wounds. His clothes smelled of diesel fuel. “Peter, we need to get you to a hospital.” Mitchelli did not respond. She turned and looked back at the smoldering trucks, the troopers had done their job well keeping everyone except the investigators out of the crime scene. The young trooper first on the scene was shaking; he sat on the trunk of his car while others tried to steady his nerves.

  “I should have been with you. I’m not leaving your side.” Mitchelli did not answer. “Would you rather speak to Sal? His cigars are driving Dom nuts he’s asking Bob for medical leave.” MacJames attempted levity, but Mitchelli still did not answer. “I’ll get us something to drink, I’ll be right back.”

  MacJames walked over to Coarseni and Buckala. “Sal, do you have any coffee in your car?” Sal usually had a thermos of his Turkish coffee close by.

  “Jesus, Angela! He’ll jump off that cliff if you give him that shit, God! I’ll run down the road and bring back some coffee, give me ten minutes.” Dom turned and his short legs ran up the sand dune, taking him to his car.

  “He’s on a rampage, did you see what he overcame last night? Peter’s in a state, a real state.” Buckala looked at the smoldering trucks. “Six dead, he was outnumbered, six to one. A truck driver reported Mitchelli cut him off, steered directly in his path six miles from here. They found one hitman three miles up the road, shot five times, I’m sure the bullets came from Mitchelli’s gun.” MacJames looked at Mitchelli, she didn’t know how to respond to Buckala. “He lived, fighting a six-mile rolling gun battle. Look at the bullet holes in his truck. He lived through the gun fight and held his cool with the trooper. The frickin’ trooper didn’t fire a shot and he pissed his pants. Cool as a jewel.”

  “What do you want me to say, Sal? He picked you! What’s your advice other than giving me a play-by-play rundown? Damn it, he got your ass off that antique couch, away from your soap operas! He believed in you when no one else did. Please give me something more than ‘Cool as a Jewel’! Six men just tried to kill the man that saved your life, and his children could be next.” MacJames turned and looked at Mitchelli. “He’s nonresponsive. He’s your friend, I need your help.”

  Buckala looked around and took a puff of his cigar. “I have a hell of an arrest record at Buffalo PD, you know that,” he said.

  “Who wanted to work with you? Have any of your partners called you. Where’s your union?”

  “I did my job, and I’m an honest cop, that’s my problem. I’m naïve and got played for a fool.”

  “The one man who had faith in you is standing ten yards away, his world burning around him. He’s been to hell and back in a pickup truck ripped with bullets, shot burned up. He won’t speak or move and has two guns locked and loaded.” MacJames looked at Mitchelli and quickly turned to Buckala, “He’s our man, you’re his first partner, damn it! Help me, please!”

  “You love him don’t you? Man, good for both of yous, that is if yous both survive this disaster.”

  “Forget it. I’ll talk to Freed.”

  “Ok! I’m a lot of bad things, unappreciative is not one of them. The coffee was good.” He studied MacJames, looking into her eyes. “That’s a good distraction. Although he’s a cunning son of bitch and doesn’t stay distracted for long.”

  “That’s the truth.”

  “Well, remember I’ve only really known him for three weeks but what the hell I’ll give a shot. What’s he going to do, jump…He’s got a million things going through his mind. You always do after a shooting. That’s why Internal Affairs likes to interview right after the shooting, before you have time to think too much. Except Mitchelli isn’t worried about Internal Affairs, he knows he did everything right last night. Nope, he’s worried about his kids, his business, and the thought if he does get killed, his wife’s going to kick his ass for volunteering for this macho bullshit cop crap and fooling around with another wo…” Buckala hesitated--he had forgotten who he was talking to. “I didn’t mean that. See Angela, us Italians, we’re anxious people, the whole race is a bunch of worriers.”

  MacJames thought of Mitchelli’s confession that he saw his deceased wife in the FBI conference room several days ago. She knew Buckala was on target. What Buckala did not know was how severe Mitchelli’s obsession could be, driving him into a depressed state. Mitchelli was slipping. The frequency of his migraines were increasing, their severity worsening.

  “You know when we looked at the two of you on that pier the first night at the water front, when the sun was setting behind you? Your two bodies silhouetted against the water. God the two of you, wow; looked like a scene out of a movie. When you kissed, hell, I think all of us choked up, even Roberto. What I’m trying to say is, use your instincts. Angela, you love him, anyone can see that. Use your feelings for him, your love to reach him. The two of you were drawn to each other from the beginning, start there. A woman messed his head up, it will take another woman to straighten it out.” Buckala pulled a cigar from his shirt pocket and a pack of matches. “If that doesn’t work give him this. I don’t care what Dom says, he likes them. Tell him to be careful and don’t drop a hot ash on his clothes, I smell a lot gas fumes around here.” MacJames had to work with what she had.

  She walked towards Mitchelli as the State Trooper Captain approached her. “The Troopers are on board, Director,” he said, handing her phone back to her. “I am sorry for the misunderstanding.” Freed motioned the Captain away from MacJames.

  She reminded herself not to mention Mitchelli’s kids. “Dom went to get us some coffee.” Mitchelli was unresponsive. My eyes, the night on the pier, the boat, he needs to look at me. Peter do you love me, will you believe me? MacJames moved, standing between Mitchelli and the rim of the pit. There was hardly enough room for her to stand without falling over the edge. She pulled a handkerchief from her windbreaker and began to wipe the blood from Mitchelli’s face. “Let me clean you up a little.” She dabbed lightly at his wounds, carefully avoiding the metal fragment. Mitchelli’s eyes closed as she wiped the blood from them. Her touch was comforting. MacJames leaned back as if she was losing her balance; it was a ploy. Mitchelli grabbed her arm with his right hand, the left holding the shotgun wrapped around her back. Face to face with MacJames, he studied her face, as if for the first time, and then her eyes. His thoughts emptied into her vivid green eyes, his obsession drowned in their beauty. “We’re in no rush Peter. I thought we could sit and talk for a while.” MacJames took off her coat and placed it on the ground; she pulled her skirt up and sat down, her sculpted legs gathered to one side.

  Buckala did not to take his eyes off his new partner, he watched for the unexpected. Angela, you have some cool moves of your own. You have guts, girl.

  Mitchelli did not move. Coarseni arrived with the coffee and MacJames set it on the ground beside her. Mitchelli turned and looked at the carnage behind him. There were now twenty or more agents and troopers detailing the crime scene. He looked at Freed; he could see the concern in his biggest critic’s eyes, Buckala and Coarseni nodding their heads with approval. He sat down next to MacJames. She handed him the coffee and he placed his shotgun across his lap. She touched his face. He would not look at her, he could not get lost in her eyes. She held his bloody hand, pieces of brass embedded in his skin. She removed Buckala’s cigar from her pocket gently lighting it between her lips, and then gently placing it in
Mitchelli’s mouth.

  “Oh, I love to watch the sunrise. This one is beautiful, don’t you think?” she asked.

  “I never could see its beauty. Tell me what it looks like.”

  “Peter, it’s right in front of you.”

  “I’m losing the battle, my world’s gone dark, there is no beauty.”

  MacJames ignored his comments. She convinced herself he was just upset. “We need to get you cleaned up; I don’t want your wounds getting infected.”

  Mitchelli puffed on the cigar, his mind was clearing. “Sal needs to check my gear, all of it.” He looked down at MacJames’s flawless legs. “I’ll need a truck, fast. I’m not going back to my house, I can’t.”

  “No, Peter you’re not. You’re staying with me.”

  “I can clean… I don’t want… get Sta---zi, An…” Mitchelli was struggling to speak. His mind was disconnected. He started to talk again, but his words slurred. MacJames was worried he was having a stroke, possibly a mental breakdown; she knew his history.

  “We’re leaving now! Let Sal clean you shotgun, all your gear will come with us.” Buckala had meticulously cleaned his Walther after the shootings at the waterfront, and would do the same after this Mitchelli gun battle.