The Suicide Society

by William Brennan Knight

  In a moment of complete clarity and utter despair, Sarah took the gun, placed the stock between her legs, and positioned her mouth around the barrel. If she stretched, she could just reach the trigger with her index finger.

  ***

  A day after the shootings, Munoz sat at home in his easy chair with a double scotch in his shaking hand. Even Frieda noticed his agitation but had written it off to job stress. He waited until she left his office before plugging the USB cable into his computer and running the ElcomSoft decryption tool on the dead agent’s encrypted cell phone.

  Once the software extracted the contacts list, he used the mouse to scroll through the names as they passed across the screen. Munoz recognized several high profile members of the local community, including prominent businessmen, medical professionals, politicians, and clergymen. Sitting back and exhaling, he sipped at the scotch. There had to be more to it. In some way, they were all interconnected.

  Munoz spent a restless night trying to work through the shooting, replaying every subtle detail in his mind. As he had suspected, both agents were listed in the bureau database as active and in good standing. Besides the large contact file, there was nothing on Goldblume’s phone to indicate why he and Sanchez had gone rogue.

  Even more puzzling was the lack of a police or FBI report on the shooting. The death of an FBI agent was always an epic event, and the radio should have been pulsing with activity. Yet, as Munoz listened to the local transmissions, there wasn’t a single alert related to the incident. To maintain safety margins, FBI agents always remained in constant contact, and Goldblume and Sanchez should have completed a standard check several hours ago.

  The remaining problem was Yolanda in dispatch. She knew he was headed for Robert’s apartment and would have to wonder if there was a connection once the shootings were reported. Munoz worked on developing a credible story that would adequately cover his tracks if questions were raised. He knew forensics would find some fingerprints and probably get a hot positive DNA match with the sample he submitted during the vetting process. Hopefully, Zach and Anston were not in the system. In any event, his confusion continued to affect his planning efforts.

  At 3 a.m., the cell phone on the nightstand lit up, and the emergency ring tone squawked relentlessly. Munoz woke from a light sleep and grabbed the phone, blinking to clear his eyes. Frieda rolled over and sighed. Married 27 years to a cop had desensitized her to the middle-of-the-night emergencies. They happened all too frequently.

  “Munoz,” he said while clearing his throat from a build-up of phlegm.

  “Sorry Jose, but I had to wake you. It’s all over the radio; have you heard?

  “Yolanda, I was sleeping, kind of. What happened?”

  “Two feds, FBI agents, shot and killed.”

  Munoz controlled his breathing and measured his words. “Wow, that’s terrible news. I wonder who they’ll assign the case to at SPD? Obviously the feds are gonna be all over this one.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure you’re right… But that was only part of why I woke you up. The killings—they happened at the apartment where that 10-109 came from yesterday.”

  “You mean the suicide call that was canceled?”

  “Uh huh, that’s the one. Didn’t you say you were heading over there to confirm the complaint was withdrawn?”

  “It was too late in the day, and I never went. What are you getting at, Yolanda?”

  “Uh, nothing, really. Roger that; three David Eight is back in service. I’ll see you tomorrow, Jose.”

  The first rays of the morning sun cast long shadows and illuminated the landscape in a dull gray as the receding darkness battled with the emerging light. Munoz reattached his holster and sidearm and left the house, mumbling to his wife as he grabbed a paper off the printer and walked out the door. He glanced at the document and punched Harold Moss’s address into squad’s GPS and drove toward his destination with a single minded purpose.

  The trip from Bellevue to Edmonds took less than a half an hour with the light early morning traffic. Munoz showed his badge at the guard shack and moved slowly through the fashionable waterfront community. He stopped in front of the spacious two-story Tudor and compared the address on the driveway gate to the hard copy next to him. The house was magnificent, even for the president of a bank.

  The gates were open, and Munoz drove up the winding service road until he reached the apex of the circular driveway. He parked the squad and walked deliberately toward the home, pausing at the massive front doors as he looked for the bell. The chime played Bach’s 12th, but no one came to answer, so he pounded on the door with authority.

  Finally, a domestic worker opened the door a crack and looked quizzically at the detective. Without a word of introduction, Munoz pushed his way past the valet and into the parlor. “Where is Moss?”

  “Sir, who are you? Tell me why are you’re here, or I’ll summon security.”

  Munoz dug into his pocket and pulled out his badge. “I want to see Moss now, or I’ll have cops swarming this place in ten minutes.”

  The man-servant drew back in shock and fear. “Sir, I can’t allow you to see Mr. Moss. If this is a banking matter, you need to make an appointment. Please excuse me; I am going to have to call an attendant.”

  The butler went to a small counter table, picked up a phone, and pushed two buttons. Munoz moved quickly and slapped the phone from his hand and grabbed the butler by the lapels.

  “You get Moss right now, or I’ll shoot your ass and claim you attacked me. Do you understand?”

  The valet shrunk from the detective’s grasp, whimpering and clutching his cheek. “I, I don’t know—I’ll lose my job.”

  “It’s ok, Mr. Flores, please leave us. I will talk to the detective—alone.” Harold Moss descended slowly from the winding second story staircase. “Detective, to what do I owe this gross intrusion into my privacy?”

  Munoz covered the distance between the two men quickly. He shoved his hand up through Moss’s smoking jacket, grabbing handful of Italian silk shirt. “Look you slime bag, I’ve got a list of some bad people, and your name is on it. What do you have to do with these suicides? What do you share with Judge Richard Bryant and Father Carl Clemmons?”

  Moss’s eyes fluttered almost imperceptibly, but he settled back into his typical rehearsed posture. “I want to call my attorney, Detective. Are you placing me under arrest?”

  Munoz let his grip loosen a bit, “You won’t make it to the phone. You don’t seem to understand how little I care for you, let alone your rights. Two people died, and who knows how many others you have pushed over the edge. I have no trouble killing you where you stand. Now, tell me what the hell is going on here.”

  Moss slapped the detective’s hands away and backed up several steps. His eyes widened and the veins bulged on his neck. “This is so much bigger than you, little man. You don’t know who or what you are dealing with. I promise that there is nothing you can do to me that would be worse than….”

  “Worse than what? Tell me, worse than what.”

  Moss sneered and turned away. Instinctively, Munoz lurched forward and grabbed at the banker’s throat, clutching it tight and squeezing harder as each second passed.

  “God damn it, tell me what you’re involved in.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Munoz saw the valet approaching with an iron poker from the fireplace raised over his head. The man was frail and not particularly nimble, so Munoz had time to push Moss directly in his path. The two men became entangled and fell to the ground awkwardly. Moss struggled to his knees. “Flores, forget about me, destroy the computer.”

  All three men looked simultaneously at the computer sitting prominently on a desk in a den directly off the parlor room. The detective drew his fist back and impacted it directly with Moss’s nose. He watched as the banker stumbled backward, falling hard to the floor with a thud, quite unconscious. Munoz turned to pursue Flores, who was struggling against severe arthritis and the physical ravages
of time. He caught the butler just as he entered the study and easily disarmed him. The man-servant crumpled against a far wall and moaned while grabbing his hip.

  “You stay there and don’t move,” said Munoz as he walked over and powered up the computer. It proceeded through the boot cycle and displayed the login screen.

  “Password!” he yelled at Flores.

  The butler just laid there and looked at him defiantly.

  Munoz moved toward him as he pulled out his service revolver. He grabbed Flores by the back of the head. “I said I want the password.”

  The valet looked up and smiled. “You fool, you have no idea. I won’t give it to you.” He began to laugh. Small giggles at first that grew into loud, phlegm ridden cackles. “You are going to die. Die a horrible hideous death.”

  In that moment, Munoz knew he would never get the butler to reveal any information. He stood up, grabbed the computer, and ripped the electrical cord for the CPU and hard drive d from the wall. The butler continued the sardonic laughing, as he clutched his hip and rocked back and forth. Munoz stepped over the still prone form of Moss and walked toward the door. A hand shot up and grabbed his leg; the banker regained consciousness.

  “We are both dead men, Munoz. We are both dead! You have no idea what you have done today. Your family is dead, do you hear me? You have no idea!”

  Munoz turned around and sneered at Moss, and then kicked him square in his already swollen face.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Kathy Rodgers lay in a corner of a small dark room; the strong smell of damp fungus lingered in her nostrils. He summoned her, and she made the trip from Scottsdale to Desolation on the Benefactor's private plane only to find him in a foul mood.

  He approached her again for sex, and as the ever present grin grew wide, the whites of his eyes clouded with deepening shades of black. He grabbed her and pushed her head down to the cold concrete floor while using his other hand in a rough, cruel manner. She grunted as he pushed himself between her legs and thrust violently. It felt like burning coal against her skin, and the flesh tensed from the heat of his violent motion.

  The Benefactor screamed filth and called her vile names, some that she didn’t understand since it sounded almost like a foreign language. The pain seared through every extremity and brought jolting agony with each movement. Kathy thought she heard him through the fog and stench of what smelled like burning meat.

  “You filthy whore, you try and run from me. I’ll find you. Hagenti, Leyak, daate postestatem habeat per me sourse.”

  Kathy wretched and then vomited as the Benefactor picked up his pace. He reached down and ran his fingers through the slimy mess, wiping some on her face before licking the balance off with his enthusiastic tongue. “That’s it, whore, spill your bilge; small flakes of your sick soul.”

  The intense agony gave way to a blanket of dark malevolence that covered her like a rolling fog. He saturated every pore and cell of her body, and his black wickedness overwhelmed her. Nerve endings crackled with electricity, and her brain exploded with synaptic activity. She was never as alert or alive, and her mind flashed with infinite decadence and violent thoughts.

  For a moment, they merged, and Kathy reached out and touched the essence of the Benefactor. The infinite well of hurt, pain and suffering caused her to recoil in horror as she momentarily shared his power and sensed his slight weakening. Just beyond this outer veneer resided the cesspool of his existence. She approached with the intent of bathing herself in the evil. Her body continued to burn, and his pounding grew more incessant.

  Kathy tossed her head back just as she anticipated his release. She laughed wildly and opened her eyes in time to see the Benefactor morph into something oppressive, hideous and evil. His eyes glowed in shades of red and black, and a yellowish liquid dripped from the corners of his mouth and fell to the floor into thick globules that had the consistency of hot tar.

  On the periphery, she heard Cox whine and mutter, “Don’t hurt him. Papa, don’t hurt my dog. Don’t hurt him. He’s sorry, please stop it.” Mr. Cox shut his eyes, and his whole body shuddered as his climax approached.

  Cox emerged from his trance and arched his back. His eyes and mouth opened, and he growled with rage. His slight body collapsed on Kathy, pinning her beneath him. He panted in short bursts and pushed hard, finally erupting deep inside her.

  Kathy felt the familiar sting of his seed as it quickly flowed into her fertile womb. Her orgasm came in slow, methodical ripples, each more pleasurable and sickening than the last. She felt an unusual twinge; a warm spot in her uterus. She gasped as the pinprick of warmth slowly grew in intensity until it became scalding and hot. It faded as quickly as it appeared.

  “You are distracted,” he whispered in her ear. “Is something wrong?”

  She hesitated and tried to speak, but words remained elusive.

  “Answer me you dirty whore bitch. I shared everything with you, and yet, you resist?”

  “It—it was nothing. I—I think I’m pregnant. I don't know how I know. It’s too soon to tell, but I just know.”

  He turned her over and looked directly at her face. “Well, well. Wouldn't that be nice. I’ve given you a baby to replace the one that died.”

  She gasped and raised her hand to strike him, but he caught her arm in mid motion. Mr. Cox turned slightly, and his expression went blank. The probe he projected some time ago had found its mark, and the new connection already fed him information. He located Sarah Johansen, and Kathy Rodgers was no longer of any consequence.

  He rose and walked over to the doorway. Turning back to face her, he reacquired the smoldering rage.

  “Stay available. And just because I occasionally show you favor, I still expect you to get your work done.”

  When he closed the door, Kathy collapsed and began to sob. She felt so empty and ashamed. What in God’s name was she doing here? How far could she sink into the depths of depravity?

  Kathy lay still for a moment and closed her eyes. She slowly began to drift off until she felt someone gently stroking her hair. She opened her eyes to find Ryan standing right beside the bed.

  ***

  The incident in Kansas had tempered the Kazakhstani’s appetite for confrontation, especially after the threat from the FBI man. Burikhan knew the seriousness of the indiscretion, and he was not eager to gain the specific attention of the Benefactor again. The trip through Missouri and Southern Illinois was uneventful. They drove up I-57 to the Dan Ryan, making their way north into Chicago. The critical point in the mission approached, and Burikhan’s hands tightened on the wheel.

  “Burikhan, is it indeed the will of God that we carry out this thing?” Kabanbai sat in the passenger’s seat, filled with thoughts of his children so far away in the homeland.

  “You already know the answer to that question, Kabanbai. Our leaders have spoken; the Benefactor is the Final Prophet. We have no choice but to listen to his will. He has commanded that we cleanse the world of the nonbelievers, and that is what we must do.”

  They moved through the slow traffic of Michigan Avenue and marveled at the buildings that pressed high against the sun. The stately women flashed their diamonds in Chicago’s wealthiest district, and it overwhelmed the Kazakhstanis who lived their entire lives in squalor. As they drove to the north end of the street, Burikhan stopped the car as they gazed upon the Water Tower. It stood as a Chicago landmark and the last remaining structure from the Great Fire in 1871. They remembered seeing the monument in pictures during their indoctrination in Astana. That they finally reached the end of their journey after nine months was a cause for celebration. They prayed to God and spoke words of praise and thankfulness.

  “The parking garage is right over there, Burikhan, just as it is marked on the map. We should move quickly.”

  Burikhan sat in traffic, horns beginning to blare at him. He couldn’t take his eyes off the Chicago memorial.

  “Burikhan! We are drawing attention. Move the vehicle!”
<
br />   The terrorist leader maneuvered the car around the traffic and pulled onto Washington Street, turning into the parking garage as they had rehearsed countless times. A few moments later, he parked on the third level in an inconspicuous stall shielded by a large concrete bearing wall.

  Foot traffic would be light on a Tuesday in July since summer school was in session at the University. Wulfric’s downtown campus appeared drab and unseemly compared to the Lake Shore complex a few miles up the road. As a commuter college, the undergrads rarely had more than a casual relationship with one another. The task of finding radical foreign exchange students to provide detailed information on the layout of the different buildings was simple.

  Burikhan and his two accomplices exited the vehicle, and he extracted the hardened plastic suitcase from the back of the SUV. They made their way to the elevator while continuing to look for anything suspicious. Rush hour congestion had long passed, and the garage was largely vacant during the mid-morning hours while people were working. The trio walked to the exit and passed an attendant in the garage booth. He looked at them cautiously and locked gazes with Burikhan for a moment too long. The guard suspected something; that much was clear.

  Burikhan nodded to Temir, who broke off from his two companions. Kabanbai and Burikhan walked casually down Washington Street while trying to remain inconspicuous, which was difficult considering their ethnicity and the obtrusive nature of the suitcase.

  Temir ducked back through the entrance of the parking garage. The guard continued to ponder whether his suspicions were legitimate or a result of his xenophobia. He shook his head and nervously fingered his embossed name badge that read, Bud Halsterman.