“I’m not so sure. He struck a deal with the DA in Washington, Rebecca. There’s nothing we can do about it. He may do a little jail time but I doubt it though. You can be sure his days as a congressman will be over after today.”
“Are you telling me that he might go free? How can you make a deal with a murderer?”
“Like I said, it’s all very complicated.”
“This man probably murdered Tony Bix, and then there was that innocent girl. On top of that,” she angrily stated, “you’re still allowing this to go on here,” She gestured to the crowd and Simon Moss.
“That was part of the deal. He could have his day here today, then, we will take him into custody right after this ceremony. His political days are definitely over. He will resign his seat immediately tomorrow morning at a press conference in Washington.”
“And if I expose your so-called deal?”
“We’ll do everything to stop you from doing that, you know that, Miss Ray.”
“Oh, I’m sure you will.” Rebecca looked out over the spectacle around her. “I can’t believe this. I give up! I became a reporter because I believed in fighting for justice. I can’t stay here and watch this bullshit.” She started to walk away.
“Rebecca,” he shouted. “Wait, wait!”
She stopped and looked at him.
He looked at his watch again, then over to an approaching sedan, then drew his gun.
“Stay here, Rebecca, and watch. Get your photographer up here.”
“What?”
“You’ll see.”
“Frankano?” Rebecca quickly motioned to her photographer to come to her side. Things started moving very, very fast.
Suddenly a car, coming from the St. Louis side of the bridge, stopped by the roped off area Simon was standing in. A figure in a heavy coat, wearing a dark blue ski mask and leather gloves, jumped got out of the car and dashed toward the congressman before the agents had time to react.
A gun was drawn, a woman screamed and Moss immediately turned to see why. When he did, he came face-to-face with the masked person, the barrel of the pistol laid on the shocked and frightened white-haired man’s cheek bone.
All of the agents moved into unspecified locations. The camera crews moved as close as possible to catch the scene. Rebecca’s partner began snapping photos.
The crowd below wondered what all the commotion was up on the bridge.
“Drop the gun!” Frankano shouted, as he pointed his weapon at the assailant, as did the other agents.
Simon could see the scarred lips of the man holding the gun to him through the mouth opening of the mask. “Jump, you son-of-a-bitch, or I’ll kill you myself!” the masked man commanded him. The voice was raspy and barely audible.
“Somebody help me!” Moss cried out. “He wants me to jump!”
Frankano shouted out to his men, “Something’s wrong. That isn’t our agent.”
With a quick hard blow to the neck from the masked gunman, Moss flew against the concrete side rail and then fell, flipping over it, grabbing desperately onto one of the antique steel-tube street light poles that line both sides of the bridge. The crowd on the bridge deck and those down on the street below, gasped in disbelief, as Moss screamed out, dangling from the side of the bridge. The agents started to rush the assailant.
Immediately the man’s pistol was in Moss’s face again as he barely held tight to the light fixture.
“Stop!” Frankano commanded his men, “Stand back. He might shoot. He’s not our agent!”
“Help me! Please help me, Frankano!” cried Moss, holding on to the steel lamp tubing in desperation. “This wasn’t our deal Frankano, this wasn’t our deal! Do something fast! Somebody help me! This nut’s going to kill me.”
“I think you need to pay for what you did, Moss,” stated the gunman calmly.
“Shoot him, damn it, Frankano!” Moss shouted at the agent, as his grip weakened. His eyes darted over to the agent, then back to the masked gunman.
The man suddenly and viciously jabbed the gun barrel into Moss’s eye socket, pushing his eyeball back into his head. Blood gushed out from around the barrel of the gun. Moss screamed out in agony, still desperately clinging to the light pole, as the turbulent river below lapped up against the old cobble stone riverbank, near where his supporters stood, watching in horror. His feet dangled and kicked, trying to find a foothold. People below screamed, seeing Moss legs dangling above them. Some ran up to the bridge to get a better view.
Rebecca watched in disbelief. “Oh my gosh,” she said to herself.
“You have ten seconds to drop the gun!” Frankano shouted to the masked man. “We’ll shoot! I’m going to count to ten. Now put the damn gun down and let Mr. Moss back onto the bridge.”
The man’s eyes stared at Moss without any compassion.
“One! Two! Three!” Frankano counted out.
“It’s your turn to die, colonel,” the masked gunman quietly stated to Moss.
Moss suddenly realized who the masked gunman was. “Help me, Frankano! Please help me! Somebody shoot him!”
Blood covered Moss’s cheeks and mouth, as the barrel twisted deeper in his skull. “A-h-h-h!” Moss screamed in horror.
Rebecca gasped as she put her fingers to her lips.
“Five! Six!” Frankano carefully counted, “Put the fucking gun down now.”
“This one’s for my beautiful Mary, who you murdered, Mr. Moss!”
Then, a shot rang out, blowing away the back of Moss’s head, hurling the congressman’s body away from the bridge, then down to the murky gray water’s edge below on the cobblestone pavement. Everyone on the bridge dashed to the railing to see the corpse land.
Instantly, without reaching the count of “ten”, the agents let loose a barrage of gunfire into the masked man’s back, neck and legs, killing him on the spot.
When the shooting stopped, people screamed while some stood silently in shock. Some stood at the rail to see if they could get a glimpse of Moss’ body, as the river splashed against his tangled legs.
His white hair was drenched in dark blood.
Frankano ran over and looked down over the bridge railing and saw Moss laying below, lifeless. He turned around and crouched down to the masked gunman’s body, still lying lifeless near his feet, and gently removed the mask and gloves.
“Oh, Jesus Christ!” He immediately recognized the figure. Rebecca ran over next to him. “Who is it, Frankano?”
It’s Spencer! It’s Alex Spencer.”
“Who?” She asked again.
“It’s Alex Spencer. I can’t believe this. We thought he was dead. He survived the crash three years ago. Jesus! I should have kept searching for him.” Frankano rubbed his hand over his head. “What a fucking mess.”
The cameras moved in to get a close-up of the dead gunman. His face was gruesomely burned and scarred, barely any facial features at all and his hands, were deformed, with only partial digits attached.
Someone screamed out, “Oh-h-h! His face has been burned off.”
Rebecca stood silent, as Frankano ordered his men to check the dead man’s car. “Oh, Lord,” she whispered. Her photographer feverishly captured the gruesome scene, furiously snapping dozens of photos.
A young Hispanic agent moved quickly to report back to Frankano, after inspecting the car, “There’s nothing in the back seat, Sir.”
“Well, check the fucking trunk!” Frankano shouted, frustrated and angry.
“Yes, Sir.”
After retrieving the keys from the ignition, he and a few other agents, went to the rear of the car and opened the trunk, revealing a man with his legs and arms tied behind him, and his mouth taped shut. It was the agent who was supposed to decoy the event to take Moss into custody.
“It’s
our guy, Sir!” came the report. “He’s alive. He’s breathing.”
“Jesus Christ, what the hell happened here people?” Frankano asked, throwing his hands in the air.
Rebecca walked up to Frankano and tried to get his attention.
She asked firmly, “What’s going on? Who are these men?” She pointed to the man in the trunk, then to the dead masked assailant.
Frankano walked away from the scene, back to the side of the bridge and leaned against the rail, looking out at the adjacent Martin Luther King Bridge. His eyes suddenly caught a figure climbing down from the rusty olive green, steel bridge structure, about twenty feet above the roadway. It was far enough away that he could barely make out a face.
Rebecca interrupted his observation, “Are you going to offer any explanation for this, Frankano?”
“Listen,” he snapped, while still keeping his eyes on the other bridge. “I don’t owe you a damn explanation.” Then he quickly glanced at her, “Who the hell do you think you are?”
Just then, the young Hispanic agent called out, “Frankano, Sir!”
Frankano looked over Rebecca’s shoulder, “Yes? What is it?”
“Sir,” came the eager rookie. “Look! Have a look here, Sir,” he was carefully displaying a pistol. “Spencer’s gun hasn’t been fired. There’s still a full clip. How could that be, Sir? It just doesn’t make sense. We saw Moss get shot. If this guy didn’t shoot him, then who did, Sir?”
“Let me see that,” Frankano ordered, taking the gun from him. He gave the weapon a quick inspection, as he examined the unspent cartridges.
“Get this gun back to ballistics.”
“Yes, Sir.”
As he walked away, Rebecca turned and also saw the male figure climbing down from the Illinois side of the Martin Luther King bridge.
Frankano turned and got a fix on him again, noticing he was carrying, what appeared to be a rifle. No one else on the bridge seemed to notice.
The male figure came down from the steel bridge span, to the road’s surface. He glanced toward the two familiar onlookers, stared for a moment at them, knowing they knew who he was, then, he turned and jogged to the east.
Rebecca and Frankano looked at each other in disbelief for a moment, their mouths wide open, then watched as the red-bearded man disappeared from sight, into East St. Louis.
“Oh, my gosh,” Rebecca cried out. “I can’t believe it.” She looked up at Frankano and put her hand over her mouth.
He let out a sigh, keeping his thoughts to himself.
Rebecca waited to see what he would say.
Frankano took her by the arm, saying nothing at all, then, escorted her through the dozens of other agents and reporters taking over the crime scene, as policemen moved in to keep back the press and horrified crowd.
***
A few days later, Rebecca Ray’s compelling headline article, chronicling the crimes of Simon Moss and the botched FBI cover up that followed, appeared in nearly every national newspaper across the country. Agents Steve Frankano and Tom Merritt were put on extended paid leave until the bureau could complete its formal investigation into the matter.
THE END
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