by Jim Riley
I changed the subject. “How’d you get my number?”
“Off the Internet.” It seemed to break the tension, and I could hear a little chuckle in her voice.
“Good old World Wide Web.”
“You have your own website now, you know. More than one, in fact.”
“So I’ve heard.” I didn’t tell her I had already been there. It seemed kind of conceited, when I thought about it.
“Is it true?” I knew what she was asking. The same thing Nora had asked.
“Don’t believe everything you hear, and none of what you read on the Internet.”
“Well, I know that it was you that saved me. I guess the rest of it doesn’t matter. As far as I’m concerned, you are a hero.”
“You want to thank me, Mary? Get on with your life. Don’t let that scumbag take anything away from you. Don’t give him or anyone else the satisfaction. You do that, and you’ll be the hero.” She was practically openly crying when she hung up. So was I.
As I had expected, I ended up getting a phone call from Colonel Rodriguez the next day. Well, from his aide, anyway. They were requesting that I come to Washington for a sit-down. I somehow doubted it was an invitation. I took Toby up on his offer of a place to hide and took Tish there. Getting away without a tail hadn’t been too hard. The crowd at my driveway had filtered away to a few diehards after they figured out I wasn’t coming out and they sure as hell weren’t coming in. A couple of guys from the department had showed up in two different cars. When they left, one unit simply blocked the road as the other drove away with Tish and me.
The place Toby had provided was a nice house that stayed unoccupied most of the year since it belonged to a couple who traveled the world and only spent about two weeks during the summer in it. Toby, being the consummate good ol’ boy, was friends with the couple and had use of the house. I flew to Washington the next day.
Colonel Rodriguez was an extremely hard man to read, which concerned me. In my line of work, when I can’t get a read on someone, it’s usually because they’re so stoned there is nothing normal or consistent about their demeanor, tones, or actions. The only other option was that they were smarter than me. I didn’t think the Colonel used drugs, so that left me holding the stupid stick.
I had no idea if he was playing me, or if he really believed me when I told him I had not talked to a soul. I offered to take a polygraph, and they accepted my offer. Three times. Each time, I passed, and each time, Colonel Rodriguez assured me he believed me and knew the whole thing was going to turn out just fine. I was once again “vacationing” at the expense of the U.S. Government and being escorted everywhere I went, except the bathroom. But even in there I wondered if they didn’t have cameras.
In a short three days that seemed like a month, I was flown back to Colorado. Once again, I had been exhorted to not speak to the press, nor to confirm or deny my involvement in any operation that may or may not have happened in any building anywhere in the U.S. or the rest of the world.
I had not been home long enough to unpack before spokesmen for the FBI and the DOD were holding a joint press conference confirming that Sergeant Dell Moffat, of the Logan County Sheriff’s Department, had in fact been part of the mission at the JP Goldstein building in St. Louis. Although they could not get into the specifics of the mission, they also confirmed that it had been a joint effort between the two government entities, and they emphasized the fact that it was considered very successful, even though several unfortunate citizens had tragically lost their lives.
At first, I was dumbstruck. Then I started trying to put two and two together, but I kept coming up with three. The problem I was having was that the very people who were threatening to put me in prison if I talked about what I had done, were the very ones now up in front of God and everybody confirming it. It was like dealing with a mental patient.
Sometimes when I’m working a case, and all I’ve got are a few clues and maybe a hunch or two, something in the back of my mind starts to cause it all to gel. At that stage, it’s still too early to form any firm opinions, but I can feel it coming. An answer. A motive. A reason. I was getting that same feeling here. By the end of the day, I had come to the working theory that I was being used for someone’s agenda. I didn’t know exactly how yet, but I was becoming more and more convinced of it and suspected that Colonel Percy Rodriguez knew exactly who had leaked that information.
It was my fifth day off work. There were still a few news-type folks still congregating out front hoping for an exclusive, but for the most part it was almost back to normal around the Moffat house. Tish and I had put blankets over the windows even though we had shades on all of them already, just in case the cat moved one. So far, no photographer had managed to get a shot of the inside of the house. I guess they got tired of putting my photo up on television and had found one of Tish. Never can have too much information when you don’t really have anything real to report, I guess. We ventured outside occasionally, but only briefly. I had originally hoped to outlast the boogers, but I was beginning to lose hope.
On the sixth day, I decided to go to work, and so did Tish. We had endured all of the togetherness we could stand. We weren’t arguing or anything and had even enjoyed the forced time alone at first. But solitary confinement is still confinement, even if it is with someone you love. We had talked a lot and gotten a few things worked out. Whatever had been bothering her before seemed to have gotten lost in the background noise of all the new things going on. Life was looking up, and I was optimistic.
Once again, my desk had not been touched, and once again, there were floaties in my coffee cup. The embezzlement case file was missing from my desk, and Barnes let me know that he had it. He also proudly let me know that he had found a previously unworked witness that was going to slam the case home. The bank president’s wife had flipped on him. I told him that he had done a good job, and I wondered if it sounded as weak when he heard it, as it did to me when I said it. I was jealous. He had taken my case and made something out of it. Who knows if I would have done the same thing? It didn’t matter. It hadn’t been me. It had been some junior, wet-behind-the-ears detective. Shit.
I fielded the same question all day with the same answer. It finally got to the point where I said it to people as they walked into my office, even before they spoke, and half the time, before I even looked up. Like this time. “I can’t talk about it.”
“What made you think I was interested in hearing it?”
It was Special Agent Coop Watts. I gave him a big smile and told him to bite me. He closed the door behind him and sat down.
“You’re a shit magnet, you know it.”
“Yep.”
“Are you going to be a hero or a scapegoat?” Good old Coop. Always straight to the point and cognizant of that lone tree lost in the forest.
“Don’t know yet. You got any idea?”
“Just a hunch. Word coming out of Washington is they’re using this to try to get an MI5-like agency off the ground. You’re their poster child.”
“Who’s ‘they’?”
“FBI and DOD. I’m guessing they’ll work together in order to keep CIA out of it. Then they can kill each other off later, if they need to.”
“Dangerous work.”
“Terrorism?”
“No, Washington. Put me back in that building any day.”
“Good job on that, by the way.”
“How much do you know?” I wanted to tell him about it, and just might. I hadn’t decided yet.
“I know that DOD set you up with some of their newest high-tech toys and turned you loose. I also know you kicked ass.”
“Anything else?”
“Probably nothing else you don’t know or haven’t guessed. The terrorists were an al-Qaeda splinter group. The mission came as a complete surprise to everyone. You win some, you lose some.”
“And that’s all you know?” I asked it with a tone that implied I wasn’t buying it.
“Everything I know that I can tell you.” Coop was still assigned to the violent crime division, but being who he was in the counter-terrorism community, he had instantly been called back to Quantico for a brainstorming session. As far as being in the loop now, he was.
“What am I looking at here, Coop?” He knew what I meant. It was obvious I was a pawn, but I wanted to know who was playing the game, and how I could stay out of the way so I didn’t move from the asset side of the board to the liability side.
“The movers and shakers are making some plays. Keep your head down. You’re nothing but a means to an end. It behooves them to keep you up there as a hero. But don’t give them any reasons to think of you as a liability either. This is much bigger than you, and they wouldn’t hesitate to sacrifice you on the altar of their goals.”
It was always refreshing to talk with Coop. He was smarter and more experienced than me and I respected him. And I took him at his word.
The news crews began disappearing without me ever having to actually stand in front of them and give any kind of statement. Once or twice they had caught me in public, but I had walked away with them holding microphones to my back and asking me questions about what happened in the building. Like I was going to suddenly stop one day and tell them everything. They were persistent, though, I had to give them that.
Work was becoming stressful. For whatever reason, I couldn’t seem to get over the fact that Barnes had nailed shut the embezzlement case. I kept telling myself that the case had been made and that’s what was important. But I knew better. I also knew my feelings were juvenile but I couldn’t seem to get past them. I started treating him like a rookie cop, and even worse, an outsider. One day it turned into a shouting match that almost came to blows. I got reprimanded by the sheriff, not because it was my fault, but because I was older and had rank. Therefore, I was the more culpable of us two. He was right. Everybody but me could see me crashing and burning. Even Nora gave me a talking-to.
I had begun to drink again. Not heavily, but every night. A small one turned into a bigger one, which turned into two. Before I knew it, I was on my way again to having a drinking problem. I wasn’t an alcoholic, as I would define it anyway. I didn’t need to drink, I just didn’t want not to. Tish and I had gone from being as close as we had been in years to moving apart again. Only this time we didn’t drift. She moved out. Cat, dog, and all.
Instead of taking stock of my life when Tish packed her things and moved out, I dove into the bottle. It was the first three-day binge I had ever been on in all my years of drinking. I promised myself I’d never do it again, and I kept that promise for a whole week. I was unraveling at the seams and beginning to wonder if there was anything to live for. That’s when the voice from inside my helmet showed up.
“You look like shit, Dog One.”
“Hmmph.” I did look like shit and I knew it. I didn’t say anything but left the door open behind me as I walked back to my chair in the living room. He took that as a sign to come in and did.
“How’s life?”
I looked at him and wondered if he was being serious or sarcastic. I had no idea why he had showed up at my house, and why then. I also didn’t know if he knew about Tish leaving me, or even if he knew I was married.
“Wife left me.”
He didn’t respond verbally but nodded his head.
“What you gonna do?” He was looking at my pistol lying on the coffee table.
“Dunno.” I knew what he was asking, and I honestly didn’t know at that point if I was going to kill myself or not. No use lying.
He sat there quietly for a few more minutes, then stood to leave.
“Where you going?” I don’t know what I expected of him. Well, actually I did, if I were to be truthful with myself. I wanted him to talk me out of killing myself. Tell me there were reasons to live. Tell me I was a hero and could be proud of what I did.
“See you later, Dog One,” was all he replied.
“Fuck you. You and Colonel Rodriguez, and the whole shebang. Fuck all of you.” I could see spittle coming out of my mouth and knew I must still be pretty drunk.
“Whatever.” He continued for the door.
“No. Don’t go, Sarge.” I hadn’t planned on saying that but was glad I had.
He turned around. I could see in his eyes he knew exactly what was going on here, even if I didn’t. He had no doubt been here before with other men. “I can only help you if you want it, Dell. If not … ” He motioned to the coffee table where the pistol was lying.
“I need your help.”
When I turned in my resignation to Toby, he just nodded. I’m sure he had already been worrying over what to do with me. Our friendship was getting in the way of what he knew needed to be done. I kept my goodbyes simple and just left an interoffice email telling everyone the obligatory lines of it was good working with them and they were an outstanding bunch of men and women.
The house sold only one week after I put it on the market. Tish and I had bought it cheap and I had put a lot of work into it. I sold it a little low, and that’s why it moved fast. We still made $65,000 off of it after the realtor’s commission. I kept $10,000 and gave Tish the rest. She was living in Grand Junction and had gotten a nursing job at the hospital. We talked about once a week. Usually she would do most of the talking and I would either be sullen or angry. I knew that my attitude wasn’t doing anything to make her want to come back but I couldn’t seem to help myself. I was my own worst enemy.
PART II
Chapter Seven
I’d stopped drinking the day Sarge showed up in Colorado. Next, I moved in with Sarge in Tennessee and was planning on living off of my $10,000 for a while. One thing about Sarge is that although he seems to have a big heart, he is not overly emotional. My self-pitying attitude lasted about two days and he told me to get my chin off the ground and go get a job. I replied to an advertisement in nearby Nashville for a Security Manager’s position. I just about had it sewn up when a better offer came my way. It seems Sarge had a friend who had a friend that owned a firearms training school. Just my cup of tea, Sarge told me.
Roy Blackman had been a SWAT operator. In fact, he had done it full-time in Los Angeles for fifteen years. He was good, and I had heard of him and read a book he published. When he retired early from a gunshot wound to the femur, which didn’t cripple him but took him off the team, he started a training academy called Blackman Firearms and Tactics Institute. It started as a SWAT school where law enforcement agencies could send their young operators to be taught the fine art of SWAT tactics. It had grown to include operators from all walks and become known both nationally and internationally as the place to go for top-of-the-line training. I had also heard of the school, and it had a good reputation. When Sarge reached out to his friend I got an interview.
The school was there in Tennessee and only a few hours drive from where Sarge lived. I arrived early and wandered around the place. I had checked in since it’s not like anyone can just come in and mosey around. I told them I had an appointment with Roy, and they gave me a visitor’s pass. I said I was about an hour early and figured I’d check the place out. The guy told me which ranges were hot, or being used at the time, and sent me on my way. I guess he figured if I was stupid enough to get shot by a student, I didn’t need to be instructing there. Not a bad strategy, really.
The school was similar to others I had seen and the one that I had been to, with different ranges where different techniques could be practiced or different weapons could be used. I heard an automatic weapon firing in the distance, and it brought back memories of St. Louis. I watched a couple of classes in progress, then made my way back to the office. Roy was waiting for me when I returned.
“How you like the place?”
“Nice.”
“Yeah. We’ve put a lot of work into it. Right now, we’re running about … ” He looked back at the guy that had given me the pass for some help with the numbers.
“About two hun
dred students a month,” the man offered.
“Yeah. Well, anyway, I heard you might be interested in a position doing some instructing?”
“Yeah. If it looks like we got something to offer each other.” It was my way of telling him I wouldn’t work for free just to live here and burn up his ammunition. Actually, truth be told, I would have paid him to live here and burn up his ammunition. I just needed something in my life to take up my time.
“I’m sure we’ll come to an agreement.”
I hit it off pretty well with Roy. He was an operator to the bone, but he was also an accomplished businessman. His office was full of trophies and the obligatory “I love me” wall of photos of him with movie stars, special operators, and all kinds of other apparently important people. At least I assumed they were, since he had hung the photos of them with him on his wall.
I sat down and noticed a clear, acrylic pyramid with a small piece of copper-colored metal in it. I picked it up and looked at it.
“They dug that out of my leg. All that was left of the .45 slug that hit me. That and a quarter gets me a cup of coffee at the local diner.”
I chuckled and sat it back down. “I want to work here. Can you pay me enough to get by?”
“I can do better than that. I can pay you enough to make you happy.”
“How do you know what it takes to make me happy?”
“How about $75,000 to start?”
“I’d say I’m one happy son-of-a-bitch.”
We shook hands and he drove me around the compound, pointing out all the different ranges. He had many things I hadn’t noticed before. Understandable, since the place was over three hundred acres in size. There was a mock 747 fuselage and several shoot houses, which were structures laid out like the floor plans of houses, only the walls were made of railroad cross ties. Students could practice building entries and use live ammo that simply sunk into the wood when it was shot. Roy also showed me a large, single-story building that he said was laid out like a school. Attendees practiced active-shooter scenarios like school shootings that have become so common.
