Chapter .33
“What did you see?” Sullivan asked the petrified woman in front of him. He had his notepad and pen at the ready. All he needed was for this woman to calm down and tell him her story.
“I didn’t really see anything,” the woman replied, her eyes still aimless. “I just heard these…cries—screams. They were coming from inside there. I was too scared to go in there by myself.”
“Why didn’t you call the authorities?”
“I was too scared. I just stood here, listening. After a while I saw some people running that way,” the woman pointed to the end of the alleyway. “They got into one of your vans and took off.”
Sullivan looked at her, confusion sent his thought process into a tail spin.
“I’m sorry, citizen,” Sullivan said. “But, one of our vans?”
“Yes,” the woman replied. “It had the insignia on it.”
“Describe it for me.”
“Well, it was all black, had the letters USR in yellow. It was a pretty big van, a full sized one. I thought maybe you guys apprehended a criminal and those people worked for you.”
“Watch that kind of talk. What happened then?”
“I walked in and discovered a dead man in there. He’s strapped to a chair with duct tape wrapped around his body.”
Sullivan looked up from his notepad. “Those citizens you saw, did you get a look at any of their faces?”
The woman shook her head. “No, not really. One of them was a younger guy, though, that much I can tell you.”
“Heights? Builds? Any distinguishing marks at all?”
“No, they were running fast and I was scared.”
“Okay,” Sullivan replied, he scribbled something in his notepad. “You can go and wait with those Agents over there. They’ll probably ask you some more questions.”
“Yes, sir.” The woman replied but didn’t move.
“You can go now.”
The woman nodded her head. She turned and walked towards the Agents at the end of the alley, deliberate in her steps. Sullivan threw his pen to the pavement in disgust. They were here, he was sure of it. They could’ve been the main leaders or, hell, for all he knew the last remainder of them. There would be no way to know for sure now, as the only witness knew nothing.
“Fuck!” Sullivan cried.
“Sully,” Mason called out. He and Wilcox walked past the woman and towards him. “Is there a problem?”
“Yes, George, a very big fucking problem.”
“What is it?”
“That woman didn’t see anything, but they were here, no doubt about it.”
“Well,” Wilcox said with a bit too much eagerness, “let’s go ask the dead guy.”
The three Agents entered the building. Sullivan looked to the ground. He saw there were three used cigarette butts. Filthy motherfuckers, he thought to himself. They walked down the narrow hallway and opened the door at the end.
Sullivan paused and looked at the dead man in front of him. Forte’s lifeless body sat there, his head hung to the left. He felt his two partners push against him from behind, eager to get a look at the sight. The sudden wave of the beginning stage of human decay swept over him. He turned and vomited onto the stained floor.
“You okay, boss?” Mason asked.
“You can’t smell that?” Sullivan demanded. He pulled out a white handkerchief and wiped at his lips with it.
“Smell what?” Wilcox interjected. “You’re not cut out for this part, are you, Sully?”
“Sorry I’m not as comfortable around a dead body as you are.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
Mason looked around the floor and noticed more used cigarette butts. He smiled at the memory of Forte, who would always sneak in smoke breaks. Either nobody noticed…or nobody cared.
“Looks like our boys like to smoke.” Mason said.
“Nice observation,” Sullivan replied. He steadied his body and composed himself. “Take a look around the room. See if you can find something more useful.”
“Sure thing.”
Instead of doing any real detective work, the two numbskulls played around with Forte’s dead head. Mason pulled out a pair of rubber gloves and snapped them on. He then grabbed a pen from his pocket and shoved it through the bullet wound. The two men laughed with each other, had themselves a little fun at the fallen comrade’s expense. Sullivan, for his part, wanted to vomit again. He never understood his two partners, how they could take so much pleasure in seeing a dead body from a fellow human being. They were monsters from another breed…a breed that Sullivan did not wish to know.
Upon further inspection on the ground, Sullivan found something that disturbed him to the core. He found Forte’s bloodied fingernails, the damn ground was littered with them. He bent down in between his two partners and pulled up Forte’s hand. Three fingers were missing their nails. What kind of barbaric monsters were these people? He stood, looked to Mason and Wilcox still playing with the dead head, and fought back the urge to smack them upside the back of their heads. Like he did when little Davie misbehaved.
“You fellas going to do anything?” Sullivan demanded. He started to inspect behind Forte.
“No, we’re not.” Mason replied, eyes still on the bullet wound.
“And, may I ask why not?”
“No, you may not, but I’ll tell you anyway. According to Cap, we can’t—what did he say—contribute to an investigation. He said that you’ve been bringing up concerns about our detective skills so, we’re just going to sit back and see how far you can make it by yourself.”
“Fine,” Sullivan replied. His attention focused on the hole in the back wall. “Not like I’m not used to it anyway.”
“Have fun.” Mason said.
“Just don’t cum everywhere beating off to that dead body. We don’t want to contaminate the crime scene.”
Wilcox snapped his fingers to get Sullivan’s attention. “Maybe you were behind this shooting.”
“What have you smoking, Wilcox? I was with you guys all day.”
“Just an observation. Think of it as a nice way of saying fuck off.”
“Of course,” Sullivan said as he gave a fake salute to Wilcox.
Wilcox focused back on the dead body. “Fucking Forte, he had it coming.”
“What do you mean?” Mason wondered.
“He was reckless, always going with his balls hanging out, only a matter of time before they got clipped.”
“You’re a shithead,” Mason said.
Sullivan let the two talk, his eyes resumed their fixation with the small hole in the plastered wall. He held his handkerchief up to his nostrils, but the smell still crept its way in, only now it was manageable. He tried his best to ignore the blood and brain fragments splattered everywhere around his target. He reached into his pocket for his pair of gold tweezers and a clear baggie. Sullivan was forced to drop the handkerchief. He held the tweezers in his mouth, the baggie under his arms, and snapped on a pair of gloves.
After some fumbling around inside the hole with the tweezers, Sullivan could feel something. He grabbed it and pulled the round from out of the hole. He stared at it and recognized it as a 9MM. Probably from a Glock or any number of handguns that could be bought on the street from the gun runners. He stared at the bent round and noticed the size and weight of it.
“Armor piercing round,” Sullivan said to himself.
“What are you talking about?” Mason demanded.
“While you two were circle jerking each other, I found an armor piercing round behind Forte’s…head.”
Mason and Wilcox stood; they gathered behind their boss and looked at the round in between the tweezers. Sullivan held it up to the light, the blood stained gold casing glistened along with it. He then dropped the round into the plastic bag, sealed it shut, then held back his gag reflex again. The smell seemed to have gotten worse, but t
here was no gag reflex, no emotion at all from his two partners.
“What are you going to do with that bullet?” Wilcox demanded. “You know damn well they bought that shit from the underground, right?”
“Of course,” Sullivan replied. “But, this looks like a USR issued round.”
“You’re shitting me.” Mason said.
“Afraid not. But, if you did some real detective work, you would know the difference between our ammo and that bullshit you buy illegally.”
“What now?” Wilcox asked.
“We’ll take this to forensics, see if they can find anything, which I doubt they will. They’ve never turned up anything before, at least.”
“So,” Mason observed, “we’re chasing our own tails, then?”
“Not exactly,” Sullivan replied. “We’ll hit up all illegal gun shops that we know of, maybe that will turn something up.”
“Maybe?” Mason quipped.
“Yes, maybe, as in we’ll see. You got a better idea?”
“Yeah, I do. Forget this case and move on to the next one. It’s a dead end.”
Sullivan was taken aback. “Forget this case? That’s your plan? One of our own is sitting here, dead, killed by the resistance, and we just turn a blind eye?”
Wilcox chimed in, “Your detective work has turned up nothing but dead ends. I’m beginning to think that you don’t want these cases to be solved.”
Sullivan dropped the baggie into his jacket pocket. He turned to face them. The implications that his partners brought at his door step had gotten more than old. Ever since they made him kill that boy—that boy who he knew could not have been a member of the resistance…
“You got something you want to say? Go on and say it.”
“I’ve always had my suspicions with you, that’s not secret.” Wilcox replied.
Sullivan pointed his index finger at Wilcox. “Let’s get something straight, you want my job, then that’s fine. Do a good enough job under me and get yourself a promotion. This accusing me of shit is going to end now.”
“Who says I want your job?” Wilcox inched closer. “I want the rebels caught and killed as much as you do…or, should I say, as much as you make it appear.”
Without warning, Sullivan reached back and sucker punched Wilcox square in the jaw. Wilcox composed himself then went after Sullivan with a killer’s look in his eyes. Mason stepped in front of him and he whispered something in his left ear. Wilcox stood down. He dropped his arms and pointed at his superior.
“You’ll pay for that.”
“Anytime, Dee.” Sullivan said.
Wilcox rubbed at his jaw as he turned and walked out of the room with Mason. He slammed his fist on the doorway before he walked through it. Sullivan watched, he shook the mild pain away from his fist, and smiled. A great sense of relief, maybe even joy, filled his body. He wanted to do that for a long time and, at last, he found the courage to do it. He knew that their working relationship would only get rockier from here.
For a fraction in time, he would enjoy it.
Sullivan stood in front of Fitzpatrick’s desk, the Captain busy flipping through paperwork, and awaited his answer. He rubbed his sweaty palms together, his heart racing along with his mind. When the wait got to the brink of unbearable, he wanted to snatch the paperwork from his boss and demand answer. He decided against it. It wouldn’t help his cause, anyway.
After what seemed like an eternity, Fitzpatrick dropped the paperwork down on the desk and rubbed at his forehead.
“Have a seat, William.” he said.
“I’d rather stand, sir.” Sullivan replied.
“Fine. Stay as you are, the answer is no.”
“What?”
The request which had just been denied was for Sullivan to lead the raid on the apartment. The resistance would no doubt show up there tonight, after all that torture, they most likely got that much out of Forte. The paperwork on Fitzpatrick’s desk outlined the planned arrest and capture of Howard Anderson. The resistance would move in at some point to try and “save” the family. Sullivan wanted to be the one to bring the bastards in.
“I talked with Consul today,” Fitzpatrick replied. “He wants you away from this thing.”
“With all due respect to you and the Consul, but this is my case. I have to be there.”
“You are too valuable to this department, William. Stay away, for your family’s sake.”
Sullivan clinched his fists. “What does that mean?”
“Relax,” Fitzpatrick said with a smile. “I didn’t mean it like that. This is going to be a dangerous one. I’d hate to make beautiful Julie a widow, or for your son to grow up without his father.”
“I have a dangerous job. I put my ass on the line day and night for this department. The resistance is getting closer to us. Look at what they did to Forte.”
“Did you ever find anything out from the CA?” Fitzpatrick asked, trying to change the subject.
“I did. This killing today confirms it. I told Greg Boler from that department about Forte, and look what happened. They even ripped the poor bastard’s fingernails out.”
“Boler,” Fitzpatrick rubbed at his chin, “he didn’t show up for work today.”
“Can you blame him? He’s probably skipped town by now.”
“We’ll send units to his house right away, just in case.”
“Sir,” Sullivan pleaded. “Let me ask you one last time: let me be there tonight.”
“Absolutely not. CA is running this op, same as usual.”
Sullivan stood and pointed. “They are sending those boys to their deaths. That I can guarantee.”
Fitzpatrick grimaced. “Get that finger out of my face. I don’t like this anymore than you do, but that’s an order straight from the top. All we can do is hold our breath and hope that they apprehend the suspects.”
“Sir, I cannot back down from this. Forte was one of my men. Do you know what they did to him?”
“Yes, I read the report.”
“Let me refresh your memory,” Sullivan sat back down. “They shot him dead…in cold blood right after they tortured him.”
“As I understood it,” Fitzpatrick looked to his computer screen, “he did the same thing.”
Sullivan was taken back a moment. He couldn’t believe what he heard come from his own boss’s mouth.
“What are you trying to tell me, sir? That it’s fine?”
Fitzpatrick rubbed his forehead. “No, that’s not what I’m trying to say. He got what he dished out. Let’s admit something. Travis was not exactly high up on the morality ladder. It was just an observation.”
Just an observation, there was that phrase again. Sullivan sat down then tried to relax himself on the chair while he played with his smooth chin. He soon came to the realization that Fitzpatrick was not going to see his view of things. It was futile to try any longer. He reasoned that he would have to take a stronger route instead.
“Let me tell you something,” Sullivan said. He leaned forward, “Travis Forte might not have been the greatest human being to walk this earth, but he was one of us. We have to show them that we will not just sit on our hands while they kill our own people.”
“We will get them,” Fitzpatrick replied. “Just let CA take care of it. Again, this is an order straight from the Consul’s office. I will not allow you to go. I will not be thrown in prison for you, no matter how great of a detective you are.”
“There’s something else.”
“What?”
“I look around at all the bad shit that’s going on, out there. The resistance is the cause of it. I will see to it that it all ends, tonight. Let me go.”
“One final time, stay away. If I catch you out there, I will have your badge, do you read me?”
Sullivan stood and saluted the Captain. “Yes, sir.”
He turned and opened the door, letting it slam behind him. Once in his office
, he clinched his fists. Sullivan could not let this go. He could not put this in the hands of the imbeciles over in the CA, this mission was too vital. He would go, hide in the shadows, and if he got his chance, he would grab one of them and make the arrest. They wouldn’t take his badge if he brought in a member of the resistance. How could they?
Sullivan pulled his leather chair back and sat. He began to plot out his actions; weighed in on the pros and cons. He reasoned that the pros far outweighed anything negative that could happen, including losing his badge or his life. When he began to question his decision, he quickly silenced that negative voice in his head.
This was ending tonight: one way or the other.