PITCHFORK JUSTICE
Alexander Harkavy
Copyright 2012 Alexander Harkavy
All rights reserved.
Smashwords Edition
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Table of Contents
CHAPTER 5. SILENCE OF THE LAMBS
CHAPTER 6. SINS OF OUR FATHERS
CHAPTER 8. A RESPITE FROM LIFE
CHAPTER 10. SUBLIME TO OBLIVION
CHAPTER 14. "IT'S GOING TO BE A BUMPY NIGHT"
CHAPTER 15. UP ON A MOUNTAIN TOP
Foreword
The cold winter has done nothing to allay the growing embers of two almost supernatural forces that are threatening societies around the globe. The hot glow of the incessant greed for power and money on one end of the economic scale and the seething, jealous anger and pain at the other is now developing into a blowtorch of flaming passions. Through years of government interference, political cronyism and the flaunting of the rule of law, blind excesses have kept feeding the wealthy and at the same time stirred the larger population into a pot of boiling rage. The utter complacency at the polling booth by the vast majority of the population has allowed an incestuous coupling of the large banks and corporations. It is festering to a point of inviting, but not yet prepared for, an explosive puncture.
Since President Johnson's "Great Society" the national debt has continually grown. Excessive borrowing, both government and private, became the "coin of the realm". More programs began heaping the less productive with more largesse. That bought their votes, which brought more spending. Although revered, President Reagan had made the so called "deal with the devil" in the 1980's. In exchange for a greatly expanded budget for an extremely depleted military under Carter, he was promised that social programs would have moderate increases. Instead, the funding burst at the seams with ever more lavish programs.
Big business, with the help of both Republican and Democrats, pushed for free trade agreements with a more sinister motive. The corporatists knew that with more markets, more globalism, labor would become more fungible. The unions in the United States had to be curtailed. Using labor in foreign countries was just the trick. Without the excessive business costs, right or wrong, imposed on companies in the states, profits would soar, unions would be weakened, good times for the fat cats would be had! Even though the Democrats are friends with labor, they play both sides for donations and political gain.
The Federal Reserve began the advent of extremely easy credit. Coupled with the two job household and home equity inflation the debt binge on the family front was ignited. The housing market grew almost parabolic, then blew up. With successive stock crashes and barely visible interest rates on savings and bonds, retirement, and plans for retirement, have become a nightmare.
By 2012, the swirling victims in this cauldron of emotion are a divided society. First, 50% of the population is receiving some sort of government benefit or check, a slave check if you will. They are in a permanent underclass. Some how they're living, but underwater. Second, real wages haven't risen in twenty years for the middle class, the 49%, because of the national debt inflation. They're swimming but close to drowning. Unemployment is permanently higher, but the top 1 percent of the country has most of the wealth held in the rich steam above it all.
This recipe for explosion has come to pass. The average citizen feels the rage, but is either too timid or naive to act. Even worse, many are ignorant and complacent! A small, anonymous, presumably representative, group is taking action to a much hotter level in what is fast becoming an epic struggle. It is a frightful and gruesome turn of events. Actions by both sides are fraught with danger. Economies around the globe, ones that haven't already, could easily domino into a massive collapse. Entire societies are at risk of annihilation and a return to savagery.
Chapter 1. The Tweet
@biggamecoach The weather looks good for the first game tomorrow eve. Godspeed!
The message jolted the otherwise calm countenance of all who "followed" it. Hearts began to race. Minds flickered with long made plans. Coded confirmation calls zipped across the country. Within an hour, anyone who had not seen the tweet was still notified. The big plan had been set into motion. "It's a go."
"Hey, Tom. You up to a little poker tomorrow night?"
"Yeah. Sounds good. I've already talked to C.J. He's closing his shop a little early. Has to go pick up some beer and pretzels."
"Sounds like a plan. See ya tomorrow."
"It's a go."
And so it went. In four disparate cities spanning the country, plans that were sealed in the memories of three and four-man groups were about to be deployed. Though separated by miles, they were all of the same mindset. The country appeared to them as a revisited Rome as it was crumbling to its knees in the fourth century. The decadence of the rich and the corruption of the system were rampant. The glory days were over. They and the majority of the population had been betrayed. The currency should never have been taken off the gold standard. Inflation was a hidden tax that was eating the sinew of the nation from the inside. Cronyism was rampant. All the money was headed in one direction, to the wealthiest. Whether misguided or not, whether extreme or not, this band of few was a proxy for many and they knew it. As each had done before, they were hell bent on showing their version of patriotism, again!
Chapter 2. "It's a go."
Dawn brought a quiet, stately beauty to Washington D.C. this crisp spring day. There were no clouds to mirror any dreadfulness below. The aged monuments to our democracy stood out handsomely, even the grayed ones, against the light blue backdrop. A lone gull flew treacherously close to the Washington Monument fighting a quick windy side draft. He recovered from the close encounter and his flight took him across the Reflecting Pool and on toward the Lincoln Memorial. He circled Abe's perch and headed back toward the pool, almost as an afterthought. Earlier something had caught his attention, perhaps an odor or bright color. Nevertheless he found his way to the steps of the Federal Reserve Building. He nervously hopped up a few stairs. He was getting closer to the object of his fancy when the clicking of high heels down below frightened him away.
An early arriving secretary was trekking the steps, busy with a cellphone conversation buried in her ear. When her eyes were even with the top step she abruptly stopped. Breakfast instructions for the children at home began to waver in her mind. Slow motion overtook her vision and her words. She began stammering. The brutal horror of what she was literally stumbling upon was a gut punch. There, meeting her eyes to his, was the Chairman of the Federal Reserve Bank. His orbs were frozen in a death glare. His severed head was skewered on the tines of a pitchfork. The handle had been shortened and supported in a block of marble. Occasionally a drop of thick blood would slink to the stone pallet, giving one last bit of life to this ritualistic trophy.
"Oh God! Oh, God! Jimmy, tell your father to come pick me up! I'll be out front of the building! Oh, God! Tell him, now! And hurry!" The secretary had turned and was racing down the steps. She hadn't noticed or cared that she had dropped her purse. When a heel broke, she skidded down a few steps on her rump, but it didn't stop her from dialing 911.
"It's a go", was for real.
The weatherman had not been so friendly to New York City this same spring morning. The sky was dark with smatterings of even darker clouds. The cold mist cut around the corners in the financial district. West Street was no exception, but inside the lobby of the new, glitzy financial tower there was stark contrast to the outside bluster. To be so large and ornate the interior of the new Diamond Lowe building projected greater things that needed to be noisy, but it was quiet. It was still too early for the bustle of finance to be prancing the halls.
There was only one lobby guard on duty. Enthralled with his new Playboy, he was jolted by the arrival of an elevator car. There should be no bells at this time of the morning. He closed the page on Miss March and sauntered toward the open elevator doors. His reflection in the mirrors in the rear was the only motion. The lights tended to angle in a way to partially blind him to the lower half of the car before entering. A design flaw. Once in, however, he spotted the occupant right off. The head of Michael Blankbein faced the guard's shins!
He is, was, the former CEO of Diamond Lowe Financial, the owner of the building. As in Washington D.C., the dome of the former man had been hoisted on a pitchfork. One eye was swollen completely shut. The other tilted slightly up as was the man's habit. He had been short in stature, but nonetheless, had always tilted his head slightly downward with eyes aiming up. He always seemed to peer into the bottom of your mind, even now in his silence. The man's severed forefinger, still sporting a large diamond ring, had been spiked on one exposed tine. Still pointing menacingly as it had in life.
The guard looked downward at the balding man. The piercing eye. The pointing finger. This visual, compared with Miss March, rocked him on his heels. He gagged to the point of breathlessness. His retreat from the car was blocked by a misjudged mirror inside the front of the carriage. For a moment he felt trapped in this box of death, nearly knocking himself out upon hitting the reflecting wall with his forehead.
"Oh shit! Cap'n! Oh shit!", the guard screamed into his hand held radio. "Oh shit! Cap'n! Get down here! Blankbein is dead! Oh shit! His head's in the elevator! Get down here!"
Reverberations of "It's a go." were striking around the country.
In stark contrast to the north, the balmy breeze blowing in from the Atlantic bathed the beaches of south Florida. It felt like damp underwear clinging to your body. Breathing felt slightly heavy and even stifling. The see-through curtains flowing at almost right angles to the open sliding glass doors of this 35th floor penthouse on South Miami Beach were deceiving in their airiness. Fresh brewed coffee hung in the humid air throughout the kitchen and Florida room. As was the morning ritual, Hal, Hal Carlson, former Secretary of the Treasury of the United States, would awake from his separate bedroom, start the brew and retire to the balcony. His loud snoring had landed him apart from his wife in the next room for years. The aroma of the coffee would drift into her room and arouse her from sleep. The clinking of cups and spoons would announce her performance of her ritual duty to provide service for the couple as she joined him.
"Good morning, Mr. Carlson", she playfully greeted him. The golden glow off the ocean was partially blinding her as she stooped around the blowing curtains to gain entrance to the terrace. "Did you have a... good... night's?" Her trailing voice hid her horror. Her husband's head faced her. Blood had waved and dried on the marble base and over on the glass top table. A pool of the coagulation was on the granite tiles of the floor. One shiny tine of a pitchfork was exposed to the right of one of his ears. It stood out almost as a fearsome exclamation to the weighty carnage. The sterling tray clanged and the china cups fractured beneath the table as she brought her hands up to her cheeks. The distraught wife raced to her husband's bedroom as if to seek some respite from this early morning cruelty. It was not to be. His headless body draped the linen sheets below a blood soaked pillow.
These acts were not mainstream type murders. No matter who they were by or who they were meant to impress, they transcended the boundaries of creativity. Even the hardest of sensitivities would reel from their discovery. Deciphering motive was a guessing game. The denominator of their commission was cunning, boldness and a stomach for sadism. Nevertheless, the nation, the world would take pause.
Chapter 3. National Velvet
The discovery of the Chairman of the Federal Reserve prompted an immediate call from the D.C. Police Department to the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Director Miller had already been awakened and was on his way to headquarters. On the way, he telephoned the Attorney General.
Director to Attorney General Heller: "Eric, Chairman Chemanske has been murdered."
Attorney General: "What? How'd it happen?"
Director: "I'll fax you a picture. Get ready for gruesome."
Attorney General: "What're your plans to handle it?"
Director: "First, use all your power, in fact, bring in the President. Use all your combined powers to clamp down on the press. This has got to be covered up as long as we can! If not, the markets will tank! When it finally gets out, they will, anyway.
Attorney General: "I agree. I agree...And then what?"
Director: "I've tried to reach Jane Collatano over at Homeland, but she can't seem to be found. But her deputy is instituting previously devised plans for national security protocols in case this...Hold on a minute... I just got word... Michael Blankbein of Diamond Lowe Financial and Hal Carlson, the former Secretary of the Treasury, have been murdered in the same way. Have you gotten the fax of Cheman...?
Attorney General: "Oh shit! I just did. God, this is brutal!"
Director: "Same way on Blankbein and Carlson. Listen, you take care of the press. No leaks! I'm headed to my office. We're gathering a task force as we speak. We've got murders in D.C., New York City and Miami, so far. It's national and I'm throwing the entire agency at it!"
Attorney General: "I think that's definitely called for."
Director: "I'll keep you in the loop".
More crimson velvet pools were cropping up with their grizzly prizes. By the time Director Miller reached his office the number of victims was appearing to be an assault on the elite of business and government in the United States. Some organization, some force, something determined was literally "biting the head off the snake".
When Director Miller arrived in his office he could sense his secretary's discomfort as her trembling hand pointed toward the computer screen.
Victims in the Washington D.C. and Surrounding Area
Ben Chemanske, Chairman of the Federal Reserve
Barry Sneed, U.S. Senate Majority Leader
Glenn Kowalski, Chairman, Federal Communications Commission
Charles Blevin, Chairman, U.S. Senate Armed Services Committee
Victims in New York City and Surrounding Area
Michael Blankbein, CEO Diamond Lowe Financial Services
James Brozine, Former CEO BS Intercontinental
Victims in Miami and Surrounding Area
Henry Senberg, Former CEO, ALG Insurance
Abe Berger, President, SEIU, Service Employees Intergalactic Union
Hal Carlson, Former Treasurer of the United States
Victims in Los Angeles and Surrounding Area
Edwin Guitero, Executive Director ACLU, American Cleg Lawyers Union
Charles Docksen, Former Chairman, Securities and Exchange Commission
Grazio Portillo, Former CEO Nationwide Finance
Arlen Brozonski, Chief Judge, 9th Circuit Court of Appeals
"My God. My God. My God", the director murmured as he sought refuge in his overstuffed desk chair. Normally, he would look huge in comparison to it. He was 6'4" and massively built. But this crisis, this magnitude of crisis seemed to make him shrink. Of course, his mind would never let him shirk from duty, but still, he was momentarily overwhelmed. The circle he lived in was spinning rapidly. He had to slow it down to make some sense of what was happening!
"Is everyone in the conference room?", he asked his secretary.
"Yes sir. And I told them they could keep their cellphones, but absolutely no outgoing calls from the meeting."
"Good... you know, Lana, I couldn't make it without you. We've got some tough sledding ahead. I'll need you backing me up."
"You can count on me, sir. And... thank you."
Each showed genuinely appreciative, but taught smiles. The director stood to all his height and shook his shoulders as if to remove the burden. His bearing became more resolute as he headed toward the conference room. He knew the President and the Attorney General would be in their offices trembling with apprehension, with good reason. It was his baby. His success or failure might hold the future of the country in the balance. As a former general, Director Miller new tactics and strategy. He had already mapped out a starting plan in his mind. No notes were necessary.
"Good morning ladies and gentlemen", he greeted the assembled with a deeper than usual voice. It matched the slam of the door behind him. Yes, he had their attention. "I want you to look at the wall monitor. That list is of the victim's so far. You probably will recognize all the names. Get ready for this." He flashed the gruesome picture of Chairman Chemanske. The unified gasp followed by total silence was palpable. Literally, no one was breathing. "All of these victims died in the same way. The same way. That should be our first clue. A common denominator, but right now, that's all we have."
"Excuse me, sir", Lana interrupted quietly. "Sir, you can add another to the list. Jane Callatano was found a few minutes, ago. Her head was on the hood of her car." The visibly shaken secretary exited quickly.
"There you have it. When the Secretary of Homeland Security can be murdered, the entire country is vulnerable." Director Miller took a moment to look all the participants in the eyes, one at a time. Then he circled back to do it, again. Each new that they were being challenged. This time it was the most important case of their careers. "Okay. Here's the set up. As in any case, any of you can come directly to me, but I hope you don't have to. I'm going to be extremely busy with President Bagonda and Attorney General Heller. We will be meeting with various leaders from around the world. This has the makings of an international event.
"Locally, I 'm leaving everything else to Deputy Director Allen. He is your absolute senior point man! He will give you your assignments and he will expect reports from you, timely reports! He and I have discussed it and we have decided that I am to receive a complete composite report every 4 hours, 24 hours a day! You will receive a protocol for these progress reports. Even if you don't have anything new, report! Of course, if anything warrants abbreviating that time frame, by all means, do it! I hired each and every one of you. Your qualities are all outstanding. Push your respective departments to the limit and remember, if you're found to have leaked one iota of this to anyone, your wife, your mother, your dog, your career will abruptly end in a bad way!" He stood abruptly, looking out the wide window overlooking the city. After a moment, he turned to his cohorts and quietly said, "God Bless America.”
Chapter 4. The Captain
Deputy Director Harold Allen exuded military regimen. Indeed he was a captain, in the Navy Reserve. When his last tour of duty in Vietnam was over he opted for civilian life, but continued his military career in the reserves. He had progressed to lieutenant commander in the active Navy Seals. He knew all these guys deserved medals. Harold just happened to receive a silver star, 2 bronze stars and 2 purple hearts. His bravery could never be doubted. His patriotism could never be questioned.
Coming home from Vietnam in 1969 had been an eye opener. After all, he had basically been glued to his Seal Team for 4 years. Most of this time was spent involved in clandestine operations, not sitting before the daily news. The Democrats in Congress had left the troops and the South Vietnamese government high and dry. The tide of public opinion had indeed changed after some losses, but the disdain that much of the population displayed to the veterans came as a shock. The free love and anti-war activists had done their back stabbing deed. Nonetheless, Harold's values remained rock solid in the mold of his family.
His father had been an admiral as was his grandfather. As if that wasn't enough, his lovely wife, June, was the true concrete of his life. Her name was appropriate. Picture June Allison, decked out with the frilly kitchen apron and deep red lipstick to greet him at 5 P.M. Her daily and nightly prayers had been answered each time he returned from overseas. Her love for him was boundless and she spared nothing in displaying it. Likewise, he reciprocated. They had been high school sweethearts and it had never wavered. Not oddly at all, they lived in a "Leave It To Beaver" house in a "Beaver" neighborhood.
Harold and June were friends with all the neighbors. The 2 boys established strong bonds with their classmates at school. The bridge parties and birthday parties were regular events. Later, they became even more close knit as they began their "Neighborhood Watch" program. Times were slowly changing and the idyllic existence they enjoyed still might become vulnerable.
Harold's friendships were more expansive. He had stayed very close to his Seal Team buddies and other military types. He had started working at the Pentagon when he returned from Vietnam and, except for the uniform, maintained a similar regimen, all be it much more peaceful. His loyalty to his defense department associates grew strong. He became a member of the "essential personnel" group and truly enjoyed his job. He even got special waivers to continue working well after retirement age. One of his longest and closest comrades was the former General Greg "the Boot" Miller. He had never actually booted anyone, but people feared a boot up the backside if you crossed him.
General Miller had been tapped by the previous president to be Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. He brought Harold with him as Deputy Director. Their mutual admiration was shared by most of the political elite in Washington. The new president opted to not rock the boat when he took office, so he kept both in their respective positions. Although Harold had never been appointed to a position in the defense department, he had become the "go to" civilian that any Secretary of the Department of Defense would use to make things happen. That was exactly what Director Miller wanted.
Deputy Director Allen was not a tall man. In fact, he was 5'8". That brought no disrespect from anyone associated with him, though. His keen, analytical mind was always apparent when he was involved in any task. His calm and mellow voice would entice and elicit information from someone. They wouldn't even realize that they had been disarmed. Although his position was primarily administrative, he made a point of following cases down to the investigators level, themselves. He didn't try to micromanage. He looked at it as channeling energy so that they could be more efficient. He carried no "sword", but everyone new that if the creases in his brow started reflecting the military crease in his pants, he was displeased. It was time for those in his path to step back and regroup.
Harold began having meetings right away. It might be one on one or sometimes two or three agents, if they fit into a sub-group effort as he called it. Beyond that, he wanted no sharing of information. He wanted fresh ideas and fresh information. Inter-communication in his opinion might taint the results. He would look at it all and share it as needed. He didn't think of it as "stove piping". It was more of a filtering operation. The director had ordered a composite report every 4 hours. Harold wanted all information 1 hour ahead of time so he could assimilate what he felt was important. He didn't want his friend and boss loaded down with extemporaneous tidbits knowing that the director might be getting ready for a meeting with the prime minister of where ever. It meant a tremendous amount of broken sleep, but that's the way Harold was built. When he was on missions in Vietnam, there were times he would be awake for 48 hours at a time. If it was needed, he did it!
"It's out, sir! It's on TV! It's on the net!" Harold's secretary had burst into his office. "Check Fox Business, sir! The Dow Jones is diving!" He really didn't mind the sudden disturbance. Linda was his office confidante and, even though it was against his own protocol, they were personal friends, too.
Harold sat quietly taking it all in. The stock average was stair-stepping down. It went down another thousand points when the Blankbein story broke. Apparently the news went from Diamond Lowe Financial to the Wall Street Journal. From there it blasted around the world. Someone at the Washington D.C. Police Department decided that it was coming out anyway, so the Post got word about Chemanske of the Federal Reserve. As more and more victims' names became public the markets submarined. Around the world, Paris, London, Frankfort, were all down at least 35%!
Wall Street had only been open a little over an hour. Harold called Director Miller for a consultation. He had walked to the window facing out for privacy.
"General, I guess you've heard?" Harold always called the Director “General” in private conversations, out of respect. Director Miller appreciated it.
"Yes. I've seen it on the monitor. I'm in the oval office right now. Got any suggestions?"
"Yes, sir. Get the President to call Treasury. Have our markets closed immediately. After that, have the Treasurer call all his counterparts around the world to keep them apprised. They'll know what to do with their own situations, but they need a heads up."
"Done. Hold on." Harold could hear his suggestions being relayed to the President. He wondered why in hell it hadn't already been done. "Okay, Harold I'm back."
"Yes, sir."
"Anything we can hang our hats on, yet?" Both immediately registered the double entendre, but neither said anything about it.
"We think we can't go anywhere else, but that some folks have a beef with the country's power brokers. It's almost too sadistic to be a cult thing. So, that's our current direction. We have all the local forensic teams working on the various victims and the associated apparatus, crime scenes and potential witnesses."
"Anything else?"
"Yes, sir. I've tripled the undercover teams at all the 'Occupy' areas around the country and we're going to be 24/7 on their emails, tweets, Facebook you name it, past and present."
"I knew you'd never let me down, Captain."
"One more thing. I've contacted my counter at CIA. Good cooperation, but it would still help if you could give the Director over there a buzz."
"You got it."
"Will be in touch soon."
In the rush to tell Harold the new scoop, Linda had left his office door ajar. Harold had an appointment scheduled for this time and 2 agents obliged themselves to chairs without any announcement. All were fixated with the continuing data pouring out of the monitor. Harold had turned it so that each could see. They knew, without mentioning it, that everyone's minds were on finance. Their IRA's, their 401K's, everything was melting. Harold had a different, more mature grasp on the world. He had long felt the drums of turmoil in air. The possibilities of chaos always seemed a moment away. The 60's had taught him that. He had been buying gold coins as he could since then. Gold had gone from $2,500.00 to $4,800.00 before the authorities could shut down the COMEX. Harold turned to his visitors. Linda knew to retreat to her desk.
"Okay, fellas. Turn your attention to the large monitor behind me." Harold pointed to the wall over his shoulder as he swiveled toward it. "You two are here for 'motive analytics'. We're going to see if we can tighten this web. So, patch in with your passwords. I'll operate the pointer. We're gonna go victim by victim and establish our best guess on motive for each one. Feel free to put your texts on the screen at will. We can elaborate, shorten, change or whatever, but try to be precise. Okay, let's start with with Ben Chemanske, Chairman of the Federal Reserve. I've put titles or former titles as a basic first round of a thread. Okay. Commence firing."
The wide screen came alive. Both agents were busy listing possibilities. Technology kept their texts from interfering with each other. Their ideas were plentiful. While they were busy, Harold turned his eyes to one of them, Joe Nelson. He had a very special relationship with the young agent.
Gary Nelson, Joe's father, was Harold's best friend until his death in an airplane crash many years before. They met when each started Navy Seal training. The strength and fortitude and brains required for that effort was monumental. The two men found something inspirational in each other and their bond grew more solid as they passed each level of the rigorous training. After a brief break, they were deployed to Southeast Asia. It was in the sixties and the battle was on!
Gary and Harold went on many, many missions together. They had literally saved each other's lives on several occasions. On one assignment, Gary jumped thirty feet down from an embankment to disarm two of the enemy. One had his rifle and bayonet cocked back, ready to run it into Harold's chest! After the rescue, the two continued to successfully finish their mission. They had blown up a small bridge which halted the flow of enemy supplies for weeks. It was only after they had arrived back at their headquarters, the adrenalin flow smoothing, that Gary realized he had broken his elbow as a result of the jump. For these two and the rest of Navy Seals, it was another day at the office!
Gary married a British girl just before he joined the U.S. Navy. She didn't want to leave London and her ailing mother. So when Joe was born, he spent the first sixteen years of his life in London in every way English, but an American citizen. Gary stayed in the Navy after Vietnam and was able to spend most of his active duty in Europe, close to wife and son. Double tragedy hit when Joe was only sixteen. His mother and grandmother were killed in an ambulance and bus collision on their way to the hospital.
After their deaths, Harold arranged for Joe to be attached to the Defense Department working in the Pentagon. It seemed natural that the two pals, who had seen and stayed in close contact through the years, would gravitate toward each other. Gary, of course, brought Joe to the States with him. They had both been over before on holiday. Joe knew Harold's wife, June and the two boys, Harry Jr. and Jayjay. The father and son moved into the same neighborhood and Joe became a fixture at their house. In fact, he went to school with Jayjay. It was at the Allen household that Joe met his future bride to be, Brenda.
Joe was extremely handsome. His thick brown hair, trimmed very short, as was the style, only complemented his dark, brown eyes. He turned all the girls' heads as he walked down the hallway or ran down the basketball court. But that wasn't what captivated Brenda. It was his British accent, and sixteen years had made it quite pronounced! When he would say, "Hi, Mate!", she was dazzled. Brenda was a young blonde temptress, herself and it was the eye thing with Joe. Her hazel eyes, ever changing in hue, looked like two treasured jewels to him. And where he was outgoing, she was quiet and shy. Opposites do attract!
After five years of dating between Joe and Brenda, June had enough of the procrastination. She wanted to see them married, so she put together a foursome dinner party at home. When the four of them were seated for glasses of wine, suddenly Harold and June had to leave on a "made up" call to see a friend who had become ill. Before leaving, June whispered in Joe's ear, "We're not coming home until you've called to say she said 'yes'. Do you understand?". It was after the call and much later in the evening when June told Harold the plan. He hadn't figured out why the sick friend wasn't sick.
Harold was chuckling to himself about his being the Deputy Director of the FBI, now and not being able to solve that back then. He was really brought back to the present when he realized that Joe and Bill were not only still across from his desk, but staring at him! Probably for some time!
"Okay. Let's see what you've got here." He tried to glide back into the present as he turned to the wall monitor.
Ben Chemanske, Chairman of the Federal Reserve
1. Four days ago, announced QE6. MBS purchases would be $900 billion dollars. In some quarters it was felt that this would put us past the threshold of inflation to hyperinflation. Others felt it was simply another bail out for the Wall Street bankers. Note: The Fed Balance Sheet had already exploded to $12 trillion dollars after the latest tranche to the European Central Bank.
2. Many had warned against QE1 and certainly since QE2, more would be "pushing on a string". As the population has become more and more familiar with QE (quantitative easing/printing money) and that it has mainly benefited the big banks, our suspect pool has grown to the millions.
3. Chemanske has led a policy of artificially low interest rates. This has been lowering the living standards of millions of people, especially retirees. Bonds and savings accounts are not providing enough benefit. The low rates are great for home mortgages, but no one has the credit rating to take advantage of them.
"All right, Joe, Bill. I agree with those points. Do either of you wanna make a change or addition?"
"Yes, sir. I agree with Joe's assessment on number 3, but would like to add a bit." Joe and Bill had worked with each other for years. Their team match was almost incestuous.
"Go ahead."
"I think we should add a statement about businesses. By and large, big and small, they are not taking advantage of the lower rates to expand. Frankly, they're scared of the future. The economy looks too shaky to them. Then, if I may sir?" Harold nodded. "Most of our elderly should probably be eliminated from our suspect pool right away. Too me, the actual crimes are simply too weighty for most people to perpetrate. These are only estimates, but 10 lbs. for the head, 20lbs for the marble block. The murder itself. The body. It's an unwieldy move. All but one of the bodies is still missing. I think it takes at least one strong person, maybe two."
"Good points, Bill. Okay write all this up with a summation. Too me, in a nutshell, large suspect pool. Probably less than elderly. 2 to 3 on an action team. Then a driver and perhaps an inside man. In this case, personal animus isn't apparent. It seems the victim's policies were probably the trigger. Perps think major policies are ruining the economy...Okay, pretty that up and I'll meet you here in 2 hours. I've got an emergency." Harold had grabbed his coat while speeding out. "By the way, go ahead and use my office to continue with the rest of the victims. Same drill."
"Yes sir."
"Yes sir."
Harold carried 3 cellphones. All were set on vibrate mode. Each found the same home every day in their established pockets. When the one in his chest pocket over his heart motioned it was extremely important. It would be a message from June and she hadn't used it since one of the boys was in a car wreck two years earlier. It was as he had expected. June told him the results were back on her biopsy. He wanted to be with her when the doctor shared them. The doc's office was about half way between headquarters and the house, so they opted to meet at the health clinic.
Immediately after Harold exited FBI Headquarters he was besieged by half a dozen news reporters.
"Director Allen! Director Allen! Anything on the murders?" Three reporters were pushing up against him and yelling.
"Stand back! Stand back!" His command was joined by his steely blue eyes. They stepped back in unison. "As you know, the case is obviously continuing to be investigated, so there is very little I can say. This gang, this "Pitchfork Gang" seems to be organized and committed. We have all agencies of the government on alert and we are using all available and appropriate means to come to a resolution. Now, I must go."
"But, sir! But, sir!" Harold left the trailing reporters.
The time in the waiting room seemed laboriously slow. It actually was only about 5 minutes before they were escorted into the consultation room. To their surprise the doctor was already there. He was finishing the hanging of some MRI and x-ray results. He greeted them as he motioned the couple to be seated.
Harold and June got the news that they had already discussed for some time, but had hoped not to hear. The tumors in her right breast were indeed malignant. The really frightening addition was the same situation existed in some of her lymph glands. The doctor carefully reviewed the results with the quiet but pensive couple. He finally came to his suggested treatment. She could have a total mastectomy on her breast and a radiation and chemo regimen on her neck area. Or, she could be prescribed an "as needed" pain killer. The doctor tried to sound slightly upbeat, but all knew the prospects of a happy resolution were grim. One year seemed to be the best they could hope for even with surgery and medications.
Harold followed June to their house. Although the drive was short, it seemed so very lonely for both. They greeted each other with a reassuring hug when they got inside. They looked into each other's eyes as they had so many times in the past. In fact, hopeful glimmerings of the many "home-comings" danced through their minds. This time, though, June was the one going into battle, but it seemed oddly as if Harold needed more support. One final kiss and she smiled with grimaced lips as she pushed him toward the door. He needed to go back to FBI Headquarters. Back to duty.
Agents Joe Nelson and Bill Wallace returned to Harold's office at the appointed time. They knocked and came in. Harold was going over the Victims List and the notes that his agents had postulated. The list on the screen was thorough and lengthy. He considered Joe and Bill as his best analytical minds and could immerse them in any level of a case and expect generally top results.
"You guys did a very good job." Harold turned to the two. The agents nodded in appreciation. "Reading through all of our current info, no real Intel, yet, we seem to be stuck with a fairly short narrative. First, we have a group, a gang of probably 40-60 people. By the way, head all reports and data as 'Operation Pitchfork Gang'. I used that with the news media a little while ago, so we might as well stick with it... Now, this gang apparently has a beef with authority, but mainly because of the policies. None of your entries show any particular personal hard feelings with policymakers. So, it's not a vendetta, with the possible exception of Jane Callatano over at Homeland Security. I realize her head was found a block down from a lesbian bar. However, she was controversial enough without that. The screening at the airports, then the portable inspection trailers and umpteen other things probably ticked off the gang more than her being a lesbian. She frequented that establishment. She thought she was disguised. I told her to keep it home. It probably became known enough that it was a location of convenience for the 'gang'. Any disagreement so far?"
"What do you think about the financials? You know, Blankbein at Diamond Lowe, Brozine at BSI and Senberg at ALG? " Bill nodded as Joe asked.
"I think we get into some animus there. Still not really personal, but the devastating results that their companies produced. So many people hurt in the markets. I'm frankly surprised that there aren't more heads on that platter. It seems to me they wouldn't have been hated if their companies would have been allowed to fail. Just go bankrupt. Unless fraud charges are brought, it would have caused some economical pain, but it would have been more short lived. Now, they've been propped up by the taxpayers and the citizens aren't happy about that, at all!"
"That leaves the SEIU, the ACLU and Judge Brozonski at the 9th circuit. Can they be grouped in the policy area?" Bill asked
"I think so. I've got files on all 3 of them. They range anywhere from socialist to communist type histories. You can see it in what they push either with membership, seek in court or how the Judge rules. it's all policy, but very liberal policy. With that in mind, I think our "Pitchfork Gang" has a decidedly conservative bend and they are using this as a very public warning. Now, will the government step back and examine itself or will there be other cases. My opinion is there will be a lot more chaos before we get back to normal. What ever normal is. Questions?"
The two younger agents felt like they were back in school. The schoolmaster had spoken. He had disarmed them with his opinions. They were beginning to further realize the seriousness of the national events that were occurring. Apprehension, blended with excitement, made both uneasy, challenged but committed.
"No, sir," they answered in unison.
"Okay. Bill, I want you to reconnoiter with forensics in New York and L.A. Joe, you do the same with Miami and here locally in D.C. And, do it via satellite to save time. 48 hours, gentlemen. I want a report. Sooner, if something glares at you!"
Chapter 5. Silence of the Lambs
Stop camera! Stop action! Stop the world! Should we get on or off? Is anybody there? The inertia of commerce was the only thing that kept life on the street in motion. Passengers still flew on airplanes, people continued to cash checks at the bank, car tags were still sold at the agent's office. It was all a veneer, though. The power brokers, the puppet masters, the senators, the congressmen, judges, anyone with a club over society was hiding. The "Pitchfork Gang" had hit them back and they were all petrified. There were, of course, some good people amongst the rotten apples. They were perhaps only a little guilty. Board meetings were called off. Unplanned vacations seemed the vogue. Answering machines were wound tight. Even the President and Vice-President were hunkered in the basement of the White House.
There is one argument that a split congress is the best congress. As much rancor as possible is desired by some. Don't pass a damned thing, they say! No new laws! No more regulations. Just, stop! Well, there has to be some rules and some decision makers. The hope might be for fewer layers in the gigantic bureaucracy. Maybe not so harsh. Maybe a little bit more of individual freedom. Take off the boots! No one thought it would last. this freeze in time, not even the optimists, but for one fleeting moment, the country was taking in a big breath of fresh air. To most, the murders were brutal, but they felt an undeniable inner feeling of satisfied revenge. The blood had tasted good. Then all hell broke loose! Over the entire planet! The calm eye of the storm had moved on. The modicum of silence was gone.
Through the weeks and months the "Occupy Wall Street" movement had not only survived, but multiplied. For a disparate group of many groups with common and crisscrossing goals, competing and confronting, the seed that had been scorched into existence on a public street in Tunisia had evolved and grown astronomically! The massive attendance in city squares in North Africa and the Middle East were dubbed the "Arab Spring". The regimes began fighting back, but not necessarily with success. The "International Fall" had arrived! Governments in Tunisia, Libya, Italy, Greece, Yemen and Syria had fallen. Many more were tipping and widespread dissatisfaction was a prevailing wind.
The "Occupy" anything and everything movement had no particular allegiances. The crowds were large and small, black, white and Hispanic, rich kids, poor kids, unemployed, liberal, conservative and it goes on. A litmus test strip would come back looking like a rainbow. The most common thread was money. Almost everyone wanted some monetary gain. They were the 99% and the other 1% had screwed them. Or their government had screwed them. Or the person next to them in the sleeping bag had screwed them! Literally! There was "free" love (sexually transmitted diseases), free food (donations from or taken from someone who had a job), free shelter (donated tents) and free crowd control (and they could have skipped that). In reality, their existence cost other people. Capitalism was supplying their basic needs, but principle outweighed the irony. Many wanted free education, income redistribution, free something. There were many who actually wanted jobs. Some were protesting different laws that had been passed. All had a legitimate right to protest so long as they obeyed the rules, but only in the exacting eyes of the authorities.
When the police storm-trooped through the crowds with pepper spray, billy clubs and rubber bullets, the price to play went up. There was one pivotal moment which cast a dreadful scenario that would last for months, maybe more.
It was mid-morning in Oakland. The sizable group of "Occupiers" was just getting around after a late night of protesting. Some were hosing down from the park hydrant. Others were sleepily standing in line for breakfast. A loud whistle blew. Sirens blared. Police cars screeched as they halted in a perimeter around the city park. There was a momentary silence. The police spread their black jackboots, tilted their helmets and face protectors back to mock the park people. The "Occupiers" froze.
There was a second louder and more shrill whistle. The police marched toward the center of the park, becoming ever closer to each other as the circle shrank. Shoulder to shoulder. Pepper spray spit into the crowds. The afflicted instinctively bolted, but were beaten back to the ground, some unconscious. The police put on face masks. The tear gas canisters lobbed into the crowd. Gasping for air, the evolving center found no room in their chests to cry.
Then there was silence, except for occasional whimpers. The thumping of club against head had stopped. The snake-like hissing of the pepper spray had ceased. As many have been conjured, the battlefield turned into a cemetery with the flick of some director's hand, but this was real! The plumes of tear gas had dissipated. The ones who had escaped being wounded were huddled in a feverish mass. The rest were scattered in broken waves around the center. There was a body count as 20 ambulances carefully edged as close as they could. Five "Occupiers" were dead. Eighteen others were in critical condition. Twenty had minor wounds. The real surprise of the count was it included two slain police officers. Even protected by all their riot gear, their heads had cleanly left their necks. One of the men's bodies slowly spilled his last blood into a park pond. The fish surrounded the exposed stub and began to nibble. The other's was being sucked into the earth around a bed of peace lilies.
The "Pitchfork Gang" had already gone viral. There were few corners in the world where the gruesome picture of Michael Blankbein had not been seen. He and the 2 slain police officers now had an unwelcome bond in death. The Oakland battle caused a domino effect across the country and around the world in this "righteous" war. Close combat confrontations became few and far between from then on, but they weren't necessarily less brutal. Attacks by the authorities were made from a safer distance with the likes of water cannons and rubber bullets. In some cases live rounds were being used. It depended on what level of frustration and means to maintain the status quo existed in the mindset of the power wielders. The crowds, however, continued to get much larger, more boisterous and more confrontational from their side. Opportunists from all walks of life played into this seething, growing seemingly out of control movement. But some factions might not be as much unconstrained, as instigated. There were groups from the left, the communists, socialists and labor kingpins who wanted the unrest to force capitulation from big business. Then, from the right, there were anti-tax, secessionists and small government proponents. The Marxists wanted the political system flipped and the Muslim Brotherhood wanted Sharia law to rule every breath. People had wanted a debate, but hadn't expected civil wars to break out so quickly. Expectations from all sides were becoming more rigid, well beyond "civil". The fascists in the governments and corporations were willing to do anything to maintain their hold on the economies and societies. These activities were being mirrored around the world in the industrialized and non-industrialized countries.
Harold was sitting at his desk at Headquarters. He was working late, but was half way thinking of his wife, June. His secretary, Linda, made it a habit to not leave before Harold in case he needed anything from files or to just talk. He had his monitor on Fox News, but wasn't really paying attention to the broadcast. She came in with a stack of folders and stopped to stare at the monitor. It had been a day since the Oakland incident. Now, "Occupy Bank of America" was being covered. "Can we turn that up a little, sir?" Harold pushed the button on his remote without turning around. "What's that they're saying, sir?" He upped the volume a bit more and slowly faced the monitor. He glanced to the side to watch Linda's reaction. The crowd was almost in unison chanting, "Fork you!" She was blushing. Harold turned the volume down and went back to his papers.
Now around the world, the 99%ers had a rallying cry.
"Fork you!"
"Uber etw. hinausragen sie!"
"Aflojar ti!"
"Embrocher!"
The tyrants in the middle east were being replaced one by one. Their decades of iron fisted rule was finally being challenged by their seemingly zombified citizens. Facebook and Twitter connected the previously stoic individuals in an increasingly electrified mass. The new energy was hope for the many, but fear for the few. Assad in Syria had fallen after the rulers in Tunisia, Egypt, Libya and others. When the Royal Family of Saudi Arabia fled in their 747's, most of the world's oil pumps and pipelines seized. After trying to buy off their subjects, the undertow of the serfs continued beneath the radar. The capitulation of the rulers happened rather quickly after most of the military rebelled. This sent shock waves through neighboring Kuwait and Qatar and the Emirates. These kingdoms could only resist upheaval with the help of the rulers in Saudi Arabia. There was an irony in all of this change. Iran had covertly, and sometimes overtly, subsidized and influenced these popular uprisings. Yet, the president of Iran, Ahmadinejad, had been assassinated along with several of the ruling clergy and Ayatollah Khomeini had gone into exile. The population of Iran was basically democratically minded, but they had been tricked by the remaining religious rulers who lusted for power just as the previous rulers. Double irony, indeed! Strict Shariah law had been imposed just like in Egypt, Saudi Arabia and the others. The Muslim Brotherhood had removed their cloaks of deceit and were establishing a power base with hopes for their worldwide caliphate.
The economies slumped drastically. The previous rulers had been harsh, but they had directed industry and commerce, be it as politically distributed with an extreme bias toward the wealthy as in the West. Now, disorganization and lack of expertise were killing production. In most cases, the people were worse off than before and also had to contend with the insanity of strict Shariah law.
Nonetheless, this gigantic, pulsating movement made it's way into the bowels of Europe. The Eurozone had for years liberalized immigration at about the same speed as their cradle to grave socialism. Now, both are an extreme problem, only to be exacerbated by the "Arab Spring".
It must be known that the original outbursts and riots were in France and were instigated from the radical Islamic enclaves in Paris. The young are taught to hate the West, but use the social system to their advantage while disrupting the daily lives of natural citizens. These "imported French" rubbed off on much of the non-Islamic poor and enlarged the effect of the riots. This occurred in 2005, but plans for expanding this activity continued through the years.
Most of the violence can be attributed to the extremes of the economical scale. The poor, mainly minorities, scream out for more liberal gifts from the state. The government gives to them just to quiet them. When economies falter, the middle class are lowered into this group. When tempers flare and needs grow, the tension can bring outbreaks. This is when the establishment power brokers bring on their violence to quash their perceived problem. Both ends seem totally oblivious to the fact that money for this purpose is taken, forcibly if need be, from people who have earned it and given to people who have not. When the "have nots" outnumber the haves, the rungs of the ladder of success are sawed off one by one. What is finally left is the 99%ers and the 1%ers! Of course, many at the top achieved it on the backs of the middle class and poor. They used human rungs.
England, Portugal, Italy and Greece were the next stepping stones towards anarchy. It came in dribs and drabs, but slowly reacted to the insanely ignorant edicts placed on them by the pompous, stupid elite who ran the Eurozone. Great Britain was immune from the financial orders, but not immune from results of the horrid mistakes that were made. They continue today. As in the United States, the indebted nations are sinking into oblivion.
The southern countries of the Eurozone have unelected replacement governments. Quite nicely, these technocrats report to the bureaucrats in Brussels. France is hanging in the wind with the most socialist president in their history. Italy has a caretaker government on the verge of handing power to a new Mussolini. The ultra-right gained enough seats in Germany to place their brand of leadership in Frankfort. The new leader might only have the concentration camps left to build. Even in England, the Labor Party controls 80% of the Parliament. They are literally grasping for the Queen's jewelry to satisfy the demanding crowds. She is made to stay fortified in Buckingham Palace for worry of her safety.
The truth is that the debt burden of the world is insurmountable. It's all over, but the funeral. No one can fix this mess. It will take a mighty reset exactly like a bankruptcy for an individual. The only difference is the judge will be violence. Some new ones might make it to the top of the heap. A few might stay. Others will perish. Perhaps the "Occupiers" or the "Pitchfork Gang" will arouse the sensibilities of the politicians. Take bets.
The United States is no exception. With the notoriety of the "Pitchfork Gang" and their chosen victims, the sheeple have unclothed. They have put fear in the "powerful". Even the low level employees on Wall Street and in federal buildings are carrying handguns. Most used to hate them. Now they cry for them. Hundreds of target and safety schools have sprung up around the country, especially in New York City and Washington D.C. Mid-level and above personnel are finding a myriad of excuses not to be in the workplace.
Doors are double locked across the nation, even in the rural areas. Fears and tempers are simultaneously peaking. There is a crescendo just over the horizon.
Chapter 6. Sins of Our Fathers
Not a day would go by that there were any less than a dozen analysis shows on television. The sociologists, psychologists, shams and charlatans would be on day and night plus repeats. Why? To explain the two biggest stories since the assassination of JFK. The "Occupiers" and the "Pitchfork Gang". The more the cause and effect shows aired the more the "Occupiers" became enraged. They seem to spotlight the 1%ers. For now, at least, the "Pitchfork Gang" was on sort of a hiatus. This lull had not impaired any efforts at the FBI, though the slogging was tough. The "Occupiers", however, continued to boil. The extra FBI agents who had infiltrated the group had done no more than connect some dots on relatively minor drug and theft rings. There seemed to be no apparent connection between the 2 beheaded cops in Oakland and the victims of the "Pitchfork Gang". But the murders, breaking and entering, pilfering and sit-ins turned riot were continuing to be on the rise.