"Get back down to Reagan Plaza now," he screamed. "Everyone. Get back down to Reagan Plaza now."
The officers who had gathered around them all seemed confused.
"Sir," one uniformed officer said. "What is going on?"
Muffley continued to scream.
"Block off City Hall. Block off City Hall," he howled. "Block off City Hall."
Unknowingly, Muffley had dropped the crumpled prints of Dan Sedgwick's photo. A third officer picked them up, and handed them to an older man with three stripes on his shoulders before running out into the street. The sergeant immediately recognized Sedgwick's picture. He followed the officer down onto the street.
"We know who killed Steve Quinn," he said to the officers gathered under the harp. "Dan Sedgwick killed Steve Quinn."
Chapter 41 - sic semper tyrannis
John Avellanos stared at the entrance to City Hall, marveling at the lack of any police presence, anywhere. Was it a ruse to get people to rush the doors? Was it an excuse to discredit the "Water Rally" in the eyes of the out of town media? Were all the cops waiting inside? He steeled his nerve. Upstairs, only a few hundred feet away, was Michael Catalinelli. Even if the police were just around the corner, he could still get up into City Hall before anybody stopped him.
Avellanos was just about to make a dash for the entrance when he felt a hand on his arm. It was the TV reporter and with her cameraman.
"I had no idea you were so funny," she said.
"Really? I thought that speech was a disaster."
"Not at all," she said. "You have natural comic timing. You should have seen the look on that guy's face when you said you were going to throw him into the mine fire."
"Really?"
"Have you ever done stand up professionally?"
"If you still want to interview me I have some time. Why don't we go into the lobby of city hall? Then I'll tell you all about myself."
The TV reporter nodded her assent. Avellanos trotted up the steps of City Hall, and continued into the lobby with the TV reporter following along. She held the big, brass door open for the cameraman. The lobby was as free of police as the steps were. Avellanos walked over to the directory kept under a glass case in the center of the lobby and leaned over. He looked up at the grand, marble, staircase leading up to the second floor.
"I've never done stand up," he said, "and quite honestly I thought I made an ass of myself. But I have always been a bit of a prankster. If you're still interested, I have an even funnier joke. Interview me walking up the staircase. I want to give a little message to Michael Catalinelli, in person."
"From your sister?"
"No," Avellanos said, "from me."
"Is it an official message?”
"It's anything but official."
The reporter laughed.
"Oh my God. I can't wait to see the expression on his face."
"Neither can I," Avellanos said.
Avellanos, the TV reporter, and her camera man began to walk up the staircase. Avellanos paused, looking up, overwhelmed, it appeared, by the grandeur of the old building, but in reality trying to distract the pair so he could pull his shirt down over Quinn's gun. He breathed more deeply.
"If I were ever going to go on a shooting spree, I'd make sure to hit the right targets," he whispered to himself, repeating almost word for word what his cousin had told him the year before. "If I was going to die, I would walk right up the steps of city hall, put two bullets in that scumbag Mayor Michael Catalinelli, one in his head and one in his heart, then I'd lay the gun down at my feet and let the cops blow me to kingdom come."
"Hey," a voice said. "Hey."
Avellanos turned around to see Jeff Dawson, not encumbered, it seemed, by the previous evening's despair. He bounded up the stairs in an effortless manner, and attached himself to the group before any of them could object. Avellanos smiled when he noticed that he had the usual unbalanced expression in his eyes.
"Why hello Jeff? You look well."
"No I don't. What are you doing in here? Where are you going?"
"We're going to do an interview," the reporter said.
"No you're not," Dawson said. "You two are going to get your paychecks from Michael Catalinelli."
"Go away you little psycho," the cameraman said, swinging the camera around. "Or I swear to God I'll clock you over the head with this."
"Let him come along," Avellanos said. "He'll have no doubts about my relationship to Mayor Catalinelli after this is all over."
"I have no doubt he signs your checks," Dawson said. "Where's your lizard girlfriend?"
"I killed her. I lured her up to the West Hill Mine Fire and pushed her in?"
The reporter and the cameraman laughed. Avellanos smiled grimly as they continued up the stairs. Halfway up the second tier of the staircase, they ran into two uniformed Poison Springs Metro Police officers rushing violently in the opposite direction. One of them knocked Jeff Dawson to the ground as he passed.
"Out of the way. Out of the way. Out of the way," the other officer yelled, bumping the cameraman, spinning him around, and almost knocking him down the stairs along with Jeff Dawson. "Get out of the fucking way."
"Holy shit," the cameraman said, sitting up. "Are they finally raiding The Barrio?"
The reporter looked at her smart phone.
"Definitely not," she said.
"You know they're not doing the raid now," Jeff Dawson said, getting to his feet. "You three are going upstairs to plan it right now with Catalinelli."
"They're probably going to the donut shops," the cameraman said, brushing himself off.
"Ha. Ha. They're going to the donut shops," Dawson said, laughing. "That's funny. You're pretty fucking funny."
Michael Catalinelli's office, down at the end of the hall behind two large double doors, was easy to find. There was no guard. Jeff Dawson started cackling when Avellanos banged into the door while trying to open it, not expecting it to be locked.
"Don't they give you your own illuminati skeleton key?" he said.
"You can't go in there," the receptionist, a severe looking middle aged woman with dark glasses who looked as if she had been sitting at the same desk ever since the 1980s, looked up and said. "You need an appointment."
The expression on the reporter's face turned from one of mild amusement to one that seemed to combine excitement with sheer terror. The cameraman stared, his mouth agape. Even Jeff Dawson was so shocked that he could not reach for his own gun.
"The hell I can't," Avellanos said, pulling out Quinn's 9mm pistol.
He reached over, ripped the phone on the desk out of the socket and threw it down the hallway.
"You," he said, pointing the gun at the cameraman. "Make sure you get this."
But the cameraman did not get it. He had dropped the camera and run so fast in the other direction that he was already halfway to the first floor when it hit the ground. Jeff Dawson ran forward and picked up the camera.
"Do you know how to use that thing?" Avellanos said.
Dawson laughed scornfully.
"Of course I know how to use it," he snapped. "What do you think I am? Crazy?"
"OK," Avellanos said. "You can shoot my snuff film."
The receptionist screamed in terror.
"Shut up you stupid bitch," Dawson screamed back. "Shut the fuck up."
John Avellanos smiled. Jeff Dawson giggled wildly. The TV reporter stared at the two madmen, her mouth open in shock, but determined, it seemed, not to run. The doors, although heavy and well-made were held in place by a cheap, flimsy lock placed dead center and, when Avellanos threw his entire weight against them, they burst open. Dawson and the reporter followed him inside. Catalinelli was standing in front of the window with his hands behind his back. He turned around when he heard the doors fly open.
"Michael Catalinelli," Avellanos yelled. "Prepare to die."
The reporter smiled, in spite of herself, so self-consciously theatrical did it sound.
&nb
sp; "God I hope you're getting this," she said to Jeff Dawson, mistaking him for a moment for her own cameraman and thinking perhaps that it was all a joke after all. "That was gold."
Michael Catalinelli also seemed to think it was all a big joke. He walked up to his desk, put his hands on the edge, and looked up at Avellanos. He smiled. He looked at Jeff Dawson and winked. Dawson winked back. Then he started to laugh. It seemed to catch Avellanos off guard.
“I guess I'm going to be on YouTube."
"You don't recognize me?" Avellanos said, his voice shaking, raising the gun and pointing it at Catalinelli. "I'm not here to prank you. I'm here to murder you."
"You'd better watch it," Catalinelli said, tears of laughter streaming down his face. "Threatening a public official is a serious crime. Once DHS is involved, it's out of my hands."
Catalinelli's laughter stopped, however, when the bells began to ring out that it was noon. Avellanos waited. At the twelfth bell, he raised the gun in the air and fired it into the ceiling.
"Do you think I'm joking now?"
Chapter 42 - The Police Riot
While the bells were ringing, a very different scene was playing out on Reagan Plaza. The Barrio was not only being raided. There was a full-scale police riot. Hundreds of police officers were attacking the remnants of the Water Rally on the steps of City Hall, and The United Coalition Against Xenophobia itself, swinging their clubs, chasing people who ran away, ganging up on stragglers, kicking down tents and dismantling them before moving onto their next victims. It looked like Chicago in 1968.
As more and more police officers arrived, none of them stopped to identify themselves. When an officer arrived on scene, he simply raised his baton over his head and joined in the melee. When he had his fill of beating people with his nightstick, he would pull out his pepper spray or Taser, and continue. It was only the undisciplined nature of the attack that allowed most of The United Coalition Against Xenophobia and many of the people at the demonstration on the steps to escape. The police made no attempt to cordon off escape routes or set up barricades, and people simply ran east or west, or in whatever direction they could go. Fast, healthy young men got away. Slower people were caught by the police and beaten. David Sherrod had already grabbed Elizabeth Felton and hustled her to a taxicab on Reagan Plaza North, dragging her inside and locking the doors, taking her back to East Poison Springs against her will.
Dan Sedgwick remained. The sullen, hangdog expression had dropped off his face, and he had instinctively fallen into his old role as head of security of The United Coalition Against Xenophobia. He began to organize the people being attacked, instructing a group of men to form a skirmish line to take the punishment in order to allow some woman or child or older man to get away. He tried to reason with the police, in almost every case finding success. He had managed to calm down a significantly large number of officers in his immediate area to form a "safe zone," but then tragedy struck. The officer who had picked up Sedgwick's photo in Cathy Chegoffgan's apartment saw him. He held up the portrait for his fellow officers, holding one piece in each hand, putting them together over his head.
"There he is," he screamed. "There he is. There's the cop killer. There's the animal who killed Steve Quinn."
Sedgwick stepped forward and tried to reason with the officer with the photograph.
"Calm down," he said. "Calm down."
But he was doomed. Another officer, who already raised his baton over his own head, brought it down on top of Sedgwick's. There was a sickening crack. Sedgwick first looked dazed, then sick. He staggered forward a step then staggered back. Then he raised his hand as if in protest.
"Calm down," he said. "We can work this out."
"You fucking cop killer," the officer who had hit Sedgwick said, and, noticing that he had actually broken his nightstick, removed his pepper spray from his belt and sprayed him in the face. "You want some pepper spray cop killer?" he added, emptying the can into Sedgwick's eyes. "You want some pepper spray?"
But Sedgwick, who seemed extraordinarily strong, didn't go down. He raised his hand back up.
"Calm down," he said. "Calm down."
Then he collapsed. That was his death. Ten more officers, who, up until then had been frozen in place, astonished at how much punishment he could take, all surged forward, nightsticks in the air. The first, then the second, then the third hit him on the head. The officers that followed continued to swing, hitting his leg, and kicking him, then accidentally hitting a fellow officer before finding a better spot. Near the front, a large, burly officer raised his boot and brought it down on his face. Then he raised it and brought it back down. Then he raised it again and brought it back down again. The other officers joined in, fighting for a spot.
"Die faggot," one of the officers screamed, stomping on his head. "Die. You mother fucking cop killer. Die."
Chapter 43 - John Wilkes Fail
John Avellanos pointed Steven Quinn's 9mm pistol at Michael Catalinelli, then at Jeff Dawson and the TV reporter, then back at Catalinelli.
"Do you think I'm joking now?" he said after the bells stopped.
The phone rang. Catalinelli, out of pure instinct, reached over to his desk to pick it up, but Avellanos beat him to it. He lifted the phone in the air and smashed it on the desk, chipping off a big hunk of wood in the process. When Catalinelli's cell phone, which was also sitting on the desk, rang, he threw it on the ground, and crushed it beneath his foot. The reporter's phone rang. She held it up to show that she was turning it off. Jeff Dawson did not seem to have a phone, but he held up one hand to show that he was not about to call outside.
"You two," Avellanos said, pointing to the left most of the three windows. "Stand under that window."
Dawson and the TV reporter did as they were told. Avellanos pointed to the rightmost of the three windows. Then he pointed at Catalinelli.
"And you," he said, pointing the gun in the mayor's direction, pointing to the middle window, then moving to the right. "Stand under there."
"Wait," Catalinelli said. "Wait. This is crazy. Why would you want to kill me?"
"Keep filming," Avellanos yelled to Jeff Dawson. "This is a snuff film."
"Give me the gun," Catalinelli said. "You heard those two phones ring. The police are going to be here any minute. If you don't give me the gun, they're going to shoot you, me, and those two innocent people."
"You think so? Look out the window."
Catalinelli looked out the window down at the melee on the western side of Reagan Plaza.
"Do you know why your police force is rioting? Deputy Inspector Steven Quinn is dead. I kicked his fucking head in."
"I don't believe you," Catalinelli said, a slight tremor in his voice. "You're a big guy, but kicking Steve Quinn in the head is not something anybody would live to talk about."
"You don't see that?" Avellanos yelled, banging on the window. "You don't see that? Do you think your cops would riot for the homeless guy I killed?"
"You killed the homeless man? Why?"
"He had this," Avellanos said, taking out the wallet-sized, WillyMart photo booth print of him and Martin Ruiz and showing it to Catalinelli.
Catalinelli leaned over and looked at the two, almost identical young men in the photo.
"Make sure you film this," Avellanos said, moving over to Jeff Dawson and holding up the photo. "This is a confession. I am not Martin Ruiz, the illegitimate son of Nicholas Felton. I am John Avellanos, the son of Laura Felton."
"Oh my God," the TV reporter said.
Catalinelli forced out a laugh.
"She's been dead for 40 years. If she had been alive we certainly would have used it in our campaign."
Avellanos turned to Catalinelli.
"You're a pretty funny guy. I almost hate to kill you."
Avellanos had not noticed that Jeff Dawson had come up behind him.
"I surprised Quinn in the hallway of my girlfriend's building," he said. "I wouldn't have killed him except he called m
e John, not Martin. That's when Cathy and I knew he had seen the photo."
Catalinelli breathed as slowly as possible to calm himself down.
"Did she help you kill Steve Quinn?"
"She wanted him dead, but she freaked out when she saw the body. She threatened to turn me in. I don't know what happened. But I wound up choking her to death."
"Is her body with Steve Quinn's?"
"It's gone. I put it in a canvass bag, carried it up to the West Hill mine fire, and threw it in. I couldn't stand to look at it."
Avellanos raised the gun.
"Now I'm going to kill you Michael Catalinelli. You're a tyrant and a demagogue. You run a police state. You've corrupted the press. You've destroyed the city my family founded 300 years ago. Now you're going to die."
Jeff Dawson was now directly behind Avellanos. When Avellanos hesitated, Catalinelli seemed to recover his courage.
"You burned that girl alive," he said, genuinely outraged, it seemed, at the idea of Cathy Chegoffgan being thrown into the West Hill mine fire. "You cowardly little son of a bitch."
He looked over at Jeff Dawson, who winked as if to say "I've got this one under control."
Catalinelli puffed out his chest.
"Are you going to kill me or talk?" he said. "What's the matter? Or do you only kill little girls? Just make sure you get my good side. You heard that," he shouted. "Make sure you get my good side you cowardly piece of shit."
Catalinelli turned his head to the right, reached forward, and grabbed Avellanos's hand. Jeff Dawson, seeing his opportunity, swung around and landed a hard blow on his head with the heavy, professional video camera. Catalinelli snatched the gun from Avellanos, who stood up after being momentarily staggered, noticed that he no longer had the gun, staggered again, then fell forward, holding himself up by the table. Dawson dropped the camera and wrenched Avellanos to the ground.
"Poison Springs Metro Police," he yelled, pulling a pair of metal handcuffs from his jacket. "You're under arrest. Down. Stay down."
"Office Dawson," Catalinelli said. "Congratulations. You're now detective Dawson."
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