Avellanos opened up the wallet and looked at the ID.
"I look nothing like him."
She tossed him Muffley's badge.
"You look exactly like him."
"I look nothing like that asshole."
"They won't ask to see it anyway. They'll defer to your authority."
She tossed him Muffley's handcuffs.
"You'll have to lock me up. I gave you a nasty bruise on the side of your head."
"And after that?"
"We go to San Francisco."
'And after that?"
"Your guess is as good as mine. In fact it's better. You know more about traveling than I do. But we have to hurry. Muffley could get out of that cell at any minute."
They continued to walk towards Scahentoarrhonon Station, circling around and entering through the Greyhound Terminal, avoiding the crowds near the main entrance on Reagan Plaza East. They walked through the main concourse. A brief look of worry came over their faces as they hurried past the line of newsstands. She ducked into the bathroom while Avellanos bought two tickets in Muffley's name in cash. They waited a little under 20 minutes. Then Avellanos stealthily handcuffed her hands behind her back, and they walked out onto the platform for track number four.
Avellanos took out Muffley's badge.
"Detective Lieutenant Peter Muffley from the Northwest Mid-Atlantic Fusion Center," he said, handing the conductor the two tickets. "I'm transporting this prisoner to Chicago."
"You look a little young to be a detective," the conductor said, taking the two tickets.
"That's what they tell me. But tell it to my wife. She thinks I'm losing my hair."
"I hear that. What's the prisoner in for?"
"Usual thing," Avellanos said, "drugs."
"You shouldn't sell drugs young lady," the conductor said to Cathy Chegoffgan, who continued to look at the ground, "not a nice looking young woman like you."
"Personally I think they should legalize them," Avellanos said, "but until they do, it's my job to enforce the law."
"I think your prisoner needs to learn to smile," the conductor said, punching both tickets. "You're a nice looking young woman," he said. "Smile."
"She hasn't slept in a while," Avellanos said, "so she's a little cranky."
“She can get some sleep on the way to Chicago. We may be delayed for 20-30 minutes.”
"No problem," Avellanos said, pushing her onto the train and stepping in after her. "I'm getting paid and she's not going anywhere."
"I hear that," the conductor said, laughing. "Have a good trip detective," he said. "And young lady," he called out, "you should let your hair grow out. You're a pretty girl. Don't ruin your chances at getting a man."
"She's not going to be seeing any men where she's going," Avellanos said, as they both stepped into the Amtrak coach.
Avellanos walked behind his "prisoner" as they made their way into the front most passenger car, finding a seat on the left side of the aisle. Her pushed her into the window seat, and took the aisle seat for himself. He took off his sport jacket and threw it over her cuffed hands as she rested her head on his shoulder. He put his hand on hers.
"We made it," he whispered into her ear.
“Fuck that guy," she said, taking her head off his shoulder and looking out the window. "Fuck that guy."
"Fuck Muffley," Avellanos said.
"No that guy," she said, banging her head up against the window to indicate the conductor who had taken their tickets. "Fuck that guy."
Avellanos looked out the window.
"He let us on the train."
"Nobody ever sexually harassed me when I was Sister Mary Elizabeth," she said, threading her fingers through his." I liked having my ass kissed."
Chapter 56 - Very Bad Things Happen
George Kozlowski had completely surrendered to his anger. The more he ranted against Cathy Chegoffgan, the more her mother denied even knowing him. That, in turn, made him angrier still, bringing up out of his subconscious resentment against Cathy Chegoffgan, Mary Chegoffgan, and even his old best friend Robert Chegoffgan he never quite knew he had. Dan Grossinger, meanwhile, while playing the part of "unbiased moderator," was doing a skillful job of focusing the anger of the crowd, which was growing ever more violent, on the confrontation at the fountain. Finally, Kozlowski jumped up on the cement wall around the fountain.
"You're all being played for dupes," he yelled. "That stupid little bitch is playing you all for fools."
"Liar," Mary Chegoffgan shouted. "You obviously don't know my daughter."
"Fuck off," Kozlowski said. "People. Believe me. I've been this woman's neighbor for 25 years. I've known her daughter for all her life. Look at me," he shouted at Mary Chegoffgan, who had dramatically turned her back to his. "Look at me you bitch"
Kozlowski threw the bullhorn to the ground in disgust.
"But she doesn't want to look at you," Grossinger said, picking it up. "Now everybody. Why don't we stop wasting time with the provocateur?"
Grossinger gave the bullhorn back to Mary Chegoffgan. Kozlowski cupped his hands around his mouth.
"You fraud," he shouted at Grossinger. "You fraud."
Mary Chegoffgan continued to stand with her back to Kozlowski, the bullhorn hanging dramatically at her side, her head bowed.
"Look at me you cunt. Look at me. Oh I always knew your little bitch of a daughter would make it into the news. I never knew she'd fake her own death."
An outraged hiss wafted through the crowd.
"Now sir you are just being cruel," Grossinger shouted. "You should not taunt this woman with the promise that her daughter is still alive."
"I'm telling the truth," Kozlowski yelled. "I'm telling the truth. Cathy Chegoffgan isn't dead. She and her boyfriend faked her death."
"Now why sir would she do that?" Grossinger yelled back.
"Because she killed a cop. He's covering up for her."
The anger simmering under the surface was palpable.
"Not only are you cruel sir," Grossinger shouted. "You are deluded."
Mary Chegoffgan continued to stand in place like a pale, grieving statue.
"No I'm not," Kozlowski shouted. "Ask her. Ask her. Her daughter robbed me of everything I owned to escape with her boyfriend."
"Oh why don't you shut up," a voice in the crowd yelled. "Just shut the fuck up."
"No I will not," Kozlowski shouted. "That girl," he added, pointing to one of the posters, "is not an innocent little angel. She's a liar and a thief."
"I would suggest that you be silent," Grossinger shouted. "Be silent sir as you slink off into the crowd in shame."
"Fuck you," Kozlowski shouted. "I will stand here and shout it all day long. Cathy Chegoffgan is a promiscuous little slut," he yelled, pointing at the photo of the 11-year-old Cathy Chegoffgan. "She's a fraud. She's a liar. She's a thief, and you know what this is?" he yelled even louder, his volume coming from the realization. "This is a lynch mob. This is a lynch mob. This is a lynch mob."
"This is not a lynch mob sir," Grossinger shouted. "This is a memorial to honor an innocent young girl."
"Fuck you," Kozlowski yelled. "I don't want to speak to you," he said. "Mary," he shouted to the tall pale woman. "You know me. Tell them. Tell them you know me. Tell them Goddammit. Tell them."
Mary Chegoffgan raised the bullhorn. A gasp went up from the crowd as she turned, slowly, like a tall pale, marble statue encased for decades in stone, struggling to come to life. She threw her shoulders back. She brushed back her red hair. She began to speak.
"Yes I do know you. I do know you. You're the man who molested my daughter for ten years."
She looked back over at Grossinger for the adoring and approving stare he had been giving her for the past 10 minutes, but it was not to be found. Dan Grossinger noticing that most of the newspaper and TV reporters had already left, suddenly had an uncontrollable impulse to get out of the crowd as fast as possible. He had, seconds before, looked up to see the
faces of the spectators, and, with his keen sense for crowds and for highly pitched emotions, his expression must have been similar to that of someone walking along a seemingly calm beach in the aftermath of a far off earthquake to see an approaching Tsunami. At that moment he wanted nothing more than to fade into the crowd and take Mary Chegoffgan with him. He tugged repeatedly on her arm, but she was having none of it.
"I couldn't admit it before. This man," she said, pointing back at Kozlowski, "this man molested my daughter after my husband died teaching her how to defend herself. He molested her from the day she was deprived of the protection of her father until the day she moved out of the house. Now he's trying to smear her to cover up his tracks. That's what they do. That's what molesters do. Thank God my poor innocent daughter is beyond the reach of both of these monsters, of John Avellanos and his good friend George Kozlowski," she added. "Thank God she's now under the protection of a fiery host of angels."
"Oh bullshit," Kozlowski said, not noticing that Grossinger had slipped back into the crowd and not bothering to see the Tsunami cresting over his head. "Bullshit. I never touched your daughter. I've always found her gross, as a matter of fact, a foul-mouthed, thieving, lying little cunt that deserved to spend all the time in jail she did. Molest that little beast? I'd as soon molest a skunk. I thought I was doing her a favor fixing her up with my friend John Avellanos. Yes. He is my friend. And he's an innocent if foolish young man. She tricked him into taking the fall for her. That murdering lying little bitch tricked that poor young fool. Well fuck that little bitch. Fuck her. That cunt stole my gold but that's, the least of her problems. She's going to spend a long time locked up, 20 years, 20 years. Fuck that little cunt."
“He even admits it," Mary Chegoffgan said, no more noticing Grossinger's disappearance than Kozlowski did. "He even admits it. He was the one. He was the one who threw my baby to the monster. Evil," she said, pointing at him, "molester, pimp, murderer."
"Yeah fuck you," Kozlowski said, raising his middle finger.
George Kozlowski was going to continue haranguing Mary Chegoffgan, but he got no further. A young boy, maybe 13 or 14, had climbed up on the fountain and hit him from behind with an empty beer bottle. He staggered off the cement wall, tripped and fell. Mary Chegoffgan moved forward and kicked him in the head. A man repeated what she had done, then another, then another. Kozlowski, at that point, may have known he was caught in the Tsunami, but could do little but flounder in the surging waters, screaming out "someone help me," disappearing, raising his head, then disappearing. Finally, someone, nobody ever found out who it was, but someone produced a rope, which was then strung around Kozlowski's neck.
"Help me," Kozlowski screamed, "help me."
Nobody did.
Instead, the crowd pushed him around the fountain, then again, and again. People took out smart phones and video cameras. A photographer with a professional looking digital SLR and a press pass was the only person who did anything to slow down the deadly procession, repeatedly getting caught underneath Kozlowski's legs as he tried to frame a wide angle shot from below. Finally, they dragged him into the fountain and threw the rope over the waterspout. The noose was tightened around Kozlowski's neck and he was hoisted into the air, a sickening gurgling sound coming from his throat, his legs dangling, his arms desperately trying to take the rope off his neck. But it was useless. Soon his arms fell limp at his side and the flailing legs went still. His feet twitched as people gathered around to take photos and video.
"Finish him," someone in the crowd yelled. "Finish him."
Another man emerged from the crowd with a 9mm pistol. He aimed it into the air and fired three shots into Kozlowski's body. His feet stopped twitching as the man holstered the pistol and stood in front of the dangling man to allow himself to be photographed, proudly raising his hands in the air and smiling.
"OK," he yelled. "We've finished the old pervert. Let's go get that fucking murdering illegal."
He held up a copy of the Winterborn Daily Post, branding the photo of Michael Catalinelli holding up the photo of himself, Bill and Hillary Clinton.
"And let's get that liberal scumbag protecting him too," he shouted. "Impeach Michael Catalinelli. Impeach Michael Catalinelli."
He pointed the gun straight up into the air and fired off the rest of the clip.
"USA! USA! USA!" the crowd roared. "USA! USA! USA!"
Chapter 57 - Sacked
There was no need for anyone to beckon the mob to attack City Hall. The attack was already underway. The great mob, now well over 100,000 people had converged on The Reagan Center from all sides, overpowering the police on the front steps, surging into the paths leading up to all the entrances, breaking windows, throwing rocks, climbing up on any ledge they could find, forcing their way inside.
Michael Catalinelli, who was looking down on Reagan Plaza West from the executive office suite and at the entire mass of people flowing around the grand old building resembled, at that moment, someone standing on balcony of a hotel in Indonesia during the Tsunami in 2004, watching the sea lapping up against the only thing that kept him above the flood. He picked up the phone and dialed, first Muffley, then Devanny, then every senior officer of the Poison Springs Metro Police he could think of, but with no result. He repeated the process with his cell phone, but with no more success. Finally, he went out into the hallway and started yelling at the receptionist.
"Where is everybody?" he screamed. "Where is everybody? Where's Devanny? Where's Muffley?"
"I don't know sir," the receptionist said, a tremor in her voice. "They're probably dead."
"I should be so lucky," Catalinelli yelled, marching off towards the elevators. "Hold my calls."
"Come back," she yelled. "Come back."
Halfway to the elevators, he met Devanny. The old man had a panicked look on his face, his pale skin having turned paler. Sweat was pouring from all his pours down onto his uniform. Catalinelli grabbed both his shoulders.
"Where the hell is Muffley?" he said.
"He's with the prisoner," Devanny said. "But I can't make it to that part of the building."
"Why aren't you answering your phone?"
"Cell towers must be overwhelmed."
"Why aren't you picking up your land line?"
"My office, Poison Springs Metro Police Headquarters, is no longer under our control."
"Well who's down there?"
"America's Guard has taken over police headquarters. Randy Sullivan says they won't leave until they can confirm that the prisoner hasn't been transferred to federal custody."
"There will be no lynching under my administration," Catalinelli said marching down the hall, shouting at the security cameras. "This administration stands for law and order."
But it would be almost an hour before Catalinelli could even get to Poison Springs Metro Police Headquarters, for the mob had surged into the building, flooding into the narrow winding old corridors now dangerously packed with a seething human mass, like water through the ruptured bulkhead of a warship. He continually had to double back to grab Devanny, who kept getting lost in the mass of people, every one of whom seemed to be determined to find Avellanos hidden in a closet, a stray office, a restroom, and pull him along. Eventually Catalinelli and Devanny reached a little used service elevator that they managed to take downstairs, cross through another, little used hallway, and make their way to Poison Springs Metro Police Headquarters. Randy Sullivan was leaning over against Anthony Villani's desk when he arrived.
"Randy," he screamed. "Clear this building now."
"I couldn't if I wanted to," Sullivan said, crossing his arms over his bulging stomach. "These people are filled with moral outrage."
"They're filled with stupidity. That's what they're filled with."
"If wanting to prevent a subhuman animal, no, correct that," he said. "It's an insult to animals. If wanting to prevent a monster from being spirited out of the country by the federal government and getting away with murder mean
s they're filled with stupidity, then I guess I am too."
"He's in custody. He isn't going anywhere."
“Bullshit," Sullivan said, coming up to Catalinelli and bumping his chest with his own, "bullshit."
"He's in custody you jackass," Catalinelli yelled back, returning the chest bump.
"Bullshit," Sullivan yelled, giving Catalinelli another hard chest bump, and, this time, adding his shoulder. "Bullshit. We searched through the dungeon. He's not there."
"Well I'm glad you admit to breaking into the county jail," Catalinelli screamed, adding yet another chest bump to the series of chest bumps that had already taken place. "He's in protective custody. Look at this mess. Look at what you've done you fucking animal. You know how much money you cost the taxpayers? You know how long it's going to take to clean this mess up?"
"It's only the beginning of the mess if that murderer is gone," Sullivan yelled, but apparently deciding that he had had enough of chest bumps. "The silent majority is silent no more."
Catalinelli at first looked as if he were going to chest bump Sullivan yet again, but then the expression on his face changed, and he held up his hand.
"Let's make a deal."
"I'm sick of deals with politicians," Sullivan yelled. "None of you is any good."
"I will take you personally to see him, but only you. After that, I will allow you or a designated lieutenant to confirm that he's still in custody. In return you will call this mob off before they destroy City Hall. Do you want to go down as the man who destroyed the most historic building in the county? I'll sweeten the deal. Help me calm this mob down and I'll see to it that you avoid prosecution."
Sullivan seemed to hesitate.
"Do you have the authority to do that?" he said.
"I guess you don't know me very well."
"Oh I know you very well," Sullivan said. "And now I know you better you, you progressive. You liberal. You socialist."
"The fact that I had a photo taken with Bill and Hillary Clinton 22 years ago does nothing to diminish my power in this city," Catalinelli said. "And you know me well enough to know that."
NOT AN AMERICAN Page 43
