Superpowers 1: Superguy

by T. Jackson King

  “Well Jeff, what would you like to discuss today?” she said, giving him the opening. It was part of the routine she had learned twenty years ago when she’d earned her master’s in psychiatric counseling. Her state license gave her the ability to accept well paying clients, like the California retirees who kept moving to Santa Fe, along with low income clients like Jeff. Who visited her every Tuesday afternoon.

  “Hmmm, this weekend was good,” he said, his baritone sounding bright and engaged. “I helped three women . . . get to where they needed to go. They smiled at me. It felt nice helping folks.”

  She noted his body language and his mood as he spoke. Dressed in newer blue jeans and a blue prAna Barringer hoodie with its hood laying against his back, and a Hawaiian shirt under the half-zipped hoodie, he sat with crossed legs, his arms resting on his seat’s armrests. His straight black hair had been combed and he was freshly shaved. While his work schedules at the REI store made for varied hours, the fresh shave meant he had gone home from work and cleaned up. His habit of looking clean, spiffed up and congenial was a habit he had learned from his parents, based on family history he’d shared with her. It was the recent death of his father in the DWI crash, and Jeff’s survival, that was the obvious source for his frequent bouts of depression. While she understood his grief, she suspected he also was dealing with trauma from the crash, PTSD, anxiety and feelings of guilt at his survival. Beyond his inner state, she did not understand why a very bright young man like him, with an IT degree from UNM, was not pursuing a career with one of the big corporations based in Albuquerque. Or even in Santa Fe, which had some larger businesses. He could have entered the management training program for any of the big local stores like Kohls, Target and Macy’s. And since he liked roaming the internet, maybe he could have signed up as an IT trainee with a company like Honeywell in Albuquerque. But he hadn’t. Why not? Why did this bright, promising young man work at a low end retail job? Why didn’t he go out on dates with any of the young women who often visited the Railyard District? And why did he still maintain his parents’ Facebook page? Did he think he owed it to them? Or was he trying to bring them back to life?

  “Sounds great, Jeff. Tell me about this. Where did you meet these ladies? Were any of them young? Old? What was their problem?”

  Jeff’s face became guarded. That fast switch in body language was something she’d seen at his first visit with her. It happened now and then whenever she pursued an issue that related to him personally. Like not dating. “Well, they had parked their car in one of the city’s parking garages downtown. I met them . . . in the Plaza, just after they’d bought some stuff from the Governor’s Palace sidewalk vendors. They . . . they were confused about how to get back to their car. They were out of town visitors and needed help. I helped them find their garage. That’s all.”

  It was not all there was to this encounter. And a part of what Jeff had said about meeting the women was a lie, or not fully truthful. Valery could tell that. She’d always had the ability to detect lies or half-truths when spoken by other people. It was that ability which had led her into a study of psychology and her career in helping people deal with mental and emotional issues.

  “Sounds good, Jeff. Were any of the women young? Your age?”

  He frowned, then his face mostly relaxed. “One was. She was a redhead. Dressed in a jogging outfit. The other ladies were a middle-aged blond and a white-haired woman in her sixties, or something.”

  This encounter struck her as most curious. The women young Jeff had met had been striking enough for him to recall their ages and appearance. Very different than his usual remarks about women, which were usually limited to mentions of elderly Unitarian church women. She smiled and nodded encouragingly. “Nice to hear. Did any of them ask you to share a coffee or drink with them? If they were here as tourists, surely they had time on their hands.”

  Jeff turned tense again. “I didn’t go out for a drink with any of them. They said they had to find their car so they could get back to Albuquerque to catch their flights home.”

  “Flights?” Valery said. “You said they were together. I got the impression they were a group, not strangers to each other. Did they come here from other states?”

  Jeff’s blue eyes looked away, then down. “Yeah, they were from other places. San Francisco. Rocky Flats. St. Louis. They’d met online on a site that is visited by women who do knitting. The three of them decided to travel to New Mexico. Wanted to see examples of Chimayo weaving.”

  More lies, mixed with half-truths. Thought the towns he’d named seemed authentic. She sighed. “Jeff, did meeting these three women help you feel better about surviving the car crash?”

  He winced, then met her gaze. “Doc Valery, yeah, helping these women did feel good. Better than I’ve felt in a long time. Do you think I should do more . . . more volunteer stuff? Like helping out at church?”

  Valery felt encouraged. This encounter with three mysterious women had clearly happened. He felt good about helping the women. Good enough to lock in their ages, appearance and hometowns. The other made-up details about them did not matter. What mattered was his internal emotional state.

  “Sure, Jeff, that might be good to do. Your Unitarian church here in Santa Fe does good stuff to help the homeless men out on the roads and in the parks. You could help pack sack lunches for them. I recall seeing something on their website about the UU Santa Fe doing that.”

  He nodded slowly, looking distracted and internally focused. “Yeah, my local UU people do stuff like that. They also give people rides to church and to a doctor visit for folks with no car.”

  Valery smiled. “Well, kinda hard to give rides on your bicycle! But there are plenty of ways to help other folks. This UU volunteer work is one of them. Other ways are helping people who need someone to walk their dogs. Have you ever thought about owning a companion pet?”

  “No!” he said loudly, startling her. “Uh, I mean, my apartment’s too small. And it’s against the complex’s rules.”

  “Well,” she said, wondering at the vehemence of his reaction. “You could volunteer at the local animal shelter, helping water and feed animals brought in from the streets. Does that appeal to you?”

  Jeff’s face went stiff. “Fraid not. Caring hurts. Don’t need a pet that will go and die on me, like my parents.”

  They were back to the root source of his bouts of severe depression. Jeff had refused any meds like valium, insisting on doing without drugs. He’d said any kind of drugs ‘messed him up’, with no details on those effects. But at least his encounter with the three women had caused him to reach beyond the safety zone of his REI job and his apartment.

  “Jeff, yes, caring can be painful. I know that myself.” Her wife of twenty-two years was now in Christus St. Vincent hospital for a gall bladder operation. Justine and she had met just after both had graduated from the University of Colorado at Boulder. They had been a couple, now married, for all that time. “But caring can be very rewarding. Your Mom and Dad loved each other very much, from what I’ve seen of the family photos posted on their Facebook page. And they had you, which must have been a source of joy to them both. You might find the right woman, somewhere out there, if you go looking.” She smiled encouragingly. “You know, there’s plenty of online dating sites, in addition to local music bars and—”

  “Don’t need a wife,” Jeff interrupted, his tone low and sad. “My high school prom date got tired of me. No one at UNM showed any interest in me. I’m used to being alone and on my own.”

  She knew that. His personal history from elementary school onward was something he had shared with her, though in limited amounts and with omissions she puzzled over. “Jeff, I know that being alone and on your own is something you are used to. But you could live until you are 70 or 80 years old! Surely you don’t want to be alone for decades. Have confidence in yourself! You are handsome, you have a good job and you care about people. Most women like those aspects of a man.”

&n
bsp; Jeff’s hands became clenched fists. “I’m too different.”

  Valery frowned. “Jeff, you are not the only smart nerd from Los Alamos High School. While your smarts and your education are better than those of some people, they do not have to be a blockade to living a life with someone who loves you. You could study at night and get a graduate degree in engineering or IT work. You could build a long-term career with some neat company like Google. Or Facebook. They’ve recently set up a server farm in the state. Wouldn’t you like that?”

  His sky blue eyes fixed on her. His face stayed stiff and without visible emotion. “Don’t need a career. Don’t need a wife. Don’t need complications. I’ve . . . I’ve learned that standing out in life can bring you the wrong kind of notice. And get you hurt. I’ve had enough hurt. Don’t want more.”

  She nodded acceptance. At least he was discussing his emotions, even if they were rejectfull emotions. This hard fixation on not standing out, on avoiding a romantic life and on being limited in the sharing of his inner heart with her was something she had encountered over four months of weekly counseling sessions with Jeff. It would take time for this smart, personable and caring young man to come out of his defensive shell.

  “Jeff, did you begin writing in a journal about yourself? About your feelings?”

  His facial stiffness relaxed. His fists unclenched. “I did. Was kinda fun to write stuff down.”

  She smiled big, showing him her honest hope for him. “Will you write down your feelings about helping these three women?”

  “Already have,” he said, looking away and out the window, his manner turning pensive.

  “Very good. Do you think you will try to do more volunteer stuff? To help out people in need?”

  Jeff looked back to her, his expression the most relaxed and positive she had seen in a long while. He half-grinned. “Yup. I think I will. I like helping people. It feels good to do that.”

  “Very good!” she said, noticing that their hour together was almost over. “Keep writing in your journal and keep reaching out to help people. I think you will find that reaching out to help will make your life more rewarding. Who knows, maybe you’ll earn a reward as volunteer of the year!”

  His smile eased back to a normal look. But caution showed in his body posture. Why?

  “Maybe. I don’t care about being famous. Just want to help other folks avoid getting hurt the . . . the way I got hurt.”

  Very interesting. “Well, don’t get in front of a speeding car! But yes, I am sure there are many kinds of volunteer work you can do that you will find rewarding. And who knows, maybe doing volunteer work will bring you into contact with a young woman who will appreciate you for who you are?”

  Jeff frowned, then shrugged. “Maybe. I’ll be careful. And I’ll keep on trying to help people in need.” He fixed his blue eyes on her. “That’s kind of what you do, right doc?”

  “It is. And our time is up. See you next Tuesday!”

  “Sure doc. Until next week.”

  He stood up, his lanky frame moving smoothly and confidently, as if he had no fear of a fall or a stumble or any of the ways one can have an accident in life. Why did young Jeff act as if nothing could harm him? Was it a result of escaping death in the DWI? She didn’t know. She just knew that she had a lot of work to do with this young man, who had so much promise hidden inside him. If she could help him find a way to open up to life, she would count herself lucky to have spent the time counseling him.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Andrew Steinbach sat in his corner office on the seventh floor, looking across his oak desk at the two men seated before him. One was Mike Richardson, the agent in charge of SIOC during the recent terror hostage event. The other man, bald and with an intense look on his face, was Richardson’s division chief, Leonard Ramsay. Ramsay managed the Critical Incident Response Group in the Criminal, Cyber, Response and Services Branch, of which SIOC was a part. The two worked on the building’s fifth floor, unlike their Hostage Rescue Team allies based in Quantico. It was Wednesday morning, four days after the Saturday hostage rescue at the Empire State Building. Andrew’s boss the director of the FBI had been giving him expectant looks ever since the three women hostages had been rescued by an unknown intruder and the radical Islamic terrorist guy had died in a fall from the top of the ESB. He knew the president was expecting a report from the director, especially in view of the near hysteria of the national news media over the story told by the three women, before they were isolated by agent O’Shannahan. The two men in front of him were about to give him that report.

  “Agents Richardson and Ramsay, welcome to the seventh floor. Like the view?”

  Richardson, a tall, wide-shouldered man dressed in a striped black suit with his ID badge hanging from his neck, did not look out at the views of Pennsylvania and E streets. Ramsay did, which told him something about the man’s hopes for future promotion.

  “Nice view,” Ramsay said, looking back to Andrew. “Think the replacement for this building will offer as good a view?”

  “Probably not,” Andrew said, not looking down at the watch he’d laid on the clear surface of his oak desk. He knew the time of day and exactly how many minutes his busy schedule had allocated to this meeting. “The height restriction busybodies will likely keep it low and stark, with electric carts for hallway travel.” He paused. “Agent Richardson, I gather you have a report for me on the ESB hostage release and the terrorist who called himself Omar Muhammad?”

  “Deputy Director Steinbach, I do,” Richardson said in his low bass voice. The man glanced down at a brown file folder he held. He looked up. “A digital copy of this report was sent to your computer three minutes ago. In sum, we got lucky with the survival of the three women. Hostages Lois Fitzgerald, Mabel Whiteman and Louise Johnson have returned home to wild welcomes. That’s the good news.” Richardson grew intent. “Fingerprint analysis through O’Shannahan’s QCP unit identified the terror guy. His real name is Mustafa al-Aziz, a Somalia-born son of immigrants from Somalia. Grew up in Minneapolis.” Richardson fingered his report. No doubt feeling nervous at talking to the agency’s number two person. “He was Sunni. Looks to be a self-radicalized guy. His personal computer and iPhone show several visits to jihadi websites and downloads of recruitment videos recorded by Anwar al-Awlaki. No evidence of direct contact between him and al-Qaeda recruiters. Although there were some encrypted emails that link to an IP in Raqqa. So Islamic State might have been his mentor. More seriously, a note he made in a notebook left at his parents’ home indicated he planned to kill the women hostages even if the president agreed to release all jihadists in federal prisons.”

  The man’s intent to kill the hostages was not a surprise. The latest jihadi radicals captured within CONUS by his agents were all extreme converts who saw ‘infidels’ as non-believers with no right to life, let alone liberty. Andrew nodded quickly. “Tell me about the parents. Why didn’t they call our Minneapolis field office when their son’s image showed up in the copter close-ups?”

  Richardson lifted an eyebrow. “They say they didn’t call because they were afraid they’d be deported back to Somalia. They lost what few possessions they had when they left the countryside after an al-Shabab attack on their village. They were sponsored here by a church migrant rescue group.” The agent looked aside to his silent boss, then back to Andrew. “The father works at a meat packing plant and the mother is at home. No other children. Their local imam says they are conservative in their beliefs but not violent. The son, the imam says, argued with the imam over parts of the Quran relating to jihadism. Al-Aziz was normal until age 19, when he began growing his beard and being very religious, to the extent of threatening some local Somali immigrant girls with an acid attack if they did not wear a full hijab.”

  Andrew glanced at Ramsay, who stayed silent. He fixed back on the SIOC chief agent. “I’ve seen the security videos of the intruder and his actions. Also the vidcam videos of Mitchell and O’Shannahan. How did al-Azi
z get a shotgun up to the 102nd floor? And how did this masked intruder get to the 103rd floor without your people knowing about him?”

  Richardson grimaced. “Street level video shows al-Aziz arriving for the observation decks line with a cane, limping on his right foot. He passed through the magnetometer screen, though it showed a bulky item at his waist. He opened his shirt and said it was an ostomy device. Examination of the shotgun suggests it was encased inside the cane, which was handed around the mag arch. At some point after his arrival on the 86th floor he appears to have assembled the shotgun tube and the ostomy trigger unit into the completed 12-gauge shotgun. It was operational. Serial number says it was bought from a private seller in the Minneapolis area. Al-Aziz was wearing a long rain coat. Likely hid the shotgun under it when he entered the 86th floor elevator for the trip up to the 102nd floor. Top Deck they call it.”

  “Frustrating,” Andrew said, adding an item to his verbal report to the director about not allowing canes for any visit to the upper floors of the ESB. “The president was happy at the safe release of the three women. But she is very anxious about just who this Green Mask guy is. What’s the story there?”

  Ramsay leaned forward. “We don’t know who he is. No fingerprints. He was wearing standard hospital stretch gloves. And our facial recognition database has no record of him. Which is no surprise since only his eyes, forehead and black hair showed above the green bandana.” He gestured to his right. “Agent Richardson can give you what details we do know.”

  Andrew wondered at Ramsay’s sudden commentary. The man surely knew every detail of his agent’s report. Every agent in the building understood the need for building a Common Operating Picture for any incident like the ESB hostage taking. Maybe Ramsay thought he had to appear alert and in command. “Agent Richardson?”

  The man, who had graduated from Quantico ten years ago, gave a quick nod. “Deputy director, no one in any of our units in New York know how this intruder gained access to the 103rd floor, nor how he vanished after taking the terrorist out onto that floor’s balcony. Agent Mitchell speculates he hung from the paraglider for part of its travel to the MetLife building, then let go and fell to a low altitude chute landing on top of one of the nearby buildings, like Macy’s. We have no stairwell or street level video of him.” The man paused, glanced aside to Ramsay, then back. “Sir, just before we came up here I got a call from our forensic lab people. We have recovered two sets of black hair samples from the coat of Lois Fitzgerald. The recovery happened during O’Shannahan’s isolation of them and their examination by one of the New York field agents. Curly black hair samples were ID’d as coming from al-Aziz. The straight black hair samples were interesting. They turned out to be red hair dyed black. There were some hair roots. We got nuclear DNA from one of them. The DNA profile does not match to any arrest databases, whether federal, state or local. It seems he’s never been arrested. So, we don’t know who the intruder is by name.”