Mind in Chains

by Bruce M Perrin

  For a moment, the students sat in stunned disbelief; then, panic erupted. Two of the males charged the front of the room. Justice shot them. Perhaps driven by the gunfire, three other men and one of the women rushed toward the back. Prudence waited until the first man was only about four feet away, then dropped him. The woman stopped, but she was too late. She crumpled to the floor when the bullet hit her in the chest. The second man decided to rush Prudence as she felled two of his colleagues, but she snapped off a shot with her left hand. He spun to the floor as the bullet caught him in the shoulder. The last man in the group retreated to the center of the room, seeking whatever cover he could find under tables or behind chairs with those who had remained there.

  Shrieks of agony, cries for help, and sobbing filled the room. The acrid smell of gunpowder hung in the air, mixing with the coppery odor of blood and the stench of urine and defecation. Justice looked at Prudence, the latter nodding slightly. He waded forward into the cowering mass. A woman broke from under a desk. Justice shot her in the back. He continued forward until his shadow fell on a man pleading for his life on the floor. If Justice heard, he showed no reaction as he squeezed the trigger.

  Over the course of the next twenty seconds, Justice systematically executed each person in the room, all receiving the requisite insurance shot to the head, until only two remained—the woman he had shot in the back, who was still alive, and the priest who sat holding the woman’s head in his lap. Brother Justice approached them. The priest raised his hand as if the power of his faith might stop bullets. Tears were streaming from his eyes, as two words escaped his lips. “Please, no.” Justice’s hand lashed out, hitting the priest on the head with the butt of his gun. The man slumped to the floor. One more crack of the pistol brought the end to the woman’s life. Sister Prudence turned and exited through the fire escape door, with her partner following close behind.

  The gunfire had produced pandemonium throughout the building and most of the occupants fled through the front door. Several, however, chose the fire escape. Justice and Prudence joined their ranks, leaving traces of blood from their shoes on its treads. Dropping from the fire escape to the ground, the two jogged to a wooden enclosure that held a large, trash dumpster. There, they shed their shirts and jeans, kicked off their shoes, and donned replacements that had been stashed there earlier. The guns went into the backpacks, everything else into the trash.

  From there, the two matched the flow of the crowd, jogging at first but then slowing to a walk as they left the area. Soon, there were more people approaching the scene of the killing than fleeing it, drawn by the rumors that none quite believed.

  The first sirens were just going quiet at the building when Brother Justice and Sister Prudence reached the car. They climbed into the back seat, deposited the backpacks at their feet, and closed the doors. After a moment, the car pulled from the curb.

  11:53 AM – A Restaurant near Ruger-Phillips

  I went over the basics again in my mind. One technician performed the diagnostic task on an elaborate power plant control console. Another role-played a second technician, as the job required two people. The training worked, but it wasn’t efficient; it tied up two people and an expensive piece of equipment to train one.

  The alternative I was studying was to represent the equipment as a three-dimensional model on a computer screen, eliminating the demand on actual equipment. Additionally, the second technician was replaced with a virtual human, reducing the manpower requirement. And because the computer-generated individual “knew” the underlying fault, it could report the correct symptoms and test results from its part of the task. The problem was that some trainees got better working with this system, while others hardly learned anything at all.

  I leaned back in the booth, checking the wide, double doors leading out of the restaurant and into the hotel’s atrium. I could just make out travelers stopping by the front desk. I was too far away to read their faces, but their postures said it all. A man dropped his bag to the floor and stretched in a yawn. A woman raised a wrist in front of her face, holding the pose for too long to just be reading her watch. She was probably trying to make a statement about how long she had been standing there. Two children, a boy and a girl, raced across the scene, followed a moment later by a woman with a phone pressed to her ear and a hand raised in the air.

  My phone was sitting on the table. I tapped the power button, bringing the screen to life so I could check the time. It was still early for my meeting with Agent Marte, so I went back to my work question. The company that had developed the virtual technician and computer model had run the first study, producing the inconsistent results. But when they couldn’t determine why, they brought the question to us. Unfortunately, there were at least two major changes from the old to the new training: a virtual model replaced physical equipment and an artificial intelligence was used instead of a role-playing human. Given that, it was tough to know what was causing the breakdown—the model, the AI, or both.

  Perhaps the company could make variants of their training. One variation could be two humans using the computer model, while a second possibility was a human and the AI working on the physical equipment. Those variants would help in isolating the issue. Otherwise, I’d be looking for factors that correlated with learning. And that could take a while.

  “Hi, Doc,” I jumped at the sound of Marte’s voice. “Sorry,” she said. “Didn’t mean to startle you. And yeah, I remember. You tend to get lost in thought.”

  I stood, smiling. “I did that just in case you needed proof.” She smirked as I extended a hand. We had barely seated ourselves when a waitress swooped in to take our drink orders.

  “So, you have information about who knew Ms. Veles would be working with Dr. Greenwood?” Marte asked, peering over the top of her menu as she studied her options for lunch.

  I told her how just about anyone in St. Louis could have known. Somehow, she didn’t seem surprised. Having taken care of the “official” purpose for the call, I wondered how I could change topics, get to the real reason. Marte, however, made it easy; she asked why else I had phoned.

  Was I really that transparent?

  I filed that question for later and launched into an explanation of why I believed Constance must have been oblivious to her fate. Marte listened as my monologue lasted through ordering lunch and being served. As soon as the waitress had deposited her salad and my burger, Marte picked up her fork. But she didn’t take a bite; she just held the utensil aloft like a conductor holding the baton before the start of a concert. Her gaze was focused on the wall behind me or perhaps something even farther away. But I was hungry and not feeling like part of the orchestra. I took a bite from my sandwich.

  “So, you don’t believe Constance could have been so blinded by the Crusaders’ rhetoric that she wouldn’t show stress?” Marte asked. But when her eyes came back to the single finger I had raised in the air in the universal, just-a-moment gesture, she smiled. “Sorry. Waiters are always coming by, asking me how everything is, just as I take a bite.”

  “Yeah, it’s like a sixth sense with them, isn’t it?” I remarked after swallowing. “I think it’s unlikely she could be that cool about her own death. But let’s say it’s true, that the Crusaders can do that to a person. Then, the next attack, if there is one, should tell you a lot. If they have another brother or sister ready, willing, and able to take up their cause … well, that suggests a production line, a compound where they’re churning out their disciples. And if it’s big enough, it’ll leave a paper trail—bills for shelter, food, services. On the other hand, if there’s a delay or a change in tactics so they’re not so visible, then they don’t have a lot of followers or they can’t create soldiers like Constance easily.”

  Then, remembering that Marte was the one with training in criminal behavior, I felt my face warm. “Sorry, I’m sure you’ve been over all of this already.”

  Marte shook her head. “Different set of eyes, remember?” she said. “A
nd what you said about the paper trail? We’ve started looking at groups that might be supporting them financially or giving them quarter. After all, if we turn off the money spigot, we stop the group—or at least, slow them down a lot. But as for getting some insight from the next attack?” She paused, her lips pressed together tightly, her head slowly shaking. “I’m hoping Sister Constance was the one and only and that the Crusaders are done. But we’ve had that discussion.”

  “Right,” I said. “And neither of us really believes she’s working alone.”

  Halfway through the sentence, however, I realized Marte was no longer listening. Her full attention had been drawn to the television hanging over the bar behind me. She rose and walked toward it. I turned to watch, immediately seeing the headline that had caught her attention: “Crusaders Attack Again.” Marte sat down on an empty stool at the bar. I thought about joining her but decided she’d want to focus on the report.

  From my vantage point at the table, I wasn’t picking up every word from the TV, but I heard enough to know that the attack had occurred near Washington University and had left either ten or eleven well-respected medical researchers dead—there was some confusion about the number. One person, a local Catholic priest, was injured but was expected to survive. Many of the previous statements released by the Crusaders had hinted at a fundamental, religious orientation, but sparing the priest was the clearest declaration of their leanings so far. Or, it was clever misdirection, made even more convincing because it fit the stereotype. But misdirection for what? I had no answer.

  Some additional details of the killings made it to my ears. The shooters had sealed off the room, then systematically executed all except the priest. The cold-blooded nature of the murders sent chills down my spine.

  This is getting too damn close to Nicole.

  The thought flooded my mind, changing my shock to anger mixed with worry. So far, the Crusaders had only targeted leaders in their respective medical fields, and Nicole wasn’t one. Not yet, anyway, although her company was well known. Was she in danger?

  While I was turning that thought over in my head, the picture on the television pushed my emotions even further. It was a short video clip of a young couple walking hand-in-hand. But just as they were about to pass from the field of view, they stopped and gave this mock salute—one finger touching the forehead, then flipped forward as they stared directly at the camera. Even the gesture was perfectly choreographed, each using their outer hand so they wouldn’t interfere with the other. And the look on their faces? I’d never seen a grin that looked so emotionless, so empty.

  In one massive attack, the Crusaders had crushed all hope that Sister Constance’s death was the end of their reign of terror. They were still among us, just as brazen as before, but now, even more ruthless.

  I slumped in my chair, a hand coming to my forehead to massage the tension I felt there. I took a long breath, telling myself my worry was unnecessary and largely irrational. But I knew even before the self-talk started, my gut would never listen.

  “Are you OK?”

  I looked up to find Marte rejoining me at the table. “Yeah, getting there.”

  “Your fiancé?” she asked as she sat down.

  I nodded. “I know there are thousands of people involved with medicine in St. Louis. Even more when you start counting all the companies that support it, which is where Nicole is. It’s just difficult, being so helpless.” Marte nodded, picked up her fork, but then set it back down.

  I released a long sigh. “You headed to the University?”

  “No,” she replied. “By now, the place is swarming with agents and forensic teams, not to mention the local police.” She placed a hand on the back of her neck, her eyes closing as she twisted her head to the side. I didn’t hear a pop, but if it had been me, there would have been one.

  “This can’t be easy for you, either,” I said. “They’re taunting law enforcement with that jaunty-salute crap.”

  “Yeah, it’s a slap in the face when they do stuff like that. Not that we need the extra motivation.” She paused a moment. “But it doesn’t seem like it’s just law enforcement they want to hack off. When you kill students who have done nothing but promise a brighter future, that’s brutal. It’s like they don’t give a damn if they alienate the whole country.”

  “It does seem that way, doesn’t it,” I replied.

  “We also got an answer to one of your earlier questions. The Crusaders definitely have people ready, willing, and able to step in for Sister Constance.”

  “And probably people they don’t think you can identify,” I said. “With the way they stared into the camera and left a witness, I wouldn’t be surprised if you find their fingerprints all over the bullets and in the room where they killed everyone.”

  Marte’s phone beeped, and she pulled it out. “I need to get going,” she said, after apparently reading a lengthy text. “As soon as I get the rest of this salad to go.” She flagged down our waitress and asked for a to-go box.

  “I’ve pretty much lost my appetite for now, but in a couple of hours ….” She let her words trail off. “My boss is pulling people to work the attack at Washington University, so I’m backfilling on Conroy. I need to go in for a briefing on it, get up to speed. And then later, there’s another coordination meeting. Not sure what that’s about, but it sounds big.”

  She scraped her salad into the box and started to pull some bills from a wallet. I waved her off, saying it was my thanks for her listening when it wasn’t part of her job description. She accepted with a smile, the only one in the last several minutes, then left.

  My gaze went back to the television. It was showing a block of quoted text with the caption, “Latest Crusader Post.” The font was too small for me to read, so I pulled out my phone. A few taps later and their declaration was on the screen.

  This post is dedicated to our beloved Sister Constance, gone but never to be forgotten. She made the ultimate sacrifice in order to stem the tide of drugs that kill our senses and treatments that mock our Creator. She gave her life so we could be free of the tyranny of all who say they know best when all they know is how to enslave us in false dreams and an artificial existence.

  Sister Constance has fallen, but our cause will never fail. In her stead, Brother Justice and Sister Prudence have taken up our banner. Strike them down, and more will follow until the decision-makers of this great but decaying land recognize medicine as the scourge it is on the bodies and minds of all peoples.

  I placed an elbow on the table, my forehead resting in my hand. Were the Crusaders trying to force the government to the negotiating table? Some of the words sounded like it. If you stop the mandatory vaccination of children, we’ll stop blowing up hospitals? Clamp down on the excesses of the drug companies and we’ll spare the neighborhood clinics? End abortion and the med schools can hold classes in peace? But if that was their aim, where were their demands? Who represented them? Perhaps all of that was coming, but in the six weeks since their emergence, there hadn’t been a word on these fronts.

  Or maybe the Crusaders believed their actions would embolden a large, silent faction that shared their worldview. That avenging force would rise up, circumventing the slow grind of government. That strategy, however, appeared deluded. Only the most extreme detractors of medicine would endorse the Crusaders after what they had done today.

  What objective makes sense in light of these tactics?

  I had only confusion in my head where the answer to that question should have been. I looked down at my half-eaten sandwich, realizing I had lost my appetite, too. I waved at the waitress. “Another to-go box, please.”

  3:03 PM – The St. Louis FBI Field Office

  Agent Rebecca Marte slipped into the back of the small auditorium, relieved that Hawkins hadn’t started the meeting on time while being perturbed for much the same reason. There were a lot of people here, talking, texting, or just worrying about what lay ahead while he shuffled his notes.


  She spotted Clements seated on the aisle, about a third of the way to the front. And although she had no right to, she had come to expect that her friend and mentor would save her a seat. He had. When she reached his row, Clements slid over. After mentioning her preference for the aisle once and then, only as an off-hand remark, it had become his routine. Clements was thoughtful that way.

  As she sat, he threw a sideways glance at her, then turned for a longer look. “You look nice. New hairstyle?”

  “Aw, crap,” she whispered. She ran both hands through her short hair, returning it to its spiky look. “Not styled, just combed,” she explained. “Trying the look on for my catering gig tonight, when depraved leers are part of the job.”

  Actually, she had wanted to look a bit more “put together” for lunch, which, she told herself, wasn’t unusual. It was less common, however, for her to forget to return to her office look; in fact, she wasn’t sure it had ever happened before. But with the attack at the school, it was understandable.

  “There, that’s much worse,” said Clements, smiling with the non-compliment.

  “So, is the rumor true? Are we about to raid the Crusaders’ hideout?”

  “With Hawkins running the brief and all the agents here?” said Clements, his gaze slowly moving across the crowd. “I’m not sure what else it could be. But we’ll know soon enough. So, who knew Veles would be working for Dr. Greenwood?”

  “Just about everyone and his brother,” Rebecca replied. “Her office plus anyone at the medical supply houses they used for the equipment could have found out. Sorry, but short of a half-page ad in the newspaper, I’m not sure how it could have been kept less quiet. The other thing Price wanted to talk about was how to make sense of Constance’s complete lack of fear.”

  “And he doesn’t think it was drugs or brainwashing?” asked Clements. “Her strange calm doesn’t come up in the news often, but when it does, they blame one of those two.”