Chapter 6: Who and How and Why
(Tuesday, 08 July, 2003. 0930 hours)
"Chief, I have a message for you," Steve Sloan hung up his phone and called to his superior as Chief Masters walked past the door on the way to his office.
In a rare considerate gesture, Masters entered the squad room, meeting halfway the talented lieutenant who had earned his grudging respect.
"What is it, Sloan?"
In a smooth, fluid motion, Steve pulled out his service weapon and fired three rounds into the Chief's chest. As the older man lay at his feet, bloodied and writhing in agony, Steve spat on him and replied, "Mateo says he'll see you in hell."
Steve raised his weapon one more time, and with only a slight tremor, pointed it at the Chief's head. The shaking stopped, and Steve fired. As he began to apologize, he turned the gun on himself, but before he could shoot again, four large bodies hit him hard, and everything went black.
(Tuesday, 08 July, 2003. 0940 hours)
As his unconscious lieutenant was carted away in a straight jacket on a stretcher, Chief Masters allowed Captain Jim Newman to help him to his feet. He'd worn his kevlar underneath his clothes just in case Banks hadn't been able to exchange the bullets in Sloan's gun for blanks, but now he was extremely glad she had pulled off the switch. That last round was a definite kill shot, and if the slugs had been real, he'd have a gaping hole in his forehead instead of just powder burns. As it was, he was lucky to be alive. If the muzzle of the gun had been much closer to his head, the force of the exploding blank would have blown a chunk of skull straight into his brain.
Walking over to Doctor Sloan, who had been waiting down the block in an ambulance, he said, "As soon as you get him to the hospital, draw three vials of blood and get them to Cinnamon Carter or Dane Travis and have them run a level ten tox screen, do you understand?"
"Who?"
"No games, Dr. Sloan. I know that you know who I'm talking about. How I know them doesn't matter."
"But . . . "
"Listen to me . . . Mark," the Chief used the older man's first name to emphasize his point, "someone used some powerful psychoactive drugs to get your son to do what he did here today."
"We can take care of him at Community General," Mark insisted.
"Not this time, Doctor. This is stuff civilians usually never see," Masters explained to the worried father. "Travis and Cinnamon, and some of the people they know, can help him, if they get to him in time. If they don't treat him before the drugs are out of his system, though, the memory blocks will solidify. What happened today, and everything leading up to it will be a big empty space in his life and in his mind. If that happens, I will no longer be able to trust him, and he will never work on my police force again."
"What about the people who did this to him?"
"Steve was programmed to deliver a message before he killed me. I know who got to him, Dr. Sloan. I also know how and I know at least part of the reason why. I will deal with these people personally," the Chief promised. "All you need to do is take care of your son. Help him get past this, convince me he's ok, and he can have his gun and badge back, no questions asked."
Mark studied the Chief's face a moment, and saw anger, concern, sympathy, and sincerity in the hard gray eyes. Only the anger was not for him and his son. Nodding, he said, "Three blood samples. A level ten tox screen."
"Right."
"Ok, I'll take care of it. You should have someone look at those powder burns soon."
"When I have the time, Doctor."
As Dr. Sloan left, Masters addressed the men and women he had selected to deal with this particular crisis.
"All right, ladies and gentlemen, listen closely, because I will not repeat this." When he was sure he had everyone's attention, he spoke plainly with his people. They were good officers, every one of them, and he knew he could trust them to follow orders.
"Lieutenant Sloan was acting under duress and under the influence of some powerful drugs that were given to him without his knowledge or consent. He is not responsible for his actions here today, and I will not be pressing charges."
There were some surprised murmurs at that, but Masters silenced them by quietly clearing his throat.
"If he recovers from his experience, he will return to active duty, and he will be treated with all the respect due an officer of his rank and achievements. Nothing that happened here today will ever be mentioned again, neither in this room nor outside of it, neither to your families, nor other officers, nor the press, nor the DA, and especially not to Lieutenant Sloan himself."
There were more mutterings, and this time the Chief let his voice cut across them as he spoke louder to drive his point home.
"If I ever hear a word of this incident breathed inside or outside of the department, I will find the individual responsible for the leak, and that person will regret the day he or she ever joined the force. This is a matter of supporting the brotherhood without fail and without question, and if you let Lieutenant Sloan down, I will personally see to it that the rest of your colleagues disown you. Is that clear?"
For a moment, the room was silent.
"I said, is that clear?"
"SIR, YES, SIR!" the assembled cops responded almost in unison.
"Very good. Dismissed. Archer! Banks!"
Tanis Archer and Cheryl Banks appeared at his side instantly. "Sir?"
"Get four big men, and find Elaine Matthews. Cuff her, no, full restraints, and bring her to my office. And be careful. She's a hell of a lot more dangerous than she looks."
"Yes, sir."
"Newman!"
"Yes, sir?"
"Get a medic to clean me up."
"Yes, sir."
(Tuesday, 08 July, 2003. 1130 hours.)
Mark sat in the administration office of Community General's psychiatric ward, watching his son on closed circuit television and worrying. He'd been admitted the moment he arrived at the hospital, and, still in his straight jacket, had been taken directly to this observation room. Steve had only just barely regained consciousness, and his only move in the past hour and a half had been to roll onto his side and curl up into the fetal position before going back off to sleep.
Since there was no predicting Steve's reaction if he came to, Mark had been advised against seeing him in person. Oh, God, Dr. Jeffries didn't say when, she said if. The general consensus had been that after shooting, and as far as he knew, killing, the Chief of Police, having to then face his father while wearing a straight jacket in the psych ward could only do Steve more harm than good, so Mark was urged to keep his distance. The worried father was so distressed and confused by all that had happened to his son in the past two days, that he easily acquiesced and now was sitting here, watching Steve sleep on a thirteen-inch black and white monitor.
Every fifteen minutes, a pair of attendants, one a burly male nurse, the other a large, powerful orderly, came in to check on Steve. The orderly just stood guard while the nurse checked his temperature and his heart and respiration rates. Using a thigh cuff, they would check his blood pressure as well. The big men were kind and gentle with his son, but Mark still couldn't shake the idea that Steve was under guard and not just being monitored for his medical condition.
"You know, Mark," said Dr. Alice Jefferies as she entered the administration office to review the chart of another patient, "I'm sure Steve wouldn't mind a bit if you went home, or at least to your office, to get some rest."
Mark smiled, Steve might be her patient, but Mark knew Alice would do her best to look after him, too. "I know, Alice," he said, "but I just need to be here, even if I can't be near him, I need to know how he is."
Alice peered over Mark's shoulder at the screen for a moment and said, "Sleeping. That's my official diagnosis. Now, go get some rest."
Mark shook his head. "Maybe later, but not yet. I need to stay here until he comes round. I need to know . . . what the hell!"
As Mark watched on the monitor, two men in dark suits and dark glasses entered Steve's room with a gurney and gently lifted his unconscious form onto it. They were definitely not hospital personnel.
(Tuesday, 08 July, 2003. 1140 hours)
Chief Masters examined the young woman who sat across from him like a bug under a microscope. She still wore her office attire, a dark green skirt with a black leather belt, a matching green blazer, cream colored mock turtleneck shirt, and black pumps, but over the outfit, she wore brown leather and silver, in the form of full restraints, which spoiled the whole look. The leather belt was cinched tight around her tiny waist, and chains coming off it attached to the handcuffs and leg irons, which restricted her movements considerably. When he had asked the men who brought her in to further secure her to the chair in which she sat, he had answered their questioning looks by saying, "This woman has had training you don't even want to know about. She could kill more men with her hands than you could with your service weapon, and in less time." The men had done as he asked, then, and left without a word to wait in the hall. Archer and Banks had taken positions beside the door and the window respectively. Elena looked so much like her mother, it almost made the Chief homesick for the old days. Lucía had been a beautiful, treacherous woman, and the young John Masters had loved her both because of and in spite of herself. A simple blood test when the baby was born had proved he was not the father of her child. Still, until the results came back showing incompatible blood types, Jack, as he had called himself back then in the fashion of a young, dead president who had inspired him to what he believed were bold and noble acts on behalf of freedom and enlightenment, had allowed himself to hope she would leave Alejo to have a family with him. A month after the baby's birth, Masters had left the service, and the day the child started school, Lucía had died in a mysterious car accident after dropping her off at her off at the playground to await the first bell. Soon after his wife's death, Alejo had gone rogue, and instead of his country, he had started fighting for money.
Shaking his head, deeply regretting the present consequences of his past indiscretions, LAPD Chief of Police John Masters pulled himself out of the mire of nostalgia and addressed the problem at hand.
"I still have friends in the game, Elena," Chief Masters told the apparently frightened young woman who sat before him. Though she looked like her mother, she was her father's daughter through and through, and she was playing her role to the hilt. What she didn't realize was that her cover was already blown, and the Chief now knew more about her operation than she did.
"I told you, Sir, my name is Elaine Matthews, and I am a civilian assistant to the LAPD," she said, twisting a paper tissue to shreds as she sat before him weeping crocodile tears.
"No, your name is Elena Mateo. You are the daughter of Alejandro, a.k.a. Alejo, Mateo, a former Army Ranger, black ops mission commander, and colleague of mine. You have your mother's eyes."
Those warm, almond shaped, honey brown eyes that the Chief had fought for and lost thirty years ago became frigid and smug as they stared at him from a younger face. "Elena María Mateo," the woman said, "social security number 167-28-0592."
Masters grinned coldly and said, "Cut the crap, kid. I know who you are. I also know that your old man hired you to seduce my Lieutenant and deliver him for programming. And I know your dad gave Ross Cainin a discount for the hit because Alejo hates me almost enough to kill me for free. He should have done it himself years ago instead of waiting for a contract. It's never a good idea to mix his kind of business with pleasure."
"Who's Ross Cainin?" The girl batted her eyes coyly.
"Sweetheart, don't play dumb. I made Cainin. You think I haven't been watching him all this time?"
"Ok, Chief, if you know everything, what do you want with me?" The young woman was still highly confident.
"I need the location of your father's lab. The op was a complete bust. Sloan didn't kill himself or me. I know some people who might be able to deprogram him. Having access to your father's records, the drugs, and facilities he used, will make it much easier."
"I see, and what do I get in return?"
The girl's attitude was really beginning to grate on the Chief's nerves, but he was about to enjoy knocking her down a notch or two.
"Give me what I want, and you get a twenty-four hour head start before this hits the presses," Masters said, handing her a photograph with a press release attached.
Masters began to grin as Elena's expression fell. It was just damned good luck that she had been chosen civilian employee of the month for this station back in December. The photo had been doctored to reflect her current hairstyle, and the background had been changed from the squad room to the Chief's office. With the accompanying story, not even a savvy spy like Alejo Mateo could afford to doubt that she was accepting an award from Chief of Police Masters for her bravery in discovering the plot against his life. She knew that if Ross Cainin didn't kill her, her own father would.
"Just to save you the reading," Masters said helpfully, "the article indicates that you took your concerns to your lover, Lieutenant Sloan. The antidote you gave him before you left for the weekend was sufficient to protect him from the worst effects of your father's psychoactive drugs, and he was able to resist the programming. The attempt on my life was a farce, meant to buy time while you led us to your father. From there, we were hoping to follow him to Cainin to arrest them both at the moment money changed hands, but your father managed to give us the slip."
She looked to the Chief in horror and said, "You wouldn't publish this. It's a lie."
Masters shrugged. "By the time a retraction can be printed saying it was all a bad inside joke concerning Lieutenant Sloan's unfortunate love life, I figure you'll be dead, Cainin will be in jail, and your old man will be hiding out in South America somewhere."
Now Elena was truly frightened. Her father had brought her into the game when she was very young, and she knew the rules. She also knew her father, and whenever she was working for him, things were strictly business, and she was just an asset. "Even if you bury this story, Chief, if I tell you what you want to know, my dad will kill me."
"Alejo always was a bastard about that sort of thing," Masters said matter-of-factly.
Archer and Banks shared a wide-eyed, horrified glance across the room.
Clutching the papers that would be her death warrant if released to the press, Elena leaned forward and pleaded, "Can we deal?"
(Tuesday, 08 July, 2003. 1150 hours)
"Who are you?" Mark demanded as he burst into Steve's room, "What are you doing with my son?"
One of the dark suited men gently restrained Mark while the other carefully covered Steve with a warm blanket and strapped him to the gurney. "We're moving him to a facility that is better equipped to treat him," the man said.
"By who's authority?"
"I am sorry, Sir, I can't tell you that."
"Then you can't take him."
Sidestepping Mark, the man in the suit turned to Alice and said, "Dr. Jefferies, you are Lieutenant Sloan's doctor of record at the moment, is that correct?"
"Yes, I am, and, like Dr. Sloan, I would also like to know who you think you are and what you are doing moving my patient."
"This warrant explains everything," the young man said, and handed Alice a very official looking envelope.
As Alice read the document concerning Steve's transfer, Mark tried to prevent the men from preparing Steve for transport.
"Mark, wait," Alice said, "this is a federal court order, issued about an hour ago, for Steve."
"What? He's in no condition to be moved! Besides, Chief Masters said he wouldn't be pressing charges."
"They're not holding him on charges, Mark. They're holding him as evidence."
"The chemicals that were found in your son's blood are drugs developed by the United States government to assist in the collection of information vital to national security," said the man who had handed Alice the warrant. "Until they have dissipated from his system, he will be held in a secure government facility."
(Tuesday, 08 July, 2003. 1200 hours)
Chief Masters nodded and smiled. "Thank you Elena. That wasn't so difficult, was it?"
The girl spat at him and swore. He wiped the spittle from his face, and smiled again. "Your manners are atrocious," he said. "Your mother would be appalled." Then he picked up the phone and dialed. When the person at the other end answered, he fixed the girl with an icy stare and said, "Run the story."
"You son of a bitch!" Elena screamed at him, lunging forward out of the chair to fall on her face as Detectives Banks and Archer looked on in horror. "I'm dead now!" she ranted as she writhed on the carpet. "Do you realize that? You've killed me!"
With unnatural calm, the Chief came out from behind his desk, stepped over Elena, nimbly avoiding her thrashing body, looked out into the hall, and asked the officers who had delivered Elena to take her away to the county jail. " . . . and see to it that she has a cell to herself, for her own protection."
As Elena, still spitting and struggling like an angry cat, was led away, Masters turned to Banks and Archer and asked mildly, "Detectives? Is there a problem?"
"Sir, that . . . that story," Tanis sputtered.
"What about it?"
"From what she said, Sir, if the papers run it, Cainin will kill her if her father doesn't."
"You think so?"
Sergeant Banks, who did not like the Chief any more than Lieutenant Sloan did, was less circumspect with her words. "She gave you everything you wanted, Chief, releasing that story isn't just cruel, it's criminal."
The Chief looked befuddled for a moment, then he smiled as if an idea had just struck him. "Detectives," he said, "the two of you must be confused. That story about Elena was just meant to rattle her cage. It was a gamble that paid off for us. I was just releasing a story about the gunshots fired here at the precinct today."
Masters grinned broadly, "It seems a defective weapon discharged by accident, startling the officer who was holding it. He dropped it onto his desk where it fired again on impact. The recoil made it fall to a nearby chair where it fired again, and then it fell to the floor where it discharged one last time. Miraculously, no one was injured. The officer will be unnamed because the department sees no reason to hold the individual up to public ridicule when the incident was really the fault of the manufacturer. All department issued service weapons will be checked for the fault, and a few of them will be repaired or replaced."
As Tanis watched in shock, Cheryl faced off against the Chief. Feet planted and arms folded across her chest, she asked, "Why let her believe it was the story about her, then? What you have done is unconscionable. She is truly in fear for her life."
"After what she did to your partner, Sergeant, I would think you might want to kill her by inches, painfully, over the course of days," the Chief said, staring his detective down. "A little terror, a little pay back, will not harm her, and it's the least of what she deserves."
Masters waited a moment more, but Banks didn't blink. He'd never say so publicly, but he admired and valued her backbone as much as he appreciated Archer's tenacious loyalty. Finally willing to concede a draw, he said, without ever breaking eye contact with Banks, "I have already arranged for the Lieutenant's transfer to Mateo's facility. I need to make some calls so that the people moving him know how to get there. I want you two to split up. One of you go to Dr. Sloan's place, and the other to Dr. Travis' home. Wait for them there. After they have had time to pack a bag, take them to the facility. Also, get Dr. Bentley after she has arranged for childcare. They are all going to need each other. Make sure you are not followed."
"Yes, Sir," Archer said, and moved out the door immediately. Banks held his gaze a moment longer, then said, "Yes, Sir," and she turned her back on him and left.
When Banks was gone, Masters laughed slightly, appreciating the woman's spunk, then took out his cell phone and dialed a number that would never show up on his calling records.
"You shouldn't challenge the Chief like that," Archer said as Banks caught up to her in the hall, "he doesn't like it."
"I really don't care what he likes," Banks said. "I don't like the way he operates. He's too much politician and not enough cop. He's shady and deceitful, and this is the second time Steve has suffered the consequences of his despicable actions."
Archer stopped in mid stride, and Banks turned to face her as she spoke. "Do you really think he doesn't realize that?"
"Oh, I'm sure he does," Cheryl said, "but I'm not convinced he gives a damn."
(Tuesday, 08 July, 2003. 1210 hours)
"We're trying, Sir, but Dr. Sloan is being . . . difficult," Agent Wells said into his cell phone. "He lifted my handcuffs and cuffed himself to Agent Long . . . We tried, Sir, but he snatched the key, too, when we went to unlock the cuffs, and we think he swallowed it . . . No, Sir, nobody here will administer the necessary, uh, medication . . . Yes, Sir. Just a moment, Sir."
Mark accepted the phone, and he heard a familiar voice say, "Dr. Sloan, do you know who this is?"
"I think so," Mark replied, "but with everything going on, I want you to tell me something only you would know so I can be sure."
Mark heard a sigh and then the voice said, "I promised to buy your son the best steak dinner in town when he closed a case for me. I was paying up when he was shot."
Mark thought a moment, then shook his head. "Not good enough. There were too many people there."
After a pause, the voice said in a disgusted tone, "He made me back down once, when I insisted he join my task force permanently. Said he didn't like the way I worked. I decided he was needed on the force, so I let him stay in homicide."
Mark was sure now that he was talking to the Chief, so he said, "What do you want?"
"We now know where Steve was . . . kept . . . for the weekend," Masters explained, "and the person who did this cleared out in a hurry, leaving behind most of his equipment. A friend of mine who can help is on the way. I want you to let Wells and Long take him there, and I want you to go home and pack a bag. I will be contacting Dr. Travis and Dr. Bentley to ask them to do the same. Detectives Archer and Banks will meet you at your homes to take you there. I will contact the hospital administration to make arrangements to cover your shifts."
"And how can I be sure the men who are here are the ones you sent and not a couple of people who have been hired to take my son from me again?"
"Dr. Sloan, you are wasting time!"
"I will not send my son off with just anyone. How do I know I can trust them?"Mark heard a deep sigh, and the Chief said, "Long has a scar on his left bicep where a bullet went through the arm. There are also scars from surgery to repair the broken bone. Wells' right eye is green on the nose side and brown on the ear side."
"Look at me," Mark commanded Agent Wells.
After examining the young man's eyes, he nodded and handed him back his phone. "Talk to your boss."
"Show me your left arm," he ordered Long as Wells got instructions from the Chief. When he saw the scars, just as the Chief had described, Mark reached into the pocket of Long's sports coat and produced the handcuff keys. "I am an amateur magician," he explained to the dumbfounded young man. "A little sleight of hand, and you never thought to search yourselves. What about the warrant?"
"It was a forgery, an excuse to move him in case the hospital staff tried to interfere. I guess there's no accounting for a desperately worried father."
"You're right about that," Mark said. Turning to Dr. Jeffries, Mark said, "Alice, I can't tell you about this. I don't understand it well enough to explain even if I were at liberty to discuss it. These men need to take Steve, and they need to do it now. They have access to facilities and people that we don't, and they can help him. We can't. Do you understand?"
Alice nodded slightly, what Mark had said made no sense at all to her, but there was no mistaking the urgency in his voice. "I understand just enough to know that I don't want to know any more." She looked to the young men who were about to take her patient from her. "Are you taking him to the ambulance bay?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Ok, Mark," she said, turning to her colleague, "go down there with him. I'll bring the discharge papers to you there."
Mark gave her a quick, grateful kiss on the cheek and hustled after the fast-moving gurney. "Thank you, Alice," he called as he scrambled down the hall.