The Storm Protocol

by Iain Cosgrove

  ‘What made you say that,’ said Tony, and Roussel could imagine his lawyer’s eyes, narrowing in suspicion.

  ‘Lucky guess,’ said Roussel speculatively.

  Tony wouldn’t be drawn; the consummate lawyer.

  ‘Anyway,’ he stated. ‘I was local, remember. We only moved here since the old house was sold; after you went north. We moved to be nearer Marlene's parents. I guess the vendor told him about me. Old man Bell was always a bit of a gossip.’

  ‘He was dead,’ said Roussel flatly.

  ‘Of course he was, it was an executor’s sale,’ said Tony. ‘How could I forget that, I handled the sale; knew all the history.’

  He chuckled again.

  ‘Old age is a cursed thing.’

  Roussel's heart rate increased slightly and he could feel the beginnings of excitement.

  ‘So you have all the documents from the sale?’ he asked.

  ‘Sure do,’ replied Tony. ‘Tell you what. Marlene gets you over to sample her cooking, I get a warrant, and you get your docs.’

  ‘Deal,’ said Roussel, without even thinking.

  ‘Tonight,’ said Tony. ‘Don’t be late.’

  Roussel smiled for the first time since the call had begun. They always ate at nine; no exceptions.

  He dropped the phone and spun back to the drawing of the house. He drew two stick men in front of it, with a further stick man inside it. Under the two in front of the house he wrote victim1 and victim2. Then he drew a question-mark next to victim1 and wrote CIA in big letters next to victim2.

  He wrote owner under the stick man in the house and wrote not old man Bell next to it. He folded his hands and studied it and then cursed; he’d managed to draw all over his clean white shirt with whiteboard marker. He was trying to remove the stain with a combination of his fingers, spit and a handkerchief, when there was another knock on his door.

  ‘It’s open,’ he shouted.

  ‘Hey, Peeshwank,’ said a familiar voice. ‘Fancy a beer?’

  Roussel looked from his marked shirt to the clock; four forty five.

  ‘If you’re buying, I’m talking,’ added Guilbeau, peeking around the door.

  ‘You got something for me?’ asked Roussel.

  ‘No beer, no talk,’ answered Guilbeau with a smile.

  #

  Guilbeau waited until the two beers were sitting on the bar in front of them. He poured his bottle into the frosted glass, the amber liquid making a chugging sound as he did so. He wiped the condensation away in a circular motion, an old habit, and then took a deep draught.

  ‘That’s better,’ he said.

  Roussel ignored his drink, using his finger to write letters in the condensation on his glass. He didn't say anything; he knew Guilbeau would talk when he was ready.

  ‘About five years ago, I went to a conference in Basel, Switzerland,’ said Guilbeau. ‘I'd never been out of the country before. I remember, because I had to get my passport; I was so excited. Turns out it was a really good week.’

  He took a sip and then continued.

  ‘Very informative, some good science, but the best things about it were the friends I made.’

  He lifted his glass and it clinked gently against Roussel’s.

  ‘It’s amazing what friendships can be formed over a few beers,’ he continued. ‘Anyway, on the last night of the conference, all of the delegates put our business cards into a large hat. One of the guys volunteered to create a distribution list, which he forwarded around to all the others. It’s like having our own private global network.’

  Roussel waited for the punch line. He was nothing if not a patient man.

  ‘The coroner's collective, we called it,’ said Guilbeau with a smile. ‘Anyway, I had previously been very dismissive of the power of networking; I think we all were, but knowing that the guys are out there has been the equivalent of having an extra tool in the armoury. If they have questions about US policies and procedures, they can just ask me. If I have questions about any of the European nuances, I can ask them in return.’

  Roussel couldn't contain himself any longer.

  ‘Your junket memories are very nice,’ he said. ‘But what has this got to do with my case?’

  ‘Patience, Peeshwank,’ said Guilbeau. ‘Anyway, I thought about your issues with the federal database and the DNA sample restrictions, and the next thing I’m looking at the fingerprint kit on my desk, and the two drawers in the morgue. I’ll admit, it's not exactly sticking to established directives; its old school. So I fingerprinted John and James Doe, scanned in the results, and e-mailed them to the collective.’

  ‘Now, one came back blank, as I pretty much knew it would. If it’s in the FBI restricted database, then there has to be a reason why, and it’s unlikely to be anywhere else. But I got a hit on the other one.’

  ‘Really?’ asked Roussel eagerly.

  Guilbeau pushed a folded sheet of paper across the bar and swallowed the rest of his beer.

  ‘Good luck, Peeshwank,’ he said. ‘Let me know how it goes.’

  Roussel nodded.

  ‘Say thanks to the collective from me,’ he said distractedly.

  Back at his desk, he unfolded the scrap of paper. One piece of the puzzle had finally fallen into his lap. Victim1 was called Scott Mitchell, and that is where he got another big shock; place of residence was Cork, Republic of Ireland.

  Even though Guilbeau had hinted early in the investigation that he thought one or both of the victims might have been foreign, it still came as a bit of a surprise to see it in black and white. A couple of calls later and he had some more information. Scott Mitchell had entered the country on the eighth of May, on a standard ninety day tourist visa. He had flown from Dublin to JFK, and then onwards to New Orleans International; his final destination.

  Another couple of calls later and he couldn’t help but chuckle to himself. Scott had hired himself a Honda Acura from Hertz in New Orleans. Not only was it showing as having a full set of Pirelli P series tyres, but it was dropped back to the gold return area with a full tank of petrol on the twelfth of May. They had found no cars at the house; only a large Harley Davison that was not registered to anyone, so it stood to reason that the owner of the house had fled in the rental car. He was either severely panicked or a very cool customer, reasoned Roussel.

  He tried to think of the reasons why Scott would have gone to the place where he was ultimately killed. The most obvious one would have been tourism, but it was a very specific location. It was near to New Orleans, that much was true, but very much off the main roads and tourist haunts. He must have had a specific reason for going.

  For the time being, Roussel was going to assume his reason for visiting had something to do with the owner of the house. He rubbed out the question mark next to victim1 and replaced it with the name Scott Mitchell. He then absently added the question mark again. He still didn’t know the motives, but one out of three wasn’t bad.

  His phone rang again suddenly. He snatched it up and before he could bark a reply, a stream of words hit him. He had to ask the caller to calm down and speak slower. When he eventually ended the call, after much profuse apologies from the forensic technician, he smiled a grim triumphant smile. A text had been received by Scott Mitchell’s cell phone, a day after he had died; someone wanted some information from him; someone from Cork in Ireland.

  #

  The car thundered along the road. He contemplated switching his siren on and then thought better of it. The last thing he needed was to be stopped outside of his jurisdiction by a fellow law enforcement officer. It had been so long since he’d journeyed to Tony and Marlene that he had forgotten how long it actually took. Tony was a sticky old bugger. If Roussel was not there on time, he wouldn't get his info, police officer or not.

  They were the nearest thing he had now to parents, Tony and Marlene. As well as being his lawyer, Tony had been his dad's best friend. When his parents had died, he hadn’t had to think about a thing, Tony and Marle
ne had made all the arrangements. During those college years, they had been the ones ringing and visiting. They were the couple sitting proudly in the second row, eyes shining with unshed tears and glowing with southern pride, at his graduation ceremony. They had not wanted him to go north, but of course, he knew better, and the enforced distance between them had started to make things awkward and stilted.

  Since he’d come back, he’d found it too difficult. He loved them both as people, they just reminded him too much of the loss of his parents. He knew it wasn’t their fault. If he got there in time, this time, he would try and explain it to them.

  For the next hundred miles or so, he anxiously juggled brake and accelerator, his eyes nervously scanning the clock. An hour and twenty minutes later, exactly seven and a half minutes before dinner was always served, he shot through the gates and up the gravel drive, coming to a skidding halt outside the modern ranch style property.

  #

  It was two o'clock in the morning before he got home. He felt emotionally drained; no, drained wasn't the right word. Purged was a better one. He’d told them how he really felt. The confusion over his parent’s death and the feelings of resentment he’d had towards them for stepping in to take the place of his mum and dad.

  Even though he knew that wasn’t what they’d been trying to do, he explained how he had ignored those feelings and blamed them anyway. He described the emotions and insecurity that the failure of his law career had triggered. How he’d wanted to run away and yet had gone straight back to his childhood town. And most of all, he told them how he wasn't even sure where his home was any more.

  In return, they told him of their displeasure at what they termed his abandonment of his legal career, and to a lesser degree, his abandonment of them. There had been a lot of tears, a lot of words, and strangest of all, a lot of laughter. He couldn't remember the last time he had genuinely laughed at shared memories of his parents. He knew he would be back to see them again soon, and they knew it too; a healing of sorts had begun.

  Tony had walked out with him to the car, at the end of the night. They had shaken hands and then mutually and spontaneously hugged each other tight.

  He’d handed Roussel a letter-sized manila envelope. Roussel could see it was bursting with documents.

  ‘I hope you find what you are looking for, Charlie,’ Tony had said gravely.

  He’d tapped the brown envelope gently.

  ‘And I’m not talking about this, either.’

  ‘I know,’ Roussel had responded. ‘Thanks Tony; for everything, I really mean that.’

  ‘I know you do.’

  He looked at that self same envelope now, sitting in front of him on the kitchen table. He extracted the bundle of photocopied documents; Tony had retained all the originals like all good lawyers. He opened his leather bound notebook and clicked his pen into action.

  He read every document, methodically cataloguing the salient points one by one, sipping his coffee and making the occasional notation as he went. It took him a full hour to read the stack, but strangely, even though it was two am, he did not feel in the least bit tired.

  He looked at the name and address he had written down; Thomas Eugene O'Neill, Cork, Republic of Ireland. He compared it to the name he had written down on that first night; the name from the gravestone.

  Damn, now he knew why he followed his hunches. The name stared back at him. Mary O’Neill.

  He wondered if the captain felt the same way as he did about coincidences.

  Chapter 23 – Rebirth

  15th May 2011 – Five days after the Storm.

  The beginning of compunction is the beginning of a new life. – George Eliot.

  The double doors of the master bedroom were the closest point in the house to the sea. He always slept with one door very slightly ajar, so he could hear the lapping of the waves. He always felt, as he was getting up, that you could reach your hand through the gap and touch the ocean; it was as close as that.

  He glanced back to the large king-size bed. The satin sheets were pulled tight around a softly snoring mound. He personally never cared for covers; he didn't feel the cold.

  At this stage, he didn't even bother to learn their names. They were the lucky ones as far as he was concerned, removed from the stable to live with the stallion in luxury for a while. Truth be told, he wasn't that interested in sex and the girls knew it. For them, it was only a temporary reprieve, but they grasped it willingly with both hands. For him, it was the chance to be near another human being; to feel the heat radiating from their bodies, without having to get too close. He didn't like close; he didn't do close.

  He left her to her dreams, and wandered out through the doors and down onto the shore. He picked up a handful of stones, flat ones, and started skimming them out across the small breakers.

  His father had built the house, literally with his own hands.

  David’s grandfather had been a stone mason and master craftsman, and Pat the Bull had inherited a love of working with his hands. Simple and honest toil, he used to call it.

  He’d built the house just before the twins were born; just after his legitimate business was beginning to flourish. The time of contentment, before greed and the need for material possessions and massive wealth had overtaken his original requirement for simple comfort and happiness.

  The Bull had been a tough man, and an even tougher father. He’d come from harsh roots; so much so in fact, that he used to call himself a common man. He’d been a worker from the working-class. He’d been fiercely proud of who he was and where he came from, and no amount of money and riches could make him forget that. He’d never let anybody else forget it either, least of all his two sons.

  David himself was now as rough and tough as they came. You had to be to survive in his game, even if so much of it was a performance; an act. But it had not always been that way.

  Being twins, himself and John had done everything together. Like all working men made good, his father had wanted the absolute best for his boys. David had always thought that it was his class that separated him from his classmates. He spoke the same, dressed the same, thought the same, but they always held something back; always kept something in reserve.

  He remembered distinctly, overhearing a conversation between two sets of parents in the car park of the school, as he waited for John to come down. He was always a nosey and inquisitive kid. They had used the word distasteful to describe his family. It didn’t sound like a compliment, but at the time, he did not really know what it meant. He had looked it up in the dictionary. He could still, to this day, recall the exact words he had read; unpleasant, offensive, or causing dislike. Years later, he’d had it framed in big letters, and it hung on the wall of his home office; it still provoked some very comical reactions.

  It had been about two months after that comment that his universe had shifted completely on its axis. His attitude to the world completely changed. His father had been killed, and he’d realised he was rich. It had never occurred to him before, but back then, it had opened up a whole new vista of opportunity. He had never looked back.

  And then John had been killed. He’d immediately cloaked himself in a shell of impenetrable hardness. Over time, the urbane exterior he had built up during his school years rubbed off. Like any hastily applied paint or varnish, it eventually wore off, leaving the surface exposed and open, so he’d had to encase himself in concrete. When you got down to the core, he was still the same lonely frightened teenager.

  He never allowed people to see the vulnerable side of his personality, and he consequently wrapped the concrete in a blanket of hate. Pretty soon that was all he was; the man who was solely driven by rage.

  You have to have money to make money. His was the ultimate case in point; the proof of the pudding. He used money as another weapon in his arsenal; to bribe, to open doors, to purchase the stuff of his dreams and to buy trinkets he didn’t want. He was still basically that spoiled teenager; whatever he wanted, he
got and there was nobody to say no to him. Sometimes, early on in his bereavement, he’d wished there had been. Now, nobody dared and nobody would.

  There was a discreet cough behind him.

  Ben Collins was standing on the private beach, keeping a polite distance away. As well as being his most trusted business adviser, Ben was about as close as David got to a friend.

  Of course, Ben was paid exceptionally well, but David knew he wasn't in it for the money. That was why he was still alive and still working in his current position; they both understood who the boss was, and where the lines were drawn. Strangely enough, despite all of that or maybe because of it, Ben actually liked him.

  David nodded curtly behind him, toward the patio doors.

  ‘Get me a new one,’ he said. ‘I’m bored with this one. Make sure she's gone, by the time I get home. I want another installed in her place. And blonde this time; I’m fucked off with all the brunettes.’

  Ben nodded his understanding.

  ‘And get the car brought round in about half an hour,’ he said. ‘I’m going to have a shower, a little bit of breakfast and then we’ll go and take a look; see how the site is shaping up.’

  ‘I’ll make sure we are ready and waiting,’ responded Ben smartly.

  Twenty nine minutes later, he was refreshed and eager to face the day. Breakfast was always the same; a cup of decaffeinated coffee, a glass of orange juice and a bowl of Alpen muesli (the cheap ones just weren't the same somehow.)

  He bounded down the steps and his driver, Tony, hopped out and opened the door. David slid into the back next to Ben; he always sat on the left side of the car, furthest away from the nearside and possible attack.

  He noticed with some amusement, that Tony wouldn't engage drive until he had clicked his seatbelt into place; the true mark of absolute authority.

  ‘I know the timescales have been tough,’ said David. ‘But what’s the story on the facility. Will I be impressed?’