Mind Kill- Rise of the Marauder

by Peter Casilio

  Senior advisors to the President of the United States reemphasized their recommendation that as a matter of national security, the investigations details regarding the missing agents should not be disclosed to the press. Details cultivated questions from reporters. Answered questions plant seeds, which reporters must research and verify, which encouraged more questions. The investigation was paralyzed; there were no clues. The government’s lack of progress would be held against the president and his administration. The administration justified their tactics under the guise that if the failed investigation was disclosed it would encourage terrorism, not deter it.

  The United States had financial burdens from two very expensive wars. The Iraq war was drawing to an end, but American casualties were on the rise each week in Afghanistan. The President’s advisors feared the nation would go into panic if it learned its law enforcement agents were vanishing every month with no theory as to why. The President had campaigned and elected to office on the platform that America needs to reform its image in the world. He insisted the real war was in Afghanistan not in Iraq, certainly not off the shores of Buffalo, New York. How would it look if the press revealed there was a war of terror off the coast of Buffalo on Lake Erie between the borders of Canada and the United States? Therefore, there were no specific press briefings addressing the missing men in Buffalo. Occasionally a reporter asked the President’s Press Secretary a question concerning the Buffalo investigation. The Secretary’s scripted answer was always, “The nation is at war. I will remind you terrorists have violently attacked the pentagon and our largest city. In the interest of national security; for the safety of all concerned, the growing details of the Buffalo investigation will not be discussed until it is deemed prudent.” If the reporter persisted with a follow up question, the Secretary tactfully ignored him. Competitive White House reporters who believed real news was not in Buffalo were eager to jump over one another to ask questions that were of interest to the rest of the world, not just upstate New York.

  Government officials discreetly briefed the missing agent’s families. The law enforcement agents were more than likely kidnapped, and the detectives did not want to inadvertently disclose facts, which could aid the kidnappers. The government never formally stated it, but it was clearly understood by the families no one could be trusted, especially the media. The victims’ families were encouraged to be strong; their vigilance would increase the odds of returning their love ones safely home.

  ***

  In a wealthy suburb fifteen miles west of Buffalo, a distinguished looking man sat at his desk studying his computer screen. His full head of black hair with wisps of grey revealed his years of wisdom. Collegiate degrees and awards adorned the wood paneled walls around him, leaving a strong impression. Cherry tobacco smoke filled the room and hovered below the coffered ceiling. To him, a den was a lair for a man who took his work very seriously, his study an area to focus without distractions. The silence was broken by a cell phone ringing. The face of the phone displayed the name of Phillip Mitchelli.

  “Hallo, Arzt Fritz Rubin,” his German accent was pronounced as he answered.

  “Phil Mitchelli. Doctor, I had to speak to you--it’s important!” His response was quick, his tone urgent.

  “Phillip, are you having Zwangsgedanken?”

  “What, Doctor? I don’t understand?”

  “Sorry, are you having obsessive thoughts?”

  “No Doctor, it’s my brother Peter. He’s gone psycho again. We never know when he is going to explode in a fit of rage. I’ve tried to get him to see you, but he won’t listen; my family’s worried. He smashed a cell phone on a conference table today and kicked a garbage can through a wall. He can be a raving lunatic; we don’t know what’s going to happen next. He told me he stopped taking his medication, did he?” Phillip’s voice was desperately concerned.

  “Golly, Phillip, now you know that is verboten. I cannot tell you that. Did he threaten anyone when he smashed the phone? You know sometimes my phone drives me crazy, and I want to throw it.” Rubin knew Phil could jump to hasty conclusions and was easily excitable.

  “He was arguing with a contractor, the contractor was wrong, obstinate--he pushed Peter just to annoy him. Peter screamed at him and then smashed his phone. I mean he really roared at the contractor and then he kicked a wastepaper can through the wall. The contractor kept apologizing to Peter. He kept telling him he had a girlfriend and a dog that depended on him, and then he started crying.”

  “Peter struck the contractor?”

  “Oh my God, I don’t think so! Pauli told me he was moving towards him when he walked in the room. Pauli got between them before it escalated.”

  “Why was the contractor crying?”

  “Doctor, you’ve seen my brother angry, remember? You could hear him yelling throughout the office. Hit him! We were worried Peter was going to kill him. I prefer my brother medicated. You’ll call him soon I hope?” Phillip hesitated then continued, “He’s always has a gun with him. My brother Pauli calls him the contractor killer; get it we’re contractors, it’s a play on contract killer.”

  “Oh yes, that Pauli; he’s an original funny.”

  Phillip lowered his voice; the doctor had a calming effect about him. “The thing is Doctor, when Peter gets angry it’s not so funny, it’s petrifying. The contractor started crying because he thought my brother was going to kill him, maybe he saw his gun.”

  “Peter pulled a pistol on him and held him at gunpoint threatening him!”

  “Well I don’t think so, he probably saw the gun under his shirt--he usually wears it in a holster on his belt. Maybe he did draw his gun! Oh my God, I have to ask Pauli we could be sued!”

  “Phillip, easy--please calm down, don’t let your imagination run wild. I must review my notes and I will call him this evening. I cannot make your brother take his medication; he has to make that decision for himself.”

  “Please try to convince him. Hey, how is your Porsche?”

  “Expensive, Frau Rubin is not happy, she wants to spend the money on a vacation home in Florida by the water so she can be with her sister Fraulein Lips.” Rubin’s voice was searching for sympathy.

  “Doctor, don’t let anyone rain on your parade. Enjoy your car.”

  “That’s easy for you to say, your sister-in-law is not Fraulein Lips! Gutenacht.”

  “Thank you, Doctor. Good night.”

  Dr. Rubin took his pipe out off his mouth and tapped it several times in a large ashtray on his desk. He removed a small pouch from his top right desk drawer and patiently reloaded his pipe with fresh tobacco. He picked up a gold lighter and directed it into his pipe, the flames glowing deep red from every puff. Pipe ready, he began to review Peter Mitchelli’s family history. Peter Mitchelli would not see Dr. Rubin alone. His notes were a compilation, taken from group sessions with the entire Mitchelli family. He had seen every member of the family over the last thirty-five years. With several precise motions of his mouse, he opened Peter Mitchelli’s patient history and began his studies as his mind drifted back in time to recall one of his group sessions with Peter Mitchelli and his concerned family…

  Rose Mitchelli, Peter’s mother, was convinced her son’s temper was genetically passed on from her side of the family.

  Rose explained, “My grandmother had been raped and murdered by a Puerto Rican farmhand in 1912. She was taking dinner to the farmhand and never returned. My great-grandfather, my mother, and aunts began a frenzied search.”

  “Please Mom,” Peter Mitchelli sighed. “Don’t talk about Uncle Pete, it isn’t necessary, this is ridiculous.”

  Peter’s father, Pasquale, reprimanded his son, “Peter you have this thing, you know how you get messed up in the head. Your mother thinks you can’t help but be a mental case because of the lunatics on her side of the family. Now shut up and let her talk.”

  Rose continued, “My grandmother was left for dead in the farm garbage pit. They carefully pulled her from the hol
e—she was naked, smothered in filth, and dying. She had taken the farmhand dinner and found him in a drunken stupor full of lust. He bound her hands and brutally raped her. Then he strangled her, attempting to kill her. Mortally wounded, she lived long enough to tell her family of her demise. Upon finding his wife, her husband Anthony immediately went to his brother Peter Vianno for vengeance.” She hesitated. “My uncle Pete Vianno had a terrible temper. He’s Peter’s namesake. They have more in common than just a name. My son has twice his temper.”

  “Your uncle was psycho killer,” Pasquale interrupted. “Peter is not a killer, that’s not fair. My boy is not a killer.” He was angry with his wife. “He’s a good religious boy, I tell you Fritz, he is.”

  “He kills animals and carries a gun,” Phillip said.

  Pasquale looked at Phillip. “Real men hunt, he’s a hunter. Besides, killing animals is not the same as killing people, you chicken shit.” Pasquale looked at Doctor Rubin, “Fritz, he is a little gun crazy.”

  “Dad, I have to inspect a job site.” Peter began to stand up.

  His father yelled at him, “The hell you are! You’re going to suffer with the rest of us while we listen to your mother finish talking about her nutty family. She still has to discuss her mother.”

  “Mom, I think your grandmother had something going on with that farm hand. She was bringing him more than dinner. Doc, you know what I mean?” Pauli winked at Dr. Rubin.

  Pasquale yelled at his youngest son, “You got a filthy mouth!”

  “Pauli, respect the dead; don’t interrupt me.” Rose continued, “Uncle Pete organized the other Italian farmers into a civilian posse. The vigilantes began an immediate search for the hired hand. Three farms away in an empty horse stall they found the man drunk. The vigilantes surrounded the drunken man. Uncle Pete, known in the small community as the ‘Crazy Sicilian,’ began beating the farmhand to force a confession from him. Uncle Pete was out of his mind with rage as he struck the villain, blood spattered onto the other farmers, and frenzied, they dispatched their rage, killing the rapist with pitchforks and shovels.”

  Dr. Rubin remembered Rose crying as she continued with the story. “My grandfather went crazy over the murder of his wife. Filled with hatred, he turned to alcohol. He brought prostitutes and loose women home, walking them past my mother and her sisters, right into his bedroom. None of the women wanted anything to do with his five daughters. Realizing his children stood in the way of his pleasures, and obsessed with his sexual urges, Anthony Vianno left the children with my great uncle Pete, who raised them.”

  Pauli looked at Dr. Rubin, “Ok Doc, we have a killer psycho great uncle and my great-grandfather who left his children for lurid women. The psycho killer is definitely Peter, but Peter, you have to work on the lurid women. We think you’ve gone funny since…” Pauli stopped when his mother gave him a stern look.

  Peter raised his voice, “Back off Pauli!”

  “What! You’re going to throw me in a garbage pit. I don’t sweat you!” Pauli yelled at his brother.

  “See, Doctor? They both need medication. They’re not crazy, mental illness is a disease right, Doctor?” Phillip looked at Rubin for confirmation.

  Pauli yelled back, “Rubin, Phil’s full of disease, he’s an obsessive neat freak! I’ll medicate you upside the head.”

  “Infantile. Doctor, my brothers are infantile.” Phil sat back in his chair.

  Suddenly, a woman’s voice echoed throughout the house, interrupting Dr. Rubin’s concentration. “Fritz, wo bist du? FRITZ!” His spine snapped straight as he looked up from his notes.

  “Stella, I’m in my office working on a case; what is it?”

  “I speiche with my sister today. She told me Froumier’s beach house is up for sale, she wants us to go down and see it this week.”

  “Stella, please, I will be finished in an hour and we can talk about it then!” Stella is going to drive me crazy over a vacation house. The Porsche is going to be sold for a strandhaus next to my sister-in-law Fraulein Lips! I AM GOING TO NEED MEDICATION. “Ich wunschte, ich konnte mein Handy zu zerschiagen, sondern Stella wurde wutend sein.”I wish I could smash my phone but Stella would be furious.

  ***

  Regan Stuart was born into an extremely wealthy family. His father Wit Worth had parlayed a large fortune buying paper mills just before World War II. The military did not move without leaving a paper trail, and that trail led to the Stuart fortune. In his youth, Regan Stuart had attended one of the best private schools in the country. He grew up on a large estate just outside of Philadelphia. His parents were shocked when he enrolled in the University of Pennsylvania in the Army’s ROTC program. His mother expected him to attend Harvard, Yale, or Princeton. His father was proud his fortune had not corrupted his son. Regan was not expecting a life of privilege. Although concerned, Wit Worth Stuart bragged of his son’s commitment to the Army. They proudly attended his graduation from basic training. Wit Worth believed his family’s opportunity for success would have never happened without those who fought for America’s freedom. Upon graduating from college, Regan Stuart immediately went to Vietnam to begin his military career. He insisted that his parents not intervene and have him assigned stateside. Instead young Lieutenant Stuart commanded a PBR (Patrol Boat River) on the rivers of South Vietnam.

  The loss of his PBR crew haunted Stuart, pushing him to his mental edge. In Vietnam, watching his command shot to hell, he wondered if he should have let his family’s influence soften his military career. He blamed himself for the massacre of his men. Drugs and alcohol provided no relief for his guilty conscience. He relented and accepted the help of Vietnamese civilians who advised him on Vietcong operations along his river patrol. He became obsessively haunted, contemplating how many of his crew would be alive if he had accepted the assistance of the civilian Vietnamese earlier.

  Regardless of his torment, he completed his year in combat. Mentally scarred, he returned stateside to finish his second year in Army service. The horrible memories of his crew’s mutilated lifeless bodies, drugs, and alcohol abuse had taken its toll. He lost weight. His mind and body were rundown from his sleepless nights a result of his reoccurring nightmares. Suffering from depression, and anxiety, Stuart battled post-traumatic stress disorder.

  Obsessed, the intellectual Stuart had had to understand his depression. He enrolled in the Harvard School of Medicine, studying to become a psychiatrist. He immersed himself in his studies, which distracted his haunted mind from its torture. He graduated magna cum laude, and was highly respected among his peers.

  His education paled when compared to his common sense ability to solve problems. His family’s immense wealth enabled him to associate within the elite circles of politics. The family supported many presidential candidates. His mother pressured the President to appoint him the Director of the Central Intelligence Agency. Driven by his passion to protect American soldiers, his record was beyond criticism. He became a master of innovation. He fiercely defended the agency and its tactics. Learning his lesson in Vietnam, he was known for his willingness to listen and accept help from other agencies. Secretary Stuart would do anything to stop his guilt and prevent the return of his night terrors. The credibility of the agency quickly grew and espionage data flooded into the pentagon. Four Presidential administrations later, he would be appointed to a newly established agency as a result of the 9/11 attacks, the Department of Homeland Security.

  Secretary Stuart’s frustration grew as he listened to staff reports on the situation in Buffalo. He struggled to restrain himself. There were no new investigative details. Frustrated and highly stressed, Stuart’s nightmares resumed. It was quite apparent to his Harvard intellect that the federal agents, although considered well trained, were incapable of solving the depravity. Increasing personnel assigned to the case in Buffalo only yielded more missing agents. Stuart feared the unsolved crime could blow up in media headlines; if the missing agents were alive, the conspirators could kill them in an
attempt to cover their trail. This would doom the current Presidential administration and forever cast the United States as vulnerable to terrorists within its borders.

  The Department’s internal assessment reports warned that field agents were especially weak in field surveillance. Undercover detectives, plain-clothes men, were a dying breed of law enforcement officers. In the sixties and early seventies, plainclothes detectives blended with the city’s filth. They disobeyed their agency’s policies and operating procedures, which hindered today’s world of law enforcement. The plainclothes officers of yesteryear would get their hands dirty, bloody if need be. The old mindset was to get the bust, make the hit. There was a fine line, sometimes an invisible line, between cop and criminal. Their shady associates were great sources of criminal activity.

  These days, officers were taught to stay alive, get through the day, return home to his spouse and children, and waiting at the end of his career was a healthy pension and second career, as a teacher, car salesman, or seller of male enhancement drugs over the internet. The officers did not blend with civilians, let alone the criminal element.