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Cover Art:
Arvin Candelaria & Velvet Lyght
Stories by CL
http://www.storiesbycl.com/
Publisher’s Note:
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and events are the work of the author’s imagination.
Any resemblance to real persons, places, or events is coincidental.
Solstice Publishing - www.solsticepublishing.com
Copyright 2014 Frederick H. Crook
Campanelli: Sentinel
by
Frederick H. Crook
Dedication
Thank you to my wife, family and friends for their support over the years to get this and previous works in print. Thank you also to the fans that I’ve met and come to know. You have all encouraged my efforts and rewarded me with your kindnesses and your friendships.
Prologue
In 2031, the discovery of the “Super Earth,” Alethea, sent the nations of the Earth into a mad scramble to colonize it. Alethea was immense, more than fourteen times the size of mankind’s birthplace and fresh with untapped resources, ample with water and a breathable atmosphere. The discovery was a catalyst of creativity and renewed interest in space travel beyond the resort-like installations built upon the moon.
Beginning in the early 2040’s, the first launchings of multinational starships capable of carrying tens of thousands of pioneering passengers began the more than thirty year journey to the great planet. By the 2060’s starships grew to accommodate up to one hundred and twenty thousand people. The period known as “The Great Exodus” began in 2069 with over two thousand launchings of such vessels that year by all space-going nations combined. The Earth’s population shed more than three billion by the turn of the 22nd century.
Starship construction was the foremost industry in the world throughout this time and, by the 2080s, the materials needed for such vehicles depleted the Earth’s more easily reached sources. Industries turned to recycling sea-going vessels, military or commercial. Additionally, old buildings, especially skyscrapers, became the targets of recycling. The skyline of every city on Earth was forever altered.
As time went on, various industries became extinct, forcing skilled laborers and entrepreneurs to seek their fortunes on Alethea. The technological progressions on Earth faltered and eventually reverted. The effect was not unlike that of a stretched rubber band, suddenly released at one end. With the best and brightest departing the Earth by the millions, infrastructures began to fail.
In early 2109, the governments of the Earth passed anti-migration laws, ceasing legal travel to Alethea. By this time, however, starships launched in the 2040’s were returning home for more passengers. The mass exodus continued, though quite illegally, as men in space worked in secret to refurbish and refuel any starship that could be diverted from the scrapyard. There would never be a shortage of willing passengers.
Cities throughout the world shrank, though many a stubborn man and woman toiled in denial.
I
It had been nearly midnight when Frank last checked the time. During his long wait, his bio-electronic implant’s power cells had run low, so he shut it down to allow a recharge. It felt that a great amount of time had gone by since then. Time had a habit of slowing whenever his implant was shut down. The clock display was not accessible by a simple thought and the darkness that ensued tended to stretch the minutes even further. Without his CAPS-Link network activated, Captain of Detectives Frank Campanelli of the Chicago Police Department was completely blind.
This day had been a long one. The events that led up to the shootout, which brought him to the suburban hospital waiting room, flashed through his mind over and over. In his self-imposed darkness, he searched for other outcomes by changing the variables; the actions he had taken and ordered his men to take; the actions of the human traffickers; his reactions to their reactions.
A brief moment of madness, he concluded.
Frank sat forward in the thinly padded chair, scratched the itch at the arch of his nose, and placed his elbows upon his knees. He ran his hands over his face, then through his short white hair. His fingers smelled of gunpowder and when he brought them down from his scalp, he found that the faint smell of sweat and hair lotion had leeched into them, bringing a sense of civility and normalcy into his thoughts.
Campanelli felt his cheeks in his hands and smiled. His girlfriend Tamara Billingsley was a good cook and his short, wiry frame had begun to take on a little weight.
Restlessly, he sat back. Too hard and fast, the front legs came up from the floor and slammed back down into the thin carpet with a thump. He closed his useless eyes and breathed.
He was not alone in the waiting room. There was a young couple well off to his right. They had been there when he arrived and they had been quiet other than the occasional shuffling of feet and low murmuring. He wished Marcus Williams had come to the hospital, but his partner was busy back in Chicago, booking and interrogating the driver of the car they had pursued all the way out to the DuPage County Airport.
Frank wanted to reach out to Tam just to hear her voice, but he knew that she would be asleep. She routinely awoke at five in the morning to open her diner and, though she would be glad to hear from him and know that he was okay, her night’s sleep would be destroyed.
Certain that two hours had passed, Campanelli reactivated his CAPS-Link. The bland beige walls of the waiting room reappeared to him and he checked the time. His downtime had actually been closer to an hour and a half and the implant’s battery was up to nearly half capacity. He accessed the CPD server with the help of the hospital’s network and checked his messages. There were only two.
The first one confirmed the death of undercover detective Albert Kelly, announcing it to the force in a general message. The second was from Williams, asking his partner for an update on the victim’s condition. Both were over an hour old.
The victim was Sam Whethers, the father of the family of three that had been passengers in the fleeing vehicle. Once the pursuit ended at the airport, the traffickers opened fire on the police. Campanelli reacted to the fire from the driver and lined him up in his handgun’s sights. The driver began to run laterally as Frank pulled the trigger. His bullet found a wandering and confused Sam Whethers instead. He had taken the eleven millimeter round in the upper chest.
It was this man that Frank Campanelli was waiting to hear about.
Linda Whethers, the victim’s wife, was arrested and charged with attempting to migrate and was taken to the District Ten Station on Ogden Avenue. Sarah, the daughter, was with her and would most likely be remanded to extended family once her parents were incarcerated.
“Whethers is still in surgery as far as I know,” Frank composed and sent to his partner.
“You should head home, Frank,” came the immediate reply. “There’s nothing you can do for the man.”
Campanelli severed the link to the CPD computer without answering Williams. He stood abruptly, causing the couple at the other end of the room to glance in his direction. Frank stepped to the doorway to the waiting room and gazed upon the large gray doors at the end of the hall. “Trauma Center. No Admittance” the sign read.
He turned around and jammed his hands into his pant pockets. Frank wanted a smoke, but it was not allowed in the hospital. He considered stepping outside, but the wanting to know his victim’s condition outweighed his o
ther concerns. Campanelli was aware that he was hungry and thirsty, but he did nothing to alleviate it.
The world beyond the windows lining the waiting room was dark save for the lights in the parking lot, their yellowish glow distorted by the thick drizzling rain. The discovery of the weather deepened Campanelli’s gloom. He turned his eyes from it and retook his seat. After a few minutes more, he shut the implant down and slouched into the chair.
Sometime later, he fell asleep.
***
Frank awakened to a gentle rocking coupled with a deep male voice speaking his name. A dream unmemorable faded and he opened his eyes routinely, revealing only more blackness. He thought the command to activate the implant.
“Yes?” he answered and blinked as the vision of the waiting room and a uniformed DuPage County Deputy Sheriff came to light.
“Captain Campanelli,” the deputy repeated, “I’m afraid Sam Whethers didn’t make it.”
To this, Frank’s vaguely hopeful expression froze as his artificial lenses brought the deputy’s face into focus. He was a youngish man, about thirty he guessed. The look on his face was guarded, though his eyes seemed to favor kindness. Campanelli thanked the lawman, using the name on the brass tag pinned to his shirt. The officer left quietly and, after a moment, Frank got to his feet and made his way to his cruiser.
It was a night in early May, cool bordering on cold. The drizzle gave Campanelli a deep chill, which was exacerbated by the fact that he had not put on his overcoat. He approached his car and it opened the door for him.
He slid inside quickly and connected his implant with the vehicle’s computer. The door shut as its engine activated and immediately gave warmth to the cabin. Frank set the District Ten Station as the destination and the cruiser responded, slipping into gear, and rolling out of the parking lot and onto the road.
Frank was not even sure of where he was at the moment. He knew that the hospital was in West Chicago, the same suburb as the DuPage Airport, but not much else. He gazed at the monitor at the center of the dashboard. He could see that he was twenty-seven miles away, so Campanelli ordered the car to go to ‘Condition 2’. The blue strobes set into the windshield at the roofline and rear deck lit the night as the vehicle surged forward, making use of its twin-turbocharged gasoline engine.
Frank took no enjoyment from the rush of adrenaline afforded to him by the lights and sounds of the powerful car. He had to deliver bad news to a widow and he had been the man’s killer.
The Captain of Detectives accessed the CPD computer and composed a message for his partner to expect him in thirty minutes, though with the sparse population of these suburbs and the time of night, it was very possible the car would arrive in about twenty minutes, just after two a.m.
“What happened?” Williams sent in reply.
“Sam Whethers died,” Campanelli explained.
A minute passed before Marcus’s next message. “Frank, go home. I’ll take care of it.”
The car’s siren sang out at the detection of another vehicle on the road. It was an antique sedan headed in the other direction. It was without computer-guided controls, so Frank’s cruiser had no ability to pull it over. The driver of the other car was diligent, however and slowed as the unmarked police car passed.
Frank was tired nearly to the point of passing out, despite the awkward nap he had taken in the waiting room. He was lightheaded from hunger as he had taken in nothing other than coffee and water for nearly twelve hours. He asked himself if it would be better for the widow to hear the news from the man who killed her husband or from someone not so directly involved. He did not know the answer to that, but did know that there was no good way to hear such news. Frank realized that he was in no shape to take on the task. He could always forward his condolences later.
“Okay, Marcus,” he composed and sent as an audible message, “you go ahead and tell them for me. Thank you. I’m heading for home.”
“You got it,” Williams returned in kind.
Frank changed the vehicle’s destination and canceled the emergency status. The night lost its brilliant blue lightning and the cruiser coasted to a sane pace.
Though he wanted to sleep, the car’s computer could not allow its occupant to do so. If he were to fall asleep in the driver’s seat, the vehicle would pull to the side of the road and shut down as a matter of safety. As comfortable as the seat was, Frank wanted his bed, so he forced himself to maintain consciousness for the forty-five minute ride home.
The conditions of the city streets all but guaranteed that he would not sleep. However, the car was well designed and its frame quite strong, the potholes and broken bits of pavement made the car bounce and weave to get over or around them. It was not until the car came within a few blocks of the Eighteenth Street Bridge that it began to travel well again. The road was a main artery and was recently overhauled by the city’s understaffed road crews. After a short ride beyond the bridge and Ping Tom Memorial Park, Frank was home.
The walk to the door of his apartment building felt too long. The steps to the third floor were too numerous, too steep. Once inside his front door, he removed his compressed blind man’s cane from a pocket and tossed it and his overcoat upon the dining room table. He removed his tie on the way to the bedroom and, in complete darkness with his CAPS-Link shut down, he undressed and collapsed onto his bed. He was asleep in seconds, forgetting that he was ever hungry.
***
To Frank, sunlight came without notice. It was the incessant chime at the door that finally aroused him from his deep but uneven slumber.
“Shit,” he muttered as he engaged his implant. He was on his feet and halfway to the front door without the need of his cane before his sight came to him. Before his implant even had the chance to communicate with the apartment’s security system, he peeked through the lens in the door, found the unmistakably wide chest, and chiseled chin of Marcus Williams on the other side. “What?!” Campanelli bellowed.
“Frank,” Marcus replied with his eyes centered on the peephole, “people are trying to get a hold’a you.”
“So?”
“So…are you okay?”
“Yeah. Go ‘way.”
“Can’t.”
“Says who?”
“Chief Vanek.”
Frank groaned and unlocked the door. Aware that he was in his underwear, he retreated to the bedroom to put something on. To his surprise, it was after eight in the morning. Though he had accrued nearly six hours sleep, it felt to him that it had only been two.
When he emerged from the bedroom wearing pajama pants and a t-shirt, he found Marcus standing behind the kitchen counter. In contrast to his partner, Williams was perfectly groomed and wore one of his best dark blue suits, complete with a solid burgundy tie.
Frank dismissed the look of disappointment and urgency on his partner’s face and walked into the living room to fall into his favorite chair. Williams reluctantly stepped to the couch and sat sideways, looking at Frank expectantly with his dark brown eyes.
Campanelli wiped the sleep from his face with one hand before speaking. “So, how did they take the news?”
“Linda Whethers is a tough woman,” Marcus began and sat back, “at least that’s what I got from her during the interrogation. When she heard that Sam didn’t make it, she broke.”
Frank said nothing, choosing a sigh instead as he studied his carpet. He nodded sullenly.
“It wasn’t your fault,” Marcus stepped up, “Jimmy Antony used the man as a human shield. Linda knows this. I told her.”
“Yeah,” Frank said, still nodding. “What about the kid?”
“Well, she’s going to Juvi.”
“No extended family?!”
“None. Linda stated everyone else on both sides of the family is either elderly, departed for Alethea or dead.”
“Great,” Campanelli growled.
“Her parents’ actions sent her there, Frank.”
“Goddamn it, that doesn’t make it an
y better, Marcus,” Campanelli blurted.
“It should.”
Frank was quiet for a moment. He connected to the CPD server and saw that he had accumulated more than a dozen messages. He didn’t feel like reading any of them, but the one from Dmitri Vanek, Chief of Detectives for District One, was urgent. He and Williams were to head to his office as soon as possible. The message was two and a half hours old.
“Where’s Jimmy Antony now?” Frank asked of Williams.
“Out on bond.”
“What?! Already?!”
“Yep. They were only able to charge him with reckless driving and human trafficking.”
“He shot at me!” Campanelli shouted indignantly and slapped the arms of his recliner.
“Just submit your recordings to the DA and that should do to revoke bail.”
Frank let out a string of profanity and popped up from his chair. Stalking to his bedroom, he quickly picked out the day’s suit. “How the hell did he arrange bail so quick?!” he shouted over his shoulder.
“He’s connected to Phil Ignatola, Frank,” Marcus replied, knowing his partner hated that gangster more than any other in the city. He was right; another barrage of rather creative profanity erupted from the bedroom.
“So, we’ve finally drawn a line directly to the Ignatola family,” Campanelli stated as he took his clothes and a towel to the bathroom.
“Nothing that’ll stick,” Marcus explained, “I drew that conclusion from the lawyer that showed up this mornin’.”
“Uh, that would be that dillhole, Taylor.”
“Actually, it’s Del Taylor, and no, it was a junior partner, Beritoni.”
“Same difference,” Frank called from the bathroom. “Give me a few,” he called over the running water. The fifty-two year old showered quickly but thoroughly and, having dressed in record time, met Marcus at the already opened front door.
“I let Vanek know we were on our way to see him. He’s waiting in his office,” Williams said as he stepped behind his older partner.
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