Mike Lawson - Dead on Arrival

The guards at this refinery dressed in dark blue uniforms and wore paratrooper boots and at first glance seemed quite impressive. Automatic pistols, Mace, oversized flashlights, and batons hung from their belts. But these men — and even some women — were laughable. Most were middle-aged, few had military training, and many had been rejected by police forces in the region because they failed to meet even the minimal qualifications required by local law enforcement. But more important, they had nothing to do. They occasionally conducted drills that disrupted refinery operations, but their primary function was to annoy the people entering the plant by performing perfunctory searches of backpacks and lunchboxes. Other than that, they sat . They sat all day and all night, waiting for something to happen, and they’d been sitting for so long doing nothing that they had long ago stopped expecting anything to happen.

‘You see,’ he said to the boy, ‘how the guard never walks into that area. It’s dark there, and muddy too, and he doesn’t want to get mud on his boots.’

‘I know,’ the boy said.

Sunday morning, Mahoney sat in front of the television in his condo in an old bathrobe, drinking coffee laced with bourbon. He was watching Kevin Collier, the director of the FBI, do his best to scare the shit out of the American public.

Collier had always reminded Mahoney of a Boston terrier he’d once owned: pudgy, bulging eyes, a pushed-in snout — and the misconception that it was a mastiff instead of a creature whose head was barely a foot off the ground. Collier was telling Tim Russert that the Bureau believed there were several al-Qaeda operatives in the United States and that those operatives were identifying disgruntled Muslim Americans and trying to convince them to commit terrorist acts.

Collier assured the television audience, though, that as tough as his job might be, he and all his agents were doing everything they could to track these culprits down. He said his job would sure be a lot easier if the borders weren’t so long and porous, but he was confident that General Banks of Homeland Security was doing the best he could, implying, of course, that if the customs agents who worked for Banks had done their job in the first place, none of these foreign terrorists would be in the country. When Russert asked Collier if he thought that Senator Broderick’s bill would make his job easier, Collier said that indeed it would.

Then Russert said, ‘As you know, Mr Director, Senator Broderick’s bill is currently in committee in the House. My sources have said that the House does not appear to be moving as expeditiously as it could to bring the bill to a floor vote. What’s your opinion on that?’

When Director Collier cleverly answered Russert’s question by saying that he was just a cop and it was the speaker’s job to pass the laws, Mahoney wanted to reach into the television set and strangle the bug-eyed bastard.

But Russert’s sources were right. Mahoney was doing everything he could to keep the bill in committee as long as possible without making it obvious that he was the one directing the slowdown. He had assigned the bill to a committee chaired by James Brice, a Massachusetts congressman so firmly under his thumb that the man was practically flat. Mahoney’s direction to Brice was to nitpick the shit out of the bill, question the placement of every comma and period, and then call in eighty-five experts to provide their opinions. A normal bill, Mahoney could have kept in committee indefinitely, but there was too much media focus on this one. Brice would do what he was told, but Mahoney also knew he could delay things for only so long.

The next day Mahoney arrived at the Capitol with the temperament of a scalded bear and called DeMarco up to his office to beat him up. DeMarco naturally thought this unreasonable. The FBI probably had five or six thousand agents looking into the terrorist attacks, maybe more. They had the manpower, the authority, the expertise, and all the right equipment. The Department of Homeland Security was assisting the FBI, and the NSA was probably bugging every cell phone call in America. The CIA was involved too, trying to find terrorist connections to the attacks overseas; knowing the CIA, they were most likely skulking around inside the United States as well. So if all those agencies and all their agents hadn’t turned up any evidence of a conspiracy, how in the hell was DeMarco supposed to?

Mahoney’s response to this well-reasoned argument was that all those federal agencies were firmly convinced that al-Qaeda was behind the recent attacks. The only guy that wasn’t convinced was John Mahoney, but he wasn’t about to stick his thick political neck out and say this to anyone who might actually be able to do something. He preferred to beat on Joe DeMarco, which he did by listing all the things that DeMarco had failed to do. He hadn’t been able to show that Donny Cray had done anything more than sell Reza Zarif a gun, he hadn’t found any concrete evidence that the men who had attacked their own country had been forced to do so, and he had absolutely no proof that the late Rollie Patterson was anything other than the hero that Mahoney had personally claimed him to be when he had pinned the medal on Rollie’s chest.

‘So, goddammit, what are you going to do next?’ Mahoney asked.

‘Well,’ DeMarco said, ‘I was hoping that maybe you could get them to do an autopsy on Rollie, see if maybe they can find something to show that he died from other than natural causes.’

Mahoney mulled that request over for a minute.

‘Yeah,’ he finally said. ‘I can do that. I’ll call the guy who runs the Capitol cops and tell him, Rollie bein’ one of our own and having just whacked this terrorist, that they need to cut him up to make sure some al-Qaeda loony didn’t shove a hypo into one of Rollie’s veins. He’ll keep my name out of it.’

‘There’s one other thing,’ DeMarco said.

‘What’s that?’ Mahoney asked.

‘I also want an autopsy performed on Donny Cray. I want to make sure his neck really snapped in a car accident.’

‘What do I look like, the governor of Virginia?’ Mahoney yelled. ‘An autopsy on Rollie’s one thing, but gettin’ one done on Cray is way out of my jurisdiction.’

Nothing was out of Mahoney’s jurisdiction. He just didn’t want to do anything related to the attacks that might garner more media attention. He was getting enough bad ink for just knowing Reza Zarif and then dragging his feet on Broderick’s bill.

‘But,’ he said, ‘you’re right. They oughta take a closer look at how that guy died. So you go figure out some way to make it happen.’

DeMarco didn’t bother to argue with Mahoney; he knew from past experience that arguing didn’t help. The speaker was motivated, above all else, by self-interest. The other reason he didn’t argue was that he thought it possible his new friend at the DEA, Patsy Hall, might have the clout to do what he wanted done.

But before he saw Patsy there was something else he needed to do.

He needed to get some help.

DeMarco was sitting behind his desk, just about to pick up the phone to call Emma, when the phone rang. It’s spooky when that happens.

‘This is Mrs Drake from Senator Broderick’s office. The senator would like to see you at eleven A.M.’

Oh, boy.

Broderick’s office was located in the Dirksen Senate Office Building. DeMarco entered the senator’s suite and identified himself to the receptionist/executive assistant nearest the door, a young lady with strawberry-blond hair and an accent that made him think of magnolia blossoms and mint juleps and Daisy Duke. He may have been hopelessly in love with an Italian adulteress from Queens, he may have been smitten most recently by a cute schoolmarm from Iowa, but there was something about blondes with southern accents that always gave his libido a jolt. The young lady picked up the phone on her desk, punched a button, and said that a Mr DeMarco was there. Five minutes later he followed two well-oiled hips down the hallway to an office.