Saboteur: A Novel

by J. Travis Phelps

  “Yes sir.” She responded.

  “Janine, do you ever have one of those days when it seems like the whole world has gone crazy?”

  “Every Monday through Friday, sir. Without fail.”

  Downy dialed Naomi. She answered in a low tone: “Hey you, what’s up?”

  “You coming home round five?”

  “Yeah, sure,” she said.

  “Good, it’s been a weird day.”

  “Everything ok?”

  “Nothing bad, just odd. Tell you about it later.” He was lying. It was bad. He couldn’t imagine things being worse. Like Samara, he felt both anger and sorrow. And what now to do about her, he thought. What could he say to Samara?

  “Going home early again, Janine.”

  “I hope you’re not still sick.” she buzzed back.

  “Chad will have my classes again. Could you send him an email to confirm?”

  “Done.”

  Downy looked at his desk. The letter that the student had given him caught his eye. It was a thick, almost antique gauge of paper with a wax seal in the center. Downy had never seen anything quite like it. He opened it:

  Dear Professor Downy,

  I write to you on behalf of Monsieur Guy Taro. I have been acquainted with Mr. Taro now for some eleven years…”

  Downy skipped to the bottom of the page. The signature looked formal and at the bottom was a stamped seal which read: “Sacred Order of the Gracchi Brotherhood.”

  Jesus, he thought, some reference. He didn’t have the energy to read on so he tossed the paper aside. It would have to wait. He had far more important matters to tend to.

  Chapter 20

  Sullivan pulled into the parking space behind the house and put the car in park. How many more years would it run he wondered? He had been planning to have it painted before he left Richmond, but everything had happened so fast. The paint had worn down from candy apple red to a faded, scarlety rust. He pushed the 8 track tape of Elvis Presley’s ‘68 come back special into the slot. He would have kept the car for the stereo alone. It was his meditation music. Why would Jensen have wanted to take a sample of Professor Downy’s blood he wondered? Jensen would have known the odds of a match were astronomical, unless he knew something else of course. Unless there was some missing piece of information, yet tying the professor to the blood at the scene. The fact that an anonymous caller had initially reported the crime lingered in Sullivan’s mind. It bothered him in the same way being lied to bothered him.

  Which brought him to the other thing: Professor Downy was definitely lying. He wasn’t sure on which point, but his instincts were never wrong. Exactly what kind of killer would move into a house where he’d committed a gruesome murder? This case was giving him a severe headache. He leaned his head back and cupped his hands over his eyes, letting out a loud exhale. As he opened them he saw the same kid on the bike from the other day. He was across the street talking to a man wearing one of those horrible, floppy tourist hats that made everyone look like they were on a goddamn safari. It looked like an important lesson he was giving to the boy. He wondered if one of the cold beers in the refrigerator might help untangle things in his mind, so he hopped out and made his way to the front door, jangling with his keys. As he put his key in the lock he felt a tug at his waist and jumped back.

  “Damn kid you just about gave me a heart attack.” It was the same little boy from across the street. He was pointing.

  “The man across the street said you better run. The police house will go boom.”

  It took him a second to process what the boy had said. He grabbed the boy into his arms as quickly as he could and ran. He made it to the grass, a seemingly safe distance and stopped.

  “Which man? Where is the man?” he said in his calmest voice.

  Then, a thunderous boom ripped through the silence. Shards of wood and debris flew in every direction. Sullivan covered the boy’s head as the pieces fell all around them. Smoke billowed into the sky in great black plumbs. When he finally looked up he couldn’t believe his eyes. There was a crater at least six feet deep where the living room of the house had been. Jesus, he thought, what if someone was in there? He ran as close as he could without endangering the boy to look, but there was clearly nothing left of whatever or whoever was inside. Only smoke and crackling debris waved in the wind.

  “Where did the man go?”

  “I don’t know,” the boy said barely able to speak through his tears, shaking his head.

  Sullivan tried his best to embrace him and comfort him, but the boy was shaking violently with fear, with shock. A car skidded to a stop just behind them and Tackett came running from his vehicle.

  “Goddamn it! Are you ok? Jesus, I thought you were in there.”

  “Where’s Rodriguez?” Sullivan shot back.

  “Wait!” he said, grabbing his cell. He pushed a button and waited. The expression on his face was one of complete anguish.

  “Please answer, please answer. Damn you! Answer Rodriguez.”

  Tackett cupped the phone around his ear as he walked away from the blaze. She wasn’t answering. Sullivan noticed the black police SUV he had seen Rodriguez in across the street. His heart sank.

  “Thank God!” Tackett said suddenly erupting.

  “Is that you, Rodriguez? Oh, thank Christ in heav--where the hell are you?” he yelled into the phone. “She’s ok, she’s not here,” he said, finally looking up at Sullivan, “She’s getting a goddamn coffee at Starbucks. Get over here, the safe house just got bombed. It’s fucking gonzo.” Tackett sat on the curb where Sullivan was still consoling the young boy. Tackett bent down and let out a loud exhale rubbing his face with his hands.

  A small crowd was beginning to form on the other side of the street. They were pointing, many holding their hands over their mouths in disbelief.

  “This is not going to play well at the station. It’s my responsibility in any case. Goddamnit that was a close call.”

  Squad cars and fire trucks were now making their way down the side street.

  “There was a man talking to the boy. I saw him actually, but he was wearing a hat that covered his face. Five ten maybe, tanned, somewhere in his 40s or 50s, maybe older--I thought he was a fucking tourist.”

  “Meet me at the station and you can talk me through it. After I talk to Tierney, of course, and if I still have a job.”

  “Who else knew about this place?”

  “Me, Rodriguez, a couple of other guys; but they never even used it.”

  “So, it was being watched?”

  Tackett nodded silently. Paramedics swarmed Sullivan and the boy.

  “I need him at the station as soon as you can. He’s the only one who can I.D. our perp,” Sullivan said imploringly to the medics.

  “As soon as he’s cleared sir.”

  Sullivan’s right ear ached with a piercing ring. He realized his car was probably toast as well. He walked toward the house and through the smoke ignoring the firefighters. Sure enough there sat his El Camino, covered in debris, but very much intact. The blast had been centered on the front room of the house, just where he had slept, so his car had been spared. He cleared the shards of wood off the hood and opened the door, which fell off its hinge and onto the ground with a rusty groan. He dragged it to the side and in one giant heave threw it into the back. Everything else was amazingly intact. He sat down at the wheel and turned the ignition. Old reliable. Elvis was still singing, “we can’t go on together with suspicious minds.” As he pulled the car on the road he could see in the floorboard a half burned page of Miss November still simmering.

  Rodriguez was going to be furious.

  Chapter 21

  Rodriguez and Sullivan sat outside Tierney’s office like sullen school children waiting to see the principal. It wasn’t like in the movies though; no chairs were flying. Tierney’s office was almost morbidly quiet and they could see the back of Tackett’s head through the blinds. Every few minutes he simply nodded or shook his head. I
t worried Sullivan. Anger would have been better. He thought of Tackett’s comment about Tierney. It wasn’t his style to lose it and move on. There would be real consequences. Rodriguez sat rubbing her hands together looking like a young boxer nervously waiting for a fight.

  “What’s going down in there?” he said to break the tension. “That’s the calmest ass-tearing I’ve ever heard.”

  “Yeah, this ain’t good,” she said. “Motherfuckers. I was in there not twenty minutes before, my ass would be toast right now.

  Who’d do a thing like this?”

  “That’s a great question. We all have enemies around here, but none of them this motivated, or this sophisticated. You’re on 1032 right?” she said without looking up.

  Sullivan nodded.

  “There ya’ go. That case is fucking cursed my friend. Maybe you should go back East man, seriously. I never saw anything like it.”

  “Not my style. Now I’m in it for the long haul I’m afraid. A man has to have principles,” he said shrugging. “And if you don’t like those I have others.”

  Just then the door opened and Tackett walked out silently.

  “Call you later,” he said walking past without stopping to speak. “You two get in here” came Tierney’s voice. “Close the door. Where to begin? First, I’m glad you’re both ok. Second, what the hell were you thinking keeping a secret like that from a superior? By rights I could send you both packing for insubordination. Your sergeant saw fit to explain that neither of you knew that I was unaware of this little secret of yours. That’s happy horseshit and you know it. That’s why he’s suspended, indefinitely.”

  “Sir, if I--” Rodriguez and Sullivan both erupted at the same moment.

  “Save it.” Tierney said unemotionally, raising his hand, “I went through the academy with Tackett. He’s a good man, but his decision to put personal loyalty above professionalism is why he has spent his whole career as a sergeant. He lied to me and I can’t have that. There are things bigger than friendship, believe it or not.

  As I just explained to you,” Tierney said pointing at Sullivan, “I can’t support you if I don’t know what the hell you’re up to. You have now put me in a position to either lie to my superiors or give this department another black eye, not to mention the press a week’s worth of free shit slinging at our expense. Are either of you up to the task of making that call? Huh? Wanna go outside and explain to the press what happened at our secret flop-house.” Tierney looked genuinely anguished and his voice was now almost a whisper.

  “You put everyone’s ass on the line when you lie. You’ll both answer to Sheppard now. He’s you’re acting sergeant until further notice. If you lie to him, I can assure you’ll be finished in law enforcement.”

  “Permission to speak frankly, Sir.”

  “If it’s about my son I’d suggest you mind your fucking good southern manners, Detective Sullivan.”

  “No, sir. It’s about honesty. Don’t you think I might have been told about case 1032, the truth that is? My ass has certainly been hanging in the wind, wouldn’t you say?”

  “You have as much information as any other detective would get on that case. I didn’t want to contaminate your thinking by pretending the case is something that it may or may not be. Let me tell you something else, Danny Fleming had himself a little chica south of the border and a cocaine habit, so he may or may not have disappeared because of this case. I knew him well. He was pretty depressed guy when his NFL days ended. Maybe only being a cop wasn’t good enough for him in the end.” Tierney paused. “You remember the Sherlock Holmes fella’ I was telling you about, Sullivan?”

  “Yes, he was a figment--”

  “Holmes says it is a capital mistake to make prejudgments about a case. You let the evidence guide you and you follow wherever it leads. When you start telling yourself goddamn fairytales before you’ve even seen the evidence. You’d both benefit from reading a goddamn book once in a while.”

  Sullivan and Rodriguez bowed their heads.

  “The kid should be processed by now. Go find out what if anything he remembers about this tourist of yours.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “And one last thing: Joe Tackett is not an active member of this department. If he attempts to call or contact you, he is to be ignored. Sharing information with him about this case is out of the question. Understood? Yes sir, are the words you’re looking for.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Rodriguez and Sullivan walked out silently. They waited until they were at the end of the hall before Rodriguez spoke.

  “Goddamn, I hate that prick sometimes.”

  “Let’s go talk to this kid.”

  “Yep.” Sullivan was looking at his phone.

  “What the hell you doing,” she said annoyed that he wasn’t paying attention.

  “Downloading the Cliff’s notes of this fucking Sherlock Holmes ass hole.”

  “Ah man you’re too much.”

  “By the way,” he said, “the house wasn’t a complete loss.” He handed her the half burnt picture of Miss November from his pocket. All that remained was from the waist down.

  “Rachel Arias,” she said without flinching. “Very nice equipment. Likes sunsets, wine, and curling up with a good book. Turn offs: jealous men and cigarette smoke. She’s still pretty hot, even without a face wouldn’t you say?”

  “Yes I would,” he said arching his eyebrows, “Yes, I would.”

  Chapter 22

  Downy propped his feet on his desk. It was Thursday already and he had no courses to teach and a clear schedule, which was ideal. He had much to do. He still needed to get ahold of Diba Jan. He was certain she would have answers, but not ones he wanted to hear. His buzzer rang.

  “Professor?”

  “I’m here, Janine.”

  “There is a Mr. Tannehill here to see you, says it’s an important matter. I have him waiting in the lobby. He seems a bit—well--”

  “You mean Professor Tannehill?” There was a long pause on the other end.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Downy could tell Janine was flustered. Tannehill had been Charlie’s friend really, a professor of Physics from Oxford no less and a bona fide nut job. The academic community had largely written him off after he had attempted to publish work that was apparently all, or largely based on junk science. He and Charlie had seen him have a full meltdown at a conference in Prague some years ago. It had effectively ended his career. What on earth could he want now Downy thought, and why would he come to him? They’d barely even spoken to one another.

  “Janine, you can send him in. Buzz me in ten minutes for an important call, just in case.”

  “Ok.”

  He looked at the phone and thought of Diba Jan. Tannehill limped into the room, favoring his left leg. The man looked positively ill. His hair had gone snow white since the last time he’d seen him, not to mention eyes that glared with what Downy could only call an unnatural zeal. His face was beet red.

  “Please, professor, don’t get up on my account.” Downy did love the British accent, especially in men Tannehill’s age. It was an older England he came from.

  “Professor, I haven’t seen you in years.”

  “I’m sure I am no less easy on the eyes than ever.” he said almost apologetically. “To quote my father, if I’d known I was going to live this long, I might have taken better care of myself.”

  Downy laughed sympathetically.

  “You on the other hand don’t look a day older than what I can remember. You must have been barely a boy though, when Charlie plucked you out of that grimy bar and made you a household name. And look at you now.”

  He remembered immediately why no one could stand Tannehill. His brusque manner put everyone off, though Charlie had always seen fit to put a positive spin on his seemingly rude behavior. Tannehill seemed to notice that the comment had stung a bit.

  “I’ve read your books professor and you are quite deserving of the mantle. If I didn’t kno
w better I’d say you and old Caesar were drinking buddies, maybe Antony too. An amazing imagination you have.”

  There it was again. He wasn’t a historian then; he was good at making stuff up. “Thank you.”

  “I’m sure you must be trying to understand why I am here.” He didn’t give Downy a chance to respond before continuing. “I know my reputation precedes me wherever I go, but please understand these common place insults have no effect whatsoever. I am quite beyond all that now, I assure you. I have no need for the approval of so called 21st century academia. I will perhaps build my own university one day, where my ideas can be better understood and appreciated, if time permits.”

  Downy nodded and smiled politely. He had no idea how to respond. “Could I offer you a coffee or glass of water?” he said trying to change the subject.

  “Oh yes, water would be lovely.”

  He rose pouring from the cooler in the corner. He handed the glass to Tannehill who finished it as if it was the last water he would ever get. He watched him gulp away in stunned silence.

  “Perhaps one more would be ok. I have traveled a long distance to be here and I’m afraid I have underestimated my thirst.”

  “Sure,” he said getting up again, pouring him a second. The fervor with which he drank suggested something more like madness. Streams of water ran down the sides of his mouth and he started to choke a little, coughing erratically.

  “This mortal coil, eh?” he said.

  Downy looked at his intercom, praying that Janine would ring early.

  “I am here on a social visit only, Professor Downy, call it a courtesy call; and to tell you what you must already perceive to be true.”

  “Charles Patterson,” Tannehill said leaning forward with a wide-eyed stare.

  Downy sat back in his chair. His pulse quickened.