by Jack Davis
“Where’s Sean?”
“I’m up here,” came a soft voice from upstairs.
Morley sighed and his heart rate began to drop. He quickly moved across the living room toward the small kitchen.
From behind him, he heard Tommy Brown’s voice, “Where ya been tonight, PJ?” His boss purposely elongated the initials.
PJ knelt beside his mother. “Did you tell them anything?”
Margaret shook her head. Then, between sniffles, said, “I just said I didn’t know where you were. I’m sorry, Patrick. I was scared.”
“It’s okay, Mom, it’s okay.” PJ gently kissed the top of his mother’s head.
“Where ya been all night?” Brown was standing right behind him, flanked by agents from the Fraud Squad and backed up by a uniformed officer.
Morley was confused. He needed more information. What did Tommy know? “Tommy, let me get things calmed down here. Give me fifteen minutes and then we can talk.”
“That’s not how this works. This is a criminal investigation. You don’t get to choose when and where the questions get asked.” Brown had a smirk on his face, obviously enjoying the situation.
Morley needed time. “Criminal investigation? What’s this—”
“PJ, what happened?” Sean Morley stood at the bottom of the stairs, “Why’s Mom-mom crying?”
Morley looked over his shoulder. “Nothing, Sean. Go back up to bed. I’ll come and talk to you in a minute.”
“No, you won’t, you’re coming now.” Brown’s voice had a fake gruffness to it.
His words brought a new round of sobs from Margaret.
Morley focused on his mother again. “It’s gonna be fine, Mom. I’ll go into the office and straighten this out. Don’t say another word and call the lawyer.”
As Morley stood and turned, he was fully illuminated in the glare of the fluorescent kitchen lights. One of the flanking agents pointed to Morley’s jacket sleeve.
Morley looked down and saw the blood.
“Whose blood is that?” Tommy asked as he tried awkwardly to pull back his coat and reach for his gun.
In a second Morley stepped forward and disarmed his clumsy supervisor. He dropped the magazine from the weapon and racked the slide, ejecting the cartridge in the chamber. All this before any of the others had a chance to completely draw their weapons.
“Put your guns away before someone gets hurt.” He nodded toward Brown. “I’ve seen this clown shoot and I didn’t want any of you to get hurt.” Morley handed the weapon to the closest agents.
Brown huffed as he snatched his gun back. His girth required him to kneel in order to pick up his magazine. In his haste, he accidentally kicked it into the living room. It skidded to a stop next to the stairs. Sean Morley picked it up and held it out to Brown.
“Give me that!” Brown angrily grabbed the magazine from the young man.
“Now that he’s not a danger, I’m gonna take my weapon out slowly with my left hand.”
Morley performed the procedure with care and had just handed his gun to one of the agents when Kensington burst through the door.
“What the hell’s going on here?” she demanded.
“We’re just about to arrest Morley for the murder of Craig Lublin. His body was found behind a bar up in Vestal this morning around two a.m. Morley here, the agent who screwed up the case, has been unable to account for his whereabouts for the entire evening. It would appear he wanted some vigilante justice.” Brown pointed toward the blood on Morley’s sleeve.
What? Lublin, dead? While it was the best news Morley had heard in ages, he suddenly realized where it put him—a prime suspect who couldn’t admit to where he’d been all night.
“What is everyone doing with their guns out? Put them away.” Kensington’s commanding voice cut through the confusion.
I don’t have to say where I was, I wasn’t in Vestal. There’s no way to prove that I was…Who killed Lublin? Morley looked at his mother and shook his head.
“Mallory, you’re not in charge here. I am, so back off.” Brown walked across the living room. He sent the slide forward on his pistol, inserted the magazine, and then unsuccessfully tried to holster it.
“It certainly doesn’t look like you’re in charge,” remarked Kensington as she moved into the kitchen to console PJ’s mother.
Still struggling with his holster, Brown shouted, “I have probable cause! I’m placing him under arrest! He’s gonna be treated like any other prisoner. That means handcuffed.”
Kensington knelt next to Margaret, who was crying uncontrollably.
Sean Morley walked past Brown toward PJ, his broad face registering helpless bewilderment.
Brown looked at the boy. “Get back! Go upstairs.”
PJ spun on Brown. “Talk to him like that again and I’ll cripple you.” There was menace in his voice.
Brown stopped in his tracks.
Kensington tried to restore order. “PJ, as a favor to me, go with these guys and don’t give them any trouble. I’ll straighten things out here.”
Morley’s muscles relaxed. He sighed and held his wrists out.
“NO! Behind your back. We’re leading you outta this house like a real criminal. See what the neighbors think about Mr. Perfect doin’ the perp walk.” Brown smiled.
PJ thought about knocking his supervisor unconscious but saw the concerned look on Sean’s face and knew he wouldn’t understand. His world was very simple. There were good guys and bad guys, and good guys never fought each other. PJ put his hands behind his back.
Brown gave a nod and one of the two young agents swiftly put the cuffs in place.
“No! Don’t. Don’t do that.” Sean lunged forward and hugged PJ.
Kensington moved to intercede. “Stop.”
The younger agents stepped back, unclear which supervisor to listen to.
Brown, with a newfound confidence now that his suspect was cuffed, started barking orders. “Move away, your brother’s under arrest.”
“No, he can’t be. He’s a Secret Service agent.”
PJ rested his head against Sean’s. “It’s okay. It’s all a mistake.”
“You have to let go,” ordered Brown as he grabbed at the boy’s shoulder.
“What’s happening?” There were tears in Sean’s eyes.
“It’s okay, Miss Mallory will explain it.” PJ tried to sound reassuring.
“He’s…obstructing…a lawful arrest!” Brown pulled harder at the young man’s arm.
For the first time PJ saw the gun that Brown had been unsuccessful in re-holstering. It was in his right hand, shoulder high, hammer back.
“Sean, let go! Go in the kitchen!” PJ’s voice was harsh with urgency.
“Sean, come with me.” Kensington reached for the boy.
“LET GO!” Brown tugged with his free hand at the boy’s shoulder.
“Tommy, holster your weapon!” demanded Morley.
The three moved, locked together, momentarily trapping Kensington behind PJ.
“PJ, why?” implored Sean.
“Tell…him…to…let…go!” Brown struggled against his girth and the teen.
Sean’s face was buried in the chest of the man he had idolized his entire life. He held fast.
“Tommy, stop!” Kensington ordered, as she worked her way around the spinning mass and grabbed his shoulder.
“Tommy, for God’s sake put the gun away, I’ll go with you,” Morley pleaded.
“LET GO!” Brown jerked his right arm free of Kensington and yanked the trigger.
SAIC Bruce Ferguson had gone lights-and-siren from his house and made it to the New Jersey Trauma Center in record time.
Kensington met him at the door to the emergency room.
“How is he?”
“He’s in pretty bad shape. He was hit square in the face, twice.”
“Twice? What the…? My God.”
“They’re gonna have to do reconstructive surgery but they have to wait for a specialist wh
o won’t be in until later this morning.”
“Is he conscious?”
“No. They gave him something for the pain and it put him out.”
“What the hell happened?”
An hour later, Morley sat in the SAIC’s conference room under quasi-guard by the two junior Fraud Squad agents. He stared out the window. As the morning sun struck each new floor of the different buildings, it was reflected back in various hues and intensities. It gave a kaleidoscope effect. Morley would have enjoyed the show, but this morning his thoughts alternating between Sean and Lublin’s death. It was somewhat easier to think about Lublin’s death, so he did.
He’d decided his only defense was to say nothing about where he’d been. They had to prove he was guilty; he didn’t have to prove he was innocent. It would be awkward, but he had no alternatives.
He was wondering how long he’d be kept there when Swann walked in, “Boss, they’re only letting one of us in at a time.” Then, looking at the junior agents. “Guess they think more than one would be enough to break you out.”
Morley and Swann smiled; the young agents looked away, embarrassed.
“We’re all so sorry to hear what happened. If there’s anything you need all you have to do is ask.” There was a noticeable pause. “I’m headed home I gotta get the kids to pre-school.”
Doc doesn’t have kids. Morley was confused but didn’t show it.
As Swann leaned over to shake hands he whispered, “Last stall.”
“Thanks, Doc, I’ll talk to you soon.”
Morley waited a few minutes before saying he had to use the bathroom.
Entering the last stall, he stood for a second before an envelope came under the partition.
PJ,
Your mother told me what happened. I’m your alibi. I told the SAIC you were at my apartment until early this morning and that’s why you wouldn’t say anything. We…
As with everything Kensington did, the letter was thorough. She described what she had cooked them for dinner and what each had had to drink. She explained that after sex they had gone for a walk and Morley had punched some drunk who wouldn’t leave her alone. That was where he had gotten the blood on his jacket. She provided a brief description of the assailant so their stories would match. Basically, she provided everything Morley would need for his side of the alibi. She even described their past romantic history from The Detail, and then made up a few fictitious encounters since she had arrived in New York. As importantly, Kensington had boxed Morley in, she had already given a sworn statement. Now, Morley had to back her up.
Morley sat next to his unwanted savior in front of the SAIC’s desk. The fact the DSAICs were not in the room meant his boss didn’t want witnesses for what he was about to say.
“PJ, I need to start by saying how sorry I am about how things played out this morning. Everyone’s emotions were running high and mistakes were made—”
“Sir, that’s not exactly true. The mistakes this morning were the result of one man, Tommy Brown. That…That…he’s incompetent, dangerous, and should never be allowed to have a weapon.”
“I wasn’t there, but from what I’ve heard, there were some mitigating circumstances; you showing up late, the blood on your shirt—”
“Boss, all those things didn’t cause anyone else to pull a trigger.”
Ferguson could only look down and exhale.
Kensington spoke up for the first time and in keeping with her nature, took control of the situation. “ASAIC Brown’s actions this morning were inappropriate and the proximate cause of what happened. We’re just lucky he didn’t have a round in the chamber. If he had, he would’ve killed PJ’s brother.”
“But how did Brown’s face get so mangled?”
Kensington answered before Morley could. “After seeing Tommy pull the trigger, for the safety of everyone in the room, PJ disarmed Brown.” She glanced at Morley. “Since he was handcuffed, he had to use the tools available to him. He head-butted ASAIC Brown, then did some type of…jumping karate kick to the face. At which point Tommy dropped his pistol.”
Ferguson had an incredulous look on his face as he stared at Kensington. He shifted his gaze to Morley. “Is that gonna be your story?”
“That fat piece-a-shit almost killed the gentlest soul on the planet,” said Morley through clenched teeth. He relaxed. “He’s lucky I had handcuffs on, otherwise I’d ‘ve killed him.”
The matter-of-fact tone of the statement made Ferguson swallow hard.
Kensington jumped in before Morley could say anything else. “The sequence of events is exactly as I’ve described them. Our official statements will match. The other agents and witnesses will also corroborate our version of events.”
Ferguson again turned to Morley, “Thanks to you, Brown is looking at multiple facial reconstruction surgeries and months of painful therapy before he can eat normally. He’s got his time in and considering everything, if the Service transfers him to his hometown of Atlanta, I’m sure he’ll consider retiring on a medical.”
As her boss thought, Kensington spoke up again, “As for PJ and me, you can’t keep us in the same office. Since I just got here, I say transfer PJ to an assignment in DC. He should keep his grade…to compensate him for what he went through this morning.”
Morley could only stare at his former lover in amazement as she continued.
“Murray goes to White Plains, Kruzerski gets sent to Melville, Tate takes over the ECTF. With Lublin dead and unable to thumb his nose at us, this case takes on much less importance. It will wither on the vine in no time.”
Morley had been put in checkmate by Kensington. He looked at Ferguson; it was obvious from the look on the SAIC’s face that he was overwhelmed by the torrent of suggestions that had just been hurled at him. “Well, there’s a lot to take into consideration before we make any decisions, and you’re not exactly coming out of this—”
“I know, but DC is gonna be looking for what to do next. If you don’t have some suggestions, they’ll come up with their own. Go in strong with solid recommendations and they’ll go along with you. They won’t want to deal with this mess. You’ll get what you want.”
Morley wasn’t sure if he should be upset or thankful. She had just given him an alibi, his grade, gotten his men what he wanted for them…and her way. He was amazed.
84 | Aftermath
On Long Island, investigators were puzzled by how and why Jeffrey Belsen had been put into a coma. Having just interviewed Belsen and his alibi witnesses regarding the attack on Mary Lingram, the focus was on revenge.
After initial re-interviews, Mustafa Mohammad and his crew were ruled out as suspects due to their lack of motive, but equally, their lack of ability to cripple Belsen with such technical precision.
Interviews with teachers and students at Mary’s school provided no leads.
Without Mary or her mother to talk to, officers were left with the next best thing, her lawyer.
“I hope Jeff Belsen rots to death from bedsores,” was the only statement Dunn would provide.
In upstate New York, in the much more high-profile case, the sentiments were generally the same.
As expected, the initial furor over Lublin’s murder made national news. Speculation ran wild as to who did it, and why. Revenge and notoriety were the primary motives proffered by the press.
The New York State Police were called in to avoid any appearance of impropriety with the local jurisdictions. Service and JCPD personnel were interviewed and cleared within a week.
Next the NYSP interviewed the close friends and relatives of Lublin’s victims. No information of investigative value was obtained.
Tips by the hundreds were received, cataloged and eventually run out. Nothing.
Slowly, in a fitting piece of irony, like so many of Lublin’s killings over the years, the case worked its way toward an inactive status. The difference being, in this murder investigation, everyone, including the police, hoped it would remain unsolved.
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Other than Davis Timmons, no one was mourning the loss of Craig Lublin.
For appearance’s sake, an outwardly outraged Timmons fought for justice for his sociopath of a former client, while in the process of signing a book deal.
A month after Lublin had bled out in the parking lot, Timmons accepted a position as an adjunct professor at Syracuse University Law School. With all his new responsibilities, it became more and more difficult to find time to keep up the pressure on LE to find his famous client’s killer.
Truth be told, Timmons had stopped caring who it was that had killed Lublin within hours of hearing the news. Besides the loss of revenue, it was actually a relief. Lublin had scared him, and now with a book deal and professorship, Timmons wasn’t unhappy his client was dead.
Among the immediate upsides to Lublin’s passing was, now Timmons was no longer only the intermediary between the media and the maniacal mass murderer. Now he was the one who was being interviewed. He was the primary source for all things Lublin—that suited him just fine.
Within two weeks of Craig Lublin’s throat being opened from ear to ear in a moon-lit parking lot on the Vestal Parkway, only one person alive felt any regret about the death of the remorseless monster, but for a very different reason.
The Lights of Dayton
Maria noticed when her husband returned from his trip to New York City to testify that he wasn’t himself. He was melancholy and withdrawn. He tried to downplay his mood by saying New York had been different than he expected. Maria was stunned when Alvaro told her the judge had let the killer go free and there was nothing the agents could do about it. She kissed her husband and told him she understood after he said he was, “sad about how things had worked out. She accepted his promise that he would be himself again soon. She had loved and trusted Alvaro since the first day they met; she trusted him now.
There was one other significant difference that Maria noticed upon Alvaro’s return. It wasn’t psychological, but physical. Alvaro was missing his knife. Ever since she’d known him, Alvaro had carried a switchblade with a black handle in his right front pants pocket. He’d told her it had been given to him when he was ten years old by an older gang member he looked up to, and he had carried it with him ever since. Of course, he never told her all the horrific things he’d done with the small, black-handled instrument; he couldn’t. He only told her he was used to having it with him and he felt naked without it. He always had it with him. Maria remembered it had been on their nightstand from the first night they had been together.
