by Frans Harmon
“The FBI has informed us of some troubling developments.”
“He get wind of the ammonium nitrate?”
Dorian’s face contorted as if hit by a fetid smell. “Perhaps you should go first.”
“Hmm, okay, Sar made a large purchase of ammonium nitrate, and I think he is planning on using it in seventy-two hours.”
“How did you uncover that?” Gavin asked.
“I didn’t Sergeant Behrenhardt did, collateral from a sting operation.”
“That’s an Oklahoma City sized bomb, Mace, are you certain of the timing?” Dorian asked.
“As of twenty minutes ago, yes.”
“Explain, Mace,” Dorian said, “we need to know it all, and we need to know it now.”
Dorian’s words rattled Mace. Maybe he didn’t have seventy-two hours, perhaps no time at all. He had to make his case.
“The word ‘red’ was written on the inside of one of the casket vaults used to transport the women. It was written in type ‘O’ blood. None of the hostages are type ‘O.’ We believe it was part of a purification process in preparation for a sacrifice, and Thursday, just seventy-two hours from now, is celebrated on some lunar calendars as the Feast of the Sacrifice. It would be a perversion of the holiday but of some significance to Sar.”
“Or ‘red’ could be referring to the next blood moon,” Gavin said, “in one-hundred and seventy days.”
Mace’s head snapped toward Gavin’s. “What?”
“I talk to Mo, too.”
“So, great,” Cassandra said, “we’ve got the timing down, three or one-hundred-seventy days. And the target?”
Mace grimaced. “That we don’t know. That’s why I’m suggesting activation of the counter-terrorism plan, C-T-1, for Wayne and Macomb counties.”
“You can’t be serious, C-T-1 will practically shut down those counties, “Cassandra said, “we need the target?”
“A partial then, set up the checkpoints, beef up security at City, Willow, and Metro. Gavin, Detroit PD, and I will find the target. In any case, I will know before it happens.”
“How, how will you know, Mace?” Dorian asked.
A light began blinking on Dorian’s desk phone next to him, but Mace continued. “Because I’m part of his plan. He has tried to kill me three times. The phone activity was meant to draw me to Salpmore. He’ll do the same Thursday or whenever.”
“Can’t let you do that,” Dorian said.
“What, take the risk? Won’t be the first—”
“No, because Emmitt is outside waiting with a warrant for your arrest.”
“Arrest? For what?”
“The murder of Jirair Houssain.”
Mace reached into his pocket and retrieved his phone. He handed it to Gavin. “Well, you better take this. Sar will call or signal his location with McCrary’s phone. When he does, you better have a SWAT team primed and ready to respond.”
Chapter Forty-Six
The next afternoon following his arrest, Mace found himself considering his dilemma in the featureless off-white courtroom of Michigan’s 36th District Court in Detroit. His morning arraignment had not gone well with Judge Baranowski ruling that he remain as the guest of the Wayne County jail. Darvin Ziebosh seated next to him, shuffling some papers, understood his position. He was able to snag this vacancy in the Honorable Waldhramm Rochester calendar for a probable cause hearing. Mace, still wearing the same black suit he wore the previous day, sat nervously awaiting the start of the hearing and held on to the hope his luck was changing. Darvin had represented Mace back in his fight to remain in the FBI. Now he was fighting for more than his career. His relationship with Helyn, with Anstice, fulfilling a promise to himself to find Sharlene, all were going nowhere if they failed here.
The bench was empty, and Darvin had assured Mace that Rochester followed the law scrupulously. Mace hoped that was a good thing. They were first on the docket, and Mace turned to view the room. A few people filtered in filling rigidly-aligned and comfort-challenged gray metal chairs. A uniformed Anstice was one of them. She came down the center aisle, her hair tightly spun into a bun on the back of her head. Her red, swollen eyes glanced his way as she took a seat behind Emmitt.
Mace felt a twinge of disappointment. She was playing her role close to the edge. One misstep, and the words she recorded, her leverage over Emmitt, would be enough to lock him up for decades. Also sitting with Emmitt was Emery Couri, a federal prosecutor with unquenchable ambition. This was not looking good, sharks churning bloody water was the image that came to mind.
The bailiff stood. “All rise. The Court for the Thirty-Sixth District for the State of Michigan is now in session. The Honorable Judge Waldhramm Rochester presiding.” Judge Rochester, thin, closely shaved and with an elongated face that accented his height, ascended the bench. Retaking his seat Mace half-listened, his mind searching for what he had said to Anstice, as the docket details and charges – murder in the first degree – were read.
Judge Rochester adjusted his microphone and slid his glasses down his nose. “Mr. Couri, what are the basis for the government’s charge.”
“Your Honor, we have video evidence showing the victim, Mr. Jirair Houssain, being thrown off the roof of the Eddystone hotel by a man matching the description of the defendant, Mace Franklyn. We also have an audio recording of Mr. Franklyn admitting that he threw the victim off the roof.”
Mr. Couri, does the government have any additional evidence?”
“Yes, Your Honor, Sergeant Anstice Behrenhardt can validate the audio, and we are prepared to present her testimony at trial.”
The judge addressed Mace’s attorney. “Mr. Ziebosh?”
Darvin quickly stood. “The defense maintains the man in the video is not my client and the audio recording if it is that of my client, was taken out of context. Further, Your Honor, we move for dismissal of all charges.”
“Premature, Mr. Ziebosh, and denied. Does the defense have anything else they would like to offer at this time?”
Darvin shook his head. “No, Your Honor.”
“I see. Then I think we have enough to proceed.” He tapped some keys on a computer keyboard on the right side of the bench. “Jury selection will begin on February eighteenth,” he said and raised his gavel.
The doors to the courtroom banged open. “If it pleases the court, a word regarding these proceedings, Your Honor.” Dorian Ashford, dressed in his uniform brandishing the double stars of his rank, briskly approached the bar. Peter Mock, at first obscured by Dorian’s entrance, forcefully rolled his chair, stopping inches behind him.
Judge Rochester’s narrowed eyed face was contorted in obvious irritation. “I haven’t seen this many uniforms since the Fourth of July parade, and certainly not in my court. And who are you, sir?”
“Your Honor, Dorian Ashford, Director, Michigan Bureau of Investigation. If it pleases the court, we have come into possession of additional evidence that will exonerate the defendant, Mace Franklyn.”
Rochester grimaced and released an audible sigh. “This is beginning to feel like a trip to the dentist. Very well, Director,” he said and rolled back the robe on his arm, exposing his wristwatch. “You have twenty seconds, Ashford, one more, and I will hold you in contempt. Say your words.”
“Thank you, Your Honor. My understanding is that the FBI has in its possession, a video depicting an assault and murder of serial killer, Jirair Houssain. We have just come into possession of evidence that conclusively identifies the perpetrator as Lewis Tuller.”
Judge Rochester raised a hand, waving off any further comment. “The prosecution has presented ample cause to proceed. To continue this discussion will serve only to divert these proceedings into content and matters best considered at trial.” He picked up his gavel.
“Your Honor, I must insist,” Dorian said, and a cold stare from the bench did not dissuade him. “Mr. Franklyn is essential to the investigation of an imminent terrorist act, and so I request the court release Mr.
Franklyn or delay these proceedings until such time that we are able to eliminate this threat.”
Anstice bolted from her chair. “And if I may, Your Honor, I would like to clarify that the audio recording was taken out of context.”
Emmitt jerked around in his chair, his enraged eyes boring into Anstice. Couri dropped his pen, head bowed, and rotating from side to side.
“Judas Priest,” Judge Rochester said, “who are you?”
“Sergeant Anstice Behrenhardt, Detroit PD, Your Honor.”
Judge Rochester stood. “Gentlemen, never in my twenty years on the bench have I seen such a perversion of a probable cause hearing, Mr. Couri, it is obvious that the government has not sufficiently examined these charges. However, considering the urgency brought to the attention of this court by Director Ashford, we are also inclined to explore these charges further. Mr. Couri, is the evidence you mentioned readily available?”
Couri glanced at a nodding Emmitt Loveland. “Yes, Your Honor.”
“Director Ashford, is your evidence readily available?”
“Yes, Your Honor. It is also a videotape, and Mr. Mock, here, has it with him.”
“Very well, bailiffs clear the court of all but the principals that have spoken and bring in some video equipment so that we may ascertain for ourselves if these charges are warranted. The court is adjourned for thirty minutes.”
Mo wheeled his chair around to the front of the defense table and tossed a videotape on to it. “You should have stayed to look at this tape, Mace. I don’t know what the other one shows, but this clearly shows Lewis tossing Jirair off the building and then collecting the tapes from the cameras.”
“You know it is Tuller?”
“It is,” Anstice said, sitting down behind Mace.
Mace glanced at her. “Mo, Darvin, could you give us a minute.”
They moved to where Dorian had settled a few seats behind the defense table.
“I have a copy of what Emmitt has,” Anstice said, “it’s a long story.”
“I know.”
“You do? Wait, what? That I had it? Or the story?”
“Both, actually. Well, I can piece together the story. Last Friday, when you made your call, I noticed the tape in your bedroom VCR. Took a look-see. That’s when I knew for certain Jirair wasn’t behind the disappearance of these women.”
“I’m sorry to put you through this, but—"
“Trayn was blackmailing you, and you needed Emmitt and his internal affairs, IAD, connections to expose who he really was. You got his interest with the video and what you recorded when mom called Sunday night, set the hook. Well played.”
Anstice leaned forward; a hand covered her mouth as she stifled a sob. “Oh, Mace, you’re not mad?”
“Maybe a little, Bear. You could have shared a bit. But you got me at sorry.”
Anstice leaned toward Mace, their lips inches apart. “Perhaps, later, Bear, we are in Waldhramm’s court.”
Anstice sat back, Mo and Dorian took seats behind the defense table. When Judge Waldhramm Rochester returned, Couri played Emmitt’s CD, a black and white video, depicting Jirair being tossed from a roof.
Emmitt held up his cell phone. “This is the recording I received from Sergeant Behrenhardt. “So, what was it that you now think you remember? “Me grabbing hold of Jirair, lifting him up, and tossing him off the roof of the Eddystone.”
Anstice leaned over and whispered to Darvin Ziebosh. “Your Honor,” Darvin said, “that audio has been edited.”
Emmitt’s head snapped toward Anstice, his tight face stalling the anger shooting from his eyes. Anstice held up her phone. “This is the full recording, Your Honor. ‘So, what was it that you now think you remember? Lewis, not me grabbing hold of Jirair, lifting him up, and tossing him off the roof of the Eddystone.’”
“I don’t like what I am hearing, Mr. Couri. Has the prosecution manipulated the evidence?”
Couri scowled at Emmitt. “That is a question we will be examining, Your Honor. But to our knowledge, it has not.”
Mo’s tape was played next. The color images showing the same scene from another angle clearly showed Mace on the ground, and Lewis facing the camera and removing it.
At the conclusion, Judge Rochester folded his hands before him. “Special Agent Loveland, my understanding acquired during recess, is that you also are involved in the pursuit of this same terrorist. And yet you decided in haste to forego due diligence in the charges brought before this court and to squander this court’s precious time. I find there is no basis for these charges, and I am dismissing the indictment. Mr. Franklyn, please pursue your terrorist with all due expedience.”
Judge Rochester slammed down his gavel, as Gavin rushed down the aisle to Mace and Dorian. “We’ve got a text from Sharlene’s phone.”
“Where?” Dorian asked.
Gavin shook his head. “Not where we expected.”
Chapter Forty-Seven
Her daughter was screaming, her face twisted around filled with rage. “Let me go, I hate you.” She pulled her arm from Sharlene’s grasp and ran into a swirling mist. “Sabriel, no, mommy love’s you. I tried to get back to you.” Sharlene strained to catch her running daughter, but Sharlene’s legs responded at a tortoise pace. Why does she hate me? Sharlene lunged for her daughter’s hand as parting fog revealed a chasm steps away. Her daughter focused on Sharlene behind, ran into the abyss.
Sharlene screamed, bolting upright. Gasping for air, she sucked in deep draughts laced with a metallic stench of old blood and decay. The gaseous bile forced a coughing fit of rejection. She pushed herself up and slouched against the damp, coarse, concrete wall of her new home. She was in a basement. From the ponderous size of brick columns, their mortar roughly applied for function without an eye for appearance and a bone dry dirt floor, it was under something substantial from another age.
The cold wind moaned through the cave-like compartment. It was large, eighty-four padded columns holding up whatever was above. To her left a broken case of bottled water, a door, brown rusting steel, and behind the furthest padded column, a bucket for their necessities.
For days, she slept, paced the dirt floor, ate little, and survived. At night she had to live with the guilt.
Another groan of wind sent detritus swirling like devils across the room in search of warmth. Sharlene squeezed her eyes shut, placed a shielding hand over Coria’s face cradled in her lap. Coria lay across her legs, wadded in a brown sleeping bag like her own. They both wore neon-colored puffy coats more fashion than warmth over the same clothes they had worn for a month, for a year.
She slipped her hands under Coria’s bedding and leaned back. Straw like shafts of light from above penetrated and then dissipated in the surrounding blackness. Of course, her daughter hated her. She closed her eyes, her thoughts crowded with questions.
What had she done to get back to Sabriel to my baby Lali? How did she get here?
Greed, greed, that’s how I got here. Maybe only a second of it, when the thought of getting that super-car trumped reason and caution. That is why she hates me. Oh, but it was only a dream, a random firing of synapses. She couldn’t rationalize the remorse.
Tears rolled down her cheeks. She had to try anything, everything. The odds were against her, but if she did, someday, somehow, her daughters would know. They wouldn’t hate her.
The door clanked and slowly shifted open; gray light swept the cavernous room. Trina dressed in a long red leather coat, gloved hands with wisps of her blond hair peeking from under a round fur cap, hipped open the door carrying a large flat pizza box supporting three coffees.
“Time to party.”
Coria stirred in Sharlene’s lap. “We are as cold as Arctic ice,” Sharlene said, her eyes locked onto Trina, “laying on a dirt floor--not in a party mood.”
“Okay, I’ll take it back.”
“Wait,” Coria said, sitting up. “Gi’ me.”
Trina passed down the coffees and placed the box o
n the ground next to them. Coria flipped open the box and dove into the pizza, half consuming her first piece before peeling out another.
Sharlene sipped her coffee, savoring the warmth, letting it sink within her before taking another. She selected a slice from the box. “You look warm, Trina, whatever have you been doing for three days?”
“Don’t be snarky.”
“She is not trying to be,” Coria said, glancing at Sharlene, “we didn’t know what happened to you. We were worried.”
“Well, don’t you know he likes me. Fact, Sar loves me, promised to take care of me. You think I’m a working girl, so what? You benefit, so shut it. I brought hot pizza and coffee, didn’t I?”
Coria grabbed her third piece. “Yeah, thanks, you’re the best.”
“What’s Sar planning?” Sharlene asked.
“I have no idea,” Trina said, “but when it’s over, he is taking me to Canada.”
“You can’t believe that,” Sharlene said.
“I love him, so of course I do.”
“Trina, you realize he has held Coria hostage for almost a year,” Sharlene said, “you half that, and me well… He’s planning something, something big, and we are a part of it. There won’t be any place you can hide.”
“Ulama has told him what to do. He’s outsmarted the cops so far; they haven’t even been close.”
“Ulama,” Coria said, “old bone face, that’s creepy crazy Trina.”
Trina reached into her coat pocket. “Yeah, well, how crazy is this?” She tossed Sharlene’s phone into her lap. “Ulama told Sar to let us go, but we have to leave here.”
“Where is here?” Sharlene asked.
“No clue, drugged coming here just like you, ‘cept my digs have a floor and a bed and a lot nicer bathroom,” she said, glancing at the bucket.
“Spend a lot of time in that bed?” Sharlene asked.
Trina scowled, “what’s your problem, Sharl?”
“My kids,” she screamed, throwing her coffee against a pillar, “I would like to see them again. Sarkis has raped me, kept me locked up for a month for what I don’t know, and you bring me coffee and a fairy tale.”
