"That's Randy Sullivan," the man in the fedora said, "President of United America's Guard United. They haven't had a rally of this size in 4 years. I'm Dan Grossinger. Pleased to meet you sister."
The young nun reached out and shook his hand.
"Sister Mary Elizabeth McCarthy."
"That woman holding the American flag is the poor girl's mother. If it were me, I'd want to murder somebody, anybody."
The young woman crossed herself.
"I'm sorry sister, but enough is enough. Randy's been warning us for the past 10 years something like this was going to happen. Now everybody knows he was right."
She looked up at Mary Chegoffgan, grimacing when she noticed Randy Sullivan hand the red-headed woman the bull horn.
"I give you Mary Chegoffgan," he said.
Mary Chegoffgan took the bullhorn.
"Let me tell you about my daughter," she said. "Let me tell you about my daughter. As young as she was, she was more like a mother to me than I was like a mother to her."
A hiss went up from the crowd. She pressed her hand to her cheek.
"Until a few days ago, I was in pain. I had lived, for weeks, months with an abscessed tooth. Then my daughter finally said mommy, she said. Mommy. You can't live in pain for the rest of your life. You need to go to the dentist."
A vengeful sigh wafted through the crowd.
"I had forgotten her birthday, and do you know what she said?" Don't worry about it mommy. The best birthday present you can give me is for you not to be in pain."
"Kill the son of a bitch," a man shouted from the back of the crowd. "Hang the stupid animal."
“That was the last conversation I ever had with my daughter, the very last I'll ever have."
The young nun looked over at Dan Grossinger. He had put his hands up to his face to conceal the fact that tears had formed in the corners of both his eyes. Another hiss went up from the crowd. Grossinger finished wiping his eyes then turned to the young woman.
"Oh God sister I'm sorry. I work in a profession that values cynicism, but I can't separate myself from this emotionally. If I were her I'd want to fucking execute that little scumbag who did it."
"Cynicism is sometimes just the devil telling us not to care," the young woman said." Anger is a higher emotion than apathy. Unfortunately it often leads to the same place, the fiery pit of hell."
Mary Chegoffgan continued to speak, looking in Grossinger's direction.
"At times I can still see my daughter sometimes, like she never even left us."
"I've been promised an interview with the mother," Grossinger said, looking over in the young woman's direction. "You're welcome to stay if you like."
But she had already disappeared into the crowd, having circled around, and re-emerged closer to the front of the stage, tripping over one big poster of Cathy Chegoffgan, and ending up with her face pressed into another by the crush of people. She looked up to see that Randy Sullivan had taken back the bullhorn. He turned on the feedback to get the crowd's attention, then waited until the cheers subsided.
"Before I continue," he said. “Let me just say that we are not here to break the law. We are here to help enforce the law. Mayor Catalinelli is a friend of mine, a very good, close personal friend, and he's a good man, but he's surrounded by people who might not have his best interests in mind."
He waited for the boos to subside.
"Let me read you a figure," he said, "68,878 dollars. Do you know what that figure is? That's the amount of money Oscar Avellanos donated to the Worthington Syms School in Burlington Vermont. Now what did young Mr. Avellanos do while he was in Vermont? Nobody knows. The record's been scrubbed. But we do know what young Mr. Avellanos did in his fancy college up there in Boston. He wrote for a communist newspaper and we do know what he did when he was supposedly on assignment in Mexico. He trafficked drugs. Above all, we know what he did here. He murdered two veterans, a police detective, and a little girl."
He stopped to let a powerful surge of boos die down.
"Why are we here?" he continued. "We know that the socialists in Washington care more about the opinions of the international elites than they care about Americans, even innocent little girls like Cathy Chegoffgan. We know of course about the open Senate seat in this state. True, the governor is a Democrat, as is the president, but since when did that ever stop dirty politicians from cutting deals? We also know that while he's a good man, Mayor Catalinelli is an ambitious man, a naively ambitious man, who might just be tempted to turn this monster over to his friends in the federal government. We are here to make sure that doesn't happen. We are here to make sure my good friend Michael Patrick Catalinelli doesn't fall prey to the temptation of his ambition. Lead us not into temptation," he roared, "but deliver us from evil. We are here to deliver Poison Springs from evil, and from the temptation to appease evil."
There was a chorus of boos, then cheers, then cheers, then boos.
"As of this moment," he shouted above the boos. "America's Guard United has The Reagan Center completely surrounded. No vehicle gets in or out of the building without my permission."
"USA! USA! USA!" the crowd chanted. "USA! USA! USA!"
Randy Sullivan raised his arms. One of the TV reporters held up her microphone. A half dozen photographers crouched below him trying to get the right angle. The anger was palpable. Even with her nun's habit, the young woman found it difficult to move. People threw elbows, refused to let her pass by, and intentionally stepped on her feet, even after it was noticed she was wearing a nun's habit.
"Watch where you're going sister," a man snarled. "This isn't your fucking Vatican."
As the young woman pushed her way to the back, the level of frustration in the crowd got more intense. She felt herself getting angry herself, almost throwing a punch at a man who blocked her way and wouldn't move. A big, middle-aged woman with dyed blond hair pinned an American flag pin on her when she finally emerged from the crowd.
"USA! USA! USA!" the chant went up. "USA! USA! USA!"
"Make sure you wear that sister," she said. "We're all in this together."
"We're all in what together?"
The woman pointed up at City Hall.
"You see that? That animal is up there. I knew that girl he killed."
The young woman looked up at city hall, but two big men in jeans New York Jets hoodies, one bald, one with a blond buzz cut, were blocking her view.
"You knew Cathy Chegoffgan?" she said. "What was she like?"
"She was the most beautiful little girl I've ever seen," the bleached blond said, "long, golden hair, big beautiful blue eyes, just the gentlest little angel you could possibly meet, a real good Catholic too, devoted to her mother. They went to church together every day, right up until the day she died."
"I heard she and her mother didn't get along. I suppose rumors spread."
The two men in the New York Jets hoodies craned their necks to listen in.
"That's no rumor," the big blond woman said, pointing through the gap in between both men at City Hall. "That's our crooked liberal mayor up there spreading propaganda so he can give that animal, that beast, that subhuman piece of vermin to the feds and they can give him back to his rich daddy in Mexico."
"I'm new in town," the young nun said, "and I'm sorry, but I thought Michael Catalinelli was a famous conservative."
"That's what we all thought, but we were duped."
"Why would a liberal want to hand John Avellanos over to the federal government? Won't they just send him to Guantanamo Bay and have him tortured?"
"I personally think Cataliguido's more of a crook than anything else," the woman said. "That animal's father probably offered him a bribe. But we don't need Guantanamo Bay. We're going to do it ourselves. We're going to find him, and we're going make sure justice is carried out, justice of the people, by the people, for the people."
"How will you find him?" the young nun said, pointing up at City Hall. "That place is huge."
"O
h don't you worry about that," the woman said. "I used to work as a janitor in that building. I know my way around. I've cleaned every cell in The Dungeon. I've even been inside the archives and the old courthouse."
"The archives? Is that a nickname for a jail?"
"Oh no. But there are old holding cells in that part of the building."
She pointed to the left, to the south wing.
"The archives are on that side."
She pointed to the north wing on the right.
"And The Dungeon is over there. We're going to find that subhuman thing, that animal, that cockroach in The Dungeon, and maybe we'll take him to one of those holding cells in the old archives and beat him to death with a fire extinguisher, or we'll cut his throat, or I'll just strangle him with my own hands. But we're going to get him. Don't you worry."
The big blond woman had worked herself up into such an emotional frenzy that she had forgotten she was talking to a young woman dressed as a nun, but she was unable to continue. Before she realized what was happening, the two big men in New York Jets hoodies jumped her, the one with the blond buzz cut putting her arms behind her back and locking them in handcuffs and the one with the shaved head stuffing a rag in her mouth so she couldn't scream.
"Breath through your nose hothead," the man with the shaved head said as his companion hustled her through the crowd. "Breath through your nose."
The young nun seemed startled but made no move to alert the rest of the crowd.
"Poison Springs Metro Police," the bald man said, taking out his badge and showing it to the youthful nun. "Don't worry. She's just under arrest."
"What's she being charged with?"
"She's not going to get charged with anything. It's catch and release. She'll be out in a few days. Personally, if you asked me I'm with her. I'd throw that animal to the mob. But I'm just doing my job."
He turned around and faded back to the crowd. The young woman looked back up at City Hall. She took a set of three keys out of her pocket and clicked them together.
"The archives," she said to herself, looking at the left, then the right wing of City Hall, then up at the clock tower, "the archives."
Chapter 49 - The Monster’s Cage
Peter Muffley had come down to The Dungeon to transfer John Avellanos to the old holding cells in the south wing of the Reagan Center. Even though they lacked security cameras or biometric scanners, they had one big advantage. Ever since the city of Poison Springs had converted their public records to digital form, and the archives and the south wing of the Reagan Center had fallen into disuse, few city employees knew how to find them, and Michael Catalinelli, who still felt anxious over Dan Sedgwick's murder, and who actually did have his eye on the vacant Senate seat, was determined to protect John Avellanos until he could be safely transferred to a more secure facility. Muffley showed his badge to the guard at main entrance. He looked up at the neon Entrance and Exit sign as he swiped his hand across the fingerprint reader, and walked down the stairs to the second level, where he showed his badge a second time, and was allowed to proceed after a retinal scan. He walked down one final flight of stairs to the third sub-basement.
"Detective Lieutenant Peter Muffley," he said, taking out a written order from Michael Catalinelli and showing it to the desk sergeant. "I'm the lead detective on the Avellanos case."
The desk sergeant looked at the order.
"I'm here to transfer the prisoner."
"You're kidding."
"The mayor wants Avellanos taken out of The Dungeon and kept in a holding cell elsewhere in the building under my own personal supervision."
"We buy all this fancy security, and when we finally get a high profile prisoner we don't use it."
"Ever read the story about how they transferred the Hope Diamond?"
"No detective, I haven't," the sergeant said, "but I bet you're going to tell me about."
"Just to tell you to Google it when you get back home."
"Go ahead detective. It still seems like a waste of good security."
"Devanny's going to be down here after I transfer Avellanos," Muffley said. "There's going to be an amnesty for non-violent offenders. They're going to start warehousing some of the more troublesome rednecks down here sometime today."
"When it rains it pours," the sergeant said, turning his key and opening the door. "You want a uniform in there with the prisoner? He is a cop killer, after all."
"I'm going to talk to him in private, but I'll obviously need two uniforms out here when I take him upstairs."
"I'll leave you Korzeniowski and Babbitt."
"No," Muffley said," handing the sergeant a piece of paper with two names. "I'm using my own people. I've written the names down on the roster. They should be here shortly."
"I'll send them down. Oh, one more thing. The cameras in that cell are broken, just in case you want to administer a little enhanced interrogation, if you know what I mean. Absolutely nothing you do down there will make it to the public record."
"Thank you. I'll keep that in mind."
Peter Muffley walked down the long hall past cell block after cell block, until he finally came to the holding cell. He drew stares along the way. His clothes fit him a bit too well to be an undercover cop, and a few of the detainees mistook him for their lawyer. Avellanos did not. He was sitting up on his bunk, dressed in an orange jump suit, staring straight ahead. There was a stitched up gash in the back of his head. When he saw Muffley he snapped to attention. It was easy to see that he recognized the dapper looking young detective he had met a few days before in Cathy Chegoffgan's apartment. Muffley smiled.
"Wake up you maniac," he said, rapping on the bars.
He opened the door and stepped inside.
"You?" Avellanos said, suddenly looking up. "We've met."
"Yes we have," Muffley said. "Detective Lieutenant Peter Muffley at your service," he added extending his hand.
Avellanos continued to stare at Muffley.
"Too bad you acted like a coward and ran away from me," Avellanos said, straining against the handcuffs that locked his arms uncomfortably behind his back. "Steven Quinn would still be alive, so would Cathy Chegoffgan. They told me the cameras are broken in this cell. Do you have the guts to finish the job?"
"I'm not here to be your executioner," Muffley said.
He took out his keys.
"How long have they had you had you handcuffed?" he said. "It was rude of me not to notice. Here, let me get your arms free for a few minutes."
Muffley reached back, and unlocked Avellanos's arms. He bent over, took the shackles from around his ankles, and tossed them on the cot. Avellanos shook out his hands, both of which had fallen asleep, and started rubbing his legs in order to work out the cramps.
"Stand up," Muffley said. "We're going for a walk."
Avellanos stood up, and Muffley smiled when he did not make any aggressive move in his direction.
"Where are we going?"
"I'm not here to be your tour guide either," Muffley said. "Hold out your hands. I'm sorry about this, but I've got to put the cuffs back on. It's regulation, nothing personal."
Avellanos held out his hands and Muffley cuffed them in front of his body.
"Just take me outside if you're too much of a coward to put a bullet through my head. I heard there were 10,000 people waiting upstairs to kill me."
"More like 100,000, but they're angrier about your girlfriend than my old friend Steve Quinn. People just love dead blonds, don't they?"
"That whore wasn't my girlfriend. She was your fucking paid spy."
"I wasn't paying her very much."
"Then the more of a whore she was. Why not throw me to the mob? I deserve it, don't you agree?"
“You do," Muffley said, "but it's not my job to give you what you deserve. It's my job to make sure you get what you don't deserve, a nice, fair trial followed by a very long and very miserable life in an isolation cell of one of our finer Supermax prisons."
&nbs
p; Avellanos put his face up close to Muffley's.
"I guess they put you in charge because you're a bloodless, gutless little fop who doesn't care if I killed your partner. You know Quinn squealed like a pig when he died, don't you, a big, fat redheaded Irish pig."
Muffley stepped back and waived his hand in front of his face.
"We're also going to have to get you a toothbrush," he said, fanning the air. "Your breath is pretty bad."
"Do you have ice water in your veins?" Avellanos said, but making no further aggressive moves, "or are you just a coward? I burned her alive. Doesn't that make you want to kill me? Doesn't that get your blood up? Oh wait. You have no blood."
Muffley opened the door.
"You're an educated man. You know as well as I do that your emotions aren't located in your blood."
He pushed Avellanos outside, where two uniformed officers were waiting, and locked the door behind him.
“John Avellanos. This is Officer Mitty and this is Officer Reynolds."
Mitty and Reynolds, both clean cut men in their late 20s, nodded.
"Mr. Avellanos is trying to provoke me into doing him harm. I'm sure he'll also try to provoke both of you, but that would be difficult since these men are both highly trained professionals attached to the Northwest Mid-Atlantic Fusion Center who have both done six-month courses at Quantico."
"I have no intention of letting him provoke me," Mitty said.
"Nor do I," Reynolds said. "It's my job to see that this young monster spends 75 years in a windowless cell eating whatever they push through a little slot in the door."
"Now pay Attention maniac," Muffley said, slapping Avellanos across the head and pushing him down the corridor. "You do know what a Supermax is, don't you? You're only 23. Think about what that means. You might even see the next century without ever seeing the sun again."
"Don't quit your day job and go into poetry," Avellanos said laughing bitterly as he walked along with the three men, "because you suck at it."
Muffley smacked him upside the head.
"Roses are red, violets are blue, you've got stitches in your head, and he just smacked you," Mitty said.
NOT AN AMERICAN Page 38
