Catalinelli smiled and held up his hand.
"First let's make sure use the proper title. It's Deputy Inspector Steven Quinn, not Officer Quinn."
"Of course," she said, looking shamed.
"And I hadn't seen the leaked video when Mr. Avellanos held me at gunpoint, so I had no idea just what a dire situation I was in. I thought it was all a big joke."
"You were in a room with a man who had already murdered three people. That was no laughing matter."
"Four people if you count the homeless man," Catalinelli said, "but the autopsy has shown that Deputy Inspector Steven Quinn was killed, not by a gunshot wound to the head, but by a piece of sharpened metal that severed his carotid artery. John Avellanos surprised him, not overpowered him. And I'm willing to bet my life that Deputy Inspector Steven Quinn died, not begging for his life, but telling that punk to go to hell with his last, with his dying breath."
He stopped to wipe a tear from his eye.
"Oh my God."
"I got lucky. A young man who would not have been on the Poison Springs Metro Police at all had I not opened it up to new talent a few years ago with a badly needed set of reforms was there to save my life."
Catalinelli held up a copy of the Winterborn Daily Post turned to page 3.
"Meet the real hero," he said, "Detective Lieutenant Jeffrey Willard Dawson."
There was a brief round of applause.
"But John Avellanos was right about the West Hill Mine Fire," a fourth reporter, a rough looking young man in his mid-20s, said. "It has spread much closer to Route 1081 than anybody thought. Does this reflect on your judgment 8 years ago in giving the Winterborn II Corporation a building permit?"
"Mike? That's your name right?"
"Yes," the reporter said.
"Mike," Catalinelli said. "The Director of the EPA is a close personal friend of mine. The Northwest Mid Atlantic Fusion Center is investigating the crime scene. They will arrange for a federal environmental impact study if one should prove necessary. They have already found," he added, appearing to choke back his emotions, "several articles of clothing from Cathy Chegoffgan. They have done an analysis on her missing cell phone. She called 911 only a few seconds before she was thrown into the fire at the West Hill coal breaker. Then it cuts off."
"That poor girl," the leggy blond TV news reporter said. "Oh that poor girl."
"The only thing we can do now is to make sure Mr. Avellanos was working alone, which at the moment, we believe to be the case," Catalinelli said.
"So as of now you've found no outside influence?" Mike said. "There are conspiracy theories."
"You can say that again," Dan Grossinger shouted out. "I can't say I blame them."
Catalinelli raised his hand and the room went silent.
"There are always going to be conspiracy theories," he said, "but as of now it appears that one individual monster acted alone. And let that be a lesson to all of us. As Mr. Avellanos has so tragically demonstrated, our immigration laws have nothing to do with race, or with the persecution of migrant laborers. They are the first line of defense against crime, and on that note," he added, seeing Joe Devanny walk into the room, “I'm going to allow myself the last word. Thank you. Thank you all for coming."
Chapter 47 - The Cabal
As the newspaper and TV reporters filed out of the room, Dan Grossinger, the only journalist who remained behind in Michael Catalinelli's office, sat down at the head of the table. He picked up a photo of the 11-year-old-Cathy Chegoffgan. Joe Devanny sat down next to him. Peter Muffley, who had come in a few minutes earlier, and who now walked with a slight limp, sat down next to Devanny. Catalinelli noticed that he was eating a carrot.
"So Peter, no more donuts?"
"Not for the immediate future."
"Why not?"
"Donuts are possible when a man runs 50 miles a week, but not when he can barely limp up the stairs."
"Rowing machine," Devanny said, looking as if he had not been inside a gym for decades, "always works for me."
Michael Catalinelli sat down in his chair. He did not put his hands to his ears when the bells rang out that it was 12 noon.
"OK. Let's get started. Joe. Now that Steve Quinn's dead, you need to do one of two things. You need to find someone else who will do all the work at your department while you play golf, or you need to get up off your ass, and put some more time in at the office."
"Mike. I'm here for you twenty four seven until this shit storm blows over. You know you can count on me."
"I know that Joe," Catalinelli said. "Young Mr. Muffley," he added. "Can I count on you too?"
“Yes sir."
"You are no longer on locksmith duty. You are lead detective on the Chegoffgan, Ruiz, Quinn murders. I haven't forgotten about your fuck up with the keys, but we need a man with ties to the feds on this."
"Mike. You need to give me permission to issue riot gear," Devanny said. "Have you seen that crowd out there?"
“Where were they two months ago?" Catalinelli said. "Dumb rednecks, I couldn't get 50 of them together in the same place to clear that scum out, but oh kill a pretty little white girl and they come here from all over the east coast."
"East Coast?" Devanny said.
He stood up and walked over to the window.
"There are America's Guard members out there from every chapter in the United States," he said, rapping on the glass. "West Virginia, Ohio, Indiana, Illinois. By this evening, the size of that crowd will be bigger than the city."
Peter Muffley looked at Catalinelli.
"We've brought in 200 officers from New York and Philadelphia," he said, "all attached to the Northwest Mid Atlantic Fusion Center. They've all had riot training. They're all circulating into the crowd in plain clothes as we speak."
Catalinelli raised the palms of both his hands in the air as if to say "does that satisfy you?"
“We need more," Devanny said. "We need more cops. We need barricades. We need teargas, LRADs, and horses. Basically we need the NYPD."
"We don't have the NYPD," Muffley said, turning to Devanny, "but the officers we selected all have experience in crowd management and in intelligence work."
He took another bite of his carrot.
"I don't see them having much difficulty controlling the mob from within," he said. "Most of my people have taken positions up on the perimeter of Reagan Plaza West. They'll make sure nobody approaches the building. They're all big burly guys who can take care of themselves. They'll have things in hand shortly."
Dan Grossinger, who had been staring at the table the entire time, suddenly looked up.
"I wouldn't be so sure about that," he said. "A lot of those people believe you're determined to sneak Avellanos out of town into federal custody."
"Let's start the process of breaking it up then," Catalinelli said. "We have a few days, so stack your uniforms up in the parking lot out back and issue riot gear. In the meantime, we need to start making some arrests and thinning out that crowd."
"There's a slight problem with that," Devanny said. "We don't really have enough vacant space downstairs."
"Make some," Catalinelli said. "Hear ye hear ye. I'm pleased to announce the Cathleen Mary Chegoffgan Memorial Amnesty Day. Anybody downstairs being held on a non-violent drug offense or an immigration violation is now free at last free at last. Thank God almighty they'll be free at least. Just drop charges against anybody you have to."
"OK," Devanny said, "done."
"Now for the real issue," Catalinelli said. "I want to make sure that girl is really dead."
The three men looked at him curiously.
"Oh don't look at me like I'm crazy," he said. "No body no crime."
"That beast threw that poor girl into the mine fire," Grossinger said, growing ever more sullen and more indignant. "That sadistic monster burned her alive."
"Yeah maybe," Catalinelli said, "but I'm a little skeptical. I've met Mr. Avellanos in person."
"You sure have," De
vanny said. "He tried to kill you."
"Tried and failed," Catalinelli said. "I remain skeptical. The idea that goofy punk could kill two Iraq war vets, kill Steve Quinn, then carry a 115 pound woman all the way down to Winterborn II, climb the fence, walk over that lousy ground, and toss her into the mine fire defies credibility. I don't buy it. No body. No crime. Find me the girl or find me the body."
Grossinger just stared at him.
"Are you really going to slander the poor girl like that?"
"Maybe we should talk about Sedgwick," Muffley said.
"Sedgwick was organizing a violent attack on the police," Devanny said, "and he got crushed in the melee. Who knows who stepped all over his face? It certainly wasn't a cop."
"There'll be an investigation of course," Muffley said.
"Of course,' Catalinelli said." Now back to this girl. Does anybody have any photos closer to the age when she allegedly died?"
"Why?" Devanny said.
"It might calm down Randy and that mob a little."
"Her mother's crazy," Devanny said. "She won't give us any recent photos."
"How about you Dan," Catalinelli said to Grossinger. "Have you spoken to her mother?"
Grossinger picked up the photo of Cathy Chegoffgan at the age of 11. He put his finger on top of it and let it run the length of her nose. His face took on an expression of anguish.
"What a beautiful girl she was," he said. "Why?"
"Dan's temporarily joined the Cathy Chegoffgan weeping society," Catalinelli said. "Peter," he said to Muffley. "She was in the Dungeon last week. How about mug shots?"
"I set her up with an arrest," Muffley said. "Unfortunately our techs in central booking took so long fingerprinting her they forgot to take her photo, or they lost it, or something. In any event, we don't have a mug shot from last week."
"Typical" Catalinelli said. "You put the stupidest cops in the fingerprint room."
"I suppose we could pull her mug shots from her arrest 4 years ago," Muffley said, "and I suppose we could have Dan write up a story about her old burglary arrest. The only problem is she wasn't 18 yet so you'd have to unseal her juvenile records."
Grossinger continued staring at the photo of the 11 year old Cathy Chegoffgan.
"Why?” he said. "Why?"
"Why what?" Catalinelli said.
"Why would a blond, blue-eyed, perfect all American girl like this take up with blacks and Mexicans and middle-aged perverts?" he said. "Why. Look at this face. How perfect she was."
“Ah she was OK, "Muffley said." But she's a crispy critter now."
"We think," Catalinelli said. "We think."
"Mike. I've got bad news," Devanny said. "Those juvenile records from 4 years ago. They got expunged, not just sealed."
"Just not my day, is it?" Catalinelli said. "Dan. Put down the photo and look at me. Peter. What were the charges?"
"Receiving stolen property and conspiracy to commit grand larceny."
Muffley turned to Grossinger.
"You think you can work up an article by tomorrow morning? I can help you with the details."
"I certainly will not," Grossinger said. "This whole thing is your fault."
"Guilty as charged," Muffley said. "I fucked up."
"Calm down Dan," Catalinelli said. "Go talk to her mother."
"Fuck you," Grossinger said. "You filthy rotten liberal son of a bitch."
Catalinelli started laughing.
"OK Dan, well played. You had me going there for a few seconds."
"Do you think I'm joking?"
"I hope you're joking. Come on Dan. You're smarter than those dumb rednecks out there."
Grossinger got up, went over to the wall, and took down the photo of Catalinelli with Bill and Hillary Clinton.
"You cold manipulative, cynical, son of a bitch," he said, addressing the photo of the young Michael Catalinelli. "You know what? That murdering, serial killing punk was right. I did sell my soul to the devil, to you sir, to you."
"Calm down son," Devanny said to Grossinger. "We're all upset here."
"No I will not," Grossinger said, coming back to the table with the framed photo. "I will not. I will not let you mount a campaign to slander that innocent girl."
"Innocent my ass," Muffley said. "You never even met the drunken little slut."
"Fuck you," Grossinger said to Muffley. "And fuck you too," he added to Catalinelli.
Grossinger slammed the old photo of Catalinelli and the two Clintons down on the table, shattering the glass in the frame, then stormed out of the room. Devanny looked down at the table. Catalinelli smiled. A few seconds later, Grossinger came back in, took the photo of the 11 year old Cathy Chegoffgan, put it under his arm, gave Catalinelli the middle finger, gave Muffley the middle finger, and then stormed back out of the room. By then, Catalinelli was laughing so hard he could barely control himself. Even Muffley had momentarily dropped his supercilious expression.
"This whole town is going crazy," Devanny said.
"He'll calm down," Catalinelli said. "He always does."
"I'm worried about him. He's really upset."
"Just you worry about that amnesty. Think you can handle that?"
“I can handle it."
"I want Avellanos protected. Do you understand that? I know he killed a cop and I know there's always the temptation to leave a door unlocked or march him down the wrong hallway during a shift change. Get over it."
"We've got him in protective custody."
"That's not good enough," Catalinelli said. "I'm taking him out of your hands and giving the lead detective, Peter here, complete authority over the case."
"I can move him up to one of the holding cells in back of the archives," Muffley said.
"That's not a bad idea," Catalinelli said. "Even I forget that cell block is there sometimes."
"It's the most secure place in all of City Hall," Muffley said.
"Back of the archives it is," Catalinelli said. "And you," he said to Devanny. "Get started on thinning out that crowd, now. Break it down. Thin it out."
Devanny stood up.
"I'll start working on it as soon as I leave this room."
Devanny turned around and walked out of the room.
"I just don't know," Catalinelli said to Muffley after Devanny had closed the door. "He didn't seem like a triple murderer to me."
"Quadruple murderer if you count the homeless guy," Muffley said. "But serial killers never come across like serial killers. They're psychopaths. They're good at hiding it. I studied psychology in college."
"Maybe I'm in denial. But the last thing I want is that girl's corpse turning up where nobody expected it, or, even worse, walking in off the street one day. Yeah. I think Avellanos may have killed his cousin for his papers or his ID, but Steve, or that girl? I don't get it. Something's wrong."
"I'll be interrogating Avellanos over the course of the next few days," Muffley said. "I've invited psychological experts from all over the state to advise me. By this time next week, I should know everything that goes on inside of his brain. So we'll figure it out."
"OK," Catalinelli said. "Are there any cameras in the old holding cells?"
"I think that place was shut down before they invented the daguerreotype."
"Good. Torture him if you have to. But if anything about this story changes over the next few days, if he retracts his confession, if MS-13 is involved, if he was part of any kind of organization he's taking the fall for, I need to be the first to know. I don't want any surprises, do you understand that? I don't want any surprises."
"I'm going down to The Dungeon right now," Muffley said, standing up. "Everything is under control."
Chapter 48 - The Pledge
On the steps of City Hall, a burly man in a black motorcycle jacket stood next to a tall, red headed woman wrapped in an American flag. There was no stage, but their entourage, at least 100 big, intimidating men in black motorcycle jackets, so thoroughly dominated the area that the step
s became their own stage. In front of them, in a semicircle, were dozens of newspaper reporters, three TV crews, and a crowd of at least 1500 people. The woman, who appeared to be in her late 40s, bunched up the flag into a handkerchief and wiped one of her eyes. She was wearing a T-shirt with the image of the 11-year-old Cathy Chegoffgan. "Angel" is said, the "Killer" photoshopped out of the original magazine cover. The burly man in the black leather jacket picked up a bullhorn. He looked at the red headed woman's T-shirt. The way the 11-year-old Cathy Chegoffgan held the gun over her chest almost looked as if she were getting ready to recite "The Pledge." He put his hand over his heart.
"I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America. And to the Republic for which it stands, one nation, under God," he said, shouting out the word God to make sure everybody knew he meant it, "with liberty and justice for all Americans."
He waited for the cheers to subside.
"You all know me. So I won't waste time introducing myself. A few days ago, you had probably never heard the name Mary Chegoffgan, but here she is, only two days after her daughter was taken, ready to bear witness to her murder just as we are ready to call for justice for her daughter's killer."
Near the bottom of the stairs, a man in his early 30s with an archaic looking fedora was taking notes, Grossinger in his public persona. Next to him were two more men in black leather jackets, a skinny teenage boy waving an American flag and a young woman dressed up as nun. She appeared to be no older than her early or mid-20s, perhaps late 20s at a stretch, but her garb marked her off, to people in the know, as a nun who had taken her final vows, not a novitiate. She had two newspapers, and a copy of the DSM-IV manual under her arm. She was a little above medium height, and had brown hair, dull, watery blue eyes. She had pale, almost colorless skin. If you looked closely enough, she bore an odd resemblance to the redheaded woman on stage but, of course, nobody looked that closely. When the applause died down, she pulled on the sleeve of the man in the fedora.
"I'm sorry," she said, "but I'm new to this town. I don't know the man in the leather jacket."
NOT AN AMERICAN Page 37
