Green Dreams

by Gary W Ritter

  “You think somebody in the IRS is on the take?” Bennett asked.

  “Makes one wonder, doesn’t it?”

  Bennett sat back with a pensive expression on his face. “What do you want to do about it? Is it worth pursuing?”

  “If we ruffle feathers, you can expect the birds to squawk.”

  “Ugh.” Bennett rubbed both hands over his face. “Never thought I’d need to be a martyr.”

  “Look, I don’t know whether we should pursue this or not. There are…other considerations. Let’s leave it for now.”

  “All right, but I want you to know this: I joined CID because I thought I could do my bit to make the world a more honest place by catching the bad guys. If the bad guys are part of our hierarchy, that shouldn’t…doesn’t make any difference. I don’t have a pension to worry about, and I’m young enough to find another line of work if it comes to that, although I’d prefer it doesn’t, of course. Anyway, if you have something up your sleeve and want to continue with the case regardless of what Drennan said, well…I’m with you.”

  Chapter 14

  That same night two men stole along darkened city streets under a moonless sky. Although lamp posts rose every fifty feet along this block, few were lit, having been purposefully blacked out earlier that evening. The men wore sleek, black, one-piece jumpsuits, lined inside with Gore-Tex to repel Chicago’s freezing winds. Balaclavas made of the same materials covered their heads. Each carried a small leather satchel and wore night vision goggles. The form-fitting latex gloves they wore didn’t protect their hands much from the elements but had the advantage of keeping fingerprints from being left behind.

  In these hours after midnight, few cars passed. When they did, the men melted into shadow. They made their way to the rear of the older building and located the fire escape through the eerie green glow of their glasses. It descended with a slight creak and groan, which rooted the men to the spot for several minutes as they waited for any nascent alarm. When nothing happened, they ascended.

  On the sixth floor, one of the men removed an item from his bag, which he affixed to the window. He pressed a button and a tiny light turned from red to green indicating that the sensor alarm in the glass had been neutralized. The other man attached a suction device and etched with a glass cutter. Because the window was large, he created a sizable enough hole that he and his companion could step through. They landed lightly on their feet inside, seeing items in the room through an odd green haze.

  Out the door and down the corridor they moved with all senses alert. They found the right office, checked that the door was locked as expected, and opened it with the finely made picks of a master burglar.

  The desk drawers were likewise secured, but the lock quickly succumbed. In the right-hand drawer was the file they sought, and it disappeared in one of the bags. Thumbs up to each other, they left the office and found the stairwell, which they took to the basement.

  The room adjacent to their destination held the slumbering form of the night watchman, out cold from the drug one of their associates who worked there had slipped him.

  In the dark behind another door, they heard the shufflings, coughs, and myriad sounds they knew well. They slipped inside, smiles on their hidden faces. Damping down emotion that fought to reach the surface, each of the men went about the tasks he’d similarly employed in previous such circumstances.

  When all preparations were in place, they made numerous trips up one flight to the alley carting the cages and freeing the inhabitants. Heavier animals they let go in the basement and herded them up to the street. Time was running out. The released animals would soon be discovered.

  With a last look around, one of the men set the timer for the C4. Outside they ran through the melee of milling cats, dogs, monkeys, rabbits, and mice, disappearing around the corner. A minute later the Pharmaceutical Research Laboratories of City College blew from the planted explosives. Another successful animal liberation had been accomplished.

  Chapter 15

  Jason ignored the TV where the talking heads on Fox argued their respective slants on the day’s events. It wasn’t often that a liberal commentator could make a dent in the conservative logic, and Jason loved to see the left skewered by their own shibboleths. But tonight, the volume was turned off as Jason considered the events of the day and the weight that lay on his shoulders. Time to comply with his abductors’ demands was slipping away. He stared right through the screen, the commentators simply blurs at the periphery of his tunnel vision. When faced with deadlines, Jason always reminded himself of the truism that by not deciding, that lack of action was itself a decision not to decide.

  He had been ordered by his abductors to steal the file that Steve Drennan had confiscated. Presumably they knew the computerized version had been removed. Regardless, Jason also needed that file in order to find the starting point through the maze of questions he’d formulated. It had names, notes from telephone interviews, and the initial financial chains they’d constructed that traced money flows. These included bank statements, copies of canceled checks, and records of outgoing cash disbursements that their informant had provided. What they’d found had the smell of money laundering, although conclusive proof hadn’t yet been uncovered. His abductors obviously saw the file as a risk—it held something they wanted—and Jason was their key to obtaining it.

  Money laundering was a global problem that financial models estimated topped two trillion dollars a year. The U.S. had assembled strategic taskforces to combat it with varying levels of success. The problem was so enormous, with the economy awash in money from the illicit disbursement of funds, that gaining any measure of control was difficult.

  The reason criminals laundered money was simple. It had been acquired illegally and needed to be hidden so as to escape detection and evade tax. The source of most laundered funds was drugs. This compounded the overall problem through its toll on society.

  The Internal Revenue Service was part of the U.S. Treasury Department, and Federal Statute 18 USC Section 1956 specifically charged it with investigating and prosecuting the financial act of money laundering. The Criminal Investigation Division carried out this mandate. Deceit, drugs, financial scams, and the seamier side of the street comprised the fabric of Jason's life at CID. He dealt with underworld scum every day, and their residue lingered long into the night. It left him jaded, but fueled a simmering anger. He’d used that passion to delve into the situation with missing children on his weblog. Because it was personal, it psychologically assuaged his long-felt guilt.

  Jason reasoned there must be a connection between Gaiatic Charities and the incident he’d experienced in North Carolina with his daughter and grandkids. They—they who?—must have thought he was close to uncovering something important. If that were so, then Gaiatic was somehow involved in the money laundering that he and Bennett suspected. And that criminal activity financially related to the people he’d encountered. What was more, the network was diverse with long tentacles. It extended into the dark world of human trafficking, pedophilia, and sexual slavery. Someone in the IRS chain of command was associated with the people who had taken Jason for those several hours and with Gaiatic Charities. There could be no other cause for Drennan’s action. It was clear in the messages conveyed so far that this was serious business. His nosing into the affair would be deadly. If he didn’t butt out, they’d kill Marcy and her children.

  That was strong incentive. These people had discovered his Achilles heel and exploited it. How they’d learned of the familial connection and brought the strands together was perplexing, but thought for another day. Jason’s more immediate quandary was how to react to their demands. Capitulate? Forget Gaiatic Charities? Let sleeping dogs lie to save Marcy? And why couldn’t they simply have their stooge inside the IRS take the file for them? Maybe they already had in the person of Drennan. But then, why bother with Jason? Maybe because they had him on the hook. They’d twist it inside him because they could.

 
A new thought struck him like lightning on water. Obsessed as he’d been about his daughter, he’d forgotten the mother. Where was Mary Sue in all this? She’d taken Marcy in the first place and put her in harm’s way. She definitely had to answer for that.

  Lastly there was Charlie Bennett. He didn’t know all aspects of the case that Jason did. The incident in North Carolina was private; Jason hadn’t shared it with Bennett and didn’t intend to. His partner wasn’t aware that Jason had a daughter or grandchildren. The man’s ignorance of those facts would remain. It limited their interaction and how they could discuss the case, but Jason didn’t want to spotlight his personal life.

  All Jason had were square pegs, disparate events that made no sense, fitting into round holes. He had pieces but nothing coherent. An IRS connection. That was something else. It was close to home, a circle of deceit that made him angry. No way, no how, would he knuckle under. He wasn’t built like that to humbly accept the proffered bones.

  Then second thoughts crept in. Perhaps it was better to do as he’d been told. Move on. Make life easier. Don’t rock the boat with his job or his family. Keep Marcy alive through compliance with the abductors’ demands and forget what he otherwise knew. His life would be no different than what it had been prior to his seeing her. He’d had no sense as to what kind of existence she lived, and because of his ignorance couldn’t do anything about it. Just turn back the clock and live in willfully blinding bliss. Easy indeed.

  But what about Jason’s integrity? To be a turncoat himself was anathema to his being. Loyalty was something he didn’t sell. The trust which people invested in Jason was essential to his self-worth. How could he sell that out?

  Marcy, that was how. Marcy was alive and held hostage. It grated that people were attempting to manipulate him. He’d never reacted well to that. But he couldn’t risk her life.

  Charlie Bennett had volunteered to help him regardless of the risk, but Jason couldn’t put his young partner into a situation which he himself had no other choice but to take. He told Bennett late that afternoon as they left the office that he had to think about their next steps before acting. Bennett accepted the rationale and wandered off to Gambles to meet their waitress from that morning for a promised drink, his Christmas holiday girlfriend forgotten for the moment.

  Jason considered the options of taking action. He could confront Steve Drennan and demand answers, but his boss would likely stonewall him. Worse, if the man had pressure coming down from above, or was himself the IRS traitor, Jason’s taking that path would be like attaching a blinking neon sign to his head. Alternatively, Jason could comply with the demand. He could employ stealth and under cover of darkness take back the information he and Bennett had worked hard to acquire.

  What then? If he continued with a covert investigation, what would he do once he assembled the case? Or should it be a case in the usual sense? Wasn’t his real objective to solve his own personal problem? Wouldn’t he also have to play along in this scenario by giving up the file?

  Jason swore under his breath. Could he actually steal the blasted thing? Drennan had put him into a position that cut to the core of his being. Jason’s own family stood for everything he hated in the world: deception, greed, hubris in their air of superiority that they knew better than others. Wink, wink. They were dishonest in how they made their money and untrustworthy in their dealings with their fellow men. They stole, lied, maybe even killed to achieve their ends. Jason drew a line on that point. If he knew for sure that his family murdered in the course of their business dealings for personal gain, looking the other way would no longer be an option for him.

  And now he was forced to choose whether or not he’d emulate these people—his flesh and blood—that he’d sworn to keep at arm’s length. If he broke into the IRS offices to retrieve that file, he’d be no better than his father, his uncle, or any of his duplicitous cousins. Simply copying what he already had and passing it along was one thing. Physically inserting himself into the IRS offices in the dead of night and carrying out a theft was another.

  In his mind he fought the battle with himself all evening. Finally, his family heritage won, and he hated the weakness in himself for giving in. But give in he did.

  He switched off the silent television and began his preparations.

  ***

  The techniques Jason planned to use to reacquire his file weren’t all that different from those of the men who, unbeknownst to Jason, were vandalizing the pharmaceutical research facilities across town at one of Chicago’s premier universities that very night. The IRS maintained strict security and Jason knew he’d have to avoid discovery in whatever manner necessary. He stole through an alley to the back of the building, then entered through a second-floor window via the fire escape and made his way up eleven flights of stairs. At his destination he paused to catch his breath.

  The IRS leased seven floors, with five of them dedicated to typical IRS revenue functions: audits and taxpayer services such as collections and cashiers. CID was ensconced on one floor above Revenue with Branch Chiefs like Steve Drennan, Investigative Supervisors, and their groups of seven to ten special agents, of which Jason was one. On the top floor were the chief honchos, the District Director in charge of the Midwest Region, the Special Agent in Charge of the Chicago bureau, the Assistant SAC, and their supporting cast of secretaries and other assistants. The stairwells allowed IRS passcard access from one floor to the next between each of the seven floors, but the security system prevented anyone from entering from below or above.

  Jason reached the secure door and brought out a small black box. He attached it with a practiced hand and activated it with the intention of neutralizing the electronic security device. His determination quickly turned to puzzlement when he realized that overriding the circuitry wasn’t necessary. The system was already nullified.

  The adrenaline coursing through him caused intense paranoia. He glanced around but saw no evidence that someone had come before him, yet the idea that he might be under surveillance persisted. Were there cameras he didn’t know about? No, he was sure of it. He clenched his teeth and wiped sweat from his face with his forearm. There was one other stairwell in the building. An intruder could have disabled security and gone through that way. He tried to get his breathing under control; only through supreme effort did he make that happen.

  The IRS was very security conscious. Safeguards were in place to assure the alarms were religiously set every night. And this security modality was never disabled. That they were off, particularly at this hour, could only mean that someone with similar intentions to his was in the building now, for surely the intruder would re-arm the system before leaving just as Jason had planned. Were they somehow waiting for him?

  Who could be here or what they might want, Jason couldn’t guess, but it put him at even greater risk. Straining every sense at his command, he continued upward to the uppermost of the four IRS floors. His passcard wasn’t necessary—not that he would have used it—and neither was his black box.

  It was long past the hour when the cleaning crews were scheduled. Dimmed fluorescent lights were purposefully left on at odd places around the floor, so reaching his destination wasn’t difficult. They created a background hum that reminded Jason of white noise. It could mask stealthy movements. He moved slowly through the corridors of the CID offices, stopping and listening every few steps. Nothing. He hesitated outside Steve Drennan’s office.

  It was there that he heard the first sound that jarred the otherwise routine sameness around him. The shuffling of papers. Like the search through a case file to find a particular document. No light shone from beneath the closed door. Wait. A tiny beam as if from a penlight.

  Could it be Drennan? No. Why wouldn’t he come in using the elevator and his passcard? It had to be a thief or…or what? What could the person be doing in Drennan’s office?

  Jason swallowed hard, thinking. Enter and confront the intruder or wait till he left? And if he confronted him, wha
t then? He retreated toward a line of cubicles and crouched behind a chair within the darkness.

  He didn’t have long to wait. A couple of minutes later Drennan’s door cracked open. The person on the other side waited. Jason remained still. No other sounds made a disturbance.

  A gloved hand appeared, then a head distorted by women’s pantyhose. Satisfied that no one else was present, the figure emerged completely and began walking away from Jason toward the exit.

  It was then that the stress on Jason caused a betrayal. He felt it coming and tried everything he could to keep it from happening, but it wouldn’t be denied. A soft hiccup emitted from his throat. Jason took his hand from his mouth hoping it had covered the sound and looked toward the man down the aisle. He had stopped, rigid as a steel beam.

  With shocking quickness, the man pulled a pistol and sprinted toward Jason. Jason rose while fumbling for his Ruger. He had it out of his shoulder holster and was swinging it around when the dark figure bowled into him. The attack was so sudden and vicious that when the blow from the barrel struck his temple he crumpled immediately.

  ***

  The man straightened from his attack still breathing easily. The one he’d taken out lay on his back, a red welt already forming where metal had struck. With his foot he knocked his opponent’s gun out of reach. He put his own gun away, not recognizing his victim, although thinking he should, like he’d seen him in another context. It was frustrating to think you knew someone but couldn’t put the pieces together. No sense shooting someone else tonight he didn’t know, although that could change pending identification.

  What a shock to realize someone else was here. He was sure this one hadn’t seen what had gone before. Besides, it had been done with only the slightest of sound. He smiled to himself at the speed with which he’d dispatched this intruder. He flexed his gloved fingers. Few could match his strength and quickness. Virtue has its rewards, he thought. Good living—and training, plus the invisible help he always counted on; a tough combination to overcome.