Campanelli: Sentinel

by Frederick H. Crook

  “I happen to agree, Captain,” Earl answered immediately, putting a slight emphasis on Frank’s honorary rank. “I would prefer to nab DeSilva, Fillipo Ignatola and Del Taylor all nice and quiet-like, but the mayor wants this done publicly.”

  “And what about DeSilva’s followers?” Frank asked, not caring that his anger was evident. The plan was short sighted and dangerous and he was bent on letting Sebastian know it. “We’re not even sure how many to expect. There could be ten thousand.”

  “The mayor is not convinced that DeSilva has that great an influence,” Sebastian provided, though his own view was impossible to discern from his tone.

  “There could be a riot,” Frank heard himself say. It seemed an obvious and stupid statement, but the mayor’s idea had struck Campanelli dumb.

  “It’s possible, Frank,” the OCD Chief granted. “We will have sufficient officers there that morning. I want you to put together surveillance details on Fillipo Ignatola, Del Taylor and Maximilian DeSilva as of tomorrow morning.”

  “Okay,” Frank said absently. Images of violence outside the mayor’s office ran through his mind.

  “The arrest of Gianfranco Beritoni came too soon,” Sebastian went on. “That’s not a criticism, Frank, considering the circumstances. His absence from work might cause a problem. Del Taylor isn’t dumb. You can bet he’s figured out that his junior partner was hiding Antony and that we have him. Let’s hope that he and Ignatola have not already fled the city.”

  “I understand.”

  Earl Sebastian thanked his detective and ended the call. Campanelli placed the receiver onto its cradle and stared at the silent scene played out upon his holovision. It was a commercial for something, that much was certain, but for what exactly, Frank did not know nor did he care.

  The Chief of OCD had a point. Taylor and Ignatola might already have fled. He stood and paced the room, incensed over the mayor’s decision to make the arrest public. It was completely asinine and put the police officers and the mayor himself in danger.

  Politicians, he thought, will never learn until they’re facing an angry mob.

  On his fourth pass in front of the HV, Frank made a decision. Accessing the CPD server’s officer location system, he found that Williams was still at work at his desk just across the street. Quickly, Frank picked up the phone and dialed his number.

  “Hi, Frank,” Marcus answered on the first ring.

  “Hi. I just spoke to Sebastian,” Campanelli sat and ran his other hand through his short, spikey white hair. “Are you aware of the mayor’s plan for Saturday?”

  “Yeah,” Williams answered in a tone of annoyance. “I can’t believe he’s putting people at risk just for a public display.”

  “Understood. But Sebastian brought up something else.”

  “What?”

  “It’s more than likely that Del Taylor has put it together that Beritoni was arrested with Antony and that he might try to skate town.”

  “That’s a strong possibility,” Marcus agreed.

  “The Chief wants surveillance on Ignatola, DeSilva and Taylor by morning, but get two men on Taylor right away,” Campanelli ordered as the first “L” train of the evening shook his apartment. He noticed the time on his implant’s display was ten minutes after five. “He might still be at the office.”

  “I take it we’re not waiting until morning to watch the other two, either?”

  “Hell, no.”

  “On it,” Williams said and consulted his computer. Entering the information, an available detective unit responded. He then accessed the State’s GPS service. “Taylor’s car is in The Park Monroe’s garage. I have Lyman and Davies in the area. They’re almost done for the night, though. No one else on Sentinel is close at the moment.”

  “Send Lyman and Davies. Tell ‘em to request relief whenever they can get it.”

  “Right.”

  “Have you looked up the names of the pilots that Beritoni gave us?”

  “I was doing that when you called,” Marcus said. Frank could hear the sound of his partner’s fingers tapping his monitor. “Most of these men live in DuPage County…quite close to the DuPage Airport. One lives in Bolingbrook, near the old Clow airstrip. The last one is in Wheeling. He lives near the Chicago Executive Airport.”

  “Okay,” Campanelli added, “I want you to contact DuPage County Sheriff’s Department. Explain the situation and see if you can get them to put surveillance on them. Do the same for Bolingbrook and Wheeling.”

  “Got it.”

  “Look up Ignatola’s personal vehicles and find out where they are. Do the same with the reverend.”

  “Okay. Want me to call you back?”

  “Do it while I’m talkin’ to you.”

  “’K.”

  Frank stood and again began to pace. On his way past the HV, he touched the base and turned it off. As he waited for his partner to find something, he perused Beritoni’s statement. The attorney had given the names of six pilots and indicated that as far as he knew, that was all of them. Campanelli scratched his scalp in thought. Six men and aircraft were plenty to transport people to a location where their identifications could be changed. According to Beritoni, DeSilva’s network could transport entire families to either Cape Canaveral or San Francisco, where they would board rocket-trams that would take them to space. From there, they would board shuttles to the moon and at some point, simply vanish.

  “Quite a racket,” Frank murmured to himself.

  “Ah,” answered Marcus. “Reading Beritoni’s statement?”

  “Yeah.”

  “If we could shut this down, it would be big,” Williams opined. “Okay. Fillipo Ignatola has four vehicles registered in his name. According to the satellite service, three of these are at his home. The fourth, his limousine, is parked near a restaurant he is known to frequent in Little Italy.”

  “Get somebody over there,” Frank pounced. “Now, Marcus.”

  “On it,” Williams assured him as he picked an available detective unit from the computer. He entered the location and the person they were to find and watch, then sent the request. In less than twenty seconds, the unit responded. “Okay, I have detectives Tomlinson and Miskowski on the way there now. It’ll take ‘em twenty minutes to get there.”

  “Fine,” Campanelli said.

  “According to the computer, DeSilva doesn’t own a car, Frank.”

  “Mmmm. It might be under the name of his church. Uh, what was it? Church of the Divine…whozits?”

  “Intervention,” Williams provided. “Ah, here we are. Tour bus, check. Two vans, check. Three limousines and a…get this…the church owns a Ferrari.”

  Frank chuckled darkly. “Where are all of these vehicles?”

  “Tour bus, vans and two of the limos are on church grounds. The Ferrari is located at DeSilva’s residence on Lake Shore Drive. The third limo is on the move.”

  “Heading where?”

  “It’s heading west on Forty-sixth Street, moving towards the church, which is at forty-six twenty-seven South State Street.”

  “Okay,” Campanelli said excitedly and halted his pacing. “Make your calls to DuPage County Sheriff, Bolingbrook and Wheeling police. See if we can get officers on those pilots. Get someone to help you.”

  “Got it.”

  “I’m on my way out the door and I’m coming to get you.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “To church,” Frank announced and hung up.

  ***

  Campanelli replaced his shoulder holster and grabbed his sport coat and star on the way out the door. McKay and Old Bill were still loitering about the condo’s front doors, but with a quick hello and goodbye, Frank headed toward the street. Crossing it at a jog, he quickly made it to the corner and strode toward the front door of the District One station.

  Just as he approached the entrance to his workplace, he spotted his dark blue cruiser rounding the corner of Seventeenth and State. Though he knew well his partner’s e
fficiency, Frank found himself doubting that the man had gotten the phone calls finished. Marcus saw him at the curb and brought the car to a tire torturing halt.

  Campanelli opened the door but did not get in. Instead, he leaned down to look to his partner. “Did you make those calls?”

  “Yes,” Williams confirmed, “I called the DuPage Sheriff myself. I have two other people in the office alerting Bolingbrook and Wheeling.”

  “Okay,” Frank acknowledged and dropped himself into the passenger seat. Marcus pulled away from the station and headed south.

  “You have the address for DeSilva’s church in there?” Frank asked, pointing to the navigational screen.

  “Yep, that’s where we’re headed. I received an acknowledgement from Davies and Lyman. They’re watching the law firm now,” Marcus explained as the car, under its computer’s control, accelerated through the intersection. “Lyman made a phone call to verify that Del Taylor was in the office. The receptionist said that he was. Ignatola’s still at that restaurant.”

  “Good.”

  The detectives quieted for most of the ride to the Church of the Divine Intervention. Once the car passed Thirty-Fifth Street, the landscape changed to unkempt parks, run down or closed schools, churches and the occasional commercial building. Their eyes danced upon this slowly decaying part of the city, which appeared to Williams as an open wound that was in desperate need of a healing that would not come. To Frank, the neighborhood was what the rest of the city would have become if the exodus to Alethea had been allowed to continue legally: A once proud land that sacrificed its grand buildings for the sake of starship construction. Flat, barren and mostly devoid of human life, the area screamed of loneliness and abandon.

  A thought about the case occurred to Campanelli, shoving away his unvoiced impressions of their surroundings. He accessed the CPD server with his implant, its range augmented by the cruiser’s transceiver. Bringing up the data that Marcus had looked up back at District One, he found DeSilva’s only moving limousine. Currently, the satellite had tracked it to a parking space at the church. Inquiring into the vehicle history, Frank found that it had been parked near the corner of South Michigan and Thirty-Fourth Street, two blocks north and one block east of the CPD headquarters. Thinking back to the place that Campanelli had driven past perhaps a thousand times, he recalled that the area was mostly residential, though there were a few professional offices tucked within, including a handful of medical and dental services.

  Frank understood there was nothing outwardly strange about this, but suspicion spawned within him. Looking further back into the limo’s travel history, he found a visit to a restaurant at around lunch time. Before that, the car had come from DeSilva’s home.

  As was the nature of his job, Campanelli dug further and further back. He found several trips to Taylor, Taylor & Packey, including the one on the day that Frank and Marcus had met him as he was leaving Beritoni’s office. His suspicion grew when he discovered that the car revisited that same corner of South Michigan and Thirty-fourth over the past several days.

  Frank made a mental note of that as the cruiser was forced to slow down for a gaggle of pedestrians crossing their path. The group appeared to be walking away from a parking lot on their right. The sudden presence of humanity broke the drab neighborhood’s spell on the detectives.

  “What the hell is going on here?” Marcus mumbled.

  Frank said nothing as he watched the crowd cross the street from the west side. Looking to his left, he noted that the sidewalk was cluttered with groups of people heading south on foot or bicycle. As the police car rolled on, Marcus and Frank both stared in wonder into the plethora of slow-moving humanity. While most were dressed in a most casual manner, as if they had taken the day off to tour the city, others were more formal. Frank lost count of the men wearing sport coats, slacks and nice shoes. Others stood out in the crowd in suits complete with ties and vests. The women accompanying these gentlemen were equally as decked out in dressy feminine attire. Campanelli noted that many of the less well-dressed bore crosses on necklaces. Some without jewelry had crosses printed upon t-shirts.

  “Ah-ha,” Marcus uttered as he pointed a finger to a group of people to their right that was crossing in the middle of the block. The cruiser stopped and Williams waved the stragglers of the mass to continue. Upon the chests of many of these people was the likeness of Reverend Maximilian DeSilva.

  “There goes Tam’s theory that the audience was fake,” Campanelli said wryly. He saw that a number of people were wearing the same antibacterial masks that he had seen on the news. Very few wore gloves, but many kept their hands in their pockets.

  “I kinda had high hopes for that theory,” Marcus said as he guided the car slowly along.

  “Yeah,” Frank agreed. “Me, too.”

  The car’s computer announced their arrival to the programmed address and the two detectives could see that the crowd of people was making its way to the same place. Frank had researched DeSilva’s church and had discovered that it had once been a small Baptist church, but it had closed more than a decade ago. DeSilva had purchased that property and several vacant lots from the city and had leveled the old building, replacing it with an enormous complex of offices, an amphitheater which accommodated five thousand people and a large garage. From the size of the gathering they had seen so far, Frank was certain that the place would be nearly filled.

  Outside the place of worship was a metal signpost which featured a holographic image of Maximilian DeSilva. Depicted from the waist upward, the HV preacher smiled and waved at his visitors from atop the tall mast. Reading the scrolling text of the lit sign beneath DeSilva, Frank found that there were services held here on Thursdays, Saturdays and Sundays. Casting his eyes skyward to take in the enlarged representation of Maximilian, Frank watched the great and twinkling blue eyes and shivered.

  “Oh, man, that is creepy,” Campanelli commented. “Drive past. Go down a block and park.”

  Marcus complied, driving the cruiser manually through the next intersection and parking it in the first available spot on the street.

  “What in the world are you doing?” Williams asked.

  “I am preparing to infiltrate this here church, partner-o-mine,” Frank answered as he took off his sport coat and removed the shoulder holster. He placed the pistol on his lap and dumped the holster on the floor. “Coming?” he goaded.

  “You want I should?” Williams mocked Campanelli’s mixed New York and Chicago accents.

  “I want you should,” Frank confirmed as he pulled out his shirt tails and tucked the firearm into his belt at the small of his back.

  A moment later, both men exited the cruiser and met on the sidewalk. They walked with restrained urgency toward the church and melted into the thinning crowd. Most had already made it to the inside of the theater/church and Frank wondered if they would end up stuck outside.

  “So, what in the world are we doing?” Williams sent in text.

  “Educating ourselves,” Campanelli replied in kind.

  “I don’t think I want this kind of education,” Marcus sent and elbowed his partner. Frank looked up to the big man, smiled and shrugged.

  In a few minutes, the crowd began moving again. Frank and Marcus both made it inside. With the great gathering of humanity, Frank felt a slight ping of anxiety and uncomfortable warmth. The anxiety passed quickly, but he rolled up his shirt sleeves to help cool off.

  “This way, brothers and sisters!” an usher called from dead ahead of them. “If you can’t move ahead, move to the left or right!”

  A moment later, Campanelli learned what the man had meant. Just inside the closest amphitheater entrance, the crowd slowed yet again. With the lack of forward flow, attendees had little choice but to walk to other entrances to their left or right, or if they were patient, they would filter slowly forward only to have to find another row of seats in either direction. Campanelli noted the entrances to the balconies at either end of the lobby
were closed off by red velvet rope. The herd of people was skillfully steered to the main floor.

  Frank nodded to the gray-suited usher standing at the center entrance. “Is it always this crowded?”

  “Just about, brother,” he replied with a great, whitened tooth smile that Frank did not trust. “Just about.” The younger man’s smile faltered the slightest bit at the approach of Marcus, who stood a whole head taller than himself.

  “Good evening,” Williams wished the usher as he followed Frank.

  “Good evening, brother. Welcome,” he said.

  The theater hummed with the conversation of thousands of people. Frank followed the path of least resistance, finding it easier to take a left turn once he was beyond the entrance. Marcus followed and soon they approached the less populated section at the upper left corner of the amphitheater. Though many people chose the same section, it did not fill to capacity like sections further forward.

  “Well, maybe his following isn’t all that much,” Marcus texted.

  “It is if he attracts this many people three times a week,” Frank responded. Noting the time on his display, it was a few minutes until seven o’clock, which was show time. Looking about the place, his concern about DeSilva’s following waned a bit once he found that none of the sections at the rear of the facility were full, in fact, the balcony sections that had been roped off were entirely absent of people. This meant that it was up to the camera crews to give the HV audience the impression of a full house. Seeing that the place appeared smaller ‘in person’, Campanelli thought it possible that the production was ‘padded’ with stock footage of audience members from earlier shows.

  His thoughts were interrupted by the sudden thrumming of kettle drums and the crashing of cymbals. The lights went down and much of the crowd, including those patrons seated around Frank and Marcus, began to holler and wail in delight. Shouting above the music and cheering was the voice of the announcer. It was the same man that could be heard on the HV broadcast.