by Kyle Mills
“Son of a bitch!” he shouted loudly enough that Laura sloshed a good portion of her coffee on her blouse. “I know this asshole!”
Beamon ripped the picture off the blackboard and moved past Laura, who was walking in circles pulling her shirt in and out, trying to cool the dark stain spattered across her chest. He slapped the picture down on the conference table. “Christ, Laura, quit playing with yourself and come over here. This is him!”
The agents in the room suddenly finished the tasks that a moment ago were so important, and began crowding around him, looking at the picture that was now stuck in the middle of the conference table. Sherman hung up his phone and took a seat at the end of the table.
“I worked an investigation in Baltimore with this guy—must have been ten years ago,” Beamon started. “He was working for DEA at the time. I was impressed with him at first—he was quiet, but really bright and insanely dedicated. So he’s got this informant that he wants me to meet. I get there a little late and he’s beat the shit out of him. Broke his arm. Lying son of a bitch almost got me thrown out of the Bureau.”
He turned away from the table and went through a rather elaborate pantomime of a football player spiking a ball.
“Call up the guys investigating him. Tell ’em he’s damned dangerous.” He was grinning from ear to ear and seriously considering breaking into song.
“Sorry to ruin the mood, Mark,” Sherman cut in, “but aren’t you forgetting something?”
Beamon thought for a moment. “Let’s see, find out the identity of the criminal, catch the criminal. Nope, I got it covered.”
Sherman pointed to a phone anchored to one of the rooms glass walls. “Call Calahan.”
“Don’t suppose you’d like to do it for me.”
Sherman shook his head. “You did the work, Mark. Can’t hurt for you to take the credit.”
Beamon sighed and dialed the direct line to the Director’s office. It was picked up on the first ring.
“Calahan.”
“Mark Beamon, sir—I think we’ve identified our man. We believe he’s an ex-DEA agent named John …”
“When can you pick him up?” came the Director’s excited reply. He sounded like he was already planning his press conference.
“I don’t really know, sir. We believe he’s in the Baltimore area. Hell, we may just be able to pick him up at his house—but I doubt it. If he hasn’t been seen there in a while, we’ll have to assume that he’s relocated somewhere else in the city. In that case, I figure we bring in a bunch of guys from New York and Philly to help out. With that kind of manpower, and assuming we’re right about him still being in the Baltimore area, we should have him in a couple of weeks at the outside.”
There was a long pause on the other end of the phone. “If he isn’t at his house, bring the Baltimore Police in on this. They’ve got far more manpower than we can muster.”
In the back of his mind, Beamon had known that the Director would make that suggestion. He had been hoping that the back of his mind would be wrong this time.
“I don’t think that that’s such a good idea right now. I wouldn’t want to do anything that could tip this guy off.”
Beamon knew he was treading on thin ice here. The Director had been a street cop early in his career. It had only been for about a year, but he never let his subordinates forget that he had once “walked the beat.”
“I’ve had it with this us-and-them attitude between the FBI and police.” The volume of Calahan’s voice had risen a notch.
Beamon interrupted before Calahan could get both feet firmly planted on his FBI/local police relations soapbox. “Sir, with all due respect to the Baltimore Police Department, I think we can count on the fact that a man like John Hobart is going to be keeping an eye on what’s going on there.”
Calahan was yelling now in that high-pitched whine that Beamon remembered so well. “If I want the Baltimore Police Force brought in on this, you’ll goddam well bring them in on it.”
Beamon tried to imitate the calm, humble tone Tom Sherman used when trying to placate the Director. “Sir, you agreed to let me head this investigation because of my experience and track record. Please, just let me do my job and I’ll get this guy.”
Calahan laughed bitterly. “Your experience and track record? My, we do have a high opinion of ourselves, don’t we? I let Sherman bring you in on this because you’re expendable. Don’t ever kid yourself that it was anything more than that.”
Beamon felt control slipping away from him. Thousands of people were dead, and Calahan was off on another one of his personal power trips. “Sir, I don’t think that even you can be this fucking dense. Is there another agenda here that I’m not aware of?”
The room behind him went completely silent. For a moment, Beamon thought that the CNN commentator on the TV above him had even stopped talking. As he leaned back to check, Tom Sherman snatched the phone out of his hand.
“Sir, this is Tom Sherman.”
Beamon noticed how effectively the plush carpet muffled his footsteps as he walked back to the conference table and fell into one of the chairs. The unintelligible high-pitched shouting coming over the phone was audible even over the sound of the television sets.
Everyone was still silent, and they were all now looking at him with faint smiles of admiration. Beamon figured that every one of them went to bed at night fantasizing about doing what he just did. He turned his attention back to Sherman as he replaced the receiver.
“Could you give us a few minutes, please?” Sherman said to the agents grouped at the other end of the room. As they filed quietly out, Beamon felt a pang of guilt. Sherman had blocked a number of vicious political blows meant for him over the years. He also knew that Sherman had put his reputation on the line in giving him this job.
“Not you, Laura,” Sherman said, taking the seat across from Beamon. Laura sat down as far from them as the conference table would allow.
“What the hell are you doing, Mark? Couldn’t you just finish the job and add another chapter in your legend? I could have turned this case into a real leg up for you.”
“Bullshit, Tommy. It’s not that I don’t appreciate your effort, you know I do. But let’s face it, my condition’s terminal here. I never thought I’d say it, but I’m ready to put this case to bed and get back to my little life in Houston.”
Sherman shook his head and let out a long sigh. “It’s not your case to put to bed anymore. It’s Laura’s show now.”
Both men turned toward her. She looked like she wanted to crawl under the table.
Beamon stood and stretched his arms wildly. “Well then, it looks like I’ve got a plane to catch.”
“No you don’t. You’re staying on the team. Calahan seems to think that working for a woman might teach you a little humility.”
Beamon resisted the urge to look over at Laura as he sat back down. She wasn’t going to take that insult lightly. “I don’t know, Tommy, has working for a moron taught you humility?”
Sherman stood and headed for the exit. “I don’t care how you delegate the authority here, but I will tell you this. If we don’t have this guy by tonight, get on the phone to the commissioner and get the police in on this. That’s not a request.”
Sherman stopped at the door. “Oh, and Laura. That woman comment came from Calahan, not from me. When Mark asked that you be brought in on this, he told me you were one of the best investigators in the Bureau. I haven’t seen anything to suggest he’s wrong.”
“Nice job, Mark,” Laura said after Sherman had pulled the door fully closed. “What were you thinking, talking to the Director like that?”
Beamon pushed violently on the table, rolling his chair back a couple of feet. “Why the hell shouldn’t I? Calahan spends a few years as a judge and plays golf with a couple of political hacks, and that qualifies him to tell me how to run my investigation? It’d be funny if there weren’t fucking twenty thousand people dead.”
Laura moved to t
he chair that Sherman had vacated. “Okay, so Calahan’s an idiot. That’s no reason for you to push your personal self-destruct button. It’s starting to get a little worn out, Mark.”
“So am I.”
Laura bounced her fist playfully against his knee. “Well, we better catch this guy and get you back to Houston before Calahan puts you in charge of the janitorial staff. What’s the plan?”
“I’m thinking that we have to count on the general APB going out. Hobart’s one smart son of a bitch. I can pretty much guarantee we won’t get him by tonight.”
“We’ll have them announce the APB at roll call. At least we can keep it from going out over the radio.”
Beamon nodded. “May I make a couple of suggestions?”
Laura smiled almost imperceptibly. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you suggest anything before. Maybe working for a little ol’ girl is going to improve your social graces.”
“Don’t count on it.”
“Believe me, I’m not. So what are your suggestions?”
“Well, if we find out that Hobart isn’t living at his house—and I think we will—he must be living somewhere else; probably a rental. Get some guys to run down all the houses rented from around the time the neighbors said they stopped seeing him. They should be able to get a handle on that through the local realtors and old newspapers.”
“Anything else?”
“Yeah. As soon as he hears that we’re onto him, he’s gonna have to get rid of his car—if he hasn’t already. I want the car rental agencies around Baltimore faxing us copies of the driver’s licenses of everyone who rents a car. We should probably try to get that going tomorrow.”
Laura nodded as she scribbled on the legal pad in front of her. Finally she looked up. “So did you really say that about me?”
“What?”
“You know. About being one of the best investigators.”
Beamon smiled. “Nah. Tom’s a little senile—gets things confused. I’ve been covering for him for years.”
Officer Larry McFee pulled his cruiser up behind another just like it on the crowded West Baltimore street. He turned on his lights and got out of the car, slipping his nightstick into his belt.
A small crowd had gathered and was milling around lazily in front of a crumbling row home. Domestic disputes
were commonplace in this neighborhood, but could still be an interesting diversion. A brief respite from the boredom of the unusually hot March afternoon.
McFee pushed silently through the crowd. It offered token resistance, the people displaying their lack of respect for the law. He hated domestic disputes more than any other kind of bust. They were dangerous and generally pointless—charges were almost never pressed. All in all, one big waste of time.
The row home had been divided into four small apartments. The door to the apartment at the end of the hall on the right was wide open, and the shouting that had been muffled outside was now clear as a bell. He put his hand on his nightstick and walked quickly toward the noise.
He stood for a moment in the open doorway. A heavyset black male, approximately forty-five years of age, was brandishing a rolling pin threateningly. His bare chest was spattered with blood. Less than ten feet from him, a young cop was pointing a .38 at his head. The yelling was coming from the cop, as he urged the man to put down the rolling pin and lie down on the floor. McFee grimaced and scanned the rest of the room. Behind the sofa, a burly woman cop was helping a severely battered woman to her feet. Her face looked to be the source of the blood on the man’s chest.
McFee shook his head, feeling a familiar hatred rising in him. A friend of his had been killed in a situation not unlike this one.
“So what the fuck’s going on in here?”
The young cop shifted his eyes slightly to the right, spotting McFee. A look of relief crossed his face. He nodded toward the man in the center of the room.
“He won’t put down the rolling pin.”
McFee grunted and pulled his nightstick from its place in his belt and began walking toward the man.
His eyes were glassy, and McFee noted that his body was swaying slightly.
When he got within striking distance, the man backed up half a step instead of swinging, just as McFee had expected. Fifteen years on the beat had taught him a few things about people.
McFee didn’t make the same mistake. He jabbed the nightstick hard into the man’s stomach, doubling him over with a loud rush of air from his lungs. He then brought the nightstick down hard across his back, dropping the man to the floor with a loud thud.
Breathing hard, McFee pulled out his cuffs, and closed them around the man’s thick wrists. Behind him he heard the battered woman, who had presumably called them, go from whimpering to screaming and clawing at the cop holding her. Her partner rushed over to help.
McFee stood, hauled the dazed man to his feet, and began walking toward the door.
As he started down the steps with his prisoner, the noise from the bystanders increased. The crowd parted even more slowly than when he had arrived. He was almost to his car when he was hit hard from behind, almost knocking him off his feet.
The woman who had been half beaten to death by the man he now had in custody had apparently changed her mind about the arrest. She was now firmly attached
to McFee’s back, making every attempt to sink her teeth into his neck. He spun wildly, releasing his grip on his prisoners arm, and managed to grab the woman’s hair before she could get her teeth into him. The fear of AIDS was firmly planted in the mind of every cop who worked in the inner city. He slammed her hard into the side of the cruiser, and hearing the wind go out of her, managed to flip her over his head onto the sidewalk.
The crowd’s volume had grown another notch, and they looked energized by the spectacle. McFee knew how important it was to regain control immediately, and he pulled his gun. The two young officers, now at the top of the stairs, followed his lead.
“Now, why doesn’t everybody just calm down and go home,” McFee suggested. No one moved. The two cops pushed their way toward him and handcuffed the woman writhing on the sidewalk.
McFee kept an eye on the crowd as he pushed the squabbling couple into the squad car. He walked back to his own unit and pulled into the street, watching the happy couple beginning once again to scream at each other in the back seat of the car in front of him. Something bounced off the trunk of his car. It sounded like a can.
Fucking niggers, he thought, pulling his car onto Pratt Street and heading east.
He glanced at his watch. Eleven forty-five.
When he reached Canton, he turned right and headed for the warehouse district. There was a dive pub on the water that served a cheesesteak, fries, and a Coke for four dollars. As he crossed Boston Street, a red Jeep Cherokee appeared in front of him.
At morning roll call, their Captain had told them to be on the lookout for a similar vehicle and had given them the license number. He had gone on to say, to the amusement of everyone in the room, that the man’s capture was a top priority but that he was extremely dangerous and that they were not to try to apprehend him without the FBI. An anonymous voice had spoken for everyone. “Oooh, that makes me feel a lot safer” Laughter had drowned out the rest of the Captains speech. While he hadn’t seen fit to tell them just who this desperado was, it had taken less than an hour for everyone to figure it out.
McFee shuffled through the papers on his passenger seat, finally finding the yellow Post-it note that he had jotted the license number down on. He glanced down at it and squinted through the glare of his dirty windshield.
The numbers matched.
He felt adrenaline surge through him. Taking a few deep breaths, he pulled within ten feet of the Jeep and flipped on his lights.
John Hobart had noticed the police car behind him the minute it pulled across Boston. He had checked his speed—he was going just under the thirty-five mile an hour limit—and continued to flick his eyes periodically to the rearview m
irror. He swore quietly when the lights went on.
His hair had been dyed a sandy brown, and he was wearing a matching false mustache. It was the same disguise he had been wearing around Baltimore for two months now, but it didn’t match his driver’s license picture. And he didn’t feel like explaining his change in appearance to some dumb-ass Baltimore street cop.
He eased the Cherokee to the side of the road, trying to figure out why he was being pulled over, finally deciding that it must be a brake light or something equally trivial. Even the widely heralded Mark Beamon couldn’t have identified him that fast. And even if he had, he wouldn’t send one lone cop to pick him up.
Hobart examined the police officer as he stepped from his cruiser and began walking toward his car. Too slow, he thought watching the man’s gait. He also noticed the fact that his right hand wasn’t swinging as he walked. It was being held unnaturally close to his gun.
That just wasn’t normal. He was a middle-aged white male in an expensive automobile. This guy should be cool as a cucumber.
Shit.
He reached between the driver’s seat and console and pulled out a .45. He slid the lever back and switched it to his left hand, where it would be out of sight. The cop was close enough now that he could see his nervous expression reflected in the Jeep’s side mirror. His grip tightened around the gun as the cop came abreast of his open window and crouched down, bringing his face level with Hobart’s.
“FBI’s on to you Mr. Hobart. A lot of us are behind what you’re doing.”
With that, he stood and walked back to his cruiser. Hobart sat silently, watching the cop’s stiff stride. He looked like he wasn’t entirely sure if he was going to get a bullet in the back or not.
The cop slid back into his car. His engine roared loudly as he pulled into the street. Hobart sat and watched the car as it grew smaller and smaller, finally turning off onto a side street and disappearing into a landscape of mountainous piles of black coal.
32
Baltimore, Maryland,
March 10
