Tainted Robes

by Joe Nobody

  The fridge was empty, the pantry containing only a few cans of soup. There were four, frozen, TV dinners in the freezer. Kit reached for the oven knob.

  “Ordinarily, I would suggest we order a pizza or Chinese,” Griffin said, “but most of them only take credit cards these days. And now that we are in the safe house, we should probably maintain a low profile.”

  “You think?” she teased. “So, what now?”

  Griffin had been waiting for the question, a topic he’d spent considerable time pondering. “I want to talk to the people at Cyber Ace Software. That’s the only thread that runs through all of this. Let’s get back to El Paso in the morning and see what we can dig up.”

  After a deep yawn, Kit agreed and began poking at her cardboard-like cuisine. “After I finish this delicacy, I’m going to shower and then hit the hay. You can have the couch.”

  Chapter 9

  The Chicago journalist arrived 20 minutes after receiving the call, no doubt keenly interested in the reverend’s discovery. He had covered the story since the shooting occurred and had grown up in the neighborhood.

  “How did you get this video?” he first asked after watching the footage.

  “It came to me in an email,” Moore answered honestly.

  Sitting back in the hard, metal, folding chair, the newshound exhaled a chest full of air. “I have to be honest, gentlemen. If you turn this over to me, violence is going to erupt in the streets. You realize that, don’t you?”

  “I can only pray that our people will keep their cool… will let the system work. I’ll ask you the same question that we’ve been struggling with all day, what choice do we have?”

  The reporter’s job was to ask questions, and despite the cloud of tension hanging in the room, he couldn’t fight that instinct. “Who sent you the email?”

  Turning to the old computer, Moore brought up the message. The “From” email address was a random series of letters, numbers, and special characters. “Does that mean anything to you?” the preacher asked the newsman.

  “Yes, it means whoever sent you this was using the dark web. They didn’t want to be found. They’re as scared of this as we are.”

  “So, what are you going to do?” asked the NAACP employee.

  Sighing, the reporter responded, “This is the biggest scoop of my life. Normally, I’d be chomping at the bit to go live with this kind of discovery. Somehow, sitting here in the ole ‘hood, I’m not so sure.”

  Standing and rolling his head to relieve the stress building in his neck, the journalist finally reached a decision. “My job is to expose the truth and tell the people. That murdered child’s family deserves to know what really happened. I just hope the Good Lord forgives me for the pain and suffering this story is going to inflict.”

  Producing a thumb drive, after an approving nod from Moore, the reporter copied the video file onto his device. He then made a second version and turned to the Baptist preacher. “I would hide this someplace, Reverend. I’m not sure how the police are going to act when this goes live.”

  “Will do,” Moore nodded. “When will it air?”

  Ignoring the question, the television correspondent pulled a cell phone from his pocket. After listening for his call to connect, the men gathered in the church office heard him say, “I need to talk to Tommy, right now.”

  Then, “I don’t care if he’s in a production meeting. This is important. I need to speak to him immediately. Code red.”

  While he waited, the reporter glanced at Moore, rolling his eyes over the delay. It was another two minutes before he spoke into the mobile device again. “I’m at Beulah Missionary Baptist Church, and someone has sent the reverend here a copy of the police dashcam video from the night the Wilkerson kid was killed. It’s ugly, Tommy… real ugly.”

  Another pause, followed by, “The cops executed that kid, plain and simple. Yes, I believe the footage is legit. The patrol car designation in the lower righthand corner matches the unit the police were using that night. The visuals match. All the officers who testified appear on the footage, and the time stamp is on spot.”

  Yet another period of silence. Finally, the journalist responded, “Okay… okay… I’ll be here.”

  After disconnecting the call, the reporter scanned the room full of eager eyes. “They’re sending down a production truck with a technician. My producer wants to verify that the tape isn’t bogus. If the video is good, we’ll go live with it in short order... breaking news… interrupting regularly scheduled programming.”

  Moore turned to the other men in the room, “We should stand united on this. Let’s assemble our flocks together here. Let everyone know what’s happening. We need to encourage our people to remain peaceful.”

  The news van arrived 30 minutes later, the reporter rushing out to hand off his thumb drive with the video. It took the tech less than 15 minutes to pronounce that the footage was authentic, unmodified, and horrific.

  The Channel 3 News department started running intros for their earth-shaking report a little more than two hours before the 10 p.m. broadcast. The mini-segments included shots of the reporter, standing in front of the Beulah Missionary Baptist Church, urging viewers to watch what was surely the biggest event in Chicago since the arrest of Al Capone.

  Evidently, someone at the Chicago Police Department was watching as well. It didn’t take the local patrolmen long to learn that Pastor Moore had somehow received a copy of the police dash cam video from the night in question.

  Word spread almost as quickly through the precinct halls as it did on social media. While the cops were using cell phones and radios, the people in the neighborhood were receiving texts, Facebook alerts, and phone calls.

  Less than half an hour after Reverend Moore’s decision to go live with the video, a sizable crowd began congregating outside of the sanctuary. By the magic hour, more than a thousand people mulled about in front of the church, that number including almost a hundred policemen who had been called in from surrounding districts.

  The news anchor was practically giddy when the broadcast began. Using words like ‘exclusive,’ ‘in-depth,’ and ‘relentless in their pursuit of the facts,’ it was actually five minutes into the nightly broadcast before the Windy City got a front seat view of the ‘non-existent’ video. “I must warn our viewers that the contents of this footage are deeply troubling; they might be inappropriate, especially for young audiences.”

  Young Master Roberson had brought his computer tablet to stream the local channel. Pastor Moore was standing on the church’s front steps when the broadcast began. The crowd quietened instantly when the leaked dash cam footage was played. The reverend studied the crowd before him to judge folks’ reactions, hoping to keep the Windy City calm in the face of this development. He had never seen so many people being so quiet in his entire life.

  At one point, he scanned the mass from his elevated position, noting the blue hue of hundreds of cell phones tuned into the local news. As the video continued, strong voices roared from the onlookers, phrases like, “Hell, no!” and “Oh, my God!” sounding up and down the crowded avenue.

  The news producer had wisely decided to blur out the video where the bullets were tearing into the young man’s body, but it was still obvious what was happening behind the distorted pixels. When the footage had finished, hundreds of eyes were wet with tears… hundreds of Chicago’s citizens literally felt their hearts break.

  Again, the street was eerily silent, all faces now looking toward the sanctuary, focused on Pastor Moore and the few men gathered at the top of the stairs. It wasn’t much of a podium, but enough.

  Holding up his hands, Moore shouted, “Brothers and sisters, children of God, I know the pain you feel!”

  Now commanding their undivided attention, the preacher continued, “What we have all seen tonight is tear-jerking, wicked, and utterly exasperating. Exposing this sin is enough to shake all of us to the very core.”

 
“You got that right!” somebody shouted from the back of the multitude.

  “Yet, we can’t take the law into our own hands. We must trust the system. I plead… I beg… I pray that all of you will go home with heavy hearts and peaceful minds tonight. We must handle this situation very carefully. Violence is not the way. Rage has no place on our streets. Wrath will not do us any good, but there can be no doubt that it will tear our people apart from the inside out.”

  For just a moment, he had them. He could see it in their expressions, sensed an eye in the hurricane of anger and frustration rolling through the throng.

  It was at that moment that Moore noticed a small group of onlookers pushing through the congregation, moving toward the steps below. Peering down, he spotted four uniformed police officers as well as two other cops in plain clothes.

  “Are you Samuel Jefferson Moore?” a man flashing a detective’s shield asked.

  “Yes, how can I help you, Officer?”

  “We have a warrant to search these premises,” the cop stated coldly. Then, turning to the assembled people, he shouted, “This rally isn’t authorized by the City of Chicago. No permits have been issued. Please disperse immediately, or arrests will be made!”

  Stunned, the people directly in front of the church didn’t know how to react. The cop continued to pour it on. “The video you have seen tonight is a forgery. We believe it was created by this man with an intent to incite violence,” he stated, pointing at Moore.

  Now the people were seriously confused, glancing at each other with questioning expressions.

  The reporter appeared just then, the bright lights of his camera crew ready to catch their second major scoop of the day.

  “That’s bullshit!” the newshound shouted at the cops. “We verified that videotape ourselves. No way that is a phony. Pastor Moore is innocent!”

  Now the crowd was really bumfuzzled, the drama unfolding on the steps maintaining their attention on the church while dozens of police in riot gear formed up behind them.

  The cops didn’t argue with the reporter, instead taking Moore by the arm and guiding him inside the front door of the sanctuary. As the last uniform passed through the entrance, he could be seen reaching for his handcuffs. The newsman lost his cool.

  Turning back to the street, he yelled, “Don’t let them do this! Pastor Moore is a good man and did nothing wrong! Don’t let them get away with this!”

  Other angry voices soon joined the chorus, the people closest to the church doors now pressing forward, pointing fingers and shaking their fists. “You can’t arrest a preacher!”

  Then, from the back of the gathering, someone noticed an approaching wall of plexiglass shields and cops in helmets and riot gear. The police’s tactical surprise hadn’t lasted long.

  Someone uploaded a cell phone video of the cops hustling Moore inside of the church, which was carried live on social media. Behind the scenes, Sebastian’s helpers were making sure the image went viral.

  More and more people began showing up outside the church. The local commander, sure that the preacher was going to gin up violence, was now questioning his captain’s plan for how to handle the situation. He too was calling for reinforcements.

  The other pastors, left idling outside the front of the church, tried to establish some measure of control over the street, shouting out short phrases that were barely heard over the growing din. “Remember Dr. King!” they repeated. “The truth shall set us free!”

  Ten minutes later, the police reemerged, Pastor Moore in handcuffs, one of the cops carrying the church’s computer. It was obvious the police intended to take him in. “Make way! Make way!” the cops escorting the minister demanded. At the same moment, worried about their comrades, the riot squad pushed forward.

  “Stop them!” someone shouted, followed by a water bottle slamming into one of the uniformed officer’s helmets. In retaliation, the point man leading the procession of blue uniforms pushed a woman out of the way. In a heartbeat, the mob’s frustration boiled over.

  They rushed at the arrested cops from every direction, fists clenched, murder in every eye. Most were younger men, but even the women in the mob were on the edge of hysterical rage. One officer fell, knocked off his feet by the sheer girth and mass of humanity pressing against him. Seeing their coworker go down, nightsticks started swinging as the other cops pressed in to rescue their brothers. Reverend Moore, roughly raised to his feet by the handcuffs tight on his wrists, had blood trickling down a cut over his right eye. The unexplained injury served to enrage the crowd even more.

  At the back of the throng, rocks, bottles, and bricks pelted the shield-wielding line of riot police, forcing them to back away here and there. Other errant projectiles missed their marks and struck innocent civilians or shattered business display windows.

  Bicycle cops swarmed in, the CPD adopting important techniques learned from West Coast departments who had developed effective crowd-control measures using the two-wheeled patrols. They tried to use their bikes as temporary barriers, but there were simply too many fast-moving bodies to thwart.

  At least 1,500 enraged souls now filled Beulah Avenue, most drawn by the newscast and live social media coverage of the events. Even more were on the way.

  For several blocks in each direction, irate clusters of citizens shouted insults and vulgarities, looking for anyone or anything deserving of their pent-up fury. The first store window shattered less than a minute later, followed shortly thereafter by a police cruiser being overturned. Seconds later, the vehicle burst into flames.

  Weapons appeared next, a surprising number of youth carrying baseball bats, broom handles, and even a few gardening tools. An intense blaze licked the brick facade of a nearby storefront, while the lines of police continued to face a savage barrage of projectiles.

  Less than 30 minutes later, the cops retreated again. Within an hour, violence reined throughout a 20 square-block area. By midnight, the number of fiery buildings would be so great that the flames could be seen from downtown Chicago. The fire department couldn’t, or wouldn’t, respond if the police couldn’t protect them.

  It was then that the mayor called the governor to declare a state of emergency.

  Over 2,000 miles away, Sebastian was pleased with his day’s work. The ignorant Chicago Police Department hadn’t bothered to inform their officers that the newly installed dashcam equipment uploaded automatically to the cloud. The video of the officers’ actions that night had been child’s play to obtain. A brief examination of the headlines had identified the right person to receive a copy of the video, and now Chicago was burning.

  What was the saying so popular in America? “I turned lemons into lemonade,” he grunted, scanning the news images of the destruction in the Windy City. “By dawn, the first National Guard trucks will roll in.”

  Satisfied with his triumph, his mind reverted to the nagging issue of Carson and Storm. The discovery of Bo’s arrest records having been erased was a minor annoyance, Sebastian confident that any investigation would quickly hit a dead end. The hackers under the employ of the Komitet were the most effective in the world, never leaving any trail or signature behind. Rather than to break into any given computer system, they merely walked through an open door left behind by the original software engineers. It was easy.

  So confident was Sebastian in their skills, he decided to use Bo’s misfortune to his benefit. Indianapolis, like El Paso, was a backwater of political and economic power. Unlike New York, Washington, or Los Angeles, the authorities there were less adept at responding to such events. International terrorism, organized crime, and foreign drug operations were strangers in that part of the world.

  Still, the federal prosecutor and the marshal needed to be dealt with. Somehow, via chance or circumstance, they had managed to penetrate far deeper into the Komitet’s affairs than should have been possible. While their activities were an aggravation more than anything else, Sebastian’s professionali
sm and years of experience couldn’t accept even a mild dent in his organization’s armor. He would deal with them.

  Pecking the keyboard, he brought up their known activity while in the Circle City, tracking their movements by the federal prosecutor’s cell phone. Out of curiosity, he accessed two different security cameras, hoping to study the body language of the people he was about to target.

  The marshal, as expected, was clearly the alpha. His stance indicated a protective posture and a slight semblance of old fashioned, gentlemanly habits.

  The woman was extremely attractive, with high cheekbones, spun-gold hair, and eyes that blazed with intelligence and drive. “Unfortunate,” Sebastian grunted. “Were I a younger man….”

  They were traveling by cab, that fact becoming apparent when a bank camera photographed the two entering the hired car. That made things easy for Sebastian.

  He also knew the exact moment and location that the woman’s cell phone went dark. There were four taxi cabs in the vicinity. With a mere cursory examination, he noted each of the drivers’ active mobile phones, that information allowing him to stalk the cabbies.

  Tracking those four drivers, he followed one car to a shopping mall south of town. He doubted the federal troublemakers would be indulging in retail therapy.

  He hit the jackpot on the next taxi, the driver heading into an area of housing a few miles north of downtown. Within two minutes, he identified the intersection where the cab had remained unmoving for nearly four minutes.

  “The marshal is playing it safe,” he whispered, studying the satellite image of the neighborhood. “He doesn’t want anyone to know where they are staying tonight.”

  After pondering his prey’s movements for a moment, he began a process of deduction. “They can’t stay at a hotel without using a credit card.” There was already an alert configured for any such activity, Gravity Well’s horde of spiders crawling throughout the digital web.

  Sebastian then considered that one of them might have a friend or family member willing to put them up for the night. A quick inspection of their online profiles indicated no previous phone calls to the central Indiana area codes. Neither went to school in the state. Neither had traveled to Indianapolis in the last 10 years.