The Senator

by Ken Fite

  “We’re going to need to act fast,” I said. “The Bureau always seems to be one step ahead of us.”

  Jami turned to me. “I’ll see what I can find on Nazir, and I’ll look into the connection to the JC.”

  I stood to leave. As I was about to reach for the door, it opened on its own and Morgan Lennox walked in.

  “The FBI just left David Mitchell’s apartment.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  AFTER HE GOT his laptop set up, David Mitchell grabbed a beer from the fridge and sat on the couch where he’d been questioned just a few minutes earlier. He was enjoying all of the attention he was getting. First, the Mitchell Wire was blowing up. Since he returned home and broke the story on Senator Keller, he’d seen more web traffic than ever before.

  Now, his name and website were being mentioned all over social media. He felt like a rock star, finally receiving the recognition he felt he always deserved. Soon, his picture would be strewn across every news channel and website when the media found out that the FBI had dropped by.

  And if the media needed a gentle nudge, Mitchell would be more than happy to spoof another anonymous email with the sender’s address forged, just like the two emails he’d sent to his own news tips email address just in case he got a visit from someone like the FBI. Insurance, he thought to himself.

  Mitchell sat on the couch, thinking about his next move. He had more information to release. He could publish an update to his story on the Mitchell Wire about the direction the black van was seen going in. Hell, he could publish the actual address of the warehouse right now if he wanted to.

  The thought of Senator Keller being trapped in that dingy warehouse being tortured gave him a thrill. But he didn’t want him killed. He needed Keller alive or the whole plan would fall apart.

  But what was his plan? Mitchell wasn’t quite sure, so he created a rough outline in his mind.

  He sipped his Budweiser slowly, knowing he couldn’t hold onto the information for too long. The authorities had visited his apartment sooner than he thought they would, so he figured they might actually have more intel than he had.

  And if that was the case, they might find the senator before the night was over. The last thing he wanted to do was sit on what he knew and watch the story resolve without having the chance to play a bigger part in it. This might be his only opportunity to finally make a name for himself.

  Still, David Mitchell was enjoying the ride. He couldn’t help but think of an analogy, like most writers and journalists did—he thought about the years he’d spent surfing while in college before moving to the Windy City.

  It wasn’t always about catching the biggest wave, because big waves tended to fizzle out just as quickly as they were created. It was much better to catch the longest wave, one he could ride all the way to the shore. And he knew that the longest waves always came after a lull of waiting.

  Although his website had become a success, it wasn’t money that Mitchell was after. It was the fame. He needed to be known as a great journalist. And since being fired from the Tribune, he’d waited patiently in the lull for the perfect wave to swell so he could ride it as far as it could take him.

  He decided he’d ride this wave for a little bit longer before jumping off. Tonight, he’d reveal everything he knew, before the people at the FBI could steal the opportunity away from him. Mitchell knew it wouldn’t take them long to realize that the email accounts were bogus. The spotlight would be back on him and he’d have some explaining to do.

  That wasn’t the kind of attention he wanted.

  If he released the senator’s location tonight, the FBI might abandon the investigation, Mitchell would be heralded a hero, and he’d be pushed into the upper echelon of journalists. He’d be even more famous than he is now, and that was a wave he had to hang onto.

  Mitchell sipped his beer and crafted the best plan he could come up with for releasing the rest of the information. At eleven o’clock, he’d spoof another email to himself and call the authorities with the details to give them a head start before updating his website in time to be reported on the late night news.

  That would get the FBI off his back, while ensuring that he’d be the one to break the story. Win-win.

  But first, he decided to order some takeout. It had been a long day and he was starving.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  JAMES KELLER DRIFTED in and out of consciousness. Although he was still in great shape, it had been many years since his SEAL days, and he’d been through a lot tonight. He felt sore everywhere, and his chest hurt where the Taser had pierced his skin and sent a current of electricity throughout his body. He wanted to keep his eyes closed and rest, but pangs of hunger kept him awake.

  Keller thought about his wife, Margaret. Did she know he was kidnapped? He wondered what would happen to her if something happened to him.

  Finally, he sat up, determined not to just stay there and wait for his kidnapper to return. He wanted to at least try to escape, although he wasn’t sure where to even start. He yanked at the pipe again, grabbing the chain from his handcuffs and pulling it tight.

  His wrists were raw and hurt like hell.

  There has to be some way out of here, he thought to himself, remembering his military training from when he was younger. When he entered the service, he’d been taught that under pressure, you don’t rise to the occasion, you sink to your level of training. That’s why SEALS train so hard, he reminded himself.

  Keller’s thoughts drifted to Blake Jordan, the kid he had trained himself for a year. He had pushed Blake harder than he himself had been pushed when he joined the service. That was why Blake was accepted to the SEAL program so easily.

  While other kids just out of high school struggled and failed to qualify for the program, Blake made it through effortlessly. That’s why we train so hard, he thought again and smiled. He didn’t blame Blake for the kidnapping. Nobody could have stopped this from happening. Keller knew that somewhere out there, Blake was looking for him and would track him down, wherever he was.

  Still, the senator didn’t want to just sit there and do nothing. He had learned an important lesson when he entered the Senate: there was almost always another option. The trick was in remembering this in the moment, to look for that not-so-obvious option, and take it without delay.

  But what was that option now? He was handcuffed to a pipe that wouldn’t budge, trapped inside an abandoned warehouse, and his kidnapper was the only person in the world that knew where he was. What is that not-so-obvious option that I’m missing? How will I get myself out of this mess?

  Suddenly, the senator felt chills all over his body. Someone’s watching me, he thought once again. Earlier, he had thought there might be a hidden camera somewhere set up by the kidnapper. He wasn’t sure how long it had been since the man had left, but estimated that it had been at least an hour.

  Keller wondered if the kidnapper was watching him from wherever it was that he went. He would have seen him conscious and pulling at the metal pipe. And he would have known that Keller was in a much better state of mind than he had pretended to be in while in the kidnapper’s presence. He wasn’t even sure if that was true. Maybe he wasn’t as fully present as he thought he was. He wondered what the kidnapper might do to him if he’d been watching him this whole time and knew he was alert and trying to escape.

  He closed his eyes to rest and think. A few minutes later, James Keller began to pray. Lord, please help me. Show me how to get out of this. Show me that missing option, he thought as he sat in complete silence.

  All he could hear was the sound of his own breathing, and he held his breath to try to lower his heart rate and calm his nerves. And as he did, eyes closed and staying as quiet as he could get, he started to hear something. It was faint at first, but as soon as Keller zeroed in on it, the sound became gradually louder.

  Breathing. I hear someone breathing. Keller slowly opened his eyes, unsure of how to react to this.

  Was it the kidnapp
er? Had he returned while he was asleep? Was he watching him from the shadows? “My name is James Keller. I’m a United States senator. I’ve been kidnapped. I need your help,” he said, not knowing who he was speaking to, but hoping there really was someone there, somewhere.

  That very moment, he heard the kidnapper return. Keller got on the floor and pretended to be asleep.

  TWENTY-NINE

  CHRIS AND JAMI were still seated when Morgan walked into Chris’s office with the news about the FBI leaving Mitchell’s apartment. The Bureau had more resources than we had at DDC, but while they had better access to information than us, we could pivot and move more quickly than they could.

  Still, it was frustrating how they always seemed to beat us to the punch on the big cases like this one.

  “Did they arrest David Mitchell?” I asked Morgan.

  “No, but from what I can tell, they seized all of his equipment. Laptops, cell phones, tablets—anything he could have used to receive or transmit information related to the senator’s kidnapping,” he said.

  I stepped back, allowing Morgan to enter the office to continue the discussion. “So the FBI thinks Mitchell had something to do with this, but they didn’t arrest him? Why would they only take his equipment?”

  Morgan looked at Chris and Jami before his eyes returned to me. “I don’t know, I’m just telling you what I came across on one of the wires. My guess is he somehow proved he isn’t involved.”

  “Can you get a trace on his cell phone calls over the last few hours?”

  Morgan shook his head. “No, mate. I can’t access the NSA’s data warehouse without them knowing I was there. If I submit an information request, we won’t hear back until tomorrow. Besides, it’ll raise a red flag, and then the FBI will know we’re still involved.”

  “Then you’ll have to run it yourself. I want to know who he’s talked to since this morning,” I said.

  Morgan put his hands out in front of him as if he were saying back off. “I’ll start now, then. But it’s going to take some time, Blake. This isn’t my forte.”

  “Fine,” I said. “Get that trace.”

  Morgan walked back to his workstation while Chris and Jami stood to leave.

  “I’m going to Mitchell’s apartment,” I said, and Jami told me she wanted to go with me. Chris turned to me and objected.

  “Blake, this isn’t going to end well. You’re in charge, so it’s your call, but I’m telling you, we were asked to stay out of this.”

  I thought for a second and then turned to Jami. “Stay here. Keep an eye on Morgan; make sure he runs that trace. Monitor the interdepartmental wires. I need to know if anything changes. Okay?”

  Jami nodded.

  I walked back to my office to get ready to head out. I opened a small locker and found my Kevlar vest. I put it on after I changed my shirt and grabbed a jacket. On my way out, I stopped at DDC’s equipment room and picked up extra ammo before walking out to my car.

  I looked at my phone and saw that Morgan had sent me the address. 1233 North Wells Street, apartment 322. The GPS said it would be a twenty-minute drive to the Gold Coast apartment, but I knew I’d be able to get there in ten.

  I took Madison to Ogden, and as soon as I got to Chicago Avenue, Jami called.

  “Hey—”

  “Blake, I just heard that the FBI arrived at the Tribune a few minutes ago.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  Jami’s voice was muffled as she asked someone a question. “I’m putting you on speaker,” she said, and a second later, she continued. “They were following up on a lead related to an email Mitchell got.”

  “Damn it, Morgan. I need that trace before the FBI gets it.”

  “Working on it,” he grumbled before Jami continued.

  “I’m trying to find out why they’re at the Tribune.”

  “Do they have a name?”

  “I don’t think so. The wire says they’re following up on an email tip that Mitchell received.” Who at the Tribune would email a tip to Mitchell? I thought.

  “Then you’ll look into Aasaal Nazir?” I asked, making sure Jami hadn’t forgotten.

  “It’s next on my list, Blake. I’ll look into Nazir and his connection to the JC as soon as we run the trace on Mitchell and try to figure out who he would have received an email tip from at the Tribune.”

  “Good. I just got to the apartment. I have to go. Get that trace,” I said and hung up.

  THIRTY

  I PARKED AT Wells and Division, one block south of Mitchell’s apartment, and walked north on Wells. It sat on top of a Starbucks on the first floor at the corner of the building.

  The other levels were apartments. I knew that Mitchell’s was at the very top. It was late and the coffee shop had closed. I could see employees inside cleaning up and getting ready to lock up and leave.

  As I approached and passed a few people on the street, my eyes scanned the building, trying to figure out how to get inside. I saw there wasn’t a way in from Wells, so I turned left on Scott Street. I noticed a pizza delivery car out front with the parking lights on. There was also a blue motorcycle parked out front, and I knew it belonged to David Mitchell.

  When I got to the middle of the building, I could see an entranceway that residents used to get in. There was a set of double doors, and one of them was cracked open. I thought it might be another way in and decided that someone leaving the building had left the door open on accident. I pulled it open and looked inside. It was a stairwell. I walked in, drew my gun, and started to climb.

  The stairwell was dark. There was a pair of fluorescent lights fixed to the wall on each level, and a few of them had gone out. On the second floor, the lights flickered on and off, and when I got to Mitchell’s floor, I had to climb each step carefully because the lights had burned out and I couldn’t see much of anything. I thought about the irony of David Mitchell living in a luxury apartment that didn’t bother to replace the lights inside one of their stairwells. When I arrived at the top level, I slowly opened the door.

  I knew Mitchell’s apartment was close. As I slowly closed the stairwell door behind me to make sure it didn’t make a sound, I saw a man on the floor to the left of me. The homeless were all over Chicago and it wasn’t uncommon to find them inside a building trying to warm up, but this was very out of place. He didn’t belong in this apartment building. I passed him at first, deciding that he was harmless. But two doors down was apartment 322, and I noticed there was blood in front of the door. I followed the blood on the carpet from Mitchell’s door back to the man on the floor.

  I stood over him and aimed my gun at the man with my right hand. With my left, I turned him over. As I did, I could see that a pool of blood had formed on the carpet underneath him. I recognized his shirt and was taken off guard by what it said: Joe’s Pizza. I thought about the pizza delivery car I had seen out front with the parking lights on.

  The man looked like he was in his late twenties and had been stabbed to death right in front of Mitchell’s apartment. Who killed him, and why is there blood coming from Mitchell’s door? I thought to myself as I walked back to apartment 322.

  Keeping my gun drawn, I put a hand on the doorknob and slowly turned. It was locked. I wondered if Mitchell was inside and, if so, what his connection might be to what had happened to the dead man on the floor fifteen feet away from me. I put both hands on my gun, stepped back, and kicked the door in. It flew open and hit an inside wall, and I quickly made my way inside the apartment.

  As I entered, I found another man dead on the floor. I looked to my left and saw a pizza box sitting on the counter in the kitchen, and suddenly I had an idea of what had happened a few minutes before I arrived. I made my way to each of the rooms, clearing each one before holstering my weapon and returning to the man on the floor. Just like the delivery guy, this man also looked like he’d been stabbed.

  Based on the Class M license record that Morgan had found earlier, I knew it was David Mitchell.

&
nbsp; I took another look around the room and saw that Mitchell’s laptop was still there. Then I checked his pockets and found a cell phone. I called Morgan and he picked up on the first ring.

  “Forget the trace. Mitchell’s dead. I have his laptop and cell phone. Can I upload the data to you?”

  “Yes, I’ll walk you through it,” he replied.

  Just then, I heard a loud scream coming from the hallway.

  THIRTY-ONE

  I TURNED AROUND and saw one of Mitchell’s neighbors standing outside the apartment door. She looked like she’d just come home from a long day at the office and was shocked at what she was seeing. I kept the phone up to my ear but flashed my badge at her.

  “Ma’am, you’re safe. Please go to your apartment as we look into what happened here.”

  She stared at me in shock. The lady had been pulling a laptop bag on roller wheels behind her with one hand and had let go and placed both hands over her mouth when she walked by the room. She nodded, grabbed the handle of her bag, and left.

  “I’m not sure I have time to do this,” I said to Morgan.

  “What kind of phone is it?”

  “It’s an iPhone,” I said, and I heard Morgan sigh again.

  “You’re going to have to pair it with your cell and use it as a router to send the information to me. Same thing with the laptop. You need to pair both of them to your phone now. Laptop should be easy, but the iPhone will be next to impossible.”

  I walked over to the laptop to work on it first. I was able to pair it to my device, and Morgan started the data transfer process from Mitchell’s laptop to his DDC computer. We didn’t do this kind of thing too often, but it was a process we had followed a few times when in a pinch.

  “The phone is locked. I need a passcode to get in,” I said as I heard the sound of a woman’s voice behind me. I knelt down, wiped Mitchell’s thumb clean, and pressed it against the home button to try to unlock the phone, but it didn’t work. “Damn it,” I whispered to myself before standing up.