by David Carner
There were plenty of ways for Veronica to be at the funeral and no one would ever figure out the connection, but . . . no . . . no she couldn’t. She couldn’t risk the secret they all shared coming out. He understood; he just didn’t like it. Of course, with Jason dead, maybe it was time. Maybe the truth could finally come out and he could get a decent night’s sleep for the first time in over twenty-five years.
After the funeral and the family left the cemetery, the four of them gathered around the gravesite. No one said much. How could they? They all looked down at their friend. Leroy wondered if all of the thoughts about telling the truth were going through their minds as well. Was it time to tell what really happened all those years ago?
A light snow began to fall. As they stood there, they saw a figure approach them. It dawned on Leroy as the figure was less than 10 feet away who it was . . . but that was impossible. It was just . . . impossible.
Leroy swallowed, “David? David George, is that . . . you???”
“Leroy Jenkins, Amy Jensen, Colt McCormick, Tom Bradley . . .” All four looked nervous and anxious. In one motion, the man in front of them reached down pushing his trench coat aside on both sides of him. Shock and surprise was on all four of their faces as he pulled out a gun in each hand. There were silencers on the end of each gun and they were pointed at the two members of the group on the outside. Simultaneously he shot from both hands and then changed targets to the two on the inside and shot again at the second pair of targets. All four dropped dead. As he fired the shots, he answered.
“Yeah, it’s me. David George. You see when I kill someone; I make sure they’re dead.” David dropped a note on the bodies and then turned and walked away. Each body lay on the ground with a single gunshot wound in the middle of their forehead. The note simply read, “Tell Veronica I know who she is, and she’s next.”
Now
John Fowler’s Apartment, New York, New York
Chapter 5
“Four shots in 5 seconds; how do you know that?” John asked.
Chet smiled. “He sent us a tape of it. He’s that good. No one saw it happen. John, he wants us to know who he is.”
John looked at the file; it was very thin. He groaned inwardly and looked at Chet. Chet was looking everywhere but in John’s eyes. “Chet . . . ?”
“Ok, ok. We’ve got nothing, except there are four people dead and the killer sent us a video. There is also a good chance that the killer . . .” John leaned forward and was staring daggers into Chet. “I mean we feel like there is evidence . . .” John leaned in even closer. “All right; I’ve got a gut feeling.” John fell back on the couch with his arms spread. “John, I really, really think that whoever killed these four people also killed the soldier.”
John stared up at the ceiling. Chet was a computer genius. He probably could have been a rich computer tycoon or a world class hacker . . . or both! Chet's biggest problem within the FBI was that he was always looking for a conspiracy. Chet, however, tended to be right about when he had a "feeling" on a case or what seemed to be unrelated cases. That kind of gut instinct had the tendency to ruffle some feathers. Not John, he had no problem looking at something wild and outlandish, he just needed some evidence to back it. That’s probably why he and Chet had become so close over the years.
John was lying back against the couch, staring at the ceiling. “Special Forces?”
Chet, “We’re pretty sure.”
John, “Why?”
Chet looked confused, “Why what?”
“Why do you think this person has Special Forces training?” John asked.
Chet responded. “Four shots in five seconds; you don’t learn that on the street. Also, there were some companies deployed in Afghanistan during the time Jason Sparks was stationed there. “
John shook his head. He looked at his friend. “Chet, you’re doing it again; you are trying to make the evidence fit a theory. You know better.” Chet looked down. He didn’t know how many times over the years he had heard the same speech. He couldn’t help himself, when he got these gut feelings . . . sometimes they would just take him over, and he would push until he found the mystery. “Hey Chet,” said John, “I never said it was a bad theory, but let’s let the evidence get us there. Now, since you’ve headed down this path, let’s take it a step further. Is there anyone AWOL who might have this type of training?”
Chet shook his head. “Not that I can find.”
John looked at his friend and asked the question that had been troubling him, “Why me?”
Chet froze. John tried hard to repress a slow smile. He knew what was going on. This was a gray area case. Locals didn’t want it because of the proximity to the base. Feds didn’t really want it because it had loose military ties, and military couldn’t investigate because it wasn’t military personnel shot at the grave-site. The FBI wanted someone they knew, but wasn’t connected directly to them. It was the old political game that he had seen many times . . . and hated.
John also knew what this case meant. It could be a career maker or breaker. If he took this case, it could be his chance back in, but if he couldn’t solve it, he would probably never be back with the FBI. John wasn’t sure how he felt about that. On one hand he really didn’t want back in, but on the other . . . John had never seen the case file on his wife’s death. In fact, it was still listed as unsolved. John wanted one thing in his life more than anything, to wrap up that case. He believed he should be in jail, but he was found innocent of all wrongdoings. That means there was more to the story than he knew. As much as he didn’t want to join up again, there was that part of him, the part that made him the guy that solved more cold cases, or cases everyone thought were unsolvable, that wanted back in. If the FBI thought it was someone else who had killed Sam . . . John knew this was his one chance. He couldn’t appear eager. He had to make them think he was doing them a favor.
John looked at Chet. Chet had turned away trying to think of a polite, political way to answer his question. Chet was struggling with what to say to him.
“Chet, give me one good reason to take this case, just one.”
Chet looked his friend straight in the eye, “John, if you ever, ever, EVER want back in, this will be your ticket.”
“Why, Chet? Why would I ever want to go back to them? Why . . .” John stopped and looked out the window. It had been over three years and it was still a fresh wound. Because of them . . . because of the FBI, he had lost Sam. This is why he didn’t want the case. John swallowed and looked at his friend. John asked the question he had avoided asking for three years.
“Chet,” John asked trying to choke back tears, “do you think I’m suicidal?”
Chet was taken aback, “John, where did that come from!? Are you trying to tell me something???”
John waived his friend off. “No, nothing like that. I just wondered if you were trying to keep me busy by showing me there is more to life, or showing me the “good” part of the FBI. You know what happened. Chet, you’ve seen the file. I haven’t even seen the official file on her!!! You’re the only person I’ve ever told what happened to Sam. Not her parents, friends, or anyone. Well that’s not entirely true, is it?”
Chet looked away very uncomfortably. John smiled. “How about this? You’re the only human I ever told what happened to Sam. For crying out loud ,Chet, it’s been three years and they’ve never done anything to me about it!!” John looked at his friend. Chet was so uncomfortable. But there was something else, that he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. That was one of the things that got John so far in the FBI and made him such a great PI. He noticed the little things and followed the trail until not only was it cold, but there were no other possible leads. Today John had other things on his mind or he might have followed his instincts. “But never mind all of that; you’re avoiding the question. DO YOU THINK I’M SUICIDAL!?!?”
“No John,” said the woman who had entered the room during the previous exchange and stood quietly leaning against
the doorframe. “No John, you may be vain, arrogant, narcissistic, a pain-in-the-butt, and most importantly very hurt and lonely, but no . . . you’re not suicidal.”
John looked stunned. He couldn’t believe his eyes. The one person he had gone out of his way to avoid more than his in-laws. He stared at the woman and then back at Chet. “Chet,” John said very angrily, “Why on Earth is this woman in my home!?!”
Chapter 6
“Jessica. What are you doing in MY APARTMENT!?!?!?!?” John bellowed.
Jessica rolled her eyes, straightened up, walked further into the apartment, and looked around. It was in much better shape than she expected. To be honest, it was pretty well kept for an almost forty, recovering alcoholic, widower. She was sure there would be pizza boxes, hamburger wrappers, and the like strewn all around. In fact, truth be told, his apartment was in much better shape than her apartment. Jessica chuckled inwardly. Jessica looked over at John and thought, so far, so good.
Jessica “The Hammer” Hammerstein was probably the one person John hated the most in this world . . . well . . . the second. The first being whoever had killed Sam. Jessica had been given the nickname “The Hammer” because of her work in interrogation. Most criminals always wanted her in the box. Most simply thought she was a beautiful woman that got the job because of her looks. However, once the interview started, they quickly regretted that decision. If Jessica found one inconsistency in an interview, she would hammer on a person until she got that person to break. Every once in a while a story was inconsistent for very valid reasons. Either way, by the time she was done, she would know why. John had used her skills as an interrogator many times over the years.
John spoke, “I’m waiting.” Jessica looked at John and took a deep breath.
“John, let’s get this out in the open right now. If you’re mad at me for what happened in that interview room over three years ago, then you’re a fool!” John’s mouth fell open. Chet had known this moment was coming, but winced anyway. This moment had been building for three years. He knew if John was to ever come back to the FBI, this moment had to happen. Over three years ago, when John’s wife died, John was a suspect. It was simple really; wife found dead, husband is the first person looked at, end of story. After the biggest Mafia bust in recent FBI history, with John being the lead undercover agent, the FBI had to make absolutely sure their man hadn’t gone nuts and taken out his wife.
“John, if the FBI had put anyone else in that box to interrogate you, what would you honestly say? “ John said nothing; he just stared at the floor. Jessica continued. “John? John!!”
“Cover-up,” John whispered.
“John, I can’t hear you.”
John shot Jessica a death look. He cleared his throat, “A cover-up. I would say the FBI had gone soft and had done a cover-up. I know that Jessica. I accept that. The FBI actually did me a favor by having you grill me. Let me take that back. You didn’t grill me; you rode me hard and put me up wet.” Chet covered his mouth with his hand so John wouldn’t see him smile. “I told you what happened, every gory, blasted detail at least ten different times. So tell me this, Hammer.” John said sarcastically. “Why didn’t I serve any time for killing my wife?”
Chet grabbed John’s arm. “John, we’ve talked about this.” John pulled his arm away and walked to the window and looked out. He put both hands on the window seal and spoke.
“Look, do me a favor, both of you. Get OUT!!!”
Jessica walked up to John, grabbed him by the shoulders and looked him straight in the eye. “I’m sure Sam loves the way you’re keeping her memory.” John looked as though he had been slapped. “She’s dead. Buried. In the ground for three plus years. GET OVER YOURSELF!!” John pulled away and walked out the door of his apartment into the hallway.
Chet started to walk after him and Jessica stopped him.
“Don’t. He’s got to get past this if we’re going to be a team again. I admit, we need him, but we need the old John, not this depressed shell that’s living here. Let’s start on the file.”
“Here?” Chet asked.
“Have you got somewhere more pressing to be?” Jessica asked. “Besides he’s got to come back sometime . . . right?”
Chapter 7
John was halfway down the building stairs when it dawned on him. He had just stormed out of his own apartment. He couldn’t help it. He began laughing. There were so many emotions that were swirling inside of him. He still didn’t know if his friend thought he was suicidal. John knew he wasn’t . . . not yet. He had one thing he had to do, and then . . . John pushed those thoughts from his mind. What would Sam say to him if he were to take his own life??
John walked out the door of his building with tears streaming down his face. He walked over two buildings and started up the stairs to his PI Office. Why he kept it he had no idea. It wasn’t like he needed all the room. He could do everything in his apartment, but John didn’t feel right bringing all of the cases to his home. He needed to keep things separate . . . well as far as PI work was concerned.
Sam use to give him grief constantly for bringing FBI work home. That was all in good fun. It was the undercover work that was the strain on her. 14 months planted into the Mafia, John had become too ingrained. He drank with them constantly. He had a problem, but he couldn’t do anything until his undercover work was over. John truly was surprised in the last three years no one had tried to take him out. Of course maybe that hadn’t happened because they were much too busy trying to take out the “rats” that had turned on the family. As much as some of the Mafia life was romanticized, when it came time to do life, or take a deal and live in witness protection, the mob crumbled. There was also another reason. Maybe the mob thought he was already dead.
John sat at his desk and looked out the window. He could see the building that Sam used to work in. He leaned forward and opened the drawer where he had the locket he had never given Sam. He was going to her the night she died to apologize. They had made all the busts . . . except one. A low level member had gotten away. If John had known that at the time ... John shook his head, tears welling in his eyes. He was going home that night to tell Sam he was joining AA and even quit the FBI if she wanted. John was a block from the apartment when it exploded. The FBI reported John dead. They tried to put him in witness protection, but he refused. That was when he first heard the mutterings of him being suicidal. Maybe he was, or maybe he just felt like he had nothing left to lose.
“Ok, Sam. I take this case, get reinstated, and find your killer. Of course, as far as I’m concerned he’s sitting right here in this office.” John lowered his head and wept openly. “Sam,” he whispered. “Sam, I’m so sorry. It should have been me.”
Chapter 8
One Hour Later
John entered his apartment. Jessica and Chet were going through the relatively thin file for a quadruple homicide. Jessica saw John, stood, and walked over to him. She stopped an arm’s length away.
“John, we need to finish the conversation we were having,” said Jessica. John nodded, his cheeks still wet from tears.
“John, I need you. You haven’t lived in over three years, you’ve just existed. I need one of the FBI’s top investigators.” Jessica stared at the floor. She spoke very quietly, “John, Chet and I haven’t done so well since you left.”
John looked up sharply. He glanced over at Chet. John studied him hard. Chet looked a little gaunt in the face. His eyes were puffy and dark like he hadn’t been sleeping. John cursed himself under his breath. He had been so wrapped up in his other problems that he hadn’t even noticed. He looked back at Jessica and studied her carefully. She was as beautiful as ever, but normally she was also very meticulous about her clothes. When he looked over them, they looked slightly wrinkled. It could have been anything from not being ironed to sleeping in them. Whatever it was, it was something that John, no not John, not this John. John Fowler, FBI agent, he would have noticed. He looked back at Jessica, nodding for her to cont
inue.
“Since you . . . left, our little team has never found a person to replace you. She crossed her arms and slowly started to walk the room. “See . . . well, they kept trying to replace you. Geez I can’t believe I’m about to say this.”
John crossed his arms and smiled broadly, “I’m waiting.”
Jessica turned toward John her face angry. She crossed the space between them in three long strides, her arm extending. She pointed furiously at John as she spoke. “See! See! This is why! This is why no one has contacted you in three years! They don’t want to put up with you and your egotistical . . .”
John interrupted her, “Good to see you still can’t admit you need and want me.”
John ducked to avoid the right hook. Now if someone had walked in on this, they would have thought John was under attack. John knew better. For some reason, and John thought he knew why, he could push Jessica’s buttons until she was literally ready to knock his head off. In the seven years they had worked together he had dodged dozens, if not hundreds of punches.
John was laughing, “Ok, ok. Things aren’t going good, but you guys survived without me for fourteen months when I was undercover. I mean I was in a little, but mainly it was just the two of you. What has gone so wrong this time?” John smiled at the unspoken question he didn’t dare ask at this point.
Jessica was still mad. She was pointing at him and muttering under her breath, “don’t you dare.” John put his hands up to try and calm her. She sighed and began. “During those 14 months, no one was put with us. The three of us were a team, and no one dared try to replace you. After you left, well, the politics started.”
John looked at the floor. So this was his fault as well. Ten years ago the three of them started working together on a case and closed what was not only thought to be a cold case, but impossible under most circumstances, in other words; a career maker. The three had been made a permanent team. They became the go to team on all big cases. Chet could handle any computer problems, John could sniff out any lead, and Jessica could get the location of Hoffa’s body out of the person who buried him if she had him in the box . . . or out of the box. But that was a different story for a different day. John always worried what would happen to them if they were separated. Each of them was a perfectly good agent, but they each had a label. Like actors in Hollywood feared being typed cast, John had feared that each member would only be seen as their strengths, not as a total agent. Now John’s fears for the team had come true.
