The Practical Spy

by Doug Walker

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Tony Morgenson slipped happily back into his element as head of President Warren’s political team. Those offices were across the river in Northern Virginia, a place unto itself, not part of Washington and disowned by the remainder of the Old Dominion.

  To Orson’s disgust, the authorities had been forced to let Jacob Irons and his NRA lobbyist boss, Pat Tullis, off the hook. Insufficient evidence and no charges were filed. Irons had heeded Orson’s advice and left town without a forwarding address. He was a small fish in a big, nasty scheme and Orson’s focus was on Tullis. But he needed a plan.

  He did however ask his private eye to put a tracer on Jacob Irons. It’s difficult for a person, particularly one that must remain gainfully employed, to drop completely out of sight. His intention was to harass Irons from time to time, not to do him any real harm.

  He and Morgenson had become fairly close friends, and it was that pub brawler he sought out with his tale of woe over Pat Tullis. He explained the situation and Morgenson, who was always ready for any kind of physical activity, hopped on board. The big man also had friends of the same ilk.

  For the better part of a week four of them took turns staking out the Tullis home in Falls Church, watching for patterns. Early one morning, Morgenson and two companions wearing black head sacks seized Tullis as he walked from his front door to his carport. A neighborhood young mother on her morning run heard Tullis shout out “Orson Platt” as he was tumbled into the trunk of a dark sedan. She watched in horror as the car sped away, but failed to note the license, which was obscured by some sort of covering.

  Orson had not been a member of the kidnap gang, which headed for a small summer cabin in the West Virginia hills. Tullis, chained hand and foot, was confined to a root cellar accessed by trap door from the cabin’s kitchen. One of the three remained in the cabin, reading and watching TV, dropping a plastic jar of water and a pack of crackers into the cellar each morning.

  The morning of the fourth day, Morgenson visited the cabin, black head sack and all, opened the trap and asked Tullis how he was doing.

  “This is inhuman,” the chained man almost screamed. “I’m lying in my own excrement. There are probably bugs down here. Are you Orson Platt?”

  “Platt? Who’s that? You have some information for us. Here’s what we must know. You have a total gun collection at your headquarters. To whom did you loan an assault rifle and who used it to shoot Delilah Simpson.”

  “That’s outrageous,” Tullis screamed back. “Let me out of here. I won’t tell the police who you are.”

  “We’ve had a little argument up here. If you won’t talk, we can’t decide whether to sprinkle black widow spiders over your head, or insert a full grown copperhead. Do you have a preference?”

  “You bastards.”

  “You’ve got spunk, I’ll say that. Death by snake or spider bite might be painful, but only for a few hours. When your body is found, who’s to blame? A spider or a snake. Take your choice.”

  “You can’t get away with this…” were the words heard as the trap door slammed shut.

  Morgenson turned to his drinking buddy and said, “I’ll be back in two days. Got enough beer here?”

  “Plenty. I’m enjoying the rest.”

  The afternoon of the kidnapping, a pair of FBI men visited the White House and demanded to see Orson. They were escorted to his office by two Secret Service agents.

  “You’re under arrest, Mr. Platt,” the lead agent said, pulling out handcuffs.

  “Have a seat, gentlemen,” Orson said, adding, “All four of you.”

  “You’re under arrest,” the agent repeated, still standing.

  “And you’re in the White House. Now sit down and tell me the charges.”

  Reluctantly, he sat down and the others followed suit. “Kidnapping. You seized Pat Tullis early this morning and shoved him into the trunk of a vehicle.”

  “Oh, really. What vehicle?”

  “A dark sedan.”

  “So far, so good. So you rescued this Tullis and have the car in custody. Is that correct?”

  “Of course not. You can supply the needed facts. You were spotted at the crime scene.”

  “By who?”

  “A young woman out for a run heard the person being assaulted call out your name.”

  “And she got a good look at me. My face is unforgettable.”

  “You were masked.”

  “Was I alone?”

  “There were two companions.” The FBI agent showed some irritation. ”You can’t question us. We’re here to question you. So you might as well give yourself up.”

  “And your evidence is that someone shouted my name. Is that it?”

  “Of course that’s it. The man being kidnapped knew you, knows you.”

  “Has there been a mysterious phone call, or ransom note?”

  “Of course not. You think this man may have been involved in killing your wife.”

  “If that man’s a murderer, maybe you’re barking up the wrong tree.”

  “He’s an executive in the NRA.”

  “And I’m an executive in the White House. If I were you two I would have a care. You are acting impetuously on a rumor, not a shred of evidence. A cry from a man who may be implicated in a murder.”

  “We’ve come to take you in for questioning.”

  “No charges.”

  “We have the authority to charge you with kidnapping. Perhaps it would be better if you simply accompany us to the building.”

  “The J. Edgar Hoover building.”

  “Of course.”

  “When did this alleged crime occur?”

  “About seven this morning.”

  “Do you know a person named John McBride?”

  “If it’s the FBI man, he’s one of our bosses.”

  “At about seven this morning I was having breakfast with him.”

  “I don’t believe you?”

  “Call him.”

  The call was made and the FBI men departed.

  Moments later, Orson’s secretary reported, “A Mr. McBride is on line one.”

  “You son of a bitch,” McBride laughed. “You’re in this up to your eye balls. Who’d you hire to do the job? We’ll find out, you know that.”

  “Like the good German, I know nothing. I’ve heard that this so-called victim, this Tullis, may be implicated in the murder of my wife. Is that true? Have you followed up on that one? Were you about to nail him?”

  “Ok, Orson, I’m on to your game.”

  “You’re not even in the ball park, John. You let Jacob Irons fly the coop without batting an eye. You’re running the Keystone Kops over there. So far I’ve got one private eye working the case and he alone has turned up some indicting findings. You sit on the sidelines with your thumb up your ass.” With that he slammed down the phone.

  Orson was aware that he being watched. It enraged him that the FBI would call out the hounds to try to nail him, while not turning their hand to find his wife’s killer. Although McBride had assigned an agent to that case.

  That the agency had attached some type of homing device to his car was very likely. Orson made no attempted to find it. Instead, on the third day, when he drove to the cabin, he first drove to National, parked his car in short term, entered the terminal and rented a car. Then took a devious route. The FBI had given up visual pursuit. For the two preceding days, Orson had spent two to three hours after work driving aimlessly around the area.

  On the sixth day after the kidnaping, Orson drove the nanny’s car to national and rented another car, then took a circuitous route to the cabin, arriving before Tullis received his daily rations.

  The trap door was opened, Orson had donned his mask. He asked, “How’s our cellar companion.”

  “He don’t say much. I say we off the motherfucker. That’s part of the chain broken. If we let him live, the court might let him go. NRA you know, big bucks, big influence on the hill.”

  “You may be right,”
Orson replied. “Spiders or snake?”

  “Let the fucker starve. I can fix it so his body will never be found. Guaranteed.”

  Orson moved close to the trap. “You hear us, Pat?”

  “I hear you. I’m dying down here.”

  “I’m afraid that’s the truth. But nice guys that we are. You have one more chance to talk and talk straight to win your freedom.”

  “You want me to implicate myself?”

  “That is your chance, your only chance. Then you take your chances with the courts. I’d say that’s the best deal you’re going to get. You can do it now, or you can starve. Maybe spiders or snakes.”

  “I’ll talk.”

  “OK. Instead of a snake, I’ll dangle a microphone down. Be sure to give your name and occupation. Don’t mention kidnapping or any crime on our part or any location. You have our word if you tell the whole story from start to finish you will be released. Also, cleaned up right away.”

  “I need some water. Also something to eat other than crackers.”

  “We’ll lower a few goodies down. It’s like your birthday.”

  “You can’t believe the mess I’m in.”

  Pat Tullis told his story from beginning to end, even naming the boatman who was loaned a military style sniper’s rifle.

  When that was done a black hood was tossed down.”Put the hood over your head, pull the drawstring around your neck and tie it. If you remove the hood for any reason, we’ll have to kill you,” Orson’s friend ordered.

  “I understand. You’re playing hardball.”

  They managed to get a rope around his chains and hoist him up. What a mess he was. They dragged him into the bathroom. The door was left open while he cleaned himself up, finally taking a shower, a bit hard for a blind man. He came out of the bathroom clean, dripping and nude. First a towel, then a jump suit.

  “You’ll remain here for a day or two. The confession will be transcribed and you’ll sign it. You’ll be chained to a bed. The head sack can be removed only to eat and then one glance at your captor and a bullet goes through your head. You understand?”

  “Of course. Maybe it’s the Stockholm syndrome, but I’m beginning to like you guys.”

  The three of them had a good laugh. Tullis was chained to the bed and Orson took the confession and departed.

  So that was basically it. With the name of his wife’s killer in hand, Orson had his private eye locate the man. He was a so-called “waterman” on Chesapeake Bay and a known gun nut.

  Orson typed the confession himself, but had the third man in the kidnap gang deliver it to the cabin for Pat Tullis’ signature. Then it was breakfast with McBride again.

  After coffee and the other niceties and before attacking the bacon, eggs and grits, Orson mentioned that he knew the name of his wife’s killer.

  “Good work. Would you like a job with the bureau?”

  “Tullis is implicated.”

  “I never doubted it.”

  “I trust you, John, but the FBI has not led in this case. If I give you the name of the killer at this time, what will you do?”

  “I’ll want proof.”

  “That’s all I wanted to know. I am one hungry man.” Orson took a fork and mixed his egg yolks with the grits, then munched on a slice of bacon.

  “You’re not going to tell me, are you?”

  “And let you bungle another lead. Of course not. But you will learn the name in a few days. Never fear. Patience, a great virtue.”

  “I can be patient.”

  “I also know where Jacob Irons is working. You might want to connect the dots since Tullis sent him to learn where Delilah was living and, for good measure, her habit of walking on the beach early in the morning.”

  “You want to tell me that?”

  “Come now, John. You must know that. Such a simple matter to track an amateur like Irons.”

  “We don’t know, but I suppose I can find him.”

  “Flush him out with a visit from the local bureau. One chat and he flees like a jackrabbit again. Why bother? Do you guys ever catch a criminal?”

  “We’re going to catch you.”

  “Sure. Catch me. Let my wife’s killer go. Some justice.”

  Copies of the Tullis confession, both tape and hard copies, were sent by messenger to leaders in the House, Senate and to the FBI. Well, not to the actual House and Senate leaders. They never read anything except press releases and contribution checks. But to their lead staffers whose job it is to stay alert. Orson made a point to call McBride that morning and give him the name and address of the Chesapeake waterman. Tullis was released at midnight in downtown Baltimore.