The Complicity Doctrine

by Matthew Frick

  “Sir, we’re not a law firm,” the woman said.

  Not what Giordano expected to hear. “I don’t get it.”

  “Sir, Penrose-Klein is an export management company.”

  That was definitely not what Giordano expected. “Well, someone signed Jared Prince’s processing record and said he worked for you. Is there anyone there who might possibly know Jared Prince well enough to authorize his body’s cremation?” Giordano asked.

  “Perhaps it was a mistake, sir,” the woman said.

  Giordano didn’t buy that. It may have been a mistake that the man who talked to the old lady at the morgue let the name of his employer slip, not thinking the woman would remember anything about the visit, but it couldn’t have been a mistake that the name Penrose-Klein was chosen—he wasn’t sure the company even existed until the woman on the phone confirmed it. “Look, lady, mistake or not, your company is now connected to the death of Jared Prince. And if you don’t have the information I’m looking for, I suggest you transfer me to someone who does.”

  “One moment, please,” the woman said.

  The sound of Pachelbel’s Canon in D streamed through the phone’s earpiece as Giordano was put on hold. It wasn’t the cheesy elevator-music version, either. Classy, Giordano thought. He allowed the music to bring his temper down a notch from simmering.

  The stringed instruments abruptly stopped, immediately replaced with a man’s tired, guttural voice. “John Escher.”

  “Sir, my name is Detective Paul Giordano of the NYPD. I’m calling because your company’s name was indicated in a mortuary processing file, authorizing the disposal of one Jared Prince in New York yesterday.”

  “Yes, Evelyn told me you said something about that,” Escher said. “You do realize, Detective, that Penrose-Klein is one of the most respected international export firms in the Western Hemisphere.”

  “I do now,” Giordano said.

  “Good. Then I assume you know that means we are in the business of moving goods across borders, not signing release forms for the deceased,” Escher said. “I can assure you that no one here at Penrose-Klein knows anything about Jared Prince. Now if you’ll forgive me, I really must be going.”

  The phone line went dead.

  “What the fuck?” Giordano said, though no one was there to hear him. He pressed the switch hook for a new dial tone and dialed the number again.

  An electronic voice followed four ascending tones and announced that the number Giordano dialed was no longer in service. The detective slammed the receiver down and thought of where to go next. He recounted everything he learned that day and concluded he was on the right track. There was no other explanation for the walls he kept hitting and the resistance people gave him. It was harder because he was working alone.

  Well, almost alone.

  * * * * *

  Casey waited on the concrete steps of the building’s side exit and saw Giordano park near the end of the block. It was a wonder to him that the detective could even find a parking spot at that time of day. Casey never had that luck. He refrained from waving like an idiot when he saw Giordano was already heading in his direction.

  Detective Giordano called Casey’s apartment after the other number he had forwarded him to the IWG answering service. He said he had some new information on the man with the satchel, but he had run into a snag and wanted to discuss it with Casey. After Casey informed him that he was at his apartment, Giordano agreed to meet him there.

  “Afternoon,” Casey said when Giordano reached the stoop. “You wanna talk inside?”

  Giordano looked up, inspecting the building. “No. Let’s stay out here.” He looked down the block and said, “But we should move off these stairs.” Casey followed Giordano to the side of the building where they weren’t directly in front of a door or a window—the red brick wall at least giving the impression of privacy. A quick glance down the street confirmed the lack of stationary pedestrians who might be listening.

  “I think we may have opened the door to something much bigger than either of us thought,” Giordano said.

  Casey wasn’t expecting Giordano to start with that, but after his morning lecture from the two men at the Jennings Institute, he had the same idea. He wanted to hear what led Giordano to that conclusion after looking into Jared Prince, so he stayed quiet.

  “I never saw Prince’s body,” Giordano said. “He was cremated yesterday at the request of someone from Penrose-Klein.”

  “Who?” Casey asked.

  “That’s just it, I don’t think they actually exist,” Giordano said. “At least, I don’t think Penrose-Klein is a real company.”

  “I don’t understand,” Casey said.

  Giordano recounted his conversation with John Escher and how he got the phone number in the first place. Casey began to understand the detective’s concern about what they were up against when he said the number was found on the JTTF server, but the entire scenario almost sounded like something from a B-grade movie on late-night Cinemax—or a game of Clue.

  “Escher? Like the artist?” Casey asked. His own words triggered another recognition. “The impossible triangle.”

  “What are you thinking?” Giordano asked before Casey’s internal contemplation put him in a trance. He knew what it was like when the light bulb came on, and he sensed that’s what just happened to the analyst next to him.

  “Penrose,” Casey said. “He was a mathematician or something who came up with the impossible triangle. It’s that 3-D triangle that looks like it’s twisted inside itself, only it’s an optical illusion. You can draw it, but you couldn’t physically make one if you tried, because it’s not real. The same type of stuff is in M. C. Escher’s drawings, like people that seem to be climbing stairs higher and higher with no end—or going down forever on the same steps.”

  “Okay,” Giordano said with a puzzled look.

  “Well, I don’t know the significance of Klein, but I think the man you talked to and the company he works for are just illusions, like the Penrose triangle.”

  “But what’s behind the illusion?” Giordano asked. “Those people had something to do with Jared Prince—probably with his involvement in the bombing. And there has to be some reason they showed up on the JTTF server.”

  Casey looked around before asking, “Have you ever heard of The Council?”

  “No,” Giordano answered. “They got something to do with all this shit?”

  “According to some folks I met this morning,” Casey said, “the bombing, Mariam Fahda’s death, the war with Iran...it sounds like The Council has its hand in all of it.”

  “But who are they?” Giordano asked. “Are we talking about the Shriners here?”

  “I think your friend, Mr. Escher, might have that answer,” Casey said, “but I’m willing to bet Bill Cogburn is on the membership list.” Casey explained the make-up of The Council as it was relayed to him by Dr. Eitan Brackmann and how the past operations attributed to The Council seemed to describe Cogburn’s actions since the first post-bombing press conference. “I’m not saying Cogburn’s calling all the shots, but I know he’s involved. I don’t see how he can’t be.”

  Fifteen feet away, the door into the apartment building flew open. Casey and Giordano stopped talking and watched as Greg Clawson and Scarface came out.

  “How long has he been there?” Scarface asked as the two men moved down the steps.

  “I don’t know,” Greg said. “PJ just got there, but he said the guy didn’t look like he was staying long.” Greg stopped after four steps when he realized his friend was no longer right beside him.

  Casey noticed it, too. Scarface was staring at Giordano, and the detective was staring back.

  “Tony Ward,” Giordano said. “I thought you were still in the Tombs.”

  “Officer Giordano,” Scarface/Ward said. “I almost didn’t recognize you in that suit.”

  “I got promoted,” Giordano said.

  “Good for you.”

&nb
sp; Greg Clawson approached Ward and said, “Tony, we gotta go.”

  “Where you headed, Tony?” Giordano asked.

  “Dinner,” Ward said.

  “You meeting Don Taylor?” Giordano asked. “Or are you through with that racist pedophile? All rehabbed?”

  Tony Ward forced a smile and massaged the scar on his temple with his middle finger. “It was good to see you again, Giordano,” he said. He turned his back to the detective and headed down the block with Greg Clawson in tow.

  Casey looked at Giordano. “What the hell was that about?” he asked.

  Giordano didn’t take his eyes off of Ward and Clawson until they disappeared at an intersection two blocks away. “I busted Anthony Ward on a B and E in SoHo a few years ago. The DA wanted to tack on a hate crime because the victims were Jews, which would have bumped old Tony to a Class C felony, but I cuffed him before he could leave any evidence to get a conviction, so that dropped it. The bastard must have made parole.”

  “I guess that explains his attitude a little,” Casey said.

  “Have you seen him here before?” Giordano asked.

  “I ran into him once,” Casey said. “Last week, actually. I’d never seen him before then, but the squirrely dude with him is Greg Clawson. He lives on the fourth floor—moved here back in January.”

  “And you never saw Ward before last week?” Giordano asked.

  “No,” Casey said. “I thought he was just visiting Greg, but it sounds like he’s a local.”

  “Long Island,” Giordano confirmed. “Tony Ward is one of the more active assholes with the local National Socialist Movement chapter.” Giordano looked back down the street where Ward and Clawson had gone. “Did you see Tony before the bombing?” he asked.

  Casey thought for a second. “That’s the morning I met him, actually. I almost got run over in the stairwell by him and Greg and their buddy.”

  “Their buddy?”

  “Yeah,” Casey said. “Another guy I hadn’t seen before. But I didn’t talk to him, just to Scarface—I mean, Tony.”

  “Have you seen that third guy since then?” Giordano asked.

  “I don’t think so,” Casey said. “And I only saw him for a minute Friday morning. He took off while the other guys were waiting at the corner for the bus, or something. Why?”

  Giordano looked up to the fourth floor of the apartment building and said, “I think I know who Jared Prince hooked up with when he came to New York.”

  Chapter 30

  Casey fell asleep on his couch, half-watching the Mets game, half-listening for Greg Clawson and Tony Ward to come back from their night out. He woke up at sunrise having accomplished neither. Casey didn’t know what to think when Giordano suggested the third man he saw Friday morning was possibly the Soren’s Deli bomber. He kicked himself for not getting a better look at the guy.

  Giordano warned him not to confront either Clawson or Ward—especially Ward—about Jared Prince. The detective insisted Casey leave that job to him because of Tony Ward’s violent past, and Casey had no grounds to argue. Giordano just wanted Casey to keep an eye out and let him know the next time he saw Tony at the apartment building.

  But Casey still had to earn a paycheck, and when he woke up on Friday morning at a quarter past six, he put the three amigos out of his mind and focused on finding clothes that weren’t wrinkled. He got to the Intelligence Watch Group offices just as everyone was filing into the conference room for the Friday cell meeting. Casey took a seat at the table next to Susan.

  “How was your field trip?” Susan asked with accusing eyes.

  Casey turned the pages of his overused notepad to a clean sheet before answering. “Educational,” he said.

  Susan lowered her voice and said, “What are you thinking? If there really is a group like what George described to me, you need to just back off.” She checked to see if any of her co-workers were listening and added, “If they killed Mari because she knew the truth about a false report, why wouldn’t they kill you for knowing the truth about who they are? I want to find out what’s really happening here, too, but not if it means more people are going to get hurt.”

  Casey smiled at Susan. “You’re worried about me, aren’t you?” he said louder than Susan wanted.

  Susan’s face reddened. “I’m worried your recklessness is going to get someone else killed,” she countered, for the benefit of the onlookers Casey invited to their conversation.

  Casey was done having fun with his friend, and he lowered his voice. “The truth can get you killed. But you know what? These guys have killed enough people already. Maybe exposing them will end that killing.”

  “Do you really believe that?” Susan asked.

  Casey shrugged his shoulders. “I guess it depends on how high The Council’s membership goes, but I guarantee nothing will change if we just turn a blind eye.”

  Susan looked over Casey’s shoulder and saw Jim Shelton enter the room. She shook her head and said under her breath, “Just don’t do anything stupid.”

  “Good morning, everyone.” Jim took his seat and looked to his immediate left. “Alright, Bill. What’ve you got?”

  Casey watched Bill Meyers as he gave an update on the latest closing of supply routes through Pakistan and the effect it was having on NATO troop withdrawals from neighboring Afghanistan, but he didn’t hear a single word. He was thinking about what Susan said—not the warning, but the concern. Casey tried to make a joke out of it, but Susan wasn’t joking. She really was worried about him. She already lost one friend that week, and she didn’t want to lose another. You’re a bastard sometimes, you know that? Casey scolded himself. He paid attention again when it was Oscar Horstein’s turn.

  “We think the facility at Natanz has continued to enrich uranium despite the Israeli attack last year,” Oscar said with a nod in Casey’s direction. “Israel has known this all along, which is why they aren’t concerned about Iran’s reports that Natanz is operational again. Plus, the reasons I gave earlier about their other problems in Egypt and Syria have been at the center of their most recent focus.” He didn’t want it to look like Casey was doing all of his thinking for him.

  “How did you come to the conclusion that there was no interruption at Natanz?” Jim asked.

  “George, Casey, and I went to talk to a professor from Iran who’s here in the States. He independently confirmed that the attack last year resulted in only superficial damage,” Oscar said.

  “And we didn’t even prompt him for that answer, either,” Casey added.

  “I never said you did,” Jim said. “But since you were there, too, what was your take on the veracity of this man’s assessment?” Jim asked Casey.

  “I don’t have any reason to doubt him,” Casey said. “The guy’s a pretty well-known academic in Iran.” He pointed a thumb to his right. “Susan knows him,” he said.

  Susan sat up straighter at the mention of her name. “What? Who?”

  “Davood Raad,” Casey said.

  “You met him?” Susan asked.

  “Yeah. He’s working at the Jennings Institute right now,” Casey said.

  “He’s not working there,” Oscar said. “He’s a visiting fellow.”

  Casey rolled his eyes.

  “Dr. Davood Raad?” Jim asked.

  “Yes, sir,” Casey said. “Susan said he’s a sociology professor, but he never mentioned that in our conversation.”

  “I know who he is,” Jim said. “How were you able to get an audience with Dr. Raad?” he asked Oscar.

  “An old professor of mine, who does work at Jennings, set it up when I talked to him about the project you had me and George working on,” Oscar said.

  “And he’s the one who coaxed you into being bait for this group that wants to kill you?” Susan asked Casey.

  “He didn’t coax me,” Casey said. “He just asked if I could try to find out anything about who was in the group, and I said I would.”

  “Okay, just stop right there,” Jim said
. He looked around at the rest of the cell members who weren’t involved in the current discussion and said, “That’ll be all for today.” As everyone got up to leave, he added, “Except Oscar, Casey, and Susan. George, you stay, too.” When the last person left the room, Jim narrowed his eyes and looked directly at Casey. “You mind telling me what you’ve gotten yourself into now?”

  Casey looked at the others who were all waiting for Casey’s response—all except Oscar, who was pre-occupied with a doodle he started on the corner of his open day planner. Casey turned to Jim and asked, “Sir, have you ever heard of The Council?”

  Jim Shelton leaned on his elbow and rubbed his eyes. “Are you serious?” he asked. “Is that what Dr. Raad wants you to look into?”

  “Yes, sir,” Casey answered.

  “Why?”

  Casey peered at Oscar, hoping for a little backup, but Oscar seemed too engrossed with his drawing to be paying attention. “Dr. Raad and Dr. Brackmann, Oscar’s old professor, think The Council may be behind the bombings and Mariam Fahda’s murder.”

  Jim shook his head. “Don’t you remember anything we talked about on Wednesday?”

  “You didn’t say anything about The Council,” Casey said.

  “I might not have given a name or structure to the people who killed Arturo Fuentes, but trust me, they exist. And if you and Dr. Raad want to call them The Council, like the Washington myth, go ahead, but know that we’re talking about the same thing,” Jim said. “Look, Casey, Susan’s descriptor was right. When you’re dealing with these people, if you start sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong, like bait, you will get eaten.”

  “I just told Dr. Raad that I’d keep my eyes open,” Casey said. “I promise I’ll be careful. But now that I know these guys exist, things are already starting to make more sense—even if it doesn’t make sense.”

  “Now you’re not making sense,” Susan said.