The Suicide Society

by William Brennan Knight

  Price pulled a comb through his hair while walking purposefully toward the store, his companions in lock step behind him. He received an important directive from Thomas Abernathy early this morning, and fortunately, he was in the L.A. basin dealing with another ugly defection case.

  Most of those that strayed from the benevolence of the Benefactor were not important enough for Price’s personal time. They were either snuffed out on a local level, or pushed over the edge by that freak Ziminski. Those of weak character only needed a nudge after all. However, Price had been on a conference call with both Abernathy and Xavier Watts about this case, and it just didn’t get more important than that.

  The four men brushed past several patrons and walked to the counter. The cashier was a rotund man of Irish descent. He smelled of sweat and garlic.

  “I’m looking for a girl,” said Price. “Mid 30s, looks older, stringy blond hair, brown print dress.”

  The cashier grunted. “I get a lot of people here. I don’t pay attention.”

  With extraordinary quickness, Price reached over the counter and grabbed the man’s throat and squeezed hard. The reaction was instantaneous. The cashier’s eyes bulged, and he gasped through his constricted airway.

  “I don’t know—don’t pay attention,” he gasped. “A woman came in, maybe. She left with two old people.”

  “Which way?”

  “I don’t know—I swear.”

  Price clamped down on the man’s trachea. The clerk struggled mightily to pull the hand away, but Price had exceptionally toned muscles and his disposition was too mean. Victor Price loved to inflict pain, and he considered his work a privilege.

  Just as the clerk began to lose consciousness, Price shoved him backwards, and he stumbled into a rack of cigarettes that sat against the back wall. Hearing the commotion, some of the patrons fled the store while others looked for cover in the aisles or restrooms. Price straightened his tie, brushed off his jacket and exited the building with purpose as his companions followed at a respectable distance. The wide-eyed clerk struggled to his feet as the car squealed out of the parking lot and headed west on I-15.

  Price vowed to find that bitch before she had the chance to reveal anything about Desolation and the Network. He grabbed his cell phone and dialed Abernathy.

  ***

  The wheels hit hard as the Boeing 757 touched down at McCarran International in Las Vegas. As Zach exited the plane on the jet bridge, it felt like the heat thermals were burning his face.

  Stopping inside to secure baggage and a rental car, they left McCarran and exited onto I-15 heading toward the strip where they reserved a room at the Wynn resort. As the car moved smoothly along the highway, Zach grabbed Anston’s arm. “Take this exit.”

  “What?” The car swerved a bit to maneuver onto East Flamingo. “Where are we going?”

  “She lives over here. I put the address into my phone GPS. Make the next left and a hard right in two blocks.”

  “I thought we were checking into the hotel?”

  “Forget about that. This woman’s life is in danger.”

  The streets narrowed as the car drove deeper into a neighborhood about two miles off the strip. Dusk made its brief appearance, and the street lights sensors were just beginning to trip as they turned down Brush Street.

  The apartment building looked old and decrepit. With telltale shake shingles, drab flat roof and aluminum siding, Zach guessed it was built in the 1960s or early 70s. The property was in relative disrepair with overgrown and dead shrubbery intruding on the cracked walkway. Even in the glow of the parking lot lamps, it was apparent the paint was peeling badly from the fascia.

  Throughout a courtyard that might once have served as a relaxing respite from the rigors of the day, broken benches lay at a cockeyed angle and decaying trash was strewn everywhere. The area had become the perfect haven for gangs, prostitution and drug transactions. Even as Zach and Anston made their way toward Building 20, Apartment 21, they received numerous threatening glances from obscure shadows in the courtyard. Unwelcome visitors always raised suspicions.

  They climbed a long set of stairs on the outside of the building, and Zach knocked twice at the door of the apartment. He looked over at Anston, shrugged, and knocked again with more authority. After the third rap on the door, he concluded no one was in the apartment. Just as he turned to leave, Anston unexpectedly reached down and twisted the handle while pushing on the door.

  “It’s open,”

  “I can see that,” replied Zach. They stood looking at the open door, but neither crossed the threshold.

  “I didn’t come all this way to leave without some answers,” Anston whispered. He moved inside with a slow, tentative step. Zach followed closely behind.

  “Hello?” said Zach. The word sounded dry and raspy.

  The living room was small and sparsely furnished. The shades had been drawn, and it took some time to adjust to the relative darkness. The kitchen extended into the living room, and there was a single bedroom toward the rear of the apartment. As his eyes adjusted, Zach could see a dim, yellow light coming through a crack in the bedroom doorway.

  “It’s exactly as I remember it,” said Zach.

  “What?”

  “In the vision. The layout of the apartment is exactly as I remember it.”

  “Then what’s in the bedroom?”

  Zach sighed and raised his eyebrows. “I hope it’s not what I…”

  With a slight push, the bedroom door swung open to reveal the sight of Maybel Downey, slumped over, her long, unkempt hair hanging down so it completely covered her faced. The scene appeared far more gruesome in person than it had in the vision. The elapsed time allowed blood to drain and soak the bed, and it crept up her white nightgown, creating a jagged, red line halfway up the width of her thigh.

  The pair stood silently for some time, exchanging glances while trying to overcome the shock of the scene that lay before them.

  “What—what should we do now?” Anston’s voice was small but deafening as it pierced the silence.

  “I don’t know, Jarad. I should have called the police. I suppose we should call them now.”

  “But how are we going to explain this? Explain why we’re here?”

  Zach walked over to the bed and placed his hand on the woman’s neck. A relatively strong pulse told him she was still alive. He pushed the hair away from her face and lightly stroked her chin. How could she have done this to herself? An unexpected calm overcame him, and he gently propped her head up. Her eyelids fluttered open briefly, and she looked directly at him. Their eyes locked and communicated without words. Her mouth curled into the slightest of smiles.

  “You came,” she said.

  Zach smiled back. “Yes, Maybel, as I said I would. But, we need to call a doctor.”

  She shook her head. “The bleeding has stopped. I’m weak, but it looks much worse than it is. I would rather talk to you first.”

  “Of course,” replied Zach. He motioned to the far side of the room. “This is my friend Jarad Anston. He’s here to help.”

  “I know. I understand it all now”

  Anston walked up to Zach and smiled at the woman. “My God, Zach, you know what this means don’t you?”

  “Yes, I know. It means the visions are real.”

  ***

  In the northern province of Mosul in Iraq, the band of Sunni Ba'ath loyalists sat together in a small, barren, mud-brick house. They gathered around four hardened composite suitcases each with a different embossed number printed on the lid. Speaking in low tones, they huddled together like a pack of dogs looking to cut the cold from a frigid night.

  “The transport should not be difficult,” said the heavily bearded one with beady eyes that shifted rapidly, a habit born from years of evading those who hunted him. “If we travel in stealth, up through the Kurdish north, cross the border into Turkey, we can follow the desert into Istanbul.

  “Praise to God, peace be with us,” replied his gl
assy-eyed, pock-marked compatriot. “We will have the bomb planted in the mosque in Istanbul within a day, I promise.”

  “And you Aabdar, can you find your way to Mumbai two days following?”

  Aabdar bowed his head and spoke in low tones, “God willing, the bomb will be detonated in His glory on the chosen day.”

  “And you Jabbar, the Jewish infidels in Tel-Aviv shall repent?”

  “Most surely,” replied Jabbar. “I will have the bomb set in the synagogue in two days, and we will all see its glory!”

  Another rose and gestured enthusiastically. “And I vow our most scared instrument will be positioned in Shanghai two days beyond.”

  “Good, “replied the leader with lust in his eyes. “With the two other bombs soon to find their homes in America and Brazil, our leader’s vision and prophecy shall be fulfilled!”

  From the shadows, a stealthy figure stepped out, cigarette smoke shrouding his gaunt face. He regarded the huddling group with contempt. Thomas Abernathy had a sensitive nose, and no matter what nationality, terrorists always had this certain fear-stink.

  Seeing him enter the room, the leader of the group dropped to his knees and began kissing Abernathy’s shoes. “The emissary of the Rasul.”

  Abernathy grabbed the one named Fadi by the galabiyya and yanked him to his feet. “Get up! Enough with the hero worship. Do you have the nuclear devices?”

  “Yes, great one,” replied Fadi.

  “Good. Then you know what you must do. He who is most powerful expects total compliance.”

  “Yes, of course. We understand.”

  “Do you? I’m not so sure.” A smile crossed Abernathy’s lips as he reached for another cigarette.

  “No sir, we are loyal. Loyal to the Rasul.”

  With a swift motion, Abernathy extracted an automatic handgun from his breast pocket and brought it directly to the forehead of Fadi.

  The man’s face went ghost white, and his eyes shifted rapidly. “Nooo!” He tried to protest with hands raised over his face as he backed away, but it was too late. Abernathy squeezed the trigger, and the bullet tore through Fadi’s hands and slammed directly between his eyes just above the bridge of his nose. A mass of wet, mushy material blew out the back of his skull with a sickening thud. The remaining terrorists huddled together in fear and rapidly incanted religious verses.

  Abernathy holstered the weapon and turned to the group. “Aabdar, you are now in charge. You will bring in a new recruit by tonight, and he will assume your previous responsibilities.” He paused and walked slowly and deliberately so he came to be directly in front of Aabdar.

  “You see, Fadi proved disloyal to the Rasul. Indeed, he was transferring some of the money we paid him directly to his personal accounts. This was curious in light of the fact we gave him enough to clothe, feed and educate his family in a manner they could have only dreamed about.”

  Abernathy moved to the doorway, leaving his back turned to the remaining terrorists. “To make matters worse, we found out he was visiting with local authorities. We simply can’t have that kind of disloyalty, can we Aabdar?”

  The one named Aabdar shook his head vigorously. “No, no, we are all very loyal to the Rasul—the Benefactor. We are loyal to him as we are to God, blessed they be.”

  “Good, then that solves it. The bombs must be in place no later than five days from this coming Wednesday. And remember, we will be watching.” Abernathy abruptly left the hut, extracted his cell phone and hit the star key, which assured him of a secure line. The phone rang once.

  “Hello?”

  “Mr. Watts, it’s Thomas. I’m just leaving Mosul. The conspirators were together and plotting just as you said. I don’t think we’ll have any more difficulties.”

  Xavier Watts exhaled deeply on the other end of the line. “Good. You need to check on the progress of the EMP device they’re building in Zaire. The Christian leaders down there have caught wind that something is going on.”

  “I’m on it,” replied Abernathy. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

  “I know. But as a contingency, it has to be ready.”

  “Ok, I’ll take care of it.”

  “And Thomas, we still have that nasty business of Sarah Johansen hanging out there. I need that fixed right away before she decides to talk to someone.”

  “I understand. Price is handling it. I know of no one better.”

  ***

  Detective Munoz scrolled through the myriad of files on his computer, sent courtesy of Jack Schaeffer. The initial search for the name Moss took him back to a suicide case early in his career. An obscure connection, perhaps oddly coincidental, but Munoz had been around long enough to recognize there were few coincidences in law enforcement.

  After engaging in some serious data mining with help from both Schaeffer and Yolanda Perez in dispatch, Munoz had begun to connect some dots in a very disturbing way.

  He was looking for any commonality between Theresa Armstrong, the recent suicide, and Louis Chesser, the young man that Patrolman Munoz had found dead many years ago. The pivot point was the same name, which both victims had seemed to purposely display.

  One note said, Find Moss, and the other said, It was Moss. What were the victims trying to tell him?

  After conducting an extensive electronic check and cross reference through the crimes database, Munoz had been able to establish a loose tie between Armstrong, Chesser and a banker they both used named Harold Moss. Admittedly, the connection and circumstances were extremely tenuous.

  Although the details were sketchy, Chesser was a small businessman in the midst of expanding his company when he applied for a business loan through Bellevue Interstate Bank. Harold Moss was the commercial loan officer that worked with Chesser throughout the transaction. Chesser had committed to an aggressive expansion and signed contracts with several high-profile developers based on the bank’s verbal approval of his loan request. However, at the last possible moment, Moss apparently changed his mind and rejected the application.

  Lawsuits for breach of contract immediately followed, and Chesser lost several judgments that ultimately left him and the company in bankruptcy. A suit against the bank languished in the courts until it was finally dismissed when Chesser couldn’t pay his attorney. In desperation, the discredited businessman filed a police report, but a short investigation concluded that his complaint was a civil matter.

  Effectively ruined, Lou Chesser committed suicide within two months of his bankruptcy.

  Many years later, Theresa Armstrong had dealt with the same bank. Moss enjoyed extraordinary career advancement and was now the vice president of investment banking operations. Armstrong owned a several million dollar portfolio she inherited when her husband passed away. Through a series of ill-conceived and risky investments sanctioned through a power of attorney, Moss’s department lost the entire fortune in less than a year.

  Armstrong hired an attorney, but the bank used its considerable resources to drag the litigation process out indefinitely. She filed a complaint with the SEC that was dismissed without comment. Penniless and in desperation, Theresa Armstrong filed a police report accusing the bank and Harold Moss of criminal negligence. Once again, the subsequent investigation concluded that her case was a civil matter.

  Theresa Armstrong killed herself less than a month later.

  Jose Munoz leaned back in his chair and sighed deeply while grabbing his coffee cup and taking a long swallow. His eyes squinted, accenting the frown lines that had developed from years of digesting evidence and unraveling mysterious crimes. He picked up the phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Jack, its Jose. You got a second?”

  “Sure Jose, what’s up?” asked Jack Schaffer.

  “If I give you some names, can you access the FBI or Homeland Security database and cross-reference something for me?”

  “Depends. The feds are pretty protective of their info. Are we looking for a terrorist? That would make it easier.”
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br />   Munoz thought for a moment. “I’m not sure what this is. I just want to check banking records for a group of suicides. Let’s go back 10 years. Anyone who banked at Bellevue Interstate and had an unusual financial loss within a year of their death.”

  “Man, that’s a lot of work, Jose, and some very sensitive information. The banks don’t like it when the feds do a deep dive like that. Anyway, it may be impractical. Probably close to 10,000 people killed themselves over 10 years.”

  “Sorry, Jack. It could be important.”

  “All right. My best friend is dating a girl who works FBI local. It should save us some time. What if I get her to give me the data from the bank account triggers? You know, the alerts they get when there is unusual deposit or withdrawal movement. If I gave her the list of names, and the name of the bank, would that work?”

  Munoz smiled slowly. “That’s exactly what I need. Gracias compadre.”

  Later in the day, while Munoz was gathering evidence on his primary homicide case, a text from Jack Schaeffer popped up on his phone:

  Just received the data you requested. Very interesting: 9,657 suicides in King County over 10-year period; 11.2 percent triggered unusual bank activity flagged within last two months prior to death. I’ve checked about 50 cases so far, and 82 percent of those people were banking at Bellevue, yet the bank only has 28 percent of total market. Strange. Let me know if you want me to check some more. Hope that helps.

  Munoz looked down at the text and scratched his head. Perhaps it was time to formally meet Mr. Harold Moss.

  Chapter Nine

  With considerable effort, Zach and Anston helped Maybel Downey get to her feet and into the shower. While she bathed, they wrapped the bloody linens tightly and discarded them in the community trash receptacle. Sometime later, the haggard woman emerged from the bedroom with fresh clothes and the blood washed from her hair. The hint of near death remained, but she looked far more presentable than when they found her.