The Seventh Message

by William Johnstone

  Danforth blinked. "You'll twist my foot?" He laughed, stepped back and then moved behind his massive hand-carved desk which occupied one end of the room. "I'll tell you what you'll do. You'll put your badge and gun right here." He pointed at the center of his desk. "Right now."

  "Are you firing me?"

  "What the hell do you think?"

  "I have spent my life preparing for this job. To carry out a mission."

  He sneered. "What mission?"

  "To stop those who would hurt innocent people.” Her expression grew solemn. “Evil people bent on senseless acts of violence."

  "So you want to wipeout organized crime all by yourself?"

  Frowning, Ashley shook her head. "Something like that."

  "Well, you won't do it as a member of this department. I want your gun and badge right here, right now."

  Released from the need to be respectful, Ashley moved to the desk and confronted the Chief. "You've watched too many movies, Danforth. That's not the way it works. First I go before a Review Board of my peers for a hearing. Then the Professional Standards Unit makes a recommendation. They will find I acted in self-defense, and in fear of my life. Saviano assaulted me with deadly force while committing a felony. I will be cleared, and you know it."

  "Professional Standards will do whatever the hell I tell them to do. Badge and gun." He banged his fist down on the desk. "Right here!"

  Ashley didn't move.

  "Maybe you don't get it, girlie. Commander Morgan is right outside. If I tell him to arrest you for the murder of Officer Joe Saviano, he will do it. You have ten seconds, before I open that door. Last chance, badge and gun, now."

  Ashley unclipped her badge and removed her gun from the holster. She centered both on the desk, and then locked eyes with Danforth. "You made one mistake."

  "I don't make mistakes."

  Ashley spoke with new confidence. "Last year you took me off the streets and assigned me to records, making me an administrator–a glorified secretary.”

  “Yea, so what. You’re a woman, aren’t you?”

  Ashley ignored the affront. “When you transferred me last year, you screwed yourself big time. There will be no arrest today, at least not of me."

  Danforth narrowed his eyes.

  She continued. "You will accept my resignation with regret, and have one of your more intelligent flunkies write a glowing letter of recommendation for me. If you can't find someone smart enough to write it, I'll dictate one."

  "You're out of your mind, Kohen. That won't happen. But I can tell you what will happen, and you' won't like it."

  "Not before I tell you a story. A true crime story, and you are the star of the show."

  Danforth pulled back, clearly shocked at her impudence.

  Ashley put both hands on the desk between them, and spoke in a cold level voice, "Last year when you assigned me to records I controlled data for the whole department including the Intelligence Unit. A fancy name for your personal spy club. I heard rumors about you and how you bent the rules to suit your needs. I watched you manipulate this department so you can stay in office.”

  Danforth, his fists clenched, shouted, "You're out of line. I'm going to..."

  "You're the one out of line. Under your written orders you have conducted illegal wiretaps on innocent people–some famous. You've ordered shakedown operations to fund election campaign donations for public officials, and carried out 'services' for your friends and political cronies. I have copies of your activities spanning the past ten years." Ashley drew breath and got in Danforth's face. "And I have your Vendetta Files."

  "You what? My personal files? I'll have your ass on a plate, this..."

  Ashley cut him off, again. "The only ass hanging out around here is yours." She straightened and crossed her arms. "Those files hold all the dirty little secrets you used to blackmail your enemies and threaten your friends if they don't do your bidding. I also have the files you’ve collected on your commanders and most of the division heads of the Chicago PD. Wouldn't they like to know what a paranoid bastard you are?"

  "How did you get your hands on those files?"

  Ashley tilted her head to the side, “Don’t you remember? You put me in charge of records." She had him off balance and relished the feeling.

  Chief Marvin Danforth fell silent. His eyes darted about the room. "You don't know what you're getting yourself into Kohen. I have dealt with this 'holier than thou' shit before. No one fucks with Marvin Danforth and lives."

  "You mean like those two street cops you had killed–Morris and O’Neil," she gestured with air quotes, “in the line of duty?” Everyone in the department knows about that, only they can't prove it." She leaned into his face. "But I can."

  Danforth stood silent for a moment. A bead of sweat formed on his upper lip. "So you think you got me by the balls. Think again."

  "That's what I do. I think. I think about those two honest cops. I think about why they died and what they didn't do to stay alive."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "Ever hear of Skyscope?"

  "What?"

  "Skyscope is a virtual data bank in the Cloud. It's not on my computer or any computer. It's deep in the digital universe–in its own special cloud. I have an account. It's coded. I have transferred all of your records to my Skyscope account. Every dark secret protecting your career is in my account. Did I say it's coded? So a dumb-ass like you can understand what I'm saying, I'll lay it out for you in simple terms. It’s called biometrics. Only a scan of my eye will open it; it’s not a password your cronies can hack. And get this; if I don't check in periodically, the data dumps. Do you get my drift?”

  Danforth’s knuckles turned white as he gripped the desk.

  "The data dumps right in the lap of the Illinois State Attorney's Office. Also the Chicago Field Office of the FBI, and just in case no one is paying attention, I have arranged for an email service to send hard copies to every newspaper in three states." She paused for a moment, with a glint in her eyes. "Do you feel a little tug on your testes, Marvin?"

  His face drained of color and became covered with sweat. He stared back at her, but not with the glare of anger she saw before.

  In silence, they studied each other for a long moment. Finally, Danforth spoke. "If you turn me in, you lose your edge, and I'll get you. You’ll be dead meat."

  Ashley knew he'd do it or have someone do it for him. "That's a given, but you and your buddies will rot in prison for life, and one of the scumbags you sent away will make you his whore. That's also a given."

  Danforth proposed an alternative. "If you don't turn me in and give me the files, you're free. No arrest," he said with a straight face.

  "Am I supposed to not notice 'give me the files'? You've been dealing with Neanderthals too long. No, deal old buddy, but you can count on this; I'm going on paid administrative leave as long as it takes to get my head together. You will award me a Commendation for Valor and great letters of reference when I resign."

  Danforth frowned, shifted his weight, but nodded agreement.

  "One more thing. No reports on the Brady List. Nothing!"

  "The Law Enforcement Integrity List?"

  "I'm surprised you know anything about a list with the word 'integrity' in it." Ashley picked up her badge and gun, and moved closer. “Think of Skyscope as a shotgun aimed at your ass. I control the trigger because my eye-scan is on file.” She paused. “I have only one question for you."

  His arms hung limp, his shoulders sagged. "What?'

  "Did I twist your foot, yet?"

  Danforth rocked back. He didn’t laugh this time.

  Ashley knew she had more than twisted his foot, she had humbled him. Yes, she had lost her job, but she had protected herself from one of the most powerful politicians in the state. A man who could have snuffed out her life and her mission to protect the innocent. A mission that would change her life, and the lives of many others in the not too distant future.

  THRE
E

  WALTER KENT, FBI SPECIAL Agent in Charge, stood before the large dry erase board mounted in his office. His brown eyes squinted at the tiny names and numbers scrawled across the board's white expanse. One hand held a well-used felt eraser, and the other a nearly spent felt-tip marker.

  Son of a bitch! There’s no way to make this work.

  At the top of the board the surnames of twenty-nine Special Agents assigned to the Albuquerque Field Office headed a column of listed case numbers and crime categories currently under investigation. On average each agent worked twenty or more active cases. The FBI’s Target Staffing Level Manual set a goal of fifteen active cases for each agent, and no more than fifteen back-burner or cold cases. Walter Kent frowned, ran his fingers through his thick black hair, and figured the boys in Washington had lost touch with workload assignments in the field.

  Three days earlier he had placed a call to Henry Michael, of the Special Agent Transfer Unit in Washington. Henry, known as the Transfer Man, held a key position in matters concerning personnel, and almost never answered a direct call from the field.

  Kent stepped back from the board, and with an athletic stride, walked across the carpeted office floor. At his desk, he pressed the intercom button and asked Administrative Assistant Dorothy Hogan to place another call to the Transfer Unit in Washington.

  "To Mr. Michael?" she asked.

  "Yes."

  "How strange, Mr. Michael just called, he's on line two. Can you take it Mr. Kent?

  "Sure."

  Special Agents in Charge, always referred to as SAC's, ran the day-to-day field operations. They were considered the supreme authority within their assigned geographic areas, but they did not control personnel matters outside their office.

  Kent hesitated a moment, took a deep breath, then punched the speakerphone button. "Henry, I was just thinking of you. Thanks for returning my call."

  "Good morning Walt, sorry it took so long. I serve fifty-six field offices. That keeps me busy."

  "I suspect your workload is heavy all the time."

  "You're right. What can I do for you today?"

  "I've completed the Field Office Annual Survey of Activities, as directed by our manual. Based on my caseload, I'm way understaffed. I need at least three street agents if I'm going to keep all the bases covered."

  "What's your caseload, Walt?"

  "Almost two thousand when you count the cold cases and follow-ups." Kent fudged a little on the numbers, but what the hell.

  "Active cases?"

  "Five hundred and eighty, but remember we're a border state with time consuming interagency coordination."

  Michael cut him off, "I don't have to tell you, Walt, I'm real limited as to what I can do. If I transfer one agent out of an office, that leaves a vacancy which I have to fill, which means I move another agent, and on and on. It's a shell game all the time."

  "Do you see anything on the immediate horizon?"

  "No, its budget time and no one is moving."

  Kent hoped to receive a positive response to his next question. "What about Quantico?"

  "The Academy? A class graduated last week. Most of the graduates are placed. Let me check availability."

  Kent knew his best chance to add to the staff would be a graduate from the Academy. He preferred an experienced agent, but a green recruit was better than nobody.

  "Walt, I have six candidate available. Five are specialized analysts.”

  “I don’t need analysis, I need active investigators.”

  “That leaves one candidate.”

  "What's his background?"

  "Damn good. A licensed flight instructor certified in both single and multiengine aircraft. Awarded a full scholarship to Ohio State University. Majored in criminology with a little public administration thrown in. Earned a Bachelor of Science, with honors, in only three years. Took a job with the Chicago PD. Got a reputation for catching terrorists. Has a knowledge of Middle Eastern culture. Stayed with them five years and made sergeant before accepted into our Academy five months ago. Finished in the top three percent of the class and honored as a top achiever in academics. Impressive.

  "How old is he?

  "Old? Let's see." Some paper shuffling. "She's twenty-eight."

  "Did you say she?"

  "Yes, a young woman named Ashley Kohen, with a "K". Notations in her file by supervisors and trainers say she is remarkable. Also says she's a real looker." He paused a second. "That shouldn't be in the file. I'll strike it out."

  "Henry, I don't need added support staff, I need shoes on the sidewalk. Real street agents to work cases."

  "Sure. Sure, I understand. I'm checking her personnel file. I see police commendations and glowing references from Chicago." He paused. "Walt, I have a call on the other line I have to take. Stay with me, I'll be back. I promise."

  Kent prided himself on being politically correct. He had three female agents on staff. He assigned them to cases he felt would not endanger their safety. But right now he needed tough street cops to do dangerous work, something he was reluctant to assign to a young woman.

  Henry came back again. "Okay, Walter. What do you think?

  "I'm not sure. Good stats, good recommendations, but will she meet my current needs, Henry?"

  "Tell you what. I'll send you her file on our secure line. Give it a look-see. Get back to me tomorrow at the latest. I understand your concern, but she will not be available for long. Good talking to you, Walt. Got to go."

  FOUR

  ED NAILER, A SCRAWNY man with thick eyeglasses and shaggy gray hair, held a degree in petroleum engineering and part ownership in the Fanning Land and Exploration Company. For almost a century his company, and others, had explored for oil in the New Mexico portion of the Permian Basin with phenomenal success. Using new technology the basin now resembled a tangled forest of pump-jacks, drilling platforms and work-over rigs standing side by side.

  For half a dozen years Nailer had tinkered with a plan to drill north of the established oil patch on the land south of the town of Tatum where no production existed. Before work could begin he needed site clearance from the Bureau of Land Management in Roswell. Nailer started with a call to Joe Halverson, Minerals Specialist in the BLM’s District Office.

  “Joe, Ed Nailer here, how’s it hanging?”

  “Busy as a big buck in the rutting season, Ed. What’s up?”

  “I’m planning a little drilling action on lease 9870 about twenty miles southwest of Tatum. I’ll email you the coordinates. Wonder if you guys could check it out. The lease is getting older than a broke-down mare. I need to get this project going now. What do’ya say?”

  “Damn, Ed. We’re knee-deep in a habitat study out there–endangered species stuff.”

  “Stuff? What stuff?”

  “Prairie chickens.”

  “Shit Joe, there ain't no prairie chickens out there. You’re lucky to find a rattlesnake or a prairie dog”

  “Don’t say that, Ed. Prairie dogs might be next on the list.”

  “I know you all have a job to do, but Joe, we’re talking oil, now. I got an opportunity that could dry up tomorrow. You need to cut me some slack, old buddy.”

  Any BLM environmental project chugged along at the speed of an arthritic sloth–especially habitat studies promoted by environmental interests. The agency’s policy encouraged multiple-use on public lands, in other words; they tried to please everybody all the time with limited staff and funding.

  “Let me check with the team, Ed. Maybe I can work something out. I’ll get back to you. Might be a few weeks.”

  “Sure Joe, I know I can trust you to do the right thing, can’t I?”

  “You bet, I'll get right on it.”

  When the conversation ended, Nailer tossed his phone across the desk. It smacked into The Sally One, a 12 inch bronze oil derrick perched on the corner of his desk–a replica of their first big strike years ago. He imagined Halverson scribbling down a note to inspect lease Number 9870 at so
me time in the distant future.

  “Damn bureaucrats. I don't have time to fart around with their rules and regulations," he muttered as he searched his computer to find the name of the current director. His voice rose as his frustration mounted. “Who the hell is the director, now? They change so damn fast I can’t keep track of ‘em. Hey, Maggie, get your butt in here.”

  Maggie Rodriquez was the Executive Assistant to President Nailer. Over the years she had developed the ability to deal with her boss, who had an unpredictable and sometimes explosive personality. Nailer demanded she get the name of the District Manager in Roswell.

  Maggie called, got the manager's name, and learned a bit of background on what might be the best way to approach him on leasing problems. When ready, she rehearsed her speech as she prepared to enter the lion's den.

  "I have the name of the BLM manager you wanted.” She pushed a sheet of paper across the desk. "His name is Tim McKruger. He's been here two years. Before, he worked in the State Office. Got an Annual Award for signing the most oil leases on public land. He’s well-thought-of around the State."

  "Oil leases? Could be worse. Could be a damn environmentalist."

  "Can I get anything else for you, Ed?"

  "No, Maggie. I'll give him a call." He reached for the phone.

  A cheerful voice answered. "Good morning, Roswell District Office, may I help you?"

  "Sure, this is Ed Nailer of Fanning Oil. Is McKruger in?"

  "I believe he is. I'll transfer you to his office."

  Ed drummed his fingers on the desk and waited. He glanced at the ceiling and noticed one of the florescent lights had burned-out.

  "Good morning, this is Tim McKruger. How can I help you today?"

  "Yes, well, I'm calling about a lease we hold southwest of Tatum. I talked with your staff guy this morning about a land clearance survey. Joe Halverson. He seemed busy with other matters."

  "Joe is a key member of our staff, Mr. Nailer. He stays involved."