Mind Kill- Rise of the Marauder

by Peter Casilio

“Mom, the boy was going to slit your son’s throat,” Pauli insisted. “Come on, Mom, tough it out, he called you a whore.”

  “Rose, it’s important you understand what happened that day. Pauli thinks it deeply affected Peter’s emotions.” Dr. Rubin tried to calm Rose down with his soothing voice.

  “I was on my knees watching in disbelief as Peter moved towards the tall Irish punk who called Mom a dago whore. The bully was now gathering his composure he stood holding his hand to his head he faced Peter and called him a dirty dago. He stared into Peter’s eyes. Beth, he didn’t see Peter’s smiling eyes; his eyebrows squinted like a tiger before it strikes. Scared, the boy wisely backed away and yelled, ‘Lucky wop!’ Peter ran at the boy, lowering his shoulders to the boy’s stomach. The collision drove the Irish boy flat on his back as if his heels were hinged to the road. The boy’s body hit the ground with a thud; the second concussion was Peter falling on top of him, his shoulder, and head hitting the boy in the gut.” Pauli put his hands out in front of him, “Holy shit! Peter put his hands on the boy’s shoulders as he lay flat on his back; he then pressed his body up locking his elbows out, pushing up on top of the boy. The kid’s body trembled. Peter drew his fist, cocked and ready to punch the boy in his face, when I screamed, ‘hitem!’ Just as Peter was going to launch his fist into the boy’s face, he stopped and blinked several times; he noticed the boy was shaking, afraid, and beginning to cry. What a pussy--he doesn’t even hitem. Peter slowly stood up and picked up his bag. I stood over the older Irish boy from hell and spit on his face, he called my mother a whore, remember Dad? The boy did not move, none of bullyboys moved. Peter grabbed me by the arm and we walked home. Peter said nothing the rest of the way.”

  Peter looked at his parents. His mother was crying, as was Beth. Pauli’s face was red from the excitement of reliving the story.

  Dr. Rubin asked, “Peter why haven’t you told me about this fight?”

  “It’s not important.” He was upset with his brother for telling the story; he didn’t want to relive the fight upsetting his family. His face noticeably troubled revealing his stress over the childhood brawl.

  “How did you feel when you hit the bully? Were you mad? Scared? Please tell me.” Dr. Rubin waited for the answer he knew Peter Mitchelli would never give.

  Peter looked at the doctor and stood to leave the room while Pauli yelled at him for not answering the question. “Come on Peter, it had to feel good to beat the snot out of those bullies. Why the hell can’t you tell him the truth?” Pauli stood up blocking his brother from leaving the room. “You asshole, you wanted to kill him, and if I didn’t say anything you would have.”

  “Pauli, get the hell out of my way!”

  “We’re all worried about you, wasting our Saturday here trying to help you. You’re not walking out on us.” Pauli was over three hundred pounds, he was presumed by many as Peter’s twin brother. He violently shoved Peter back from the door. “You shithead, if I didn’t open my fat mouth you would’ve killed that peace of shit!”

  “Boys stop there is no need for violence,” Rubin pleaded with the brothers. “Pauli sit down we can discuss this rationally.”

  “Infantile, Doctor, they’re infantile.” Phillip pointed his fingers at his brothers, “I think Pauli’s right. Peter can’t control himself; he would have killed that boy.”

  Patrick looked at Phillip, “Shut up Phil, this should be good.”

  “Pauli, don’t do this,” Peter said in a low tone.

  “Look at you. I can see it, you’re getting sick, you frickin’ baby.” Pauli pushed his brother back away from the door.

  Rose screamed, “Pauli leave him alone he’s getting a migraine headache-- get away from him, let him go!”

  “Mom I can see it in his eyes. Big Peter is getting stressed out; he couldn’t take a little story time. You big pussy!” Pauli abruptly pushed Peter and he stumbled back away from the door.

  Pauli grabbed his brother’s arm; looking into his brother’s eyes, he realized his mistake. Peter broke free of his brother’s grip and quickly pushed Pauli back against the door. Pauli’s body fell back and slammed against the door. His head struck the door with a loud thud.

  “Son of bitch, that hurt! He’s some priest, Dad!” Pauli ran towards his brother. Peter moved and grabbed his brother’s arm turning quickly pulling him over his back and throwing him on Dr. Rubin’s desk. The women screamed.

  Pauli’s three hundred pound body flopped onto the desk; papers and pens flew off the desktop. Peter choked Pauli with his left hand while putting his right hand on his pistol, ready to draw.

  “Wow! Nice throw, Peter! Pauli, shut your face so he doesn’t hurt you. Boys, I’m not paying for any damages you do to the office. You deserved that Pauli, don’t disrespect your older brother. That was a good move Peter…Uh don’t hurt your brother in front of your mother; it makes her upset.”

  As Peter leaned over his brother, his sweatshirt was pulled up over his belt, revealing his hand gripping a stainless steel pistol holstered on his belt. Dr. Rubin’s eyes locked on the weapon; he had never had a patient carry a firearm during a session.

  “I love you, Peter.” Pauli broke out laughing at his brother’s display of anger.

  “Why couldn’t you let it go, you dumbass?” Peter looked at a shocked Dr. Rubin; he was protecting his notes that he pulled from his desk before Pauli’s body landed. Peter noticed Dr. Rubin continued to stare at his pistol and he pulled his sweatshirt over his pistol, concealing it. Rubin was worried the two heavyweight brothers were going to destroy his office fighting. Puzzled, the doctor’s nerves settled when Pauli started laughing at his older brother who had just thrown him.

  “It was the only way I could show Rubin what you’re really like; the monster that you hide inside my brother the priest. You’re a killer, Peter; admit it, a nice guy with animal instincts.”

  “I’m done with this, I’m out of here.” Peter smiled at Pauli and kissed his forehead. “Monster huh, I used to change your diapers.”

  “Don’t kiss me you pussy, I gave you that move,” Pauli shouted.

  “Bull, you’re getting fat and slow.”

  “Fat and slow you better look in the mirror. You better get your punk ass out of here before I kick your butt.” Peter left the room and Pauli yelled, “you’d better watch your back!” Pauli looked at Rubin. “It’s ok, Doc. We used to throw each other all the time.” He sat up on Rubin’s desk and moved to his chair. “You see Doc, Peter and I promised ourselves we’d be prepared the next time bullies ever picked on us. We’ve practiced that move a thousand times on each other. No one ever spit on psycho Peter again, not no one.”

  During his thirty-five year career, Dr. Rubin had treated almost all the Mitchellis, including Peter Mitchelli’s grandmother Anita. Peter was the most difficult; he hid his symptoms deep within his pride. Embarrassed and guarded, he would not discuss his emotions, which made it difficult for Dr. Rubin to diagnose him. Dr. Rubin had learned to study his face, eyes, and the tone of his voice. He had analyzed Peter’s subtle expressions. Dr. Rubin would follow up with a barrage of persistent questions. He had to coerce the information out of his patient.

  After many years, Dr. Rubin had diagnosed Peter as bipolar manic-depressive. His extreme highs could be buying an expensive car, working for days on his tractor, or obsessively working on building something in or around his house. His was invincible positive, never doubting in himself. His wife, Ann, worried; she knew when he was so optimistic that it would only last for so long, and severe depression would follow. When depression hit, his mind filled with obsessive thoughts of killing himself. Kill yourself…you don’t deserve to live…save your family and end your life. The destructive thoughts repeated over and over again. His mind was going to kill him. He could think of nothing else. He calmly pleaded with Dr. Rubin to give him a medication, anything to make the obsessive thoughts stop. Day and night he battled his Mind Kill. He told the doctor he had failed his family, his w
ife, and his children. He had no energy and was bed ridden with severe migraine headaches. His headaches were so debilitating, the pain limited his vision.

  Peter Mitchelli pleaded for antidepressants, but as they took effect and his mind cleared, he felt disappointed in himself. He should have been stronger, he felt taking the pills was a sign of weakness. He eventually stopped taking his medication. Six months to a year would pass then the cycle would start all over again, triggered by a disagreement, or some other event.

  Suddenly, a voice echoed throughout the house, “Fritz, I want to see you now, I’ll go by myself to Florida and buy the house with my inheritance!”

  Rubin calmly yelled back, “My darling I am coming, I am sorry. I can’t wait to see the pictures.” He calmly poured himself a glass of schnapps before he leaves his den.

  CHAPTER 3

  Regan Stuart summoned the members of Task Force E to Washington for an emergency briefing on the situation in Buffalo. He hoped that Freed would have some positive leads concerning the investigation, but his expectations were low. In addition to his belief that the field agents were ineffective, the country’s investigative resources were stretched to their limits. The United States is at war, the economy is in a severe recession, and there was no additional money or the capital equipment to deploy to Buffalo. Even if they could dispatch more officers, boats, and other equipment it would certainly attract unwanted media attention.

  The meeting is held at Homeland Security’s headquarters; in addition to Freed representing the FBI, the other key attendees are Admiral Steve Nelson Coast Guard, Michael Mead Border Patrol, Angela MacJames FBI Deputy Director Northeast region, Robert Thorpe Federal Narcotics Agency, and Brian Mores CIA. Meetings such as this one were kept to a small group of individuals, an inner circle one might say. Administrative aids were kept out of the room; if one entered, it was only upon request of the Secretary, and all discussions stopped.

  Freed presented what little information he had; areas of surveillance on the water and shoreline, and local suspects who were being tailed. There were four boats deployed during the evening by the Coast Guard and Border Patrol, and four during the day: two Sheriffs, and two Buffalo PD. All boats were SAFE Boats, the standard for law enforcement since 9/11. The boats are identified with the agency’s logo they represent.

  FBI agents rode along with local agency’s boats on patrol as additional protection. Sheriffs and Buffalo police supplemented the surveillance on land with approximately 20 officers deployed. Some of these were uniformed officers in marked cars. Fifty miles of coastline was under watch, as well as several hundred square miles of water. Freed was reluctant to admit they had no current leads.

  “Freed,” Stuart asked, “what degree of confidence do you have that your current deployment of personnel is going to discover a viable suspect before another two officers are missing?”

  Freed hesitated. “Possibly thirty percent.”

  Frustrated, Stuart replied, “Possibly! Son, we have no leads.”

  “Yes, Mr. Secretary.”

  Stuart inquired, “What is the basis for your answer?”

  Freed responded with a dissertation on the criminal mind, and how criminals are unintelligent and although successful at the start of their crime spree, mainly because of dumb luck, their overconfidence and lack of planning usually leads to their demise.

  Freed continued, “The superior training, and intellect of a government officer historically has always prevailed.”

  Stuart looked down and spoke quietly. “For the love of God.” He looked at Freed. “Son, in regards to this case, what has the superior intellect of professional law enforcement discovered in the last two years?”

  Unexpectedly and out of character, MacJames jerked her head towards the Secretary with a stern look on her face only a confidant woman could give.

  Stuart relented. “I withdraw that what question. Robert, who do you think was the greatest FBI agent in history?”

  “Why of course the founder of the FBI Jay Edger Hoover,” Freed replied without hesitation. “Mr. Hoover represented the pinnacle of Federal Law Enforcement intellect. I’ve idolized Mr. Hoover since childhood; he rallied the bureau against crime sprees during the depression and put communists away during the fifties. He is the embodiment of the modern FBI which all law enforcement agencies aspire to.”

  “Interesting,” Stuart responded. “When I was a young man, a high ranking federal agent stated under oath to Congress in 1958 there was no national crime organization in the United States!” He pointed his finger towards Freed, “Special Agent Freed, do you know who that was?”

  “No,” Freed replied.

  Stuart asked, “Freed, what’s your opinion on such an outlandish statement?”

  “It was uneducated and naïve, Sir.”

  “Uneducated, I see.”

  Freed continued, “Yes, Mr. Secretary, certainly this statement was not made by a professional trained in law enforcement.”

  Stuart quickly responded, “You mean a civilian like myself who was appointed by the President?” He regretted his last statement when MacJames shot him another stern look. Stuart continued, “Son, forget that question. Agent Freed, why is the statement naïve and uneducated?”

  Freed responded, “Mr. Secretary it is well documented that before prohibition in the thirties, the mafia had organized illegal activities throughout the country.”

  “What were these illegal activities?”

  “Narcotics, gambling, prostitution, extortion, and human trafficking.”

  “Very good. Robert,” Stuart responded. “Do you believe these organizations still exist today?”

  Freed answered, “Yes, but fractured; they are much smaller.”

  MacJames noticed the Secretary’s hands trembling as he asked his next question, “Robert, why hasn’t the superior intellect and training of Federal Law enforcement agencies stomped out the mafia?”

  Freed started to explain, but Stuart interrupted him, “Good God man, how could an officer perform effective surveillance from marked boats or cars?” His voice grows louder as he elaborates, “The inferior intellect of the criminal is not intimidated by our professional trained officers with their superior intellect in their marked boats. The mentally inferior criminals have been snatching our trained superior officers from their vessels two at a time leaving no evidence or clues!”

  A hush fell over the room, Stuart had not intended to embarrass Freed but it was too late, the damage had been done. He knew Freed was doing the best he could, and in part, Freed’s failure was the government’s ineffective training. As Secretary Stuart attempted to drink from a glass of water, his hand trembled and water spilled onto the table.

  Captain Nelson broke the extremely unnerving silence, “The moral of my men is terrible. My crews have requested machine guns be mounted on their boats. Transfer requests out of Buffalo have tripled in the last six months.”

  Mead concurred. “There is no morale in our marine units. The frequency of sick leave has increased, and some officers are seeking disability based on mental fatigue. Our crews are too afraid to stop anyone while on watter patrol and frankly I don’t blame them.”

  “We need to back off our surveillance teams and regroup until we can agree upon an organized strategy that we can implement,” MacJames interjected. “Our current strategy is obviously yielding no investigative information.”

  Mores agreed. “CIA refers to this technique as a soft surveillance or cushion as to protect the agents and not reveal their identities.”

  Annoyed, Freed shot back, “If we back off and take a timeout, how much longer can our missing agents survive? We’re missing opportunities to gather clues and suspects.”

  After much debate Stuart agreed with MacJames and Mores--all surveillance would be soft. They agreed that the marine patrols should appear casual for the time being; it would be safer and just maybe the felons would make a mistake if given the opportunity.

  “Freed and MacJames,
I’m directing you to recruit a civilian operative.” Stuart stunned the group with his order.

  Freed was the first to respond. “Sir, why do we need a civilian? In what capacity is this individual going to be deployed?”

  Stuart explained his theory and that of the department’s internal investigation that they needed someone outside Federal Law Enforcement who could operate beyond the restrictions of a government agency and its legal restraints.

  He ordered Freed, “I want a list of prospective operatives within two weeks and since the investigation is temporary slowed, finding our civilian operative is top priority.”

  It was unusual for a FBI Deputy Director like MacJames to be directly involved in an investigation, but she would be feet on the ground in Buffalo and relay information directly to the Department of Homeland security. She would be special liaison to Secretary Stuart and expected to work with Freed on this special assignment.