Life did more than make a promise it could not keep—it flat out betrayed him. Nothing could have prepared him, or anyone else, for this moment. Everything would be different from this point forward.
Forevermore.
Chapter 3
Dent Collectors
Milwaukee, Wisconsin
July 1996
THE RELATIVE COOL of the previous night was already a distant memory as the mercury continued its upward climb. Still only midmorning, the temperature threatened to reach into the torrid triple digits by midday. Concrete sidewalks provided pedestrians only slight relief from the unforgiving heat radiating from the dark pavement of Milwaukee’s streets. Sweeping winds from Lake Michigan usually spared the city from oppressive summer humidity, but that wasn’t the case today. The heavy air deadened the typical music of the old brewing town, pressing down on everything like a thick woolen blanket that refused to be cast aside. The extra labor to perform simple tasks like walking or breathing was obvious in the heaving chests and perspiring faces of anyone brave, or foolish, enough to have ventured outside.
As effectively as a hammer against sheet metal, the peaceful morning silence was obliterated by a panicked-looking bursting with reckless abandon from an old apartment building. He emerged from the door, slamming it against the unforgiving brick of the old brick architecture with incredible force. Accompanied by the sound of a million tiny chimes, shattered glass fell like a tiny blizzard of diamonds onto the superheated concrete below. In an awkward motion, the man stumbled headlong into an enormous old jalopy parked on the street. His muscular shoulder made sound contact with the front quarter panel, adding to the collection of imperfections already present on the vehicle’s aging, dark green exterior. Having little choice except to press bare arms against hot metal, the young man struggled to regain his balance, wincing noticeably as he steadied himself. His dark hair glistened with beads of moisture, and his face contorted in an acerbic mass of anger and fear as he contemplated his next move. Glass lodged in the treads of his high-top sneakers made distinctive crunching sounds as he turned to his left and attempted an all-out sprint away from the apartment building. The sensation of hot needles shot through his wounded shoulder with every desperate, pounding step. Holding his right arm gingerly as he moved, his pace quickly slowed to little more than a fast walk.
In mere seconds, two men materialized from the same battered doorway. They wore expressions of tension and excitement, like hunters closing in on a dangerous and unpredictable quarry. The shorter of the two men slipped slightly on the mound of tiny shards of broken glass left by the man now hurrying down the street. His companion, a taller, thinner man, paused for a moment to make sure his friend stayed on his feet. Upon regaining control of his balance with the help of his friend, his eyes widened upon noticing the fresh dent in the side of the large green automobile in front of him.
“Son of a bitch….My car! Yeah, you better run, Jorge!” yelled the thirty-something Latino man as if someone had just scuffed the paint on his new Mercedes.
“How can you even tell, Leo?” remarked the fair-skinned man beside him, not stopping to wait for the sarcastic reply that would typically follow any derogatory statement about his partner’s vehicle, lovingly referred to as Gertrude or ‘Gert’ for short.
It didn’t take long to catch up to Jorge, as the fugitive’s ability to run had been greatly diminished by his recent, unforgiving introduction to Gertrude. Although significantly slowed, he still had enough fight left in his athletic body to violently swing his left arm out at his pursuer, who was still steadily approaching. Jorge’s right arm dangled uselessly to his side while he quickly turned his upper body toward the man who was now almost on top of him. Unfortunately for him, the roundhouse attempt met with nothing but air. As the taller man stopped sharply to narrowly avoid transparent blow. As Jorge’s arm flailed harmlessly past its intended target, the man grabbed it at the forearm and used the swing’s momentum to spin the aggressor around. This one fluid, clearly practiced motion allowed for an easy grab of the injured arm and an abrupt, painful end to the pursuit.
“As I said inside, before you so rudely interrupted by running away: FBI, you are under arrest, Jorge,” breathed the agent heavily. He firmly handcuffed his captive’s wrists and led him back to where his partner, and the battered Ford Galaxie, waited patiently for their return.
“Hey Seth, did ya see what that little bastard did to Gert?” Concern one might expect to hear for a sick child was evident in Leo’s voice.
Never one to feed his partner’s obsession with the oft described ‘ghetto cruiser’, Agent Alexander chose to downplay the damage to its faded exterior. “For that, you stopped running?” he commented, shaking his head. “Besides,” he added, smiling his defusing smile, “I think your car started it.”
Shrugging, Agent Alejo returned a begrudging smile, proud that his beloved ride got credit for an assist. “From the way Jorge was moving, it looked like she pretty much ended it, too bro.”
Forcefully guiding Jorge to the front of the vehicle, Agent Alexander bent him forward, attempting to guide him down onto the enormous hood in an effort to search him. Rearing back, the injured man resisted the maneuver by pushing back with his good shoulder in a futile attempt to escape. With only a small amount of pressure placed on the injured shoulder, Seth quickly forced the man’s chest down onto Gerturde’s vast, and scalding, hood.
“Damn gringo!” His shoulder throbbing with renewed pain, Jorge cried out angrily. The sizzling heat from the metal hood searing his exposed skin brought his voice up an octave or two.
“Hey man, just cool it or you’re going to hurt yourself worse.” Seth leaned a forearm across Jorge’s shoulder blades in an effort to fully secure the writhing man.
Speaking partly in Spanish, Jorge growled accusingly, “Up yours, cerdo. You gringos are all the same, beating down anyone who’s the wrong sombra of white.”
With that, Agent Alexander released his captive’s arms and took a full stride away. Taking the cue, Leo immediately grabbed Jorge’s arms with enough force to make even Seth grimace. A high-pitched scream emanated from the injured man, followed by a desperate, reflexive gasp for air. It seemed apparent that the man was regretting having voiced his previous opinion.
“What’s the matter bro? Wish you’d of stuck with the gringo?” mocked Leo, leaning close to his captive’s face.
Grinning, Seth said nothing as he fell into the familiar role of good cop, while his partner erased any thoughts from the suspect’s mind about playing the race card with the district attorney. “Ok, Agent Alejo, ease off,” he ordered, placing a hand on his partner’s tensing shoulders. Feigning a serious tone, he added for the benefit of their captive, “We don’t want to have to make a trip to emergency like last time, do we?”
Leo returned a sly glance and like a well-seasoned thespian, played his part flawlessly. “Hey, they never proved anything,” he said convincingly. Continuing to adlib, he stifled a laugh. “The guy just slipped. I promise.”
Jorge looked pleadingly at Agent Alexander, obviously altering his opinion of the situation quickly as events unfolded. “Hey man, I didn’t mean it about the gringo thing. I won’t cause any more trouble, I swear!” Jorge’s muscles relaxed and he lowered his head in defeat.
“What about the cerdo jab?” No matter what language is spoken, anyone in law enforcement knows when they’ve been called a pig.
Apologizing without hesitation, Jorge almost sounded sincere, “Yes, that too. Sorry man!”
Feeling that the likelihood of further resistance was now minimal, Seth put an end to the confrontation. “See if you can push some of that junk you have in the back seat over far enough to find a seat belt, or the seat for that matter. Then we’ll take to processing.” For good measure, he added one more line to the end of the scene. “Oh, and put a window down this time. It has to be 150 degrees in the back seat today.”
“Bah, you ol’ softie,” poked Leo. Using
one foot to push the pile of debris in the back seat to the other side, he loaded the now compliant prisoner in like so much luggage and closed the heavy door.
Pleased with their performances, the two agents turned and laughed audibly. The laughter lasted only moments as the broken glass and partially unhinged door from the destructive, albeit brief, chase caught the men’s attention simultaneously. Despite the levity with which they handled this arrest, both men remained cognizant of the dangers they could have run into headlong. The scene served as a reminder that having a partner you can depend on makes all the difference in the world.
Seth grasped the moist fabric of his shirt as it stuck uncomfortably to his midsection. It was bad enough that Leo had somehow convinced their Director to allow use of his private vehicle for work, but to have no hope of air-conditioning was icing on the melted cake. “Let’s head back and process our friend before one of us dies of heat stroke.”
One of his favorite things in life, Leo couldn’t resist teasing his partner. “I hate to agree with Jorge, but you really are a gringo bro. Try spending a summer in Mexico sometime. Today would be like air conditioning.” He playfully slapped Seth’s back, sticking more of the itchy fabric to his partner’s already irritated skin.
Arching his back in discomfort, Seth glanced at Leo with annoyance. “I’ll admit, you do seem to have the heat tolerance of Satan,” he said as if suspicious of his friend’s true origins. “Now, if that was all you had in common with the guy, we’d be in good shape.” Like a child hurling insults from afar, Seth took off in a sprint to the passenger side of the car, using it as a giant green shield from any physical retaliation Leo may have had in mind.
“Just for that, you don’t get to roll your window down on the way back,” threatened Leo. He took one more prideful look at the new dent added to his car’s collection, got inside and began the stop-and-go drive back to the precinct.
Chapter 4
Sweating the Small Stuff
Milwaukee, Wisconsin
FBI Field Office
ASSISTANT SPECIAL AGENT in Charge Robert Simpson leaned sluggishly forward in his office chair to reach for yet another standard form on which to document the daily activities at the Milwaukee, Wisconsin FBI field office. The stressed metal creaked reminiscently of deck boards on a pirate galleon listing with the rise and fall of heavy seas as he shifted his desk-jockey physique back and forth. Reflexively, he made a sour face as the harsh sound played havoc on his ears, and reminded him of thinner days. Reaching into his ink-stained shirt pocket for a pen, he slowly scanned the cramped office until his gaze came to rest on a badly tilting bulletin board cluttered with various newspaper clippings, snapshots, and stray pieces of notebook paper.
Focusing on a wrinkled piece of pink paper pinned to the off-kilter cork board, he gently removed the stickpin, and held out the paper out to read it. The outdated government request form had the phrase “Requisition Limbo” written in red ink across the top.
“Let’s see now.” Reading the tattered list aloud had become an increasingly common, yet painful, ritual for Robert. “Office door warped and unable to close without slamming shoulder into it. Check,” he read flatly. “Vinyl window blinds missing every third slat. Check,” he sighed. “Stapler older than I am,” he read, reaching for the rusted metal implement, forcing open the inner workings to look inside. “Perpetually out of staples. Check.” Looking around the room, he wondered why every government building seems to have the color scheme of a psychiatric hospital. “Chipping paint falling from the walls every time a city bus goes by. Probably lead-based. Check,” he continued. “Let’s not forget my personal favorite: Name on office window missing top part of the ‘o’ in first name, making it look like a ‘u,’ leading to the unfortunate nickname…Agent ‘Rub-it’ Simpson.” Letting out a slow breath, he leaned forward and put his head on his desk, causing his chair to squeak in complaint. “What the hell…” he murmured sarcastically, grabbing a pencil. “Squeaky chair.” Speaking out loud to no one, he added it to the list and pinned the note back onto the bulletin board.
Perhaps Robert could have tolerated the entire collection of rubbish, dimly illuminated by intermittently blinking fluorescent office lights, if not for one vitally important thing. On what may possibly be the hottest day of the summer, the air conditioner still wasn’t working. Since the first day of the recent heatwave, the infernal machine seemed to take perverse pleasure in torturing him. Opening a window wasn’t even an option thanks to the bulky unit taking up the entire space of the only window in his office.
With a hairy, sweaty hand Robert punched the intercom button on his desk a bit harder than he had to, “Dolores, when’s that blasted repair man supposed to get here? I’m wastin’ away in here.” Fairly certain he had heard a snide comment about his weight come from down the hallway, he took his finger off the send button to see if his long-time assistant had really meant for him to hear it.
“Half the air-conditioners in the Midwest are out today, Bob.” Crackling over the aging intercom, her tone did little to convey much compassion. “Just turn on that fan I brought in for ya.”
Incessant moisture threatened to run into his eyes as Robert wiped the back of one arm across his forehead. If ever there were a day when he was glad that his scalp was mostly without hair, this was it. “Your sympathy is heartwarming, Dolores,” he said insincerely back at the intercom. “Oh, and have Agents Alejo and Alexander report to my office once they’ve finished processing that drugged up scumbag.”
“Whatever you say, Bob,” replied Dolores curtly as she abruptly clicked off the intercom in her office.
With a grunt followed by a metallic squeak, Robert stood up from his chair, unsure just which of them had really made which noise. Leveling a final glare in the direction of the silent air conditioner, he clutched the oscillating fan Dolores had placed on the edge of his desk, unwound the power cord from the base, and searched for an unused outlet hiding behind disorderly stacks of paper. An open outlet revealed itself as he shifted a stack of files that he had been meaning to organize for months. It turned out that they would now make a fine platform from which to raise the fan’s effective area above desk level, and hopefully provide a modicum of relief against the stifling heat.
Eagerly plugging the cord into the outlet, he flipped the power switch. The small electric motor immediately made a deep buzzing sound as if it had forgotten how to react to the introduction of electrical current. After a muttered curse and a sharp smack from Robert, the fan made a guttural rattle, followed by a slowly increasing whirring sound made by dusty metal blades. As the fan buzzed to life, it brought sudden movement to the stagnant air of the stuffy office. Unfortunately, the line between enough and too much proved thin as documents and file folders began to take flight like startled pigeons in a cloud of dust and beige paint chips.
“Son of a blue bitch!” Bellowing as he fumbled with the fan’s settings, Robert finally found the off switch, but the little fan refused to let go of the spark of life that it had so long been deprived of. In desperation, Bob picked up the fan with every intention of ripping its power cord from the wall before it could do any more damage, but before he could act, the fan ground to a halt. Perspiring worse than before and breathing like he had just run up ten flights of stairs, he looked around the room as dust and paper slowly began to come to rest. In mere seconds, the once just disorganized little office now looked like a trailer park after a string of July tornados.
Looking at the fan still clutched in his right hand, Robert walked over to his desk and pushed the intercom button. “Dolores?” he asked loudly, his face red with anger.
“Yes, Bob?” she answered, blissfully unaware of the turmoil her small gift had just caused her boss.
Biting his lower lip for an extended pause, Robert sighed and let his shoulders drop. He thought better of taking his frustration out on his unsuspecting secretary. Especially one that was friends with his wife. “Thanks for the fan,” he said
sincerely.
“No problem, boss,” she replied happily.
***
Sauntering through the muggy corridor to the office of the Assistance Special Agent in Charge, Seth couldn’t remember the last time the building was this quiet. To avoid letting any of the cool air out, or the increasingly humid hallway air in, everyone with a working a/c kept their doors shut tighter than King Tut’s Tomb. The only offices with opened doors were that of his direct superior, Robert Simpson, and a newly assigned, young, and reputedly ambitious agent by the name of Joshua Toth.
Pausing outside of the young agent’s office, Seth peered inside. Immediately impressed by the young man’s immaculately organized desk, he wondered if Joshua might consider giving Agent Alejo a few pointers on cleanliness. Diligently filling out one of the many forms anyone working for the FBI is required to complete, the young agent didn’t seem to notice the intrusion.
“All fun and no play, eh Joshua?” Taking a step into rookie agent’s oppressively warm office, Seth’s attempt at humor seemed to fall on deaf ears. Agent Toth’s blue eyes looked slowly up from the document he had been writing on, giving Seth the distinct feeling that the only thing out of place was the man standing in the doorway.
Brushing neatly styled blond hair from in front of his eyes, Joshua appeared disappointed that the motion had not also moved the office invader from his sight. “Ah, yes. Greetings Agent Alexander.”
“It looks like you’re settling in nicely,” admired Seth. “Lord knows it took me more than a month to get my crap in order.”
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