Authors: Jeffrey Walton
Take the Fourth (44 page)
T
he trial lasted three weeks and was just as gripping as a daytime soap opera yet the general public just didn’t seem to care. They already had tough political skin as they’ve been inundated by everything from coked-up mayors and gay turning governors, to seat selling senators and lying-through-their-teeth presidents. They only cared about the outcome and nothing more—“We the jury find the defendant, Floyd Benjamin Carson not guilty.” The only so-called evidence was the fact he was possibly home during the time of the murders. There was no GSR on him, no blood, and the bullets’ striations never matched his gun. The jury never knew the true meaning behind the phone call he received just prior to the murders since they never knew who was on the other line. It was disregarded simply as a wrong number. The jury never knew that as soon as the senator walked into his study he had grabbed his 9mm caliber Bereta 92 from his gun safe, loaded it, and calmly walked upstairs and shot his wife and her lover. The jury never knew he had cleaned himself, changed his clothes, and more importantly, changed the barrel on his gun. They never knew he came back to his study, oiled his gun, placed it back into the box, took a sedative and a sip of bourbon and passed out. The jury never knew that he later disposed of the well-hidden extra barrel in a trashcan inside the Georgetown Mall. They never knew the power of his rage regarding infidelity. They never knew the weight of his burden, his reoccurring nightmare that took its toll on his everyday life. They never knew it was a constant battle to keep his emotions in check. The jury never knew that he would wake in the middle of most nights with his hands grasping an imaginary champagne bottle and bringing it down on the back of Carolina’s neck. They never knew he dropped her overboard in the middle of the Chesapeake. They never knew he ran the boat aground and simply walked off to become a well-respected senator and almost a president. The jury never knew he had a true love before, murdered before, and got away with it before. They never knew, but Jorja knew. Jorja knew he was responsible for her empty heart. Jorja knew this man had taken away the two most important people in her life. She knew he had killed her mother. She knew he had killed her Aunt Gracie. After all the redirections, false implications, and conspiracy theories Jorja knew the Lieutenant Colonel John Smith was telling the truth. She also knew that Greg was right not to trust the senator. She also knew now that Greg was gone she had an even bigger burden to carry alone, a bigger burden than knowing your uncle was a murderer gone free. It was the burden of the system, of GOD’s eyes.
As Jorja sat at her desk, the desk of the Deputy Director of Directorate of Science and Technology, and gazed at her “Eye” poster, she tried to deny the existence of the system. She tried to deny the allurement of the system, its seductive powers of knowledge and truth. She couldn’t. She turned towards her monitor and was about to log in when she heard a rap on her doorframe.
As she looked up from behind her wire frames, “Jorja, do you have a moment, Will Clark from DNI.”
She didn’t recognize the face, immediately thought of only one thing, and said, “ah, the famous pioneer, I have some time, come on in.”
He shut the door behind him, “so you already know about me?”
“Well, without you the world would seem smaller I suppose.”
“I suppose, and that’s what I want to talk to you about.”
“What, your great expedition?”
“Well, yes, you can call it that I guess,” and from her smile he sensed they were not on the same page, “wait a sec, exactly what are you talking about here?”
“It’s William right?”
“Yes.”
“Well I was referring to your buddy, Lewis,” noticing the sort of puzzled look she added, “Meriwether Lewis and William Clark, Lewis and Clark, the Great Expedition?”
“Yes, okay, I’m with you now, as a matter of fact I do want to talk to you about the great expedition.”
Now it was Jorja’s turn to have the puzzled look on her face, “you do?”
“The one you and Greg took April of last year.”
Jorja looked at her monitor, then looked at the man before her, she noticed his insignia ring, she noticed the “PS” and then tried to formulate a question “Are you talking about the… the…”
“Yes, I am talking about the system, I’ve known all along Jorja, I’m its creator, well one of them anyway… I’m coming to you because I need someone I can trust.”
She felt the weight of her burden lightened.
. . .
W
illiam Clark was at his desk when a calendar reminder popped up. It stated one word—Ripley. It was exactly one year to the date that Ripley Newenburg was found alive thanks to him and a few good cops. He broke the rules. He skirted the Constitution. And he would do it again and has. It was a feeling that the greater good must always prevail.
He quickly went to the system and dialed up the now six year old’s ID. It was a Sunday and he found her at home, in the backyard. Little did he know the parents were keeping an even closer watch over her from the kitchen window. This particular sun filled summer afternoon, she was playing with her brother Sam, and his favorite new found game, hide-n-go-seek… . and she could be heard from the window… “I found you, tag you’re it.”
. . .
T
he director of the FBI was at home sorting his mail and came across a certified letter obviously signed for by his wife since she was home during the delivery. It was an ordinary plain white envelope and he assumed it had something to do with taxes. When opened, the envelope contained a single sheet of paper. He unfolded the paper and was a bit perplexed. He didn’t know what to make of it. It was a list of the FBI’s 10 most wanted ranging from murderers to terrorists and bank robbers to sexual deviants, and next to each picture was either an address or the word “unknown” cut out of newspaper/magazine print. There were five addresses and five unknowns. “Some kind of joke,” he thought and simply tossed it with the outgoing flyers he would soon dispose. When he was finished with the rest of the mail he gathered the flyers, the opened envelopes, and any other disregarded pieces and tossed them into the trashcan. He noticed the registered letter was on top. He reached for it and once again, read it. He dialed the Philadelphia office.
“Hey Dale, I need you to send a few agents over to 718 West 57
th
, apartment 2C”
“For?”
“Just following up on a hunch.”
“You, a hunch, since when are you back in the field, it’s been quite awhile hasn’t it?”
“Yes, it was just something I got in the mail, make sure your agents are familiar with the Jason Brown case.”
“Jason Brown? Something in the mail? Are you kidding me, he’s been on the list for a few years with no such luck.”
“Just tell me what you find out will ya?”
“Sure thing boss.”
Within two hours the FBI’s ten most wanted list was whittled down to nine. Within two hours after that there were stakeouts at the four remaining addresses. Three more criminals were apprehended during the next two days and just like that, the list was cut to almost in half only to soon be replaced by the next in line. The envelope was sent to the lab for further analysis. The paper and envelope were generic in nature bought at any office supply store. Both the stamp and envelope contained no DNA from saliva since they were the self-adhesive kind. No fingerprints were found except for the director’s. Not a single clue as to where this letter originated. Not one. Yet thanks to this letter, somehow, in some way shape or form, four of the most dangerous criminals that ever walked this earth were behind bars, just like that.
On the other side of the continent a similar envelope arrived at the doorstep of one Mrs. Ling. It simply had a picture of her missing daughter and an address in East L.A . . Turns out the runaway was seduced into a life of tricks for the trade and stoked out on heroin. The two were reunited and although a long way from returning to a normal life, they’re on the right path.
In the state of Arizona, in a town just off the beaten path a recently self-made millionaire receives a second letter with the same information as his first. It’s a copy of some accounting records showing the embezzled funds from a well known charity and the simple words—“So you think you can hide?”
Corporal Thomas Leavitt received the Bronze Star with a deeply weighted heart. Two of his men were taken captive during his last mission in Iraq, never to be seen again. His letter contained the dog tag numbers along with final mass grave burial site of both men.
Every so often, about once a month, a letter or two finds its way into the mail transforming a life of wonderment into life of enlightenment, the deceased into the living, the thought of the living into the deceased, hope into certainty, hope into finality, and giving assurances to those who need it most.
. . .
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