Serial Intent

by Steve Bradshaw

  Marcantonio countersigned. They shook hands, clicked glasses, and finished their drinks staring at each other. Could this deal work, or did Eldon just sign away his life? He had to lay some ground rules.

  “I will never do anything illegal, Mr. Marcantonio. And I will advise you not to break the law as well.” He held his glass out for more.

  Marcantonio poured. “I expect nothing less.” He leaned back into his leather cushion and his face hardened. “There are histories and tricky business structures I will protect until they can properly evolve. Those matters will be shared—to a limited degree—so you can participate in the restructure process without being morally or ethically compromised.”

  “I appreciate that consideration. I do have one other request.”

  “Please, go ahead.”

  “Do not ask me to defend another James Pender? That was the single worst experience of my life.” He swallowed half his glass and looked at the ceiling in disgust. “That man is evil. He killed innocent people. My defense made a mockery of the justice system. I’m ashamed of the procedural knots I tied.” His eyes found Marcantonio. “In the future, you should be very careful around animals like Mr. Pender. They will topple everything important to you.”

  Marcantonio sighed. “Pender was the son of a man who did something for me many years ago, a man I owed a great debt of gratitude. He asked I help his misguided son one time. I did.” Marcantonio puffed his new cigar alive and studied the ash. “James Pender will not be a problem for either of us, Mr. Babcock. Your advice for the future is sound.”

  He tapped his cigar on the tar-stained onyx ashtray. His voice hardened. He spoke like the powerful mafia boss Eldon had envisioned. “The rest of the paperwork will be delivered to your offices tomorrow by special courier. I ask you execute immediately and return it to me. Upon receipt, I will deposit $2,000,000 in the Babcock, Boyle & Braden bank account.”

  Eldon nodded. He found Marcantonio easier to work with than he had envisioned. Maybe it could work. “I will return the executed documents as requested. However, may I ask you hold the retainer until I request deposit? I need a few days to make arrangements.”

  “Certainly, but the terms of our agreement are not altered. Delay in transfer of funds is your preference, no longer a decision point.”

  “Understood and agreed.” The two clicked glasses a second time. “Now, what is the pressing matter requiring my immediate assistance?”

  Marcantonio smiled. “I’ve enjoyed a certain business of mine for three decades. I am referring to the acquisition of various pharmaceutical products and the redistribution of said products on the South Side of our fine city.”

  “Pharmaceuticals,” Eldon said loosening his tie.

  “We are the exclusive vendor for a defined region. We have a long-standing arrangement with an independent network of vetted suppliers and dealers. We take our products to market—both small wholesale businesses and consumers. This particular family enterprise is extremely profitable. It generates enough revenue in a week to satisfy our entire arrangement.”

  “I gather these pharmaceuticals are controlled substances,” Eldon said.

  “Yes. The best available in the central corridor of the United States.”

  “Without a need to know specifics, tell me about the problem.”

  “Interruption in redistribution,” Marcantonio shot back.

  “I would assume interruption in redistribution is a routine and known risk. I would also assume your operation has safeguards and countermeasures to manage such a risk.”

  “Your assumptions are accurate to a point. The established safeguards have had no impact on this particular problem. Allow me to share a recent event. It happened in the early morning hours today—2:30 a.m. My people were visiting a new drop site, a trailer parked on a vacant lot. The property belongs to your law firm.”

  “I think you’re mistaken,” Eldon chuckled. “I can assure you, we do not own property on the South Side. That part of the city is gangland, not a real estate investment opportunity.”

  “You wouldn’t know about this investment. Not unless you looked in the right place. Your father purchased three lots on 27th Street years ago. Back then the South Side was viewed a sound investment. Unfortunately the area went downhill. A lot of money was lost. Your father ran into financial problems and needed a loan. No bank would work with him. I took the three lots to collateralize my loan to Jennings. I still hold the deeds of trust, although BB&B is still the owner. Should Jennings default on the loan, I would own the property. I never did get paid. I still hold the deeds.”

  “I see,” Eldon said under his breath.

  “My men went there early this morning. It was a simple inspection visit. We had parked a trailer on one of the vacant lots and left it there for several weeks.”

  “Your visit this morning, was it the first after parking the trailer?”

  “Yes. Three of my men were attacked.”

  “Unless I missed something, this sounds like a drug war. This can’t be the first time. I’m sure you know your enemies and how to handle such matters. Why do you need my help?”

  Marcantonio sat motionless holding his cigar, his thoughts miles away. Eldon waited and watched the anger in his eyes turn into fear. “What’s the matter?” Eldon asked.

  Marcantonio butted out his cigar and spoke without emotion. “You know why we don’t need to worry about James Pender?”

  “Why?” Eldon asked. Tell me that evil man got what he deserved. Tell me another criminal had delivered justice by removing him from the planet.

  “James Pender is dead.”

  There is a God. “Dead! How?”

  “Are you familiar with the Chicago police POD program?”

  “I am. Hundreds of cameras around the city.”

  “Let’s just say I have friends in the department.” Marcantonio reached for a TV remote and slid a tape into the slot of a dusty video deck. The monitor popped on and lines rolled.

  “The CPD and DEA have been watching my operations for years, Mr. Babcock. We’ve been able to work around them quite well. We knew they had a POD watching our new site on 27th Street. We left it alone for three weeks knowing they typically lose interest after two. End of the third week we visited the site to inspect the trailer for tampering by locals. That’s why we were there. And that’s when my men were attacked.”

  “No product on the site?”

  “Correct. Just an empty trailer. Regardless of that, two of my men were seriously injured—broken arms and legs and ribs. Pender was killed. This is a copy of a portion of the POD watching our trailer. These thirty seconds cost me $25,000.” Marcantonio pressed play.

  They watched a large man leap over a chain-linked fence and hide in the brush. He then charged the trailer tackling two men. He hit each with a single blow and threw them across the lot like ragdolls. “My God he’s strong,” Eldon gasped.

  “Is that Pender hiding at the back of trailer?” Eldon asked.

  “Yes. Keep your eyes on him. This happens fast.” On Marcantonio’s last word Pender stepped out of the shadow waving a knife. His head exploded. Pender’s lifeless body collapsed and the video went blank.

  Eldon covered his mouth to stop the gagging reflex. He looked away. “Do you know the man who charged your men? He had to hurl them thirty or more feet. I don’t understand.”

  Marcantonio stared at the black screen. “The man threw two of my people like they weighed nothing. Someone else shot Pender. It was a high-powered rifle from a long distance. That’s why his head exploded. I’m dealing with a sniper and some kind of monster.”

  “I seriously do not know what to say at the moment.”

  “Pender is the third on my payroll shot by a sniper. The guy on the video, I don’t know who he is, but I don’t think he’s working with the sniper.”

  “How do you know?”

  “You can see. The man approached Pender on the video. He was just as surprised as me when Pender’s head expl
oded.”

  “How can I help?” Babcock asked.

  “I need your PI resources looking for these people.”

  “What makes you think my PI people can be any more successful than yours?”

  “Mine had six months and got nowhere. I don’t like being watched and picked-off by unknown entities. These people are on a mission. I cannot afford interruptions. ”

  “A mission?” Eldon asked. Interesting choice of words. “I will need everything you’re investigators have found to date. I want background details on the others you say were executed. I know Pender. I want everything on his kills.” His eyes dropped to the video now squeezed in Marcantonio’s hand. “And I will take that with me tonight.”

  With cold eyes, he passed it to his new attorney. “You’ll have the rest tomorrow.”

  The walk back to his Mercedes was not like the walk to the nefarious meeting with a drug lord. Now Eldon Babcock was invested and exposed. He studied the shadows and passing faces, and he looked over his shoulder at each turn. Did he sign the deal of a lifetime, or did he sign his death certificate?

  The man Eldon Babcock saw on the video moved unlike any man he had ever seen before—a beast hunting men. The man possessed profound physical strength, astounding agility, and had no fear. On the opposite end of the mystery, the sniper revealed nothing but great skill with a high-powered rifle.

  Do these two share a mission, or do they have separate agendas? When I determine that, and how one gets on their list, the trap can be set. Eldon turned his last corner, the wheels in his head spinning. He had clawed his way through Harvard Law and to the top of his profession by applying a superior intellect and employing his honed problem-solving skills. Now he would aim both at taking complete control of his law practice and life.

  When he saw his sparkling white Mercedes parked under the south leg trestle in the dirty snow, he had stopped rubbing a nervous finger on the video cartridge deep in his coat pocket. Eldon smiled. The $2,000,000 retainer fee would free him from the meddling grip of his father, and the $1,000,000 annual stipend would neutralize the board. By the end of the week Eldon would have his team of private investigators in place. By the end of the month he would deliver the two unknowns to William Marcantonio. The expeditious completion of his first assignment would warrant a sizeable bonus.

  Maybe it’s time to trade in the white Mercedes, Eldon thought. On that cold (but triumphant) walk to the car, he did not feel the crosshairs between his eyes, and he did not locate the large shadow under the rusted trestle less than a block away. Eldon did not feel the anger in the eyes of the monster.

  Ten

  When he opened his eyes, he felt ropes and a gag. Unable to move, his wet head throbbed and one sealed eye seemed to be crusted over. In his dark, cold, and cramped confines he prayed to himself. Please God, don’t let me be buried alive . . .

  “Where the hell’s Hutson?” Landers yelled from behind the stacks of files piled high on his desk. Even though he had been sequestered most of the day, he would be pushing paper into the early morning hours. The CPD could not slow down the runaway homicide rate, but they sure could document the hell out of it.

  To make things worse, Landers got the call from the medical examiner—Ramsey took a .50 caliber projectile between the eyes. Experts said it came from a Barrett single-shot bolt-action American sniper rifle with a shooting range of 1.6 miles. Whoever pulled the trigger had to be military trained. That simple reality accounted for three hours of Landers life. He got stuck on the phone with top brass of the Army 197th Infantry Brigade at Fort Benning, Georgia—the home of the U.S. Army Sniper School.

  At 10:00 p.m. Landers’s detectives were either off-duty or running around the city chasing bad guys. Detective Ben Crowley had just returned from an unplanned day in Algonquin—sucked into Hutson’s case, the missing Dr. Sorensen. When Crowley put his foot on the third floor of the precinct headquarters, Commander Landers' rants echoed across the room and bounced off the empty metal desks.

  “On my way,” Crowley yelled back hanging his coat. The snow had been coming down most of the day. Now he struggled above a glass puddle on warped linoleum wishing he had gone home instead. The smart detective had longevity. He would be the next commander if he didn’t screw up.

  “First, where the hell’s everybody?” Landers boomed as Crowley eased up to the only office with lights burning. “I look up, everyone’s gone. There’s nothin’ on the board, and Miss Higgins is gone.” He felt his pocket for a pack of cigarettes and remembered he gave up smoking. “And it just dawned on me, I’ve not heard from Hutson all day. Is he working the missing person’s case, or did he take off another day? He’s been taking a lot of time off.”

  Crowley waited for Landers to stop talking. When he was sure the rant was over, he jumped in. “You told us not to bother you this week, remember? You said you had a pile of paperwork to move out of here—end of month stats.”

  Crowley leaned against the doorjamb. “As far as where Detective Hutson is at the moment, I do not know. Earlier today he asked for my help on the Sorensen case. I’ve been in Algonquin all day. Just got back. I don’t need to tell you how terrible it is out there. The snow’s really coming down.

  “I don’t need a weather forecast. I can see out the damn window. If you were working a case with Hutson, you gotta have an idea where the man is now.”

  “I thought he’d be here. I got a text from him around ten this morning. He needed the Algonquin PD to check something. Algonquin is fifty miles outside the city. I guess I didn’t plan on spending the whole day up there. You know Joe went to interview Dr. Sorensen’s wife in the city. During the interview he sent me a text to get the Algonquin PD to check the Sorensen cabin. They checked it. They found Dr. Sorensen dead. We think it’s a homicide. I went up.”

  “Hutson sent you to Algonquin to look for a body?” Landers asked.

  “He was not thinking a body when he texted me,” Crowley said as he scrolled his phone messages. “He told me to contact Algonquin PD. Send car to Jacques Sorensen cabin—a dirt road off Miller Road goin’ to Peter Exner Marsh.”

  Crowley looked up and found Landers’ confused stare. “Joe probably thought the old man was at the cabin and the old lady had forgotten about it. I did what Joe asked. When the Algonquin PD got to the cabin, they found Sorensen dead—frozen solid on the floor by the open cabin door. No signs of a break in, but—”

  “Then why homicide?” Landers interrupted.

  “The medical examiner hasn’t done anything with the body yet. They’re waiting for Sorensen to thaw out. Conditions inside the cabin lead us to believe someone killed him. The man was on the floor, his body bent in a weird way, his back broken backwards.”

  “That’s odd, but not necessarily a homicide, Crowley. I need more.”

  “There was one of those old wooden school chairs sittin’ in the middle of the room in the cabin. The floor under those fat legs was torn up, fresh scratches and gouges. It was like someone sitting in the chair kept moving. The chair dug into the wood floor.”

  “I’m still not getting homicide, Crowley.”

  “There were busted ropes on the floor by that chair. We think someone was tied in that chair. Looks like they busted loose and—”

  “Busted ropes?” Landers boomed. “Don’t you think you should have started with that?”

  Crowley sighed. “Yes sir.”

  “What else about those ropes?”

  “Was peculiar, sir. Was like the person tied in the chair pulled them until they broke, like expanded their chest and shoulders or something. They had to be damn strong to do that.”

  “Oh, you think so, Crowley?”

  “Those ropes were half-inch nylon.”

  Landers rolled his eyes. “What did Hutson say when you told him?”

  “Nothing. I mean, I texted him the APD found Sorensen dead. I asked Joe to call me ASAP. I told him his case looked like a homicide. I never heard back from Joe. I called him a few times an
d left messages. Then I got busy. I figured he was chasing leads—we were all busy. I thought we’d get together tonight to compare notes.”

  Landers got up and went to Hutson’s desk. He turned on the lamp and found the Sorensen file. “It says here Dr. Jacques Sorensen’s a retired psychiatrist. He was reported missing Saturday morning.” Landers turned to Crowley blowing into cupped hands at the door. “It’s Monday night. Why have we been sitting on this?”

  “We got it Sunday night, late. Hutson took it when he got here Monday morning. We’re working active homicides. Missing persons' cases drop on the list.”

  “Wonderful,” Landers muttered flipping pages in the Sorensen file. I can’t complain, he mused. Nine out of ten missing old people turn up—temporarily lost or misplaced. It’s routine to send a squad car. Guess we get it a day or so later after fully vetted.”

  “Has anyone gone by the brownstone to tell Mrs. Sorensen her husband’s dead?”

  “I sent a squad car a few times today. Nobody home. Nobody answers phones. I came in here to check the file for relatives. I also learned that Dr. Sorensen kept an office a few blocks away. I was gonna check that out.”

  Landers dropped the file on Hutson’s desk. “Did you ever consider Detective Hutson and Mrs. Sorensen could run into the person tied in that chair at the Algonquin cabin?” He started toward the door. “Get your coat, Crowley.”

  * * *

  What happened to me? Where am I? How long have I been here?

  The questions started to flow inside Joe Hutson’s blood-encrusted head as the fog and nausea lifted. It was not the first time, but this time his hands were tied to his ankles behind his back like a roped calf.