Catalinelli frowned.
“Discussed last week?"
"You said it's better to ask forgiveness than permission. You said you didn't want to hear about it until it succeeded."
"That's not what I said."
Muffley pointed at the ceiling. Catalinelli walked over and turned off the recording device. He sat back down.
"As we discussed last week," Muffley said, "the plan involves Elizabeth Felton's brother and his girlfriend, our informer. You know she was friends with Dan Sedgwick?"
Catalinelli rolled his eyes.
"They couldn't have been that friendly. She planted half a medicine cabinet full of illegal drugs on him."
"She planted those illegally obtained legal drugs on Sedgwick because we coerced her into it. Now that she feels guilty, she's full of resentment. That was my intention from the very beginning. So here's the plan. We trick her into committing a terrorist act against us."
Catalinelli let out a long, slow sigh.
"Go on."
"I give her a set of three dummy keys," Muffley said, apparently convinced that the mayor would approve of his project and forget about the mistake he was about to confess if only he heard it explained in greater detail. "Now she thinks she's got access to City Hall itself. We send an undercover to provide her with an explosive device. We stop the crime at the last minute of course. That not only raises the specter of terrorism. It reminds people of Elizabeth Felton's dead aunt. Dan's got a nice little article in the works."
Grossinger smiled nervously.
"The Bill Ayers of Poison Springs," he said. "It could work."
"Please tell me this is still only in the planning stage," Catalinelli said.
"There were a few hitches in the dry run," Muffley said, "but I'm confident we can work it all out the second time around."
"Dan," Catalinelli said, looking at Grossinger. "Yes, in the past some of these hair-brained schemes the feds cook up have worked."
"They've worked many times."
"Yes, some of these hair-brained schemes have been effective the past," Catalinelli said, repeating himself, speaking to Grossinger and not even looking at Muffley, "but here's what I've learned, the hard way. The only hair brained schemes the feds cook up you hear about are the hair brained schemes that work. You never hear about the ones that don't. That allows idiots like Muffley here to believe their own press releases. OK idiot," he said, finally turning to Muffley. "Tell me how far past the planning stage it went, and tell me what went wrong."
"Detective Quinn misunderstood my instructions."
"That's why you keep any instructions to Detective Quinn simple and to the point."
"There was also a problem with the keys. I gave our infiltrator a set of dummy keys, but she threw them back in my face. I had expected that. She only cooperated with us on Sedgwick because we had Quinn intimidate her, and Quinn, let me tell you, is good at making you feel small, helpless and insignificant. That makes you angry, and this young woman has a lot of anger inside. I sensed it in her the first time I saw her. I was going to leverage that rage. It was all part of the plan. Later on, I went back to her apartment and hung the dummy keys up on her door to increase the level of temptation. She has access to the building. She has an explosive device. Do the math. She's a perfect little terrorist. Here's the problem. They weren't dummy keys."
Catalinelli let out another long, drawn out sigh.
"So you're saying you gave her free access to the Reagan Center?" he said laughing out loud.
"I did. They teach you this in acting class. If the props are realistic, you'll connect with the idea you're trying to express. You'll lie better. So I made the dummy keys look as much like the real keys as possible. Unfortunately I didn't fool her. I fooled myself."
Catalinelli continued laughing, exaggerating his guffaws for effect.
"Let me see the dummy keys."
Muffley pushed three keys across the table. Catalinelli picked them up, examined them, and walked around the table. He stood behind Muffley, spun his chair around with one hand, and stuffed the keys into Muffley's shirt pocket with the other. He mussed up his hair, loosened his tie, pulled the keys back out of his pocket, looked at them, and shoved them inside again.
"Dummy keys for a dummy. Now she's got keys for the dungeon. She's probably already made copies. She's probably already selling copies. Please tell me you didn't give her a real bomb."
"Steve Quinn misinterpreted my instructions so she never even received the dummy bomb," Muffley said. "She doesn't have keys for the dungeon either," he continued, fixing his tie and brushing back his hair. "She has keys for the archives, and the fire exit on the south side of the building, and that's all she has. So there's no need to panic."
Catalinelli took the dummy keys out of Muffley's pocket.
"Three keys," he said, brandishing them in front of his face. "Three keys."
He stuffed them back down in Muffley's pocket, tearing a button on his shirt.
Muffley looked around nervously.
"The third key is just the universal key for the handcuffs."
"For the handcuffs?" Catalinelli said mechanically. "For all the handcuffs?" he shouted.
"Unfortunately yes," Muffley said. "But it won't affect what we do with the Barrio. We're going to use plastic handcuffs for the raid."
Catalinelli laughed out loud again, now violently exaggerating his guffaws for effect until he calmed himself down.
"Peter. Your brilliant plan's been canceled," he said, poking Muffley in the chest. "In fact, anything and everything having to do with Elizabeth Felton's brother, his girlfriend, or anything between the two of them is off limits."
"But sir, she violated her parole when she resisted arrest."
"From what Dan here's told me, a first year law student could have that crap thrown out in 30 seconds."
"But we need her," Muffley said, almost pleading. "She's useful. She's smart as a whip. She's perfectly credible as one of these little scumbag radical activists. That's why I want to get her on a terrorism charge. Then we can negotiate a plea bargain and use her for surveillance outside of Poison Springs. Do you know how sick I am of infiltrating anarchist groups with 40-year-old frat boys in New York Jets T-shirts?"
"Dan?" Catalinelli said to Grossinger. "What language am I speaking?"
"You're speaking English sir."
"That's what I thought too."
He slapped Muffley across the back of the head.
"Are you deaf?" he said, grabbing Muffley's lapels, putting his nose to Muffley's face, and raising his voice. "Did you not hear what I just said? You are not to contact them. You are not to authorize any contact."
He turned to Grossinger.
"Dan. You are not to write any more articles about him, or either of them. We're done with both of them. She did her job with Sedgwick. Now forget about her. Forget about him. I'd rather lose the election than go through this bullshit."
He shoved Muffley back into the chair then released his lapels. He took the keys back out of Muffley's pocket. For a moment, it appeared as if he were going to slam them back down on the table, but, instead, he gently put them back into Muffley's pocket, and patted him on the cheek.
"You're fired," he said. "Oh I can't stop you from hanging around town if that's what the feds want you to do, and I know there's an agreement with the state, but this office will no longer cooperate with you or with the Northwest Mid-Atlantic Fusion Center."
Muffley looked too shocked to speak.
“In the meantime, you are the new liaison between the office of the Mayor of Poison Springs and the city's locksmith community. Your last and only job is to change the locks and buy new handcuffs. Do you think you can handle that?"
Muffley looked down like a shamed little boy.
Catalinelli paused, letting him stew in his embarrassment, enjoying his dominance almost as much as he resented the security breach.
A phone rang.
Muffley took out his
cell phone and listened. A worried expression came over his face. Then he hung up.
"They found Detective Quinn's car in Little Mexico."
Chapter 37 - The Rally
There were about 500 people on the public right of way alongside Route 1081 when John Avellanos, who had composed and cleaned himself up so well that nobody would have ever guessed what he had done the evening before, arrived at the "Water Rally." The police presence was sparse, with only a few officers around the periphery. There was also a small group of America's Guard members, who stood around with signs saying "Ignore This Communist Protest" and "I Stand with Mayor Catalinelli," but they were so outnumbered everybody just seemed to ignore them.
Dan Grossinger, who had been instructed not to follow Peter Muffley to River Gardens to look for the missing Steven Quinn, had already joined a small group of newspaper reporters, a contingent of out of town media, and a TV crew from a local news show. He had his fedora and his notebook, and he was standing next to a tall, leggy, plastic featured blond who waived to Avellanos when she saw him. The TV reporter, who had approached Avellanos after the incident with Dan Sedgwick's arrest, still wanted to interview him about his father and sister, but Avellanos had decided, for the moment, to ignore her.
He looked around at his cousin's supporters. Some of them had campaign signs. Some of them had signs that said "Save Our Water." All of them had plastic, gallon sized milk cartons. Elizabeth Felton herself was standing behind a small podium at the head of the crowd, wearing a blue shirt that said "Repeal the CCIA" and a white hat with "we are all immigrants" stenciled in black lettering on either side. She had positioned herself at an angle where it was impossible to photograph her without also getting the vacant two family house near the small bridge, and its intimidating graffiti.
“Attention Illegals: America's Guard Is Watching You."
Elizabeth Felton turned around and briefly glanced at the wreck of Winterborn II sprawling out to the foot of West Hill in the distance, then tapped the microphone.
"Twenty six years ago," she said, tapping the microphone a second time, "when I started as a freshman at the Winterborn Regional High School, none of what you see behind me existed. I would get on the bus in East Poison Springs, and every day we would drive past a peaceful looking stretch of vacant land that probably looked exactly the same way 500 years before. Sometimes the land would flood, but with the Scahentoarrhonon on the other side of West Hill only a few miles away from Route 1081, it was a natural catch basin for the water the river pushed down into its tributaries. It was a little reminder of the idyllic past alongside the busiest highway in the Winterborn County."
"But look up at West Hill and you'll see something very different, the faint outlines of an old coal breaker, built during the Roosevelt administration. Anybody who grew up in this city grew up hearing about the West Hill Mine Fire. Why hadn't it been excavated in the 1970s along with every other coal seam fire in the county? Nobody knows. Perhaps it was too small and too remote to care about, all the way up on that hill. Perhaps we just decided to keep it there as a relic of the Winterborn County's industrial heyday as the largest producer of anthracite coal in the world. The West Hill Coal Breaker was a museum piece, as idyllic, in its own way as the marshland I used to see on my way to school."
"A proper environmental impact study would have revealed that the site behind me was unfit to build on. But people had other plans. Opening it to development would bring money, not only to the city in the form of tax revenues, but also to well-connected interests who would build, pocket the money and be long gone, even if those promised tax revenues never panned out. You see the results behind me. The promised tax revenue never panned out. The well connected interests are long gone. Well, except for one."
The small group of America's Guard members tried to cheer above the chorus of boos that greeted the reference to Michael Catalinelli, but few people heard them.
"My opponent," Felton continued,” was already the dominant political figure in this town 26 years ago when I was a freshman in high school. He more than anyone knew the land was unfit to build on. Four years ago, in the wake of a horrible tragedy, which, I may add, remains unsolved, Michael Catalinelli pushed through a law that has become infamous, the Comprehensive Citizens Identification Act, the CCIA, and the federal government played right into his hands. They cut off federal aid to the city, including any funds that would have been allocated to study the possible cleanup of the West Hill Mine fire. Mayor Catalinelli also decided that the cleanup would be managed, not by a reputable salvage company, but by the Northeast Youth Protection Services, a company run by Evan Ciraski, one of the mayor's cronies, currently vacationing at his ranch in Costa Rica. That project was shut down over the summer with little or no fanfare, but rumors began to circulate. Had the West Hill Mine Fire spread to the western perimeter of Winterborn II?"
"Unfortunately the construction site behind me, even though public property, is closed to the general public, including me, for and I quote, reasons of public safety. But that small tributary of the Scahentoarrhonon River, on this side of the fence flows right around the west side of the construction site. It runs parallel to Route 1081 for a mile, then flows right back into the Scahentoarrhonon a few miles south. If the West Hill Mine Fire has spread to Winterborn II, that little stream could be carrying toxins back into the Scahentoarrhonon River, and contaminating the water supply of everybody who lives south of the Munitions Park Bridge, toxins not only from the old West Hill mine, not only from the construction site at Winterborn II, but from every long gone factory and landfill that the fire touches. So take your milk carton and fill it up. If we can't bring Mayor Catalinelli to the mountain, we can bring the mountain to Mayor Catalinelli. We can bring what might just be the worst environmental disaster in this city's history right to his doorstep."
Elizabeth Felton went on, giving a brief environmental history of the Winterborn County, as well as the outline of a concrete proposal to excavate the mine fire. After she concluded her speech, she walked over to the little stream, filled up her milk carton with water, and began to lead the march in the direction of the small skyline a few miles away. Avellanos filled up his own milk carton and took a place at the rear of the march, looking across the bridge at Winterborn II, and at the West Hill Coal Breaker in the distance as he walked along. If all went as planned, he would be forever associated with that construction site, and that underground coal seam fire. It would be his Texas School Book Depository, his Fords Theater, and his Sarajevo. He, John Avellanos, was about to open the gates of hell, and Poison Springs was about to come apart at the seams. He knew what he was doing was wrong, but he didn't care. It would make it impossible for Cathy Chegoffgan to confess to killing Steven Quinn. Even if George Kozlowski couldn’t get her out of the country, she would be hidden in plain sight, obscured by the shadow of John Avellanos, murderer, fake vet, identity thief, and assassin.
As the march continued on in the direction of downtown Poison Springs, he felt a tap on his shoulder. It was a TV reporter with her chubby, bearded cameraman.
"Martin Ruiz. You promised that you would let me interview you about your late father?"
Avellanos, who wanted to find an excuse not to speak to any of the assembled media until they got downtown, looked around for a way out. He found it in the three America's Guard counter protesters who had tagged along. They all had their milk cartons full of water. After he made eye contact with their leader, a small balding man with a leather jacket, American and Gadsden flags, and a patch that said "Jane Fonda Traitor Bitch" modified to read "Elizabeth Felton Communist Bitch," the three men came over and started to heckle the TV reporter.
“Well look here. Look at the liberal media."
"I'm no liberal," the TV reporter said, "but my kids live in this town, and contaminated water doesn't care about what party you vote for."
"Contaminated water my ass," the small, balding man said. "Watch this," he said, holding up his milk carton. "Do
you have the guts to film this?"
When the TV reporter indicated to her cameraman that he should film, the little man raised the milk carton to his mouth, and drank off the contents all at once. The TV reporter let out a little shriek.
"Oh my God."
"I hope you have the guts to run that," he said after wiping his mouth.
"I'm certainly going to suggest to my editor that it run, but he has the final decision."
"Told you so," he said to his companions, who nodded in smug satisfaction, "nothing but liberal propaganda. Most people get their water from wells anyway."
Avellanos, who had taken advantage of the distraction to move up to the front of the march, was now walking directly behind Elizabeth Felton. She moved him next to her in the front line.
"Are you ready for your speech?"
"As ready as I'll ever be," he said, as they continued walking along the shoulder of Route 1081 in the direction of the small Poison Springs skyline. "But I'm a little nervous."
"That's natural. Being nervous just means you care."
"I can't imagine I'll ever be able to give a speech like the one you just gave back at Winterborn II," he said. "I feel almost guilty for having heard it."
"You'll be fine," she said, transferring her milk carton to her right hand, and putting her left arm through his as a photographer snapped a photo. "My speech was boilerplate. Yours will be right from the heart."
Chapter 38 - A grisly discovery
Two Poison Springs Metro Police cars came to a stop in River Gardens. Peter Muffley who had been given a temporary reprieve by Michael Catalinelli, and a younger, uniformed officer got out of the first. They were joined by two more uniformed officers who got out of the second. Muffley checked the sign to make sure they were on Gibbon Street. An unmarked Poison Springs Metro Police car was parked in Steve Quinn's favorite spot.
"We've got the right cell tower," Muffley said. "His phone cut off sometime last night, but we're within a few hundred yards of the last signal."
"His car looks fine," one of the officers said, looking through the front window.
NOT AN AMERICAN Page 33
