Private Detective: BENNINGTON P.I.: A thrilling four-novel political murder mystery private detective series...

by D. W. Ulsterman

  “You have a decision to make, and I ask that you do so right here and now. I offer you full membership into the T3 Group. You would no longer merely be an assignment operative, but an actual member.”

  The billionaire turned to face Frank, the older man’s eyes boring into the former political operative’s in a silent stare that lasted several seconds before he continued speaking.

  “You would be one of us.”

  Frank’s eyes narrowed as he cocked his head to the side.

  “And just what does that mean, sir – to be one of you?”

  Alexander David Meyer once again turned to look out onto the New York skyline, drawing deeply from his cigar as he did so.

  “It means you are fully and forever vested in a war that has been going on for a very long time. For centuries, there have always been them, and us. This is the age of nightmare, Mr. Bennington. The machine grows increasingly impatient, and ever hungry. You come here at the turning of the tide, a too brief respite between light and dark. If you accept this charge, all that you were will be no more. From that moment of choice, you are but shadow. There are only them and us, truth and deception, freedom and tyranny. The fate of the world is at the razor’s edge. It intends to cut deeply, and blood will flow.”

  Bennington remained silent, wanting the billionaire to continue. Alexander Meyer’s voice lowered again to that now familiar whisper.

  “You met one of them earlier tonight, Mr. Bennington. The man who approached the limousine Stasia was driving outside of the Off the Record in Washington D.C., the one who followed you to where my helicopter was waiting.”

  Frank recalled the darkness of the eyes that had regarded him back in D.C., and the warning of his own impending death.

  “Malthus – Stasia called him Malthus.”

  The billionaire nodded once and then looked down at the burning tip of his cigar intently.

  “Yes, we know him as Malthus, and the fact he has taken such an interest in you, Mr. Bennington, confirms my belief of your potential to assist us in our war against them.”

  Frank shook his head, becoming more confused by what Alexander Meyer was telling him, or perhaps more importantly, what he was not telling him.

  “I see I am failing to deliver the answers you seek, Mr. Bennington. Let us return inside and I will try and show you some of what we are facing.”

  Bennington grew impatient, but held his tongue and did as he was asked. A moment later he was back in his chair looking up at the flat screen.

  “What you are seeing here is video footage, taken from a security camera feed in July of 1993. It represents one example of thousands and thousands contained within the T3 Group’s vaults.”

  Frank instantly recognized the video’s location. It was Ft. Marcy Park, just a short drive from the White House.

  “Please pay attention to the man in the suit and overcoat seated on the park bench in the lower left corner of the video. Do you see him?”

  Bennington nodded.

  “Yeah.”

  “Ok, and now you will see that man being joined on the park bench by another man in a suit.

  A second man approached the first and sat down next to him. Frank instinctively sensed something dark and ominous about the other man’s presence.

  “Let me zoom into that other man’s face, Mr. Bennington. Tell me if you recognize him.”

  The private detective waited for whatever enhancement program was running the footage to sync the image onto the screen. When the man’s face finally came into focus, Frank drew a sharp breath as each of his hands tightly grasped the sides of his chair.

  “Malthus.”

  Alexander’s voice whispered his agreement.

  “Yes, Mr. Bennington – Malthus.”

  Slowly developing recognition of a long ago tragedy was warning Frank to look away as the video showed Malthus appearing to whisper something into the other man’s left ear. Malthus then rose from the park bench and disappeared. The other man remained unmoving on the park bench, his face expressionless, both of his hands resting palm down atop each of his knees.

  At that moment, Bennington felt the billionaire’s study beginning to feel more like a tomb. The air grew thick, not so much moving through his lungs, but sticking to them. The only sound inside the study was the breathing of both himself and Alexander Meyer as they continued to watch the Ft. Marcy Park video footage.

  Frank’s entire body tensed as he saw the man withdraw a small handgun from inside his overcoat and then slowly place the end of the gun into his mouth. Suddenly his mind exploded with the full realization of what he was watching.

  He knew the man in the video.

  His name was Frederick Foster, and at the time of his death, had been working in the White House as Deputy Chief of Staff. Bennington had met him four years earlier during a fundraising event held in Foster’s home state of Arkansas. The two shared an interest in political history and the art of making the legislative deal, and kept in touch regularly over the following four years.

  Frederick Foster’s suicide remained the talk of D.C. for several weeks, but then both it and Foster were forgotten under the ever growing foundation of tragedy and scandal upon which that city was built. The investigation and subsequent news reports stated Foster had been battling depression since coming to the White House. That explanation had never felt right to Bennington. It was a too clean rush to judgment that he knew all too well usually meant cover up.

  “Did the police see this video?”

  Alexander Meyer paused the footage and turned in his chair to look at Frank, his eyes filled with the fatigued sadness that was the heavy burden of secrets.

  “The White House had operatives handling every aspect of the investigation from the moment the body was discovered. I was informed a copy of the footage was secured by D.C. Metro, but there was no record of it, and if they had it, someone took it. Both the FBI and Secret Service investigations were very brief, and made no mention of the tape. Coincidentally, if you were to walk to where the camera that took this video was once located, you would find no evidence it was ever there.”

  “And how did you get it?”

  The billionaire reached over to refill Bennington’s whiskey glass.

  “The man’s name was Ted Letts. He was the park supervisor at the time of Mr. Foster’s death. A member of the grounds crew called him first when the body was initially discovered. Mr. Letts then prepared to contact the authorities but was visited by a man who indicated he was with the Secret Service and was there to identify the body of Frederick Foster.”

  Alexander Meyer paused to allow the implication of what he was telling Bennington sink in. The private detective realized it almost instantly.

  “Wait…Secret Service arrived before the authorities were contacted?”

  Alexander nodded once and then took a sip of whiskey while his eyes remained looking at Frank.

  “They already knew Foster was dead, and whoever this Secret Service guy was, he was there to make sure everything was in place so that it was a clean close to the investigation. Am I right?”

  The billionaire gave a brief half smile as he again nodded.

  “You see, Mr. Bennington, this is part of what makes you so valuable to us. You know how these people think! At any rate, after the Secret Service member left his office, Mr. Letts made a copy of the park surveillance footage. He was suspicious of how quickly the Secret Service had arrived. He then turned over the original to D.C. Metro, and kept the copied version for himself.”

  “You said the original version disappeared.”

  Alexander Meyer glanced back up toward the frozen image of Frederick Foster holding a gun inside his mouth.

  “That’s correct, and when Mr. Letts learned the tape went missing after D.C. Metro had taken it from him, he knew there had been a cover up, and understandably that knowledge scared the hell out of him, so he hid his copy and it remained hidden until his own death two years ago.”

  Bennington�
�s mind was now moving at the speed of an experienced political operative, placing the facts as he now knew them together to try and quickly answer any questions that remained unanswered.

  “How did you come in possession of the tape?”

  Alexander’s eyes twinkled with approval. Frank Bennington knew how to ask the right questions.

  “The daughter of Ted Letts discovered the tape in her father’s attic along with a handwritten letter explaining what it was. Within that letter was a warning to trust no one, and to avoid giving it to the media. The daughter, whose name is Sandra, kept the tape hidden at her own home until six months later when she was visited by a man who indicated he knew about the tape and wanted to help relieve her of its burden while also ensuring it was kept safe.”

  Frank’s whiskey glass was all but forgotten, frozen halfway to his mouth as he waited for Alexander Meyer to continue telling the story of the Frederick Foster suicide tape.

  “He told Sandra he wasn’t allowed to take the tape himself, but could only provide her with a choice of what could be done with it. That choice came in the form of my personal mailing address and that is how I came to have it in my possession. Sandra sent it to me per the suggestion of the man who visited her. All of this was written down in the letter she sent along with the tape. She asked that if I were to take possession of the tape, myself and anyone associated with me, were to leave her alone, which is what I have done.”

  Bennington finally took another drink as he considered everything Alexander Meyer had just told him, and then realized a critical bit of information had been left out.

  “This woman, Sandra, did she tell you the name of the man who visited her about the tape?”

  The billionaire emptied his glass before giving Bennington his answer.

  “Yes, she indicated the man’s name was Gabriel.”

  8.

  How enjoyable it would be to watch them all die. So many possibilities. So much potential for pain, loss, and delicious chaos.

  Malthus nursed what he deemed a disgustingly sweet Long Island Iced Tea while looking from one table to the next in the crowded Manhattan bar imagining how many different ways each life seated inside so easily be snuffed out. Frank Bennington and Alexander David Meyer were meeting for the first time in Meyer’s building across the street, and until that meeting concluded, Malthus was stuck in this bar waiting.

  Such desperate little monkeys all of them. Nothing more than skin bags of piss and shit and insecurities, every one of them so ridiculously pathetic.

  Fantasizing about how many ways to watch humans die was a favorite pastime of the longtime Illuminati operative. He remained fascinated by how tenaciously people clung to lives that had so little meaning, or even a hint of genuine happiness. They smiled and nodded, and pretended to be content, but Malthus knew better. They all secretly yearned for release. That moment of chaos when no more rules applied, and the realization of what it was to be alive. The only thing that revealed real life was imminent death – a cruel paradox left to these little monkeys by the god who created them.

  Malthus cringed at the sound of a woman’s laughter coming from a table behind where he sat at the bar. The noise was so hollow, shrieking, and sad. He turned to locate the laughter’s source and saw a dark haired woman of forty, dressed neatly in the professional style of the day, her eyes glossy with the effects of the alcohol she continued to consume while surrounded by men and women at least a decade younger than herself. She was a lonely monkey, wanting companionship for the night, however brief and fleeting the sexual distraction would prove, all too aware her best years had come and gone.

  He could smell the shame on her, the countless regrets of giving herself to men who were only too happy to use her up and then discard her, never to return.

  This monkey needs my help. She deserves to find peace.

  Malthus stood up as he stared back at the woman, waiting until her eyes were drawn to his own dark orbs. She saw him and smiled nervously, and then smiled again when Malthus motioned for her to sit down next to him.

  Such a slutty little thing, aren’t you?

  His eyes remained locked on hers, watching as she navigated between the crowded tables while making her way to the bar. She was attractive enough, in a monkey sort of way. Medium height and build, with breasts pushed up from a tight fitting and open collared pink blouse.

  “Hello young lady, I am Malthus.”

  The woman’s recently whitened teeth revealed themselves between parted, gloss covered lips housed within a heavily made up face desperate to appear younger than her years. She looked up at the lean, pale skinned face of the Illuminati operative.

  “Well that’s an interesting name! I don’t recall seeing you in here before, Malthus. My name is Cassidy Wills. I’m with Bertland and Associates.

  Malthus recoiled slightly from the stinging, alcohol drenched stench of the woman’s breath. Bertland and Associates was a small investment firm two blocks from the bar’s location. Malthus snickered at how monkeys so often attached their place of work to their own names in the hopes of elevating their importance to others.

  “You’re so very tired aren’t you, Cassidy Wills?”

  Cassidy nodded her head without realizing she was doing so. Malthus’s voice wrapped itself around her subconscious, pulling her into him until his presence was the only thing existing for her in that moment.

  Malthus watched as tears began forming at the corners of Cassidy’s eyes.

  “I…I am tired. I work so hard, but it’s…I get lonely.”

  Malthus placed his left hand atop Cassidy’s right hand as he nodded sympathetically.

  “Why of course you do, Cassidy Wills. You deserve better than the men who come and go in your life. I understand - I really-really do. This life isn’t much of a life at all, is it?”

  Cassidy wiped away her tears with her left hand as she fought back sobs, embarrassed by the emotion that was overcoming her.

  “Tell me Cassidy, do you ever get so tired you simply want to go to sleep and never wake up? How easy it would be to just…close your eyes forever.”

  Cassidy withdrew her hand from under Malthus’s and shook her head.

  “Suicide? No, I couldn’t do that. It’s a sin!”

  Malthus chuckled, genuinely amused.

  “A sin? Says who?”

  Cassidy lowered her voice while looking around as she tried to hide her increasing discomfort. Part of her wanted to get up and leave, but something in Malthus’s voice kept her seated.

  “Well, God says it’s a sin. My priest—“

  Malthus interrupted, his face leaning down close enough to her own that Cassidy feared he intended to snap her nose off as his words issued forth between clenched teeth.

  “God didn’t say shit, Cassidy Wills. As for this priest of yours, they’re nothing more than monkeys the same as you. The pope himself is but a monkey in a ridiculous hat. God lost interest in all of you long ago. You’re nothing more than broken pets, put away and forgotten. Now doesn’t that make you so very sad, to know that none of this has any meaning whatsoever?”

  Cassidy leaned back from Malthus as her voice cried out angrily, though still barely audible within the din of the crowded bar.

  “NO, I don’t believe that! Life has meaning! Who are you to say it doesn’t? I’d like you to leave me alone, asshole!”

  Malthus’s right hand moved like a striking cobra behind Cassidy’s head, pushing her face forward until his eyes once again locked with hers. The outburst annoyed him, and so he decided then it was time for her to die.

  Rules being rules, he had to make certain she understood that inevitability as well.

  “Now Cassidy Wills, look around you. See all of this despair. You are surrounded by such unhappiness and pointless existence. Think of the men, SO MANY MEN, Cassidy Wills, who have entered you and taken what little of yourself you had left to give. Getting up each day and pretending, feeling yourself dying away more and more, I am here to tel
l you that all of that pain can end now. You have the power within yourself to do so.”

  Cassidy’s mouth turned downward as she gave herself fully to the swirling, inky emptiness of Malthus’s eyes and the soft yet urgent tone of his voice.

  He’s right, it doesn’t matter. It never really did. I’m just wasting time now. I’m old, lonely, and so damn tired.

  Sensing the fight having fully gone from her, Malthus slowly slid a shot glass from the top of the bar and placed it gently into Cassidy’s left hand.