“I crushed my esophagus, punctured both lungs, fractured my pelvis and ruptured my femoral artery. I died three times on the operating table.”
“My God, Jarad,” said Zach, “I hardly know what to say…”
“I know, pretty fucked up, huh?”
“No… I just never suspected. I just wish—”
“It’s enough, Zach. I find it hard enough to explain. I can’t bring myself to talk any more about it.”
Anston turned the car onto the Park Avenue exist and drove the short distance to Union Drive. A quick left, another two blocks, and they turned into the Sun Valley Mobile Home Park on 10th Street.
Their attention was drawn to the decrepit monument in front of the rental office. A dirty and neglected stone angel stood in the middle of a dry fountain. He was frozen in a pose that looked like he was reaching for to the sky, but his hand was snapped off at the wrist, and it appeared like someone used a hammer to break off his wings. The weathered wooden sign was missing several letters, and the phone number had been faded out by the elements and age.
They exited the car and moved tentatively toward Unit 12. Zach knocked several times, but as he expected, there was no answer. He twisted the knob and pushed on the door, which creaked as it opened. A damp, musty smell wafted from the small trailer, part decay and part excrement. The lights were on even though the sun was bright as it peeked through the clouds. A shadow cast from the bedroom doorway moved unexpectedly, followed by a long groan. They looked at each other and walked to the bedroom. An elderly man lay face down on the bed, his body centered in the middle of a white sheet, which was saturated with blood. He still clutched a six-chamber pistol in his left hand.
“Jarad, call 911,” said Zach as he walked swiftly across the room. The man was probably in his mid-sixties, balding, and overweight. He was clad only in underwear and black socks. Zach gently rolled him over and raised his head. There was a single self-inflicted gunshot wound to the chest, and his eyes were glazed and unresponsive.
“Curtis? Curtis Roberts, can you hear me? What have you done? You promised to wait for me.”
The man twisted his head and looked up at Zach. He regained a semblance of awareness and began to grab frantically at Zach’s arms and upper torso. In his frenzy, he was able to get a hand behind Zach’s neck, and he pulled him close with surprising strength considering his condition. Curtis Robert’s mouth was very near his Zach’s ear. The stench of his breath was overpowering. “I—want to go to heaven.”
“Of course, Curtis. You’ll go to heaven. But help is on the way. Hang on.”
“I rejected him… I didn’t give in. He pulled me down from the noose, so I had to shoot myself instead…. You promised I would go to heaven.”
“Didn’t give in to what, Curtis? Who?
“The Dark One…” Roberts paused as he gasped for breath.
“Who—who is that, Curtis? Curtis...” Zach grabbed his shoulder and shook them.
“Shot myself in the chest… Tell them to study my brain to find out what’s wrong with me.”
“Nothing is wrong with you, Curtis. Tell me about the Dark One. Who is he?”
Instead of answering, Curtis Roberts exhaled a long, raspy phlegm-ridden breath and slumped over. Zach laid him back in the bed and tried to resuscitate the man, but his rib cage was shattered, and there was no way to perform chest compressions.
“Jesus, Zach, is he dead?”
Zach frantically breathed into Robert’s mouth, but the man’s lungs just hissed as they expanded. After several minutes, he leaned back and wiped the dead man’s saliva and blood from his own mouth. “Yes, he’s gone. Something frightened him. I wish I could have found out more.”
Zach propped up a pillow and gently laid Robert’s head upon it. He looked up at Anston and began to speak, but the squeaking of the front door hinges drew his attention. Someone entered the trailer. Zach and Anston froze as they heard footsteps crossing the living room. A figure appeared at the bedroom door. He was short, moderately overweight and of obvious Hispanic descent. He also was pointing a gun directly at Zach.
“Gentlemen, raise your hands and please move away from the body.” The officer extracted a badge and identification from his pocket and displayed it freely. Anston put his hands in the air and backed up against a far wall. Zach stayed in place, continuing to cradle the head of the deceased. “I am Detective Jose Munoz from the Seattle PD. I’m telling you to move away from the body.”
Zach turned toward the detective. “If you’re going to shoot me, just do it. I’ve seem more misery over the last year than anyone should see in a lifetime. This man just died, and it sickens me.”
Munoz regarded Zach for a long moment and then cautiously holstered his weapon. “Who are you?”
“My name is Zach Randall. This is my friend Jarad Anston.”
Munoz moved past Zach directly toward the victim. He placed his fingers on the dead man's neck and felt for a pulse. The flesh was already growing cold and clammy, and Munoz knew there was no point in trying to revive him, especially with a gaping wound in his chest.
He reached for his radio and called dispatch for an ambulance. Walking out to the living room, he pulled out a small pocket recorder and entered information that would be used later when he filed a report. After several minutes, he snapped the record button off and placed the device in his pocket while looking back at Zach.
“All right, exactly what are you doing here? How do you know the victim?”
“We don’t know him—not personally,” said Zach. “But I knew he was trying to commit suicide. We didn’t get here in time.”
“How would you know something like that, Mr. Randall?”
“I can’t explain it in a way that you would understand, Detective. I just knew.”
“Mr. Randall, I’m going to have to ask you again to move away from the body and join your friend. The forensics people will be here shortly, and we prefer that you didn’t contaminate evidence. I have to be honest; you both are in a lot of trouble.”
Realizing the gravity of the situation, Zach stood up and walked toward the corner Anston occupied.
“Were you here before the victim died?” Munoz donned clear rubber gloves as he looked carefully in the immediate area surrounding the body.
“Yes, he was still alive.”
“Did he say anything to you prior to his death?”
“Yes, he did. He mentioned something about resisting someone or something. He was trying to tell me more, but…”
Munoz turned his head toward Zach. “Did he give you any names?”
“No. He only said something about the ‘Dark One’.”
Munoz wrote the name into a small spiral notepad. “I still need to know why you two are here, Mr. Randall. I’m going to have to see some ID as well.”
Zach reached slowly for his wallet and extracted his driver’s license. “It’s hard to explain in a way you would believe. Sometimes I just know that someone is in real trouble. I knew Curtis Roberts was in trouble, so I came to help him.”
Munoz continued to stare down at the license. “All the way from New Mexico? That's quite a story, Mr. Randall. You just ‘knew’ this man was going to kill himself, and so you came from New Mexico to stop him? Quite a story indeed. Is this going to be your official version? Because if it is, I have to tell you, I think you and Mr. Anston need a lawyer.”
“He’s telling the truth, Detective… Except that we came from Las Vegas. I know it sounds bizarre, but I swear it’s true. Look at the barrel of the gun, check for fingerprints. Would I have called 911 and waited for the police to arrive if we had killed him? I never saw this man before today.”
Munoz walked to a small desk in the corner of the room and sat down in a hard wooden chair. A stack of bills and statements sat on top of the desk and the detective began to rifle through them. “Very few suicides shoot themselves in the chest.”
“He wanted his brain intact so that it could be studied,” Zach said.
“Based on what he experienced, he probably thought he lost his mind.”
Munoz thumbed through the unpaid bills until he came across a statement from the Bellevue Bank. A number of overdrawn notices were attached with a paper clip. A quick scan revealed a plummeting account balance and contentious confrontations with the bank. Roberts scribbled notes in the margins that conveyed his growing frustration. Underneath the last bill was a single white envelope, sealed but unaddressed. Munoz picked it up, and along with the bank statement, placed them into the breast pocket of his suit jacket.
He turned back to Anston and Zach to ask a few more questions when loud footsteps coming through the living room caught his attention. “This is the FBI. Everyone down on the floor.” Two black suited agents with matching Ray-Ban sunglasses and raised weapons looked suspiciously at the three suspects.
Instinctively, Zach and Anston dropped down with their hands extended. Jose Munoz turned slowly and faced the agents.
“I’m Detective Jose Munoz of the Seattle PD. I’m going to reach into my jacket and give you my credentials.”
“Don’t bother. I need you to lie on the floor and spread your arms and legs just like your friends are doing.”
Munoz regarded the man carefully. He was an experienced law enforcement officer, and the behavior of the FBI agent was peculiar and did not conform to standard protocol. “Can you identify yourself?” he asked.
The man’s carotid artery bulged through the skin in his neck as his jaw muscles tensed. “I’m going to tell you one more time to lay down on the floor with your arms and legs spread. This is an order not a request.”
“This is a crime scene, Agent,” said Munoz. “It’s already been called in to dispatch. There are black and whites on their way here now. Do you really want them to find a dead detective on the scene? Now, I’m going to carefully pull out my credentials. As I open my jacket, you’ll see my revolver. I won’t make any attempt to draw it out, so you won’t misunderstand me.” Munoz gingerly reached inside his sport coat and extracted a badge and official police ID. He extended his hand and gave them to the agent, who remained steadfast with the revolver raised and pointed.
The man gave a side-glance to his partner and shrugged, which indicated he didn’t quite know what to do. The other agent stepped forward and took hold of Munoz’ credentials. He glanced at them briefly, seeming to accept their authenticity. The lead agent kept looking toward the detective as though he was unsure of his next move. Finally, he holstered his Glock 22 as his partner returned Munoz’ badge.
“Sorry Detective, but we didn’t realize that Seattle PD knew about this. Who called it in?”
“Well, the victim called in a suicide attempt earlier, but it was canceled before a unit responded. I came to check on that. Apparently, these two found the body before I arrived, and one of them called it in, I guess.”
The agent extended his hand. “I’m Agent Goldblume; this is Agent Sanchez. Obviously we’re not here for the suicide. It’s those two; we’ve come to apprehend them.” He pointed over at Zach and Anston who continued to lay motionless on the floor.
“I see. Just what are they wanted for, Agent Goldblume?”
“They’re wanted for questioning involving the murder of a prominent businessman and an FBI agent in Las Vegas.”
Munoz raised his eyebrows and looked over to Zach. There was something about this whole incident that was starting to smell foul. Two civilians show up unexpectedly at a suicide victim’s home followed by two FBI agents looking to apprehend them for involvement in a different murder? Neither of the two men sprawled on the floor seemed capable. They both looked like white collar professionals, not murderers. The nervous movement and shifting eyes of the FBI agents was also troubling.
In the distance, a siren wailed, growing louder as it approached, an apparent response to Anston’s 911 call. “Tell you what Agent Goldblume; I’ll take these two into custody and bring them to the station. You can interrogate them there. I assume you weren’t expecting to run into me here, and unless you have the paperwork, the jurisdiction is mine.”
Goldblume shook his head while Sanchez casually took a position near the door. “I’m afraid that won’t be acceptable, Detective. We need to take these two into custody immediately.”
Munoz smiled uncomfortably. “That doesn’t work for me, Agent Goldblume. If you can’t produce the paperwork, we’re going to the station.”
As he finished the last sentence, he noticed the gleam of a weapon being drawn from the corner of his eye. Agent Sanchez was pulling his gun.
Chapter Thirteen
Agent Goldblume continued to stare down Munoz as Sanchez leveled his weapon. Zach looked deeply into the agent’s eyes and knew on an instinctual level that he was going to shoot. The color drained from Munoz’ face as he seemed to recognize the impending danger as well. Too far away to reach the man, Zach concentrated his effort on affecting Sanchez’s mind. The power began to coalesce along his cerebral cortex as the synaptic pathways crackled with raw telekinetic energy. The spontaneous burst slammed into the agent, and for a brief moment, the connection from his mind to his limb was disrupted. He froze and looked puzzled, as though somehow his hand had betrayed him.
Zach used the brief lapse to his advantage. He quickly rose to his feet and ran directly into Sanchez, catching him off balance. The momentum toppled both men to the ground as the gun discharged, missing Munoz by mere inches.
The detective immediately turned his attention toward Agent Goldblume, who was reaching for his own holstered weapon. Munoz reacted and did likewise. He desperately wanted to rewind the scene and start everything over, but events were spinning out of control. Like a high-noon western shootout, Munoz was battling for his life.
The roar was deafening as two shots fired nearly simultaneously, and the echo shook the tin walls of the trailer. As the smoke from the twin discharge began to dissipate, the FBI agent fell in a heap at the detective’s feet while clutching his abdomen. Munoz grabbed at his arm and stumbled backward, unaware that the smear of blood on his white shirt was from a relatively minor flesh wound.
Sanchez turned the gun toward Munoz, his face a twisted snarl of hate. “You bastard; you shot Goldblume. I’ll kill you!”
Still crouching, Zach reached up and grabbed the agent’s wrist and directed the gun barrel toward the ceiling. The struggle was intense, and the smaller, sedentary accountant was no match for the well-toned FBI man.
Sanchez grunted and bent his arm back, pushing the gun down towards Zach’s head. With his strength fading, Zach’s resistance waned as the cold steel brushed against his forehead. The struggle continued just as a bright flash erupted from the periphery. Zach hardly noticed the loud bang as Sanchez went limp, and his gun fell harmlessly to the floor. He felt a liquid running down his face that had a coppery taste as it crossed his lips.
Coiling his legs and thrashing randomly, Zach disentangled himself from the lifeless body of Agent Sanchez. He regained his footing and stared at his blood stained kakis in disbelief.
Munoz helped Anston up and directed the pair out of the bedroom and toward the door. He was working entirely on instinct and training, compartmentalizing each event and living in the moment. At some point, he would address the reality that he just killed two FBI agents, but for now, escape and survival were his priorities. The wizened detective was savvy enough to know a set up when he saw one, and this entire episode seemed purposely choreographed.
After moving Zach and Anston into the living room, Munoz re-entered the bedroom and searched the bodies of the two dead agents, looking for clues as to their true intent. Why would the FBI dispatch two field agents to a simple 10-56? Without a violation of federal law they should never have become involved, unless the two preppies out in the living room were much hotter than they appeared.
Munoz pulled out their badges, and the code reader on his phone verified the authenticity of their FBI credentials. Neither agent carried an arrest or search warrant, nor
could he locate a case file summation. Goldblume had a small spiral bound notebook that had several names scratched on the first page. The detective jammed the note pad in his pocket and grabbed their cell phones.
“Let’s go,” he said as motioning toward the door. “They’ll be coming soon. There’s no time to waste. We have to get away from here quickly.”
Zach grabbed Jarad by the elbow. They both stood stiffly with the glazed look of shock that Munoz recognized from experience. With a shove, he pushed them through the front door out into the common area of the trailer park.
They moved swiftly past the FBI vehicle to their own cars parked next to each other in the dirt lot. Munoz pulled Zach aside, leaving Anston anxiously waiting by the passenger’s door.
“I have safe house set up in Portland.” He scribbled down an address and gave it to Zach. “Go there immediately. Don’t stop anywhere in between. The key is in a planter box under the front window.” He turned and looked toward Anston. “Your friend is in shock. Be careful. When he comes out of it, he may be irrational.”
“He’s in shock? Detective, I’m in shock,” said Zach. “Two FBI agents are dead and you probably saved our lives by killing them. What’s happening here?”
“I don’t know, Mr. Randall; I just don’t know. I’m hoping you can enlighten me. I’ll bet when I check, neither you nor Mr. Anston has any priors, right?”
“Traffic tickets. I’m not sure Jarad even has any of those.”
“We’ll figure this out later. We need to leave before a crowd starts to gather.
They said hasty goodbyes, and Zach walked to the car and unlocked the doors. He revved the engined as Anston got in, and they pulled away, weaving through side streets until the car maneuvered onto the freeway. Zach throttled up and headed towards Portland.
The Suicide Society Page 13