From the street in front of the building its flat roof appeared to be floating on the mass of overgrown landscaping that hid the walls. Years of leaf litter piled up beneath the bushes and spilled out onto the sidewalk where any breeze, no matter the direction, drove it onto the thin front porch and piled it up against the front door.
The rusted poles supporting a metal roof over the covered parking stalls looked like they would collapse at any second, sending the entire structure crashing down on the parked transports it was supposed to be protecting. The building was fitted with numerous windows, but layers of grime prevented what little light that made it past the bushes from entering.
It was here in this forsaken old wreck of a building seasoned detectives began applying their skills, working a case that would haunt them for the remainder of their careers. Not one of them could have predicted the outcome; how their entire society could be so ill-affected it would never recover.
The next day more information about the attack site was gathered and reviewed. One report indicated a government high security detention facility had been damaged by the attacks, and several prisoners were missing. Among them was Clephor Dilinger, a member of a radical political activist group who not only supported the movement for independence of Malevolia from Implacto, but was the chief proponent of violence as a means of extracting their demands. The group was known as Independent Malevolia or IM.
“Wyston, get out to the Central Government Detention Facility ASAP,” demanded Lyen. “Take a look around and see if the warden will give you a list of the missing prisoners.”
By the end of the day the task force knew all there was to know about Argurent. It was mined on a nearby moon and processed in a small facility on Implacto. Detective work identified two companies who distributed Argurent; they had a total of fourteen customers. One, Megiddo Armaments, owned the rights to local distribution on Malevolia and Implacto which accounted for two of the fourteen customers. Detectives were assigned to visit all fourteen companies early the following day.
Chief Lyen sat in his office the next morning sipping thin, unremarkable coffee while rubbing his elbow with something that smelled like 10-year-old, single malt Laphroaige. Wyston stuck her head into the office but didn’t venture to step through the door. It was early and she knew Lyen wasn’t a good morning person.
“What happened around here last night?” she asked sniffing the air and waving her hand in front of her nose to disperse the phenolic aroma, “Chief, is that whiskey you’re rubbing on your arm?”
“I can’t imagine slathering a nice whiskey on a sore elbow. Besides if it were whiskey it would probably work better inside than out, eh?”
“So, you’re responsible for that,” she said jerking her thumb toward the front of the building.
“I couldn’t stand the look of it; bloody depressing driving up to this mess the last few days. So, I borrowed a chain saw from Mona’s boyfriend, Abe, after work last night and had my way with that ruddy landscaping. While I was doing the cutting, Abe scrubbed the windows and put a coat of paint on the poles out back.
Now they at least look like they might hold up the cover.” He took another sip of the coffee and continued, “There was a mountain of brush on the curb when I left last night; the trash truck must have come early. Anyway, I don’t think the city will be too upset.”
“Do you think you could have just requisitioned some landscape maintenance?” asked Wyston.
“Sure, but I don’t plan on being here during the four months it would take to get it reviewed, approved, scheduled, cancelled, rescheduled and finally cleaned up.”
“So, do you have a minute to discuss our case?”
“Yeah, I do. Come with me and we can talk. I can’t drink this swill,” he said under his breath. He gingerly stood up, limped around his desk and poured the brown liquid into the waste can.
They walked to the parking lot, got in Lyen’s transport and drove to a nearby coffee shop. The contrast between the two buildings couldn’t have been greater. Beautiful landscape beds carved and arched their way around the front and sides of the coffee house.
The building wasn’t exceptionally tall, but the rectangular window panels stretching almost from its floor to ceiling created an optical illusion that made it look bigger than it really was, and they bathed the inside of the shop with natural light.
“Maybe we should office down here,” said Lyen under his breath as he opened the door for Wyston then followed her to the counter to order. “I need two… you want coffee? I need two large dark roast coffees. Anyone else at the office?” he asked Wyston.
“I don’t think so, everyone but me is in the field this morning.”
“How about Mona?”
“She’s not in yet, and she doesn’t drink coffee.”
“Two large dark roasts and two slices of Watchie Berry bread,” Lyen told the clerk, “you’ll like the bread,” he said as he paid the bill.
Lyen grabbed the tray and walked slowly toward the back of the room. They sat down at a table in the corner of the shop so he could have his back toward the wall. Glancing around the room, he noted the locations of exits and briefly sized up two other customers just entering.
“Why can’t our coffee taste like this?” he said under his breath gruffly after one sip. “So, tell me what you found at the prison.”
“The Assistant Warden said the prison was hit with two blasts,” reported Wyston. “He’s convinced they were carefully planned, targeted detonations, not just random bombings.”
“Why is that?” asked Lyen as he reached for a slice of Watchie bread and took another sip of his coffee.
“The outer wall was breached by the first explosion, and then a separate explosion tore through the cellblock outer wall. Three prisoners originally reported as missing were killed in the second blast; the prison guards found them buried beneath the rubble. Another one was shot,” continued Wyston, “but the Warden said he wasn’t shot by their guards.”
“He was on the verge of escaping but someone didn’t want him leaving. The Warden said they found him near the breach in the outer wall with a head wound; looks like the guy was executed. Only one prisoner is unaccounted for – Clephor Dilinger. How much do you know about this Dilinger guy?”
Lyen listened to Wyston’s report, slowly sipping his coffee then answered her question. “Dilinger is a head case with a rap sheet longer than my wife’s legs; fights in school, petty theft, fraud, embezzlement, assault and the list goes on and on,” continued Lyen. “He finally found a group he could identify with: IM – Independent Malevolia.”
“No one in their right mind would have anything to do with them,” replied Wyston.
“That’s pretty much the point isn’t it. Dilinger is crazy. Crazy enough to not only fit in, but crazy enough and smart enough to use his connections to help plan their assaults. Word on the street says their previous leader went missing about eight months ago and who do you think worked himself up to fill the void? Before now IM’s actions were small irritations; it looks like Dilinger got restless and decided to go full tilt. He got picked up on a parole violation just before the attacks.”
“You think he’s responsible for the prison bombing?”
“Oh, I think his reputation suggests he may be responsible for much more than that. We should get back to the office. I told you the bread was good,” he said, picking up the empty plates and stacking them on the counter on their way out.
They arrived at the office to find a group of detectives had returned and were huddled in the conference room. The situation board was covered with names and at the top, a list of companies. One of the detectives was leading a discussion of the information.
“You’d better get in there,” said Mona to Lyen as they crossed in front of her desk. “Wyston, the prison called and said they found video from one of the outer wall security cameras. I uploaded it to the mainframe and sent you the file name and location. You can access it in the conference room
and project it on the white screen. Oh, and Lyen, the building looks so much better.”
“What do we have, Maither?” said Lyen as he entered the room and took a seat at the table. He didn’t feel compelled to take over the meeting. These were all seasoned detectives, all of them capable of running the task force. He would sit and listen and provide some guidance or suggestions if necessary.
“We contacted all the companies listed at the top of the board,” said Maither. “They agreed to conduct quick inventories of their Argurent stocks. Every one of them found anomalies in their stock; all of them were missing part of their inventory and one company’s entire stockpile was missing. They were very upset about the possibility of their company being linked to the bombings.
We asked each of the companies if they suspected any of their employees of being involved in the missing Argurent. Every company, every one of them, indicated they had employees that didn’t report to work the day before the attacks and those same employees haven’t been back since.”
“See if you can get employment information on the missing workers,” replied Lyen. “This smacks of Clephor Dilinger. It fits his style and I would imagine he wanted to make a big splash as the new IM boss. One more thing, make sure we get the names of all personnel working in the human relations or hiring departments at each company. I’d like to know if any of them were blackmailed, threatened or enticed to hire a job applicant.”
“One of the armament companies mentioned their missing employee was from a new placement program,” said Maither, “they said they took him on because his salary and benefits were paid directly to the employee through a charitable grant program. They signed a few forms and he started the next day.”
“Call every other company on our lists and see if any of them were involved in that employee grant program,” responded Lyen, “and find out the name of the company administering it. Something tells me it’s completely bogus.”
“You want to see the prison’s security camera video?” asked Wyston.
“Yeah let’s see it,” replied Lyen.
Wyston lowered the room’s lights and started the video clip. First it showed the outer wall of the prison completely intact and then seconds later an explosion blew a hole in the wall so large it would have taken a D9R bulldozer to clean up the rubble. Nothing was visible through the dust for several moments but the audio recording picked up a second detonation only seconds later.
Just as the dust began to settle a prisoner walked leisurely through the opening in the outer wall. He stopped for a moment to stare at the camera before turning away. As he moved out of the camera’s field of view another prisoner appeared in the wall’s breach. They heard the second man shout “I’m coming with you,” just before a gunshot rang out and he slumped backwards to the ground.
“That shot came from outside the prison,” observed one of the detectives.
“Anyone have anything else?” asked Lyen. “Maither?”
“I think that’s it for now,” said Maither, “we’ll get to work on the employee lists.”
“I’ll see if anyone near the prison remembers any suspicious automobiles in the area the day of the bombing,” said Wyston.
“Or a helicopter,” offered Lyen, “Clephor has never shied away from dramatic gestures. He uses them to fuel his reputation.”
The meeting ended and every detective headed back to their desks with a to-do list that included contacting their informants. Lyen had instructed them to put on a hard press, hoping to get information about Dilinger’s whereabouts. But after two days of fishing for clues, they had nothing. He didn’t leave, that’s not his style. If we don’t find him soon there will be another attack. He won’t let up now that he has everyone’s attention. He likes the spotlight too much, thought Lyen.
“You were right about Dilinger,” said Wyston as she walked into Lyen’s office the next afternoon. “A ranch hand working down the road from the prison said he noticed a helicopter flying low over his pasture the day of the bombings. He didn’t remember any markings – said it was small and painted dark gray. I’ve got calls out to every helicopter service listed,” she said, showing him the search screen on her communicator.
The next day began with a debriefing meeting. Detectives made their way to the conference room to find large cups of coffee from Kopi Luwak’s at each seat and plates of Watchie Berry bread laid out on the table. The detectives had researched every clue and poured over every shred of evidence, and a clearer picture of the bombings began to surface during their discussion.
Just as Lyen had expected, every missing employee at the Argurent suppliers had been placed at their company through the same bogus grant program. Several calls determined the company’s communicator number was no longer in service and they had filed a bogus street address. It was clear that whoever planned the heists and bombings went to a lot of trouble to infiltrate their marks. Some of the personnel had been in their positions for over six months, but the last one had only been on the job three days before the bombings, indicating they were ready to initiate the heists the moment everyone was in place.
“Not one of us found evidence of blackmail or extortion,” Maither told Lyen, “who in their right mind wouldn’t want a free employee for a year?”
“Have we found anything that might lead us to Dilinger or connect him directly with the bombings?” asked Lyen.
“Nothing yet.”
“Nothing until now,” said Wyston as she entered the room and picked up a coffee. “Sorry I’m late. I went by the police station to say hello to a friend early this morning. While I was there they brought in a young suspect that was raving like a lunatic. The desk told us he approached a local gumshoe working West 42nd Avenue and tried to sell him a bag of Argurent.
Lyen’s communicator went off just as she finished. “Chief, this is Lieutenant Fanner at the police station on Main. One of our detectives, Pollard, brought in a suspect this morning that might help your investigation. This genius tried to sell him a bag of detonation grade Argurent.
He wasn’t bluffing, we have the bag and we’ve sent samples to the lab for confirmation. The guy said he refuses to talk. Give us a while to finish booking him and send over someone to have a chat.” Fanner hung up the phone before Lyen could say a word.
“Stay in touch with the boys at the station,” he said to Wyston. “When they’ve finished the booking get over there. Maither I want you to go too. Everyone else keep working your leads.”
After booking his collar, Detective Pollard put the suspect in an empty holding cell. The prisoner hadn’t been there ten minutes when two visitors approached the front desk requesting to see the prisoner booked under the name Leslie Kyler. One said he was a friend, the other said he was Les Kyler’s attorney, Matt Tildon.
“Sorry, no one sees him until after the special task force has a go,” Pollard told them.
“Not only do I have a right to see him as his attorney,” responded Tildon, “but if this gentleman doesn’t see him before the task force does, he won’t talk to anyone,” finished Tildon.
“Right now, you’ve got one guy,” said the other man, “one guy guilty of trying to sell Argurent without a license. Let me talk to him and you may get a whole lot more.”
“Why should I believe you?” replied Detective Pollard to the second man. “And you know we have special procedures for national security issues,” he said to Tildon, “convince me it’s in my best interest to let you see him.”
“You’re up,” said Tildon looking at the second man.
“My name is Gonzetti, Blake Gonzetti. Some of your friends here at the station can probably tell you all about me, but I’ll save you some time. I’m connected to the syndicate. I know people in every criminal organization on your list and a few you don’t know about. I’ve done time and I’ve got connections inside of every prison on Implacto and in most police stations, including yours.”
“Right now, you have Les Kyler in a private cell on the second f
loor; 213 isn’t it? If you don’t move him right now, he’ll be dead before your special task force can get here and they’ll lose their best chance to catch Clephor Dilinger before he does something else crazy.”
“Call Lyen Redaux right now. Tell him I’m here and tell him what I just told you. Then, I need to speak with Kyler before anyone else talks with him. But only after he’s moved, otherwise your gonna blow this opportunity because your collar is going to be dead.”
Pollard went to the front desk and picked up the com. “This is Pollard, get Les Kyler and take him to the lower interrogation room; yeah, put him in the one downstairs next to bay six.” He hung up and called dispatch, “Celia, put me through to Lyen Redaux at the special task force.”
“Chief Lyen, this is Detective Pollard, I’ve got a man here who wants to talk to our prisoner. His name is Blake Gonzetti, this is what told me…” Pollard hung up the communicator and called dispatch, “This is an emergency; I need a transport brought around to the transfer bays right now.”
“Go to your transport and meet me around back,” yelled Pollard at Gonzetti and Tildon who were still standing where he left them.
Pollard went to a stairwell and hurried to the lower level. He unlocked the interrogation room and grabbed the prisoner. “You’re coming with me.”
“What’s going on?” asked Kyler.
“You’re being moved, now.”
Pollard led him to the exit door and out into the transfer bay. A driver and van were already waiting for them. He slid the passenger side door open and helped Kyler get in, and then he strapped him in with a seat belt and secured his handcuffs to an anchor on the floor.
A dark transport with Gonzetti and Tildon slowly turned in behind the building and creeped by the transfer bays, spotting Pollard as they passed bay six. Pollard got in the transport and told the driver to go.
“Where are we going?” asked the driver.
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