The Bernie Factor
Page 48
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Schwartz sat inside the concrete walled room and marveled at the sterility of the facility. Maybe its newness perpetuated this level of cleanness or perhaps the proprietor’s meticulous attention to detail resulted in an obsessive/compulsive need to maintain a hospital-like aesthetic purity. Schwartz made this trip alone at the request of headquarters. Besides, O’Neil was still officially on administrative leave while he recovered from his wound. The round had lodged in his upper shoulder, which caused nothing greater than tissue damage. Some neurological deficit initially appeared in his arm, but that subsided and eventually disappeared entirely after a few days.
“Inspector Schwartz,” said a man wearing a Department of Justice identification badge neatly clipped to his suit jacket breast pocket. “My name is Collin Shear, and I work for the Department of Justice. I see you’ve completed the non-disclosure form which I can take from you.” Schwartz handed the signed form he completed prior to arriving. It made him apprehensive about what would be disclosed, but after the last week of his life, he was open to seeking the truth, no matter where it took him.
Shear perused the form, and after seeing that everything appeared in order, he said, “Please follow me.”
“May I ask what exactly I’m coming to see, hear, or do?”
“I believe things will be much clearer momentarily. Please be patient.”
Schwartz sighed. He pushed his hands off the top of his knees and raised his body from the comfortable black leather chair he had sat in for the past 45 minutes. He rose to his feet and gave the man a head nod. Schwartz followed him down a series of concrete walled corridors that led through control access doors which only opened after the man displayed his DOJ badge to a domed camera lens mounted in the ceiling. After completing this process through three separate large, steel doors, the man stopped in a hallway by a wooden framed door. He punched in a series of scrambled numbers until a click signified the disengagement of the door’s locking mechanism.
They stepped into a conference room, complete with a long wooden table that could seat in excess of twenty people, Schwartz surmised as he counted the empty chairs. Several blank flat screen televisions hung on the walls. A telephone bank sat against the far wall with everything from landlines to cell phones, satellite phones, and secure, encrypted communication devices. Radio chargers lined a credenza at the other end of the room. Next to that were several fax machines and one extremely large color laser printer. But what stood out the most was the wall back at the other end of the room.
Instead of another drab, artless slab of drywall painted in government gray, was a one-way mirror, allowing those inside the conference room visual access to the adjoining room. The room next door appeared to have all of the trappings one would find in a modest hotel room with the exception of the large metal exit door that lacked a handle or any means to open it to gain access to the corridor. This room served as a glorified jail cell. Many comforts were provided, but no freedom. Inside this space the allegedly deceased Chief Inspector Christos Gionelli watched television from a sofa, very much alive.
Schwartz stood frozen looking at his former partner and boss. He’d been in safe sites like this many times during the course of his career, but to see Gionelli still alive in government custody, floored him. He half expected to see Whiteside sitting in the room. Schwartz grew accustomed to the U.S. Marshals Service and its various counterparts in the Department of Justice going to great lengths to rename, relocate, and reinvent protected witnesses, but never stage their death. Of course, in the last week, he’d learned it wasn’t so uncommon after all.
Schwartz retained no memory of the explosion. He remembered getting to the accident scene and ordering Gionelli to get out of the vehicle, which he resisted. Upon a fire igniting and flames pulsating through every conceivable opening inside the car, Gionelli decided to exit the burning vehicle on his own volition. The next thing Schwartz remembered from that point forward was waking up in the hospital and getting told by staff the other Marshal died. Thinking they referred to O’Neil, Schwartz panicked and tried to remove his IV lines. When he learned it was Gionelli, he calmed down and a deep sense of sadness burdened him. Schwartz knew the good side of Gionelli. The man Gionelli became stood in stark contrast to the man Schwartz knew for so many years.
“As you can see, Inspector Schwartz, Chief Gionelli is still alive and well, but in protective custody.”
“Whose protected custody?” Schwartz asked, keeping his eyes on Gionelli the whole time.
“The Department of Justice.”
This vague response redirected Schwartz’s eyes to the lone man in the room with him. “Who within the Department of Justice?”
“It is a conglomeration of various entities within the DOJ, but that’s not relevant at this point.” Before Schwartz could respond, the man continued. “The relevant matter is the microchip that Chief Inspector Gionelli implanted in the dog. Witnesses at the scene reported that Surey Whiteside left with the aforementioned animal. It is imperative that we ascertain his precise location and recover that information.
“I agree,” Schwartz responded, “but why fake his death and let him off scot free after shooting my partner? Hell, he shot at me. I’m pretty sure he was willing to kill anybody to recover that information. So what’s he get now? Immunity? What’s he going to spill the beans about to cut that deal?” Schwartz fumed with rage at the government letting him walk away from his crimes. His temples pulsated and his face grew dark red.
The man from the DOJ leaned back and said, “Please understand. The Department of Justice has been conducting a long term investigation into several facets of the judicial system, and Chief Gionelli possesses specific, detailed information regarding that investigation. If certain parties knew Chief Gionelli survived and remained in our custody, their activity would shut down and leave us with nothing. Not to mention endangering informants’ and undercover operatives’ lives. It was the cleanest way to proceed. I’m sorry for the confusion and shock at seeing Chief Gionelli alive. We thought it was best for you to visually confirm before continuing.”
“I’m sorry, who is “we” again?”
“A conglomeration.”
“Was it the same conglomeration that facilitated the Surey Whiteside caper so many years ago?” Schwartz felt the rise of indignation in his voice. “And continue with what?”
“Mr. Whiteside was well before my employment began with the Department of Justice so I cannot accurately speak to arrangements from cases during that timeframe. We’d like your assistance in locating Mr. Whiteside. We fear that with his background, the information he possesses could easily land with unscrupulous parties.”
“Yeah, it might fall into the hands of a conglomeration,” Schwartz cynically replied.
“Multiple principals from agency heads are scrutinizing these efforts,” Shear responded. “Obviously the U.S. Marshals, the FBI, several joint terrorism task forces, the Department of Homeland Security, The Office of Bombing Prevention, and multiple members of the intelligence community.”
“The office of bombing prevention? Who the hell are they? It sounds more like a subsidiary of AA than an actual agency. You sure you’re not making this shit up, kid?”
Shear raised his eyebrows and placed his hands on his hips. His stance widened and he drew back as if he were avoiding a sucker punch, which is exactly what Schwartz threw at him, in a verbal manner of speaking.
“Rest assured, Inspector, everything I share with you is factual,” Shear replied.
“Well thanks, but no thanks, kid. I’ll keep everything on the down low, just like it says in the non-disclosure, but unless I’m assigned to whatever division this is of the DOJ, I’ll just go back to protecting the scumbags of the world and leave the Whiteside chase up to somebody else.”
“Inspector Schwartz, you do realize the information Mr. Whiteside possesses could not only endanger protected
witnesses, but also you and your coworkers? This a grave matter which I believe necessitates further consideration from you.”
“Mr. Shear, I appreciate your offer, and I’ll take it under consideration,” Schwartz replied, placating the man. “But as for now,” Schwartz said pointing at Gionelli, “I prefer not to be in that man’s presence.”
“Very well, Inspector. I understand.” Schwartz doubted if he understood anything he said. Regardless, all he wanted was to leave.
Shear punched in the code to unlock the door and pulled it back upon hearing the click of the latch releasing. He led Schwartz back to where they met and wished him all the best, sincerely hoping that he would come on board with the operation. Schwartz politely shook his hand and said he’d be in touch.
Schwartz made his way through the parking lot and jumped in his Ford Crown Victoria. He fired the engine up and sat back in his seat, pondering the morning’s revelations. He pulled a post card from his sports coat and looked at it again. It was a post card from Glacier National Park in Montana. The card depicted Lake MacDonald and gave some pertinent information on the body of water, most notably the depth of the lake, which was underlined by hand. There were no other markings, words, return address, or anything else on the card besides the Montana postmark.
Nick O’Fallon had come to see Schwartz while he was still in the hospital. Nick told him how Whiteside took the dog, promised to destroy the chip, and would somehow let Schwartz know when he completed the task. Schwartz was certain the chip rested on the bottom of Lake Macdonald, never to be seen again. And by he looks of its proximity to Canada, he was equally sure Surey Whiteside crossed the border for destinations unknown. That was good enough for Schwartz. Gionelli and rest of his no-name crew could chase their tails for eternity as far as he was concerned.
“Hell, the dog would probably get a kick out that one,” he chuckled to himself.