Mind Kill- Rise of the Marauder

by Peter Casilio

  “Well, we thought it best…He was pretty shaken up…”

  “You never debriefed him?”

  Freed quickly turned to MacJames, who offered him no assistance. “Sir, he’s mentally unstable at times,” he stammered. “We thought it prudent he rest before debriefing. Then he went gallivanting off on his aerial mission and river cruise. We never had the chance to ask him about the heads.”

  “Angela, do you concur?”

  MacJames smiled and shook her head. “We were afraid to question Peter about the severed heads. Frankly Sir, no one had the balls to ask him.” Embarrassed, Freed looked away from the camera as MacJames continued. “Coarseni and I believe Peter wanted to leave his mark, let’s say his signature, on the crime scene.”

  Freed raised his voice. “Sir, by God, doesn’t that alone show that he’s unstable? How would it look if we had all federal agents shoot our suspects’ heads off? He should be locked up in the rubber room and analyzed. Mentally stable agents don’t shoot heads off dead men intending to leave their mark on the scene. That’s insane!”

  “Ingenious, Angela, don’t you think?” Stuart sounded pleasantly surprised.

  MacJames quickly responded, “Yes, Sir. Inventive to say the least.” MacJames turned ever so slightly towards Freed, “Mr. Secretary, you knew exactly who we needed on this investigation team: someone who thinks like a criminal, not like a cop. Bob, you’re correct: no rational federal agent would dismember bodies at a crime scene, but a psychotic killer who stole a three hundred million dollar heroin shipment from the mob would. They sent six men to kill him. Peter left his mark, or shall we say the Marauder sent them a strong message.”

  Stuart asked Freed, “Bob, do you think Peter is mentally unstable, his actions unprofessional more like a criminal than a federal officer? Are you afraid of him?”

  Freed quietly answered, “At times, yes.”

  “Bob, you found me the exact operative I told you I wanted. Great job.” Stuart continued to question MacJames. “Angela, is your opinion of Peter Mitchelli’s conduct clouded by your alleged personal relationship with him?” MacJames looked down at the table and then looked up at the camera. The Secretary chided the Deputy Director, “Angela, I have never seen you hesitate to answer a question, not to mention look away. Answer my question!”

  “My personal relationship with Peter Mitchelli has influenced my assessment of his conduct. I understand his unique individualized skills and characteristics beyond the experiences of my other team members. His unique skill set is exactly what you were looking for, Mr. Secretary. A field operative whose social, business, and recreational activities have given the investigative team an entirely different perspective outside our law enforcement pigeon-holed training. All of us are familiar with his positive influence on the investigation. Agent Freed’s previous reports praised Mitchelli’s actions at the waterfront grain elevators. May I remind everyone Mitchelli directed our surveillance teams to that location?” She hesitated and looked at Freed. “Sir, as you know for twenty months, our investigation floundered as we searched for evidence. There’s been a landslide of evidence since Mitchelli’s recruitment.” She used her love’s last name to depersonalize her statements.

  “That’s a misdirected answer, but honest.” The Secretary’s assistant smiled. MacJames put her head down in quiet embarrassment. “Bob, I’ve reviewed your report. I’m not going to pressure you to rescind it, although you will have that option for the next twenty-four hours before the document is archived. I like to ask you for some clarification.”

  “Yes Sir, I’ll be happy to answer your questions directly.” Freed sat erect in his chair, eager to prove his accusations in his report were correct.

  “Do you have a subversive operating in your office?”

  “Arrr, Sir, we haven’t verified if there is a subversive, let alone if it is operating from within my office.”

  “Do you feel Peter Mitchelli and his children need to be protected?”

  “Yes, yes Sir, we have multiple teams employed to do just that.”

  “Why do the Mitchellis need protection?”

  “Sir, the drug traffickers believe Peter Mitchelli is responsible for the theft of their heroin shipment.”

  “Why did the terrorists (and until someone proves otherwise that’s what I’m going to refer to them as) formulate that assumption, where did their information come from?”

  “From our perspective Sir, the conclusion is thin at best.”

  Secretary Stuart interrupted Freed. “Don’t be embarrassed, the conclusion that Molly derived from your report is that Peter Mitchelli was tagged by your interoffice gossip as the Marauder, among other aliases. The Buffalo PD discovered a nude, inverted body of a third rate loan shark disemboweled with Mitchelli’s alias carved in his belly, ‘Marauder’s next,’ was that it?”

  “Yes Sir, I believe Ms. Richards is correct.” Freed dropped his head slightly, looking away in shame.

  The Secretary raised his voice. “The actions of Peter Mitchelli have not put his life and that of his family in jeopardy. I protest your conclusion; the terrorist infiltration of our FBI office has placed the Mitchelli family, our investigative team, and the community in grave danger.” The secretary reviewed his notes, whispered something inaudible to Molly, and then continued. “Your recruitment report on Peter Mitchelli indicates that prior to his participation in our investigation he had a successful business, and a healthy personal life. Since his recruitment into our program he has been shot twice, and in three separate incidents, eighteen men have attempted to abduct or kill him. His family’s reputation has been tarnished due to his unintentional but highly effective cover as a drug trafficker. Teddy Roosevelt told a Spanish ambassador in 1903, ‘Be dammed a man’s reputation, damn him to hell for eternity.’” Stuart looked at his assistant. “Molly gave me a statement of Mitchelli’s personal property losses which are in excess of a million dollars. The largest loss is that of his sport yacht and van.”

  Freed corrected the Secretary. “Sir, it was his pickup truck, not a van. We have replaced the truck with a new upgraded model.”

  “Excellent, Bob. What’s the replacement time on a million dollar yacht?” The Secretary looked at a report his assistant handed him. “Molly estimates for replacement on one fifty foot sport yacht is over fourteen months, at a replacement cost of 1.2 million dollars.” Molly handed the Secretary several additional sheets of paper. “Molly, thank you for reminding me. Angela, you look like you’ve been to hell and back. Your actions on the Niagara River were heroic.”

  “Thank you Sir, but as I’ve stated in my report, Agent Freed’s quick placement of snipers on the Peace Bridge was instrumental to our survival. The actions of Agent Freed, Dominic Coarseni, and the snipers positioned on the bridge were commendable. Their support fire illuminated two of the adversaries.”

  “Well from the reports, Mitchelli killed two of the hit men and you knocked off two more. I commend you and Mitchelli.” Stuart turned several pages over in front of him. “Bob, you included Agent Coarseni’s report as an attachment to your document. Agent Coarseni was overly descriptive of Mitchelli’s defensive action on the river. Your report was vague in regards to Mitchelli’s specific actions, yet you were next to Agent Coarseni. I would like to hear your opinion of Mitchelli’s performance, of course from your limited vantage point on the bridge.”

  Freed hesitated and he closed his eyes envisioning the Time Raider’s sleek white hull mysteriously emerging from the fog. The water’s three-foot whitecaps boiling in anger, Mitchelli stood on the roof of his boat; firing round after round from his shotgun into the perpetrators’ boats…

  “Agent Freed, did you hear my question?”

  Freed could not speak. He looked at MacJames, her face scarred and her hands bandaged from the river gunfight. He nervously touched his neck, rubbing his knife wound from the grain elevator, which was almost fully healed. His life had been saved by Mitchelli that night. Terrified, he remembere
d the razor sharp knife slicing his skin. An inferno of heat erupted from his scar as though all the heat from his body was discharging through his wound. His life had flashed before him that night as he had fallen to the ground grasping his neck, fearing his head would detach from his torso. He had wanted to scream, yell for help, but Mitchelli came to him, his large body shielding him from attack; the warmth of his body calming his nerves. Mitchelli had kneeled by his side systematically taking control of his life and death battle. Mitchelli had methodically eliminated all of the killers one at a time.

  The secretary yelled, “Agent Freed, are you ill? Angela, check him, he may be having a stroke for God’s sake.”

  MacJames turned towards Freed. “Bob, are you ok? Bob!”

  Freed’s mind was an inferno. He envisioned the actions of his civilian operative from the first time he laid eyes on Mitchelli at the range. Instructing his men, hugging his captain, to defending himself and MacJames on the river. Mitchelli was everything Freed thought a federal agent should not be, from his mannerisms, to his cumbersome body, and finally his total lack of respect of authority. Yet Freed was amazed, stupefied, even jealous of Mitchelli’s supremacy when he was confronted with overwhelming adversaries. Freed’s eyes glazed over as he remembered the team’s last meeting in the secured conference room when they had detailed the placement of the dead body in Handly’s back yard. Freed had agreed and participated in an unlawful action to bait Handly, in an effort to bring him out into the open. Freed had broken the rules, Hoover’s rules, and he had done so in order to protect Mitchelli, the man who saved his and Buckala’s life that night at the grain elevator. Freed wrapped his hands around neck.

  “Angela is he choking himself?” Stuart yelled. “Why the hell does he keep grabbing his neck?”

  “Awkwardly impressive,” Freed mumbled.

  “What the hell did he say, Molly? I can’t hear him.”

  Freed looked at MacJames and was able to find his voice. “Mr. Secretary, when confronted with overwhelming superior deadly threats his defensive actions in my opinion has been astonishingly successful. It’s not in my report, because I am envious of Mitchelli’s investigative success. I could do him justice with my written description because I’m distraught over my lack success. That’s why I attached Coarseni’s report. I’m sorry, I fail to understand how his clumsy bullheaded investigative methods have been so effective.”

  “I see, no apology necessary, son. I respect your honesty. You’ve been under a tremendous strain the last several years, I understand.” The Secretary looked at MacJames on his video monitor, his mind drifting back in time. So long ago, my crew dead, I’m cursed, haunted memories. Stuart studied Freed as he nervously touched his neck. His head was down and his shoulders slumped, his spirit broken. Stuart remembered his own nightmares, the horror of war, and the men who had died under his command.

  The Secretary’s tone was solemn. “Agent Freed, you feel useless, as though you’ve wasted your career. Even though you have years of police training, it has not helped in this investigation.” Freed raised his head; the secretary had struck a nerve. “We all question our decisions at one time or another. Any commander who says they don’t is a damn liar. This case has taken its toll on all of us. I know how you feel. I don’t discuss it, not even with my daughter.” The secretary looked at MacJames; her eyes were focused on her monitor. “I commanded a swift boat in Vietnam. My God, how naïve I was when I first took command. I felt little like JFK in Patrol Boat 109 running the waves in the Pacific during World War II. I was young, full of vigor. I quickly learned there was nothing romantic of about running the waves in the Tow Chang River valley. Watching my young crew, they were just kids, die bleeding on the deck of my boat because of my stubbornness.”

  MacJames had never heard the secretary discuss this before; his emotional tone was uncharacteristic. Her eyes began to water she listened intently. “My crew was shot to hell. Their bodies mutilated, killed one by one. As an officer I felt inadequate; I had let my men down. The other Commanders had Vietnamese civilians on their boats’ coulees who knew the area and helped them identify Vietcong. I insisted that an Asian couldn’t know more than me, a young blue blood Lieutenant fresh out of college. Yes, we believed we were defending the freedom of the Vietnamese; stopping communism, fighting for their liberty. However, I couldn’t bring myself to believe those little yellow people knew more than I did. My God, I was educated and trained by the strongest army in the world… My real education began when I watched my men die. I felt helpless, my boat crew and I were an easy target. On the verge of a…” The Secretary trailed off. He looked at MacJames and seemed to recover. “Well, I relented and let my Sergeant bring an old fisherman onboard for a patrol. I learned more from that little yellow Vietnamese fisherman than any army training. My men stopped dying. I felt useless, like tits on a bull, but I didn’t make a move without consulting my local Vietnamese fisherman.” The Secretary blinked rapidly. “Every day of my life I think about those men. If I only I had accepted my limitations sooner, just how many of them would be alive today?” Stone, Crocker, McFarland, DiCarlo… The conference rooms went silent.

  Freed broke the silence. “Sir, I don’t need twenty-four hours, I’d like to retract my report.” MacJames looked at Freed with concern. His voice was solemn. “I will forward my resignation along with a formal apology to Deputy Director MacJames.”

  “Bob, what are you doing? We’re close, the case could be solved in a month!” MacJames protested.

  “We’re not close,” Freed said. “Mitchelli is!”

  MacJames looked at the camera. “Secretary Stuart, Agent Freed is not himself. We’ve all been under a tremendous strain.”

  The Secretary resumed his leadership. His story had served its purpose. “I’m glad you’re withdrawing your report. I won’t hear of your resignation, not until this case is closed. Your team subordinates need your leadership. When it’s resolved, the two of us will sit down together and discuss your resignation, but only after this case is culminated, do you understand?”

  “Yes Sir, thank you Sir.”

  “Mitchelli needs your support, and you did promise to protect his family.” Molly interrupted the Secretary to quietly remind him of another meeting. “I’m sorry, I have another commitment. Bob, remember: you’re the one that found Mitchelli. Mac, take care of yourself, please!” The Secretary’s goodbye to MacJames was uncharacteristically informal. The picture disappeared and the screen turned green.

  ***

  MacJames turned Mitchelli loose during the cover of night. Hunted by his enemies, he could not be contained. Handly and the Mafia recklessly attacked Mitchelli with guns, trucks, cars and boats, to no avail. Mitchelli had convinced MacJames he had to head south to hide or eventually a civilian bystander would be killed by the kidnapper’s deadly recklessness. Although MacJames felt manipulated to some degree by Mitchelli, the potential for a civilian death was high and the potential collateral damage had to be minimized. Mitchelli’s journey to the less populated southern tier decreased the chances of a civilian injury.

  Mitchelli needed open, less populated territory to run from his adversaries, his family, and the media. He vanished into the night. His UTV (Utility Task Vehicle) filled the rear bed of his truck, necessitating the removal of the truck’s custom fuel tank. Mitchelli preferred the UTV to an ATV (all-terrain vehicle) because of its larger cargo capacity and ability to carry two passengers seated side by side on the bench seat. The green UTV had large knobby tires with yellow rims painted to match the color scheme of his favorite tractor. Wood stakes increased the cargo compartment capacity; the rails extended the sides of the dump box vertically so cargo could be stacked without falling over the sides. Packed in the UTV’s dump box and beneath an oak leaf tarp were Mitchelli’s supplies: an assortment of camping gear, armaments, food, and water.

  The new Ford pickup truck impressed Mitchelli. The powerful diesel engine combined with a six speed automatic transmission conq
uered the hills with ease. The tranquil blue LED gauges lit the interior of the truck. Unlike his old truck, the new truck was equipped with Bluetooth and voice activation. Making an emergency phone call could be done without searching for his phone; his voice could direct the trucks computer to place the call. The stereo was also much improved; he listened to a wide range in music, pop, heavy metal, and country in an attempt to ease his mind.

  Paranoid, he carefully planned a four-hour route to the hills outside Olean. A direct route would take less than two hours. Mitchelli had to make sure he was not being tailed. He would approach his target from the state of Pennsylvania. He doubled back on his course every thirty minutes, a paranoid maneuver to ensure no one was following him. His large frame forty-caliber Glock was concealed in his shoulder holster and his shotgun was laid on the passenger seat beside him. His weapons were loaded and quickly accessible, ready to fire at a moment’s notice.

  Mitchelli’s thoughts were in disarray. He had no specific plan once he arrived at his destination. The music failed, he obsessively worried about the deadly threat his children could encounter due to his poor judgment. I failed to protect Angela during the river attack, I could never protect my children, what have I done? He had left her in the cockpit in a vulnerable, defenseless position. I am pathetic fool, what a stupid decision. I’m going to get everyone killed. He remembered MacJames’s impressive action on the river. That night he had been mentally overwhelmed; he had meant to protect MacJames, but she had come to his defense instead, killing his abductors as they attempted to pull him into their boat.