Chapter 23
Whiteside steered the black Mercedes through the streets of Pine Valley like a shark searching for its prey. He maintained the speed limit from the Slippery Beaver back to O’Fallon’s neighborhood. The last thing he wanted was a traffic stop with the local police department. He believed there would be ample time to retrieve the dog from the residence. He practiced calming techniques like deep breathing exercises and mantras.
“You are in control. The world is what you say it is. You are in control. The world is what you say it is,” he repeated to himself as he perused the surrounding streets and houses. So long as he maintained his personal control, everything would be fine. There would be no mishaps, like in Georgia seven years ago. Nobody said there would be a dog in that house in Druid Hills, GA. The job was simple and quick. The target was nobody who would be missed, just cleanup for a previous assignment by another crew. But that damn German Sheppard came out of nowhere, and what was a guy to do?
He spent countless hours preparing every plan, eliminating the unexpected. He did not like surprises. He did not handle them well. With all plans, human error must be taken into account. This was the one variable he refused to acknowledge. However, when working, to even a minimal degree, with other people, it is impossible and potentially unwise to negate the level of stupidity and blunder possible from your esteemed and not-so esteemed colleagues. That German Sheppard painted the very picture of his one-time partner’s inept attention to detail and his own aberrant behavior to unforeseen circumstances and stimuli.
A doghouse in the backyard should have been a clue. The bumper sticker on the target car with a heart between the word “I” and a picture of a German Sheppard might have been deemed pertinent information. The “beware of dog” sign nailed to the front door definitely should have raised one’s concerns. But apparently this did not hold true for his partner. Whiteside wondered if he ever performed a reconnaissance on the address in the first place. After much internal debate, he decided that was most likely impossible. Nobody was that ignorant to obvious signs.
He entered that Georgia house as quietly as a master cat burglar. No signs of forced entry, no fingerprints, no sound, and nobody saw him. He acted with complete and absolute professionalism. He looked up after his first few steps across the kitchen floor. The dog’s white teeth glistened in the moonlight that shone through the window above the sink. The slobbering canine stood perched in the doorway leading to the living room. The fur on his back stood on end as he growled a warning to retreat or become a midnight snack. Whiteside swore a puddle of drool formed under the dog’s mouth as he stood frozen on the tile, lost in the unexpected.
This job was a finesse order. Leave no trace of foul play and make it look like natural causes. In other words, guns, knives, nunchucks, brass knuckles, batons, or any other heavy-handed, overt devices did not make the cut. That was the last time he’d make that mistake. All he possessed was chloroform and a pre-loaded syringe of potassium chloride. Make sure the subject was completely unconscious and then inject the cocktail into his veins and voila, a heart attack victim. Another sad case of too young, too much life left to live, too fucking bad. The coroner’s report would reflect as much and the matter would fade into the annals of who could care less. He’d only be another unknown, nobody who shuffled off his mortal coil without any family or friends to mourn the loss. People were generally too busy to bother with thoroughness. Unfortunately, the same could be said for his partner on this ill-fated job.
He had no intention of starting to sing childhood lullabies at that particular moment seven years ago, but he did. He belted out toddler tunes with accuracy and passion. His reaction was nothing short of an involuntary muscle response like blinking, breathing, or a rhythmic heartbeat. He recorded it in his mind as an out of body experience, complete with a total loss of bowel and bladder control. The dog may have been the most surprised, though. A grown man singing the “itsy bitsy spider” in the wee hours of the morning while urinating and defecating in his pants weakened the dog’s resolve to muster more than a curious glance.
How he escaped the situation unnoticed and unscathed still ranks as one of his greatest life mysteries. Tied for a close second was exactly why his mind and body chose that response. This was an unprecedented event. He never before had been a total prisoner to an uncontrolled bodily reaction to stress. He poured over psychology textbooks, articles on pathological behavior, new age mysticism, theological postulates on demonic possession, and the National Inquirer. He never found an answer that satisfied his mind. He did decide that working alone would be his preferred future method of operation.
Now he faced a somewhat unique situation, as he felt like he was flying by the seat of pants on this job. There had been too many changes to the schedule, too many variables, and too many uncontrollable factors. But there was a window of opportunity and he knew it was time to make his move. An alley ran alongside O’Fallon’s house. He backed the Mercedes next to an overgrown bush that hung out over the asphalt from an adjoining yard. He opened the car door and swung both legs onto the ground. With the interior lights deactivated, the black car and his black clothing melded into the moonless night.
He rose from the car seat and shifted his weight to the balls of his feet, quietly spinning and facing the car door. He pushed it gently until he detected the two clicks letting him know it was securely latched. He stepped between two sycamore trees that swayed in the light breeze. The gentle rustling of their leaves masked any sounds he made traveling through the yards. It was an older neighborhood with few streetlights. The surrounding houses were dark, but he took a moment to search for any activity, human or particularly canine.
The breeze picked up and one or two wind chimes echoed across the yards in a clamorous melody of incongruent notes. Whiteside froze by a clump of aspen trees on the edge of O’Fallon’s backyard and assessed the situation. His breathing slowed as he calmed his own body to ascertain if there was activity he needed to take into account. After several seconds he decided it was safe to continue. He wondered to himself why people hung wind chimes. A completely uncontrollable device that created noise that was random and as unpredictable as the wind. People mostly confused and annoyed him.
He stayed on the edge of O’Fallon’s yard, ducking amongst shadows provided by the trees and shrubbery. He kept to this tactic until he was even with the rear of the house. From here he picked up his pace until he was next to the wood siding of the house. The form fitting rubber soled shoes made no sound as he took three purposeful steps toward the rear door accompanied by a pause to reassess before continuing on with three more steps. When he reached the back door, he crouched down by a mulberry bush that spilled over the metal landscape barrier separating the mulch from the grass. He gently pulled on a pair of black latex gloves tucked inside his waistline, held snug with a nylon belt. He worked them over his fingers and pulled them snugly over both palms.
He rose up and stepped toward the door. He reached into a rear pocket to retrieve a lock picking kit, but stopped midway. How many times had he heard of contemporaries attempting to pick a lock on an unlocked door? He reached out with his gloved right hand and opened the screen door. He shifted the screen door to his left hand and turned the rear doorknob. The knob twisted fractions of an inch for several seconds before turning its full cycle. He pushed against the door, waiting for a deadbolt or a chain lock to impede his progress. The door began to open. He continued pushing several inches before realizing the lock picking kit would be of no service this evening.
With the door halfway open, he stood at the threshold and listened. After hearing nothing, he stepped inside the door and closed it behind him. He drew in a deep breath, letting it escape in a slow, steady stream of carbon dioxide. He plunged his hand inside his left pants pocket and pulled out several sizable dog treats bought at the local pet supply store, but laced with a
concoction of non-toxic muscle suppressants and sedatives. Not enough to knock the dog out, but a substantial enough dose to make sure he was compliant.
“Treat. Here boy, I’ve got a treat for you.” He felt silly speaking with a childish tone, but he decided this particular situation called for it and, when necessary, he operated like a social chameleon, blending into currents norms, acceptable behavioral patterns, and slang. He heard the shuffling of paws across the floor. He stood motionless with the laced biscuits in his hand waiting for the St. Bernard he wanted to rename “Payday” to come into the kitchen and snatch the snack from his gloved hand.
His heart fluttered at the sight of the St. Bernard standing in the doorway. He was far bigger than he imagined, and for a second he began to question his methodology. Too many biscuits and he’d never be able to drag this monstrous mutt to the car. Not enough and this big boy might choose noncompliance. He twirled the biscuit between his fingers, rolling it over each digit until eventually retracing the steps back where he began. He bent over at the waist and extended his hand with the treat.
“Here you go, big fella. It’s all yours,” he said in a voice he hoped the dog did not find as unnatural as he did.
He couldn’t explain in full detail exactly what he thought occurred after this moment. Maybe it was the dog’s demeanor and his feeling extra intuitive about canine behavior, but he swore the words “bite me” echoed inside his head as if somebody spoke them aloud. He arm remained stretched out with the treat in his hand as the dog turned around and walked back into the front living room.
He did not anticipate the dog not taking the snack. He predicated the entire plan on an animal’s acceptance of food. His mind raced with alternative possibilities. Did he grab the dog by the collar and lead him out? Did he find a leash and use the ploy of a walk to get him to come along? After a minute of personal deliberation, he decided to force feed the dog the treat. Uncertain of how he’d perform this task and unclear as to this canine’s response, he allowed his underlying, impetuous nature to assume the dominant role.
He took long strides as he entered the living room and found the dog sitting on a leather chair as if nothing were out of the ordinary. He walked toward the St. Bernard and crouched down in front of him. He extended the treat in front of the huge block head and waited for a response. What he got was not anything he expected. Without knowing how or why, he swore he heard the dog say, “You’ve got to be kidding me, right?”
He heard the words as clear as a bell. He looked the dog square in the eye. The St. Bernard did not break eye contact with him. Nothing in his life ever seemed as surreal as this specific moment in time. He was not sure how long he sat crouched in front of the dog before he rose upright. Was this another aberration brought about by the sudden, undeniable stress level that surged through his veins and permeated the air? It was palpable.
“What’s all this, then?” said a voice, breaking the silence.
Whiteside looked back at the dog in the chair for several seconds before he realized that this new voice came from behind him. He shot his head to the right and saw the older gentleman who drove the Cadillac standing just inside the front doorway. How on earth did he allow this to happen? Nobody ever got the drop on him, despite the current situation seeming to prove otherwise. Whiteside quickly changed personas in an attempt to control the situation.
“Roger Chauncey,” Whiteside shouted with a realistic British accent, stepping toward Andy. “Rather embarrassing I’d have to say with this magnificent beast getting out and all. But not to worry. These treats got him back in the house and safe and sound, rather splendidly I might add.”
Andy stood motionless, eyes fixated on this odd British man inside his son’s house. The chap seemed believable enough in the fraction of a second Andy laid eyes on him, but something was off. Just as the British man neared him, a question lit up inside Andy’s head. Why did this albino have on black latex gloves? Wait a second. Albino?
Before Andy could vocalize this new concern, he felt a surge of electricity shoot through his neck and travel at light speeds from his head to his toes. Everything else went blank. He stopped hearing any voices or sounds. His focus fixated on the living room ceiling’s crown molding and nothing else. Time for Andy stood still as the pain immobilized him with swift efficiency. Even after he collapsed to floor, his immediate circumstances remained a mystery as he failed to recover any of his mental faculties.
As Whiteside held the device against Andy’s neck, Bernie leapt into action. The St. Bernard bounded across the living room’s hardwood floors and barreled into Andy’s attacker. Whiteside fell onto his side as Andy lay in a crumbled heap almost exactly where he once stood. With the stun device still held firmly in his right hand, Whiteside rolled to his back and thrust the device into the dog’s thinner chest fur. Bernie yelped as the same electricity coursed through his canine body. Whiteside pushed as hard as he could against the dog’s body, wanting to keep contact as long as possible.
Bernie stumbled backwards and lost his balance. He unsuccessfully tried to get to a sitting position as he whimpered from the shock and pain. Whiteside jumped to his feet and seized Bernie by the collar. This clearly did not follow the script, but the time for following plans ended with the old man at the door. It was improvising time and Whiteside’s heart raced as the potential implications exponentially compounded inside his head. The dog halfway complied with his pulling and jerking, probably more out of sense of self-preservation rather than compliance.
Whiteside crashed through the rear screen door and tripped as he attempted to navigate the three steps with a physically impaired pooch. Whiteside fell to his knees in the wet grass of the back yard, still with a firm grip on the dog’s collar.
“Dammit to hell,” he muttered as he made his way to his feet. He made a beeline for the Mercedes with little regard to the neighbors seeing a tall albino male dragging a St. Bernard through their backyards to a black high-end luxury car with smoked out windows. There’s nothing suspicious here folks, just taking the big fellow to the dog park, he thought. If he got out of this without stirring up an official police investigation he’d punch Christos Gionelli in the mouth for creating this situation. At least right after he destroyed any evidence that he was in anyway ever connected to Gionelli. This was definitely their last dance together.
He opened the backdoor and heaved Bernie inside. The dog tried to resist, but with little success. His paws skidded lightly over the leather as Whiteside pushed from behind. When the pushing stopped, Bernie’s legs gave out and his body collapsed on the backseat. Whiteside slammed the door shut and raced around the car to the driver’s side. As he jumped in the car, he heard the sound of car doors slamming shut in the direction of the house he’d just left.
Whiteside gripped the steering wheel, knowing full well that turning around and driving away from the house made the most sense. However, his obsessive/compulsive nature urged him to see who, if anybody, was at O’Fallon’s house. The old man was a most unwelcome surprise. The car doors shutting could have been teenage kids for all he knew. Common sense dictated for him to drive away fast and fade into the night, but he could not fight his inner demons and personality traits any more than he could prevent the sunrise tomorrow morning. He had to know for certain, even, if it meant more unwanted complications. Not knowing was worse for him than the potential ramifications.
The tinted windows made it virtually impossible for him to see anything clearly at night. Once again he acted against his better judgment and lowered the driver side window a few inches. He crept down the gravel alley that ran alongside Nick’s house. When he reached the street, he saw the Cadillac with the passenger door left open, sitting in the driveway. O’Fallon’s truck sat behind the Caddie in the driveway. He never saw the Crown Victoria parked across the street or Schwartz and O’Neil emerging from the shadows of the giant oaks that lined
both sides of the road.
Feeling satisfied, he began to pull out onto the street. He hit the power window button, but mistakenly lowered the glass completely. He refocused his attention, initially fumbling his fingers across the small window switch until he found the correct position. As he fingered the switch and the glass began to rise, he shot a glance through the open window to make sure nobody saw him. As the car slowly turned to the left, he momentarily locked eyes with Marty Schwartz. Neither of the two men blinked, not fully realizing the gravity or reality of the moment. Schwartz froze in the middle of the street while O’Neil continued walking. In a matter of two seconds the glass reached the top again.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Whiteside sputtered under his breath. He maintained the car’s speed, hoping to draw no further attention to himself than he’d already managed to accomplish.
“What the mother fucking fuck!” Schwartz shouted in the middle of the road. O’Neil turned to see his partner standing motionless with his arms dangling by his sides and his mouth wide open. O’Neil followed Schwartz’s stare to the black Mercedes that quietly rolled down the street.
“What’s wrong?” O’Neil asked. Schwartz did not answer. Alarmed by the lack of a response from his partner, O’Neil raised his voice. “I said what’s wrong, Schwartz?”
“It’s fucking him. I can’t believe what I just fucking saw. They said he was fucking dead. I saw the goddamn albino’s death certificate, O’Neil!”
Schwartz’s eyes appeared to be on the verge of bulging outside of his head. The veins in his neck stood out and O’Neil felt for a brief moment that his partner would explode into a ball of rayon, polyester, and partially digested Hebrew franks. Everything Schwartz said made complete nonsense as O’Neil’s mouth drifted open with the same loss of explanation his partner displayed.
“Oh, my God, somebody shot Andy!” Sylvia shouted from the house. Schwartz and O’Neil turned their attention to the front door where Vincent and Sylvia stood over Andy. Vincent placed his hand behind Andy’s head and tried to sit him up. O’Neil instinctively ran to the house, but Schwartz spun on his toes and sprinted back to the Crown Victoria with the agility of a man half his age.
O’Neil was halfway to the house when he heard Schwartz yell he’d call 911. O’Neil glanced back as he sprinted through the front yard and saw his partner jumping in the driver seat of their government sedan. Schwartz spent previous weeks drilling one irrefutable postulate into O’Neil’s young, impressionable mind that went hand and hand with 19 weeks of U.S. Marshals Service academy instruction. Never, ever leave your partner, no matter what. You were each other’s backup. Two is one and one is none. Nothing is to be done by yourself. O’Neil’s sprint slowed to a jog as he heard the tires squeal as the sedan fishtailed down the street. O’Neil stood still in the front yard as the Crown Victoria’s blue and red emergency lights lit up the night, followed shortly by the wail of its sirens.
“What the fuck, Schwartz?” O’Neil said with his arms lifted in the air in disbelief.
Schwartz paid no attention to O’Neil as the rear tires kicked up random dirt and loose gravel that lay in the road. O’Neil had no idea of the identity of the guy in the Mercedes, but Schwartz’s attention laser focused on that guy now. So much so, he willingly neglected U.S. Marshals Service policy and procedure that he preached to O’Neil as the most important thing to remember on the street.
“Please help us, officer,” Sylvia pleaded to O’Neil. Her voice cut through his shock and brought him back to reality. O’Neil turned and stepped toward the house’s front steps.
“Where is he hit?” O’Neil asked. He’d spent six years in the Army, much of it deployed overseas as a combat medic. He’d seen his share of trauma while fighting to stay safe and treat his fellow soldiers over in the sandbox, a sarcastic reference to any region of the Middle East those deployed often used.
“I don’t know,” Vincent replied. “I don’t see any blood, but he keeps saying the limey shot me.” Andy sat propped up against the door jam and appeared mentally altered. His eyes shot looks from Vincent and Sylvia, but did not seem to comprehend much of the situation. O’Neil crouched down next to him.
“Mr. O’Fallon? Mr. O’Fallon, can you focus on my eyes, please?”
Andy turned to the U.S. Marshal and remained fixated on O’Neil as he spoke.
“Mr. O’Fallon, were you shot?”
Andy nodded his head yes.
“Where were you shot, Mr. O’Fallon?”
“I’m pretty sure it was inside the house,” Sylvia responded. “But I didn’t hear anything and my hearing is exceptional.”
Vincent, Andy, and O’Neil stared at her, not sure if this was a serious comment or her attempt to lighten the mood at the worst possible time.
“What?” Sylvia asked, unaware.
Turning back to Andy, O’Neil asked, “Where on your body were you shot?”
Without speaking, Andy lifted his hand to the left side of his neck and looked at O’Neil to signify this was his answer. O’Neil reached down and pulled Andy’s hand away from his neck. O’Neil saw two, small dark burns or signature marks and immediately knew these were not gunshot wounds. O’Neil took a deep breath and blew out a sigh of relief.
“What is it?” Vincent asked.
“There’s no blood because he wasn’t shot with a bullet. By the markings on his neck, I’d say somebody used an electrical control device on him.”
“He was tased?” Vincent inquired.
“No, not a taser, but probably a small handheld electrical device used to stun and temporarily incapacitate someone. Not as powerful as a taser, but quite effective if you can get close enough and hit your target in the right spot, which is exactly what happened.”
“Well, why would somebody do that?” Sylvia asked, confused, but relieved that Andy wasn’t going to bleed out in front of her.
“Just guessing, but maybe he walked in on a burglary,” O’Neil said.
“I can’t imagine Bernie would let some stranger walk around the house or ignore Andy lying on the floor,” Vincent said.
“Yeah, where is that giant fur ball, anyway?” Sylvia asked.
Vincent rose to his feet and walked inside the house and yelled, “Bernie! Here, boy! Bernie!” Silence was all he got in return.
The Bernie Factor Page 23