The Rampage of Ryan O'Hara

by James R. Pera

  “No, but one of them said something about the president and the chief of staff. I couldn’t tell you what they were talking about, though.” The woman gave her name as Laura Marks.

  “And what was it they said?” Doiron asked.

  “Something about a debriefing is all I heard,” Clark cut in before his girlfriend could answer.

  “Yes, something like that, I guess,” Laura said.

  “What do you mean, you ‘guess’? Did you hear the word debrief or not?”

  “Yes, yes. I’m sure that’s what I heard. I’m a little tired and confused. I’m sorry.”

  “That’s all right. It’s understandable considering what you’ve been through, but don’t feel that you have to say you heard something if you’re not sure. We only want facts. You don’t have to say you heard something just because Fred did.”

  “Okay, then. I guess I didn’t hear that part.”

  State troopers had already cordoned off the area around the house. That was always the first order of business. It was necessary in order to keep reporters and onlookers from tracking through the area and contaminating evidence.

  Doiron continued, “You said one of them wanted to kill you. Do either of you have any idea why?”

  “No, but when I heard the shot, I thought I was dead,” Clark answered.

  “Shot?”

  “Yeah. It wasn’t loud though. It sounded like it may have been fired from a gun equipped with a silencer.”

  “You know about silencers, do you?”

  “Not really, but I know what they sound like from the movies.”

  “Uh-huh. Go on.”

  “One of them came up behind the guy who was arguing with the others about killing us and shot him in the leg. After that, he was hauled away. I don’t know what became of him but one of the men stayed behind and told me that they weren’t in the business of killing innocent bystanders. But they wouldn’t have any problem doing so, he said, if we didn’t stay put until someone came for us in the morning.”

  “Did you get a good look at any of these people?”

  “No, they were all wearing ski masks and what little skin I saw was blackened. I wouldn’t be able to tell you who they were if they were standing right here in front of me.”

  Doiron looked around and spotted a small amount of blood several feet away from the couple.

  “Is this where the guy was shot?”

  “Yes,” Clark confirmed.

  As Doiron was instructing a deputy to put down an evidence marker, he got a call over his radio from one of the detectives working inside the residence.

  “Yes, what do you have Jake?”

  “I’ve got some evidence in here that could blow the lid off this caper and turn it into a federal case. You better come inside and see for yourself.”

  Doiron addressed the two cops who were assisting him. “I’ve got to go into the house. Jake has something he wants to show me. Don’t let anyone back here if they’re not part of this investigation or in our chain of command.”

  “Does that include brass?”

  “You shouldn’t even have to ask that, Jerry. If they’re only here to snoop around, tell them to take a hike. If you have a problem, call me. I’ll come out and personally escort them off the property.”

  Doiron rounded the corner of the house and proceeded through the front door, where he was directed upstairs by a deputy. At the top of the landing, he was taken to the study by another deputy. “Detective Doiron’s here, Sergeant Donnegan.”

  “Thanks, Joe.”

  “Come over here, Howard. I have something very interesting to show you.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s a note I found on the desk. I haven’t touched it because I don’t want to screw up any slim chance we may have to lift prints belonging to someone other than the victim.”

  Doiron read the note and whistled. “Oh, boy, this has all the makings of a major migraine.”

  “Yeah, I thought you might say something like that, Howard,” Donnegan said.

  “This note is only part of it, Jake.”

  “Part of what?”

  Doiron explained. “That young couple we have out back told me that they heard the perpetrators talking about a debriefing with the president and the chief of staff’s office. They couldn’t tell me anything else. But that statement alone is enough to give this note legitimacy.”

  Donnegan agreed. “Well, it looks like this guy Judd thought he had enough pull with the president to just call up and demand protection from some nut that’s going around the country killing former radicals from the Vietnam era.”

  “The question is, Jake, why would the president or anyone connected to him be interested in those killings?”

  “I don’t know. But by the sound of this note, Judd had something on the president and threatened to use it if he wasn’t given protection.”

  “I wonder what that something might be.”

  “I don’t have the slightest idea. Do you?”

  “Beats me. I am familiar with the string of murders and I can see how all of them, including this one, could be related. But I haven’t the slightest idea how the president fits into the puzzle. When these people were blowing things up, the president was just a young kid.”

  “According to the note, these people were all part of Lenin’s Legion, an organization that was all but disbanded before the president reached adulthood. So what possible relationship could he have with them or whoever is doing them in?”

  “That’s a good question, Howard, and I can’t answer it. The only possible connection could be present-day associations with former radicals who are currently involved in movements to transform our country into a socialist state. It’s no secret that the president has designs on that. Since his college days, he’s been associated with and been part of radical causes. Maybe Judd had information that would have proved embarrassing to him had it been revealed. One thing is certain, though. If we proceed down the track we’re currently on, we’re going to open up a can of worms likely to make life very difficult for us.”

  “I’m not going to let that happen, Jake. I’m going to preempt that eventuality by getting the Feds involved. If this is a conspiracy involving the president’s people, it’s way above our pay grade. Quite frankly, I’ll be more than happy to let the FBI own it.”

  “Agreed. The note alone is enough to merit a call to the G-men. Combined with the statements of the young couple, it’s a given that the Feds aren’t going to let us handle this case alone anyway.”

  “That’s for sure.”

  “I’ll send the forensics team up here to print and bag the note. Now let’s go look at Mr. Judd. I only got a glimpse of him when we first arrived. Looked like he went for a swim in a vat of red wine.”

  “Yeah, he was pretty well ventilated,” Donnegan replied. “There’s no telling how many rounds they put in him. We left him in the tub. We’ll let the coroner decide when to pull him out and examine the wounds.”

  Doiron accompanied Donnegan to the bathroom and peeked in. “Well, one thing’s for certain. The commie bastard wanted to be a Red and he got his wish. The way that water looks, I’d have guessed a school of piranhas got to him. Never seen so much blood in one place, have you?”

  “No, can’t say that I have. We don’t get a lot of cases like this down here in our peaceful little burg. I hope it doesn’t start a trend.”

  “It won’t. This scumbag was obviously the only person in town the perps were interested in. If there were more like him, we would have had more crime scenes like the ones popping up all over the country. It’s been one news alert after another. There doesn’t seem to be any sign that this is going to be a one-time event.”

  CHAPTER

  49

  Having flown in from different parts of the country, The Group members were present and assembled in the farmhouse by late evening. With the exception of the incident with Lutcher and the young couple at the home of Jonas Judd, all the o
perations had been carried out without any problems.

  The only target who was awake when he was done in was a professor, who lived in the San Francisco area. The others had been killed as they slept and never knew what hit them.

  “What happened at Neville Warden’s house in Berkeley, Caden?” Markowitz inquired.

  Sterling was referring to the professor and friend of Bill Delgadillo whose treasonous rants and activities in the Movement for Revolutionary Change were bringing unwanted attention to the university where he taught. It had also become increasingly clear to Warden’s colleagues and students that he was an academic charlatan. He used the classroom to revise and distort national history in a manner that reflected his personal ideology.

  His vitriolic publicity stunts, rhetoric, and constant badgering of the establishment and all things American finally provoked his fellow academicians to lodge a formal complaint with the board of trustees about a plagiarized report he’d submitted as his own.

  In addition to stealing the essays and written works of others, Warden had tried to pass himself off as a Native American when in fact he was Italian, a lie that led to his being referred to as the Awopaho. His deceit and loss of credibility was too much, even at the liberal college where he was employed, and he was dismissed from his professorship.

  “Warden just happened to be in the kitchen getting a glass of water when we came into the house,” began the team leader, Caden Jaworski.

  “So did he offer you a glass?” Markowitz joked. The question brought laughter from the others in the room.

  “No, he grabbed a butcher knife and started to back away, but we shot him before he even got out of the kitchen. It was all over very quickly.”

  “Was there anyone else in the house at the time?”

  “Yes. We did a quick search of the premises. There was a woman sleeping in one of the bedrooms but she never heard or saw anything. We left her there, asleep. I’m sure she probably slept through the night and didn’t notice anything until she stumbled into the kitchen for her morning coffee.”

  “Good. It’s always preferable to avoid collateral damage if possible. Nice job.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  The team leaders from Boston, Chicago, Orlando, Seattle, and Portland gave their reports and stated that the operations had been carried out without any complications. Markowitz opened the floor for general discussion and solicited input from the others as to how improvements could be made in future operations.

  Before anyone could respond, Ryan spoke. “I’m going to have to shove off tomorrow, Sterling.”

  “So soon? You just got here.”

  “I’m afraid so. My convalescent leave is going to be over in a few days and I have to get back to Fort Campbell. The sooner I get back, the sooner I’ll be cleared by both the medical and psychiatric staff for deployment.”

  “Are you sure you’re ready for deployment, Ryan? I mean, after all, you’ve been out of action for a long time now and should probably be thinking about taking baby steps before you enter the world of carnage and mayhem that you’ll be subjected to in the war on terror.” Markowitz laughed at his own joke, as did Ryan and the others.

  “I guess I’ll just have to take a chance and hope I don’t crack. The docs will have to assess me and see if I’m stable and still have the killer instinct necessary to be a warrior.”

  “Stable? I don’t know about that, but you certainly have the killer instinct.” Markowitz laughed again.

  Ryan grinned. “Yeah, well, nut job or not, I have to leave tomorrow. There’s no getting around it.”

  “That’ll be fine,” Markowitz said. “Do you think you’ll be coming back to our organization after you retire? We could use you.”

  “I don’t know about that yet, Sterling, but I’ll give it some serious consideration. What you’re doing is good and I think it’s necessary. The only thing is, I’m going to have to decide between a commitment to this organization and a personal one that I’ve been contemplating with someone special back home.”

  “You’ve got a place here if you decide you want to help us carry this fight forward. But take some time to think it through. We’d like to have you back but only if you’re comfortable with giving our cause a 100-percent commitment. Whatever decision you make will be respected by The Group and you will forever have our gratitude for the service you’ve rendered both as a soldier and to our cause.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “You’re welcome, Ryan, but it is I who should be thanking you.”

  CHAPTER

  50

  The next morning while preparing to depart, Ryan sipped coffee and watched a televised news conference conducted from the White House. Maxwell Waters was having a tough day. After two and a half years as the press secretary for President Emmanuel Apunda, he still had difficulty giving coherent answers to even the simplest of questions from the White House press corps.

  Flustered and stuttering, he called on Wallace Christianson a commentator from one of the cable news channels. “Yes, Wally, what is your question?”

  “The Justice Department has just announced that it intends to initiate an investigation into reports that people close to President Apunda may be connected to the recent murders of several prominent political figures. Can you give us any insight into those allegations and confirm or deny if there is any merit to them?”

  “The, uh, president, as you know, has been the subject of many, uh…how should I say, uh, false accusations by the, uh, Republicans, right-wingers, and, um, even bigots, who, uh, don’t, uh, like the fact that an African-American has been elected president. Furthermore, I, uh, don’t know anything more about this story than you do and, uh, would venture to guess that, uh, it is an attempt by President Apunda’s opponents to tarnish his administration.”

  “Surely you’re not implying that a bunch of right-wing, racist bigots cooked up a bogus story and convinced the Justice Department to start an investigation, are you, Maxwell?”

  “I’m just saying that the president has been subjected to unfair treatment from…”

  “So are you telling us that a note wasn’t found in the home of Jonas Judd?”

  “I’m not familiar with any, uh, note. What are you referring to?”

  There were audible chuckles and sighs from the other journalists in the room. It was already common knowledge that Jonas Judd, the late economic advisor to the president, had left a note indicating fear for his life and mentioning the White House as a potential purveyor of what he worried would be his demise.

  “You know very well what I’m talking about, Maxwell, or at least you should. I’m referring to the note left by Judd describing a run-in with people from the chief of staff’s office over some alleged information he had that could compromise the presidency.”

  “I’m sorry, Wally. I’m really not familiar with that story and the last thing I’m going to do is, uh, speculate on an unsubstantiated rumor put forth by people in the enemy camp.”

  “Enemy camp? Isn’t that a rather harsh way to describe your fellow citizens, Maxwell?” Christianson enjoyed badgering Waters, who he looked upon as a blithering idiot with no journalistic talent.

  Ryan smiled. Never in his wildest dreams would he have guessed that so many other factors would be injected into the simple plan he had devised to avenge his grandfather and other victims of domestic terrorism.

  The note from Judd, when combined with the multiple “executions” carried out against high-profile communist and Muslim activists, seemed to be convincing most people that a nationwide conspiracy was in play. Most of these same people, however, refused to believe that there was presidential complicity if for no other reason than the simple fact that all of those targeted were people of similar ideology and goals. No, it just didn’t make sense that the president would be bumping off his supporters. The conspiracy had to involve an as-yet-unknown group. But whom?

  Perhaps the president was just an incompetent dupe, not aware of sini
ster goings-on within his inner circle. Or maybe he was only pretending to be a communist and was really part of a right-wing conspiracy to eliminate the very subversives who believed him to be an ally. But these were all pretty far-fetched hypotheses and not at all likely.

  After several more questions from the White House press corps, Waters abruptly ended the session and walked out of the room, leaving the reporters with no more information on what was now being dubbed as the “Predawn Massacre” than they had had when the briefing began.

  The network switched back to a program already in progress in which a panel of pundits, all acting as if they had more knowledge than they actually did, was expressing various opinions, views, and theories. They were soon interrupted by a bulletin.

  Ralph Richardson and Dan Travis, reporting from the Portsmouth and New York affiliates, were on to a breaking story about the formation of a joint task force consisting of federal, state, and local law-enforcement agencies from throughout the country. On the satellite feed with them was DC bureau chief Brent Barres.

  “What can you tell us about the latest development in the Predawn Massacre case, Brent?” Richardson asked.

  “The only thing I can tell you so far is that the attorney general and Director Siringo at the FBI have announced that the bureau and representatives of several state and local law enforcement agencies throughout the country are coming together to pool their resources in an all-out effort to solve this case.”

  Travis interjected, “Yes, I know about the task force. I’ve already spoken with the lead detectives on the Finnegan case here in New York and I believe they’re going to play a major role in the investigation as it moves forward.”

  “Is there any chance they might be available to make a statement, Dan?”

  “No. It was just by chance that I bumped into them earlier down at the precinct house. Other than confirming their participation in the task force, they’re referring all inquiries to the press liaison officer, Sergeant Pete McDougall.”