Executive Actions

by Gary Grossman

And from across the street, McAlister caressed the trigger. Almost. The shot was nearly there for him to take. His mind was clear. McAlister didn’t really care one way or another about the election. And while everyone would look for the assassin’s political motives, he had none.

  This was strictly a paid engagement—$2.2 million, wired to a numbered bank account in Lichtenstein. With the signing of the United Nations Convention Against Transnational Organised Crime in December 2000, the country no longer guaranteed anonymity to its bankers. Yet, should investigators ever trace the funds, the trail would lead to the legitimate sale of art, acquired through non-published European estate sales, then sold at vast multiples of the original price. The fact that McAlister was not an art dealer posed no problem. The buying was an elaborate ruse, executed by the only other man who knew about this particular account.

  The deal was uncomplicated. One-point-one million upfront; the balance to be wired with the publication of the assassination in The New York Times. No bonus for front page; an oversight. McAlister would negotiate for it the next time.

  The instructions were explicit. “A clean hit is preferred. And fast. You won’t have time to set up your target again,” his contact told him on a park bench overlooking San Francisco Bay some six months earlier.

  “A single bullet will do it,” he assured his employer. “If it won’t, I don’t take the shot and you get 80 percent of your money back.”

  If anything, McAlister was ethical; that is if a killer could be ethical. But he would be ready even if his victim was not.

  He waited…waited, as if expecting a cue.

  “Soon you will have to make a major decision,” Lodge continued, building momentum. “But it is not about one man over another. One candidate versus another. We are all responsible individuals, devoted to serving you. No, the decision is not about a person. It’s about policy.

  “Walk with me to the future. We’ll make a partnership for peace, celebrating all people of the world, with the United States of America as a full and valued partner.

  “Better we go to welcomed arms than with arms unwelcomed.

  “It will mean we take what we know to the world so the world will know more. And by so doing…. We…”

  In one voice, everyone recited at the top of their lungs, “We Give and We Get.”

  He looked over his left shoulder to Jenny. For a long moment he studied her face. She was beautiful. She deserved to have what she wanted. She really was a good woman.

  Tears formed in Jenny’s eyes as she looked back at her husband, and then to the crowd. They loved him. She loved him. For the first time she truly realized that he could have it all. He could actually win in November. This small Hudson Valley town was voting right now. They had the power. It was in their eyes. And the feeling would spread across the country. She knew it. It filled the air, over and over.

  “We Give and We Get! We Give and We Get!” The chorus had taken over from the soloist. “We Give and We Get! We Give and We Get!”

  McAlister nuzzled the rifle a little to his right. Lodge’s head was in the scope again, but the cross hairs were not fully lined up on his target. Another moment.

  Lodge turned back to the crowd smiling.

  “It’s time for a family of nations in a world apart,” continued Lodge softly. “Time for a family that will last into all of our tomorrows.” His voice was cracking.

  Chuck Wheaton eased out his zoom lens to a camera angle that included Mrs. Lodge. He could see her tears welling up.

  McAlister smiled. He lived for moments like this. After all, it was the way he earned his living.

  “…a family for you…and,” the congressman paused with great impact. Everyone held their breath, including the man across the street with the Galil. “And…a family for me.”

  Theodore Wilson Lodge, candidate for the President of the United States, bowed his head ever so slightly forward for an instant. No more than four inches. He wiped his eyes.

  Jennifer Lodge couldn’t move a muscle as she listened to his words. A family? He wasn’t talking to the crowd now. Teddy’s telling me something…

  CHAPTER

  4

  There was no sound at street level and hardly anything audible in the hotel room. The silencer on McAlister’s SAR suppressed it. No one really knew what happened right away. The bullet just did its job, with deadly indiscriminate force.

  The Fire Commissioner reacted first. Was it the heat? A fainting spell? Then he noticed a small hole two inches above the eyes, squarely in the middle of the forehead. A trickle of blood in front; a red, wet burst in the back.

  “Oh my god,” he said too softly to be heard. “Oh my god!” he yelled.

  Everything began to move in slow motion. People spotted blood oozing down. Police Chief Marelli rose out of his chair and drew his .357 magnum. It was a more than adequate “manstopper” that he’d never actually used in the line of duty. Maybe today. He also keyed his radio and ran down a litany of orders to his men on the perimeter. They pulled their fully-loaded light-weight Arasaka LEH-451’s. The smaller size and comfortable feel delivered lethal force at handgun range. Each officer carried two speedloaders with hyper-penetration rounds. But like Marelli himself, no one on his squad had ever aimed and shot at a human being

  “Down. Everybody down!” Marelli shouted. Banks ignored him. But soon he realized it was too late.

  The police scanned the crowd for guns. Onlookers ducked down covering their heads. People quickly realized the magnitude of what had happened. Children were the first to cry, then the adults. All of this took a half a minute to unfold. All of it was caught on Chuck Wheaton’s tape.

  McAlister began to disappear in one smooth motion. He had timed it all, rehearsed his moves, considered each variable and left no margin for error. He didn’t believe in mistakes. In his business, the people who made mistakes never had the opportunity to make another one. They were dead.

  He quietly rested his weapon on the floor. Better it should be found. There was too much danger in trying to hide it. The serial numbers on the Galil would not give him away. He had milled them off, then for good measure, burned them. He did the same to the numbers on the scope and the silencer. The latex gloves assured that he’d leave no fingerprints. But the assassin even made certain to wipe down the gun stock. His cheek could give him away. A faint impression, some perspiration. The same was true of the Colt scope atop the rifle. McAlister knew that the FBI labs would drill down to the microscopic degree.

  Next, he surveyed the room one last time, which was unnecessary. He’d already burned all but the clothes he wore in the Berkshires, 30 miles away. By now his car, a used clunker, was rusting in the Hudson River. Two nights ago, McAlister drove it off the side of the road near Stuyvesant, fifteen minutes up the line. So with nothing left except the Israeli rifle, McAlister quietly walked to the door, unfastened the chain lock and left.

  The commotion hadn’t started outside yet. He’d only pulled the trigger 12 seconds ago. Once in the hallway he stopped, listened for any sign of another hotel guest or staff member. None. Everyone was outside. He continued down the hall for 18 fast steps to his destination, room 315, belonging to the antique dealer from New York, Roger C. Waterman.

  Outside shock turned into pandemonium. Police fought to control the crowd, searching for gunmen. But they were unprepared.

  The mayor took the microphone, “Please be calm. Please stay where you are.” No one listened. In the midst of all the chaos was a cute blonde 15-year-old sophomore from Hudson High. Madelyn Schecter. She’d gotten the amazing assignment to cover the speech for the high school newspaper. She was even on the congressman’s calendar for a 2:30 interview. But now her cardboard-covered reporter’s notepad and pen slipped from her hands. Her heart raced. Tears streamed down her checks as she watched the Greenport Rescue Squad ambulance roll up onto the grass and two paramedics go to work. They confirmed what Chief Banks already realized.

  Two minutes later they put thei
r equipment away and began the process of transferring the body onto a stretcher, then into the back of their emergency vehicle. Its siren, not really needed, couldn’t be distinguished from the wailing of the others as it screamed up Warren toward Columbia Memorial Hospital. Madelyn held her hands to her ears. So much noise. Such incredible noise.

  Madelyn slowly turned around. She watched mothers huddle over their children. She saw police stop every man they didn’t know and throw them on the ground for a quick search. Directly in front of her, Chuck Wheaton unsnapped his camera from the tripod and went handheld. She was vaguely aware of her civics teacher focusing on her. Madelyn epitomized the anguish. Soon her face would tell the story to millions of people across the country and around the world.

  And the noise continued to grow. It was overwhelming; unlike anything Madelyn had ever heard. She continued her slow circle, around and around, until she collapsed. This was her political coming of age.

  “Please, please, everybody stay where you are,” Mayor Kenton repeated to everybody. No one listened in the chaos. And across the street, Roger C. Waterman was taking a leisurely shower as promised.

  Chief Marelli had no experience in public executions, but he was still a cop. The murder occurred on his watch and the killer was at large. The podium was his crime scene. He mentally raced through the procedural questions. Where did the bullet come from? What angle? What height?

  Okay, the front. Rule out Warren. The fall was backwards. The bullet exited slightly lower than the entrance point. He looked around, blocking out the cries. The shooter was higher than the crowd.

  He studied the buildings across the street. On the corner, that old appliance store. No good. Not a high enough vantage point. The barber shop next to it. Still too low and too tight an angle. An art gallery. Not possible. J.W. Edmonds Hose Co #1. Maybe, from the roof, but unlikely. Too steep an angle. Too high.

  He realized he skipped a building. The St. Charles.

  Marelli keyed the microphone to his police radio attached to his shirt. “The St. Charles!” he called to his officers. The Chief stared at the front windows on the second and third floors. He looked closer. The third floor corner window. It’s open!

  The 210 pound, 62-year-old chief hadn’t run in years. He was grossly out of shape. But today he sprinted like the high school track star he was in the 60s. Four of his men joined the pursuit. They darted across the street and flew through the heavy oak door, bounding up the twenty-four stairs to the third floor landing. Their Arasakas were drawn. Marelli led the way, pointing to two of his officers, Pomerantz and Hilton, to cover either side of the door to Room 301. Marelli signaled to Pomerantz not to touch the handle.

  “Police!” he shouted. “Hands up! Come out, now!” After a five count he repeated his order. Now!” Marelli had never faced a real gunman on the other side of a door, not in all his years as an officer and then Chief of Police. Nothing even close. But instincts told him that the shooter could take them all down right through the walls. He motioned for his men to shift to the right of the door, affording more protection from the neighboring hotel room wall. They didn’t need further encouragement. Then with his Arasaka in his right hand, steadied with his left, he took a run toward the door, slamming right through. Marelli had also been a tackle for Hudson High and it all came back to him.

  He had trouble staying on his feet, but never lost his concentration. In a blink of an eye he saw an assault rifle on the floor but assessed that no one was in the room. An AK-47? No similar, but not the AK. Three minutes and eighteen seconds had elapsed since it had been fired. The smell lingered in the room.

  “Chief?” he heard Hilton call out urgently.

  “Bedroom is clear.” Marelli did not broadcast his intention to check the bathroom. As he continued across the room he heard his men close in behind him; one after another. Pomerantz swept the right side of the room; Hilton covered the left. Marelli stopped at the bathroom door. It was open a crack. He used his left foot to swing it the rest of the way and led with his gun. Nothing. Pushing aside the shower curtain he reluctantly and gratefully called out another, “Clear!” Another fifteen seconds had elapsed.

  “Don’t touch anything,” Marelli said as he re-entered the bedroom. Hilton had already checked the closets. “Holy shit. This guy’s fast,” he said to himself more than his men. Then he told Hilton, “Seal the building! He could be anywhere.” Marelli realized nervous sweat had soaked his shirt. “We’re going room by room.”

  Hilton nodded and left.

  Marelli bent over the assault rifle. Practical, he thought, still not recognizing the exact model. Slick. The shooter’s no crazed wacko. We’ve got a real pro on our hands.

  Marelli clicked his radio again, calling his dispatcher a few blocks down Warren Street. “Pam, get Velz to shut down the Rip Van Winkle.” That was the bridge which spanned the Hudson River between Hudson and Catskill. “And I want squad cars to seal the city. Route 9 North at Fairview. 9 South at the old Price farm. 9G at the base of Mount Marino. Route 66 at Greenport School. 23B at the Cement Factory. Copy?”

  “Copy, Chief.”

  “Fast. Then get me the FBI in Albany!”

  “What’s going on? All hell’s breaking loose on the street.”

  Marelli didn’t explain. “Just do it!” Then to Pomerantz he said, “You stay here. No one comes in unless authorized by me. And only me.”

  With that Marelli was out the door. He took the stairs in a bounding leap. A crowd was growing in the lobby, peering out the windows at the horrifying scene outside. “Listen up, everyone. No one leaves. No one!” he stated to the dozen or more people. Marelli called his officers to guard the doors; two in the front; another along the side entrance.

  “Has anyone gone out this door since the shooting?” he yelled.

  “No, no, I didn’t see anyone,” a waitress volunteered through her sobbing.

  “Me either,” said a father holding his young boy. “We’ve all stayed inside.”

  Next Marelli ran to the check-in desk at the back of the hotel off the main parking lot entrance.

  It was unmanned. “Fuck me,” he exclaimed. He’s gotten away.

  “Chief, this is Pam, over.” The voice came crackling from his radio.

  “Marelli. Go.”

  “I have the FBI for you. I’ll patch them through.” It had only been four minutes since the shooting.

  “Jesus Christ,” he whispered. “The shit’s gonna hit the fan.”

  “I want everyone’s identification out now,” Marelli demanded in the lobby. “If you don’t have it with you, officers will accompany you to your room to get it. You cannot leave without permission. And everyone remains in plain view.” Marelli’s orders came automatically now, but he knew he was too late. Because of the excitement over Congressman Lodge’s speech, none of the hotel staff had covered the main desk and entrance. The gunman had ample opportunity for an unobserved exit. Still he had to question everyone. No doubt the FBI would go through it again when they arrived.

  In the meantime, someone might provide worthwhile information. He’d start with the identity of the man in Room 301. “Anne?” he called out through the lobby. Anne Fornado was the hotel manager. She’d have the information in a second.

  With six other Hudson police officers now on site, the rooms were searched and all the guests were ushered in the lobby. Marelli divided his men up and began asking a series of pointed questions. “Who are you? What room were you in? Where were you during the shooting? What did you see?”

  Marelli got the name he sought—McAlister, an insurance agent who had been trying to sell people in Hudson since May. Marelli hadn’t seen him, but many had. He’d get a picture perfect description of the man in short time. That description would be on every newscast in America in the next hour. He also learned from the hotel manager what McAlister was driving. A light blue ’02 Nissan Sentra. The car was no longer in the parking lot. The make, model, description and plates had been emailed to NYSPIN
, the New York State Police Information Network and radioed to the officers at each of the intersections Marelli ordered blocked.

  He remembered how quickly Lee Harvey Oswald had been caught in 1963. The same with Sirhan Sirhan in 1968. “We’ll get this McAlister,” he promised the mayor at the foot lobby stairs. “Christ, the whole damned country will be looking for him.”

  “Excuse me, sir,” Roger Waterman said as he squeezed by Marelli. Waterman’s hair was still wet from his shower that he’d been taking when police officers entered his room. “I was told to come down here.”

  The police chief acknowledged the antique dealer with only a nod, directing him into the dining room. As he joined the hotel guests and staff waiting to be interviewed he spotted Carolyn Hill. She looked dazed. She’d returned to the hotel right after the shooting. Tears still streamed down her eyes. “Carolyn,” he said. She turned to his voice and then rushed to him. For some reason Carolyn needed to feel his touch.

  “Mr. Waterman, it’s so awful,” she cried, falling into his uncertain arms, hugging him tightly.

  “What? What’s going on?” he asked. There was comfort in his voice. “I was in the shower when police came in and told me to get dressed and come down stairs immediately.” He gently lifted her head back a few inches, still cradling her face in his hands. He was aware of how nice she smelled and how good she felt.

  She looked at him, needing him. “You don’t know? You mean you haven’t heard?”

  Waterman looked baffled. “Know what? What’s wrong?”

  Carolyn broke down again. “Oh my god. Mrs. Lodge. Someone killed Mrs. Lodge!”

  CHAPTER

  5

  Even before the FBI arrived, they one-upped Marelli and declared the St. Charles and the park a federal crime scene. A team from the Forensic Science Research and Training Center (FSRTC) was already in the air from the laboratories at the FBI Academy in Quantico, Virginia. They would be on ground within two hours.