Gates of Power

by Peter O'Mahoney

  With a reluctant sigh, he turned from his rod tip and looked me in the eye.

  He knew I was right.

  “Firstly, for the record, I think you’re wrong. I think you’re barking up the wrong tree and that the gamer did it. Guilty as charged and he’ll be found so, you’ll see. But if you insist on pursuing this fantasy, then I concede, I do owe you. How could I not?”

  He looked about furtively.

  We were alone, the wind was howling and there was no chance of us being heard by someone right next to us, let alone the only other person in sight, a dog walker over a hundred feet away, but he glanced about regardless, just to make sure.

  “Off the record, of course.”

  I nodded.

  “Two names: Kelly Holmes and Pat Packman. Both were suspects, but that doesn’t mean much. These sorts of cases generate lots of suspects early on, it’s where the evidence points that matters and it pointed to Rose.”

  “Why them?”

  “Holmes for obvious reasons: ex-wife, open about her hatred of Gates, and happy to express it at any given opportunity, but I imagine that won’t come as news to you. As for Packman, well, he was more interesting, something I imagine will come as news to you is that Brian Gates had been putting the feelers out for a new producer. Seems like he was ready to drop Packman, to cut him loose after all those years together and either find a replacement or go solo, with Gates also taking an executive producer credit. Gates was ready to take his show to a new network and was in the final stages of negotiation, only Packman wouldn’t be joining him.”

  “Did Packman know about this?”

  “Hard to say. If he did, it’s motive. But so what? All the physical evidence pointed to your boy. And still does.”

  “Anything else you can give me?”

  “Not really, only that Gates was having multiple affairs at the time of his death.”

  “Any names?”

  “Only one I remember was Lizzie Guthrie.”

  “At the time of his death?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’re sure about that? I mean, I know Lizzie Guthrie had a fling with him a long time ago, but you’re saying it happened recently too?”

  “Look, I’m just telling you what I heard. I don’t know if it was serious or a casual thing, but word is, it was more than a one off. Any more than that, I couldn’t say.”

  This was interesting, got me thinking, and something was falling into place.

  I thanked Ben for his counsel, passed on my best wishes to his family, then made my excuses and left.

  I had something to work with now; Alfie had a chance. Not much of one but a chance, nonetheless. I might have been the only person in his corner, but I never bet against myself, not once I got started on a hunch.

  Things were really starting to get interesting, but this was no simple matter of curiosity, it was a murder inquiry. And murder, after all, is not a board game. Murder is not about motive or alibi; it is about death, and all the hideousness that comes with it.

  And if truth be told, I had a foreboding feeling there was more around the corner.

  Chapter 10

  The police did their best to control the mayhem, holding back the opposing crowds who were barricaded in on either side of the street. Bottles, placards, even shoes, flew from one side to the other, as if to punctuate the deafening verbal abuse, but every so often a fanatic would break free and launch an attack in person, arms flailing, and face enraged with destructive intent. That’s when the batons came out, and the offender got dragged away by Chicago’s finest, kicking and screaming, to a nearby van to hear their rights.

  I had seen them on the way into the hospital, the Brian Gates obsessives and the Alfie Rose devotees, each hurling insults at the other while jabbing their signs into the air: labelling Alfie a murderer and castigating him to hell and beyond, or proclaiming his innocence and wishing him a speedy recovery.

  Take your pick.

  There was hardly any middle ground in their positions but somehow the proponents all seemed the same to me. That people would get so emotional about individuals they had never met, and never would, because they had seen them on the television or Instagram, was a surreal spectacle to watch. Of the many things I struggled to fathom in this world, the cult of celebrity was one of the biggest.

  It was hard to leave Alfie in the hospital, no matter how good the care was that he was getting. But I was no use to him in there. He needed me on the outside doing what I did best: solving a puzzle and quickly. The pressure was on, but I liked it that way.

  Urgency always brought out the best in me.

  I’d increased the workload for Casey and me to get the job done, no matter what. There just wasn’t the time to play by the rules anymore. If corners had to be cut and rules needed to be bent or broken, then so be it. I wasn’t above it, and it wouldn’t be the first time either.

  As I strode along the hospital corridor towards the exit doors, I felt focused. The time was now, and I was ready for action. As the automatic doors slid open, I was hit by a deafening wall of noise.

  The crowds were in a frenzy and had morphed into something different. A new contingent had joined the fray: a hodgepodge of anti-fascists and militant feminists had aligned with the Alfie Rose side, and a group of Alt-Right and freedom of speech patriots had aligned themselves on ‘The Gates’ side.

  If they’d been angry earlier, they were enraged now.

  I stood motionless for a second and watched, incredulous, but also bemused, at the insanity that stretched before me.

  “I’m a woman not an object!” yelled a protester, whose sign repeated the phrase, emblazoned in big red letters, which I understood in the context of Brian Gates’ womanizing, but some of the other signs were just nuts, and had nothing to do with either Gates or Rose.

  “There’s no biological sex!” announced one.

  “Gender equality is fantastic: Women deserve to be punched in the head more often!” declared another.

  “Alt-right is not all right!”

  “Free speech does not equal hate speech!”

  The slogans went on.

  Both sides had hijacked the killing and memory of one man and the due process of another for their own political agenda. Gates would have hated both groups with equal passion, but he was no longer here to care.

  It was Alfie whom this nonsense was really hurting, stirring up more anger against him and diminishing further any hope of a fair trial. He’d never waded into identity politics before, but somehow his name was being traduced and associated with the social justice warriors who hated Brian Gates, simply because of his impending trial.

  Suddenly a purple-haired freak-show with a pair of matching goggles on her forehead threw a bottle high into the air. If she was aiming at ‘The Gates’ brigade then it was a very poor effort, indeed. More time playing sports and less time on the internet would have served her well, as her pitching skills were useless, and the bottle’s looping trajectory saw it inadvertently heading in my direction.

  I stood still and watched it descend in the way you do when you’ve subconsciously calculated that something heading towards you is thankfully going to land short of the mark.

  With a loud crack it impacted with the ground, exploding not ten feet from where I stood, spreading out across the asphalt in a thousand tiny crystals that showered my shoes in flecks of glass.

  “Yeah!” “Woohoo!” screamed her comrades like demented morons.

  “U-S-A! U-S-A!” chanted a group of what looked like bikers in retaliation, waving the stars and stripes in the air.

  Things were heating up, alright.

  And another new element wasn’t helping.

  Several film crews had arrived on the scene and were capturing the action for the evening news, inadvertently stirring the crowds into a maelstrom of anger, with each vying for the top spot on the news. A couple of them were talking on camera but one appeared to be taking an altogether more hands on approach: Hugh Gut
hrie, giving a Brian Gatester what looked like a prearranged signal: a none-too-subtle double nod of the head accompanied with an expression that silently screamed, Now!

  Suddenly the man leapt over the cordon and ran toward the other side screaming. He didn’t get far. Two steps in and the inevitable happened when several burly officers crashed on top of him and smashed him hard into the ground.

  Luckily, the concrete broke his fall.

  Hugh’s crew caught it all on camera.

  Typical Hugh; his image might have been a principled Mr. Wholesome, but I knew from when he’d paid me to dig up dirt on a rival that the reality was somewhat different. If they appear squeaky clean, then the chances are they’re the exact opposite.

  As attacks on the other side went it was utterly ineffective, but it sure would have made great footage. The satisfied grin plastered across Hugh and his cameraman’s face left me in little doubt that this was the point.

  Hugh turned and caught sight of me.

  It was clear I’d caught him in the act.

  He held up his hands and twiddled them with a mock smile, as if to say, “You got me, Valentine.”

  I walked over and shook my head.

  “Inciting a riot for the benefit of your own ratings? Isn’t that fake news, Hugh? You know, our president doesn’t like that sort of thing. Always going on about it, and aren’t you a big supporter of his? Conservative, trustworthy newsman that you are. Don’t tell me it’s all a deceptive façade, Hugh.”

  “Oh, come on, Jack. I didn’t do it; I just encouraged it to happen. That’s what news is these days. That’s how the business works. This isn’t the seventies, Jack, we’re in a new era now. You’ve got to make your own news. And don’t tell me that you’re that naïve, Jack. We’re a business, like any other business, and you’ve gotta to give the public what they want.”

  “What, idiots hijacking the near killing of my client to make their own spurious unconnected political statement?”

  Hugh could see I wasn’t in the mood for his shenanigans.

  “So how is the kid, you get to visit him?”

  “Is that concern for Alfie’s wellbeing, or are you trying to get the inside scoop? I tell you anything and boom!... Sources close to Alfie Rose inform us that his current condition…come on Hugh, you know I’m not going to fall for that. Give me some credit, you know me better than that.”

  “You can’t blame a guy for trying. The upcoming murder trial is big news. In fact, it’s the hottest topic in town, by far. And everyone’s got an opinion, our latest poll has Alfie guilty by seventy to thirty, nothing scientific, of course, but a good yardstick of public sentiment.”

  “Idiots who call into live television polls are hardly representative of the public’s sentiment.”

  “That’s my viewers you’re referring to there, whom I happen to hold in very high regard.”

  “Contempt, more like it—mainly because there aren’t enough of them and the ones there are don’t tune in regularly enough.”

  “Very funny, Jack. Come on, let’s not get off on the wrong foot here. We go way back, you and me; helped each other in the past, didn’t we? All I’m saying is, it looks like you’ve got your work cut out with this one, and if I was a betting man, which I most certainly am not, my money would be on him going down. Unanimous verdict too.”

  I glanced around at the raging crowds.

  “What do you make of all this?” I asked.

  “I’d be lying if I said it didn’t make for some great footage, but I’ve never seen anything quite like it before. Gates was obviously a very polarizing figure, and by all accounts Rose is too, but all of this other stuff, all the crazies it’s attracted, the extreme left and extreme right, is something else. Some people just have nothing better to do, and of course it’s nothing to do with the case, but it is great theater, really great theater. And that’s what news is all about when it comes down to it, Jack.”

  “No tolerance for intolerance!” yelled a skinny ‘soyboy’ at close quarters, nearly making Hugh and me go deaf in the process.

  Hugh looked from him to me and rolled his eyes with a smile.

  “I don’t need to tell you that time’s ticking, Jack. You got any leads you’re working on?”

  “I’m following a few, you know how it is. Tell me, how well do you know Pat Packman?”

  “Packman, you think he’s your man?”

  “I didn’t say that, but he’s a person of interest, alright. You hear anything about Gates planning to drop Packman as producer?”

  “You’re kidding? Where did you hear that?”

  “Can’t say, but it’s credible.”

  “Wow, I knew they didn’t always see eye to eye, but professionally their partnership was a success, I thought it was as solid as a rock. There would have been a lot of money riding on that partnership, if Gates was calling an end to it, then… wow, that’s big.”

  “I know.”

  “Thinking about it though, it makes sense.”

  “How so?”

  “I saw them having a, how can I put it, forthright exchange, at the charity auction. In the bathroom of all places. I didn’t catch much, just the tail end of things, but something I did catch was Packman telling Gates that no one was going to put him out to pasture.”

  “Have you mentioned this to anyone before?”

  “Didn’t seem relevant to be honest, those two were always at it. It would have been noteworthy if they weren’t fighting… not that they were.”

  “Did anyone else hear this?”

  “Nope, I was the only other person in there, I walked in on them arguing and soon after they shut up and left. But that’s how it was with them, blazing arguments one minute then a quick reset and back to business the next.”

  “Or perhaps not back to business this time.”

  “But why now?” asked Hugh. “Even after Packman’s wife left him for Gates, the two still ended up prioritizing their work together, so why cut him loose now?”

  “Well, that’s the question, isn’t it?”

  I paused for a moment before proceeding with my next line of questioning, which seemed likely to be a difficult one.

  “Look, Hugh, there’s something I want to ask you.”

  “Oh, yeah, this sounds ominous.”

  “Yeah, and it’s something you won’t want to hear.”

  “This is a first, the great Jack Valentine tip-toeing around a subject. Well go on, spit it out, let’s hear it.”

  “Fair enough. It concerns Lizzie.”

  Hugh’s eyes widened.

  “The thing is, I have information to suggest that Lizzie and Brian Gates’ relationship was not so much a one-off thing of the distant past but might also have included the recent present.”

  “Back the hell up there, Valentine! Don’t you dare drag my family into your sordid investigation,” he yelled, jabbing a finger in my direction. “I’ve never heard such an unfounded claptrap in all my life. This conversation is finished!”

  And that was it, Hugh turned on his heel and stormed off.

  Was it the reaction of a man who had just heard for the first time that his wife had cheated, or was it the reaction of a man who already knew but couldn’t bear anyone bringing it up?

  I wasn’t sure, but one thing was certain: I would follow the evidence wherever it took me.

  No matter the offense or hurt it caused.

  And no matter the danger.

  The truth had to come out.

  Chapter 11

  I’d watched Packman over the weekend and didn’t like what I’d seen.

  On Sunday morning he’d had three separate arguments with strangers. The first was a road rage incident where some guy had pulled out a fraction too early in front of him, causing Packman to momentarily slow down. It was enough to cause a raised eyebrow or a little tut-tut from most of us, but Packman went berserk. Out of the window came the middle finger and an endless tirade of shouting and cussing. Not satisfied, Packman hit the gas.


  Overtaking the offending automobile, he cut in front of it and jumped on the brakes, bringing both to a standstill in the heavy traffic. Leaping from his vehicle, he paced menacingly towards the other driver’s door. With an almighty yank he pulled it open and got in the guy’s face, jabbing a finger at him, while yelling a blue streak.

  The other guy turned white and backed down.

  And then, as if a ‘reset’ button had been hit, Packman strolled back to his vehicle, got in, and drove off calmly as if nothing had happened.

  It didn’t take long for things to heat up again.

  Ten minutes later he pulled up at a coffee shop for a quick bagel and a strong injection of caffeine. No incidents occurred inside, in fact, Packman smiled cordially and even attempted to charm the pretty girl serving customers —albeit badly and unreceptively—but when he stepped outside the red mist descended once more.

  A male parking enforcement officer was slapping a ticket on his windshield.

  At first, Packman tried insincere politeness, in a futile attempt at getting the fine revoked, but when it became apparent that it wasn’t going to work, he dropped the nice guy routine and let it rip.

  “Don’t take it out on me!”

  “Take what out on you, sir?”

  “That you’re about fifty pound overweight and one monumental loser.”

  “There’s no need to get personal. I’m just doing my job.”

  “Yeah, that’s right, a loser’s job,” spat Packman. “Have you got kids?”

  “Yeah, but I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”

  “How does it feel when they say to you, ‘Daddy, what do you do for a job?’ and you have to reply, ‘I’m a meter maid, kids.’ Imagine their shame that their father is such a failure in life, or the embarrassment they suffer at school when someone asks them what you do. Do they admit that this is all you’ve amounted to, or do they lie and pretend you’ve got a different job, something less pathetic? Probably lie, I reckon. And who can blame them.”

  The man stood open-mouthed in shock, genuinely hurt and offended.