by Gavin Reese
Colleen and Jonathan shared a laugh at their present situation, grateful for Michael’s naïve understanding of the circumstances. “Better yet, buddy, let’s order room service.”
Colleen had wrapped her left arm behind Jonathan’s back, her hand resting on his left shoulder. Only then did he notice she again wore her wedding and engagement rings. He motioned for her to step back, and then lowered the right bedrail. She climbed into bed with him and Jonathan grasped her left hand in his, their wedding bands wonderfully together again.
Ninety-Nine
Dry Creek Investigations Bureau. Dry Creek, Arizona.
After a brief stop in the small office kitchen to refill his black coffee, Detective Ron Berkshire joined Lieutenant Dobbins, Sergeant Rudiger, Detective Landon, Sergeant Jones, and Detective Wall in the conference room.
“Great,” Dobbins said, while standing with a black marker before the room’s dry-erase board, when he saw Ron enter. “Grab a seat, Ron, and let’s get started. I know everyone here has precious little time to waste, and still a shitload of work to do. So, let’s start with…lemme see, the first thing I have on my agenda is ‘what we still need,’ so start with that. Landon, you wanna go first, since this started out as your steaming pile?”
Ron walked around the back side of the conference room and selected a chair between Landon, who sat at the middle of the far side of the table, and the LT, who placed himself at the far head.
“Well, thankfully, as soon as D-C-P-D, J-T-T-F, and F-B-I assets were all thrown at this, along with help from almost every other local agency in the Valley, we got a solid result in a very short timeframe,” Landon began prefacing his present case status summary, “and I imagine we’re getting fairly close to finishing this thing out. Just waiting on dental record comparisons to confirm the dead shooter in Montana was, in fact, William Augustus Bennett like his manifesto said he was. And, still need to process the cell phones we seized during the search warrants. F-B-I asked if we would be so kind, because they have, like, thirty to process from their scenes on this case.”
“Can we add, ‘Jonathan McDougal un-indicted,’ to that needs list?” Wall had had little involvement with the initial bombing investigation, as he had been incommunicado and drunk in Vegas the day it happened and didn’t return to Dry Creek until the following night.
“Yeah, Wall, we could, but that’s been taken care of. Got an email last night, and I’m not surprised, but the D-A suddenly decided to quietly dismiss the charges against McDougal.” After adding ‘Dental Comparison’ and ‘Process Phones,’ Dobbins turned back to the group. “What else do we need?”
“Has the task force passed on intel on the other bombing attempts, or are they keeping that to themselves?” Ron looked around the room and saw everyone but Sergeant Jones did the same. “Whaddya know, Jones?” He didn’t feel surprised that only one of them might have inside information. “You know a guy?”
Jones’ smirk reminded Ron of a kid caught a hand in the cookie jar. Several seconds of silence passed until Jones seemed to realize the gathered investigators all now awaited his reply.
“It pays to be friends with people, L-T, but I don’t know anything official. Just, you know, word around the campfire, kinda thing,” Jones explained and paused for only a brief moment before divulging his information. “So, a California Highway Patrol Officer stopped an old truck for expired tags, just before it entered the southbound lanes on the Golden Gate Bridge, and the driver stopped about a foot short of the orange fencing that surrounds the bridge entrance. After CHP arrested him, the driver said he only stopped ‘cuz he assumed driving a bomb onto a federally-controlled bridge would bring more charges. Bomb squad one, bombers zero.
“Two Portland Police Bureau officers got called to a suspicious package and found an abandoned device by the control house for one of the city’s drinking water reservoirs. They ended up having their bomb squad come out and they got the thing dismantled in time. Two-to-nuthin.’
“The one in Las Vegas was found by an overnight janitor before the American Bank attempt was discovered. It sounds like the dumbass that planted that one was in a hurry to get away, didn’t bother hiding it very well. Just placed it against a support column in the parking garage beneath a casino. Las Vegas Metro Bomb Squad destroyed it with a water cannon hours before it was set to detonate.
“The devices in Seattle and San Diego were discovered by almost the same circumstances. Both cops tried to make early morning consensual stops with suspicious, white male bikers dragging rolling duffel bags through the gay bar districts at about 0600. The San Diego cops caught their suspect, who abandoned the duffel bag to run from them, and then he suddenly wanted to cooperate when they tried to walk him back to the duffel bag. The Seattle cops are still looking for their guy, but they also recovered and destroyed the device before it had a chance to go off.”
“Don’t you think it’s weird, though,” Ron asked the group, “that if our William Bennett was the mastermind behind this, that he didn’t do a better job of managing the personnel and equipment necessary to see this thing through? I mean, those assholes went oh-for-six on detonations, and three-for-six on apprehensions so far.”
“I always say that we don’t catch the smart ones,” Dobbins offered, “determined and capable don’t always collide, Ron.”
One-Hundred
Landon residence. Dry Creek, Arizona.
Seated in one of six wood Adirondack chairs centered around a roaring fire pit in his own backyard, Alex watched Genevieve through the open dining room windows as she chatted with several other DCPD wives about her recent employment with the Veterans’ Administration. Alex knew her return to the workforce had been a tremendous source of pride for her, and relief for both of them. He loved that she cared so deeply about veteran welfare, and he thought her new position gave her a chance to earn a living while directly helping some of the most deserving Americans. The sound of joy and pride having returned to his wife’s voice as it wafted across the backyard brought him tremendous relief and happiness. We’re finally getting back on track…
Alex raised a half-smoked cigar with his left hand, drew a healthy pull from it and exhaled the aromatic smoke; he next raised a glass of ice and Irish whiskey in his right hand, sipped at the luscious pale liquid, and noticeably felt himself relax. As he closed his eyes, leaned his head back against the chair and smiled, Alex allowed himself a brief, private moment of celebration and remembrance of that evening’s events at the Dry Creek Police Department’s Annual Awards Banquet.
“Helluvuh night, Alex.” His Chief’s voice brought Alex back to the present, and he saw the nearly retired cop had quietly taken a seat next to him.
“Yessir, it was. Glad it’s over, and I’m grateful we all lived to tell about it.”
“So, you really didn’t know the governor and the F-B-I SAC were gonna be there?”
“No sir, I knew Jonathan McDougal, Ron, and Jay Davis were also gonna be recognized for their parts in the case, but I didn’t know anyone else was coming out for it. I’m honored and humbled by the recognition, sir, but an awful lot of folks did a lot more work than I did on the bombing case.” Alex saw Dobbins and Templeton step through his home’s rear sliding glass door with their own glasses of ice-and-alcohol, and move to join McNulty and him around the fire.
“Alex,” Dobbins said, “I see you finally got the fire going.”
“Sir, didn’t you tell me not to poke another man’s fire until I’d known him seven years?”
“That doesn’t mean it’s ever beyond criticism,” he countered, “besides, you’d think I was angry if I left you to your own devices.”
A long moment of comfortable silence enveloped the group after they settled into the chairs. On that cool January night, Alex sincerely enjoyed basking in their fraternal bond and the warm fire pit as the group puffed away on the Chief’s private stash of “hypothetical” Cubans. After several minutes, McNulty broke the silence, b
ut kept watch on the night sky.
“You did a great thing, Alex. We owe you a collective debt that can’t be repaid. No metals, no ribbons, no amount of celebration or treasure will ever really be enough. You and Jon McDougal likely saved a lot of lives and spared us from descending into the fearful, hate-fueled isolation that maniac intended.” He filled his pause with a prolonged pull from a waning cigar and a generous gulp from his glass of chilled Irish whiskey. “I remember the first day you came to work for me in Patrol, Alex. I told ya then, that very day, this job is simple. Do the right thing, at the right time, for the right reasons. That’s exactly what you’ve done for the last six years, and exactly what you did on that bombing case. I’m proud to have you in my command, Alex. Good on ya, lad, good on ya.” He paused and further depleted his cigar and whiskey. “To that end, if there is ever anything you need, I expect a call.”
Silence returned as Alex pondered the Chief’s statement. “Chief, there is one thing you could do.” Alex looked at his Chief, and saw his face revealed a mild buzz, consistent with the evidence further presented by his unusual, overly-loosened tie and cigar ash thinly spread across his dress uniform.
“Name it,” the words passing over the “Cuban” clenched between his teeth.
“You know those Opening Day tickets I’ve been hassling you about for the last three years? I want you to finally sell ‘em to me.”
“Fuck off, ‘sell them,’ they’re yours. Your money’s no good here. You and Genevieve will have a great time--”
“Sir, they’re not for us.”
One-Hundred-One
My Other Garage Storage. Dry Creek, Arizona.
“Are you feeling lucky, punk?” Genevieve squinted at Alex and offered her best Dirty Harry impersonation as they stood outside the closed and locked door to their newly-rented storage unit at My Other Garage, a private and gated outdoor facility in Dry Creek. Alex had parked their sedan only a few feet away from their assigned unit’s doorway, as its back seat and trunk were filled with boxed possessions from their three, now-empty spare bedrooms. Genevieve and Alex had invited Gen’s sister and her two daughters to move in for the foreseeable future. Both households were trying to cut expenses, and the Landons were genuinely excited to have a full house for a change.
Alex pretended to ponder Genevieve’s question of luck. “Of course I am. You said ‘yes.’” He dramatically exaggerated a loving, fairy tale gaze at Genevieve, who predictably shoved a mocking, extended index finger in front of her wide-open mouth in simulated nausea.
“Bleeehhhhhh, I hate it when you get all soap opera on me.” The ongoing inside joke had been a staple between them for more than a decade. “Love overkill, Landon.”
My Other Garage’s manager quickly removed his lock from the unit’s door, and seemingly tried to ignore them and return to the air conditioned refuge of his office. “Remember the contract agreement, whatever you find is your responsibility, whether it is gold bars or poopy diapers. I can recommend a good hazmat company if you need it.”
His seriousness and repeated references to disgusting property inside the unit quelled their jovial mood. “Have you already looked inside and know what we have coming?” Alex felt sudden remorse that they gambled and paid the additional $59 fee to take the abandoned unit and its “unknown” contents.
“Nope. We don’t open the unit, we only cut the previous owner’s lock and replace it with ours to ensure we don’t lose our property interest. In accordance with Arizona law and your rental agreement, you now have ownership rights of whatever remains inside this abandoned storage unit. Regardless of anything inside being readily identifiable or associated with a specific person, you two alone have rights to it and further standing in the storage unit, as long as your rent is paid. If you stop paying within the contract period, I’ll be here cutting your lock off and selling your stuff to the next tenant.” Devoid of humor and fanfare, the facility owner quickly lifted the vertical, rolling door. Silently, all three stood together and gazed into the empty unit.
“Well, sorry for that, at least there’s no poopy diapers.” The owner immediately turned and walked away, as though fearful of a verbal confrontation that alleged he cleaned the unit out before charging Alex the extra fee to acquire any abandoned contents.
“Oh, well, we’ve spent more money than that on lottery tickets this year, and, like the man said, at least there’s no poopy diapers.” Alex turned to the sedan to begin unloading boxes.
“Kinda makes me wonder how many poopy diapers he’s found in these units.” Genevieve walked the ten feet required to reach the back of the small space and turned to face the open doorway, which provided the only light source once inside. Alex watched curiosity spread across his wife’s face, just before she raised her right hand and pointed to the unit’s interior corner near the doorway. “Honey??? It isn’t empty.”
Alex walked back around the sedan and toward Genevieve. He visually followed her pointed right index finger to the ground just inside the doorway, but the exterior sunlight proved too bright for him to see whatever she intended to point out to him. After stepping into the shade just inside the storage unit, Alex saw she pointed at three dull, aluminum-sided briefcases standing end-to-end on the concrete floor against the interior, right wall; he saw the cases almost identically matched the unit’s aluminum interior siding, which camouflaged them very effectively. While staring at the cases, Alex felt Genevieve at his right side, and they stood together as several silent seconds passed between them.
“Who did he say the previous renter was?” Genevieve cocked her head to the side and asked without taking her eyes from the cases, curiosity slowly replacing her concerns.
“Said ‘J.B.’ was the name on the paperwork, but he knew nothing else about the guy. Rented it for two months and left no phone number, no address, and no email. Paid cash for the first month, but never showed up to pay for the second. And, um, oh yeah, the employee who rented it couldn’t remember anything except that he was a white guy who didn’t want to give an I-D. Then the employee quit without notice when he got in trouble for violating the company’s I-D policy. Never came back to pick up his last check. No forwarding address for either one of them. Weird, huh?”
“About to get weirder, I think.”
One-Hundred-Two
McDougal residence. Dry Creek, Arizona.
The postal carrier delivered two large, Registered Mail manila envelopes on an otherwise unremarkable Tuesday morning in early February. Jonathan, who intended to report for late duty at the US Army Recruiting Office that day, signed for the 9am delivery. The handwritten return address of the first read as “Yawkey Way, Boston MA 02215,” but had no sender name. “Care Package,” written in large red letters across the front of the envelope, provided no further insight, and listed the recipient as “Cpt. J. McDougal & Family.” As Jonathan didn’t expect any packages and doubted Colleen would have something addressed like this, he stood outside their house to inspect and open the parcel, just in case some white supremacist whackjob found his address and the envelope’s “care package” label was meant as morbid irony.
He “frisked” the envelope from the outside and felt only papers; upon opening it and inspecting the enclosed documents, Jonathan actually felt his jaw drop. He stood on his front porch for a few long moments, just staring at the contents.
Jonathan had long dreamed of taking Colleen and Michael to Boston for a game at Fenway. Any game at the sacred site would have been a once-in-a-lifetime event for most Americans, but would be particularly wonderful for lifelong Sox fans like Colleen. In his hands, Alex found not only three third row tickets for the Red Sox Opening Day game against the Tampa Bay Devil Rays, but also three airline tickets and a printed copy of a reservation in his name for three nights at a Boston hotel he never heard of.
The second envelope contained the original deed to his home with a form letter. His apparently- now-former mortgage lender thanked him for paying off
the note and asked Jonathan and his family to consider them again for their future mortgage needs.
Jonathan suspected these were cruel pranks, but he required only about an hour of phone conversations to confirm the legitimacy of both envelopes’ contents. He prodded Landon and McNulty for their involvement over the following months, but both men denied any knowledge and coyly suggested he not look too deeply into the mouth of either gift horse. Eventually giving up on his investigative efforts, Jonathan called them both liars and thanked them for whatever role they’d had.
One-Hundred-Three
J. Gallagher Inn. Boston, Massachusetts.
As they emerged from the elevator into the hotel’s opulent lobby, the presence of two waiting Massachusetts State Police troopers surprised the McDougals, but not as much as learning the troopers had been sent to deliver them the few short blocks to Fenway Park. After loading the family into an unmarked squad car, the lead Trooper was only too happy to let Michael run the lights and siren. The two-car procession drove them over the Patrolman James B. O’Leary Bridge to Fenway, but, upon exiting the squads, the Troopers directed them into a building across the street on Brookline Avenue. As Jonathan and his family entered, the expansive room erupted in jubilant applause, whistles, and cheers, apparently led by a behemoth uniformed cop standing near the doorway in a pressed French and Electric Blue dress uniform. After silence returned to the room, he introduced himself in a thick, Boston brogue as “Colonel Talben Minogue, Superintendent of the Massachusetts State Police,” shook hands with each of them, and handed Jonathan an envelope. This one simply read “McDougal Family.”
Jonathan did not enjoy being the center of attention, and the past six months had frequently forced him into the limelight. Although humbled by the public’s gratitude, he desperately wanted a return to his previous anonymity. Smiling as best he could, Jonathan watched Minogue quiet the gathered crowd.