by Henry Hack
Carl duct taped the disciple’s mouth shut and slipped a black hood over his head. They placed him on the floor of the back seat of their car. “Number one secured,” he said.
“Good,” George said. “Here comes number two, heading east.”
One by one, without a hitch all seven disciples, including Jason Morgan, were cuffed and gagged. They were then all placed into an unmarked black van and securely shackled to the rails. After twenty minutes passed, Carl got on the radio and said, “We’ll give it until eleven and then we go in. Please acknowledge.”
After receiving the acknowledgements, they hunkered down to wait. At eleven p.m. Carl said, “I’d like to give it some more time. I’d like to see that light in the upstairs window go out before we make our move. Okay?”
There were no objections and the wait continued. Finally, just before 11:30, the light went out. “How about midnight?” Carl said. “Give them a chance to fall asleep.”
“Midnight it is,” Walt said.
The long wait was over and the five teams crept out of their vehicles and approached the house. Harry and Walt, backed by Joe and Spider positioned themselves at the front door; John and Nick backed by Danny and George set up at the rear entrance. Carl and Alicia would remain on either side of the house in case Mark or the Savior attempted to exit that way through a window.
Harry said, “Hit it!” into his radio and Spider smashed open the front door with a sledge hammer as did Danny at the rear. The teams rushed in with Harry and Walt heading right to the stairs followed by John and Nick flicking on the lights as they went. A search of the first floor by the other two teams had revealed no inhabitants, so they followed up the stairs to back up the others. They were halfway up when they heard the shouts and the gunfire.
When Harry and Walt kicked open the locked bedroom door and turned the light on, a groggy Mark was just sitting up in the bed, raising the arm that held his nine-millimeter pistol. “Drop it,” Harry yelled.
“Fuck you,” Mark said, pulling the trigger. The first bullet caught Walt in the shoulder area of his body armor and spun him around, but Harry calmly got off six rounds, all hits to the bare-chested Mark.
“Fuck you, too,” Harry said. “You okay, Walt?”
“Hurts like hell. Hey, Harry, aren’t you the one who always gets shot?”
“Maybe my luck's changing,” he said. “Now you know what it feels like, partner.”
“Yeah, and I don’t fucking like it,” he said.
“Let’s get next door. I heard a lot of shots there, too.”
The Savior was dead. He, too, was reaching for a gun when Nick and John McKee nailed him with about a dozen bullets.
When the rest of the Task Force members joined them upstairs Harry said, “Before we search this place please let’s all join hands and bow our heads for a moment of prayer for Pop Hunter.”
After a minute, Harry raised his eyes to the ceiling and said, “We got them, Pop. We got the bastards. Rest easy, old friend.”
The search results were all they could ask for. “Looks like we hit the mother lode,” Carl Petersen said.
On Mark’s laptop were the names and addresses of his seven disciples and on the Savior’s were the names and addresses of all the apostles. A cache of guns and several empty five-gallon gasoline cans were secreted in the basement.
“The guys in the Ballistics Section of the Lab are going to be busy doing comparisons,” Walt said.
“How about when we send them the guns from the other eleven apostles?” John said.
“We should move right away,” Harry said. “Let’s get these bodies photographed and then taken out of here. And no press notification until we round up the others.”
Although it was past two in the morning when the Task Force and their van of captured disciples headed back to Manhattan, Harry dialed Vera Hunter on his cell phone. A weary voice answered.
“Vera, it’s Hoppy. Harry Cassidy.”
“There’s only one reason you’d be calling me in the middle of the night, Hoppy. You got them, didn’t you?”
“We sure did, Vera. We got the Savior – he’s dead. We got the Apostle Mark – he’s dead. And we got the disciple – alive – who pulled the trigger on Pop. Right now, that’s just between the two of us.”
“Thank you, Hoppy. I knew you would do it. I knew you’d get those murderers. Now, I think I’ll close my eyes and get a good night’s sleep – the first one in a long time.”
“You do that. You sleep well tonight, Vera.”
Back at the office they worked the phones furiously. Task Forces around the nation were called in for an early start to the day. Judges were alerted to be ready to sign arrest warrants and search warrants. They all realized the next wave of attacks by the remaining eighty-eight disciples could begin at any moment. Timing was critical.
The sun was just rising when the first call came in. “They got the Apostle Philip,” Alicia said. “Got all his guns and got the names and addresses of all his disciples. They’re moving on them now.”
By six o’clock, two more apostles had been taken into custody and Harry figured it was time to make two more phone calls. He woke Susan and filled her in and then said, “I’ll be here for awhile longer. Maybe make it home by dinnertime, but all I’ll want then will be a bed.”
“Good job, Commissioner. And tell me you didn’t get shot this time?”
“Nope, but Walt took one in his body armor.”
She breathed out a sigh of relief. “See you later,” she said. “I love you.”
He dialed Mayor MacDonald next. “Sorry to wake you up on a Saturday, Mr. Mayor, but I’m sure you won’t mind.”
“Good news?”
“Very good news, sir. We got the Savior and we’re rounding the Romens up all over the country as we speak. No notifications have gone out – we want to keep a lid on this until we mop it all up.”
“Where are you now?”
“At Task Force headquarters.”
“Mind if I come down and join you?”
“Not at all. You can handle the press release personally – you deserve it.”
Thanks, Harry. Great job. See you in an hour.”
The interrogations with Mark's captured disciples went well. Spider Webb went to the first cell, took the hood and gag off the disciple and addressed him by his real name. “Hello, Vinny, I’m Detective Webb and here’s what we’re going to do. I’m giving you an opportunity to cooperate and tell us all you know about the Romens and the acts you committed in the service of Mark. Mark – Kenneth Majka – by the way, is dead. So is the Savior whose real name was Theodore Gillenbock. I’m going to give this same offer to the other six disciples. As you know from watching cop shows, the first guy to spill gets the biggest break, and the second guy, who corroborates what the first guy says, he gets the second biggest break. The others get nada. With a name like Vinny Sanchez, you must know what nada means.”
“I have nothing to say,” Vinny said. “I want a lawyer.”
“Okay” Spider said and began to leave the cell.
“Wait. Am I the first guy you gave this spiel to?”
“Yep, the very first.”
“And now you’re leaving, and you’re not going to smack me around?”
“No, Vinny, no beatings here.”
“Ah… let’s talk a little then.”
“No, Vinny, we gotta talk a lot.”
“Okay,” he said.
By noon all the apostles were accounted for, but one. Seven were in custody and three were dead. Joseph, Paul and Andrew, as had Mark, decided to shoot it out, with the same result. However, two agents had suffered bullet wounds to the legs and chest area of their body armor, but none of the wounds was life-threatening.
The Apostle Peter and his laptop computer were not in his apartment when the D.C. Task Force moved in to arrest him. All of his eight disciples were identified from the information on Peter’s home PC, and two were immediately caught as they were preparing
to leave their residences, obviously having been tipped off by Peter. Roadblocks thrown up by the assisting state police on the roads leading to Peter’s neighborhood had failed to trap him. Now identified as George Richter, his face would be plastered all over the front page of the newspapers and on every TV news broadcast for the next several days. Everyone believed he and his remaining six disciples wouldn’t last long out there on the run.
At five o’clock the last group of disciples was captured in St. Louis, Missouri. The conclusion of the round-up was perfectly timed for an all-out conference for the six o’clock news. Harry, Walt, John and Carl were going to get out of their combat uniforms and back into their suits and ties, but Mayor MacDonald said, “Stay the way you are, bleary-eyed and unshaven and in fighting gear. I want the world to know what you did. I want everyone to know the top bosses put their lives on the line for them.”
It was after seven when the Task Force members finally called it a day and found their weary way home to husbands, wives and families for a well-deserved rest. Most of them felt like they could sleep right through the whole day of the Fourth of July, fireworks or no fireworks, barbecues or no barbecues. Some thought they would sleep until Tuesday morning when they would be back in the office for the final wrap-up.
A week passed and the Apostle Peter and his Disciple Number Four had not yet been apprehended, and Harry began to worry they might try to build the Romens back up.
“You look concerned,” Danny Boyland said.
“I just hope someone catches Richter soon.”
“I know what you mean. We don’t want these guys starting up again.”
The Task Force would again be reduced in size as it always was once the terrorist threat was nullified. Only John McKee and Joe Ramos would remain, at least until the next bunch of crazies exploded their way onto the front page. Nick, Danny and Spider were sent back to their detective squads; George Washington and Alicia Johnson went back to their FBI responsibilities. Carl Petersen, with a promotion to deputy chief, was assigned to the Detective Division in an administrative capacity.
“Working with the Task Force was a great experience,” Danny said, “but I’m looking forward to police work again.”
“So am I,” Harry said. “To quote Pop Hunter, ‘I’m getting too old for this shit.’”
“I hear there’s a party Friday night,” Danny said.
“Just like always. Just like the party when you and Spider solved all those murder cases.”
“You’ll be there?”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
George Richter and his lone remaining disciple had never been found, but they would live on as new bogeymen for the wayward teenager caught sneaking a smoke – “Are you insane?” a horrified parent would whisper in admonishment. “Do you want the Apostle to kill you? He or the Disciple could be lurking behind that tree at this very moment!”
The armchair philosophers could argue the proposition that out of evil there sometimes comes good. Cigarette consumption in the United States was at an all-time low, but the big tobacco companies did not go bankrupt. In the spirit of American ingenuity they re-focused on selling their lethal products to the lucrative overseas markets. Seizing upon the opportunity, and partially to offset their loss of tax revenues, local and state governments slapped hefty tax increases on tobacco products. It now cost over two hundred dollars a carton to indulge in your favorite brand, and the “good five-cent cigar” now sold for ten bucks a piece.
Not to ignore the lowered consumption of gasoline and the reduced tax collections there, the same governments increased those taxes. The cost of a gallon of regular now averaged $7.50. There were still some large SUV’s being manufactured and sold, but they were all gas/electric hybrid vehicles. As a rule of thumb, the American public would no longer buy a vehicle unless it averaged in excess of thirty-five miles per gallon on regular gas. The reign of terror of The Romen Society was over, but part of their legacy, although no one in the public limelight would ever admit it, lived on – and that part was beneficial. Yes, the philosophers argued, sometimes, on rare occasions, good can emerge from evil.
Police Commissioner Harry Cassidy and his first deputy, Dan Snyder, relaxed in Harry’s office having a cup of coffee and discussing the plans for the day. Dan stood up, coffee cup in hand, and walked over to the window to admire the view. It was one of those rare days in the city – a deep, cobalt blue autumn sky – that made one happy to be alive, but Dan’s mood was somber. “The polls are not looking too good for Phil MacDonald,” he said.
“What’s the latest?” Harry asked.
“Behind by eight points, plus or minus three.”
“I don’t get it. I think he’s one of the best mayors we’ve had in years. What is this guy Miller’s attraction anyhow?”
“As someone said years ago, ‘it’s the economy, stupid.’”
“And Miller has the answers? I haven’t heard any.”
“Maybe he doesn’t need any,” Dan said. “Maybe all he has to do is point out the cost to live in this city, the taxes, the subway fare increase and the high unemployment rate.”
“And none of that is MacDonald’s fault, or within his power to change.”
“Ah, but the masses don’t know that, and Miller has done a masterful job of dumping all those ills squarely on the administration of our boss.”
“What happens, happens,” Harry said, “but I’d hate to see Phil lose.”
“If he loses, so do you, my friend.”
“Huh?”
“New mayor, new police commissioner, right? But Miller could keep you. You’re popular in and out of the Department, and you did defeat the Romens. Although by now that’s just considered old news.”
“Yeah, he could keep me on. I guess four more years would be good.”
“But not for me, Harry.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m going to pack it in at the end of the year, whether you stay or not.”
“Are you already at mandatory retirement age?”
“No, but I’ll be sixty-two in February, so the most I could hang on would be another year. This way you could appoint a new guy to have for the full four years.”
“If I’m still around.”
“Right, and if you’re not, the new guy will dump me out on my ass anyway.”
Harry smiled and said, “I’m going to miss you around here. We go back a long way.”
“That we do, and we’ve been through a lot of trying times, haven’t we?”
“Yes, we most certainly have.”
That evening at dinner with Susan in their apartment Harry related the conversation he had with Dan Snyder earlier in the day. “What if you don’t get re-appointed?” she asked. “What would you do?”
“I haven’t given it any thought at all and I don’t plan to. I’ll worry about it when I know for sure.”
“The election is only a month away. You should be giving it some thought.”
“Maybe I’ll go to law school like you and my daughter, Lizzy, did.”
“Harry, you hate lawyers!”
“No, I don’t. In fact, I love two of them – you and Lizzy.”
“Be serious. You should consider your options.”
“I will. I promise.”
19
The tranquil beauty of the golden October had yielded to a dismal, damp November, and on this Wednesday morning, the morning after Election Day, the mood at police headquarters matched the weather. Harry, Dan and Inspector Peter Hayes sat in the conference room watching the new Mayor-elect elaborate on his victory speech of the night before. The key sentence that hit them hard was Stanley Miller’s promise to form a “totally new administrative corps with no holdovers from the previous administration.”
“Uh-oh,” Hayes said, “I think that means us. The calls are going to come in hot and heavy now.”
Hayes was referring to the fact that anyone in the Department who wanted a favor from Harry Cassidy �
� a transfer, a promotion, a favorable resolution of a pending internal complaint – would do so now, while they had the chance. In seven weeks Police Commissioner Harold T. Cassidy would be history – just one more framed photograph on the wall – and everyone knew it. Even Harry seemed to know it now.
“Dan,” Harry said, “even if they don’t all call, I want to reward a lot of guys that deserve it. Let’s put our heads together this afternoon.”
He returned to his office and looked out on the gloomy day. Maybe Miller was just posturing. Maybe Harry would be retained. But he had to do the right thing – the required thing – and compose his letter of resignation to the new man at the top of the political heap.
Before his afternoon meeting with Snyder, Harry received two calls, the first from Nick Faliani. “Is it as bad as Miller made it sound?” he asked.
“Probably. I’m just putting the finishing touches on my letter of resignation. What can I do for you?”
“I’m lookin' to pack it in and it has nothing to do with you staying or leaving. The kids are getting bigger and more damn expensive. Terry figures with the pension and a new job we’d be much better off financially. Do you think you could get me an interview at Sheldrake Associates, like you once did for Pop Hunter?”
“It would be my pleasure, Nick, but maybe I can help you another way. I can tell from the tone of your voice you don’t want to leave the Job. You’re overdue for a promotion to First Grade Detective. That’s lieutenant’s pay and could solve your money concerns. And to keep Terry even happier, I’ll transfer you to a safe inside day job with weekends off. How about the Intelligence Squad?”
“Jeez, Harry, that would all be terrific! Thanks, a lot, old friend.”
“I’m glad I could keep you on the Job.”
“Harry……what’re you gonna do now?”
“I don’t know.”
“Guaranteed you’ll have plenty of offers.”
“We’ll see. Say hello home.”
