Coercion

by Tigner, Tim

  “That’s a cover. Look behind it. The change compartment is where I hide my badge. People don’t like to cooperate with us Feds, but a gumshoe…” Alex shrugged and then leaned back in the chair, crossing his legs out before him at the ankles. He hoped this projected a confidence he did not feel.

  Carlos tried to pop the wallet’s snap with just his left thumb but it was a tough one. His eyes narrowed, and he took a step to the side. He carefully set Smith & Wesson on an end table, aligning himself so he could keep his eyes on Alex, the wallet, and the gun. Then he popped the snap with his right hand. Big mistake.

  As the tear-gas capsule exploded in Carlos’s face, Alex kicked out at the end table’s crossbar, sending it flying with Smith and Wesson along for the ride. Then Alex jumped to his feet.

  If you’ve never experienced the joy of tear gas first hand, words won’t help you appreciate the agony a snout-full will bring. Suffice it to say that it’s not stupidity motivating the people who run from tear-gassed houses into storms of bullets or the arms of the law. Still, the dosage in the wallet was small, and Carlos was no lightweight. He charged Alex like a blinded bull, determined to impale his tormenter against the windowed wall on horns of rage.

  Alex dropped onto his back and caught the charging Latino’s pelvis with the soles of his feet, absorbing the brute’s energy with spring-like legs. As Carlos tumbled forward, Alex rolled and catapulted him back into the air.

  When Carlos hit the window, he was upside down and bottom first; when Carlos hit the pavement—it didn’t matter.

  Alex was still on his back and breathing heavy when his cell phone began to vibrate. It took a couple shakes for him to realize what was going on.

  “Hello.”

  By the time he hung up the phone, Alex had forgotten about the mess that lay bleeding eighteen floors below.

  Chapter 4

  San Francisco, California

  When you place a Glock 19 to your head and pull the trigger, the bullet leaves the barrel at 1200 feet per second. At this velocity, it takes less than 1/1000th of a second for the bullet to blast away your right temple, drill through your brain’s right and left frontal lobes, destroy your primary motor cortex, and explode out the left hemisphere of your skull. As violent as this may sound, in the grand scheme of things it’s not a bad way to go—when the time has come.

  ~ ~ ~

  “I apologize for inflicting the third degree at a time like this, Mr. Ferris, but as a detective yourself, I’m sure you can appreciate my quandary. Your story doesn’t make sense.”

  “What doesn’t make sense, Detective Vogel, is your wasting time on me while my brother’s murderer is getting away.”

  “Tell me again, exactly what the caller said.”

  Alex was approaching emotional overload. He knew that was precisely what his interrogator wanted, and ironically he respected the detective for taking him there, but it really was a waste of precious time. He had nothing to hide—well, almost nothing.

  “Did you hear me, Mr. Ferris?”

  “He said ‘Alex Ferris?’ I said ‘Yes.’ He said ‘This is the Palo Alto Police Department calling. There’s been an incident involving your brother. We need you to come to his house right away.’ I said, ‘Is he all right?’ The caller replied ‘I can’t go into specifics on the phone.’ I said ‘I’ll be there in forty minutes.’ He hung up without another word.

  “And then you called your brother’s number.”

  “And got the answering machine.”

  “And you’re certain you didn’t recognize the caller’s voice?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the voice didn’t sound distorted, muted…?”

  “No. Look, Detective, regardless of how many times you ask, my story is not going to change. To be honest, I don’t understand why you’re asking. It’s obvious that Frank was not killed randomly. He was specifically targeted. It was personal. It was so personal, so spiteful, that even a bullet through the head wasn’t cruel enough. So the killer called me, the only living relative, so I could have the joy of finding my brother’s bled-out corpse on the floor of his study.”

  “The call caught my attention, too. Wicked is the first word that comes to mind, perhaps punishing. Under other circumstances, I might wonder if you weren’t the primary target.”

  “Other circumstances?”

  “Thirty eight minutes elapsed between the time you received the phone call and the time you called 911. Your presence across town at the time of the call has been, ahem, corroborated.” Vogel nodded to emphasize the irony. “First and probably last time I’ll get an alibi like yours. In any case, those thirty-eight minutes are more than accounted for, especially given the economy rental you’re driving. What interests me are the three-hundred seconds between your 911 call and the arrival of the first squad car. I find it hard to believe that someone with your background and training wouldn’t use that time to investigate … or cover up ...”

  “If it had been anyone else, Detective, I probably would have poked around. But it wasn’t anyone else. It was my twin. And I’m only human—a fact which you might want to consider as we enter our third hour of ‘discussion.’ While waiting for the police to arrive I sat in the armchair across from my brother’s body, and wept.”

  “Nothing else?”

  “Nothing else.”

  “Tell me, did you join the CIA to catch the terrorists who murdered your parents?”

  Alex could neither believe where this was going nor how quickly. Vogel was good, the bastard. “You’re remarkably well informed, Detective.”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  “It was sixteen years ago.”

  “But you did catch them?”

  “That information is classified.”

  Again, Vogel ignored his comment. “And then you left the CIA to start your own agency.”

  Alex nodded but Vogel didn’t notice. A second detective had entered the room. He handed Vogel a piece of paper. Given Vogel’s reaction, Alex got the impression that his last round of questions had been a fishing expedition, a stall tactic while waiting for that message to arrive.

  Vogel pulled a pair of silver half-framed reading glasses from his shirt pocket, donned them, read the note, and looked up. “The call to your cell phone was made from a Quickie-Mart pay phone two miles from here, two miles in the opposite direction from which you came. Phone records corroborate the record you showed us on your cell phone. You didn’t make the call … and your brother didn’t make the call.”

  “What is it with you and the killer’s call? No, never mind. Are you convinced now that I did not kill Frank? Am I free to go looking for the real killer?”

  “Oh, I’ve known all along that you didn’t kill your brother, Mr. Ferris.” Vogel removed his glasses. “In fact, I know who killed him. I just couldn’t explain the call. It doesn’t fit. My job is investigating things that don’t fit. If I do that right, sometimes I get to prevent crimes, rather than just clean up afterwards. Again, I apologize for the inconvenience. You have my sincere condolences. We’ll be leaving now.”

  Alex could hardly believe his ears. “You know who killed Frank?”

  Vogel nodded. “Your brother committed suicide, Mr. Ferris.”

  “That’s not possible.” Alex heard the words come out before he knew he’d spoken them. It was like learning that your foot kicked out during a reflex test because you see it move. Nonetheless, he knew it was true.

  “I’m afraid it’s not a question, Mr. Ferris. It’s a forensic fact.”

  “You didn’t know Frank. He—”

  “But I do know forensics, Alex. You’re a pro. You know how it works. Facts are facts. People are people. The laws of physics are immutable. People are not.”

  “What’s the evidence?”

  “I can’t involve a civilian, especially a relative, in an investigation. Even an ex-CIA officer.”

  “But you just told me in so many words that the investigation is closed. You’ve
ruled it a suicide.”

  Vogel began to answer but paused. Alex jumped into the crack of indecision, and pried. “I took the time to answer your questions, Detective.”

  Vogel took a deep breath and stared at the floor before looking up to lock Alex’s gaze. “The victim had both stippling and starring on his right temple. Do you know what that means?”

  Alex closed his eyes and took a deep breath, willing his mind to shift gears. When he reopened them, they were clear as blue ice crystals. “It means the gun was up against his temple at the time it was fired. Was there bruising?”

  “No. There was no sign that the barrel was pressed forcefully against his temple.” Vogel broke eye contact, ostensibly it was to look down at his notes, but he didn’t don his reading glasses. “The trajectory of the bullet was consistent with a self-inflicted wound. Lividity and blood spatter both indicate that the body was not touched after death, aside from your pulse check. I paid special attention to the hand that held the weapon. It would have been nearly impossible to plant.”

  “Still, someone who reads detective novels or watches late-night television could have known what you’d be looking for, known how to hold the gun, figured out an ‘impossible’ way to put it in my brother’s hand without disturbing the evidence.”

  “Knowing how to do it is one thing, Alex. Being permitted to do it is another. The victim was a young athletic man, and there were no signs of struggle.”

  “Perhaps an acquaintance with a quick draw…”

  “Not so quick that the victim wouldn’t have jerked his head, and we know from the evidence I’ve just explained that he did not jerk.”

  “What if the victim was drunk?”

  Vogel gave an appreciative nod. “That was the first thing I asked to have checked. That,” he paused momentarily and then nodded to himself before continuing, “and the details of your brother’s corporate life insurance policy. His blood alcohol content was zero-point-zero, and the policy doesn’t pay in the event of suicide.” He looked Alex squarely in the eye during the last point.

  Alex did not even know Frank had a life insurance policy, so Vogel got nothing. “Still, your checking acknowledges the possibility that it was murder.”

  “Those checks were for the lawyers. I know suicides, Alex. Been dealing with them for twenty-four years. After that long, you don’t just know how they look; you know how they feel—the real ones, and the faked ones.”

  “Suppose the killer were someone like you, someone who knew just what to do.” Alex canted his head. “How would you do it, Detective?”

  “There’s no way I would attempt it with a gun. The victim would fight, and the forensics would show it.”

  “What if he were sleeping soundly at his desk, completely exhausted?”

  “Then it might be possible—if the victim was a very sound sleeper—except in this case we know he was standing.”

  “I still can’t believe it. There must be some explanation. You didn’t know Frank.”

  “There was a note, Alex.”

  “A note! Why didn’t you say so? Where is it? I want to see it.”

  Vogel pulled a sixteen-page report from the file folder on the end table. “I used your brother’s machine to make you a copy.”

  “This isn’t a—this is a progress report for the UE-2000, Frank’s project.”

  “Dated today. And it is a suicide note, Alex. The format isn’t stereotypical, but it’s more common than you think. Overachievers like the victim tend to attach their self worth to their success. When one bottoms out—as that report clearly indicates—the other sometimes follows.”

  “So how do you explain the call I got?”

  “I can’t Alex. And that does bug me. That’s why I’ve spent this last couple hours going round and round with you. Given the suicide ruling, I’d narrowed the likely sources of the call down to you and your brother. But now that I’ve eliminated you two, I’ve got nothing. The call is a loose end, but I’ve tied up all the other strands as neatly as a bridesmaid’s bouquet. I have no choice but to consider it a red herring and move on.”

  Alex began to speak but Vogel stopped him with raised palms. “I’ll be the first to admit that, at the personal level, it’s not a satisfying course of action. But as a professional, it is the only practical one. I hope you’ll agree that I gave it a good shot.”

  “No pun intended, I’m sure.”

  Vogel grimaced at his faux pas and then motioned to his colleague to clear out.

  Two minutes later Alex was alone in his brother’s house. His house now… As the stillness began to sink into his bones, he found himself afraid to let his emotions loose. He was already too drained to turn that spigot on. So he fired up the coffee pot and forced his mind to keep crunching the mundane.

  How had Vogel known to hone in on those five minutes after he called 911, on his only lie? It had nothing to do with the phone call, but Vogel’s intuition was uncanny nonetheless. He was right; Alex had not just sat there weeping in the chair. His instinct had kicked in, and he’d run up to Frank’s bedroom…

  Alex stood and withdrew Frank’s slim leather diary from the cargo pocket of his coveralls. He didn’t know if anything relevant would be there, but he knew he didn’t want to share any more of Frank with the police, not yet anyway. The death of a sibling was an intimate affair.

  Alex half expected a clap of thunder as he opened the diary and began flipping pages toward the end. Frank was a scientist, a methodical creature of habit, and it showed. The pages of The Puzzler all looked the same. His brilliant brother’s habit had started when he was twelve, and continued for twenty years: concise questions written hopefully at night, brief answers jotted merrily in the morning, the subconscious products of an unfettered analytical mind: Why does it crack? Temperature gradient. How to regenerate? Xenon gas…

  As Alex flipped closer to today’s date, the pattern changed. For the last two months, the bedtime question remained the same and the morning epiphany was always absent, absent until this morning. This morning there was a single word beside last night’s “Who?” The word was “Elaine.”

  Chapter 5

  Los Angeles, 1980

  “The Peregrine has hatched.” Victor had been just twenty-two when he heard those words for the second time. He was standing in a dimly lit smoky room, watching horny fraternity guys make their last ditch efforts to score liquor-loosened sorority girls while Pink Floyd blared numbingly in the background. Graduation was but twelve hours away.

  A stunning coed with long blond hair walked through the crowd to Victor as though he were starring in a beer commercial. She put her arms around his neck, gave him a knockout smile, and started to dance without saying a word. It was the kind of sultry, undulating dance that calls up images of Arabian nights, and sets your blood afire as your throat goes dry. After a nice wide-eyed stare, Victor ripped his gaze from Blondie’s cleavage and began to gyrate. She ran her tongue across her lips to focus his eyes and then mouthed the code in Russian.

  Victor dropped his beer on the frat house floor as his mind balked beneath the weight of a dozen questions and the burden of things to come. She steadied him as his knees grew weak, while his erection stayed his bladder. Now he understood…

  Once Victor stabilized, Blondie stepped back to scoff at him. Then she locked his eyes in a sober stare. “Remember, even at a party, you still serve The Party.” Then she turned and dissolved into the crowd while reality closed around him like an iron fist. After years of establishing deep cover in the US, Victor was being activated.

  He had come to the US five years earlier, a boy of seventeen. Once they implanted him with surgical precision, the KGB had withdrawn from Victor’s life like a disease in remission. They wanted his roots to grow, wanted him to branch out, blend in, and develop. Oh, he had often sensed their presence—watching him, measuring him, judging his competency for things to come. It didn’t really bother him. Life as a student had made his future with the KGB seem removed and ab
stract. He had put it out of his mind as something distant and foreign, like the threat of lung cancer when you light up a cigarette.

  Victor knew that college in America was one long job interview, a test. Now that he was graduating, it appeared the results were in. How had he scored? That was no simple question. Oh, his grades were great, and his student leadership outstanding, but Victor was never sure what the men in Moscow were really looking for. The price of failure on the other hand was crystal clear. He supposed they wanted it that way.

  At least reacting to activation did not require much effort on his part. There were no bags to pack or bills to pay; they would take care of everything. Victor simply had to show up at the Air Canada desk, ready to go anywhere. He hoped Blondie would be accompanying him on the trip—a last wish sort of thing—but it was not to be. Eight hours after graduation Victor found himself on the loneliest flight he ever took. Cyprus was a fine place to make a man disappear.

  He landed with a backpack over his shoulder and his heart on his sleeve. During disembarkation on the Larnaca tarmac, Victor stepped back in the aircraft doorway so he could scan the waiting crowd while the other passengers descended the staircase. What was it going to be? Whom would they send? Would he ever leave this island?

  A newspaper dipped, a perfectly-coiffed head looked up, and piercing eyes arrested his gaze: Father. Women flushed, men flinched, doors opened, doubts vanished—Vasily Karpov changed things just by walking into a room. The General’s charisma had little effect on Victor, however. He was immune. All he ever felt was fear, the fear of letting the Great Man down. Was it a good sign that his father had come personally, or a bad one? Victor swallowed hard even as he drew his hand away from the ceramic knife in his sleeve.

  Five minutes later, after a welcome as warm and tender as a court summons, Victor was sitting in silence. He was in the defendant’s chair, and about to be read his sentence. Just get it over with.

  He worked hard not to fidget as his father turned the jeep left out of the airport and accelerated toward the Troodos Mountains. Now that Victor knew he had a future, he was trying to take his mind off the fact that he was about to have it dictated to him. There was nothing on The General’s face, no indication, good or bad, of things to come. If his father ever had a heart, he had lost it long ago.