Mind Switch (5 page)

A loud blast from the unknown man’s weapon forged the decision for him. The bullet reached its target exactly as aimed.

Chapter 10

Less than two blocks from the bank carnage, a tall, razor thin, dark haired man, in his early 40’s, entered the multiplex downtown theater. He purchased one adult ticket, passed by the concession stand without stopping, moving directly towards the ticket taker. The ticket taker, a foot shorter than the tall man, told him in a boring recital, which he had delivered at least fifty times earlier this same day, the theater’s room number and location. Then he added, “I sincerely thank you for your patronage.” The last part of his patter, he had recently improvised to impress his boss in case he came by. He hadn’t had a raise in two years and maybe that extra little added touch to his pitch would help speed up the process, he hoped.

The tall man moved directly toward theater number five, shifting from the brisk pace he had maintained since he entered the multiplex, to a more leisurely and deliberate one as he neared his destination. The room was fully lit and mostly deserted, although it was less than fifteen minutes until show time.

Documentaries did not usually draw large audiences. A scattering of people sat in the first and second row on the right hand side of the theater. Queued behind the tall man were a small group of theater goers chatting to each other about the pleasant flight they had experienced in their flight from Reagan National Airport in Washington, D.C. One couple was commiserating over the increased cost of their rental unit at Longboat Key, blaming it on global warming and the increased hurricane threat. An older man and his wife were bickering about the desirability to see this particular movie. His wife wanted to see the romantic comedy
,
playing in room number six next door; but her husband was rigidly opposed and uncompromising. Since both couples’ lives were about to end, neither discussion was really relevant.

As he entered the twin doors, the tall man took a moment to scan the theater. He moved to the far right of the room and bounded up the stairs to the top row of seats, accidentally bumping a patron seated in the first row as he climbed. The patron yelled something offensive; the tall man seemed oblivious to the comment. Normally the tall man would have responded in kind but this was not a day for altercation; his focus was directed on much more important things, although he was still not entirely sure of what they were.

Chapter 11

The bullet hit the marble floor less than a foot from where Fred was standing. Fred had no remaining option. He dropped his weapon ready for the next bullet that would end his life.
 

“Turn around with your hands up and do it now!” Fred meekly obeyed, what choice did he have?

“Now stay right where you are while I call the police.”

“Wait a minute, who are you?”

“The bank manager, that’s who I am! Now, don’t you make a move!”

“But, I’m a police officer! If you allow me I’ll show you my badge.”

The man nodded, “No tricks now or you’re a dead man.”

Fred noticed that the bank manager’s hands were shaking badly. That wasn’t a good sign for someone with a weapon pointed right at him.

Once Fred showed him his badge, the manager put his gun down. The manager explained that he had been in the back of the bank when he heard the shooting. He had taken time to retrieve his weapon so he could confront the robber with some degree of parity. He apologized for holding his gun on Fred; but since he didn’t know who had been doing the firing, he assumed Fred was part of the robbery attempt.

Amidst the chaos around him, Fred called for police backup and ambulances. While waiting for aid, and trying to comfort the injured, he interrogated the first person he saw. A silver haired man stated that the individual that Fred had just apprehended was in fact the shooter, and that he had acted alone. Fred was relieved that he had done something right.

The elderly witness said the gunman had entered the bank and had withdrawn his weapon almost immediately from the concealment of his suit coat. He then started shooting, spraying shots randomly throughout the bank. Pausing to regain his composure, the witness continued, “Two men near the front door managed to escape when the shooter concentrated on another part of the lobby.” Fred realized those two men had to be the same two that had crashed into him as they fled the bank. The witness said that, after what seemed to be a barrage of constant firing, the man had thrown down his weapon and started sobbing. It was about that time, the older man stated, that Fred had stepped into the bank.
 

In a short time the lobby was filled with medical and police personnel. Under Fred’s orders, the exterior of the bank was careened off. Curious bystanders, taking a break from their leisurely Christmas shopping, gathered outside the bank pondering what was happening. Inside, five men were dead and six people wounded. Fortunately, it appeared that none of the surviving victims had suffered serious wounds.
 

Fred decided that no additional insight into the shooting could be gleaned from the crime scene. As he left, he directed that the bank’s videotapes be immediately sent to the station. Fred then limped a short distance to police headquarters to brief his chief and interrogate Howard Slivers.

* * *

Fred’s chief was a burly former marine who had served honorably in the infantry during the height of the Vietnam War. Injured during both the Bing Gia and Dong Xai engagements, he had received two purple hearts. Earlier in life he had been a celebrated first string defensive lineman at Florida State. Age-yellowed newspaper clippings of his football achievements, framed and matted, covered his office walls. After football, when his strenuous exercising regimen had ceased, his eating habits hadn’t; and now he was 100 pounds overweight and still gaining. The chief was munching on a large Hershey bar as Fred entered his office.

Fred made his briefing quick. Fred knew the chief preferred a crisp synopsis, never a detailed play by play. As Fred spoke, the chief finished consuming the candy, opened his desk drawer and pulled out a plastic-wrapped piece of cake. Fred was not sure if the chief was listening at all but when he finished, the chief ordered him to get a confession out of the suspect as soon as he could. He added “Even if we’re not successful in obtaining a confession, it was obviously an aborted robbery attempt and we already have all the facts we need for a conviction. Let’s not overkill this investigation.”
 

Fred recognized the chief’s last statement as a not too subtle criticism of Fred’s tendency to linger on a case until he was overly satisfied that he had obtained all the facts. Trying to buy time, Fred said, “Yes, sir. I’ll get back to you on that.” The chief was busily munching on his cake as Fred exited.

Fred walked to the back of the station to a guarded confinement cell to speak to Slivers. Fred assumed the guard had been put there because the chief had feared a suicide attempt.

Slivers had remained in a highly traumatized emotional state. Fred asked “Where did you obtain the assault weapon?”
 

“Are you crazy? I don’t own an assault weapon; in fact I hate guns with a passion. I don’t even hunt. When are you going to release me? I have been in this god-forsaken place for what seems like hours.”

“I don’t anticipate you ever will be released. We’re holding you on multiple first degree murder charges.”

“If you’re talking about what happened at the bank, I wasn’t involved. I’m deeply sorry for the victims but I have no idea who was responsible.”
 

Fred often employed the same technique that he applied in his poker games during his interrogation of suspects. He looked for subtle inconsistencies, delays in responses, and physical reactions inconsistent with verbal statements. Because of Slivers’ emotional state, however, Fred could not learn anything.
 

He attempted pure rationality, “Your statement makes no sense, all the witnesses identified you as the shooter, and the weapon you used was at your feet. I’m sure your fingerprints are all over the weapon. Now, how in the name of God could you possibly say that you were not involved? Maybe if you confess, I can ask the DA to make it easier on you. After all there’s no reason for the taxpayers to spend their money on an open and shut case. You must know the death penalty will be the DA’s objective if we go to trial. Perhaps with a plea bargain, we can keep you alive. Now what do you say?”
 

Slivers vainly attempted to hold his emotions in check, but he started sobbing again and blurted out, “I couldn’t have done that, I just couldn’t. I am not a murderer! I deeply resent your accusing me of such a thing! On my mother’s grave, I am innocent.”
 

 
Seeing that the interrogation was going nowhere, Fred gave up for the time being. He still had to call on Ernest James’ widow to break the news of her husband’s death, a task that made him sick at heart. The Saturday night poker game would never be the same again.

Fred’s cell phone rang. It was Maureen.
 

“Whatever happened? I have been trying to call you for the last hour.”

“I turned my cell phone off, what did Judy tell you?”

“She told me you were beaten up by two men, but you seemed all right and she left.”

“No, I wasn’t beaten up. It’s a long story but I’m okay.” His ribs started hurting again as he spoke. He knew he had to have them checked at the hospital. No reason to tell Maureen about this.

“Well, if you’re okay, Fred, I won’t bother you. By the way, Judy has left for Colorado.”
 

“She just got here. Why did she leave?”

“She said our town is too violent for her, so she packed up and said she would wait at the airport for the next plane going anywhere west. She didn’t even have a ticket when she left our house.”

Fred couldn’t help but smile. “Okay, there’s nothing I can do about Judy. See you late tonight; I’m working on a major case. Love you.”

“Love you, too, Fred, and make sure you don’t get hurt.”

It’s much too late for that, he thought.

Chapter 12

John Jackson was about to enjoy a single escape from the harsh reality of his unsettling work week. For the past six months, he always took in the Friday afternoon flick at the downtown theater by himself. It wasn’t easy, but he finally convinced his wife that this was something he needed to do alone, as it was his single outlet from the pressures of an overbearing boss and a host of blood-thirsty subordinates seeking his job. He had really screwed up on his last assignment, and his unrelenting critical boss would not let him forget it. Furthermore, it didn’t take long for the word of his most recent failure to filter throughout the well perfected grapevine of his organization. Now, even his office friends looked the other way when he passed by. There were strong clear signals throughout the office environment that he had become a lame duck.

As he started to try to relax in the theater’s soft seating, someone passing by nudged his arm; Jackson lost most of his large bag of heavily buttered popcorn. The thin offender offered no apology, rapidly ascending the stairs to the top row of seats. Jackson yelled, “I hope you’re going to pay for my lost popcorn.”

Receiving no acknowledgement, he screamed, “You idiot!” to firmly reinforce his point. The man again did not respond which upset Johnson even more. He thought about following the man up the steps to confront him directly; but he had noticed that the man was quite tall and most likely physically superior to him.
 

As the movie began, Jackson belatedly realized in his rush he had gone into the wrong theater room. This was another damn documentary. Earlier this year, his wife had virtually forced him to see the McNamara movie on Vietnam, the Gore environmental flick, and the movie that asked the question who killed the battery powered cars. He was tired of all the flicks that provided lessons on how the country was going to pieces; and now, due to his own stupidity he was sitting in another one—a chronological history of the Iraqi war. He decided to sit through a few minutes of it; and if it was as bad as he expected it would be, he would get his money back. This is the last documentary I will ever see, he pledged.
 

Ten minutes into the film, an Iraqi fire fight was shown between Baghdad insurgents and the US military. With the theater’s realistic stereo-surround sound system, it realistically seemed as if bullets were flying all over the theater. They were; suddenly Jackson slumped over his seat, eyes wide open and unmoving—he had been granted his very last wish.

Chapter 13

Fred called Jim Hebert on his intercom. “Jim, is there any information yet on the background of Slivers?”
 

“Yes, we have plenty of information but it sure seems inconsistent with the motive of any bank robber that I have ever heard of. Slivers, it turns out, is the head of a local insurance agency located on Fruitville Road. He has owned the agency for almost a decade, and has been married over thirty years. He has four children, all of whom are now grown.”
 

Jim added, “So far we can find no history of any arrests in his background; and it appears his marriage is more than solid. His previous home was in Middletown, New York. He had lived there his entire life until he moved here. We’re checking with the local police in that area; but my gut is telling me that his record up there will be clean as well.”