by Gavin Reese
As Michael parked, a short, portly priest in a black Cossack exited the rectory and walked into the headlight beams. Gotta be Bullard. The priest deliberately strode toward Michael’s truck, so he turned off the ignition and stepped out to meet him.
“I’m sorry,” the priest offered as he approached Michael. “It’s terribly late, is it possible for us to speak with you tomorrow?”
“It’s urgent, Father,” Michael replied. “Is Father Bullard in this evening?”
“I’m Father Bullard.” The man stopped several feet from Michael and stood in the beam of the truck’s automatic headlights, which hadn’t yet turned themselves off.
“I’m Father Andrew,” Michael explained. “I need to hear your confession.” He watched the pear-shaped priest and searched for any discernible reaction to the beginning of the code phrase. A few seconds passed, and Michael feared something had changed.
“I can’t imagine what I would need to confess.”
“I can’t either,” Michael cautiously offered. “I won’t know until you tell me. I’m here to offer absolution.” That's the whole phrase, Father Bullard, it’s up to you now.
“Come inside, we’ll see what we can get figured out.” Bullard nonchalantly turned and led Michael into the rectory and the private living quarters of the clergy assigned to Saint Paul’s.
Once inside, Michael found exactly what he expected: simple, well-worn furnishings, threadbare cushions, and a single, wooden INRE cross hanging on the wall of the only common living area.
“Can I get you something,” Bullard asked, “I expect you’ve traveled long and far to get here.”
Not sure if that’s an honest assumption or he’s trying to bait me into giving up intel. No telling how much these guys are gonna report back to John. “No, thank you, Father, it wasn’t a long or far trip, actually, just late.”
“I understand. We should start, then.”
He seems to understand my inflection, Michael thought. Wonder how this will go, given that this the first time for both of us? Maybe Bullard doesn’t even really know what I’m here to do.
Bullard crossed himself as he sat down next to Michael. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been three days since my last confession.” He paused a moment before speaking freely to Michael. “Father Andrew, I must confess that I have anger in my heart,” Bullard began and retrieved a sealed manila folder that had been hidden beneath the small dining table. He offered it to Michael and leaned back in his rickety wood chair, which creaked in protest.
Michael accepted the envelope and began his inspection by checking the seals. Both ends are still glued shut. Red wax seals, just over an inch in diameter, both in place over the sealed flaps. He retrieved a small penlight and carefully examined the detail within each seal. Shows the Seal of the Holy See on top and, just below that, an ‘X,’ the symbol used for the Apostle Andrew following his crucifixion on a transverse cross in Greece. Shows it’s been sent from the Holy See to me, and verifies the envelope’s origin and intended recipient. Michael removed a small folding knife from his pants pocket and carefully cut into the hardened wax. There it is, just as John said it would be. He turned the small blade sideways and cautiously leveraged a small piece of parchment paper from the wax. Once freed, Michael carefully read the series of small, type-printed numbers on it: 2270-75.2284-7.2268.2295. Those are the same sections of the Catechism Miller’s alleged to have violated. The folder’s contents are authentic.
“Go ahead, Father Bullard.”
“I’ve recently wished for wrath and vengeance to come for a specific man.”
Ask with a genuine heart, and ye shall receive, Michael thought. “I’m listening, go on.” He retrieved and examined the documents contained within the folder while Father Bullard explained in detail how the confession of a sixteen-year-old girl had made him angry enough to kill. He hated the man responsible for the anonymous girl’s suffering and hoped he encountered the same pain and injury he’d caused the world around him. The man, whom Bullard identified as Jordan Miller, had coerced the girl into completing a late-term abortion that she deeply regretted. Throughout the girl’s interactions with Miller, she learned and inferred that he operated a for-profit abortion clinic that actually paid young and naive women for their babies’ tissue.
“Do you any longer have such hatred in your heart,” Michael asked.
“No, Father Andrew, I do not. I've prayed about this for weeks now, and God saw fit to unburden my heart of its anguish, but, still, I held so much animosity and anger for so long against a man I’ve never met.”
“While I’m grateful that God has already helped remedy your heart, I ask that you recite one Our Father, one Hail Mary, and one Glory Be as penance. Are you ready to read the Act of Contrition?”
In response, Father Bullard lowered his head and recited the lines from memory. When he finished and looked up, Michael recited the Prayer of Absolution to the penitent. “God, the Father of Mercies,” Michael began, “through the death and resurrection of his Son has reconciled the world to himself and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins; through the ministry of the Church may God give you pardon and peace, and I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”
After concluding the sacrament, Michael collected the documents, bid Bullard farewell, and departed Saint Paul’s. I’ve still got a long night of reading and plotting ahead of me. If I fail to plan, I will have, in effect, planned to fail. I have no such option tomorrow.
FIFTY-SIX
Wednesday, 0527 hours.
Jack Rabbit Trails Motor Lodge. Pecos, Texas.
Michael woke several minutes before his alarm and stretched in bed. After retrieving his cell phone from the adjacent nightstand, he logged into its VPN and checked for new emails and messages. Finding none, he put the device back into airplane mode, deactivated its digital alarm, and turned on the bedside lamp. He hadn’t slept that well, and it reminded him from his days as a cop that he never slept well the night before an op. Nothing to do but overcompensate with caffeine. Better living through chemistry, as they say.
Michael stiffly rose from bed and meandered over to the room’s small table and his carry-on duffel bag he’d placed there. He withdrew a bottle of cold-brew coffee he’d purchased at the Midland Airport the previous night. Didn’t wanna count on the motel coffee this morning. As he drank the strong liquid, Michael surveyed the room to ensure he had everything he needed. I only want to leave here once today and never come back again. Every additional trip risks creating more witnesses who can help investigators try to find me later.
Despite the negative reviews and low-star rating on every site that cared about such things, Michael had stayed there for the anonymity it offered him and, more importantly, it was the only motel in the area with rooms that included a wood-burning fireplace. Almost seems like the owners oughta be complicit in whatever happens here, considering they’re renting rooms for cash, collecting no personal information, and using the in-room fireplaces as part of their ad campaign. I’m not the first anonymous, unregistered guest that’s destroyed evidence in here.
Michael examined the ratty chair next to the small table and decided against using it for his morning meditation and Laud prayers. Stepping over to the bed, he pulled back the worn bedspread and sat on the sheet-covered end of the lumpy mattress. The sheets get changed and washed much more often than the bedspread. I’d bet that thing hasn’t seen soap and bleach since Bush was in office. The first one.
Bowing his head, Michael meditated to prepare himself to celebrate the mysteries of the Liturgy of the Hours. In just over sixty minutes, he’d recited Laud and set about his remaining tasks.
Michael re-read the documents and intelligence files from the packet Father Bullard had passed to him last night and drank a second bottle of cold-brew. The first page showed the Catechism violations alleged against his target: Abortion 2270-75, Scandal 2284-7, Intent
ional Homicide 2268, Human Experimentation 2295.
The second identified his specific target as Jordan Y. Miller and showed a color copy of his Texas driver’s license. White male, brown over hazel, six-feet-tall, two-ten. Lives near Mentone, a wide spot in the road thirty minutes north of Pecos. Photo on the D-L looks reasonably fit. Might not be competing for the CrossFit title, but he can probably handle himself. Address on the D-L is a P-O box in Pecos. Must wanna keep his business out of the Mentone Post Office.
The following pages summarized raw intelligence and analytical research on Jordan Miller and his business operations:
“MILLER is the sole owner of Lifelong Solutions, LLC, which offers on-demand abortion services to female patients in several locations around the western US: Las Vegas, Los Angeles, Miami. The company is headquartered in Midland, but it utilizes a shared office space with a common receptionist, no medical facilities, and no on-site records. MILLER performs procedures mostly on weekends, Fri-Mon, and flies out of Midland airport on Thurs and returns home late Monday nights.
“MILLER has twice been investigated by TEXAS RANGERS and LOCAL LEOs, but all criminal charges have so far been dropped WITH PREJUDICE after victims recant their statements at trial. Current investigation into MILLER’s suspected witness tampering have gone cold and are no longer active investigations.
“MILLER’s for-profit business offers inexpensive, and sometimes free, abortions to patients who authorize MILLER to use and sell discarded human tissue from their aborted babies for medical research. MILLER’s patients allege he advocates abortion as birth control, minimizes any potential benefits of adoption, disproportionately counsels young women on the health risks and potential death that may result from full-term pregnancy, as well as emphasizing difficulties of financial care for child and self. MILLER’s patients also allege he gives referral fees to his patients who send other girls to his clinic, as well as discounted pricing on subsequent abortions. Several patients alleged they personally knew several women had been paid for their late-term fetuses when MILLER thought they might go forward with birth and adoption, despite the late-stage of their pregnancies.
“Following the dismissal of both cases, patients and former staff members allege MILLER’s conduct worsened. Emboldened by the lack of criminal accountability, he began more aggressively marketing his services in publications intended for middle- and high school audiences. Informants are concerned that his current actions will increase abortion-on-demand rates and popularity among the vulnerable teen population; they also offer fears that MILLER will attempt to work around parental consent requirements.
“MILLER has created a subsequent revenue stream by collecting and selling the aborted tissues to medical research facilities around the world. He has regular flights from Midland International Airport & Space Port to three branch offices, as well as nations known to allow and foster such research. MILLER tends to keep a consistent and reliable schedule, leaving his residence at approximately 1630 hours on Wednesday and returning only after 2130 hours. MILLER departs again, normally for his field offices and scheduled abortion appointments, on Thursday morning at approximately 0700.”
The last paragraph caused Michael to pause. I expected to surveil the guy for a few days to find out about his movement. Detailed scheduling information like this only comes from a few sources, and there’s no way it came up in a confession. He read over the last few sentences again, which only further raised his suspicions. That kinda intel’s what we used to get from informants, snitches. And other cops. That could mean John’s either already had someone on the ground working this investigation, or they got an insider. Why would someone from Miller’s life or office wanna give intel to the Catholic church, though? They’d be looking to trade intel for things only the cops and prosecutors can offer: jail time, reduce their own sentences, eliminate their competitors, or cold, hard cash. Michael pondered that reality for a few moments, unsure what, if anything, he should do about his inferences. The most reasonable answer is another man on the ground. It’s not enough to delay my efforts, especially if it’s true that I only have this narrow window to act before Miller endangers more lives this weekend. Just have to keep a vigilant watch on everything happening around me. Michael resigned himself to his previous intended course of action and returned to the intel packet.
“One former employee advised prosecutors in both cases that MILLER kept a portable, blue one-terabyte hard drive with all his actual patient and financial records. She insisted MILLER kept only ‘sterilized’ records at his office, which was twice searched by LEOs.
“MILLER lives on acreage located northwest of Mentone, Texas, on the east bank of Pecos River, west of Loving County Road 100. Overhead satellite map included. MILLER drives a white 2018 four-door Ford truck with general-issue Texas license plates. DMV registration records included.”
Michael read through all the attached raw intelligence data again, which showed Miller had millions of dollars at his disposal, mostly in off-shore bank accounts in non-extradition nations that also didn’t share financial information with the US government or IRS. This guy’s becoming wealthy by selling off the bodies of murdered babies!
Michael considered what he knew about Miller’s schedule and the compressed timeline under which he’d been forced to work. If I could delay until he left on Thursday, I might have three or four days to find all his secrets. If I wait that long, I’m almost certainly sentencing more unborns to death. Based on the apparent rigidity of his schedule, his neighbors are likely pretty aware of when he’s there and when he’s not. Can’t just park in the driveway and assume no one’s gonna call the sheriff. If anything, that’ll only guarantee Miller or the local law come calling. Nope, I’ve gotta go now, and I’ve gotta find a concealed approach to his house, even though it’s out in the flat-ass middle of nowhere.
Michael read the license plate and tried to associate it with other, personal info to help him easily recall it after he burned the intel packet. The three leading letters are CAM, pretty easy to use ‘camshaft,’ as that helps propel the truck. What about the numbers, though? July 9th is mom’s birthday, easy enough. What about the ‘21,’ the last two digits? He required only a few moments to recall a connection between his mother’s birthday and ‘21.’ Mom was twenty-one when she and dad got married. Easy enough.
Michael set the intel packet aside and dressed in jeans, work boots, and a bright, ‘safety yellow’ t-shirt with a local oil company logo on it. Between the local airport vendors and Wal-Mart, I can get everything I need to blend in wherever I go. This has to be about the closest thing to a ‘benign stranger’ uniform in this part of the world. Booming oil fields constantly bring in new workers from all over the world, so I’d kinda be surprised if people even look twice at newcomers anymore.
Michael skimmed over each page of the intel packet once more, just to ensure he’d dedicated all the necessary details to memory. Confident he no longer needed the physical copies, Michael gathered up all the paperwork related to his assignment and searched through the motel room three times to ensure he left none of it behind. Only one thing left to do before I take the truck out for breakfast, real coffee, and surveillance. In the absence of nearby banks or private mailbox companies that offered cash-pay shredding services, Michael’s operational security had called for a wood-burning fireplace, and it had come time to make use of it.
Michael expertly stacked kindling inside the fireplace and ensured the flue was open. He hand-shredded every paper from the intel packet and placed much of the shredded debris among and between the pieces of kindling. This time of year, it won’t be terribly odd that the fireplace is being used. The added op-sec was definitely worth the extra ten bucks the motel charged me for three pieces of shitty firewood and a few handfuls of kindling. After lighting the papers with a disposable Bic, Michael gently blew at the bottom of the pile to push the emerging flames onto adjacent fuels. It took only seconds to catch, and he added the remaining papers one at a
time to avoid smothering the small fire. I’ll have to burn the hardwood chunks to make sure all the papers are reduced to ash. Not a shred can survive to be found later. Michael deliberately positioned the three larger chunks atop the growing flames, which immediately licked at the new, dry fuel. With each piece only slightly bigger than his forearm, Michael knew the fire needed little time to consume them and incinerate his documents.
May as well make use of this ‘operational pause,’ he confidently told himself, and no holy man’s ever regretted offering too much prayer. Michael retrieved a small, black nylon bifold wallet from his duffel bag and the rough, laminated prayer card he kept inside it. His father had given him the card at his police academy graduation, and Michael had carried it every day since. Despite knowing this version of the prayer by heart, he preferred reading it aloud from the card. I think the background image of Saint Michael brings some additional comfort and confidence.
As the small fire grew behind him and fully engulfed the three hardwood chunks and the few remaining paper scraps, Michael knelt and read aloud his copy of A Policeman’s Prayer to Saint Michael. “Saint Michael, Heaven’s glorious Commissioner of Police, who once so neatly and successfully cleared God’s promises of all its undesirables, look with kindly and professional eye on your earthly force...”
FIFTY-SEVEN
Wednesday, 1548 hours.
County Road 100. Loving County, Texas.
After spending the previous seven hours familiarizing himself with the area around Miller’s property, gathering on-the-ground intel, and covering his green pickup truck with a fine, light-brown layer of powdered West Texas dust, Michael parked in an isolated temporary dirt parking lot just north of the small town of Mentone, Texas. He’d found the remote field office for West Texas Wildcatting, a local oil field start-up, earlier that morning. The company had placed a connex trailer at the intersection of two rural highways and set temporary chain-link-and-barbed-wire fencing around it. The company’s oil field workers parked their own vehicles outside the fence during their shifts, in front of the mobile office building, and kept the company’s expensive work vehicles inside the fence during the rare times they weren’t in use. Parked vehicles don’t make any money, Michael thought, so they're probably only stored here when they’re down for service. There shouldn’t be another shift change for a few hours, so, until then, the odds of someone taking enough interest to confront me is pretty slim.
