Chapter Eighteen
SHARING THE WRITTEN word is a practice older than modern politics. Yet, as Ben Burns once found out, it may not always be a good practice to uphold, especially when it concerns the press.
When Ben’s New Democracy Party campaign was being launched during his senior year, he had leaked to the campus media a copy of his campaign platform. True to his nature as a policy wonk, Ben gave an extensive packet to the press, including a cover letter that amounted to a stump speech. In it, he declared the previous lobbying efforts by Student Government on “student issues” were “an utter failure. They have had their chance to lead. It’s now our turn.”
The swift backlash from the SG establishment was remarkable in that it exposed a raw nerve on the issues Ben raised. Even Senate President Nick Atlee felt compelled to make a public speech denouncing a “campaign of negativity” about the past. It was a personal insult to Nick; he was the former SG lobbyist that contributed most of the energy and passion to those lost causes.
The NDP’s campaign platform, then, provided a key lesson for Ben in his dealings with Student Government leaders, who the premier leadership honorary on campus. Ego sensitivity proved to be a pre-requisite for campus leadership, especially when security over someone’s future was at stake…
BENNITA, ADAM, AND even Ashley peered over Mike’s shoulder as he opened and read the blue-tinged envelope once more. The distinct, yet mysterious message read as follows:
“The one you are seeking is not the one you are looking for. After all, being independent can sometimes mean being dependent on a different sort of people. Do not despair; while this puzzle is not anywhere near solved, you will find that the solution will have been here all along.”
The group struggled to make sense of the note. While it provided some answers, it posed a lot more questions.
Adam was the first to postulate a theory. “I think this message is pretty clear,” Adam said.
“What are you thinking?” Bennita asked.
“Well, first, this blonde sharp-shooter was behind the weapon’s theft. She was also responsible for the numerous violent attacks we’ve been witnessing. But this message answers your question, Bennita. She was not working alone. If we are to believe this message, she is only one member of the conspiracy.”
Mike nodded. “This thing isn’t over, people.”
DETECTIVE RICHARD MARX wiped his brow with a handkerchief before tossing it to his assistant Jimmy. The damp cloth broke Jimmy’s stare, watching in awe in the corner as the FBI agent, Brandon Lee, worked the suspect.
“I don’t believe you. What were you doing at the Eastside reunion?”
The blonde suspect mumbled her repetitive reply.
“I can’t hear you!”
The interrogation continued with none of the dramatic flair that Jimmy had hoped.
YET IT SUITED Mike just fine. Using the see-through mirror in the adjoining room, Mike watched as his would-be assassin weathered the storm of questions, mounting pressure, and lack of any end in sight. Bennita spoke up, ending the silence of their viewing room.
“Any progress on clues from that new message?”
“All the FBI has figured is that it means she isn’t working alone. That’s why they are interrogating her. But I don’t think she’s going to budge any. Meanwhile, I’ve cross-referenced our previously determined list with references to an “independent.”“
“Why that word?”
“I believe whoever sent this most recent message was sending us a secondary message with that word,” Mike said as he turned to face her.
The expression on her face quickly changed, as she caught on. “After all, being independent can sometimes mean being dependent on a different sort of people,” she repeated from memory.
“Exactly. This message was intended to help us complete our search, to get to “the end of this puzzle.”“
“So? What did the search result?”
“There are only a few people that were possibly insulted by a character in my book, as we both know. But that list shrinks so small I can count with the fingers of a single hand, those who were, at some point or another, one of us.”
“One of us?”
“Bennita, you are the guardian of independents, as we so fondly called you back then. We need you, now more than ever. One of our own has turned against us.”
“THIS IS JANE Danziger, at the CNN news desk. We have some Breaking News for you. Police officials in Gainesville, Florida, have confirmed reports that a local reunion reception, attended by author Mike Adams, was attacked last night. And they have apprehended a young woman believed to be responsible for the incident, as well as many others connected with a stolen piece of weapons technology. Sources close to the investigation are not commenting, but it appears that the investigation is on-going. Here is what Mike Adams had to say.”
“It’s a great sense of relief for my family and all my wonderful, supporting friends and fans to know we are moving forward with this investigation,” Mike said as he made his way down the steps of the Police Department.
“But doesn’t this resolve the investigation?” asked a random reporter.
“We have reason to believe that this woman could not steal that weapon by herself. So the FBI and the local police are taking every precaution to ensure my safety, and indeed the security of all Gainesville residents. Now, if you excuse me, I have errands to take care of,” Mike said as he struggled to wade through the gaggle of reporters and photographs.
“I’M SORRY, MRS. Jones, Mr. Schiff is unavailable.”
“Where is he? I must speak to him immediately!”
“Sister, don’t you take that tone with me.”
“Then you won’t like me when I’m angry. Get me in touch with Kyle this instance!” Bennita roared in frustration. That was enough to shake the little Caribbean girl out of her seat and off to one side of the office. I should try that more often, Bennita said with a grin, which was quickly replaced – she could have sworn Kyle’s office was to the right of the secretary’s desk, so why did the young twit head to the left?
“I’m sorry, Miss, but I’d lose my job if I interrupted Mr. Schiff’s day with a visit from you.”
The turnaround shocked Bennita. “From me, or from any-” and as abruptly as the conversation began, the receptionist ended it. Damn.
NOW, SURELY WILL Ose will talk to me, Bennita thought as she searched for his phone number, even if it is about this situation with Mike. She felt this way, not just because their previous conversation went so well, but also because many saw Will as the guy who tried the hardest to teach Mike how to campaign. So, perhaps he could provide some comforting news about this killer they found.
“I’m sorry!” the perky, 18-year-old staff assistant said as she greeted Bennita’s digital image from the front desk of Congressman Jeff Smith’s office. “Our LD is out to lunch with a long-time supporter of our Member. Can you call back another time?”
Bennita pounded her fist on the desk. “No!”
“Well, can you leave a message?”
“No, no message,” she grunted before clicking the conversation to an end. Why is everyone out to lunch today? She looked at the very sunny day that enticed her to come out to the balcony for a quick look.
“NO ONE WAS available to talk, Mike.” Bennita dropped down in the empty chair at the police station.
“What about Roberts?” he asked her.
She shook her head. “Who? No, he’s a Greek. He couldn’t be the independent we’re after.”
“Really.” Mike had completely forgotten one of his better college friends was a Greek. “What about Gates?”
“No, Mike, he pledged Delta Chi just after you left.”
“Well. That really only leaves one more person to try and reach on our newer, abridged list. Good thing he still lives and works in Gainesville. And if that yields nothing, we can always go back and persist with the ones we already missed.”
Brandon Lee
spoke up from his corner. “All the same, Mike, I think it’s time you let us professionals step in. There’s no way to tell what these guys could do if they actually saw you face-to-face, given what they have done from far away.”
“Perhaps you’re right, Brandon. There you go. Have at him,” Mike said, handing the FBI agent the last sheet of paper from his stack. On it was the name of the possible suspect, and his local address.
“Alright. But first things first. Let’s see if this name sparks anything with our thief over here,” he said as he got up and made his way out the door.
THE NEWEST SUSPECT was supposedly on his day off. So, Brandon took two members from the local S.W.A.T. team to surround the house the guy lived in. It was a small building, but it had a garage and enough yard space to encircle the place. Even the front patio was larger than it should have been given it was a simple one-story house, perhaps no more than 1,000 square feet. Painted a pumpkin-orange, it was a charming little place.
Brandon knocked on the front door with his left hand. A warrant rested in his right hand. He knocked a second time, but found that it came open fairly easily. He gestured to his teammates to make their moves. He did the same; he walked right on in.
MIKE WAS TYPING away on his computer, trying to put some words down on proverbial paper. The Gainesville Sun was offering him an opportunity to write an article about his experiences, and he at least wanted to humor them by considering how he might go about doing so.
The computer chirped, alerting him to an incoming message. He pressed the appropriate button to bring up that screen. An obscure user had written the following:
“Your FBI buddy is too slow. He will soon rejoin his partner.”
On the bottom of that instant message, a blinking set of digits sat in the center, which turned out to be hard for Mike to read. That is, until he saw a 20 turn into a 19, which turned into an 18….
BRANDON WAS TIPTOEING through the kitchen when his phone vibrated. He fumbled for the phone, and saw it was a text message. But a loud crash distracted him. If it weren’t for the explosion that followed, he might have had a chance to read Mike’s warning….
BENNITA TOOK IT upon herself to visit the suspect’s supervisor. Matthew Wallace was an older, grandfather type professorial character, complete with the long gray beard.
“Thank you, Dean Wallace,” she said in accepting a cup of tea.
“Not a problem at all,” he said with a faded British accent. “Please sit,” he said as he took his own cup of Earl Grey around to the other side of the desk. “What is it that is on your mind?”
“Dean, I’d be wasting your time if I didn’t cut to heart of the matter directly. There is an issue of highest importance. One of your employees may have conspired to protect, at any cost, some of this University’s most darkest secrets.”
“Oh?”
“And I need to stop him.”
“DETECTIVE, WE KNOW her accomplice, and we think we know where he might be,” Mike said into his phone and in between gasps of air as he and Bennita hurried their way through the maze of the police parking lot. “We’re on our way in right now,” he answered, despite not hearing the question.
As luck would have it, the Detective was waiting for them when they pushed through the front doors. “You Yankees think yall smarter than them feds?”
“Yes,” Mike answered confident as he slammed a crumbled sheet of paper down on the front desk. “My true stalker is as good as found.”
The obese detective skeptically picked up the note, and peered at its contents. “I hope you’re right,” he said before turning to the receptionist and began rattling off instructions.
THIS WAS JIMMY’S first major field operation. His adrenaline was pumping in his veins, and the butterflies were fluttering in his stomach. The three vehicles made their approach in an undercover fashion – no sirens blazing, no lights flashing – yet Jimmy could not help but let his excitement shine through.
“Naw, Jimmah, ya know how ta fire a gun, right?”
“Yes, Detective Marx.”
“Good. If ya keep up ya silly behaving…”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t be ‘fraid to use it on yaself.”
THE LARGE WAREHOUSE they arrived at functioned as a greenhouse next to the Natural History museum on campus. Unlike last time, the policemen ignored all pretense of stealth and barraged through the front door.
Detective Marx called out. “Show yaself.”
“Why?” the suspect said as a shot went wild off into their direction. The detective’s deputies sent some bullets off in reply as the detective and Jimmy ducked.
“Because it’s all ova. You’ve lost.”
Jimmy jumped up and squatted back down. “I think I saw where he’s at.”
“Who says? You’re the ones trespassing my property!” the suspect said as another shot rang out.
“Detective, he’s getting a better aim with each shot,” a deputy observed as another shot knocked over a nearby potted plant, illustrating his point.
“Detective, I can do this!” Jimmy insisted.
“No heroics, Jimmah.”
“You know me.”
“That’s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout,” he said as he reached out to stop his assistant from leaping into the air in the direction of the suspect.
The suspect saw him coming. With the gun in his left hand, he kept the other policemen at bay with a sudden spray of bullets, shattering a tulip nursery behind them. With the gun in his right hand, he kept a focused eye on his incoming target.
“It’s just you and me,” Jimmy yelled out as he squatted back behind some rosebushes.
“Then show yourself,” came back the reply, which was punctuated by a round of bullets that tore up Jimmy’s shield.
“Alright,” Jimmy said.
What Detective Marx and the suspect did not know about Jimmy, however, was that he was once an avid member of National Rifle Association. So, Jimmy felt confident that, upon coming up from behind these bushes, he’d able to quickly obtain a clear shot and take it against this violent suspect.
He was wrong.
He could not anticipate the suspect’s reflexes – with two guns. Three bullets rang out simultaneously. Less than a second later, Jimmy’s shot grazed the suspect’s left collarbone. Meanwhile, one of the other bullets landed on the lower-right-hand corner of Jimmy’s torso. The other bullet struck north of his lungs. Both fell back, and onto the ground in response to the shooting.
And before the suspect could get back up on his feet, two deputies had him surrounded, facing down the barrel of two pistols. Jimmy, on the other hand, was not so lucky.
While the torso shot was blocked by his body armor, the other bullet had dug deep into Jimmy’s throat. A pool of dark-red blood had already swelled up underneath the young detective’s body. The detective knelt down next to him. Jimmy tried raising his arms to grab his boss’s hands for help, but he felt a rush of coldness, and his arms became weighted like anvils. He tilted his head to cough, but could not even muster the energy to eject the blood swelling up inside.
He died on the greenhouse floor that day.