Mind Matters

By DavGlo Publishing

Our hero, Sammy, is a member of a super secret outfit that is so secret, it doesn't have a name.Unlike Sammy, he has dozens. He's undercover as a Chicago Detective, with two problems to look into. The big one, is who is killing people on the fringes of a top secret military project, and two, find the leaks in the Chicago PD. Both seem to be insurmountable tasks as the body count grows, but clues are nonexistent.

• Language: English
• Publisher: DavGlo Publishing
• Release date: Mar 11, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476395692

Book preview

Chapter 1

Outskirts of Chicago

Ned Winslow doesn't know where he is, or why his hands are cuffed to a hoist above his head. At this point, he barely knows who he is. The severe beating and questioning he's received at the hands of these hooded men has addled his brain for the time being. He still has hopes of being let go, since they've remained hooded and used some electronic voice-changing device to question him. As far as he knows, he hasn't told them anything of importance, but he couldn't swear to it at this point. Why they're questioning me, I don't have a clue. Sure, I work for the government, but my low level position dealing with an eclectic and eccentric group of scientists and inventors doesn't give me access to national secrets, or does it? Do I know something I shouldn't?

At the moment, his captors have left him hanging here, bruised and bloodied. They've stepped into an office in this old, rundown warehouse or factory. Whatever it might have been at one time, it's definitely a derelict building now. Ned is glad to get a little relief from their constant torment.

~*~

The larger of the two men has his hood pulled up, with the voice changer off as he takes a drink of Coke, then blurts out, That son of a bitch either doesn't know shit about it, or he's a hell of a lot tougher than he should be. Office-worker weenies like him should break at the first bit of pain.

Yeah, I'll use the drugs on him now to be sure, but I don't think he's got the info we need. He might, and not know he's got it. According to the research, he works with many of the off site, private sector scientists and inventors the military contracts with.

Go for it, we've got a few more on the list that might have the information we need. Too bad none of the other four had the stuff the bosses are looking for. I'm beginning to wonder if the intel we were given is solid.

It's probably just like when we were in Spetznaz, pure crap, but that's the job we're given. The pay is good, and you know damn well if we don't do like we're told, what this guy is getting will seem like a good time.

Yeah, that's a fact. I'll get going with the drugs.

Hold up a minute, you wanna 'splain to me again how come I had to do all the hard work, and you simply get to use a needle? If it's so great why don't we use the needle shit to begin with?

"All right, I'll try to say it plain so even a dolbo yeb like you will get it. The dude has to be hurting bad first. You deliver the pain, then I come in like a savior, taking the pain away. I act like I'm his best buddy. He'll tell me anything that way, if I keep the drugs at the right level. I can't be the one to beat him then deliver the drugs and be his best buddy too. The mind is too strong for that to work well. All we'll get is chush' sobach'ya."

Yeah, whatever, you've got to teach me how to use that sobach'ya so I don't have to work my ass off every time.

Let's hope there aren't too many more times.

I get the idea that with this outfit, this is like a regular way they do business.

Yeah, me too, but I don't want to think about it now. We'll keep piling up the bucks, when we have enough, we'll have to disappear. You know they won't let us simply retire, we'll know too much for that.

That, I get.

Chapter 2

Hawkins, get your butt in here, pronto.

Sure Boss. Sam doesn't like the tone of John Stanley's voice, but he scrambles into glass-enclosed office cubical as quickly as he can. "What's going on, Boss?

You'll get all the case info we have later. We're going to send you to school for a week's crash course in being a police detective.

Why me?

You're the only one we've got with anything related to regular police experience. Your time as an MP taught you the basics of police procedure. With anyone else it would take too long to get them up to speed.

What's the hurry?

Oh, all right, here's the gist of it, you'll get the details later. People that work with ancillary programs of the DOD's research services are getting beaten -- we surmise it's to make them talk, then killed and dumped in a particularly nasty section of Chicago.

Why us? We're a private entity.

That's precisely why us. You know damn well from time to time we take on cases the government wants to keep quiet. They leak like a torpedoed rowboat. We can't keep doing what we do if we don't keep the Feds happy. You know that.

Why keep it quiet? Why not flood the area with FBI, Homeland, DOD investigators, or some other bunch of alphabet soup groups that could do the job?

Why the hell are you asking why to everything I tell you?

We're private, I don't have to take the job. I want to know what kind of shit I might be walking into. What invention is so damned important?

I couldn't tell you if I wanted to. I got briefed on it, but it's so damn far above my head, I couldn't get it.

"So for some shit we won't even understand, I have to risk my ass again?"

You'll have full backup teams. Somebody will be covering your butt around the clock. Maybe when you get briefed on this thing they think is at risk, you'll get it, I don't know. That's the job, do it or pack your shit and get out. I don't like being a private concern. The military was better, I gave an order, it got followed or the dumbass that disobeyed would be locked up. Now all I can do is fire your ass.

"Hey, I didn't say I wouldn't do the job, I just want to know what the hell it is and why."

Take the week's training, you'll get filled in along the way, if you still don't want it, talk to me. If you have legit reasons, I'll back you. Either way, the training could come in handy at some point. Maybe if I fire your ass you can go be a legit cop.

Not in this lifetime. All right, Boss, I'll take the training, but if I still don't feel right about it, I'm walking.

That's a deal, get moving, you start your courses in an hour at the usual training facility.

As Sam Hawkins leaves the office shaking is head, he mumbles under his breath, "This is another fine mess you've gotten me into, Stanley."

Chapter 3

Hey Weasel, you got something for me?

Call me Ishmael.

Oh right, I could call you a lot of things, but that would be the last on my list. What's with the literary reference?

How would Five-oh know that reference, how do you know I wasn't referring to the Bible?

You're a weasel, a damn lowlife, a criminal of the lowest sort that only gets to stay on the streets because you're sometimes useful. You're no Bible scholar, that's for damn sure. I don't know where you got the reference, but it's got to be from Moby Dick, not the Bible, most likely the comic book.

They're called graphic novels these days. So, call me Ishmael, it's no skin off your ass, and it beats the hell out of Weasel or any of the other things most of you pricks in cheap suits usually call me.

Whatever, you got something for me on this string of home invasions like you said, or not?

You got some ready cash if I do?

Times are tough, money is tight, but I can let you have a couple of tenners, if I like what you've got, a couple of Hamiltons, maybe even a C-note if the info is good enough. Hell that's not my case, I don't know why I should give a damn, but I do.

"Why do you always talk like an old time flatfoot in those old movies?"

Sam glares and raises his voice, "I happen to like those old movies. What's it to you, Mister Weasel Ishmael Slimeball?"

Nuttin, what I got will cost ya five hundred.

Nothin' doin, I can't afford that. Instead, I'll have your candy ass locked up in the city jail with a couple of burly roommates that'll make you their bitch. You'll be tellin' me everything you got just to get out of that shithole.

All right, all right, don't get nasty. A hundred will do.

"What have you got?

Let me have the hundred first.

No way, not until I hear what you've got.

Here's what I've got, the address of where these dudes hang their hats, and what place they're going to hit next.

Covert agent Sam Hawkins takes the bill from his pocket, but holds it just out of reach of this scumbag usually called Willie the Weasel. Give!

All right, they hang at 2790 West Fillmore, it's a warehouse in the old industrial section.

That's not enough, with all the witnesses unable or unwilling to identify the perps, we'll have to catch them in the act. Where are they planning to strike next?

Willie fidgets from side to side, his eyes dart around the alley, he's obviously extremely nervous about giving these guys up. Sam can't blame him, since this bunch makes the meanest gangbangers look like Mother Teresa. Weasel whispers, Word is they're going to hit a place in Morningside Heights again, this time it's 912 Willow Street, but you sure as shit didn't hear if from me.

912 Willow, why do I know that address?

Maybe 'cause it's Judge Tanya Sorensen's address. You've probably been there to get warrants signed or something.

"Maybe so. They're going to try their shit at a judge's house? How the hell did you get the info?"

That's for me to know, that's like how I make my cash, dude. Word has it one of the dudes has a beef with her, she's not gonna live through it, but they're gonna have some fun with her first. In this case, the home invasion thing is kinda a cover for the real reasons, but they'll steal whatever they can anyway.

It better be good info, or you'll be in the lockup for a long damn time, remember Detective Kline handed off enough evidence against you put you in lockup forever, third strike time, you know the score.

Yeah, yeah, hand over the hundred. Sam hands him the hundred, Don't be tellin' anyone else what you gave me, I've got to keep it quiet, you know the department leaks like a termite infested rowboat. Sam gives him a hard look, Willie gets the message, he beats feet out of the area as if his ass is on fire. Sam speaks in a normal tone to check with the guys in the van, Did you get all that?"

Five by Five, Sam Abrams sends through his earwig. You want me to turn the info over to the real locals?

No, they'll fuck it up. Remember, one of the reasons we're working in this area is they've got somebody on the inside feeding various perps information. We'll have to handle this ourselves, even though it's not part of the case we're here to investigate.

All right, good thing we studied the who's who of the legal system for this area. I already checked, the judge is in court right now. I'll have some of our guys inform her and put her in a safe house tonight.

"No, don't do that, somebody will be watching her, you can bet on it. Get her the info covertly, and let her do her usual routine but have our people covering her and her family. Remember, we're supposed to stay covert, nobody anywhere is supposed to know who we really are or who the hell we work for, so have our guys use their State badges. You should probably have a team stake out the hangout address too."

Rodger that, I have a team on the way now. Are you heading in to your cover job now? You can ride with us.

No, I don't want to be seen with you guys. Remember, I'm supposed to be a local detective. I have to be to my new assignment at the twenty first precinct, in what, two hours?

Hour and fifty minutes now. You best get a move on, traffic sucks this time of day. Sam is strolling down the sidewalk now, with his cell phone to his ear so passersby don't look at him strangely as he talks to Abrams via the com link.

I’m gonna take the El.

Oh, by the way, Weasel made a good point, watch the old time movie clichés, you don't sound like a real cop, not a modern day one.

Well I’m doin' the best I can, I don't know that damn much about how a real cop talks, the crash course didn't include how to talk like a cop.

Yeah, we should remedy that.

"Whatever, there wasn't time for everything. You run it up the line, I'm heading for the El, I'll lose contact when I get in all that steel."

Yeah, probably. Have fun playing detective, but remember, we'll be around to protect your backside … should you need it.

Just like always, thanks, Tony.

Just call me Abrams like everyone else. I never did like the name Tony. My dad is Tony, I guess you could call me Ishmael.

"Hundreds of comedians out of work and you try to be funny. Whatever, I'm nearly to the El. Catch ya later, Ishmael. Out."

Out.

Chapter 4

Like any newly assigned detective, Sam Johnson gets stuck with the overnight watch, as they call them. He really doesn't want to watch a damn thing in this dingy, run-down old precinct house. After signing in and reporting to the captain according to procedure, he finds the cubicle in the bull pen assigned to him.

He plops his but on a nearly worn out office chair, and wishes the cover had two things different, a little more rank and seniority to get him out of the worst shift, and a better cover name. Sam is his real first name, actually Samuel, but only his mother ever calls him that, then only when he's on her shit list, which is frequent since he doesn't go see her any more often than he has to. Johnson isn't the most original cover name, but is a common name, so the cover people tend to use it a lot, this is the fifth time in ten cases he's been Sam Johnson. He's getting used to the name, but still thinks it lacks any spark of originality. He'd be happier with Sam Spade, the private detective in the old movies he loves.

Sam senses a presence behind him. He turns around to see a seriously muscular, shaven-headed black man about seven feet tall and half that wide at the shoulders. The man sticks out a huge right hand for a handshake, I'm Terrence Wadsworth. Yeah I know, I don't know how I got such an uppity name, it doesn't suit me. You can call me Terry, or by my street name, Wads.

Sam's hand is engulfed in Terry's hand, but Terry doesn't try the silly bit of squeezing to establish dominance, he doesn't have to. Hi, I'm Samuel Johnson, just call me Sam, I don't have a cool street name. I just transferred here from Detroit, cutbacks, you know.

Yeah, we know all about cutbacks. We're not to put in for overtime, but can take it as comp time, so it's not too bad, though the pay still sucks, and they sure don't spend any more than they have to on upkeep or equipment, if this piece of shit precinct house didn't tell you that already, you'll find all that out soon enough. Detectives aren't even given issue cars, so we use the impound lot behind the station house as our personal motor pool. That's sometimes a good thing, but more often than not, it sucks. I'll show you the back way over in a bit.

Why would you do that, don't you usually let the new guy suffer a while? We always did at my old station.

See, it's like this, you're my new partner. The last one got his ass shot up, off friggin duty, on his day off. Walked into a holdup at a neighborhood Stop N' Rob. He got one of the perps, but the one he didn't see nailed his ass, literally, he got shot in the ass, twice. He won't be coming back to work, he's taking disability and heading for warmer climes.

Yeah, I bet it really sucks here in Chicago in the winter. Detroit is bad enough.

Hell, it sucks here all the time, least in the winter the cold keeps the stink of this rotten part of the city down. What with the garbage people not wanting to work this part of town, and the dead bodies that sometimes pile up thanks to I don't know how many fuckin' gangs, it's not a great place to be at any time of year.

Why do you stay?

What the hell, I don't really know, to be straight about it. If I could figure a way outta here, without starving for a while, I would be gone in a heartbeat. Don't know what I'd do for a living, but most anything besides shoveling shit would do, some days even that doesn't seem like a bad alternative, least ways moving it around with a shovel would beat moving it around with the friggin paperwork.

You sound like a man truly in love with his job.

Don't get me wrong, I love catching crooks, and helpin' the average Joe out now and then, but in this town … well if you don't play dirty politics, you're not going to move up the ladder. You seem fairly young to be a detective, do you just look younger than you are, or what?

I'm thirty five, busted my ass to get a detective shield. No sooner did I get it, then they cut back on detectives. I'll be honest with you, I don't have a hell of a lot of experience as a detective, but I was a uni for a number of years, so I know the score.

Sam detests lying, but in this job it's almost always required on a daily basis. He deals with it by thinking of it as playing a part, not lying. He was a street cop … sort of … as an MP for a couple of years after leaving his special forces unit, long before he got tapped for this strange, private, very secretive agency he works for now.

All right, I'll baby-shit you for a few days, but you're gonna have to learn to cut it on your own.

"Don't you mean babysit?"

"No, I mean what I say. I'll give you the baby shit treatment for a few days, no more than that, then you're pulling your own weight and covering my butt. If not, I'll get another partner, or go solo. No sense in working with a partner that doesn't cut it, at least when I work solo I know I'm on my own."

All right, fair enough. How long before we can get out of this shithole onto the streets? What's your procedure, do we have to wait for a call, or can we just go out looking for trouble?

We roll out when we feel like it. Notice the bullpen is almost empty? We generally check in then split. I see you have a personal laptop with wi-fi access. That's how most of us work, though we had to spring for them ourselves, it beats these antique pieces of shit in our cubicles.

That's a fact, I expected that. Lets get out of here, you can take me through your version of the bullshit paperwork later, I'm sure it's probably pretty much the same, fill in the blanks with bullshit, but make sure the blanks are filled in. Nobody gives a shit, so long as you fill in all the blanks.

You've about got that figured out, the only thing you need to get right are the DD5's, then only the pertinent details need to be right, the rest of it is crap.

Yeah, all right, show me this back way to the motor pool, as you call it.

Follow me. Oh, don't forget to move your marker in this old fashioned in and out board. I see they've got you written in already. If the captain does wander back in on this shift, that's got to be right. It's his pet bugaboo. Most of the time, he goes home after we check in. Lieutenant Brockman is in charge unless it's something he doesn't want dropped in his lap, then he'll call the cap, it's his decision to call the cap or not though, not ours.

Gotcha.

Sam moves his marker on the old board right behind Wads. They go down the hall, and take the two flights of stairs rather than wait on an elevator that might or might not be working. They cross an alley to go through an impromptu gate made by cutting the fence and installing two pipes, secured by a chain that has a huge padlock on it, but in reality is only wrapped around the two pipes to keep the fence closed, but it appears locked to anyone not looking closely.

They have to step sideways through the mass of cars, then use a back door into a huge old warehouse building now seeing duty as one of the city's several impound lots.

Chapter 5

This is Chief ... hell Chief, what's your real name?

I keep tellin' ya, it's Patrick O'Brien.

Whatever, Chief. This here is Sam … what the hell was your last name?

Johnson

Anyways, this is Chief, if you need wheels on the job, and um even when isn't a cop on the job, if you catch my drift, see him. If he's got it to lend ya, he'll treat ya right. With everybody drivin' econoboxes these days, sometimes that's all he's got.

Chief shake's Sam's hand quickly, then remembers there's grease on his hand, so he offers Sam a shop rag. While Sam's wiping his hand, he asks the obvious question, So why does Wads call you Chief?

Other than the fact I'm the chief around here I was also a master chief in the navy, finished out my twenty in supply, but I seen me a little action here and there, some of it involving weapons, not just my personal gun. The chief winks.

Yeah, well I'm new in town, I won't be gettin' my gun oiled for a while, most likely.

Plenty around, even an old coot like me can get some nice stuff, if ya knows how to work it.

Yeah, this damn job, and the shitty hours don't help.

Yeah, well, what do you need, I'm 'bout to clock out.

Sam nods, What do you have, anything roomy? I think if I'm gonna be with Wads, we should have something roomy.

Chief smiles, Yeah, well … lets see, ya wanna be undercover?

Wads pipes up, Ya still got that souped up old Checker cab? Lots of room in that.

Yeah, I coulda sold it off a dozen times, but I keep it around just for you boys.

Who ya callin' boy?

Aw Wads, ya know I didn't mean it that way.

I know, but I couldn't resist busting your chops. The cab will do fine. Hell we might even pick up a few fares to pay for our supper.

I don't wanna hear it. Keys are in it, it's near the main door in front.

Right. Come on Sam … shit, we gotta think of a cool nickname for ya if you're gonna be runnin' with me.

We'll think of something.

Wads drives, ostensibly since he knows his way around the precinct better. Sam won't let on he's been in town a couple of times before, and has studied maps of the area in preparation for this assignment.

All right, I'll give ya a quick tour of this shithole of a precinct. First rule, we don't waste our time on little shit, unless we use it to get info on other bigger shit. Got it?

Fine by me.

Sam shakes his head, Damn, Wads you were right about this part of this damn city. What a fuckin shithole. I thought I saw some over in Sand World, this is worse.

You’re a vet?

Yeah, that seems like another lifetime ago.

Thanks for serving. They wouldn't take me, said I was too big. Afraid I'd make to easy of a target, I guess.

No, nothin the military has would fit you. They make it all to fit the average Joe, with a little bit of adjustability, but not enough to fit you. Hell, I don't think they would have clothes to fit you, let alone anything else.

I wanted to be a sniper with one of those big fifty-caliber jobs, but no dice.

"Yeah,