by Jake Aaron
During her enlistment, Lisa could not shake an ever-present shadow of anger that followed her. Little things could set off her rage. As she was shuffled around to different organizations on base, the anger issues always followed. Eventually her supervisor gave her a long-in-coming letter of nonjudicial punishment. She had threatened him over a disputed minor correction to her behavior. Referred to Family Advocacy counseling, she realized her stepfather’s raping her was the major source of this anger. But knowing the source did not fix the problem.
A second Article 15 followed within six months under a different supervisor when she assaulted him. With three years of completed service, she and her Staff NCO discussed her unacceptable pattern of behavior. They concluded that for the “convenience of the government” she should separate before her contracted four years. The chain of command agreed. At the rate she was going, she would wind up with an other-than-honorable discharge. She was grit slowing down the finely tuned Marine machine.
Somewhat adrift after separation from the service, she had returned to Cincinnati, Ohio, to pursue a law enforcement career. She reluctantly stopped by her old home. She saw her stepfather’s truck, so she waited for her stepfather to leave. Then she sought to renew the lapsed connection with her mother and sister. Lisa experienced some closure; however, she could read the suppressed pain in her sixteen-year-old sister’s eyes and blank affect. Lisa knew then that she had unfinished business.
Later that night, her stepfather did not recognize Lisa as the attractive young woman sitting next to him in the bar. She wore a brunette wig over her blonde hair and had matured. She flirted with him and let him buy her a drink. When the bartender started to pour her another drink, she put her hand over the glass. She leaned in toward her stepfather and whispered, “Let’s get out of here.” She seductively led him outside.
Without warning, he assaulted her from behind in the alley. Lisa’s practice took hold. She raked the right side of her 2-inch heel wedge shoe down his right shin. Her right clenched fist swung swiftly backward over her shoulder. The taekwondo strike pivoted around her elbow building momentum until it struck her attacker’s right temple. He released his hold. She spun around to confront her dazed stepfather’s face, “Remember me, you pervert!”
As recognition and disbelief dawned on his face, her right palm smashed his upper lip as it swept into the tender nostril area. He was stunned. With jujitsu skill, she moved her right hand to tap his right shoulder. He reached for her. As planned, simultaneously her left hand grabbed his right elbow, and her right hand twisted his right hand clockwise. She torqued his stiff arm, driving his face into the asphalt. Her right hand still held his. Lightning-like, she used her open left hand to snap his arm at the elbow. She had performed the same takedown at least 10,000 times in mental rehearsal.
She should have stopped then, but the bottled up anger was too much. Without pause, she kicked the wounded prone predator between his legs. His profound outcry signaled she hit her target: his scrotum. She kneeled and landed a rain of karate punches in his kidneys. Crossing his ankles, she turned him supine to inflict another series of karate punches into his abdomen. She positioned her hands on his motionless head to snap his neck. She stopped short. She flashed for a microsecond on her behavior. She breathed deeply to recover rationality. Mentally, she thanked her disciplining Marine sergeants for a newfound self-intervention ability.
Lisa dragged the inert body to a nearby side street. She took her abuser’s wallet and ring. When no one was looking and there were no vehicle lights, she positioned the body perpendicular to the street, in the middle of the nearer lane. An overworked investigator would log: “Drunk victim killed by vehicle impact after a robbery gone bad.”
No mark on her, she stoically left Cincinnati. No tears this time, Lisa chose the next bus going east. After bouncing from one odd job to another, she convinced a Georgetown martial arts studio to hire her as an instructor. Eventually, Bart Stewart, the fixer, who secretly worked for the law firm of Smith, Lerner, and Phelps, recognized her talent and developed the other requisite skills she needed to be an operative. Contracting with him was far more lucrative than her day job, and it provided a relief to the unquenchable desire to pass on her pent up pain. Otherwise, she appeared to be an extremely attractive, well-adjusted citizen who matched her new cover: “trust fund kid.”
Lisa’s bottled up anger was a legacy from her stepfather. The sad truth of physical and psychological abuse is that victims frequently pass it on. Lisa knew from her research that her festering wound sought relief in some form, as undoubtedly her stepfather had suffered some kind of abuse. Lisa hoped that she could break the cycle of abuse. Perhaps she could be a transitional figure that did not pass on the evil legacy. One measure she had taken was to vow not to have children. She feared she would manifest her damage somehow in raising her offspring. At least now she had an ongoing outlet for her anger in her work, and it paid very well.
Her mentor, Bart Stewart, counseled her over beers that passing on abuse is not really a mystery. “It is a corollary to revenge. It’s an ‘eye for an eye,’when the abused cannot locate the abuser. It’s misplaced revenge.” Bart, the man with all the answers, explained, “You can spend the rest of your life in expensive therapy, or get paid very well for work that puts you back in balance. You always seem better after a job — even if the ‘treatment’ needs to be repeated weeks later.”
Chin chin!
_______________
Slaying Mike Tarbox provided the long awaited, recurring tension relief Lisa required. She was now more in the moment. The gloved assassin put the bourbon bottle, both whiskey glasses, and bagged switchblade in her tote. Exploring the site for other evidence, she retrieved Mike’s burner cell phone, which also went into her fashionable bag. In Mike’s medicine cabinet she found his prescription for zolpidem. That was icing on the cake. She pitched it into her tote. After erasing any other egregious evidence of her being there, she brought out a shaker bottle of powdered dry blood and urine from her tote. The sources of these were biohazard containers from a large clinic’s laboratory. She considered the cross contamination of DNA evidence well worth the effort. She performed one more careful cross check of the apartment. Satisfied, she left, keeping her head down as if looking in her bag.
Parked two blocks away from Mike’s place in a rented car, Lisa used Mike’s throwaway cell to contact Michelle Lindquist on her throwaway cell. She lied, “I cleaned your room Saturday morning at the hotel. I need to protect you from someone you should not trust. I’ll be by your place in half an hour. Enough said?”
“… I’ll expect you.” Michelle’s shock at the unexpected call had been quickly assuaged by the calm voice of the caller. Michelle knew she needed to protect herself from involvement in the hotel incident. The caller must be the real deal since she knew of the secret hotel clean up, as well as my burner cell, Michelle reasoned. After all, she was a astute judge of character and skilled negotiator by trade. She could handle this.
_______________
Michelle peered at the visitor through the peephole in her townhouse. She felt somewhat flattered at seeing the visitor wearing a stylish black Victoria’s Secret K side-slit midi skirt and matching jacket, both remarkably like hers. “Come in, please,” Michelle greeted the well-coiffed stranger. “Right on time.” An observer would think that sisters were meeting; even their hairstyles were similar.
“We have a lot to go over,” Lisa opened. “Could I have a drink? I hate to admit it, but I’m feeling very edgy after some of the revelations I got today. There is so much to share with you.” Lisa adeptly matched Michelle’s body language and speech patterns to build rapport.
“Please grab a chair, I’ll be right back.” Michelle adjourned to the kitchen. “I’ll have my specialty for you in minutes: Absolut Citron Limonata.”
“You are a mindreader! That is my all-time favorite relaxer. How did you know?” Lisa’s first rule was to establish a connection.
“I love your hair!” Michelle warmed.
_______________
Sitting face to face, each impressed the other with their savoir faire. If there is a yin to yang, their conduct was the counterpart to machismo. It was diplomacy on estrogen. “This is just what I needed. And scrumptious… Do you have some aspirin or ibuprofen? My head is throbbing. I hate to impose, but there’s so much to tell you,” Lisa gushed. “I just need to take this headache down a notch or two.”
“Don’t give it a thought! I really feel in synch with you… I get those throbbing headaches, too.”
While Michelle went for aspirin, Lisa mixed 50 mg of powdered zolpidem into Michelle’s drink. When Michelle returned, Lisa downed two tablets of aspirin and expressed her appreciation: “Michelle, thank you so much… I think I can feel the aspirin working already… Would you excuse me for a minute? I need to throw some water on my face. These headaches of mine are such a stressor. My doctor says they may be migraines.”
“The powder room is down the hall to the right,” Michelle offered.
Lisa took her time in the bathroom. She ran the faucet on the sink to simulate activity. She repaired makeup. She bought time for the zolpidem to work on Michelle.
_______________
Lisa returned, “Ah, that feels so much better… Michelle, have you received any phone calls about last Saturday’s event?” She meant Ron Kelly’s demise and disposal.
“Yes, Mike Tarbox, the chief of staff, called Monday morning when Ron, naturally, did not show up at work. He knew people would start asking questions. Wanted to know whether anyone had contacted me. I said no, of course.” Michelle’s speech was slowing. “In the afternoon, the FBI brought Mike and me in for questioning. Neither of us told them anything.”
“Well, there’s something you should know about Mike…” Lisa began. She could see Michelle was having difficulty focusing, so she kept talking as she went to retrieve the bottle of premium vodka. Michelle was unfazed by Lisa’s excursion.
“Whaas thaaat, ah, you… were, ah…,” Michelle drifted away.
Lisa sat beside Michelle on the couch and wrapped her left arm around the shoulders of the increasingly unsteady lady. She held the glass of fine vodka with her right hand in front of Michelle’s lips. She talked hypnotically as she gently but determinedly encouraged the very pliable Michelle to swallow ever more alcohol. “Michelle, this medicine will make you feel better… That’s it, slowly… Slowly take a sip… Good, Michelle.” Lisa nodded affirmatively in a slow and exaggerated fashion to comfort Michelle. Lisa was patient in spacing out Michelle’s swallows to avoid her target’s vomiting. She wanted to avoid triggering the body’s defense that would expel the toxins building in Michelle’s system.
When Michelle became unconscious, she listed leftward on the couch. Lisa felt no pulse. Still she took no chances on the mixture’s not being lethal. She put on latex gloves and typed a suicide note on Michelle’s laptop:
I cannot go on living without my Ron. I can never forgive Mike Tarbox for taking him from me.
Worst case, she thought, if Michelle were revived, Michelle would be convicted as Mike’s murderer.
The gloved Lisa wiped down the handle of the stiletto she had used on Mike Tarbox. She also erased her fingerprints from Mike’s zolpidem prescription, and Michelle’s vodka bottle. She wrapped Michelle’s dominant hand around the knife handle and Michelle’s left around the wiped-down zolpidem bottle and vodka bottle. She touched Michelle’s right thumb and index finger to the tops of the the two bottles. Next, she slipped the stiletto and Mike’s zolpidem into Michelle’s Marc Jacobs goatskin purse. She put the vodka bottle to Michelle’s left on the carpet. Lisa put Michelle’s disposable cell phone into her own tote for disposal. Lisa left Michelle’s engagement ring and Ron’s proposal card near the laptop. Then she explored the location for other evidence she needed to get out of the townhouse for disposal.
Next she put on a pair of Michelle’s black Prada flats. She tied one of Michelle’s Bvlgari silk scarves over her long straight hair. She bagged her own scarf and high heels. Just as at Mike Tarbox’s apartment, she once again eliminated any incriminating evidence. From her bag, she brought out a second shaker bottle of random DNA particles to lightly dust everywhere she’d been.
Then Lisa preened in front of the bathroom mirror to perfect the look she wanted. Just after exiting the condo in dim night light, a neighbor shouted, “Hey, Michelle!” Lisa smiled and returned a friendly wave. On the three block walk to her car, she rehashed her visit with Michelle. Yes, her procedures were well executed. Her second kill had been more cerebral and less animalistic.
Lisa was most proud of her creative use of the discovery of Mike Tarbox’s zolpidem prescription. It became very plausible evidence of a link between Michelle and Mike. It also accounted for the zolpidem in each’s blood. She was eager to tell Bart this fact when he asked, as he always did, “What was the best thing you did on the mission?” Bart Stewart, the SEAL, stressed the importance of extemporizing. He taught that you needed to be ready to perform in a dynamic arena where something like Murphy’s Law rules. Stewart’s Law was, “Count on things going wrong and fix them — smartly.”
Bart was the father she never had. He was patient in training her and demanding in her performance. He was the first older man she had not rebelled against. He encouraged her to challenge him in the teaching phase, but during execution of a plan there was far less room for that. Above all, he demanded the flexibility encompassed in Stewart’s Law. Stewart’s Law took a lot of surprise shock out of the unexpected: The unexpected was expected. Acceptance of the inevitable skipped the human tendency of neurotic denial of unwanted realities — providing better reaction time.
Chapter 32
November 21
District of Columbia
When Michelle did not show up for a critical morning appointment, her lobbying firm’s receptionist, Millie, stopped by Michelle’s townhouse during the lunch hour. Repeated phone calls to Michelle had gone to voicemail. It was not like Michelle to miss an important meeting. She would always call in if ill. Her retired neighbor had a key. He and Millie made the discovery. Finding Michelle’s corpse brought the police.
The suicide note on Michelle’s erst-sleeping laptop impelled the police to track down Mike Tarbox. Within an hour, they found Mike’s corpse at his apartment. Mike had not been missed at the moribund congressional office of the deceased Ron Kelly. Mike was not expected at his new workplace for two weeks, a senatorial office where the current chief of staff had just announced his resignation to permanently return to South Dakota to care for aging parents.
_______________
That afternoon at FBI headquarters, Zach began, “Does it ever seem to you, Barb, that we might as well not come in the mornings?”
“How’s that?”
“Well, I don’t mind working hard, but it looks as if we’re at the end of an informational chain that poses most problems later in the day. We’ll be working well into the night — again.” Zach sounded tired.
“I’m with you. I know some cunning staff members who save up questions and taskings until the very end of their day just before they leave work. At that point, they fire off e-mails which throw diehards into overtime. Of course, those cunning ones leave expeditiously after that to avoid receiving questions from e-mail recipients. Dirty pool! We might just be too dedicated to the job… Here’s what has just came from the DC police. They found Michelle dead, apparently of a drug and alcohol overdose. Possible suicide note on her laptop. A switchblade in her purse. Switchblade matches wounds on the also-dead Mike Tarbox… Tox screen showed zolpidem and alcohol in both victims. The zolpidem bottle found at Michelle’s place was Mike Tarbox’s prescription. Michelle’s prints on the knife, medicine bottle, and whiskey bottle.”
“So, a tie back to Congressman Kelly? Motives?”
“Michelle’s suicide note implicates Mike with the death of Ron Kelly. Still no corpus of the Congressman.
Catch this: two-carat engagement ring found next to Michelle’s computer with Kelly’s note asking her to marry him!”
“Don’t tell me it was a menage a trois. That’s not the wine, Zach.” Barb summed, “As we get more details on this, the Kelly case looks less and less like a Custos connection — or Custos is a master puppeteer.”
“Barb, while Allahu Akbar might seem to link the Paige and Kelly cases, I’m having second thoughts. Could be a jihadist link, but, thinking out loud, the tortured path of the Kelly case doesn’t feel like the brute force of a jihadist attack. The complexities of the Kelly case seem to belie the terrorist angle.”
_______________
The faux florist deliveryman followed the lurid “murder-suicide” case in the news. Someone, he guessed, was cleaning up after the would-be embarrassing death of Congressman Kelly. He had counted on the public spectacle of the cheating Congressman dying in a prominent hotel for its attention value. Perhaps the mystery of no body coupled with the related death of the Congressman’s mistress and office manger would command even more of the public’s eye. Yes, he would get Congress’s attention despite the “help” he had been given.
Chapter 33
November 21
FBI Headquarters
“Barb, I don’t like it. I’ve wrestled with this most of the afternoon. I don’t like it at all. Michelle kills Mike, then herself… with an insinuation Mike killed Congressman Kelly — who may also have been in Custos’ sights… Talk me off this ledge!”
“Can I get you some coffee,” Barb taunted him, “since you seem to like my coffee so much.”
“Another jolt of caffeine to calm me! No, thanks… I’ve had my quota for the day… I was just thinking you should go back to do some liaison at Langley,” he taunted.
“I’d be glad to. And this time I’m wearing a muumuu and combat boots.”