Truth Insurrected: The Saint Mary Project

by Douglas, Daniel P.

  Sam Ritter.

  Although Ritter’s attitude appeared right, Harrison remained unconvinced he had sufficient rank and authority to have known about Silver Star details or other highly sensitive matters.

  Harrison set the pad down and closed his briefcase.

  After checking the time, he stepped over to the closet beneath the staircase and removed a black gun case containing a newer Colt .45. The older one was still at the office, locked in the safe. As it was Monday morning, the firing range would be Harrison’s first stop, and then he would visit the offices of the Tucson Sun Times.

  Maybe ask her out?

  Aiming at the center of Titanic’s third smokestack, Harrison’s hand shook. He spit out the pen and relaxed, concentrating. Easy breaths.

  “Get the birds, Beano.”

  The aim held true.

  “Get ’em.”

  <> <>

  Both Janice and Zemdarsky stared at him as he entered the office and sprinted toward his desk.

  “Morning all,” Harrison said.

  “Morning?” Zemdarsky said. “Why, it’s half past noon.”

  “Stayed a bit longer at the range. Janice? Can I see you, please?”

  By the time Janice caught up with him, Harrison had removed his coat, opened his briefcase, and sat in his office chair.

  “You on your way out?” Harrison said.

  “I was just leaving. I can stay if I have to,” Janice said, wide-eyed.

  “I just wanted you to know that your paper was excellent. Best explanation of gubernaculum and jurisdictio I’ve heard in a long time.” He laughed hard enough to make his eyes water. “Sorry, I’m actually serious. I really enjoyed it, especially your historical examples. Would’ve chosen the same ones. It’s like you read my mind. Want to write another one or move on to the training? Maybe we could have you do some legal research on the new fraud legis—”

  “Wait! Let me write this down.”

  “Good, yes. Let’s devise a plan. Ready? Sit down, by the way. No wait.”

  Midway between standing and sitting, Janice stopped moving and giggled.

  “First things first,” Harrison said.

  “Would you like me to get you some coffee?”

  “Nope, already had some. You should get to school. Your studies come first. We can talk about this later, or maybe, hmmm…” Harrison looked into his briefcase. “What about lunch?”

  “I can’t today.”

  “Actually, forget lunch. Bad idea. I guess this afternoon we could meet, or tomorrow morning.”

  “How about dinner?”

  Harrison peered across the desk and watched Janice sit down and cross her legs. “Dinner?”

  “I love to cook. I’m known for my gourmet cheeseburgers.”

  “You shouldn’t have to go out of your way.”

  “It’s really no problem.”

  Easy breaths. Patient and relaxed. “Let me buy you dinner.”

  “I can be an expensive date.”

  “Well, you, I guess…Why’s that?”

  “I eat like a pig!”

  Chapter 15

  No Records Found

  A trail of wet footprints, with long strides between steps, led from the police station’s service elevator. A thunderous downpour had soaked an unprepared Ridley while he rode his motor to work. He passed the locker room, ignoring the wet uniform clinging to his skin, and hurried to the first cubicle area reserved for report writing. Swing-shift briefing started in forty minutes, which left him enough time to check records and transcripts for last July 7 and to change into a dry uniform.

  Insistent chirps from one of the computer terminals in the report-writing cubicle area and a condescending “oops” greeted Ridley upon entering. Tom Ferris, another motor officer, fiddled with the keyboard. “Fuck this shit.” Acoustic fibers lining the walls of the cubicle softened the deep sound of Ferris’s voice, but not the bright chirps from the computer. Ferris kept pummeling the keys.

  “Having a problem, Tom?” Ridley said.

  “This fucker’s constipated. And so am I.”

  Ridley sat at another terminal and brought up the main menu screen. Adjusting the mouse, Ridley clicked on the “Standard Reports” icon and selected the file containing dispatch records. He hoped to find an official explanation for the radio disruption attached to the transcript for July 7. Next to him, Ferris lifted the instruction template off the keyboard, bringing it within a few inches of his face.

  “Are you working on a report?” Ridley asked.

  “Yes, he is,” Lieutenant Walter Maxwell said.

  Officer Ferris bobbed his head back and forth, attempting to mock their watch commander’s abrupt interruption. Ridley turned around, surprised he had not heard Lieutenant Maxwell approach them.

  Continuing, Maxwell said, “Officer Ferris had a DUI arrest late last night.”

  Replacing the template, Ferris said, “And a traffic collision report, and a drive-by supplement, and two fucking burglaries, and the armed robbery at Pellegrino’s.”

  “And what are you up to, Officer Ridley? Have a nice couple of days off?” Maxwell said.

  A simple response became mired in Ridley’s unexpected desire to answer the question seriously. Two days off—two days spent helping his sister, Megan, move back home. Her husband’s “allergies” had flared up again. Eric was fine for a while, even managing to spend an enjoyable and uneventful Thanksgiving holiday with the family. But how to tell Maxwell, or anyone for that matter, the truth about Eric’s mental health issues and the continuing disruption to his family ultimately eluded him.

  “Yeah, it was a good weekend.”

  “Glad to hear it.” Maxwell folded his burly arms and stared over Ridley’s shoulder. “What are you working on?”

  A list of questions on the screen awaited Ridley’s answers: “USER? DATE OF TRANSCRIPT/RECORD? TIME INTERVAL?”

  “Nothing really,” Ridley said. “Just looking something up.” Ridley wearied of Eric’s insistent excuses for what had happened on July 7. His brother-in-law had protected someone, perhaps his superiors, or something else, all at the expense of his and his family’s well-being.

  More electronic protests erupted from Ferris’s computer followed by the officer’s clenched-tooth growl. “Does anyone care that I’m trying to concentrate here?”

  “Of course we care, Tom.” Maxwell said, swatting the back of Ferris’s head. “I wanted to let both of you know that because of the storm, the motor officers will ride shotgun with the patrol units. Don’t thank me, though. Thank the city’s risk manager.”

  Lieutenant Maxwell smiled and closed his eyes. He pressed his folded arms tighter into himself. Ridley got the sensation that Maxwell, while a decent watch commander, enjoyed a warm embrace from some airy lover embodied in the form of memos, staff meetings, and policy decisions. Maxwell, the humble servant and beneficiary, basked in the smooth operation of perceived infallible grace and wisdom. He opened his eyes, and then said, “Tom, you finish up. I want that report by briefing. And Nick, for God’s sake, change your uniform.”

  Maxwell exited the area, arms still wrapped around his chest.

  Turning to the computer, Ridley entered the requested information. A very long minute passed, long enough to hear plenty more grunts and chirps come from the adjacent cubicle. While awaiting the computer’s slow response to his query, coldness seeped into him from his wet uniform, and he could not find anywhere to wipe and warm his moist, chilled hands.

  The computer finally returned a response to Ridley’s query. He stared at the unhelpful information. “What, nothing found?”

  Ridley ran the query again, double-checking the date and time frame.

  Another long minute passed, giving frustration and doubt time to settle in with the cold. After all, what did Ridley know about radio communications? The brief disruption could have a very simple explanation. It could have been background noise for that matter. He once heard that solar flares caused radio interferen
ce. Given Eric’s work as an air force air traffic controller, such a disruption could be stressful if it occurred on his watch.

  The computer’s response mocked his efforts again: “NO RECORDS FOUND.” Ridley stood and smacked the side of the monitor. “Fucking computers.”

  “Oh, I hear you, brother, I hear you,” Officer Ferris said, chuckling.

  After changing uniforms, Ridley closed his locker and followed Officer Ferris to the briefing room. At the front, Lieutenant Maxwell waited for the remaining patrol officers to take their seats. Ridley took the chair next to Cliff Hamrick, one of the oldest patrol officers he had ever known, and then he took out a notepad.

  Maxwell scanned the room, looking left to right, front to back. Satisfied that everyone was present, he quickly went through the routine beat assignments and general briefing information. As usual, his eyes panned along the floor, inspecting shoes, while he sauntered around the room.

  “Now, day shift handled most of the early traffic collisions, but with the slick roads and our ever-growing population of idiots, expect more accidents during the evening commute,” Maxwell said. After a drawn-out pause, he looked at Ridley and smiled. “Also, I’m one of the lucky ones to actually get a lengthy holiday vacation this month, which starts tomorrow, so try to get all reports done promptly by the end of shift. Let me rephrase that. All reports are due, without fail, at the end of shift. No dilly-dallying. Happy Hanukkah, merry Christmas, and happy New Year. Hit the road.”

  Ridley put away the notepad and stood. He chatted briefly with the old timer, Officer Hamrick, but an announcement from the building’s public address system interrupted him. “Officer Ridley, phone call, line four.”

  Ridley walked to the back of the briefing room, next to several snack machines, where he picked up a wall-mounted telephone and punched the correct line. After answering, Ridley heard a muffled sob followed by a distinct click.

  “Hello? This is Ridley.”

  The dial tone returned, and Ridley checked his watch. Hesitating, he hung up and noticed Officer Hamrick walking toward him, pointing at the snack machines.

  “Maxwell says you’ll be riding with me. Not enough cars for everybody. Want a cookie? I’ll get you a cookie, and then you can do me a favor.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You drive.”

  <> <>

  With less than an hour remaining in their shift, Hamrick offered to drive, giving Ridley time to finish his reports. Things had slowed, allowing Ridley sufficient concentration to focus on writing. But as the end of his shift neared, an overwhelming sense of dread crept through him. He remembered the odd phone call just before the start of his shift. The memory raised questions about who had sobbed and hung up. Had Eric called?

  “Okay, Chief,” Hamrick said, interrupting Ridley’s thoughts. “Let dispatch know we are en route to station. I need to poop, and by the time I’m done, our shift will be history.”

  Ridley shook his head and reached for the microphone. He halted his movement, however, because the dispatcher announced a pedestrian-involved accident. Other units responded to the call and headed in the direction of the scene.

  “Hmmm…sounds messy,” Hamrick said.

  “Yeah.”

  “They’ll be in late, which means their reports will be in late. Too bad for Maxwell.”

  After Ridley advised the dispatcher of their status, Hamrick headed toward the station. After a couple of minutes, he noticed his partner leaning forward on the steering wheel and peering upward through the top of the windshield.

  “How’s the weather?” Ridley said.

  “Clearing up.”

  After a few more stoplights, Hamrick still leaned forward, gazing skyward. Hamrick drove cautiously, so Ridley was not worried they would have their own accident, but his curiosity got the best of him.

  “What are you looking for?”

  “Flying saucers. I’ve seen them before.”

  “Oh?” Ridley said, peering upward. Seeing Hamrick out of the corner of his eye made him chuckle. “Come on, Cliff, what are you really looking at?”

  “I’m serious. I don’t really know what they are, but I’ve seen some strange lights up there. They move real quick.” Hamrick paused and smiled. “Maybe we’ll see one tonight.”

  “Uh-huh. I guess I may have to cite them for speeding, then, if they move real quick, as you say.

  “My trust in you is fading.”

  “Sorry, sorry, but they’re probably just military aircraft.”

  The dispatcher interrupted their conversation, directing another unit to the pedestrian-involved accident. An officer already at the scene requested the coroner.

  “Must be messy,” Hamrick said, entering the police station’s parking lot. “I can’t stand traffic accidents.”

  Once inside the station, Hamrick headed for the nearest restroom, saying something about a burrito knocking at his back door, and Ridley walked to the dispatch office.

  Nearing dispatch, Ridley put his reports on the center of Lieutenant Maxwell’s vacant desk. He walked through the next doorway and entered the dispatch office. From there, he looked through a large window into an adjacent room where the dispatchers sat at their consoles. One of them, Judy Butler, noticed Ridley. She stood and walked toward an open doorway next to the window.

  “You look like you need something,” Butler said, leaning forward, accentuating her cleavage.

  Butler had come on to Ridley in the past, and although he appreciated her interest, his attention focused on something else at the moment. “Where do we keep the dispatch records?”

  “Stored on DVDs, right behind you, inside the cabinets. They are inside cardboard holders labeled by date.” Butler said, stepping toward and then unlocking the cabinets. “Just tell me when you’re done, so I can lock up.” She sauntered away, heading toward the dispatch area.

  Ridley waited until Butler returned to her seat before beginning a search. Looking inside the cabinet, he saw multiple rows of DVDs. Examining the labels, he ascertained a general area where he could find the chronologically ordered DVDs for last July. His eyes jumped several rows, and he spotted the white cardboard holder labeled “7 July.” He pulled it from the cabinet. As he opened the lid, the hair on his neck stiffened.

  Glancing at the dispatchers, Ridley saw that all appeared busy. He decided against interrupting them and checked the cabinet area for any loose DVDs.

  He found none.

  Seeing a clipboard hanging next to the cabinet, Ridley lifted it from its hook and recognized the pages attached to it as a check-out form. According to the form, no one had signed out the July 7 DVD.

  Through the doorway just past the cabinet area, Ridley saw Maxwell return to his desk. He replaced the clipboard, got Butler’s attention with a wave, and walked over to the watch commander, who listened to another officer on speaker phone. Over the speaker came “Pronounced dead at the scene. He’s an air force sergeant; Ferris has the dog-tag information. We couldn’t find his wallet. Just a minute, Lieutenant, let me go get the info.”

  “Go right ahead,” Maxwell said, glancing at Ridley. “Got your reports? You and Hamrick lucked out on this one.” He paused and pointed at the phone. “Pedestrian got himself run over in front of a bar. An air force sergeant. They’re getting the identification info now, so we can track down a next of kin. Ferris will be out there for a while.”

  The officer’s voice on the telephone returned. “Lieutenant, are you there?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “The name’s Eric Filipe Gonzales. Probably from Nellis. Let me give you his serial number.”

  Ridley’s knees buckled and his voice shook. “Who…who did he say?” He leaned on the desk. Palms suddenly sweaty, his hands slipped, spreading a slick layer of moisture across the metal surface. The blood drained from his face.

  “Hold on a second,” Maxwell said. “Shit, what’s wrong, Ridley?”

  “Did he say Eric Filipe Gonzales?” His words struggled in
their journey across the increasingly blurred space ahead of them.

  “Yes. What’s wrong?”

  “Does he have a gold wedding band attached to his dog tags?”

  “Yeah, it’s right here with the tags,” the officer at the scene said.

  Collapsing into a chair next to the desk, Ridley fought hard to breathe. The room spun. Maxwell said something to him, but his voice seemed distant, distorted. Others gathered around, staring at him.

  But all he could do was stare back.

  Chapter 16

  Arthur Holcomb, FBI

  “Thanks for dinner the other night. I really appreciated it, and all the time you’ve spent with me recently. The attention means a lot to me.”

  The voice registered with Harrison, but the words drifted around inside his head without any real direction. His eyes were fixed on the tip of a ballpoint pen, which he held about a foot in front of his face; it was about the most complex matter he could concentrate on at the moment.

  “Earth to Bill, hello.”

  The remark jerked the pen away. There Janice stood, all smiles, blond hair pulled back from her face and tied with a pink ribbon. Her blue eyes looked at him from across his desk, patiently waiting.

  “I’m sorry, I’m a little preoccupied, or tired, or something. I enjoyed dinner too. We should do it again soon.”

  “I agree.”

  Harrison took a moment to admire her beauty. He felt a connection with Janice that he could not explain, a sign he accepted that she was special. Unfortunately, resolution of another matter tugged him away from her.

  “Is Pete in yet?” Harrison said.

  “No, he’s in Sierra Vista. He may stop in on his way home later this afternoon. Or he may just head home from there. He wasn’t sure.”

  Harrison lifted the pen again, flipping it between his fingers, and then he guided it toward its previous position.

  “Bill, finals are coming up, so I need the rest of the day off.”

  “Finals? Yeah, that’s good. Go ahead. I’ll see about some more training soon.”