Inception_The Bern Project

by M James Conway

  Russell looked questioningly at Sims.

  Sims shrugged. “You’ll see.”

  The coroner’s assistants placed a body bag on the ground, opened it, and reached into the car. They had to contort themselves, one in the back, one in the front, in order to pull the body out. On the back of the dead man’s clothes there appeared to be some lettering like you would see on a jersey.

  “Wait. What’s that say?” Russell asked. The assistants stopped, showing annoyance that they had to hold the weight of a dead body.

  Sims stood back up. “It says ‘Sex Slave Owner’ up top and ‘One Down’ on the bottom. It’s hard to see now, but we got a great pic of it. It’s very symmetric. Proper spelling, all capital letters. Whoever did this took their time to write it. White shoe polish.” Sims nodded to the assistants and they continued to the bag, placed the body down and rolled the man onto his back.

  Russell and Sims walked over to the body. The front of the shirt used to be blue, but the color had been replaced by a dark brownish or burgundy hue. Dried blood. The M.E. was bending down in front. He stood up, turned and said, “I’d say he’s been dead for about twelve hours. Probably planned.”

  “Oh, are you serious? You think it was planned? My god, that is amazing! Thank you, Detective,” Sims said sarcastically.

  The M.E. frowned and walked to the van.

  “What’s that, about three or so? Maybe four stab wounds?” Russell asked.

  Sims bent down and looked. “Three. Not counting the open neck.”

  “Knowledgeable killer,” Russell said.

  “Crime of passion maybe? Revenge? You know, the sex slave type of revenge.”

  “Well, it must have been planned.” Russell looked up and around, taking in the scene of the garage. He pointed with his pen up to the corner of the garage. “Cameras.” He looked and pointed to the other corners, noticing they had some sort of security camera in each corner. None of them rotated.

  “They’re static, though, so only one view, one angle.” Sims walked to the driver’s side door and turned to the camera by the elevators. “That one might get a good angle. Maybe. Hard to tell.”

  “Only witnesses were the two kids?”

  “That we know of. Probably, though. Of course, they didn’t witness shit. Just found the dude in his car.”

  “Okay.”

  Since Russell had seniority, he would be directing the teams. “Stay here until the body is gone and see about getting the shots from all the cameras. Check the entries and exits, all floors, see if anything pops up out of the ordinary. Get a copy of it if you can. I’ll have the vehicle towed to our lot and call Wagner.”

  “Sure thing. I’ll call ya when I get a look at the cameras. Might be a while.”

  Russell waved and walked off. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed Kat. It started ringing and he stepped into the elevator, hit the ground floor button, and, when it arrived, he was greeted by a different patrol officer. He covered the mouthpiece of the phone. “We’re almost done here. Just waiting for the tow truck to arrive and the M.E. to leave.”

  “Well, shit. I just got here. Need the overtime.”

  “Yeah? Should have gotten here earlier. Jonesy would have loved to see ya.”

  “Yeah? Fuck Jonesy.”

  Russell laughed. He heard Kat’s voicemail greeting and waited for the beep. “Hey, Sweets. Well, I’m leaving Bellevue Mall. I might be working for a while, at least all night. I’ll do what I can to meet tomorrow, but can’t make promises. This might be a big one. Anyways, see you when I can.” He went to hang up, but remembered something. “Oh, one more thing. Try to find out which neighbor is Michael. He invited us to a barbeque this weekend.” He paused. “I love you,” he added, but the recording had already ended. He put the phone back, got into his car and headed to the station.

  Chapter 6

  John made it into Seattle in under forty-five minutes and found a parking spot without delay in front of Teanie Beanie’s Coffee. When you ride a motorcycle, parking is easy, when all you have to do is back the bike up to the curb in between cars.

  He dismounted and stepped onto the busy sidewalk and navigated his way to the front door, passing worker bees, homosexual couples walking hand-in-hand and teenagers with multiple piercings.

  John loved Capitol Hill for its close-knit homosexual community, diverse population and the eclectic mix of cuisine that was found on every street and corner in the neighborhood, though he detested the rest of Seattle for the concrete jungle it had become. Capitol Hill had fallen victim to urbanization and growth, but was able to hold onto its identity as the most diverse and open community within Seattle, and he appreciated that. He especially liked the rainbow crosswalks that added both color and flavor to an already vibrant and artistic community.

  He walked in and noticed a long line of customers, most of them with cell phones to their ears, eagerly waiting for their required coffee. Brie, an employee in her early twenties, was behind the counter taking orders, while Sam, her equal-in-age coworker stood behind the espresso machine whipping up the hot orders. He heard a mix of requests like, “…Half whip…hot temp…dash of cinnamon…” and other frivolous necessities, as they pretended to listen. Like an assembly line, the customers gave their requests to Brie, then walked to the other end of the counter to wait for Sam to hand them their beverage.

  John passed the counter on his way to the back, and got a quick nod from Sam, who placed a medium-sized white coffee cup on the counter for him. John grabbed it and held it up to Sam in a mock salute and mouthed, “Thank you.” Morgan must have told Sam to have John’s drink ready for him, which made John smile. But then again, how hard was it to pour plain old black coffee into a cup?

  He took a sip and knocked on the office door, heard Morgan utter, “Fuck off,” and walked inside.

  Morgan, his hot pink Mohawk standing straight up, looked up and said, “You look like a homo carrying that cup.”

  John laughed. “Yeah? You look like a homo, no matter what.”

  “Touché, good sir! That’s because I am.” Morgan pushed away from the desk and leaned back in his chair. He was five-and-a-half feet tall in shoes and weighed one hundred forty pounds, so the chair moved with ease.

  John closed the door behind him and sat down as Morgan turned his iPod on. White noise emanated from the speakers that lined the upper walls of the room. John didn’t see him do it, but he was sure Morgan had already double-checked his office for electronic surveillance. Being hitmen-for-hire tended to draw the interest of the authorities if they suspected anything. You could never be too careful.

  Morgan was always worried about eavesdropping from the authorities, and rightfully so. A former Green Beret, he had served six years in the Army Special Forces, having joined after 9/11, but had been forced out with a general discharge after a teammate turned him in for a revenge killing. Morgan knew in his head that the killing was wrong, but in his heart it was justified. It was also what had introduced Morgan into taking contracts to kill evil men that do harm to others. Ever since then, Morgan had taken every precaution necessary to protect himself from the federal government. Where people used the term “paranoid,” Morgan preferred “selectively cautious.” Being cautious may stray from the societal norm, but situational awareness and being prepared were almost tantamount to survival, and John and Morgan took them very seriously.

  In addition to the white noise, Morgan and John employed non-technological and organic forms of communication to avoid detection in this computerized world, and it had worked thus far. Clients would contact them through the dark web, and, with Morgan’s knowledge of computers, he managed to route his connections through various servers both in and out of the dark web, creating a mesh network of confusion for anyone wanting to pry.

  John took a seat at the desk and grabbed a joint out of Morgan’s tin box. He lit it, took a hit and handed it to Morgan. “So, what’s the news?”

  Morgan slid a manila file across to John. �
�Take a look and take your time.” Morgan grasped the joint between his fingers, leaned back and took a hit. He threw his head back and blew smoke rings toward the ceiling.

  John opened the file. The first few pages were printouts of lines of various numbers, letters and symbols. Whenever they got a contract, Morgan would trace the source of the client as they routed their IP address through various servers. John had no idea how Morgan did it and didn’t care. There were more pages than normal, so that meant the client was either very smart or paranoid.

  John removed the pages and held them up for Morgan, who shrugged and nodded toward the folder, telling John to continue reading.

  John was looking for several things as he flipped through the file. First, he wanted to see the target and everything about them. They always requested a detailed dossier of sorts because without it, the contract wouldn’t be accepted. There had been a few times that clients tried to hide the true intent of their wishes and they had almost accepted the contracts, were it not for Morgan asking detailed questions. John and Morgan had several rules and that included no women, children, or innocent people, and the target had to either have hurt or would continue to hurt people in a bad way that required their disposal or demise. No jilted lovers, business deals-gone-bad, or pesky neighbors.

  The scum of the earth was open game.

  Secondly, the price of the contract. Morgan would wheel and deal based on the complexity and challenges of the hit, and both parties would agree on a price.

  Lastly, the location and means. When and where were crucial, as John and Morgan would have to scout the area to detect any problems that may arise. That included the possibility of having to observe and tail the target to pick up habits and routines, thus making their job easier. They also gave the client the option of choosing how the hit was to be carried out. If it was a distance shot, Morgan would take it, and the others went to John.

  In this case, the target was Vinny Tapper, a get-rich-quick and self-help guru that was somehow able to woo his audience with great speeches and air play.

  John recognized the name and thought he had seen something not too long ago about Vinny being investigated for something, but he couldn’t recall what it was. Reading further, he saw that Vinny was also able to woo children with promises of gifts and fun. Morgan had printed out very detailed information about the allegations against Vinny, including child rape and molestation, but John didn’t read further. He didn’t want to.

  He flipped through more pages that showed pictures of Vinny in various locations and in different poses. Most were from public appearances but a few showed Vinny in black and white, the pictures taken by someone who didn’t want to be seen. John looked at the last page, which showed that the client wanted the hit to be done in public and from a distance. Just below that was a printout of an itinerary which showed that Vinny was on some sort of tour where he was giving speeches and promoting his new bestseller. It was a bus tour that started in January in Miami and would finish in Seattle in August. John checked the date, looked at the calendar and saw that it was on Wednesday. Five days away. He looked up at Morgan.

  Morgan took another hit and handed the joint to John. “Sold?” Morgan asked, while exhaling.

  John took a hit as well, let it hold, then exhaled. “I’m down. He’s a child rapist.” It was always open season on men who hurt children.

  “Allegedly.”

  “What do you mean? You checked it out, right? Thorough search?”

  Morgan nodded. “That part is legit. And he’s definitely one of those self-help gurus. Has made millions off of bullshit.”

  “That’s not a crime, Morgan.”

  “No, but it should be.” Morgan shook his head and continued, “You’re basically selling people a load of shit. What, he writes self-help books? Big fucking deal. Congrats to him, he got rich off of other people’s misery and lack of self-confidence. The only thing people are going to accomplish with that book is knowing that they actually finished a book. That’s it. They read something, congratulations. None of that snake oil he’s selling is going to change anything for anyone. All that breathe-in and breathe-out stuff is worthless. ‘Tame your mind,’ they say. Well, fuck that. Tame my left nut.” Morgan leaned back and spun around completely in his chair and came to rest facing John. “But anyways, that’s not the client’s concern.”

  “Client? Singular? How much they offering?”

  “That’s the problem. Two hundred and fifty thousand.”

  John opened his eyes wide, mouth open. “Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars? Christ, that’s more than we’ve made over the last four hits. How is that a problem?”

  “It’s not just two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. It’s that plus an extra two hundred fifty after it’s done. Half a million. One client. That is the problem. I checked these victims out. None of the parents are rich. Not a one. One of the fathers is a professor at some state university, but other than that, nobody is rich enough to afford this. That is what concerns me and it should concern you. I mean, I didn’t even have to bicker with them. They flat out offered that much and they wanted it done in public. That means a rifle shot. And they want it done at his outdoor event on Wednesday.”

  “Where?”

  Morgan flipped his laptop so John could see the screen. John recognized the website. He’d been on it several times before. The ads at the top and the pictures were familiar because he remembered being there last year at this time.

  Morgan turned the laptop back around. “Myrtle Edwards Park. The Wednesday after Pot Luck Festival. Convenient, no?”

  John nodded. This was starting to have too many coincidences, but $250,000 twice was more than they had anticipated. “Maybe it’s a trap. How do we know they’re going to pay if and when we choose to do this?”

  Morgan reached down and brought out large paper bag that was folded at the top and placed it on the desk. “Because they’ve already paid.”

  “Holy shit.” John just stared at the bag. “One hundred and twenty-five thousand in that bag?”

  Morgan nodded.

  John didn’t touch the bag. To touch the bag would mean he would be agreeing to do the hit. “We have to think logistically about this. A public place from a distance, staging, timing, escape…it would have to work perfectly. Plus, why a public place?”

  Morgan shrugged and held up his cast. “Plus, there’s this. You would have to do the shot. I can’t do it with this.”

  That posed a small problem, since Morgan was a better shot than John was, thanks to his Special Forces training. John was a good shot and didn’t mind doing it, but he preferred the up close and personal way of carrying out these hits.

  John shrugged. “What if we say no?”

  “Then we each keep our half and walk away.”

  Having heard that, John grabbed the bag and looked inside. There were thirteen neat and tight bundles of one hundred dollar bills, with one of them half the size of the other. John smiled. “You didn’t mention this was guaranteed. We must be getting good, no?”

  “There’s one more thing. I traced the IP address. You saw the first few pages.” Morgan nodded toward the pile. “It came from the east coast. Washington DC.”

  “So?” John was still looking in the bag.

  “So, none of the parents of the victims have anything to do with DC. Nothing. Nada. Zip. The IP address was routed around through various servers, but it did originate at an address in DC.”

  “So?”

  “So? So, the problem, Mr. Idgaff, is that the address it came from was a warehouse across the Anacostia River in Southeast DC, and that warehouse burnt down under suspicious circumstances two days ago.”

  “Could be a coincidence.”

  “Yeah. Could be.”

  John folded the bag back up and tucked it under his arm. “What the hell. Let’s check it out anyways. I’m going with Frankie to Pot Luck tomorrow morning, so why don’t you join us? We can sneak away and scout the area. Find a nest f
or me to take a potential shot.”

  “Sneak away with a big strapping muscular man? You know, I’m in.”

  “Just don’t tell Steve. Speaking of which, you guys still going out tonight?”

  Morgan smiled. “Yep! Dinner at his place. He finally has a weekend night off, so he’s promised to make me dinner. All I have to do is bring the wine and myself.”

  Morgan’s boyfriend, Steve, was a helicopter pilot for Channel 2 News and found himself working the weekends when most of the need-to-fly-over-the-scene news was taking place, so his schedule sucked, but since Morgan owned his own business, he was flexible and able to make his own hours.

  “Lucky guy.”

  “Yes, he is.”

  “I was talking about you.” John stood up to leave. “Try to be at my place early tomorrow. Pot Luck opens up at ten in the morning, but we have to get Frankie’s tent up and things unpacked. Probably leave around seven or eight.”

  “Actually, I plan on staying the night at Steve’s condo and he has to work tomorrow. I’ll have him drop me off.”

  “Out of the helicopter?”

  Morgan shrugged. “If it doesn’t go well, he just may.”

  “Steve loves you and vice versa. You guys had a small argument and dinner is a positive step. Just go with it and don’t be an asshole like last time.”

  “Hey, fuck you!”

  “That’s exactly what I’m talking about. That Irish temper shines through and you have a short fuse. Don’t blow it. Steve is a great guy, regardless of how he feels about me.”

  Steve had always been a little bit jealous of how close Morgan and John were, even with the understanding that John wasn’t gay, but apparently any guy time spent away from Steve was considered as a threat to him. John had told Steve that there shouldn’t be any worries and Steve would always say he was cool with it, but, as with most significant others, time with friends was cause for concern and sometimes ended up in a fight like Steve and Morgan had had a few days before.