Alex Bobl: Memoria

Jessup sensed Claney’s stare. The secretary wondered if they needed anything else. The Congressman gave her a dismissive nod. He sat up in his chair, crossed his legs and clasped his fingers round his knee. Cold-headed and in control, ready to handle whatever came his way.

The captain didn’t like either of them. He wasn’t sure which one he’d rather deal with. Still, he had little choice. The city attorney hadn’t issued a search warrant for the Memoria’s HQ — insufficient grounds, apparently, — but confirmed the directors’ consent to Jessup’s examining Kathleen Baker’s desk — already long after local security had snooped around her work place. Nothing to glean there.

Jessup was beside himself. He’d rather turn the whole building inside out, confiscate their computers and servers, visit the laboratories and question the staff. He was almost a hundred percent sure that the Memoria’s dons stood behind the girl’s murder. After all, someone had hacked the police frequencies and entered the information that Frank Shelby was the head of a terrorist group which led to confusion in the department and patrols. Before her death, Kathleen had managed to send Shelby a package of some kind. Once he’s escaped during the attack on the police station — and most likely, he’d been the one the attackers had wanted to eliminate — he’d been the first to make it to the post office. Had the suspect’s friend the bartender not called the police, Jessup wouldn’t have known anything about the parcel. But the attackers, armed to the teeth, had also followed Shelby into the center of Manhattan to start yet another massacre. Three officers killed on the spot, two more in a bad way, and yet more civilians killed.

Binelli sipped the hot coffee and put the cup back onto the desk. In his fat hand, it looked like a plastic toy. He coughed into his fist, clearing his throat. Claney didn’t move. His eyes glinted, that was the extent of the Congressman’s self-restraint.

Bastards. Ed Freeman and several officers had just died because of them.

Jessup took out a notepad and clicked the pen open. “Who is the chief of security?”

“Joe Binelli,” Claney answered. “He’s an acting chief while we’re looking for a suitable candidate to replace him. You, officer… eh…”

“Captain Jessup,” he reminded.

“Yes, Captain. Would you like to accept the post, maybe? The Mayor speaks very highly about you. Doesn’t he, Joe?”

“Ahem,” Binelli puffed out his cheeks, coughed into his fist again and nodded.

They had to be kidding. Jessup made a note on his pad. Imagine them mentioning the Mayor, when only two hours ago he himself had called Jessup giving him the official version of the incident. The department guys knew nothing about it yet, but give it another six hours, and the news would flood the media: newspapers, TV channels and the Web. And Jessup would have a lot of explaining to do.

Dickheads. Apparently, the Mayor had finally relaxed his butt cheeks and accepted his position as Memoria’s poodle. He’s not the only one, though: just before Jessup had left for Memoria’s HQ, he’d received a call from the White House. They guaranteed their support after making it clear that Shelby had to be recaptured within the next twenty-four hours… not necessarily alive. Or rather, as dead as possible. Assholes. None of them had mentioned the dead officers, as none spoke about their killers, either.

“What kind of work did Kathleen Baker do for Memoria?” Jessup stared at Binelli.

He gave Claney a bewildered glance which made it clear that the honorary chairman was such in name only. In reality, Claney was the man at the helm: the corporate smoke screen and their talking head whenever Memoria needed a face to put on TV or to make a media statement.

“Scientific research,” Binelli managed.

How’s that for a vague job description. Jessup shifted his stare to Claney.

“Tell me more.”

The Congressman made no secret of it.

“You see, Captain, the Corporation doesn’t only provide for the civilian market. I’m sure you’re familiar with the personality correction program, which is successfully applied by the US police for law enforcement. But there are things,” he leaned forward placing his hands on the table, “of which many don’t know, not even in the White House. Only the Pentagon is in the know. Kathleen Baker was one of our workers with access to classified information; one of those who work on the strengthening of our country. You have to agree its political situation is complicated to say the least. And when you think about the international arena and the tension in Europe! Do you understand me, Captain?”

“Absolutely.”

They left him no choice. Tomorrow morning, by lunchtime at the latest, the case would go to the Feds. That this corporate lowlife should get off for the deaths of so many people! Jessup pursed his lips, nodding, and said,

“Gentlemen, while I’m on the case, I’m obliged to ask you to come to the police station and make a statement.” He glanced at his watch. “Nine o’clock tomorrow morning.”

“As you wish, Captain,” Claney answered, composed as before. “Our lawyers will be there to see you.”

Jessup rose and put the pen and the notepad back into his pocket. He meant to ask another question, about a certain William Bow, the dead woman’s co-worker. But their conversation had gone off the rails, and as for Bow, Jessup couldn’t get hold of him. Apparently, at lunchtime Bow had been rushed to a private clinic someplace in New Jersey. The clinic’s personnel had refused to let Jessup’s men in or give them the man’s diagnosis: all that Jessup knew was it had been some acute infection or other.

The detective crossed the council chamber, lingering by the door under Claney’s stare. He didn’t return it, then pushed the door open and walked out into the reception area.

The Congressman turned to Binelli. The corporation manager stooped, shrinking his head into his shoulders. Binelli knew this heavy stare only too well. A killer’s stare. He wanted to clear his throat again. Taking the tiny cup with shaking fingers, he poured the coffee into his large plump mouth. He burned his tongue and his palate, gagged and couldn’t help coughing. He became nauseous. Then he heard Claney’s harsh voice,

“Dickens? Come now.” The Congressman released the intercom key and sat back.

The wall to their left slid sideways, letting out a tall blond man with cold pale eyes. Binelli winced and turned away. He listened as he stared out of the window.

“Have you found him?” Claney asked.

“We keep listening to the police frequencies, sir,” the blond man answered. “My mole at Jessup’s department contacts me every half-hour. I don’t have enough men to cover all of Shelby’s contacts, though. The police have wider opportunities in this respect. I’m just thinking how I could use them, sir.”

The Congressman slapped his hand on the desk. Binelli started and glanced at the blond man. He didn’t bat an eyelid. Both Claney and Dickens — Memoria’s unspoken security chief — had enviable nerve, the only difference being that the latter remained Claney’s subordinate and was accountable only to him.

“You really think we should get the pigs involved?” the Congressman nodded at the door that had let Jessup out less than two minutes ago. “They do have the means and staff to help us, that’s for sure.” He clasped his hands, placed his elbows on the desk and said icily,

“It was your job to keep an eye on the Baker girl. You should have established all of her contacts, including Shelby first of all. If the police find him before we do, and if they recover the hard disk…” The Congressman glared at Binelli. “Want to tell me something, Joe? Cat got your tongue?”