by Henry Hack
But now it was time for a little rest and relaxation and for another visit to his new found family. And during that visit he would have to tell them why they couldn’t accept his previous invitation to visit him in the “God’s Country” of Colorado. He would tell them why, that is, as soon as he could fabricate the necessary lie. He dialed his brother Joe and said, “I’ve got some free time coming up. How about me coming out for the Memorial Day weekend?”
“That would be great,” Joe said.
“I wouldn’t be spoiling any plans, would I?”
“Of course not. Whatever plans we have, we would be thrilled to include you.”
“Thanks, bro, it’s good to have a family. I’ll try to get in on Friday night.”
“Let me know your flight time and I’ll pick you up.”
After Ted hung up he re-read the message he was planning to send to the media the next day. He had edited it several times and was now pleased with the final version. It read:
To the American people,
Thank you for helping us curb the misery and death caused by the tobacco industry. We will continue to target the sellers and smokers of these deadly products. And, as you have recently seen, we have not forgotten the operators of those huge gas-wasting SUV’s. Our third campaign will begin soon, and I promise once again we will give sufficient warning to those who are violating Mother Earth. But it is sad, despite our first two campaigns and our warnings, there still remain those who would poison our air and bodies with tobacco smoke and gasoline fumes. We say to them, we have not forgotten you – Beware the Romens.
The Savior and his Apostles
The Savior’s message had two immediate consequences. Since the media chose to release it un-edited, previously hesitant copycats took up arms against the tobacco industry. Much to the delight of the Romens – and the dismay of law enforcement agencies – smokers in public places were being randomly shot, or beaten, and several dozen small retailers that sold cigarettes were shot, beaten or fire-bombed.
As the Romens watched the news with glee and smug satisfaction, the police and FBI were harassed by their mayors and congressmen to “get off their asses and do something.” Harry and Dan Snyder had just gotten a blast from Mayor McDonald who, though a decent man, was concerned about his political future. “Harry,” he said, “if we don’t catch these guys soon I’ll be out of a job, and you will be out of a job.”
“I understand,” Harry said. “I’ll check with the Task Force and see what they’re doing.”
“Get back to me soon. For Christ’s sake, these Romens killed one of our cops.”
“I’m well aware of that, Mr. Mayor. Believe me, every cop and agent in the country wants to take these guys down.”
“Wishing and doing are two different things. Just fucking do it!”
Harry and Dan called Chief O’Halloran and Harry said, “John, have you spoken to Carl Petersen lately? Does he have any good news?”
“Nothing new,” he said. “Pop’s in, but has not relayed any new information.”
“What exactly do we know?”
“The Apostle Mark is the leader of Pop’s group. We know his real name and where he lives. We also know the names and whereabouts of two of his disciples. With continued careful surveillance we will eventually discover the identities of the rest of them. But they have not all met together since the beginning of May and Pop said there are no plans to get together soon.”
“What about the other guy that was with Pop on the night of his test?” Dan asked.
“When they got back into the city he got out at Penn Station and went down the escalator. We couldn’t immediately follow him, and when our guys got down there he was gone.”
“So we’re stuck sitting on our asses waiting for them to make their next move?”
“Guess so,” O’Halloran said.
“Would you like to call the Mayor and tell him what you just told me?” Harry asked.
“No, Boss. With all due respect, I believe that’s your duty.”
“Thanks for reminding me, Bill. Hey, suppose we have the Task Force scoop up Mark and the two disciples? He has to know the other apostles and the Savior.”
“Probably does,” Dan said, “but how will we get him to open up?”
“Smack the shit out of him like we did when we three big shots were good old-fashioned street cops, that’s how.”
“Harry,” Dan said, “you know those good old days are gone forever.”
“Yeah, too fucking bad, isn’t it?”
Saturday morning dawned clear and cool, a few degrees too cool to dip into the Atlantic Ocean, so Joe and Missy and their families had instead opted for a picnic at Hempstead Lake State Park. The weatherman promised the heat would return the next day and might break the old record of ninety-two degrees on Monday. If he was correct, then Monday would be the beach day for sure. “That is,” Joe said, “if you don’t mind sharing your sand with a few hundred thousand other beach lovers.”
“Fine by me,” Ted lied as he moved the hot dogs around on the barbecue. “It’s just good to be with you all wherever that may be.”
After the feast of burgers, hot dogs, chicken, beans and salads, the four kids, undeterred by their full bellies, ran off to the playground and the equally full adults relaxed on their lounge chairs. When Joe complained about the difficult time he had in loading up the small sedan with all the picnic supplies his wife, Diane, said, “Yeah, Joe, but at least we got here alive.”
“If it was up to me I’d have taken the four-by-four. Screw these Romens. Who the hell are they to dictate how I live my life and what I drive?” He looked furtively around at the picnic goers at the adjacent tables then, apparently satisfied, reached into his pocket and withdrew a pack of cigarettes.
“My God!” Ted said. “Don’t tell me you still smoke?”
“So do I,” Melissa said. “We both tried to quit, but it’s so hard.”
“I know it is,” Ted said, shaking his head, “but cigarettes killed our father and now the Romens want to kill you two. I just found you and I want you to stay alive.”
“I don’t think there are any Romens in the vicinity,” Joe said.
“Probably not,” Ted said, “but why are you poisoning me with your second-hand smoke? Why are you poisoning my nieces and nephews? Get some self-control, will you two. Just fucking quit!”
Joe became a little alarmed at the vehemence of his older brother’s speech. He saw a man in front of him different from the one he met just a few months ago. His beard was fuller and his light-brown eyes blazed with the fervor of a zealot as he blasted them about their habit. For a moment he wondered if possibly Ted, his long lost brother, could be… ? But, no, that was unthinkable.
“I’m sorry, Ted,” Joe said, snuffing out his cigarette on the ground.
“And I’m sorry for spouting off like a fool, but I love you two so much…”
“We understand,” Missy said, patting his hand. “I’ll try harder to quit. In fact, I’ll start right now and promise not to have another cigarette for the entire weekend.”
“Me, too,” Joe said.
“Great, I hope you both can keep that promise. And I hope you can continue to keep it after I leave on Tuesday.”
The tension had broken and although they continued to speak about the Romens and the pros and cons of their actions, Ted was extra careful about expressing his views in a berating manner. The rest of the day passed without further incident and as nightfall approached they packed up and headed home.
On Sunday they relaxed all day in Melissa’s backyard enjoying the return of the heat. They ate all the leftovers from the picnic the day before and bedded down early to get a jump on the crowd sure to head for the beach the next day. When they awoke at seven a.m. the rain was pouring down hard. So much for the weatherman’s promised great beach day.
They got another hour and a half sleep then had a leisurely breakfast and read the newspapers. The conversation returned to the activitie
s of the Romens. “But all these killings,” Missy said.
“Are necessary,” Ted said. “Deep down you two know that. Nothing can happen, or would ever happen, without the drastic action taken by the Romens.”
“So you agree with their methods?”
"They are having an effect. We all have to admit that. Look at cigarette sales. Look at gasoline consumption. I heard the National Tobacco Company is considering stopping all sales of their products in America. These are good things.”
“Yes,” Missy said, “but at what cost?”
A few miserable human lives Ted had wanted to say. A few people who deserved to die. But he said, “I guess the Romens play by the rule the end justifies the means.”
“I wonder who their next target will be?” Melissa said.
“The Savior will tell us, I’m sure,” Ted said.
That statement, uttered coldly and quietly, caused a far bigger chill to run down Joe’s spine than the one that had gone through his body on the day of the picnic. Who was his long lost brother? What made Ted Gillenbock tick? Could he one of them… a Romen?
That evening Ted finally summed up the courage to put forth his lie. “Listen,” he said, “I’m sorry to bring bad news, but my invitation to come out to Colorado this summer may have to be postponed.”
“Before you say why,” Joe said, “Missy and I were arguing which one of us was going to tell you we have to postpone the trip also. I lost the coin toss.”
“What happened?” Ted asked, relieved to have been taken off the hook.
“The kids. Between the four of them, with their camps and sports activities, they will never have a week off at the same time.”
“And I’m getting a transfer soon,” Ted said. “I’m going to have to move to a different part of the state. I’ll be in turmoil for awhile.”
“Maybe we can get out there after you’re settled in,” Joe said. “Maybe for a long weekend in the fall.”
“That should work. I’ll definitely be settled in by then.”
Ted kissed his sister good-bye and hugged his brother-in-law and his niece and nephew. He rejoined Joe and his family for the drive to Queens and his last night in New York.
Joe dropped Ted at LaGuardia Airport early the next morning. Despite the few uncomfortable moments, the long weekend had been a success – a true happy family re-union. He stopped for coffee and a roll on his way to the college. At his desk he sipped the coffee and looked out of his window. As Ted’s jet plane passed over his office, perhaps by some unknown blood-mind telepathic connection, a tremor shook Joe’s body and a vision screamed into his brain. “My God!” he said out loud. “My brother is the Savior!”
A few hours later, two hundred miles away in Washington, D.C., the Savior was reaching for the handle on the door of his car when his conscience mind clicked with recognition and he whispered, “My God! Samuel Charles is a cop!”
The Savior had left his vehicle in the long-term parking area of Reagan National Airport and he was now racing home. A cop! He was sure of it. It was in his files somewhere and he’d find it. He parked, ran into his apartment, and after a half hour of searching, there it was – a group picture of the New York Joint Terrorist Task Force from the Time magazine article written after the first takedown of OBL-911 many years ago. He checked the date on the magazine's front cover. Fifteen years had passed, but that face and the face on the file photo were the same. Detective Charles E. Hunter and Samuel Charles were one and the same person. He dialed Peter and said, “Come over here as fast as you can. I have something interesting to show you.”
Peter was there in twenty minutes and had barely gotten seated at the kitchen table when the Savior put the two pictures side by side. “Samuel Charles is a cop,” he said.
“Impossible!” Peter said.
“Prove me wrong.”
“Okay, the photos are close, but with the age difference neither you nor I can say, with any degree of certainty, they are the same man. And besides, he’s too old to be a cop now.
Look at the story backing up the photo. ‘Charles Hunter, age forty-eight, a homicide detective…’ If that’s true he would be sixty-three or sixty-four now, and I know the mandatory retirement age on the NYMPD is sixty-three.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m certain. Ted, Charles Hunter is not Samuel Charles. And how about the fact he killed that SUV driver? That should cinch it. Cops don’t commit murder.”
“Suppose he faked the kill?”
“You’re getting carried away here.”
“Let’s call Mark.”
When they reached Mark, the Savior put him on the speaker phone and pressed him on the details of the shooting. Mark said, “I saw it right up close. The guy’s brains were all over the place and his hair was matted with blood.”
“Could the whole thing have been faked?”
“It didn’t appear that way to me, but I guess anything is possible.”
“Mark, just suppose Samuel Charles is a cop, or some type of law enforcement plant. What is our exposure?”
“He was at my apartment on a couple of occasions, so he knows where I live.”
“Were any other disciples present?” Peter asked.
“On Sam’s acceptance, the whole group was there.”
“How about the night of the kill? Who was the other apostle with you?”
“Joseph.”
“Then the worst case scenario is the cops know the names and whereabouts of you, your eight disciples and Joseph,” the Savior said.
“That is if they were able to tail all the disciples when they left my house. That did not happen. We were careful then. And I’m certain they couldn’t have tailed Joseph. He left the car and went immediately down the steps to Penn Station. No one followed him.”
“I still think you’re wrong about Charles,” Peter said to the Savior.
“You may be right – I certainly hope you are. Mark, what is the Long Island paper that would have carried the story of the guy that was killed?”
“Newsday”
“Try to find a copy from…”
“No need,” Peter interrupted. “I can access the story on the internet.”
“Can you also access the National Fingerprint Database?” the Savior asked.
“I don’t know, that’s a highly secure site.”
“Detective Hunter’s prints should be on file there, correct?”
“Sure, all law enforcement people are in there.”
“Peter, you have to break into that database and get a copy of Hunter’s prints. I won’t be able to proceed with our next campaign, or get a full night’s sleep, until I know for sure what the truth is about our Samuel Charles.”
“I’ll get on it right away, but it may take awhile.”
“I know you can do it, and when you do, we’ll compare them to Charles’ prints.”
“And how do we get them?” Peter asked. “If you are correct, that would raise his suspicions to the stratosphere when we ask him.”
“I think I have a way to get them without arousing his suspicions,” Mark said. “Disciple Number Five’s cousin works with Charles. He was the one who introduced him to us. He can grab his coffee mug or something on his desk.”
“Do it,” the Savior said. “If the prints don’t match, and the Newsday story checks out, I’ll be convinced I was wrong. In the meantime, Mark, just to be on the safe side, I want you and your disciples to look for new apartments just in case I am right.”
“All right, but let’s all hope Samuel Charles is who he says he is.”
12
Peter was back at the Savior's apartment the following afternoon with the Newsday story and his follow-up research. He said, “The guy Samuel Charles killed was a resident of Valley Stream who commuted to his job in Manhattan. His name was Wallace Kingman and he was thirty-eight years old. The obituary listing specified no flowers be delivered, and the funeral services would be private with just the immediate family being present,
to be followed by cremation.”
“How convenient,” the Savior said. “What else did you find about Mr. Kingman?”
“Not much, I’m afraid. The newspaper did not mention his address, and I was unable to find any Wallace Kingman living in Valley Stream or the local area. The only listing was out on the east end of the Island and they had never heard of a same-named relative at all.”
“So we have no body, no address and no phone number. Were you able to find his job location?”
“No.”
“What do you think now, my favorite apostle?”
“I think you may be on to something. This whole thing is starting to stink.”
“Thank you, Peter. We’ll wait on the prints. The prints will tell for sure.”
At lunch that day, Bob Willis, obeying the instructions of his cousin, left the restaurant with Pop then stopped and said, “I gotta run back. I left my eyeglasses on the table.”
When he re-joined Pop he showed him the eyeglass case and smiled, “I wish I had a buck for every time I left a pair of these in a restaurant.”
Pop returned the smile and said, “It is tough getting old, Bob. Believe me, I know.”
What Bob Willis did not show to Pop was the water glass he had used during lunch, which was now carefully wrapped in a paper napkin, and stuffed into his jacket pocket.
The glass was handed over to his cousin after work that day in front of the New York Public Library. “What’s going on?” Bob whispered.
“All I know is they want to check the fingerprints of all new recruits that were just accepted into the Romens. I’m sure it’s just a routine thing.”
“You guys sure are careful.”
“We have to be. An undercover cop could ruin us.”
“You don’t think Sam is a cop, do you?”
“Hell, no. He checked out perfect. And passed his final test, if you know what I mean.”
“Yeah, no cop could pass that test. Talk to you later, cuz.”
“Right. Thanks for getting this.”
