He was just irresponsible as hell, that was all, and more than alittle uptight these days when it came down to getting his own hands dirty.
Smalley was considering ways to severely chastise Benny Copa if he couldn't raise him in the next half-hour, when the phone rang at his elbow. A little smile played across the assistant commissioner's face.
That would be Copa on the line, asking for instructions. The thin smile continued to play across Roger Smalley's lips at the thought of Benny Copa sweating it out, wondering what the hell was going on.
Smalley picked up the receiver on the third ring, taking his own sweet time about answering.
"Yes?"
"Hello? Commissioner Smalley?"
And it wasn't Benny Copa, dammit. Smalley couldn't place the female voice at the other end of the line.
"Speaking."
"This is Officer Traynor, sir. I'm sorry to bother you at this hour, but I... wehave a problem that we need to discuss right away."
Smalley felt his throat muscles tightening, and he had to clear his throat before he could answer. He took a deep breath, telling himself that the woman sounded nervous and tired, and that he could undoubtedly control the situation if he only kept his cool.
And he knew what was coming, oh, yeah, only too well.
"Yes, Fran, what is it?"
Give them the old first name bit, and put them at ease. Make them think you remember them all and value them as individuals.
"Well... I... that is, I'm not really sure where to start."
Her confusion was obvious, and Smalley intended to turn it to his advantage from the start.
"The beginning?" he suggested amiably.
"Yes, sir," she said, sounding grateful, gathering her breath. And then she launched into a capsule recitation of the Blancanales rape case, her sudden transfer from the rape unit to public relations, her theory of the crimes and apparent proof of deliberate interference... and the sudden appearance of a big fed named La Mancha, out of Washington.
When Smalley had heard enough, he interrupted her.
"We don't want to discuss any more of this on the telephone. I'd like to meet with you in person, immediately."
She sounded immensely relieved as she answered, as if he had lifted the weight of the world from her shoulders.
"Yes, sir, whenever you say."
Smalley consulted the wail clock, thinking swiftly.
"We shouldn't be seen together at headquarters," he told her. "Assuming your suspicions are correct, we must take every precaution."
"Yes, sir."
He had her now. He could feel it through the wires.
"Very good," he said, stroking.
Smalley gave her a location and scheduled the meeting for thirty minutes later. They would discuss the details of Fran's suspicions at that time.
He put all the sympathy he could dredge up into his voice, gratified as her words fed back even greater relief and gratitude. Finally they ended the conversation with the lady thanking him profusely for listening, and he confirming that he would meet with her.
So far, so good.
Smalley had handled it well, and that knowledge almost dispelled the nagging tightness in his gut. Almost but not quite.
Fran Traynor's call had been, among other things, a damned annoying interruption of his morning's plans. She had prevented him from placing his scheduled call to the Man, and now it would simply have to wait until he made some space, acquired more breathing room.
He tried Freddy's Pool Hall again, and slammed the phone down angrily on the seventh ring. Damn Benny Copa to hell, anyway.
Fishing a leather-bound address book out of a drawer in the end table beside him, Smalley rifled through the pages until he found a number accompanied only by cryptic initials. The old crocodile grin was pasted back on his face as he began dialing swiftly.
There were more ways than one to skin the proverbial cat, and more ways than one to get a dirty job done in St. Paul. Even on short notice.
* * *
Mack Bolan and Pol Blancanales sat together in the Executioner's rented sedan. The Politician had just finished wiring Bolan for sound, and a preliminary check of the tape deck on the seat between them proved that the miniature transceiver in Bolan's suit lapel was working perfectly. Pol seemed proud of his artistry.
"How's Toni holding up?" Bolan asked his old friend.
Pol forced a smile he didn't feel.
"I think she was glad to get rid of me for a while," he answered. "She's a trooper, Sarge, but she feels like she has to keep up some kind of a front... even around me."
Bolan nodded understanding. Toni could be like that, sure.
"She'll be fine, Pol," he said, recognizing the hollow ring of his words.
How the hell could he know the lady would be fine?
How the hell could anyone know that for sure?
Blancanales didn't seem disturbed. In fact, he seemed to appreciate the reassurance, and he tried to change the subject.
"How close are you?" he asked.
Bolan frowned, reading the hunger in his friend's eyes and hoping Pol could contain it there.
"Ask me again in an hour," he replied. "Right now it looks good, but it could go either way."
Blancanales shook his head grimly.
"It's hard to buy that about the assistant commissioner. The homicide guy, okay... but the damned commissioner?"
Bolan shrugged.
"Too many loose ends, Pol. I still need more before I can tie them together. My next stop may give me the pieces I need."
"I swear to God, Mack... if I thought the police were letting this happen... I..."
Pol broke off, his tone and expression anguished.
And there was anguish enough to go around, sure. For Toni, for himself, and for the ideal of justice he saw crumbling in front of his eyes.
"Not the police, Pol," Bolan reminded him gently. "One or two men, a handful at most. Men, buddy. You don't blame the orchard for a couple of bad apples."
"That's easy to say," Blancanales replied bitterly.
"It's the truth, and you know it. We've both met the Charlie Rickerts before. They don't take anything away from the best."
And yeah, the mention of Rickert's name brought grim memories flooding in upon both men as they sat there, bound together by a grievous common cause.
Charlie Rickert had been a bent cop, working on the Los Angeles force and taking payoffs from the mob in the early days of Mack Bolan's home-front war against the Mafia. And he had almost ended the Executioner's campaign single-handedly in the City of Angels — almost, sure, until another, honest cop named Carl Lyons had soured Rickert's play and let Bolan go with his life.
And both cops — the good and the bad — had left LAPD in the wake of the Executioner's strike in Southern California. Rickert had gone out in disgrace, banished to the netherworld of mob fringe activities, while Lyons had moved into the federal Sensitive Operations Group, assisting Bolan on several later campaigns.
Today, Charlie Rickert was dead, and Carl Lyons was a valued member of Able Team, one hard arm of Bolan's Phoenix operation in the war against international terrorism.
The good and the bad, yeah.
That was what the whole damned game was all about.
Pol Blancanales was nodding reluctantly. "I hear what you're saying, Sarge. But it's bitter."
And Bolan could accept that, too.
His own life had been bitter at times, and often. But it could be sweet, too, and he didn't want his long-time comrade-in-arms to forget that paramount rule of nature.
You go through the bitter to reach the sweet. Every time.
For a fleeting moment, the face of April Rose was locked onto Bolan's mental viewing screen, gradually transformed into the hunted, haunted countenance of Toni Blancanales.
The Executioner owed a supreme debt to both those ladies.
"You'd best get back to Toni," he told the Politician. "She can only stand so much solitude right n
ow."
Blancanales nodded.
"Right, okay. I'll be manning the air and the landlines, buddy. If you need anything... anything at all... give a shout."
Bolan smiled warmly.
"Count on it."
They shook hands and then drove away in their separate cars, Pol returning home to his wounded sister, Bolan moving on toward a rendezvous with fate.
His fate, yeah. And, just maybe, someone else's.
The Executioner was going to drop in on a certain state legislator, and pass the time of day. Perhaps they would discuss the pains of friends... and family.
14
State legislator Thomas Gilman lived comfortably in suburban West St. Paul, within an easy five-minute drive of the fashionable Somerset Country Club. Mack Bolan did a preliminary drive-by, scanning the neighborhood for police cruisers or suspicious vehicles, and found none.
On the second pass, he turned his rental car boldly into Gilman's driveway and followed it around to park directly in front of the big Dutch colonial house. It looked as though politics had been quite kind to Thomas Gilman.
Bolan rang the doorbell and listened to melodic chimes sounding deep within the house. After several long moments, footsteps approached, and the door was opened by a middle-aged man dressed in vest and slacks without the matching jacket. His hair was graying at the temples, and he regarded Bolan with vague curiosity from behind wire-rimmed spectacles.
"Yes?"
"Thomas Gilman?"
The man nodded, his curiosity deepening.
"Yes?" he repeated.
Bolan briefly flashed his federal ID in front of the guy's face, pocketing it again before Gilman could focus on it clearly.
"Frank La Mancha, Justice Department," he said brusquely. "We need to talk."
Gilman raised an eyebrow.
"About what, may I ask?"
"Your son," the Executioner told him simply.
And it had the desired effect, yeah.
Tom Gilman paled underneath his professional sun-lamp tan, and for an instant Bolan watched him clutch at the ornate doorknob for support. Then the moment passed and Gilman regained control, stepping back to open the door and admit Bolan.
"Come in," he said, his tone formal, curt.
Bolan stepped into the entry hall, and Gilman closed the door behind him, leading the way to a combination library and study. He waved Bolan to a deep armchair and dropped into its mate nearby.
Bolan remained standing, hands in pockets, surveying the room and the man.
"When did you last see your son, Mr. Gilman?" he asked abruptly.
The politician's face showed mild confusion.
"Not in some time, why?"
Bolan countered with a question of his own.
"Was it before he escaped from the hospital?"
Gilman's face sagged, his whole body slumping as if Bolan had punched him hard over the heart. He plainly was stunned by the Executioner's words. His mouth worked silently for a moment; then he cleared his throat and tried again.
"I... I don't know what you're talking about," he offered lamely.
Bolan glowered at him.
"We don't have time to dance, Gilman," he snapped. "I believe you know why I'm here."
A movement in the doorway caught Bolan's eye, and he turned to find himself facing a woman of indeterminate age, her curious eyes shifting back and forth from Gilman to himself, and back again.
When she spoke, there was caution, even fear, in her voice.
"Thomas, you haven't finished your breakfast."
Gilman waved her off with a distracted gesture.
"Not now, Louise, I'm busy."
The woman began to turn away, but Bolan's voice stopped her on the threshold.
"Why don't you stay, Mrs. Gilman?"
She paused, looking again from her husband to Bolan with narrowed eyes. At last Gilman nodded, reluctantly, and beckoned her inside. She walked past Mack Bolan to stand beside her husband's chair, one hand resting on his shoulder.
"Louise," Gilman began, "this is Mr... er..."
"La Mancha," Bolan finished for him.
"Yes, quite. He's here about Courtney."
Conflicting emotions instantly twisted the lady's face into a kaleidoscope of mingled hope and horror. Bolan watched her fingers dig unconsciously into her husband's shoulder, making him wince.
"Have they found him?" she blurted. "Is he... is he..."
Gilman shook himself free, and snapped, "Louise! Control yourself!"
Bolan frowned at them both.
"He's still out there, Mrs. Gilman. I'm hoping you can help me find him."
There was a long pause as Gilman and his wife looked at each other searchingly. Finally, Gilman reached up to take hold of her hand, and she nodded to him, her eyes brimming with tears.
Gilman swallowed hard, and there was a catch in his voice as he began speaking.
"We don't know where he is. That's the truth. He... has no reason to trust us, Mr. La Mancha."
Bolan read the painful truth in Gilman's voice and saw the same hurt on the lady's face.
He believed the guy, yeah.
"All right. Let's start at the beginning."
Another soul-searching pause, and then Gilman resumed speaking, his voice broken.
"The beginning. How do you single out a point in time when you know your child is... different? Courtney was always a quiet boy. Introverted. Smart as a whip, but so damned quiet. Even as a child he could never open up or share his thoughts with us."
"He wasn't a bad child," Louise Gilman chimed in, sounding desperate.
Gilman gave her hand a gentle squeeze and continued.
"We both know what he was. What he is. By the time Courtney was six or seven years old, he had a violent, explosive temper. Not just the normal childish tantrums... there was real fury in him, deep down. He fought with classmates in grade school, and by high school he'd been in trouble several times. We changed his schools twice to protect him... from his own reputation."
"And to protect yourself?" Bolan asked, probing.
Gilman's head snapped up, eyes flaring angrily.
"No, sir!" he snapped, then the voice softened.
"Not then. That all came... later. After..."
Gilman took a moment to compose himself and collect his disordered thoughts before continuing.
"In his senior year, a few weeks before graduation, there was... an incident. It involved a schoolgirl... a co-ed. There was some question of expulsion... of denying Courtney his diploma. I couldn't let that happen."
"So you pulled some strings," Bolan said. It wasn't a question.
Thomas Gilman nodded jerkily, and swallowed as if something had lodged itself in his throat.
"I have friends, Mr. La Mancha, connections. It is possible to arrange certain things. He was our child."
"And you had your own reputation to consider," Bolan added.
The suggestion didn't seem to anger Gilman this time.
"I don't honestly believe I thought of that... at that time," he said. "Subconsciously... who knows? Anyway, I promised to get help for Courtney, and we kept that promise. He spent eighteen months in analysis."
"It didn't take," Bolan said.
Gilman nodded grimly.
"We realized that, in time... too late. It's always too late, isn't it?"
Bolan had no answer. He stood, watching the tortured couple in silence.
Gilman continued his narrative.
"Something over two years ago, there was... a murder. I paid no attention to it at the time. There were elections to win, and there was legislation to pass. Courtney was staying out all night, every night, doing who knows what."
"Anyway, one night he was arrested... as a prowler, I think. Apparently he broke down under questioning and... he confessed... to rape and murder."
The final words were almost strangled, coming out in a barely audible whisper. Beside Gilman, his wife turned away, stifling a sob with one hand.
<
br /> Mack Bolan was starting to get the picture.
"You got a phone call," he offered, certain what the answer would be.
Tom Gilman nodded, unable to meet Bolan's gaze as he shifted his hands nervously in his lap.
"From a lieutenant named Fawcett?" Bolan pressed, seeking the final raw nerve that would release the last of the story.
Gilman looked up quickly at that, his expression one of confusion.
"Who? No, I don't recognize the name. I was called by Assistant Commissioner Smalley. Of course, he was only a deputy chief at the time."
Bolan concealed his surprise at the name. Things were beginning to fit. Only too well.
"What did Smalley have in mind?"
Gilman flashed a bitter, sardonic grin.
"Oh, nothing complicated," he said. "A sort of symbiosis. Mutual back scratching. He would guarantee 'fair treatment' for Courtney, and I would be... properly grateful."
"Your son's confession was misplaced?"
Gilman spread his hands.
"Presumably. Filed away for future reference, I suppose. At the time, I wasn't interested in the mechanics, only results. Smalley was... effective. The prowler charge was quietly dismissed, and we placed our son in a suitable institution."
"How did he escape?"
Gilman shrugged listlessly.
"No one seems to know, or at least they won't admit it. The hospital wasn't designed for maximum security."
Bolan saw no need to dwell upon the murders that had followed Courtney Gilman's first escape... or his second. The Executioner had heard enough about the lax security in even the best mental hospitals to know that escapes were commonplace. The Boston Strangler, for one, had made a habit of leaving his padded room behind to kill, returning when he was finished, and no one had been the wiser until he confessed, probably from sheer boredom and frustration.
In any case, Bolan was more interested in the mechanics of the cover-up than in the details of murder.
"How was he recaptured?" Bolan asked.
Gilman still wore the bitter smile.
"Smalley has his ways, I suppose. He keeps the details to himself, but he made sure we realized that Courtney had... been in trouble again."
And, yeah, Bolan could see the pattern clearly now. The mad youth escaping, killing, being recaptured — probably by Jack Fawcett — returned to the sanitarium, only to escape and kill again. And again. And with each new crime, each new escape, Tom Gilman's complicity increased, Roger Smalley's blackmail hold was strengthened.
The Violent Streets te-41 Page 8