“Detective Walsh speaking. How may I help you?” asked the cop on the other end of the line.
Siobhán’s hysteria was at such a pitch that, between her hyperventilation and rapid speech, Detective Jimmy Walsh could barely discern what she was trying to say.
“Ma’am, ma’am, try to calm down. I want to help you, but I can’t unless you slow down. Get ahold of yourself and tell me who you are and what this is about. Did you say you have information regarding the homicide at Finnegan’s bar?” the detective asked.
“Yes, yes. I…I…uh…I’m Patrick Finnegan’s wife,” she managed to answer. “I’m in Ohio. He sent me here for my own protection because he knew someone was after him and didn’t want me to get caught up in it.” Siobhán sobbed uncontrollably.
“Okay, ma’am, try to be calm. I’m here to help and I’m very sorry for your loss. Is there someone there with you who can give you some support while I get ahold of the detectives who are handling the case and put them in touch with you?”
“Yes, my mother is with me,” answered Siobhán, who was now calming down to a point where she could be understood.
“That’s good. Can you put her on the phone with me for a moment so I can fill her in on what you and I have to do? That way, she’ll be able to help us. It will make it a lot easier for you and we’ll be able to work together better if we have another person on board,” Walsh replied.
Hazel took the phone and spoke briefly with the detective, who told her to remain at home with her daughter until Detectives Mueller and Hanratty contacted her. “They’ll be getting back to you some time later today, Mrs. Larkin. They’re out at the scene right now, but I’m going to contact them and you’ll be hearing from them as soon as they come in off the street.”
Detective Walsh ended the call and radioed Mueller. “I’ve got some info for you, Dirk. Either you or Harry give me a call over the landline and I’ll fill you in.”
“Will do,” Mueller replied.
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Ryan listened to the news as he drove south along I-95. So far the only name he’d heard on the broadcasts was Finnegan’s, and that was only because the bodies were found in his bar. No mention had been made on the identities of the two Arabs or the Italian, but Ryan was sure there would be shortly after the next of kin, if there were any, had been notified.
He wondered if any of the bar’s regulars would be savvy enough to mention him to the cops but discarded that as unlikely, considering he’d never really interacted with any of them. Besides, the evidence would indicate that the deaths were the result of mutual combat between the scrotes he’d left behind. No evidence linking him to them would be found. He was sure of that.
Ryan felt a deep sense of satisfaction.
He’d taken this convalescent leave on the recommendation of the military doctors, who’d wanted him to have a little extra time to heal from the wounds he’d received in Iraq. They’d also wanted him to take the time to come to grips with his PTSD a diagnosis he’d always felt was bullshit. As far as he was concerned, he wasn’t suffering from that disorder and believed that the doctors and shrinks put too much emphasis on it when attributing it to returning combat vets. But what the hell, if they wanted to rate him with it and give him some extra time off with pay, that was all right with him. He was more than happy to take advantage of the leave and use it to camouflage his mission of retaliation, which in and of itself was turning out to be an effective tonic for his stress.
The debts he’d collected by ridding the planet of the communist scumbags who’d killed his grandfather and committed treason were better for his psyche than any medication or treatment by a shrink. He felt like a new man, totally rejuvenated and ready to go back to his primary occupation of killing Taliban and al-Qaeda terrorists. But first he had one more stop to make.
PART 6
Judd
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Jonas Judd had come a long way since his days as a Lenin’s Legion terrorist. Like the late Bill Delgadillo, Judd and his associates in the communist movement realized that the societal changes they were seeking could best be achieved by blending quietly into the system and destroying the structure of government from within. Covert, not overt, was the name of the game, and Judd had become proficient in using the institutions of business, academia, and government to mask his goals.
A highly touted economist who enjoyed all the benefits of the capitalist system he claimed to despise, Judd nevertheless clung to his Marxist ideals. These ideals fit perfectly with the agenda of the recently elected and progressive president of the United States, who had invited him to sit on his economic advisory council.
Judd couldn’t have been happier. He was now in a position to promote a philosophy of socialist reformation and realize a lifelong vision of being instrumental in the destruction of capitalism. Judd was an ardent disciple of the idea put forth in 1966 by two radical Marxist university professors that stated that capitalism could be brought to its knees and replaced with socialism by overloading welfare and other entitlement programs with beneficiaries, whose numbers the system wouldn’t be able to sustain.
Adherents of this mindset believed that the subsequent cutting off of government assistance would cause a revolt among the masses, forcing the federal government to usurp state and local authority. The result would be the complete takeover of the system and the implementation of a national policy that would guarantee the redistribution of wealth. All citizens would receive equal compensation, whether they worked for a living or not, and a socialist utopia would be born.
When not involved with other Marxist moles in the task of undermining the economic stability of the country through taxpayer-funded bailouts and government takeovers of banks and corporations, Judd gallivanted around the globe undermining and subverting America’s traditional allies. His latest excursion abroad had been to the Middle East, where, along with other communists and Islamofascist sympathizers, he participated in the transportation of arms and supplies to Hamas and Hezbollah terrorists in Lebanon. A rabid anti-Semite and supporter of a Palestinian state, Judd was a dedicated subscriber to the belief that the nation of Israel should cease to exist.
As an advisor to the president, Judd initially believed he would have unlimited access to the commander in chief whenever something that he deemed to be of importance came up. He would soon discover that this was an erroneous assumption. Although he shared the Marxist views of his boss, he was merely a player attached to one of the cogs in a wheel of social change that turned in a political machine designed to completely transform the American way of life. He could be easily replaced.
As far as the president and his allies of social and cultural change were concerned, people in Judd’s position were expendable. They were to be used and, when no longer needed, discarded and relegated to the trash heap of inconsequence. They were the “useful idiots” that communist leaders throughout the world had used since the Bolshevik Revolution. They had been disposed of when they were no longer of any value.
Judd should have realized he would be treated no differently than other acquaintances and confidants of the president who were regularly thrown under the bus and disclaimed when their presence within his circle posed a political liability. This fact would become all too apparent very shortly.
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Siobhán Finnegan was stirring up quite a storm with the news media. As soon as she got off the phone with Detectives Mueller and Hanratty, she began phoning different papers, networks, and anyone else who would listen to the claims that her husband, Patrick, was the victim of a conspiratorial rampage that had taken the lives of several former members of the radical sixties group Lenin’s Legion.
“Jesus H. Christ, I told her to come in and see us as soon as she got back into town so we could have a private powwow to determine if she could provide us with some information that might help us find the maniac who is killing all these people. So what does sh
e do? She becomes a media darling and lets the whole goddamned world know that we may be on to a serial killer. It’s not that she has that much information to begin with, but now we can’t get the media to leave us alone long enough to get to the bottom of this case. Son of a bitch, this pisses me off,” Mueller ranted to no one in particular.
He and Hanratty were being bombarded with phone calls from just about every news outlet in the country. Those who weren’t tying up the phone lines were jamming the steps to the precinct house, demanding to talk to the detectives.
“Dirk, I think we’re going to have to get the skipper to set up a special press liaison team on this one or we’re not going to be able to do our work,” Hanratty observed.
“Yeah, you’re right. I’m going to go in and get him on board now. This shit’s gotta cease if we want to get anything done,” Mueller agreed.
“Don’t send any more calls to Harry and me until I talk to the lieutenant,” Mueller yelled out to the other detectives in the squad room as he approached the office of Lieutenant Tom Hoo.
The second-generation son of Chinese immigrants, the lieutenant was highly respected by his subordinates. They appreciated the fact that he’d risen through the ranks on merit and proven himself in all aspects of the job. As a patrolman, he walked a beat, worked radio cars, infiltrated Chinese gangs, and eventually made detective before taking the civil service exam and becoming a sergeant. At that rank, he excelled as both a patrol- and SWAT-team supervisor. By using his off-duty time to study, he managed to score number one on the lieutenant’s exam while at the same time continuing to give the job 110 percent. Tough, quiet, and unassuming, Tom Hoo was the type of supervisor who looked out for his people and never forgot where he came from.
Mueller knocked on the door to the lieutenant’s office and was motioned in.
“Getting a little heat from the press, eh, Dirk?” Hoo laughed. Mueller was his top detective, but he was an irritable sort and the lieutenant got a kick out of rubbing it in a little when his favorite grump came to him with problems.
“Yes, Lieutenant, we’re getting a lot of heat and it’s interfering with the investigation. Between the phone calls, headlines, and interruptions, Harry and I can’t get a goddamned thing done.”
“So what can I do to make your life a little easier?” the lieutenant asked.
“We need authorization to set up a press liaison team for this cluster so we can focus on the case,” Mueller replied. “The only thing that hasn’t occurred yet is those clowns from city hall calling up and pressuring us, but I expect that to happen any minute.”
“I’ll authorize the liaison. In fact, I’ll set it up for you myself. Just write up a short statement for me to get the ball rolling. Put enough information in it to keep the boys and girls in the press happy, but don’t give up too much. Every two or three days, put an updated memo on my desk. Use a little creative writing and make it look like there’s a lot of progress being made, even though there may be very little. I’ll handle the rest.”
“Thanks, Lieutenant. I appreciate the help. I’ll get the prelim on your desk immediately.” Mueller was grateful that his boss didn’t mind running interference for him.
“No problem, Dirk. I can’t have my best man stroking out on me in the middle of an investigation, now, can I?” Hoo joked. “By the way, do you think your case is related to the cases in Chicago and Arizona, or is that just media hype and speculation?”
“I can’t say for sure yet, Lieutenant. There’s a strong possibility the cases are connected but the MO in each is different. The one in Chicago was a combination arson and gunshot, and the victim down in Arizona was killed by a bomb. Our case looks like a mutual combat between some ragheads, the owner of the bar, and a small-time hood, but we haven’t determined yet if anyone else was involved. The one common thread that connects the cases is that at least half the victims were former high-echelon members of the sixties Marxist, domestic terrorist organization, Lenin’s Legion.
“The fact that a note disparaging Lenin’s Legion was left at the scene in Arizona kind of strengthens our theory that the cases are connected. Especially in light of the fact that Finnegan had newspaper clippings plastered all over the walls of his bar describing his subversive activities while he was a member of that organization. That, along with the fact that we found the article about him crippling a Chicago cop shoved in his mouth, strongly suggests not only a probable revenge motive but also a connection between the cases.
“The victims in Chicago are generally believed to be responsible for numerous bombings, one of which resulted in the murder of a police officer. They walked on technicalities and have spent their lives brainwashing college students in communist doctrine. The fact that they all got away with murder and mayhem would suggest that whoever is doing this is trying to get the delayed justice that the legal system failed to provide. And that’s where we’re at now, Loot,” Mueller concluded.
Hoo thought for a few seconds and then asked the obvious. “So we could be looking for an avenging angel, maybe even a cop or someone who was directly affected by the activities of these people and the group they were part of. Is that right?”
“It’s too early to say, but my guess is that your assessment is probably an accurate one,” Mueller responded. “As far as the cop angle is concerned, I’ve thought about that as well. The only thing is that any cops who were around when these assholes were plying their terrorism would be senior citizens by now. That’s not to say that an old retired copper with no hobbies and nothing better to do might not find this type of activity rewarding.”
“Have you spoken to the other jurisdictions yet about the similarities in the cases, Dirk?”
“Yeah, we’ve got that covered and we’re sharing reports and crime scene information. It may be that before this is over we’ll have to get the FBI involved. But before we do, we’re going to have to come up with more information that can connect all this stuff together. So far all we have is speculative gut feelings. The Feds will want a little more than that if they’re going to get involved.”
“Okay then. Keep the updates coming and I’ll keep the pressure off of you,” Hoo replied.
“Thanks, Loot, will do.” Mueller went back to his desk and filled Hanratty in on the meeting. “The L-T has our back, Harry. Now maybe we can get some work done.”
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Over the course of the next week, the case picked up more steam. It remained on the front pages of all the major newspapers and was the lead story on the nightly prime-time newscasts.
Siobhán Finnegan was back in New York appearing on local talk shows and news programs, reinforcing the theory that the killings of her husband, the Delgadillos, and Hayward were connected. Her appearances, combined with the funerals of Patrick and the others, made for a media circus.
Mueller and Hanratty continued to follow up on leads and share information with authorities in Chicago and Arizona. But other than agreeing that the cases were probably connected, they’d come up with nothing in the way of forensic evidence that rendered any clues about a suspect or suspects. For all practical purposes, other than keeping one another informed, detectives in all three jurisdictions were basically handling their cases independently.
The FBI, although kept apprised, saw nothing in the case that would prompt them to enter the investigation, at least not at this stage. In order for them to get involved, they would need evidence that a suspect or suspects were responsible for all the killings and that the crimes were being committed across state lines. Gut feelings and personal beliefs—minus proof—weren’t enough.
One individual who was becoming increasingly uneasy as the story unfolded was Jonas Judd.
The same paranoia experienced by his former Lenin’s Legion cohorts prior to their untimely deaths was now beginning to envelop him as he became convinced that the deaths of the others were not a coincidence.
Confident that, as one of the president’s economic adviso
rs, he could have a security detail assigned to him just by stating his case and requesting one, he decided to put a call in to the White House and ask that such protection be provided.
It didn’t take long for Judd to start wondering if questions posed by the president’s detractors—regarding a lack of moral character, integrity, and loyalty—might not have some basis in fact.
At first he’d thought that the ignored phone calls and unreturned messages were due to secretarial or clerical inefficiency. Perhaps malfunctioning voice mail equipment was the reason. But after a series of calls that stretched over several days went unanswered, it became apparent that no one was really interested in talking to him.
Tired of calling the White House, selecting numbers from a recorded menu, and leaving messages, Judd finally called the chief of staff’s office late in the afternoon on the fifth day and waited for someone to answer the phone.
He remained on hold for the better part of an hour with the hope that he would be able to make an appointment. He became enraged when a recorded message announced, “We’re sorry. The hours of the White House chief of staff are nine a.m. to five p.m. Your call is important to us and we regret missing it. If you would like to leave a message, please do so at the tone. Thank you.”
Judd left a message, but as soon as he did, he regretted not calming down and waiting a second or two in order to think about what he was going to say.
“Yeah, I want to leave a message. This is Jonas Judd. I’m a fucking presidential advisor. Tell that goddamned son of a Somali fish pirate that I need to talk to his pink Bolshevik ass and don’t like getting the runaround. I have shit on him that I’m sure the press would like to know about and I’ll goddamn well use it if that closeted Marxist wood beetle or one of his flunkies in your office doesn’t give me the courtesy of a callback.”
The Rampage of Ryan O'Hara Page 15
