Mary McDonald - No good deed

It would take awhile before the tapes would arrive, so he took a quick break to get some fresh coffee. Taking a sip, he settled at his desk once again. According to the file, Taylor had a girlfriend…a detective with the Chicago PD. That was an interesting tidbit. The notation said that they appeared to have only been together a short while. Most of his friends had drifted away in the last few years. Jim rifled through the papers to find a brief interview he recalled reading.

He sat forward and sorted through the file. Damn. There wasn’t much. Just the few sketchy police reports he’d already gone over. He checked to see who had filed them. He recognized one. Where had he seen that name recently? Detective Jessica Bishop. He snapped his fingers. Wasn’t that the name of the woman Taylor was dating at the time of his arrest? Interesting. He rubbed his chin, trying to remember the approximate date Taylor had begun dating her. He was sure it had been shortly before Taylor’s arrest.

Jim noted the names and details on a legal pad. He intended to investigate the Bishop angle more closely. He sorted the papers and found the interview he was looking for. It had been filed under the personal contacts since Bishop had been the girlfriend. He skimmed the transcript, and scowled. The officer, Sean Daly, who’d done the interview, was either having a bad day or was lazy beyond belief. He should have pushed harder on the fact that a police detective had a relationship with someone giving tips on crimes. Daly should have pounced with follow-up questions.

The reports needed fleshing out and he decided that he needed to do it himself. He glanced out the window and pulled his shirt away from his body. It would be nice to get out of the humidity. The air barely moved outside his window, and even in the air conditioned building, his shirt stuck to him. He grinned. Chicago shouldn’t be too brutal in September.

His mind still entertaining the idea of Chicago, he shuffled the documents back into the stiff expandable file and moved to the row of tall cabinets lining one wall of his office. There was a short knock on his door, and his secretary stepped in.

“Here are the tapes you requested.”

“Wow, that was fast.”

She held out a bundle of tapes held in a stack by rubber bands. “I have connections.”

Jim took the tapes from her and smiled. “Thanks.” After she left, he took the tapes back to his desk, he found his cassette player and slid in the first tape. He had read the transcripts from these tapes several times before, but that wasn’t why he had requested them. He wanted to hear how Taylor sounded.

An hour later, Jim scrubbed his hands down his face and scratched his head with both hands. He was no closer to deciding what to do with his prisoner. It would have been so much easier if Taylor had sounded calm, but Jim had detected a note of restrained panic in the first calls. In later tapes, he’d been not just panicked, but frustrated and angry. The last tape was different. Recorded at 0743 Central time, Taylor sounded defeated, his voice thick. Was he crying? Either the man was a hell of an actor, or he had truly been distraught. Jim replayed that last tape. Taylor’s voice filled the office.

“Please, you have to put me through to someone in charge. There’s not much time left. Oh, God. Please.”

“I’m sorry sir, I need to ask a few questions first.”

“Goddamn it, there’s no time for questions…time…oh, shit…what time is it?”

There was a short silence and then a sharp thump. Jim leaned in, his ear turned towards the machine. What had he done? Dropped the phone? There was a muffled scrape Jim closed his eyes, picturing the scene in his mind. Fear was etched on Taylor’s face and tension in his movements. Jim shook his head and snapped his eyes open. He was probably just superimposing the familiar expressions he’d inspired when questioning Taylor. That’s all it was.

Taylor choked out, “Never mind. It’s too late.”

The tape ended at 0744. One minute before the first plane had hit.

Jim stabbed a finger down on the eject button. The evidence was impossible to ignore. Even if Taylor knew the exact timetable of the plan, there was no way he’d have known exactly when the first plane would hit. There were too many variables. The terrorist pilots could have made their move sooner or later, there could have been a delay due to fighting, as happened on Flight 93 that went down in Pennsylvania. Even the wind could have been a factor. So, how had he known that by 0744, it was too late? Unless he knew that only a minute later, the first plane would hit.

How had he missed that the first ten times through the transcripts? Jim picked the phone up and called to his administrative assistant. “Jill, could you book me on a flight to Chicago?” Glancing at his calendar, he nodded. “Next Wednesday would be fine.”

He sat as straight as the shackles allowed. Across the table, Jim sorted through Mark’s file. At least, Mark assumed it was his file. What was the guy up to? And where were the others? As horrible as interrogations were, at least he knew what to expect. This change in procedure smacked of some kind trickery. The guards were ever present, but stood by the door instead of right beside Mark. For the first ten minutes, Jim had ignored him, looking at him briefly when he had first arrived, and then checked his watch every few minutes. Mark shifted in the chair. What was he waiting for? Were the others late? But why were there no other chairs?

Mark jumped when there was a knock on the door, and right on cue, his heart began pounding. He knew better than to turn to see who had entered. He couldn’t help himself, he prayed it wasn’t a doctor.

Jim smiled and motioned for someone to enter. “Bring it in. Thanks.”

Before Mark could get over his shock at seeing the other man flash a genuine smile, a woman strode past, giving Mark a wide berth and avoiding eye contact. She carried a white paper bag in one hand and a drink holder in the other. The two soft drinks sloshed as she set it down along with the bag. “There’s extra ketchup, mustard and salt.”

“Great. I appreciate it.” Jim dug into his pocket and handed the woman some cash. “That should cover it.”

Mark was torn between wanting to look at the woman-the first he had seen in months, or the bag, whose scent told him what it contained. The woman ignored him and left the room. That left him no choice, but it didn’t make it any easier. He swallowed hard and studied the floor. It was the safest choice.

At the crinkle of paper, Mark raised his head. Jim dug into the bag and pulled out two large sandwiches. He pushed one in front of Mark. “I think it has the works.”

Mark recoiled. What was the guy up to?

Jim frowned as he began unwrapping his own sandwich. “It’s okay. You can have it.”

The smell filled the air, and he hoped he wasn’t drooling, but he didn’t touch the food-not even when a container of fries joined the burger on the table in front of him. For all he knew, it was poisoned. More likely, it was a trick and the second he put it to his mouth, Jim would order him to drop it.

Mark remembered a dog he’d had as a kid that would sit with a treat balanced on its nose, waiting eagerly for permission to flip the morsel up and snatch it out of the air. Mark now knew how that dog had felt. It made him ashamed of teaching his pet that ‘trick’. Now it seemed cruel. He studied his shackled hands clasped in his lap. Even if he dared to eat the burger, he couldn’t reach it anyway. There wasn’t enough slack in the chains.

“Eat the damn burger.” Jim set his own lunch down, and wiped his hands on a napkin. “I’m trying to do something nice here.”