Black Fall

by Andrew Mayne

  As we head toward the White House, I piece together the story of Tia Connelly in my head. A nineteen-year-old artist studying at the Corcoran School of the Arts and Design, she’d joined the protest when some friends of hers decided they were tired of sitting in a dorm without electricity.

  They pushed their way to the front lines. Tia had brought her camera to get photos of the action. She’d raised her lens to take a shot of one of the masked police officers trying to keep the mob from pressing against the gates. And that was when—point-blank—he raised his pistol and shot her in the face. The officer to his right fired several rounds into the crowd, scattering them. The two cops then pulled back, and haven’t been seen since.

  Hundreds of cameras were videoing as the shooting transpired, some even live. There was no ambiguity about it. Talking heads on television have tried to attribute it to stress, and the pressure of being in what’s essentially a war zone. But until police officers Eric Bogden and Hef Steadman talk, we won’t really know why this happened.

  As far as victims go, Lieutenant Bogden couldn’t have chosen someone more photogenic, sympathetic, and ready for a cause. Besides being pretty and conveniently white, Tia’s parents own an art gallery in New York City and have Oscar and Nobel Prize winners on speed dial.

  As we get closer to the scene of the shooting, I see banners and signs emblazoned with Tia’s image—a self-portrait pulled from her Instagram account that’s become an icon overnight—along with the hashtag #VictimZero.

  “Here.” Aileen takes two candles and a lighter from her pocket. “Better to look like we have a purpose.”

  We light our vigil candles and work our way through the crowd to a line of people slowly moving alongside the White House fence. Thousands of people have come here to where Tia was gunned down to pay their respects. The mood is more subdued now that the weight of what transpired beneath our feet sinks in.

  The bars of the White House fence have been covered on the other side with camouflage netting and canvas, hiding the most famous home in America from view up close. Several portable watchtowers have been stationed on the other side. There are no Secret Service or military figures visible, but it’s clear we’re being watched.

  Aileen whispers, “They’re getting several jumpers an hour. A small group tried to scale the fence together. Their screams changed the other’s minds.”

  “What’d they find?” I look at the barrier.

  “Besides a platoon of marines? Probably a pain-field generator, tear gas, and snipers with rubber bullets. Beyond that, I’m told there’s barbed wire. The word is that under no circumstances are they to let the lawn be overrun.”

  Better to spill blood than let the White House fall, I think to myself. It may just be a symbol, but in America, it’s the symbol.

  Right outside the no-fly zone, news helicopters hover. I realize they’re not here for the riots and protest, because they’ve got tons of footage of that. They want to be here when the angry mob finally storms the gates and tries to lay siege to the White House. That would be a futile effort. The sharpshooters, machine-gun nests, and other countermeasures will keep the building safe. However, the image of civilians being gunned down on the White House lawn is one we’d never be able to erase from our collective conscience. Governments have fallen over incidents like that.

  I get a chill as I finally see what we’re up against. It’s not just a plot to make Devon into some kind of prophetic leader of a fringe terror group. These people are trying to create their own flash point, like the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand or the Reichstag fire. The former led to World War I, the latter, World War II.

  We shuffle forward, and Tia’s memorial comes into view. Flowers litter the sidewalk and cover the fence. Thousands of candles light the memorial as if it were a Hindu shrine.

  As the crowd shifts, we move away from the sidewalk. The flowers form a barrier around a circle of pavement. In the center is the chalk outline of Tia’s body. Where her head lay is a pool of dried blood.

  Everywhere around me, people are sobbing. Mostly young men and women. I can see the look in their eyes: if my government would do this to her, what’s to stop them from doing it to me?

  The meme is that Tia just went there for answers. She wasn’t a protestor. She wasn’t political. She was just a teenage girl with a camera and she was gunned downed by a man in uniform.

  It’s heartbreaking.

  I want to cry.

  But now that I’m here, seeing it for myself, I know that it’s all a calculated lie.

  Chapter Thirty

  Optics

  Tia’s memorial is deeply moving and brings nearly everyone around us to tears as we move past. Beyond the candles, people are listening to a woman with frizzy hair and horn-rim glasses urging them via a handheld microphone not to take it anymore. She points to the security towers beyond the White House fence and makes a passionate speech declaring that our government has failed us. It’s disturbing to see her manipulating everyone’s grief.

  “Who is that?” I ask Aileen.

  “Probably some cultural studies professor waiting for her moment in the spotlight,” she says, rolling her eyes.

  Behind the speaker, a video of protests from around the world projects onto a bedsheet stretched between two trees. A midtwenties man sporting a man bun and a camo jacket and holding an iPad calls out the latest updates on global protests from Twitter.

  People spread through the crowd handing out pieces of paper with #BlackFallNOW written on them, admonishing everyone to follow on social media.

  A college-age girl with auburn hair, wearing a T-shirt that bears Tia’s face, walks up to us. “Are you guys ready to make a stand?” She clutches a clipboard under her arm.

  “Damn straight,” Aileen replies, fully in character.

  “Then you should sign up.” The woman turns the board toward her.

  Aileen holds up her hands, refusing to touch it. “Whoa, how do I know you’re not a cop collecting names?”

  The girl reacts with shock. “Do I look like a cop?”

  “I’m not signing anything.” She grabs me by the arm and pulls me away. “Neither is she.”

  “This feels like some kind of recruitment ground,” Aileen whispers to me when we’re out of earshot.

  Exactly. Tia’s memorial is intended to get us worked up emotionally. As our anger and sadness peaks, we land right in the arms of organizers trying to recruit us. It’s pure showmanship. Somebody set this up like a play. The first act, approaching the memorial, is the buildup. The second act, the memorial itself, reduces you to tears. The third and final act incites you to anger so you’ll sign up for whatever the opportunists have planned.

  Get a few thousand phone numbers and send a group text—STORMING THE WHITE HOUSE FENCE—and all hell breaks loose. Not everyone would follow such a suicidal call to action. But seeing all the angry and disillusioned faces around me looking for a way to channel their frustration, I’m convinced a few would. Personal judgment goes out the window in the face of mob psychology.

  “What do you know about the cops involved in the shooting?” I ask Aileen when we’re off to the side from everyone else.

  “Not much. They weren’t standouts. Not known hotheads. But that doesn’t mean they weren’t.”

  We grab a spot where we can watch the line. A news truck is turned on its side, windows smashed. The interior has been gutted, its black cables and electronics spilling out like the entrails of a butchered animal.

  I survey the area, noticing how people are being funneled through like a line at an amusement park. “I think this whole thing is a setup.”

  “What do you mean?” she asks.

  “I think this was orchestrated by the Red Chain.”

  While I’m certain that antigovernment groups were ready to jump into action at this crisis, the skill with which it is being pulled off implies forethought. Somebody had a plan to stoke these flames. Prior protests, like Occupy and Ferguson, cert
ainly had opportunists who were ready to grab attention for themselves. But on the whole, those protest organizers were disorganized and fought just as much with each other as with the power they were challenging.

  Aileen’s gaze drifts to where Tia was killed. “Are you saying Steadman and Bogden were in on it?”

  This is a pretty heavy accusation, but she’s not rejecting it outright.

  “I don’t know. Maybe they were forced. Maybe something else . . . The shooting was too perfect.”

  “Perfect?” She searches my face for context.

  “I mean, it’s exactly what the Red Chain wanted.” I take out my phone and pull up a photo. “See this frame grab?” It’s a high-resolution image of Tia with the gun pointed at her. “This was taken from a press photographer standing on a news truck over there.” I point to the corner where the truck had been. “See this one?” It’s a photo from a different angle. “Taken from over there on the other side. This spot was probably the most watched point in DC. In the world. More cameras there than anywhere. Professional, amateur, international. There have been hundreds of flash points. But two cops decide to lose their heads right here? It’s too suspicious.” The phrase comes to me. “It’s a photo op. When Grandfather wants to sell more tickets to a show, he’ll stage an event and stop traffic, literally. He’s gone to the middle of an intersection and levitated one of his dancers right in the middle. He made sure to do it in front of the biggest paper in town so they could get a photographer there before the cops showed up.”

  “To avoid getting arrested?” asks Aileen.

  “No. To make sure the photographers were there when the cops arrived. It turned a stunt into an event.”

  She responds to my weird family anecdote with a half smile. “Maybe. But there have been news crews everywhere. This could just be a very unfortunate event. Maybe Bogden didn’t mean to fire? And Steadman panicked?”

  As a fellow cop, I understand her need to rationalize what happened. It’s scary to think two of our own could do something so awful.

  “Maybe they were forced to,” I offer.

  “When we find them, they can tell us.” There’s a sense of resolve in her voice, implying there better be a solid explanation. If not, the backlash from the police might be even worse than the one from the public.

  I’d been thinking that over. “Aileen, I think he and Steadman are dead.”

  “Dead?” She repeats the word, making sure she didn’t mishear me.

  “Assuming this is all staged, an attempt to manipulate the public, the Red Chain doesn’t want them talking. It could ruin everything. I think that’s why we haven’t found them.”

  She stares at my face, trying to decide how seriously to take my allegation. It’s a lot to absorb. I’ve asked her to make a number of leaps, and now I’m telling her that her fellow cops have been killed.

  After some consideration, she asks, “So, was Tia a plant?”

  I hadn’t thought about that. “I think she was just a victim of opportunity. Young, female,” I hesitate before adding, “white.”

  “I couldn’t imagine a better victim,” Aileen replies.

  “It’s got the suburbs up in arms. People who dismiss minority shootings are looking at this differently.” Tia really is the ideal victim. Aileen may be on to something about Tia being chosen beforehand, or involved with the Red Chain. I make a note to tell Ailes to have that looked into. I’ve seen bad guys maneuver their victims into position before. This wouldn’t be a first.

  We move away from the White House and cross Lafayette Square. The grounds are filled with tents and lawn chairs, as though this were a folk music festival. On Andrew Jackson’s statue, someone has scrawled in red paint: he killed americans too.

  “Yikes,” mutters Aileen. “First he loses the twenty, now this.”

  My mind is elsewhere. “Do you think you could get us into Bogden or Steadman’s homes? Did they live alone?”

  “Both were single. But maybe. Why?”

  “I don’t know. There might be something there.” If they were approached by the Red Chain, some kind of physical evidence tying them together could be crucial to making the case.

  “Their places have been searched since they disappeared.”

  “I know. But it might be something unconventional.” I recount how the box in Devon’s attic led to the underground command center.

  Her mouth is open, but she’s speechless as I describe the spaceship-like room. “Holy crap. That’s just plain insane!”

  “Government accounting,” I reply.

  She gives me a hesitant look, as if she wants to say something, then clearly decides not to.

  I think I sense what she wanted to ask. “No, I don’t think this is some kind of government plot. Not an intentional one at least. It appears as if the people that funded the CCA decided it was a bad idea. My guess is the contractor wanted to keep it going.”

  Aileen taps me on the elbow. I turn to the side and see two men following us. Both white and scruffy, they’re wearing patched jackets and appear like they’re here for trouble.

  We veer to the right and cross the street. The two men keep pace, but don’t stare at us directly. Their eyes are on the crowd.

  “Shit,” Aileen whispers. “This could get ugly.”

  I can feel my stitches start to itch from all the walking. This is all I need.

  A woman wearing a half coat, her messy brown hair sticking out from under a knitted cap, sneaks up on my other side. Short, she barely reaches my shoulder. I wait for the glimmer of metal, ready to draw. I see Aileen in the corner of my eye, ready to back me up.

  “Are you lost, Agent?” the woman asks in a hushed tone, taking me by surprise. “Tell Detective Lewis to stand down. We’re on the same side.”

  “Are we?” I reply. I’m not taking any chances. There’s something familiar about her, maybe her cheekbones, but I’m not taking any chances.

  “Dr. Ailes told me to tell you: eight zero eight.”

  Eight zero eight is a simple code Ailes and I came up with. It’s the number on every ace of spades and the joker in a deck of Bicycle playing cards. Ailes wouldn’t give that up, even under torture.

  On hearing the woman say this, I relax slightly. “Okay. What can I do for you?”

  “Follow me, while the men to your left track your tail,” she says, indicating that the two degenerates who have been following us are actually on her side, and presumably ours.

  “Tail?” I avoid looking over my shoulder. Crap. I can’t be getting this sloppy.

  “Yep.” She heads across the park and through the crowd, not checking to see if we are following her, but confident we will.

  We reach a row of brownstone townhouses. Some of the windows are broken. Others have boards or shutters over them, protecting them from rocks and other projectiles.

  A man is leaning on a railing next to a flight of stairs that leads to a basement apartment. Unshaven, in a long coat, and smelling like alcohol, he resembles any number of faceless bums you walk past in a day. As we pass him, I spot a small earpiece in his ear and realize he’s keeping guard.

  Aileen follows me down the steps. Someone opens the metal door from inside and lets us through. Our escort turns to me once the door is shut. Although she’s shorter than I am, she has a fierce expression.

  “Alright, genius, care to tell me what you’re doing out here?”

  “Paying my respects.”

  I’d told Ailes I was going to meet Aileen. I didn’t tell him where, specifically. He’d have gone through the roof.

  “Uh-huh,” she says, calling bullshit. “You know there’s a bounty on uniformed cops out there.”

  “Good thing I gave up my dress blues years ago.”

  She turns to Aileen. “Does your captain know you’re out here?”

  “Do you know you’re rude?” Aileen then looks at me. “Why are we standing for this?”

  I finally remember where I know this woman from. My visit with the first la
dy. She had been carrying file folders and kept to the background. I also think she had short blond hair then. “Because she’s White House Secret Service.”

  “Well, she’s on the wrong side of the fence,” Aileen replies, not having it. She doesn’t appreciate the little power trip this woman is on.

  “My job is to keep things on the outside of there. Right now that’s difficult enough. Having two potential hostages traipsing through isn’t making my day any easier.”

  “Hostages?” I ask.

  “Or victims,” she says sharply. “Your guess is as good as mine. What I know is that you were being followed by at least three people. They were very interested in you.”

  Yeah, stupid, I know. I suddenly realize this could be a lead. “Do you have photos?” I ask excitedly. “And what’s your name, by the way?”

  “Marisa Vachon, and we’re looking into it. In the meantime, why are you here?”

  “Like I said, Tia Connelly.”

  “Yes, and . . . ?” She knows there’s more to it.

  I exchange a glance with Aileen. She shrugs.

  “I think the murder was a setup. There’s something fishy.”

  “The Red Chain?” Vachon asks.

  I’m surprised, but I don’t reply. The Secret Service keeps track of any potential threat that comes to their attention. As they monitor what’s happening outside the White House fence, they’re probably running down every lead.

  “I’ve been following your reports,” she says. Then she adds, “It’s a bit sketchy.”

  “So I’ve been told.” But not too sketchy to catch their attention.

  “But it would make sense.” She nods.

  “It would?” I wasn’t expecting her to say this.

  “We’ve been seeing some very coordinated activity. Unlike in any other protest we’ve ever covered. There are at least a dozen people out there arranging things, organizing sign-ups, and keeping watch on who enters the area. We haven’t traced them to any foreign intelligence agency. So far we haven’t even been able to get an ID on any. We’re hoping to get fingerprints. But as you can imagine, we can’t just pull them in off the street.”