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Criminal Option

Page 7

by Robert Rand


  Agent Cindy Franklin answered, “Watcher three copy.” The black Jeep came into view and Franklin put the blue Caprice into gear.

  “So that’s Kellerman’s sister-in-law,” commented the agent partnered with Franklin, as they began to follow the Wagoneer.

  Mrs. Kravitz thought it all very exciting. The secret codes, the FBI, bank robbers. She sat at the dining room table while that polite Agent Boatwright was talking on the phone to his office. ‘Headquarters’ he called it.

  Being the inquisitive person that she was, a busybody, her sister would say, Mrs. Kravitz reached out and turned over the notebook that Agent Michaels had forgotten to take with him. Expecting lines of something official and secret, she was surprised to find a poem.

  She read:

  As the night is burdened by darkness

  My soul is cowering from the shadows

  Finding that there is nothing inside me

  Sorrow or self-pity don’t even exist

  There was a time that emotion lived

  I fear that such a time will never return

  Is this the death of my soul I’m witnessing

  If so, may the body soon follow

  Death of my soul

  By L.A. Michaels

  Agent Boatwright hung up the phone and turned to see Mrs. Kravitz reading his work. She became visibly uncomfortable under his steady gaze.

  “Well, I don’t quite understand poetry,” she turned the notebook back around as she spoke, “but this seems very nice. Very nice, indeed.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Kravitz, I’m sure Agent Michaels will be pleased to hear that.” He smiled his most disingenuous smile and retrieved the spiral bound pages.

  She went and busied herself in the kitchen while Agent Boatwright resumed his watch.

  Chapter 12

  April didn’t bother to knock. She walked straight in to her sister’s house. Her anger and frustration gave in to fear. She had rehearsed the things she would tell her sister and her meddling husband. She would tell them to stay out of her life and mind their own business, and that they were wrong about Sullivan and her. However, when she saw her sister she broke down in tears.

  “Oh, April, it’ll be alright. I promise.” June whispered as she held April. “Cry. Let it all out, then we’ll talk,” she soothed.

  April suddenly pulled away from her sister and ran to the bathroom. She dropped to her knees and had no more than gotten the toilet seat raised when the contents of her stomach, booze and bile mostly, spewed out of her mouth. The little that had been in her stomach had come out with the first spasms, and then she was wracked with terrible, choking, dry heaves. Saliva and tears dripped into the murky stench that floated in the toilet. The smell of the vomit was causing her to continue to heave. She reached blindly for the flush handle and slapped it down. For April, the entire world spun just like the water in the toilet bowl, round and round, down, down, down.

  Little April, the cherubic two-year-old, placed a comforting hand on her Aunt April’s shoulder and asked, “Did you eat too much candy?”

  Through her misery came a smile. “Something like that, sweetie.”

  Sullivan stashed the money several miles from the bank, amongst some dense foliage along a narrow back road near Sycuan Casino. He knew that he needed to get rid of the motorcycle, but where was his main concern. He looked down and noticed mud and grass clotted on the frame and back fender. ‘Evidence’, he realized.

  His next stop was a do-it-yourself car wash, where he thoroughly cleaned the bike with the high-pressure hose. From there, he decided to return to the Hilton at Mission Bay, where he quickly loosened the valve stem on the rear tire, releasing all the air. He entered the hotel lobby and was able to rent a Lincoln Towncar from Avis. The motorcycle, he would retrieve later.

  He drove the rental car to where the money was secreted and retrieved it before driving north. He retraced his path of the day before as far as Hemet. There he rented a room at the Travel Lodge on the western edge of town. He became worried when April failed to answer her cell or the house phone. He cut a hole in the bottom of the mattress, yanked out a dozen handfuls of the thick cotton stuffing and replaced it with crisp twenty-dollar bills, then remade the bed. Later, he tossed the stuffing and the detonator, actuator box and remaining chunk of Tovex in a trashcan at a mountain turnout near Lake Hemet before continuing on to Indian Wells.

  “He wore black, head to toe black.” Judy Koeller answered L.A. Michaels.

  “Was there anything, anything at all, that you recall, about his voice or movements that could help identify him?” he asked in a quiet, yet forceful tone. His lack of sleep and the frustration of being so close, yet a million miles away from placing Rourk in cuffs, were getting to him.

  “I really wish I could be of more help,” the weariness showed in her deeply lined face, “I couldn’t tell you if it was a black man or a white man. I only think it was a man because of his size, like I say, six foot six, at least.”

  A nurse walked into the antiseptic, institutional green waiting room. “Mrs. Koeller?” she asked. The old lady stood with a quickness that threatened to tumble her. Michaels steadied her as she expectantly answered and asked, “Yes? Is my husband, is he…?”

  “He’s going to be okay” the nurse assured the tearful old lady.

  “Oh, thank God!” Tears streamed down her wrinkled face. Her worst fear wouldn’t be coming true today. Though, at 72, deaths’ reach was always near, on this day, at least, Mr. Death had lost his grip. For that she was truly thankful.

  “Come with me and you can see him, but only for a few minutes. He needs rest above all else.”

  L.A. followed the two women into the hall. A distraught 30-something couple was hurrying toward the old lady. Her kids, he figured when he saw them stop and embrace. L.A. walked the opposite direction toward the exit that led to the helipad.

  “Watcher two, watcher one. We have a bird landing at the nest,” announced Boatwright after seeing the Towncar pull into the driveway of Rourk’s’ house.

  When he saw Sullivan get out from behind the wheel, he keyed the send button and ordered, “All units move in!” while simultaneously drawing his 9mm Beretta semi-automatic pistol. He ran for the door while clipping the walkie-talkie to his belt then sprinted towards the Rourk home.

  Sullivan heard the car and van squealing to a stop and turned toward the sound. Things happened fast from there.

  Two agents leapt from the side door of the van as it came to a stop behind the rental car. “FREEZE! FREEZE! FREEZE!” came the shouts as the men in suits rushed forward, guns drawn and pointing at Sullivan.

  Two more agents had taken position behind the cover of their blue Chevy Caprice, holding their confused, surprised suspect in the line of the fixed gun sites.

  Agent Boatwright arrived at a dead run, both hands on his weapon as he held it thrust out in front of him, it’s deadly end pointed at Rourk’s chest.

  “GET ON THE GROUND!” Boatwright ordered.

  Sullivan raised his hands and eased down to his knees, “Take it easy.”

  “DOWN ON THE GROUND!” yelled Boatwright again.

  Sullivan lowered his arms as he leaned forward to comply. Not wanting to lay on the gun in his waistband, but not contemplating the consequences of his action, he pulled the .380 out with two fingers, intending to toss it aside.

  “GUN!” yelled one of the agents behind the Chevy.

  Shots rang out from five different weapons simultaneously, the number of which was indistinguishable in the overlapping roar of each gun being fired.

  Sullivan felt the bullets rip into his shoulder, chest, arm, and back as he was knocked to the ground. His gun had slid under the Town Car. Fire burned in his chest. He could taste the coppery flavor of blood in his mouth. He tried to speak; tried to call out to the one that he truly loved. “April!” The name was a desperate scream in his mind, but only the sound of blood gurgling in his throat escaped his lips. Then, as if experiencing a solar ec
lipse of the soul, the world around Sullivan Rourk faded into darkness.

  Patrick Boatwright was instantly at Rourk’s side, checking for a pulse. He held Sullivan’s wrist and felt nothing. Looking up at the surrounding agents, Michaels could see the pale-faced shock each member of the team was feeling. He looked back down at Rourk, thinking that it wasn’t supposed to happen like this, when he noticed a slight flutter of the eyelids. He checked the carotid artery at Sullivan’s neck. A pulse! Weak, but still a pulse!

  “He’s still alive! Get a paramedic unit, stat!” Boatwright shouted, sending the momentary calm back into a flurry of movement. Agent Hudspeth helped roll Rourk onto his back. They pulled his leather jacket off and folded it under his head. Blood soaked his shirt and stained the pavement. Hudspeth and Boatwright were quickly covered in blood. Another agent, Boatwright didn’t notice which one, had retrieved the meager first aid kit from one of the vehicles. He and Hudspeth ripped open sterile gauze pads and applied them with pressure to the worst wounds.

  “We must have hit him eight or ten times” commented one of the other agents who stood by.

  “Don’t just stand there, asshole, get some towels or something from one of the neighbors before he bleeds to death!” snapped Boatwright.

  The idle agent darted over to Mrs. Kravitz’ home. The old lady was already on her way with a wide array of bandages and towels. Sirens could be heard in the distance, but getting nearer.

  Henry heard the reports over the radio in the office. He knew that Cindy Franklin and Steve Aglar were positioned outside his house after following April there. He had been reassigned to other matters that morning, but when he heard L.A. Michaels, who was still twenty minutes away in the helicopter, order April be brought in, he had to make his voice heard. Speaking into the mic, Henry said to his supervisor, “Mister Michaels, this is Kellerman.”

  “Go ahead, Henry” L.A. replied.

  “The second suspect is at my house. I want to bring her in. Please don’t let a raid go down at my home…with my kids” Henry asked him evenly.

  “One hour, Henry. Have her at my desk for interview in one hour or I come get her with all we’ve got.”

  Relief swept over Kellerman. He rushed out to his assigned unit and then to his home. When he pulled up in his driveway Steve and Cindy were parked across the street. They nodded to him, but he didn’t acknowledge their presence.

  His daughter came charging at him with arms out wide as he closed the door behind him. “Daddy! Pick me up!” he scooped her into his arms, saying “Give Daddy BIG hugs!” as she wrapped her chubby little arms around his neck.

  “Aunt April ate too much candy,” said the little girl, with a very serious look on her face.

  “Why do you say that, sweetie?”

  “’Cause she was pukin’ like me when I ate too much candy” she told her father. He could hear April and June in the bedroom. Henry put his daughter down and told her to go play while he checked on ‘Mommy and Aunt April’.

  In the bedroom he found April curled into a fetal position with her head in his wife’s lap. They had both been crying. “You okay, April?” When he got no response, he asked his wife, “Come on June, what’s wrong?”

  “What do you think is wrong, Henry? She’s married to that guy you want to put in jail!” came his wife’s angry reply.

  He sat on the edge of the bed and spoke as gently as he could; “April, Sullivan Rourk has been shot.”

  She sat bolt upright and screamed, “NO! NO! YOU’RE LYING!” She repeatedly struck him in the chest with flailing fists until exhaustion sent her into a sobbing heap, and he held her.

  “Is he dead?” she asked through her tears.

  “He’s at Eisenhower Medical Center. He’s in critical condition.”

  She wiped the tears and snot on her sleeve. With a glimmer of the hope she held within shining in her eyes, she asserted, “Then he’ll be okay. They’ve got the best doctors there. Hell, President Ford, Bob Hope and Frank Sinatra went there; they gotta be good, right Henry?” and looking to her sister for support, “June? He’ll be okay, right?”

  “Of course he will” June said, but didn’t believe it even as she spoke.

  April started to get up. “I’ve got to get to the hospital.”

  Henry put a hand on her shoulder, not forcefully, but still, firmly preventing her from getting up. “April, you can’t go to the hospital.”

  “What do you mean she can’t, Henry? Of course she can go,” said June.

  Ignoring his wife, Henry said “April, you have to come to headquarters with me. My supervisor wants to ask you some questions.”

  “I don’t want to go,” she said.

  “If you don’t come with me willingly, there are two agents waiting outside to arrest you.” Henry’s anguish was tearing at his soul.

  As a cop, he knew duty, and had never let anything interfere with duty. He never understood why people would create huge problems for themselves while trying to prevent a friend or relative from being arrested. After all, those friends or relatives were criminals. Now he understood. Now it was his friend. His relative; and he would help all he could. Henry had always believed that compassion had no place in the equal administration of justice. Now he saw that without compassion there was no justice, only the law, and the law was a cold-blooded son-of-a-bitch.

  L.A. Michaels had the chopper pilot land at the Eisenhower Medical Center in Palm Springs. He found a dozen reporters blocking his way from the helipad to the emergency room. Hospital security was attempting to clear a path. Questions were yelled, one after the other, “Agent Michaels, is it true that your agents shot the bank bomber?” from one brunette from channel 4. “Was it true that the FBI ambushed the victim?” came a question from that God damned liberal bastard from the Los Angeles Times. “Were any agents injured?” from the local cable news guy. “Is it true that there is another suspect and that suspect is the sister of one of your agents?” came the question posed by channel 7’s Inland Empire reporter. That one stopped L.A. dead in his tracks.

  A hush came over the crowd as L.A. Michaels slowly turned to face the mob of reporters, camera people and associated flunkies. As the thump, thump, thump of the helicopter rotor blades faded into the distance, the loudest noise became the whir of the auto-winders and crack of the flash attachments on the dozen or so still cameras. “I will make a short statement and answer no questions, since I just got here and don’t know any more than any of you who have been listening to the police scanners all day. Several special agents of the FBI’s Indio field office, while attempting to bring in a person who we wished to talk to about the recent bank bombing robberies, were forced to fire in self-defense. This resulted in the suspect being wounded. There were no injuries to anyone other than the suspect. At this point, there are no other suspects, though we are talking to various persons who may be able to help shed light on the matter. When we have more information, we will share it with you.” L.A. turned and walked into the hospital, reporters screaming more questions at his back.

  “Clear!” shouted the primary surgeon. The team of nurses and doctors stepped back from the unmoving form of Sullivan Rourk on the gurney. The doctor pressed one paddle to Sullivan’s left side and the other near the center of his chest, activating a jolt measuring 300 joules that caused the body to convulse in one violent spasm that brought his back and buttocks several inches off the gurney. Blood that had pooled beneath his back splattered in all directions as the body slammed back onto the sheet-covered table. The overhead electrocardiograph monitor jumped to life as the flat line broke upward sharply, then bounced into a normal sinus rhythm. “String two units of whole blood, stat!” ordered the doctor.

  A nurse pulled the two plastic bags from a small refrigerator in the operating room and hung them next to the I.V. bottle containing a solution of minerals and electrolytes that would nourish the patients failing body.

  “Pressure’s dropping!” announced the nurse anesthetist, her own adrenalin
pumping as the patient fell deeper into crisis.

  The surgeon, Dr. Mortimer, ordered several drugs to be administered through the I.V. line. Everyone in the operating room waited to see if the drugs would work, or if other measures would be needed.

  “Damn,” Dr. Mortimer muttered as he returned to tying off bleeders within his view inside his patients’ torso. Other doctors and nurses were working to stem the outpouring of blood coming from other wounds in order to stabilize Sullivan, so that he could have a chance at survival.

  “Stabilizing, but low 80 over 40”, the nurse said.

  Rourk remained in critical condition while a steady stream of anesthetizing drugs; nutrients and antibiotics were being pumped into his body, along with pint after pint of whole blood. The effects of anesthesia were thought to put people into a catatonic state, free from thought and therefore free from pain. People didn’t remember surgery. However, as Sullivan Rourk lay on the operating table, in a medically induced coma, memories played within his minds eye.

  Sullivan relived memories. His courtship of April, the wedding. His horror at finding his beloved grandmother dead, behind the wheel of her car as it sat running in his driveway. The takeover of the Desert Pueblo Casino, his rapid expansion of the business, and the threats from the lunatics that had caused him to believe that his only option was a criminal option.

  “We’re losing him!” The anesthesiologist had returned to the O.R. and had taken over for the nurse that had been monitoring the patients’ vital signs. He opened the volume control on the oxygen. “Pressure’s dropping again” he called out, a moment before the cardiac monitor screamed its warning alarm signaling a cessation of Sullivan Rourk’s heart.

 

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