The Suicide Society

by William Brennan Knight

  “Ok… go ahead.”

  He recited a list of names starting with Delbert Givens and John Hansen, the two men he confronted at Moss’s house. The others names were extracted from the banker’s computer, and they included a local prosecutor from Unites States Attorney’s Office. They all seemed to report to Thomas Abernathy, a prominent name on the flow chart.

  “I’m going to send you their addresses. Get me something. Check out Infotek, Knowx, Autotrack—every data base you can find, and tell me what these guys have in common. Arrest records, medical records, banking records, give me something. They’re the key, Yolanda; it’s how I can solve this.

  “I’m going to confront one of the men on the list I just gave you. But I need more information. I have to find out what they all have in common.”

  “Ok. I’ll get on it. Call me back later, but I better go now.”

  “Ok. I’m counting on you.”

  “I know, Jose, I know.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Despite his best efforts, Chad Murkell wasn’t able to get the lab report until the following day. Murkell sent a sample of the trunk liner to the Chicago Police Department’s Forensics crime lab and shipped another to an old academy friend at an obscure lab in Rockford. The report from the Chicago lab came back negative. Murkell listened as his friend discussed the details of the other sample.

  “Chad, I have to notify the authorities on this. You can’t hide Pu-239. It’s weapons-grade plutonium. There were definite traces of it in the carpet.” John Clausen was the head technician at Herder Labs, a respected regional testing facility. Murkell sighed deeply. “We took it out in hazmat suits. Was exposure an issue?”

  “Shouldn’t have been, unless somebody ate the fabric. Plutonium 239 gives off alpha radiation; it will only kill you if it gets inside. Still, you know I have to pass this on.”

  “John, I don’t know who I can trust down here. The sample I sent to the CPD lab came back negative. Would that be possible?

  “No way,” said Clausen. “Everything in that vehicle would have been hot.”

  “That’s my problem in a nutshell, John. The Deputy Commissioner, hell, the Commissioner himself, may be in on this. They took the suspect away so quickly you’d have thought he was radioactive. We ran fingerprints, and there aren’t any matches. A couple hours later the car is out of impound without any paperwork based entirely on the Commissioner’s order.”

  “It sounds pretty bad. That’s why this needs to be turned over to the FBI. The feds need to get involved.”

  “You have to give me some time, John. If we bring somebody else in and they turn out to be dirty, I don’t have to tell you the consequences.”

  “Or if we don’t involve the FBI, and you can’t figure it all out, it could end just as badly, Chad. Look, you need to be very sure here. A lot of careers could be in jeopardy.” The forensic scientist’s voice was flat and weak.

  There was a lingering silence on the connection before Murkell spoke. “Well, tell me, John, what’s it going to be?”

  Clausen paused for several seconds. “Wow, I can’t believe I’m in the middle of this. All right, Chad, go ahead and do what you need to do. But you better keep me informed, and for God’s sake, don’t take too long. So help me, I’ll call the FBI, and if I do, our friendship be damned.”

  “Fair enough. I’ll be in touch.” Murkell put the phone down and called O’Malley into his office. “I bought us some time. The material is weapons-grade plutonium. Kevin, there very well may be a bomb in the city, and for all we know, the Commissioner’s Office is in on it.”

  “But why for God’s sake?” said O’Malley. “They can’t possibly be involved with a plot to nuke Chicago. It’s insane.”

  “No more insane than nuking Istanbul or Mumbai… Alright, give me another explanation.”

  O’Malley shrugged. “I don’t have one.” He appeared confused and distracted.

  “Have you tried to locate the suspect since he left here? … Kevin?”

  “Yeah, suspect, right. I called every captain at the different precincts. The suspect isn’t in our custody anymore. He was either handed over to the Feds, or he disappeared.”

  “Did the sweep turn up anything?”

  “No luck. We moved out six blocks from the parking garage in concentric circles using the dogs and the detectors. Cap, we’re gonna have to call in the Feds. This is just too big to keep under wraps.”

  Murkell stroked his chin. “I suppose you’re right, but after we saw how they treated that perp, do we risk it? Maybe we call someone else. The army? Homeland Security?”

  “I don’t know, Cap. I’m outta answers. Did you find anything on the national wires?”

  “Probably not, but there were a few of incidents that seemed really odd. Unrelated I guess—I don’t know.” Murkell handed a printout to O’Malley. “In general, it’s getting a lot more violent out there, but I discovered three major crimes involving law enforcement officers over the past couple weeks. A cop poisoned his wife in Alabama; the second had to do with a DEA official who was on the payroll of one of the cartels. But it’s the third one that caught my eye. Check out page five about half way down.”

  O’Malley flipped through the document until he found the item and read it out loud. “Seattle Detective Jose Munoz is wanted in connection with the murders of two FBI agents, a high profile banker and a local Seattle delivery man.”

  “They have manhunt going on for him,” said Murkell. “Don’t you find that odd? Detective Jose Munoz, 54 years old and a member of Seattle PD for over 30 years, is inexplicably involved with four murders. Two of them are FBI agents. Why would he do something like that?”

  “He could have snapped, I guess.”

  Murkell stoked his chin thoughtfully. “I suppose… But don’t forget there was an FBI agent who was at our suspect’s interrogation with the deputy commissioner and that high-brow lawyer. What if we’re not the only ones who stumbled onto this? What if this Seattle cop knows more than we do? It’s a nuclear weapon for God’s sake; this has to go way beyond a single foreign terrorist.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “We need to find Detective Munoz before the authorities do.”

  O’Malley raised his eyebrows. “Wow, are we grasping here? How would we even do that, Cap? Some cops from Chicago looking for a Seattle cop wanted for murder? It would have to raise suspicions.”

  “Let’s rule out his wife screwin’ around on him or something like that,” said Murkell. “If this isn’t a crime of passion, we need to find someone who will tell us exactly why a career detective would kill two FBI agents—unless he had a damn good reason.”

  “Ok, I’ll ask Carey if he knows the guy. If I remember right, he used to work at Seattle PD. “

  “Good. We need a reliable contact over there. Try and find out who knew Munoz best. Get his wife’s number and see if she knows anything. A 30-year vet has to have made some friends somewhere. Let’s find them.”

  “And if it’s a dead end?

  “We keep looking for something suspicious and stay low profile. Remember, CPD forensics came back negative on the carpet, so that should buy us some time. I’m giving it eight hours and then we call Homeland Security.”

  ***

  Xavier Watts sat in the enclosed sun room of his plush Balboa Terrace home, sipping Chianti and reading Bukowski’s “Pulp.” His hand rested on top of the classic Ore phone that was prominently featured on his Bavarian teakwood desk. There was a call coming very soon, and it wouldn’t be good news. Watts had a sense for such things; it was one of the qualities that most endeared him to the Benefactor.

  He lifted the handset before a single ring sounded.

  “Hell—Hello?

  “Yes, Watts here.”

  “Oh, I didn’t hear a ring. I… anyway, this is Abernathy. The girl never showed up in Sacramento. In fact, she turned the car around and headed north again. I hoped I could find her, but I—uh—we are having trouble tra
cking her.”

  “That is very bad news indeed, Thomas.”

  “Uh, what would you like me to do?”

  “Keep looking for her for the time being. Is there news on the Seattle detective? What was his name, Jose Munoz?

  “Ah, that's not good either. Our operatives were taking care of the Harold Moss problem at his home when they apparently encountered Munoz. One of them was killed. We added the murder of Moss and our operative to his APB...”

  “Hello? Ah...sir?”

  “I’m thinking Thomas. I don’t have any answers at the moment. Unfortunately, I’ll have to deal with my disappointment in you before I respond. I’ll get back to you within the hour.”

  Watts stared at the phone for several moments before pouring himself another glass of Chianti. He knew what he must do, but he dreaded the prospect of making the next phone call. One never really knew how the Benefactor would react to bad news.

  He picked up and then released the phone several times before summoning the fortitude to dial into the Benefactor’s direct line. The phone rang, but it never connected. Instead, the presence of Mr. Cox swelled in Watts’ mind until it permeated through every thought and memory. He despised the intrusion; the nakedness he felt as the Benefactor worked through his various lobes, extracting information that would be used to confirm Watts’ loyalty. When the Benefactor finally spoke, it was through complex feelings that bubbled up in Watts’ consciousness, like air pockets rising through thick oil.

  What is it, Xavier?

  “Sir, we have—problems,” said Watts out loud. “The girl, Johansen, never showed up in Sacramento. Perhaps worse, we have a detective from the Seattle police department who has compromised a level three associate.”

  The pause was painfully long, and Watts’ brain burned with the intensity of perchloric acid. He fought to maintain his composure, but the pain was so great he finally succumbed and dropped to his knees. He silently screamed for mercy and relief. Finally, after what seemed like an infinite excursion into hell, the pain subsided, and as it wafted off in waves, the thoughts of Mr. Cox became clearer.

  It is—the other. It cannot be anyone else. I must find him and destroy him. He cannot have Sarah or disrupt my plan. Call Alan and tell him to find this detective. In the meantime, I will locate the girl. Abernathy must drive north toward Oregon. That is where they are heading.

  “I will, Benefactor. I will follow your instructions, as I always do.

  Good. The time is drawing near, Xavier. We must make certain that no one disrupts our grand design. Not when we are so close.

  ***

  Kathy sat alone in a posh penthouse hotel room in midtown Manhattan, staring blankly at the bottle of sleeping pills and a tumbler filled with Dalmore Single Malt. In the short period she served as the Benefactor’s personal attorney, Kathy arranged for the release of a convicted murderer, a terrorist and a rapist. She manipulated the system in the most heinous ways and used compromising photos and recordings to force a prominent senator to resign.

  All of that had proven palatable, but her last assignment was not.

  Jurgis Hinson was an important figure in the Denmark underworld, and for over a decade, he had been responsible for the transfer and sale of massive shipments of cocaine and heroin from the Baltics into Europe and the United States. He was also the largest gunrunner in the Western Hemisphere and almost single-handedly equipped the Muslim radical movements in Libya and Tunisia. Hinson was a man without a conscience, ruled only by money and power.

  Of course, this made him a prime candidate for recruitment into the Benefactor’s Network, and when he understood the perks, he joined immediately and used the group’s abundant resources to expand his wicked behavior.

  None of this affected Kathy on an emotional level. She had grown numb to the depraved men that constantly surrounded her, at least until she received instructions to fly to New York and represent Hinson on a child murder charge. As usual, there was a packet waiting for her when she arrived. It held several damning documents that identified the prosecutor as part of a government land swap scheme that netted the conspirators millions.

  She met with the attorney over dinner at a swank midtown French restaurant. He was a young, handsome African-American, who was confident and self-assured. Kathy wondered if she would have sex with him after he capitulated and dropped the charges against Hinson.

  “You realize this is official business, Ms. Rodgers?”

  “Of course Mr. Walls. But please call me Kathy.”

  “Uh, sure, and I’m—Mark. Let me get to the point. I’m authorized to offer a first degree murder charge, but we’ll forgo life without parole. We’ll instead agree to 50 years to life. He could get out in 30.”

  Kathy chuckled. “My client is 55. He would be 85 before he was eligible for parole. That won’t work.”

  “That won’t work?” Walls leaned back and looked at her incredulously. “Do you know what this dirtball did?”

  “Honestly, Mark, I don’t really care. I need him released by the end of business tomorrow. It’s up to you how it happens.”

  There was a long pause, and then he got up from the table. “Lady, I don’t know what you’re after.”

  Kathy pushed the envelope toward him. He reached over slowly and picked it up, handling it like kryptonite. After unfastening the clasp, he pulled out the first document. One third of the way down the page, he dropped the envelope and slumped back into his chair as a dark expression spread crossed his face “How? How did you…”

  “Not important. Look, I don’t care how many children you fathered out of wedlock, but your wife might care.” She smiled and leaned in close. “Let’s make this easy. The only thing that matters is that the charges are dropped. Nolle prosequi.”

  Tears welled in his eyes, and he looked away for a moment. “Of course. I’ll figure out a way. But I need time.”

  “You have until 5 p.m. tomorrow.” She rose and grabbed her purse. “I’ll see you then—unless—unless you want to come back to my room?”

  Walls did a double take and then reached down into his briefcase and extracted a single photo. He stood up and faced Kathy directly. “Here is the boy Hinson killed, Ms. Rodgers. This is the man you’re putting back on the street. You look long and hard.” He flipped it across the table and then walked away.

  Kathy looked at the photograph and gasped. The child was about the same age as Ryan, but he had been dismembered in the most gruesome manner. The killer positioned the limbs in a pattern mimicking the classic DaVinci Vitruvian Man pose with arms and legs extended, except there was no head or torso. Hinson used a piece of chalk to draw the outline of a body trunk and head so that the arms and legs were connected in a bizarre combination of flesh and free-form drawing. For Hinson, this kind of exhibit was typical of his murderous pattern, but until now he had never done this to a child.

  Before her eyes, the photo began to morph. Kathy blinked, but the image continued to change. When clarity returned, the picture displayed the torn and bloody corpse of Ryan. Kathy gasped and grabbed the photograph and turned it over, but the image seeped through the back side of the photo paper. She grabbed the picture and stuffed it in her purse, but the sight of her mangled son could not be purged from her thoughts.

  Somehow, she managed to get a cab and return to her hotel room. A steaming shower did nothing to erase the memory, and several drinks wouldn’t ease the pain either. For an eternity she sat staring at the pills, until she reached out and opened the bottle and extracted a handful. If she was going to do it, now was the time. Kathy learned how to sense the Benefactor’s attentiveness to the Network. It was subtle, but his influence ebbed and flowed, especially when he was sexually active. At this moment, his grip on her was relaxed, and he might be unaware of what she was doing.

  Kathy moved her hand up to her mouth and placed the pills inside, slowly, one at a time. The thin casings began to instantly dissolve in her saliva. She brought the whiskey glass to her lips and took a
long drink.

  The deed was done, but perhaps more pills would make it faster. She reached back for the bottle, but a small hand unexpectedly closed around her wrist with surprising strength. She looked up and gasped; it was Ryan standing right in front of her.

  ***

  Alan closed the window on his terminal and hit the autodial button. The cell phone on the other end rang just once before engaging.

  “Watts here.”

  Alan used the video link, so they shared an image of each other. Watts was always unsettled by the miscreant’s disheveled appearance and neglected grooming.

  “Hi, this is Alan. I’ve been following the alert you gave me on that cop who’s causing all the problems. He’s using a restricted cell phone band; it sticks out like a sore thumb. I’ve sent it to you and the law enforcement people we have with us. He’s been talking to some bitch at Seattle PD dispatch, but I think they’ve changed communications. Get her the hell out of there, and let’s get this guy.”

  “Ok, Alan good work. Where is the rogue cop located?”

  There was a pause. “I don’t know. He’s shielded somehow. Underground, in a lead-lined room, a parking garage, bomb shelter—how the fuck should I know?”

  “That’s disappointing... We’ve given you millions of dollars of the latest technology, and you can’t pinpoint a cell phone signal?”

  Alan grabbed at his face and pulled tightly, twisting the skin while grimacing. “This isn’t my fault,” he raged. “I’ve kept this whole stinking piece of shit together. I’m at the end of my rope here, Mr. Watts.”

  “There’s no need for that, Alan. Don’t overact. You stay on those frequencies, and we’ll take care of the field issues. Understood?”

  “I don’t know shit, Mr. Watts. I only understand I have a father who won’t even admit he has a son.”

  “Look, Alan, I don’t know any other way to put this: You need to shut your damn mouth and do what you’re told. I can find someone else to do your job, do you understand? You're not the only computer genius in the Network.”