Suicide Bomb

by Bobby Nash

  “Is that the first time you ever heard of Operation: Blood Shot, sir?”

  “Yes. Our first order of business was to examine the project’s proposal, overview, budget, and objectives as well as any collected data they had at that point, which I remember wasn’t a lot. The committee was made up of four others in addition to myself.”

  “What do you recall about the project?”

  “Not much as far as details, I’m afraid,” Montgomery said apologetically. “It was twenty-five years ago, after all. I remember that the project was highly classified and getting our hands on information about the project was not easy. Of course, that was a long time ago. It should be a matter of public record by now, I would assume. Your files will probably have more information on that end. What I recall the most is that the project was faced with constant setbacks. In the five years the project ran they never produced any tangible results. Not one.”

  “Nothing?”

  “No, sir. Not a thing.”

  “Pardon me for asking, sir,” McHenry said. “But why did your sub-committee allow a failed experiment to continue for five years if it was hemorrhaging money at that rate? Surely, those funds could have been put to use elsewhere.”

  When Montgomery straightened in his chair and leaned forward on his desk, McHenry realized he had crossed a line with the commander in chief. It was a practiced pose, one that was all too familiar with viewers of his address to the nation broadcasts. When the President was about to get serious, he repeated the same gesture before the cameras.

  “The proposal the committee reviewed clearly indicated that Operation: Blood Shot’s objectives were long term and that it would take a minimum of four to five years to generate results. We gave them the five years they requested for good measure, in part, based on the data they had already gathered with money already spent. We didn’t feel it prudent to let that money have been wasted either.”

  “I meant no disrespect, Mr. President.”

  “I didn’t think you did, Mr. McHenry. Look, at the end of the five-year timeframe, the project was reassessed and eventually abandoned. The sub-committee discovered that there had been no progress made so funding was stopped. Without funding, there was no project.”

  “I guess that made you a few enemies, Mr. President.”

  “It’s politics, Mr. McHenry. If you don’t have enemies, then you’re not doing it right.” Despite the humorous comment, the President’s features remained stern. He did not relish the thought of defending actions he took twenty-five years earlier, especially to a man like McHenry, who had the luxury of hindsight to draw upon. Unfortunately, one of the first things he learned after taking office was that a great majority of his time ended up being spent defending his every action to men and women who never had to make tough decisions of their own.

  “Fair enough,” the agent said.

  “Long term projects of this nature are not unheard of,” Conrad chimed in. “I have several lengthy military operations running through my office now that have had Senate oversight going back as far as Nixon’s Presidency. It happens.”

  McHenry ignored the unsolicited comment and moved on to his next question. “What happened to the team that had been assigned to Operation: Blood Shot?”

  “I’m not sure,” Montgomery said, finally leaning back in his chair. “Once the CIA pulled the plug on it, I never really gave it another thought. I assume they team was disbanded and reassigned, but I don’t know any details of who was sent where.”

  “Did you ever meet any of the team in person?”

  “Yes. We did a few performance reviews. We also sat in on a few lectures that went over our heads, but they were enthusiastic so we honored their request for time and money as long as we could for a project that, frankly, none of on the committee ever expected to work in the first place.”

  “You didn’t think they could do what they said?”

  “Come on, Agent McHenry,” Montgomery groused. “You’ve read the brief. Do you honestly think they could have pulled this off?”

  “The science does seem sound, Mr. President. At least on paper.”

  “Science? Son, the only science in that brief is science fiction.”

  “Sir?”

  “Mind control, Agent McHenry? Please. Are you going to sit there and tell me you believe that such a thing is possible?”

  “Ask my wife, sir. She’s gotten me to do things after I flat out refused to do them, and I’ve held my ground against terrorists, dictators, and men far more dangerous than she. And yet, once a week, her will be done.”

  “I take your point, Mr. McHenry,” Conrad added quickly when he saw the commander in chief’s scowl. “But I don’t think that’s the kind of mind control the President was talking about.”

  “Of course it wasn’t,” McHenry said, his cheeks reddening. “My apologies for the levity, Mr. President.”

  Montgomery waved away the apology.

  He tapped the Operation: Blood Shot folder lying open in front of him.

  “The real question, is what does the abandoned project in this older have to do with the murders listed in this one?”

  He tapped the other folder for emphasis.

  “We cross checked the names of the murdered victims with the project and we found some correlations, Mr. President.”

  “Such as?”

  “Three of the names on this list were killed in the past week. Malcolm Washington, Marnie Jameson, and Cavin Hutchinson were all associated with Project Blood Shot. That cannot be a coincidence, sir.”

  “But why were they killed? Is there something that connects them other than this dead project?”

  “Not that we can find, sir.”

  “How many more names are on that list?”

  “The project employed over fifty people, but most of them had low level clearance. Of those with clearance high enough to know what the project was all about, there are eleven. The oversight committee was made up of then congressman William James Montgomery, senator Simon Fitzgerald, Alison Shaker, Regent Sloan, and Hubert Beel. The team heading up Project: Blood Shot included Marnie Jameson, Cavin Hutchinson, Greg Gulley, Malcolm Washington, John Kilgallon, Richard Pearce, and Lana Creasy.”

  “And three of them are dead?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Killed this week?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Does that not strike you as odd, gentlemen?” the president asked.

  “What it tells me, Mr. President, is that everyone on this list is a target. That includes you.”

  Montgomery balked at the threat.

  “It also tells me that the person behind the killing might be on that list as well.”

  That got the room’s attention.

  “Can you narrow that down?”

  “Not yet,” McHenry said. “But I’ve got my best people working on it.”

  “What can I do to help?” Montgomery asked.

  “We need to talk to everyone on this list, Mr. President. Perhaps, a call from your office would cut through some of the red tape.”

  “Consider it done. Anything else?”

  “Let’s go over your memories of the project once more.”

  The President sighed.

  “As you wish, Mr. McHenry.”

  ###

  Bob Corwin excused himself from the meeting in the Oval Office.

  Deputy Director McHenry’s cue about his best people following up on things was a tell, a pre-arranged signal that told Corwin to get a situational report from Agent Patterson. Although she was technically a newbie in the department, Patterson was a capable officer and he knew that micro-managing her was not the way to get results.

  He trusted Patterson to do her job. He hoped she understood that. He dialed her number while walking down the hallway.

  She answered on the first ring.

  “Patterson.”

  “It’s Corwin,” he said nervously. “McHenry and I are briefing the President. Do you have an update for me?
”

  “Nothing conclusive,” she said. “We do have a name though, well, more like an alias.”

  “Yes?”

  “He calls himself The Controller.”

  “Controller?” Corwin stopped walking. He wasn’t sure he had heard her correctly. “As in video game?”

  “We don’t know. He had a note delivered to Detective Jackson, the Metro DC detective I’m working with. Apparently, she caught his eye during the investigation.”

  “Is it serious?”

  “I think he’s fixated on her, which can work to our advantage. We can draw him closer to her then grab him.”

  “Interesting. Is your detective friend on board with this?”

  “Yeah. She’s quite motivated to catch him. So am I, by the way.”

  “That was never a question, agent,” Corwin said. “I know you. I don’t know her. The last thing I need is some yokel cop growing fat waiting on a pension to get in the way of my investigation.”

  “Detective Jackson has my full confidence, sir.”

  “Good. I’ll hold you to that.”

  “I wouldn’t expect anything less, sir,” Agent Patterson deadpanned.

  “Don’t get cute,” Corwin said. “I’m going to be sending some people your way. The White House is helping us round up all the people connected to this Project Blood Shot business. The President and the Director are convinced those deaths are related to that old project.”

  “How much can I read Detective Jackson in on?”

  “Tell her what you think she needs to know,” Corwin said, his path having brought him full circle back to the receptionist outside of the Oval Office. “I’ll get these interviews lined up for you a.s.a.p. I’ll be in touch.”

  “I’ll be here,” Patterson said and disconnected the call without any pleasantries.

  The receptionist stood and allowed Corwin to pass. A Marine MP opened the door to the Oval Office and allowed him inside.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  The Marine nodded.

  “Forgive the interruption,” Corwin said as the President waved him inside.

  “Any updates?” McHenry asked.

  “Yes, sir. We may have had a stroke of good luck, thanks to the DC Metro Police.”

  “How so?”

  “It seems our killer has a bit of a crush on the lead homicide detective.”

  “You can’t be serious?” Secretary Conrad said before anyone else could voice their disbelief.

  “Apparently so,” Corwin said, enjoying being the center of attention. “He’s made contact with her. Looks like our bad guy calls himself The Controller.”

  President Montgomery frowned. Unlike Corwin, he wasn’t so sure this was the stroke of good fortune he made it out to be. This Controller sounded showy, eager to gain attention. That made him dangerous in the Commander in Chief’s book.

  He glanced over at Agent McHenry and saw the man staring back at him.

  The Secret Service Director seemed unhappy with the revelation.

  It was probably the first thing they had agreed on since they met.

  Twenty-two

  Washington DC

  Sunday

  “Make yourself at home, Agent Patterson.”

  Instead of dropping the Secret Service Agent back at her office, Jacks drove them straight to the precinct to see if her partner, Mel, had made any progress on the Hutchinson case. She had already called ahead to let him know about the letter she received from the guy calling himself The Controller. At least, she assumed it was a guy. The tone of the letter suggested a man had written it, but she was trying to keep an open mind.

  If DC Metro and the Secret Service were going to cooperate, there was no time like the present to start. Upon arrival, the detective gave her guest the “nickel tour” of DC Metro as they made their way to the squad room that the Homicide Division called its own.

  Jacks kept it brief. Her partner was waiting for her even though she had insisted that he file the report and go home to tend to his injured leg. He was stubborn that way. Of course, Jacks knew she couldn’t throw stones. How many times had she herself ignored good advice?

  She was not surprised to find him at his desk when she had called his cell with an update.

  “You better not be playing Minesweeper again,” she said as she stopped to rifle through the multitude of papers littering her desk. There were far too many things that required her signature. Not for the first time she wondered when that “paperless” world she kept hearing about was going to catch up to the DC Metro.

  Mel looked up. The smile he wore gave him away.

  “Guilty,” he said. “They should make a patch for this damned game. It’s rather addictive.”

  “I’m sure,” Jacks said as she grabbed a chair from an empty desk nearby and rolled it over. She offered it to Agent Patterson. “Have a seat,” Jacks told her, pointing to the empty chair.

  “Hi,” Mel said, eyeing the Secret Service agent suspiciously. “Jacks?”

  “Oh. Right. Sorry.” Jacks motioned between the two of them as she made introductions.

  “Mel, I’m sure you remember Agent Patterson from earlier. Agent Patterson, my partner, Melvin Walker.”

  “Samantha will do, Detective Walker. Or Sam, if you prefer. We didn’t get to talk much this morning. A pleasure to meet you.”

  Uh, yeah. Yeah. You too. Uh, Jacks?”

  Jacks shook her hands to calm her partner’s apprehension.

  “Agent Patterson has offered to help us out on the case and I’ve agreed.”

  “Oh, she has, has she?” someone said from behind her.

  Jacks turned to see her captain, Neal Mason standing there. She had not expected him in today.

  “Yes, sir,” Jacks answered. “We’re trying some of that interagency cooperation we’re always hearing about for a change.”

  “A radical plan, we know,” Samantha said with a playful smile. “Who knows, it might catch on and before you know it everybody will be doing it.”

  Mel nearly choked over a cough.

  Agent Patterson offered a hand to the police captain.

  “Nice to meet you, Captain…?”

  “Mason. A pleasure to meet you as well, Agent Patterson,” he said as he took her hand.

  Samantha shook it as she introduced herself in turn.

  “Something wrong, Cap?”

  “Funny you should ask that, Walker. While I see you all here working together so well, it seems our Miss Patterson’s boss, an Agent Corwin, called the Commissioner, who in turn called me. He alleges you and your partner were not very cooperative when he offered his assistance last night.”

  “Now that is odd,” Mel said with more than a hint of sarcasm. “I don’t recall him offering anything but a superior, condescending attitude.”

  “Now that,” Agent Patterson confirmed for the captain, “That sounds like the Bob Corwin I know.”

  She turned to Jacks.

  “Told you he was an asshole.”

  Jacks could not contain her laughter.

  “I really don’t see the humor in this, Detective.”

  “I’ll give Agent Corwin a call and smooth all this out, Captain Mason," Patterson said. "I think his new position has gone to his head.”

  Mason nodded.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” Agent Patterson said as she got up and walked out into the hallway, using her thumb to punch numbers on her cell phone.

  Once she was out of earshot, Mason turned back to his detectives.

  “So, you got any leads?”

  “It’s damned peculiar, Cap,” Mel said, flipping open a file on his desk. “Murder/suicides usually have some kind of intimate connection.”

  “Like our family over on Maitland Avenue yesterday?”

  “That’s right, Jacks. As far as we can determine, there’s no connection between Calvin Hutchinson, the vic from last night, and his attacker, whom we’ve now identified as twenty-eight-year old Alexander Bradley.”

  �
�Record?”

  “Bradley's clean. A couple of traffic violations. Nothing serious. Guy’s a Boy Scout.”

  “What did he do for a living?”

  Mel flipped through the notepad. “Licensed courier.”

  “Courier for whom?”

  “I haven’t been able to cut through enough red tape yet to nail down a specific company yet, but he was definitely contracted by one of our federal agencies.”

  “Find out which one. Pronto,” the captain said.

  “Already on it, Top.”

  Mason looked at Jacks.

  “Maybe your new friend can help out.”

  “Hmph!” Mel coughed.

  “You say something, Detective?”

  “No, sir,” Mel said. “Interagency cooperation. I hear it’s a novel concept and I’m thrilled to be part of it. Yes, sir.”

  “Who knows,” Jacks added. “I hear it might even catch on.”

  “Oh, shut up,” Captain Mason said, shaking his head before heading back toward his office.

  Once he was gone, her partner turned back to her, tossing the papers he had been shuffling unceremoniously on the desk.

  “Okay, let’s see this letter I notice you neglected to tell the captain about,” he told her.

  Jacks fished it from her jacket pocket and handed it over. The letter had been placed inside an evidence bag and Detective Walker read it through the clear plastic.

  Jacks watched him read it without interrupting.

  He read it a second time before handing it back to her.

  “Well?”

  “You think this guy’s watching you?”

  “How can I not?” She tapped a fingernail against the letter lying on her desk. “This was hand-delivered to me in a crowded restaurant that was full of law enforcement officials. Whoever this guy is, he’s got balls of steel.”

  “I assume fingerprints are out of the question?”

  “I bagged it just to be sure, but it looks clean. I was planning to have CSU dust it just to be safe. If this guy really is responsible for these deaths, he hasn’t left any traces.”