Alli

by Kurt Zimmerman

  One hour and three Jack and Cokes later, Randy was still at the bar, waiting. Something must have gone wrong, he thought. He pulled out his phone and re-played the message. Nope, he had the right place and the right time. Randy dialed Carl’s number. The answering service picked up. After leaving a call-back message, Randy headed for the bar’s restroom.

  As he approached the back of the restaurant, he heard what sounded like firecrackers going off outside the back door. Pop... Pop! Pop! Pulling his Sig from its holster, he cautiously approached the steel service door, twisted the knob, and holding it firmly, eased the door open far enough to be able to see out through the crack.

  The alley outside the back of the restaurant was dimly lit, but there was enough light to see that the alley was empty. He pushed the door open farther and ducked his head out and in quickly to look down the other way. Nothing. The traffic noises on 23rd street were the only noises he could hear. Slipping silently through the door and holding his pistol down next to his leg, he initiated a search of the area. He saw nothing unusual between the empty food crates, an empty parked car and a dumpster, the dumpster providing the only recognizable odor in the alley. Upon further inspection, he discovered a dark shape of something or someone on the ground at the back corner of the dumpster, about 10 steps from the restaurant’s rear door.

  It was a body. A seemingly dead one. A recently dead one at that; it was still warm.

  There was a gurgling sound as he pulled the body over. Perhaps not dead, yet. It was an elderly gentleman, whose last wish seemed to be to tell Randy something important. The man clenched his surprisingly strong, boney fist around Randy’s collar and pulled him closer.

  Make... death... a... welcome... visitor...”

  “Looks like you won’t be needing my help pal,” Randy said, as the man’s tight grasp loosened. Life, and a good amount of blood, had left the limp body in the alley.

  Another cautious look around, and Randy holstered his gun and dialed 911. Before the operator was able to answer, a DC patrol car, with lights and siren, entered the opposite end of the alley. Randy waved his hand over his head to get their attention.

  After showing his ID, answering the responding officers’ initial inquiries, and being relieved of his weapon, Randy was asked to follow them back to their local precinct to answer a few more questions from a homicide detective.

  At the police station, he was directed to an interrogation room and left to wait, alone. What a dump, Randy thought as he surveyed the peeling paint on the concrete block walls. I wouldn’t want to spend much time in here. The inspection of his gun was welcome. Randy knew it would clear him of any suspicion in regards to the body in the alley. Maybe they’ll clean it for me after they run their ballistics tests, he thought.

  Randy was mentally putting the evening’s events in order when a statuesque woman in a tightly tailored grey suit entered. She introduced herself as Detective Michelle Miller, the homicide officer on duty. She was tall, possibly close to six feet; attractive, and no nonsense. Her blonde hair was pulled up tight on her head, which made her look even taller. She looked like a hard ass who took her job seriously. Randy remained seated while Detective Miller paced around the room in her short heels and even shorter skirt.

  Miller was thumbing through the responding officers’ report. She started her questioning without even a glance at Randy. “Mr. Fairchild, thank you for coming down to answer a couple of questions.”

  “No problem,” He responded.

  “You said you heard what sounded like firecrackers in the alley. Could they have been gun shots?”

  “Yes, of course. They could have been. They most likely were gun shots. They will no doubt account for the dead body that I found by the dumpster.”

  “Do you remember how many you heard?”

  “There were three.”

  “Are you sure it was three? Not two? Not four?

  “Yes, I’m sure. My former job training included paying attention to details like those.” Randy gave the detective a quick synopsis of his previous job description with the Agency. A raised eyebrow and an ever-slight smile gave away that she might have been impressed.

  “We examined your gun tonight, Mr. Fairchild, and it has been fired recently. Would like to tell me about that?”

  “Yeah, earlier this afternoon. I ran several dozen rounds through it at the Blue Plains Range, south of the Air Force Base. I was there for about an hour and a half, from approximately 5PM to 6:45PM. I signed in and out, so I’m sure they will have a record of my visit. I left there in a bit of a hurry, so I haven’t have time to clean my weapon yet.”

  “Why were you at the Blue Duck this evening, Mr. Fairchild?” Another question. She must be recording this, Randy concluded. She’s not taking any notes. It had been a while since he had gone through what felt like a de-briefing. “I was there to meet a Doctor Johnson. We were supposed to have dinner together at the restaurant at 9PM. I had been waiting for about an hour when I heard the shots outside. I’m sure the restaurant hostess and bartender will corroborate those times.”

  “Do you have any idea where this Doctor Johnson is now?”

  “No, I don’t. He never showed. I never met him, and I don’t know where he is. I received a message to meet him at the Blue Duck at nine, but why he didn’t show, I don’t know.”

  “Well, Mr. Fairchild, it seems that Doctor Johnson did indeed show up at the restaurant this evening, at least according to the identification we found in his wallet. You met him in the alley tonight, and he’s downstairs in the morgue right now.”

  *****

  It was well past three in the morning when an irritated Randy returned to his apartment, dropping his car keys, wallet, empty holster, and Detective Miller’s card on the dining room table. It wasn’t the late hour that bothered him. He was more upset with the fact that the DC police had kept his weapon as part of their investigation. Randy plopped down on a dining room chair and absent-mindedly picked up the business card. Michelle, he thought. Homicide Detective Michelle Miller. Not exactly the date he was expecting tonight, but he’d had worse.

  He tried to call Carl on his cell phone, but the answering service was as far as the call went. He left another message to return his call immediately, kicked off his shoes, and fell into bed.

  *****

  Randy’s phone interrupted his troubled but well-deserved sleep at 8AM the following morning.

  “You’d better get up and get over here,” he heard his friend Carl say. “Meet me at my office in an hour.”

  Chapter Eight

  After a quick shower, a change of clothes, and holstering a backup .40 caliber, Randy pointed his Suburban toward Carl’s office. On his arrival, the security guard at FrazTek ushered Randy directly up to Carl’s fourth floor office.

  On his previous visit, Randy had scarcely made it into the lobby, but this time was different. He was immediately escorted to a spotlessly-clean glass elevator, which took him up to the fourth floor. The stark white walls, modern artwork and stainless steel railings were the antithesis of Carl’s elegant home decor. His office building looked like it had sprung from the pages of a modern architectural magazine.

  He found his friend in his office, behind the floor-to-ceiling opaque glass double doors, sitting behind a transparent, glass and chrome, sofa-sized desk. The modern glass and chrome shelving that surrounded the room held years of memorabilia, mostly pictures of Carl shaking hands with various politicians, world leaders and Hollywood types.

  Carl was already in ‘investigator’ mode. He waved Randy into a nearby chair. “First, tell me what you know, and then I’ll try to fill in the blanks.”

  Randy walked Carl through the events of his previous evening; how he had arrived at the restaurant, checked in with the hostess, waited at the bar, went to the back of the restaurant, and how he found the body in the alley. Randy also shared the bits of words that the dying doctor had tried to spit out before he died. He elaborated on each event and each pe
rson he had contacted, trying to include every detail he remembered. He concluded his summary with finding out about Dr. Johnson’s death and a few choice words for the attractive detective who had confiscated his weapon.

  Carl was nodding throughout the recap, and the name of the cop raised an eyebrow. “I happen to know that particular officer, but that’s a story for another time. Here’s what I think. I think your girlfriend doesn’t want to be found and you should forget about finding her. The security systems around the Call Center are better that the ones at Fort Knox, so you can forget trying to break in after hours or something else equally stupid. Their computer systems are impenetrable.”

  “Doctor William N. Johnson is the head of Neurological Rehabilitation at Johns Hopkins Hospital in Baltimore,” Randy said. “Someone didn’t want him talking to me.”

  “You mean ‘was’,” Carl corrected.

  “Was what?” Asked Randy.

  “He ‘was’ the head of neuro-whatever at Johns Hopkins.”

  “Right. Was. Whatever. Anyway, I called and tried to get an appointment with the guy. It seems Dr. Johnson is one busy guy. No one can get an appointment with the good doctor inside a two month wait. Even after I lied and told his staff I was a patient, they wouldn’t budge. I ended up leaving my contact information on his voice mail.”

  “Apparently, that’s why he called you,” said Carl.

  “He left instructions for me to meet him last night,” Randy continued. “He showed up dead in the alley before we could talk.”

  “The good doctor may have simply fallen victim to some crack head with a gun,” Carl speculated.

  “What kind of investigator are you?” Randy asked. “The only way the police could have identified Dr. Johnson so quickly would be by his ID! And no crack head is going to walk away from a dead body with a wallet on it!”

  “Oh, yeah, I guess you’re right. So you think it was something more sinister than a simple robbery, huh?”

  Randy sensed that his friend was hiding something, but he had no idea what it might be.

  “This whole thing is becoming more and more unbelievable, Carl. Why would a renowned doctor insist on a personal meeting outside of his office with a complete stranger? And why was he afraid to talk on the phone? Why all this secrecy surrounding the Federal Call Center?”

  “Here’s what I think, Fairbaby- With the dealings I’ve had over the years with the federal government, it might be wiser if you were to leave this one alone.”

  That doesn’t sound like the Carl I know, Randy thought.

  “Leaving it alone is going to be a little tough to do since I have a personal interest in discovering what’s going on there,” Randy pointed out. “You didn’t hear that girl on the phone, my friend. Something is going on over there at the Call Center. I think we need to keep moving this investigation forward. At least until I can meet with Alli and find out what is going on. There’s another doctor involved in this, and I’m going to go see him right now.”

  Chapter Nine

  Irving J. Moscovich M.D. was the head of Pediatric Neurosciences at the Children’s National Medical Center in Washington DC. During his recent internet searches, Randy had uncovered his name in several of the Call Center’s early newspaper reports, along with the now deceased Doctor Johnson’s. These two neurological experts seemed to have something to do with the planning and implementation of the Connect America project. The mystery surrounding Alli, the unusually intense security around the Call Center and the project, and now the untimely death of Doctor Johnson, was starting to keep Randy awake at night. He had Dr. Moscovich’s contact information, and Randy was determined to make this contact on his own terms.

  There was no word yet from Jessica the receptionist, so he decided to stop in to the Call Center for another visit. He could see from the security checkpoint that Jessica was not at her desk.

  Randy tried the friendly approach. “Hi, is Jessica working today?” he asked as he approached what looked like a young security officer, standing behind the reception desk. The blank stare on the young man’s face revealed nothing.

  “Who may I say is inquiring?” he asked, as he rifled through the desk to find some paper and a pen.

  “I’m a friend of hers,” Randy said. “Do you have any idea how I can contact her? I spoke to her a week ago, and left my number, but she hasn’t called back.”

  “Well, maybe you’re not her type, pal. Why don’t you give me your name and number, and if I see her, I’ll have her call you.”

  “That’s okay; never mind. She’s got my number, but thanks for your help, uhh, Jones.” His name badge was a security type, and only had his last name. And the last thing he was going to give a security officer was his name and phone number.

  Randy felt like he was running into more dead ends than a rat in a maze. He headed over to the Medical Center. Luckily, Dr. Moscovich was in. Randy was additionally surprised when he was able to walk right in to see him. Finally, a break in my favor, he thought as he waited.

  Doctor Moscovich was a massive and friendly man, with a corresponding massively friendly handshake.

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Fairchild?” he asked, with a deep voice and a strong German accent.

  “First, thank you so much for seeing me without an appointment; I know you are a busy man, so I will be as brief as possible. I am trying to locate a friend of mine, and I hope you might be able to help me. I understand that you may have been involved with the training of employees at the Federal Call Center, is that correct?”

  “I have been a consultant on a great number of projects, Mr. Fairchild, and many of them were government projects. What do you need to know exactly?”

  Randy proceeded to relate the story of speaking to one of the call handlers, and his suspicions about the work practices there. But when he mentioned her name, Alli, the color drained out of the doctor’s face.

  “I am sorry Mr. Fairchild, but I cannot help you.” The doctor stood, signaling the end of their meeting. “I can assure you that the Call Center was designed and built using the most modern techniques and training practices, and the utmost care was taken to meet the needs of all the employees. All Federal employees are well supervised, and the policies protecting workers are carefully followed. If you two have spoken on the phone, and she wants to contact you, I’m sure she will call you again. Good luck to you, sir. I have previous appointments to see now.”

  Randy was left a little stunned as the doctor ushered him out of the office after such a short meeting. All Federal employees are well supervised? That’s a joke! That statement itself made Randy suspicious, given the history of overseas operations that had ‘gone south’ during his brief Agency career.

  Instead of leaving the Medical Center’s parking lot right away, Randy sat in his vehicle to think about what his next move should be. To Randy’s surprise, five minutes after he left Dr. Moscovich’s office, the doctor himself exited the Medical Center and drove away in a silver, BMW 760.

  This might lead to something, he thought. So Randy nosed the big Suburban out of the visitor’s lot and followed at a discreet distance.

  The doctor wound his way through the Washington streets, and did not seem to be in any particular hurry. It was no problem to stay a couple of blocks behind him, and still keep him in sight. After a twenty minute joy ride around Washington, Randy was passing under a green traffic signal, when suddenly the entire world exploded around him. The sound of colliding and collapsing metal filled the air. Tiny bits of broken glass flew past his face while the Suburban’s driver’s side collapsed toward Randy, the force ripping his hands from the steering wheel. He could see the buildings around him spinning in a blur, and finally stopping. Before Randy realized what happened, another impact hit the rear of his vehicle, sending him spinning again in the same direction.

  There was a steady geyser of steam shooting out from the front of the Suburban when it finally came to a stop. The smell of hot engine coolant hung in the air. Randy co
llected his wits and climbed out of the vehicle through the broken driver’s door window. He was shaken up, but the air bags that surrounded him kept him from any serious injury. He looked around to see who had hit him, but all he saw were two large black vehicles speeding away, and both turning right at the end of the block. They were too far away to make out any details.

  Randy’s first call was to 911, and his second went to Carl.

  The good doctor was going to have to wait.

  *****

  As he pulled away from the rental car lot the next morning, Randy remembered why he had always driven large vehicles. His only car rental choice that day was a Dodge Neon. Aptly named, thought Randy, as he squeezed his six foot three inch frame into the car. He had one ‘knee on’ the door and the other ‘knee on’ the dashboard. The rental car company had promised him something larger the following day, but the Neon was better than riding the MetroBus, so off he went.

  Randy concluded that his accident was no accident at all. Two different vehicles, both ran the red light, both hit and run? Not likely. It sounded like an Agency warning more than anything else, and Randy knew from experience that the rule about the Agency not running operations in the States was a joke.

  He made his way toward Middleburg and his friend. He was going to need some more help following up on Doctor Moscovich, and in tracking down Jessica Cooper.

  As he entered the FrazTek parking area, Randy saw Carl walking out of his office building and toward his car. Carl didn’t recognize the rental as the Neon approached, but broke out in a huge grin when he recognized the driver.

  “Where in the hell did you get that peddle car?” Carl asked, as Randy pulled up and squeezed out of his vehicle.

  “This is the spare out of the back of my Suburban, you bum,” Randy shot back. “I was in an accident. I don’t have a big garage full of classic iron to choose from like you, you know.”