Lady Justice and the Vet

by Robert Thornhill

  The captain agreed and made the arrangements.

  Ox turned north on I-29 and headed to the airport.

  By the time we reached the holding cell in the building beneath the control tower, Ben was back in the present.

  His face lit up when he saw us walk through the door.

  “Walt! Ox! What are you doing here?”

  “Came to see an old friend,” I replied.

  We signed the paperwork that transferred Ben into our custody and loaded him in the cruiser.

  When we were on I-29 heading back to Kansas City, I turned to Ben. “What happened back there, Ben? I can’t believe you were trying to hurt anyone.”

  “I --- I can’t remember much. We were there to meet Tracy’s parents. They had just deplaned and were heading our way when --- when I saw this woman. She was dressed exactly like a suicide bomber that I’d seen in Afghanistan. I remember screaming and the next thing I knew, the Airport Police had me in lock up. Everything in between is a blank.”

  “Apparently you were trying to protect Tracy,” I replied. “You pulled her to the floor and covered her with your body. Given your thought process at the time, that was a very brave and selfless thing to do.”

  “Maybe so,” he said, wringing his hands, “but to everyone else it was the work of a madman.”

  The captain had phoned the V.A. Hospital and John Watson was waiting when we pulled into the emergency entrance.

  I explained what we knew of the situation and the young psychologist escorted Ben into the bowels of the hospital.

  He returned a half hour later.

  “I’ve given Ben a sedative to help him relax. He’s experienced a very traumatic event. I’ll keep him here overnight for observation.”

  “Any idea what happened?” I asked.

  “Oh yes. I know exactly what happened. Young men like Ben witnessed horrible things in Afghanistan --- things no one should ever have to see. Those memories will be with them for the rest of their lives. Over time, they learn to cope and bury them deep inside, but sometimes they encounter triggers that blast those horrible visions into their consciousness.”

  “Triggers like the sound of the AK-47 the day he helped us with the home invasion and the woman today in the burqa?”

  “Exactly!”

  “But why the blackout?” Ox asked.

  “It’s an involuntary response,” Watson replied. “Are either of you familiar with Pavlov’s dogs?”

  I nodded, but Ox shook his head.

  “A psychologist named Pavlov rang a bell every time he fed his dogs. They, of course, would begin to salivate at the sight of the food. The dogs began to associate the bell with feeding time and the association was so strong, they would begin to salivate when they heard the bell even when there was no food present. When men are at war, it doesn’t take long before actions that are tied to their survival become deeply ingrained and are only made stronger when reinforced by a traumatic event. The sound of an AK-47 or the sight of someone dressed like a suicide bomber can evoke an involuntary response to perceived danger.”

  “Involuntary implies lack of control,” I replied. “How long will Ben be subject to these ‘triggers’?”

  Watson grimaced. “Maybe for the rest of his life.”

  Tracy was Lawrence Bishop’s only child and he doted over her as any loving father would.

  “Tracy, please consider coming back to Boston with us --- just for a little while. I’m concerned for your safety.”

  “Dad, Ben wasn’t trying to hurt me. He was protecting me.”

  “Yes, I understand, but protecting you from what? A fellow passenger in a long dress? Look, I understand that Ben has been through a lot, but what guarantee do you have that his next break with reality won’t cause you harm? If I let that happen, I could never live with myself. Please think about it.”

  “I have thought about it. I’ve been to the hospital, Dad. There are hundreds of men just like Ben who have served their country and come home damaged. Some have help from loved ones --- others must face their problems alone. I can’t leave Ben to face this alone. I love him. When we took our marriage vows, I promised to be with him ‘for better or for worse, in sickness and in health, till death do us part,’ and that’s exactly what I’m going to do!”

  Claudia Bishop put her arms around her daughter.

  “That’s my girl!”

  CHAPTER 8

  A vengeful smile curled on the lips of Curtis Brown as he watched the horrible images broadcast from Nairobi, Kenya on CNN.

  His comrades-in-arms from the terrorist group, al-Shabab, had certainly done a thorough job at the Westgate shopping complex --- over sixty dead and two hundred and forty injured, and the shopping center was nothing but a smoking ruin.

  Five of the militants had been killed and eleven more captured, but Curtis knew that was just a fraction of the attackers. Many more had blended in with the fleeing crowd and escaped.

  The CNN reporter said that there was evidence that some involved in the attack were Americans and a local Kansas City news station reported that there might even be ties to Kansas City.

  Curtis had been in Starbucks when the first reports had been broadcast. Horrified patrons had wondered aloud how Americans could have forged ties with Islamic militants bent on raining death and destruction on innocent people.

  The irony of the situation was that they were totally unaware that they were sitting just a few feet away from such an American.

  He wanted to shout, “You want to know why? Well, I’ll tell you why!” But he couldn’t.

  He wanted to tell them about the horrible night, four years ago, when Private Curtis Brown was on guard duty at some disgusting village in Zad Valley, Afghanistan.

  His squad had entered the village and was searching the mud huts for Taliban when a woman with a small child approached. When she reached the first men in the advancing squad, she detonated a bomb that killed four soldiers and wounded several more. The sight of his friend’s bodies, shattered by the blast, was burned into his memory.

  Later that day, another woman approached. Curtis, like several others in the squad reacted instinctually and fired. Unlike the first woman, this one carried not a bomb under the loose burqa, but a small child. He openly wept at what he had done as he watched the family carry away the bodies that had been cut down by friendly fire --- his fire.

  The squad had camped in the village that night. They had driven the Taliban out, but there was no doubt they were hiding in the hills surrounding the village. He had pulled guard duty on the outskirts of town.

  The dark night engulfed him and the only sounds were the intermittent cries and wails of those who had lost loved ones that day.

  Images of his slain comrades and the woman clutching her dead child to her bloody breast filled his mind.

  Finally, there was no choice but to turn to the one thing that took away the demons --- the drugs that blurred the images in his mind and took him to happier places.

  He had left his post to seek out the drugs for only a short time, but in that time the Taliban had returned and before the firefight was over, another soldier had lost his life.

  Retribution for leaving his post was both swift and harsh.

  He was shipped back to the states where he faced a general court martial for desertion and dereliction of duty, followed by a dishonorable discharge from the Corps.

  He was stripped of his rank and all his military and veteran’s benefits, but the sentence could have been worse --- he could have spent time in the Leavenworth prison.

  He knew that finding employment for returning veterans was difficult, but he soon discovered that no one was interested in hiring someone who been drummed out of the service in disgrace.

  His meager savings were gone and he was living on the street when he was approached by Muhammad Navid.

  At first, the invitation to join the militant group was repugnant to him. He had spent months of his life fighting such men, but they offered him
food, a roof over his head, and maybe most important, acceptance and a sense of belonging.

  It wasn’t long before he was ready to turn his back on the country that had turned its back on him.

  He learned that Americans such as himself were a valuable asset to al-Shabab. Middle-eastern men of Islamic heritage were closely watched by the authorities, while he was just another U.S. citizen, free to move about without scrutiny.

  The Nairobi incident was just a prelude of things to come --- a harbinger of the terror that they would inflict on the self-righteous Americans.

  Acts of terrorism were relatively simple to accomplish in backward, third world countries. They were merely training exercises to prepare them for the big show.

  The Taliban had learned a valuable lesson the year before. An intricate plot to detonate bombs at the 2012 All Star Game in Kansas City had been thwarted by a recruit whose commitment to the cause had waivered at the last minute and an old cop from the Kansas City Police Department.

  The participants in the coming event would be more thoroughly vetted. There could be no slip-ups this time.

  Curtis had carefully studied the clippings from the Kansas City Star of October 2012. The articles were full of details about the American Royal Parade, an annual event connected to the American Royal Rodeo and horse show, the World Series of Barbeque and a host of other activities. The previous year’s parade theme had been a salute to the United States military. It had been such a success that it was being repeated again. This year’s military theme was to be titled, ‘A Star-Spangled Salute.’

  In addition to the hundreds participating in the parade, over ten thousand spectators were expected to line the parade route.

  The flag, the military, marching bands and Shriners in their goofy hats, it was the perfect venue in which to wage their holy war.

  A knock on the door brought Curtis out of his reverie.

  He cracked the door wide enough to see Muhammad Navid, Hamed Karzai and Farzad Wahidi.

  They slipped inside and embraced.

  Muhammad held Curtis at arms-length. “It is time, my brother --- time to finalize our plans. It will be a glorious day for the jihad.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Maggie opened the door and was surprised to see all the other occupants in the building standing in the hall.

  Walt’s dad, John, seemed to be the spokesman for the group. “Well, aren’t you going to invite us in?”

  Maggie stepped aside and John, Bernice, Willie, Jerry and the Professor filed into the living room.

  “So what have you planned so far?” John asked, expectantly.

  “What in the world are you talking about?” Maggie replied.

  John was aghast. “Walt’s seventieth birthday, of course! Surely you remembered!”

  Maggie had indeed remembered, but part of their mutual arrangement had been to downplay birthdays, Christmas, Valentine’s Day, etc. At their advanced age, there just weren’t that many things that either of them wanted and they saw no need to pressure one another to find the ‘perfect gift’ for each of those occasions. They certainly didn’t need some expensive trinkets to express their love for each other.

  “I’m guessing we’ll probably go to Mel’s Diner for dinner. That’s Walt’s favorite place to eat. Then maybe we’ll take in a show.”

  She realized immediately that her plan was not well received.

  “You’ve got to be kidding!” John wailed. “You can go to Mel’s and a movie anytime! Seventy is special. It’s a milestone!”

  There were nods all around.

  “Fine!” Maggie replied, exasperated. “What have you geniuses cooked up?”

  “A surprise party!” Jerry announced proudly. “We’re gonna rent the F.O.P Lodge and have a big wing-ding just like we did for Ox’s bachelor party. Lots of food, a band --- maybe even a stripper!”

  “No strippers!” Maggie said. “Willie, are you on board with this?”

  Willie had been with Walt for over twenty years as a maintenance man and had worked with Walt on many of his cases after he became a cop. He knew Walt better than the rest.

  He shrugged his shoulders. “I know Mr. Walt ain’t big on surprises. I’se jest along fo’ de ride. Does seem like we outta do sumpthin’ special.”

  Maggie could see that she was outnumbered. “Very well, but I have to okay everything --- no strippers!”

  “Oh, goody!” Bernice said, clapping her hands. “This will be so much fun. Tell me again what this is for?”

  Bernice was approaching ninety and her memory wasn’t what it used to be.

  “Walt’s birthday,” John reminded her gently. “He’s turning seventy.”

  “That is special. We should do something for him!”

  Ox wasn’t feeling well, so we knocked off an hour early. There were no pressing issues, so the captain told me that I might as well take off too.

  I was looking forward to slipping into something comfortable, pouring a glass of Arbor Mist and reading a good book before supper.

  Imagine my surprise when I walked into my apartment and found it full of people.

  “Walt!” Dad exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”

  “I live here,” I replied, stating the obvious.

  “No, I mean now,” he said, looking at his watch. “You’re not due home for another hour.”

  “Didn’t realize you were keeping track. The more obvious question is, what are all of you doing here?”

  “Hee, hee, hee,” Bernice giggled. “We can’t tell you.”

  “Why in the world not?”

  “Because it’s a surprise,” she whispered, conspiratorially.

  “A surprise! For who?”

  “For you, silly. That’s why we can’t say anything.”

  “Bernice!” Dad wailed. “Now you’ve ruined it.”

  Poor Bernice was crestfallen. “But I didn’t say a word about the party.”

  I was beginning to get the picture. “Surprise party, eh?” I turned to Maggie. “I thought you’d know better.”

  She shrugged her shoulders. “I was outnumbered.”

  “Walt,” Dad pleaded, “it’s your seventieth. We have to do something special.”

  Nods all around.

  I could sense that resistance was futile.

  “Okay, if you want to do something, let’s have a picnic. The weather’s perfect this time of year. See if you can reserve the shelter house at Loose Park. I don’t want anyone fussing around with food. I know an ex-Independence cop that lives out in Buckner. He and his wife have a barbeque catering business on the side. What do you think?”

  An exchange of glances and a moment of silence.

  “I like it!” Dad declared.

  Hearing no dissenting votes, “Good then it’s settled. In addition to our regular gang, I have some special guests that I want to invite; Ben Singleton and his wife, Tracy, Archie Langston, Ben’s friend in the wheel chair from the V.A. Hospital, Mike, the Vietnam vet from the Three Trails, and our two millionaire friends, Earl Lassiter and Morty Friedman. Any objections?”

  Dad looked around. “Sounds good. Well, we’d better skedaddle. We’ve got a lot of planning to do.”

  “Oh, goody,” Bernice said, clapping her hands. “I just love surprise parties!”

  Curtis Brown pointed to the map he had spread across the kitchen table as Muhammad, Farzad and Hamed looked over his shoulder.

  “The parade will start at Pershing Road and Grand Avenue near the Union Station, and will proceed north on Grand Avenue to Truman Road. This is the perfect venue for our attack. They are saluting the military again this year. There will be hundreds of military personnel from every branch of the service, veterans of all the armed conflicts and war heroes in wheel chairs. They are our primary targets. The Boy Scouts, marching bands and civic clubs are just icing on the cake.”

  “A fitting retaliation,” Muhammad replied. “These are the ones who burned our villages, slaughtered our women and children and devastated ou
r countryside with their drones.

  Curtis flinched as Muhammad’s words brought back the images of the innocent woman and child he had killed in cold blood.

  “The three of you will be stationed here, here and here,” he said pointing to three spots along the parade route. “There are vacant, abandoned buildings in the 1600, 1800 and 2000 block of Grand Avenue. All are three-story structures that will give you a bird’s eye view of the parade and yet are close enough to throw your grenades. Over ten thousand people will be lining Grand Avenue. It will be like shooting fish in a barrel. Security will be very tight on the day of the parade, so we will break into the buildings ahead of that to stow our weapons.”

  “Where will you be?” Farzad asked.

  “I will be in the parade close to the cars carrying the grand marshals. The governor of Kansas and the granddaughter and grandson of two former presidents will be leading the parade. When I hear your attack, I’ll take care of the dignitaries.”

  “It will be a glorious day for the jihad,” Hamed said. “The Americans will realize they are not safe even within their own borders. They will know the brotherhood is here and we are willing to die for our cause.”

  “Speaking of that,” Farzad said, “what are the chances of us living to fight another day?”

  “There’s always a chance that we’ll die,” Curtis replied, “but our brothers in Nairobi taught us a valuable lesson --- if we blend in with the panic-stricken crowd, we may be able to slip away in the confusion. For that reason, dress as Americans, not in your traditional clothing.”

  After the others had gone, Curtis slumped into a chair. He remembered the camaraderie with the members of his squad before they were shipped to that hell-hole valley in Afghanistan. The thought of murdering his brothers-in-arms sickened him, but then he thought of the shame and guilt that were heaped upon him at his court martial. He remembered the day when his money had run out and he was forced from his tiny apartment onto the street. He remembered the accusatory looks of employers that turned him away when they found out about his service record.