THE CONTROLLER-Obsession

by Jerry Bruce

  “Since we’re having Italian, why don’t you open a bottle of Chianti?”

  “Chianti it is.”

  * * *

  Dinner passed without any talk of the business that brought this group of people together in the first place. It seemed as though each person was afraid to approach the subject of the Controller.

  Christine cleared the table, rinsed the dishes, placed them in the dishwasher, started it up and straightened out the kitchen before sitting next to Richard on the sofa.

  Finally, Ralph broke up the idle banter.

  “There’s good news and bad news. Which would you like to hear first?”

  “Start us off with the good.” Adam wanted to hear something positive.

  “Well, at that conference I attended today, I made a point of spending time with some of the people that I feel could help us. Since the other day when you guys gave me the go ahead on my plan, I put together a list of those print and broadcast media that I think could best aide us in getting the kind of attention we need. The response was iffy, at best, until I told them that the reason Richard was ‘dead’ was due to the manipulations of a man calling himself ‘Controller’. Then I told them about some of what has been going on and how the future of the world is at stake. That seemed to have an impact and drove home the seriousness of what I had been telling them.”

  “So we can count on their full support?” Christine posed the question.

  “Not exactly. That leads into the bad news. One of the guys I wanted on our side represents one of the biggest influences in the business—Artistel. Artistel has vast interests in TV, movies, cable news, newspapers and magazines. You would know them all if I gave you the names, they have that much exposure.”

  “So what’s the problem?” Adam sounded a little testy.

  “The problem is this, my contact happens to be the big mucky muck over there, and when I talked to him he kept hedging. I finally pinned him down and got him to admit something that I wish I hadn’t heard. According to him, he couldn’t begin to make a decision like supporting us on his own volition. He is simply a figurehead. There is another man who is actually running Artistel—or should I say ‘controlling’ Artistel.”

  “Good God, Ralph, are you saying that the Controller is running Artistel?” Richard just about came out of his seat.

  “That’s what I suspect. I don’t have absolute proof as yet, but if what my source is telling me is true, there can be no doubt. Let me explain. Richard, when you asked me to check into the media support that you got when you first ran for president, all the names that Christine remembered turned out to be from various TV networks, papers and magazines—all under the control of Artistel. There wasn’t any other support outside of the Artistel group of any significance. It has to be the Controller who owns and runs Artistel. I checked and the whole shebang is privately owned.”

  “Wait a minute. You got a name didn’t you? So who is it?” Richard could hardly control himself. He saw this as the big break they were looking for in identifying the Controller for once and for all.

  “Yeah, I got a name alright. You’re not going to like this; the name is Timothy Wilkins.”

  “Terrific, right back where we started.” Adam made no attempt to hide his feelings.

  “I’ll admit that the Artistel news is not the greatest; but we still have the others on our side. With a little more pressure on my part, I’m sure I can get all the help we’ll need to spread the word. Artistel won’t be able to do anything about it.” Blocker wanted to make sure everyone knew the fight was still to begin.

  “Ralph’s right. Artistel may not air the news, but they surely can’t try to dispute what the other networks put out. They would draw attention to themselves if they did that. I think they will keep out of it entirely.” Richard wasn’t as despondent over the news as Adam.

  “What do you think, Christine?” Richard turned to her for support.

  “I know many of the reporters that would be reporting on this and in my opinion, they should be sufficient to get the ball rolling. The rest will follow their lead and give us the exposure we’re looking for.”

  “Great. So we’re still on target. Let’s get our plan in motion.” Richard spirits seemed to have been lifted.

  “Christine, I’d like you to contact all the reporters you know would run with this story and put the bug in their ears. Ralph, you tell her what we should feed them.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  “We’re right back where we started, as far as identifying the Controller—with the Wilkins dead end.” Richard couldn’t contain his disappointment.

  “Not necessarily, Richard. I think that the Wilkins name is more than one used for a clone. I think it really is the name of the Controller, or at least an alias he uses to do business.” Blocker sounded as though he felt there might be a possible crack in the Controller’s shell.

  “Ralph might be right, Richard. We stopped checking into Wilkins once we identified and located him. Once we captured him, we gave up any digging into his background. Maybe we need to get back to researching the name and see if we can come up with some other information.” Adam had perked up a little; the thought that he might be able to sink his teeth into a background investigation of Wilkins got is attention.

  Blocker decided to side with Broderick. “Adam is on the right track, Richard. I’m convinced that there is more to the Wilkins name than we think. There has to be something somewhere that can tie Wilkins to a ‘real’ person.”

  “Okay, I’ll go along with you guys for now. Find out all you can about Wilkins. Divide up the workload among the three of you. With any kind of luck, something will turn up.”

  * * *

  “This is one horrendous crime scene, lieutenant.” Officer Stacy Mills was pulled off the street by the manager of the Mariposa apartments as he was writing up a ticket on a speeder.

  Lieutenant John Parker had seen a few murder scenes over the course of his twenty-five year career, many of them quite gruesome. He had a tendency to rate each crime on a scale of one to ten, this one ranked a five.

  “So, you say the manager ran out when he saw your squad’s flashing lights and brought you up here to check on this guy?”

  “Yeah, he told me that he hadn’t seen the guy for several days and the rent was past due. Normally he wouldn’t have thought anything of it except that this young man was always early with the rent and every couple of days he would stop by for a chat and to say hello. The manager came up and knocked on the door several days in a row and never got a response.”

  “Well, I guess we know why. Have you touched anything?”

  “No, sir. The minute the manager let me in and I saw this mess, I closed the door and called it in.”

  “Thanks officer, you can go now. We’ll leave this up to the crime scene investigators to fill in the blanks.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  As the officer was turning away, Parker had a second thought. “Officer, did the manager give you the victims name?”

  The officer, looking down at his notepad, responded, “Yes sir, his name is Randall Sinclair.”

  “Randall Sinclair? I seem to recall former President Sinclair having a son, was his name Randall?”

  “I’m not sure sir.”

  “Okay, listen up. We need to keep the wraps on this until we know for sure if this guy is related to the former president. The name is probably just a coincidence but I would feel more comfortable if we take precautions. You make out your report and give it to me, no one else. And you don’t talk about this case with anyone. Get me? Oh, and talk to the manager and tell him to keep this quiet.”

  “Yes, sir; you’ll have my report tomorrow.”

  The lieutenant turned his attention to the lead man on the CSI team.

  “Can I talk to you a sec?”

  “Sure, what’s up?”

  “We may have a touchy situation.”

  * * *

  Blocker had spent hours down in the bowe
ls of the BNN library in the basement of his headquarters building. While he did manage to turn up some information on Timothy Wilkins, he hadn’t run across anything that could lead him to the door of an actual person—yet. He was determined to finish at BNN and then get over to some of the other news services. Several of his contacts had already obtained clearance for him to visit their archives. If there was anything even remotely related to a Timothy Wilkins, he would find it.

  At the same time Adam was calling in some favors and getting everyone he knew in law enforcement and intelligence to run background checks on Wilkins and anyone with whom he may have been in association.

  Christine had called every reporter on her list with the news bite she and Ralph decided would be sure to grab their attention. Then she kept herself busy preparing to categorize all the facts as Adam and Blocker got them to her. She set up a computer program to cross-reference by keyword any and all information. It there was a pattern to be found, her software would help find it.

  Richard, feeling more and more helpless, had to remain content doing what he knew he must do—stay out of sight.

  * * *

  Back at his office lieutenant Parker motioned Frank Brasille, the CSI team leader, to take a seat as he closed the door behind him.

  “So what have you got?”

  “Lieutenant, at first this looked like a sloppy murder by an amateur, but as we dug deeper it became apparent to us that this was a professional assassination. There wasn’t a single piece of evidence left behind.”

  “You think a pro did that?”

  “Definitely. We verified that the victim is the son of former President Richard Sinclair. Considering what happened to him recently, this makes sense. What threw me at first was the mess. A pro wants to leave things as clean as possible, but not this guy. It looks like he went out of his way to make the scene as bloody and gruesome as he could. He could have used a smaller caliber pistol, for example.”

  “So you think he made the mess on purpose? Why would he do that?”

  “I wish I knew; maybe he is trying to make a statement of some sort. A psychiatrist would have a field day with this guy. This leads me to another odd twist to this case.”

  “What kind of twist?”

  “Did you get a close look at the victim’s face?”

  “No, I didn’t want to mess up the scene, so I never got into the room far enough to see his face.”

  “Be grateful you didn’t. Besides half of his head being blown away, the killer left us a message.”

  “A message?”

  “Yeah, we didn’t notice it, what with all the blood covering the victim’s face; however, once the coroner cleaned up the body, it showed up clearly.”

  “What kind of message?” Parker moved from a relaxed position in his chair to a rigid pose while drawing closer to his desk.

  “He carved into the victim’s forehead.”

  “Carved? As in with a knife?”

  “Yes. A very sharp knife that left no ragged edges, just clean cuts.”

  “So what did this message say?”

  “C.”

  “C? That’s it?”

  “Yeah, just a big letter ‘C’.”

  * * *

  Parker impressed upon Brasille the importance of keeping quiet on the Sinclair killing. The ramifications could be horrendous. Besides, he needed some time to contact the victim’s mother, Veronica Sinclair. He didn’t want her to hear this news on TV.

  As he drove to the Sinclair estate, he rehearsed what he was going to say to a woman who had only recently lost her husband. How could he phrase what he had to say in a manner that was sensitive and caring when all throughout his career he had been forced to shroud himself with a cloak of insensitivity? He received counseling from the department shrinks on coping with the stresses of the job on a regular basis, but none of that included how to tell a parent that they have lost a child. It hurt him to the core each and every time he was forced to notify a child’s parents. That was bad enough, but to lose one this way.

  Parker tried using his cell phone to call the Sinclair residence a second time. He hadn’t been able to get through to make sure anyone was home, but decided to make the drive anyway. Worst-case scenario, he had a nice drive outside the city. It would give him time to clear his head and put the limited clues in proper perspective. He sensed that this was going to be a frustrating crime to solve, with a great deal of pressure coming down from the commissioner and everyone in between, once they knew all the details about the victim and his family.

  Parker arrived at the Sinclair estate, parked under the portico and got out of his car. A few seconds later a white van pulled up bearing an emblem that announced “Maid Marian—Your Cleaning Lady” had arrived.

  Parker went to the door and pushed the button on the intercom and could faintly hear the chimes. He waited about ten seconds before pushing the button again.

  In the meantime four Hispanic women got out of the van and started to unload their carrying cases of cleaning equipment.

  Parker watched them for a few seconds and pushed the button yet again. Still no voice greeted him through the intercom.

  After waiting a full minute with no response from within, Parker started to walk toward the cleaning crew as they approached the house.

  He introduced himself, flashed his badge, and started to ask the ladies some questions. One of the women spoke up right away, leading Parker to believe that she was the senior or lead person on the team.

  Parker learned that Veronica had contracted for the cleaning service many months before and that the crew was always scheduled for the same day each and every week. He also found out that it is the cleaning service’s policy that the homeowner be present at all times that the crew is working—for insurance purposes. Parker had a red flag go up inside his head. If Veronica Sinclair’s schedule had been so rigid that she could always be home for the cleaning service, then she would be certain to be there today.

  Parker asked the ladies if they had been there before only to find out that the one that spoke before had been coming every week for about eight months. Mrs. Sinclair was there every time.

  Parker couldn’t help but feel a sense of urgency, so he told the ladies to wait by their van while he went around back to look for someone.

  It took him a while to walk to the rear of the home, a testament to its size. He found the carports and wrote a note in his small notepad with details of the two cars. Years of experience told him that these particular brands, Mercedes and BMW, probably belonged to a woman; to him both cars looked like the models that women preferred to drive—smaller, less pretentious and usually brightly colored.

  Going to the rear entry he peered into the house through one of the beveled glass panes that comprised the top half of the door. Seeing no one, he knocked so loudly that he hurt his knuckles. Still no one appeared. Parker had a bad feeling that kept growing worse with each passing minute. He made up his mind and called his captain.

  “Yes, sir, I do think there may be something wrong here. I would like permission to force my way in. There are stickers on the windows indicating an alarm system is installed … yes sir, Allied Alarm … all right sir, I’ll wait until the local police arrive.”

  Parker went back to the front of the house and told the cleaning crew that he was certain that no one was home and that they should probably leave, with which they agreed. Parker watched them repack the van and leave before he proceeded back to his car to wait for the local authorities to arrive. He didn’t have to wait long—eight minutes, according to his watch. He figured that his captain must have rattled some important cages to get such a timely response. He guessed that with such a dignitary involved, all stops were pulled, and judging by the number of officers and squad cars, he chuckled to himself that there was probably no one left minding the store, the local police force being minimally staffed at best. After introductions, Parker noticed one of the officers carrying a battering ram, and volunteered to pick the
locks instead of breaking down the door. With approval from local Chief of Police Dan Franks, he removed his pick kit from the glove box of his car.

  The chief kept ringing the doorbell while Parker took a minute or so to unlock the two deadbolts. Within thirty seconds of opening the door the alarm sounded. His captain had notified the alarm company and almost immediately the alarm was silenced.

  “Hello, any one home? This is police lieutenant John Parker.” Parker knew that announcing his presence was a mere formality, considering the triggering of the alarm would have alerted any occupant of his entry. But if anyone was within hearing range, they now knew it was okay to show themselves.

  As the local police started to enter, Parker turned and raised his hand in a halting posture. “Chief, I don’t mind if you accompany me while I look around, but I strongly suggest that your men wait outside. In fact, they could best be of use waiting by their cars. If we need to get crime scene investigators over here, the fewer people walking around the better.”

  The chief agreed and ordered his men to stand by their vehicles to await further instructions.

  Parker, in deference to the social stature of the home’s owner, went to the intercom and pushing the message button once again announced his presence. The intercom remained silent.

  “Okay, chief, we’ll start down here. I suggest we stay together.” Parker would have preferred having someone he worked with instead of the chief, that way they could split up and cover more ground in less time. He just wasn’t confident that this local had the background for what they might encounter.

  They proceeded to check each downstairs room and found nothing out of the ordinary except for Veronica Sinclair’s purse and car keys sitting atop a small desk that sat off to one side of the kitchen. Located near the rear entry, it was a logical place for someone to place a purse and keys as they came home. Parker opened the purse to examine its contents. As he pulled out Veronica’s wallet with her driver’s license and credit cards, he remarked, “She didn’t go off with someone, she would have taken this purse with her. If she isn’t here, she was involuntarily taken.” The chief nodded his concurrence.