The Dark Labyrinth

By Tommy Masek

Martin Cosgrove has been away from the newspaper reporter scene for two years, as the manager of a charitable foundation in New York City, when the FBI asks him to consider helping them with a huge serial murder case. He soon realizes that their motivation is not to utilize his investigative skills, but more probably to set him up as a patsy.
After Martin’s artist girlfriend, Angela, goes off the rails from drug use and participates in an attempt to kidnap him for ransom, he finds a new romantic interest in a woman he can run with, literally, in Central Park. Cyndee is mixed-race, a reporter for the New York Times, and interested in Martin’s hobby of writing action novels.
Will they survive the diabolical plan of the highly-placed masterminds of the serial murder conspiracy?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tommy Masek
• Release date: Oct 14, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311367877

Tommy Masek

In his early career, Tommy worked as an engineer and scientist, having degrees from the University of Colorado, and MIT. He worked for the Jet Propulsion Laboratory, Rockwell International, and Hughes Research Laboratories, with a primary focus on ion propulsion for spacecraft. In later years, he manufactured coal stoker heating equipment. The Journals of Zaleem Series will be six novels in the science fiction genre. In Part 1, Xacs Omathe is abducted by an alien race and must deal with survival on an alien planet. Eventually, after nearly three centuries of living and traveling with the Aanbollth race, he will be returned to Earth to publish his memoirs before his death. Tommy has also written The Alexander Affair, The Quixote Files, The Whistler Agenda, and The Heiress and the Black Monk. The last three of these novels follow political reporter Martin Cosgrove as he unravels mysteries and dodges bullets. Tommy has been married to his high school sweetheart, Claudia, since 1962. They reside in Oxnard, California, with their Yorkie dependents, Oscar and Theo.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Martin, I’m sorry to interrupt, but you have two visitors, said Elana, the receptionist, standing in my doorway.

One moment, Anne, I said into the receiver. Reluctantly I pressed the hold button.

Important, I assume.

Special Agent Hawthorne from the FBI, and an associate. He said they didn’t need an appointment.

When I finish my call, escort them in, please.

I immediately returned to my phone conversation. Anne, I seem to have two FBI agents at the front desk. I agree with your plan, so I’ll investigate a few matters and call you back in the morning, if that’s alright.

Why would the FBI be visiting you? She sounded curious and concerned.

One of the agents, Dennis Hawthorne, was involved with several of my stories at the Times, including yours. His visit might be personal rather than business. I’ll let you know immediately if it involves the Foundation. You can find his name in some of my stories.

I’m spending the weekend in Paris, so a call on Monday will be fine. Please let me know what your visitors are up to.

I definitely will. Enjoy the weekend.

Mademoiselle Anne de Rochelle, my boss, had been known as Sherrie Northfield in an earlier life. As an investigative journalist for the Baltimore Times, I’d written a series of stories involving her mysterious disappearance two decades earlier on Staten Island where her home was burned to the ground. Her highly successful husband had been murdered by his lawyer who gained control of his real estate business, SPH Trust. Of course, it should have gone to Sherrie when he died.

My stories uncovered a trail of murder, corruption and a complex financial manipulation scheme designed to support Muslim terrorists. With the help of a friend, Sherrie had escaped the fire, moved to France, and faked her death. The new persona, Anne, was the heir to Sherrie’s estate. Litigation would probably continue for a decade.

Thankfully, a substantial fortune remained after the financial mushroom cloud had dissipated, and ownership was returned to Anne by a federal court. As a token of her appreciation for helping recover her rightful fortune, she’d appointed me manager of the new organization: The Sherrie Northfield Foundation.

The job was clearly an outrageous stretch of my skills repertoire, but I was coping with the challenge daily. It turned out to be a refreshing break from the highs and lows of investigative journalism.

Anne’s lawyer, Adrien Etienne, was the mastermind who arranged Sherrie’s death and created the documents required for her reincarnation. Adrien, who was French, seemed to know more about our laws than most U.S. attorneys. He enlisted a New York law firm to handle direct communications with government agencies and prepare the documents required for the Foundation’s operation.

All sections of the Justice Department had been heavily involved in taking down the SPH Trust, including the FBI. Hawthorne had a supervisory role with that agency at the time. We had been on good terms then, but his unannounced arrival today gave me pause.

Right on cue, Elana escorted the FBI agents into my office.

Special Agent Hawthorne, I greeted, should I be happy to have you drop in on me like this? I shook his hand.

We come in peace. Martin Cosgrove, this is Special Agent Steven Castor.

Castor was young, African American, and constructed like a pro football linebacker. I’ve heard many good things about you, Mr. Cosgrove, he said with an unconvincing smile. I nearly winced from his grip.

Gesturing to the guest chairs in front of my desk, I asked, Would either of you like coffee or a soft drink?

Both declined, adding slightly to my apprehension.

Man, Hawthorne said, as he grinned and perused the office, that Northfield story did wonders for your life style.

I shrugged and responded carefully, I was burned out on politics, so my days at the Times were numbered, anyway. If I’d done one more political convention or another story on campaigns, I’d have slit my wrists.

That earned me two polite smiles, followed by expectant stares. But, I’m betting you didn’t come to chat about my career. How can I help you gentlemen?

Seemingly distracted by a painting on the side wall, Hawthorne hesitated, then said, One of your old enemies was found dead in this building. Were you aware of that?

I nodded at the artwork. Angela painted that and is back to selling her art. You remember her, I’m sure.

Hawthorne ignored my commentary and persisted, What do you know?

The murder was the week before last, I believe. I was in France on business for a few days and heard about it when I came to work the following Monday.

Agent Hawthorne nodded. I plunged ahead. As I understand it, Charles Trendle, who was charged with my attempted murder, was out on bail when he passed. Other than that I’m pretty much out of the loop on the current criminal legal wrangling. Do you think he was here to visit me?

The autopsy shows that your pal had been dead for more than a week when he was found in the garage, Special Agent Castor said, staring at my face.

I was well aware that all agents focused on facial expressions and body language. I smiled and leaned forward. Pal? Definitely not.

Castor arched an eyebrow and remained silent.

Anyway, I’ve had no contact, even remotely, with any of that bunch of idiots since I left the Baltimore Times. I can’t say I’m surprised he got whacked, because Trendle could testify against most of the others as co-conspirators.

We actually didn’t come here to accuse you of anything, Martin, Hawthorne interjected. Just the opposite, in fact. There were several people in the FBI who suggested hiring you when your stories were giving us new information. We know you’re not working in that field now, investigating as it were, but I would like to ask for your perspective on the Trendle case, and other murders as well.

Well, that’s interesting, I replied, inwardly startled.

We didn’t come to New York just to see you. Castor and I came to interview the people Trendle knew here, where he died. It’s unlikely they had anything to do with his murder. It appears that he’d been poisoned some time before his arrival, hours, maybe longer.

Good, I know nothing about poisons. How does his death become an FBI case? I asked. From his original case, perhaps?

Hawthorne smiled. Only indirectly. We suspect there’s serial killer at work in all fifty states. That is our business. But we’re not sure if Trendle is part of that case or not. It was a good excuse to visit you, anyway.

Is your serial killer after criminals?

Unfortunately not. The pattern, if it could be called a pattern, goes back at least eight years. But recently we began to suspect that many deaths have been made to look like natural causes. That really complicates the search.

By orders of magnitude, I’d say. I leaned back. Why would you think I could help? An investigator would need access to millions of police files and have the authority and ability to search them. I’d say that was the Justice Department, and hence the FBI.

Never discount the power of an investigative journalist, Hawthorne replied, a faint smile on his lips.

Once upon a time, maybe. You mentioned a pattern. What did you mean?

The victims seem to be mostly male conservatives, Castor said. Conservatives in the political sense, that is.

Really? So why are you trying to stop him or her? I quipped and couldn’t keep from smiling.

No one else thought it was humorous.

Just kidding, I said. A lot of folks in the Bureau are probably of the conservative persuasion. It’s probably good that I’m not with the Times anymore.

My visitors were silent and sober-looking for a few long seconds. Perhaps they were trying to decide if they were sorry they’d come to see me.

I’d never made a secret of my distain for Republicans, otherwise known as conservatives. The Times periodically edited some of my opinionated political philosophy to portray a more neutral viewpoint. I didn’t like it, but I couldn’t really blame them.

Aside from your being a joker, Hawthorne said, had you ever talked to anyone who might do more than just bitch about conservatives? It was his turn to smile.

Other than me, you mean?

He nodded. How about your friend Senator Stoneman, or anyone around him?

I never actually threatened any of them. I’m certain that a comment about killing anybody would have gotten my attention, I replied, hoping to repair my lack of sensitivity to their mission. Unfortunately, I don’t recall anyone who gave me the slightest hint of such a nature. There was a guy who worked for Stoneman, but he supposedly committed suicide. You know about him.

Yes, the closet Muslim, Hawthorne said. We don’t think this is related to terrorists in that sense.

Castor interrupted, Have you been in touch with your hacker friends since you left the Times? He also smiled.

Good cop, bad cop?

I’ll have to say, unfortunately, I’m not acquainted with any hackers. But I can say that no one has slipped me any confidential information since I left the Times, if that was your question.

Both agents looked just slightly crestfallen. Now it was my turn to stare them in the eyes. But, on the subject of electronic snooping, why don’t you declare this serial killer to be a terrorist and get the NSA on it? Politicians would instantly pass a law declaring it a terrorist act to murder a conservative, and make it a hate crime, too.

Silence.

I continued. Nuts often seem to leave a trail of some sort, commonly on social media, imagining that it’s anonymous. Are your people checking that? And how about on the so-called Dark Internet, not that I know much about that either. I understand there are assassins advertising on there, among all the other lowlife crap.

Hawthorne scribbled on his notepad. We haven’t involved the NSA yet, but we’ve discussed it, he replied without looking up. There are a number of popular social media sites, and so far we’ve only found a few dozen teenagers planning to shoot their friends at school. Easy access to guns is insane.

Amen to that, I agreed.

Do you still carry a weapon, Martin? he asked suddenly, looking up.

I haven’t applied for a carry permit in New York, so the guns I have are all locked up at home, I lied. One of three was at home. As you know, many of my conservative adversaries and a few other story targets from the past are currently engaged with the justice system. So I don’t imagine I’m a threat to them anymore.

More silence.

Okay, I wasn’t naïve enough to believe that none of those folks who were facing hard time as the result of my stories wasn’t carrying a grudge. It just wasn’t any of the FBI’s business that I kept a Glock 9mm pistol in my office desk drawer, and one under the driver’s seat of my car. All three of my hand guns were registered.

No one spoke, so I opted to break the gridlock of silence. Special Agent Castor, I said, "in case Hawthorne didn’t mention it, he saved my life a few years ago in Baltimore. I’ll always be indebted to him for that. The story’s in one of my books, The Whistler Protocol. I’ll give you a copy before you leave."

Impressive, responded Castor, his countenance not changing one iota.

But, I said, looking at both agents, other than trying to remember sociopaths from my past, were you thinking of something specific I can help you with?

Well, yes as a matter of fact, there is. As you surmised, we’re searching various data bases and creating a new system for collecting and analyzing the dead files, so to speak. Right now, it’s a significant amount of work to assemble information from police departments, coroners, newspapers, prisons, nursing homes, hospitals, the Internet, and other sources, said Hawthorne.

Indeed, I agreed.

And, there’s a significant amount of resistance and inertia in most quarters. Finding all the sources is a challenge. Then it has to all be sorted for duplications and cross-referenced in various ways.

Messy details, I opined.

Yes, but privacy is always an issue, as it well should be, and suspicion of government motives is a frequent obstacle. Not unlike gun registration. A lot of statistics are collected, but specific names tied to deaths are not as easy to come by.

I laughed. And I’d guess that personal details, such as political party affiliation, if any, probably won’t be included anywhere. There are millions of deaths in this country annually, so I can see how enormous the task is. You must have a big group performing this work?

Hawthorne grimaced. A group of five, counting Castor and me. I’m trying to get more agents.

So, you want me to come in part time?

Both men had a hearty chuckle over that suggestion.

Again, the room was silent for ten seconds or more. Will they be getting to the point before lunch? I wondered.

We have certain constraints on what we can do regarding in-depth follow ups, even on dead people, Hawthorne said, "primarily due to privacy. You had a knack for finding obscure, but important, facts. I think that’s what we’ll need to solve this case. We obviously can’t hire you, but as I said, I’d appreciate your insight. Your confidential insight, I might add."

If you can collect the names you have so far, I offered, I could review them against my past associations. I might recognize a name or two. And perhaps I’ll ask around a bit, confidentially, of course. I don’t spend much time reading obits from around the country, or even here for that matter.

Hawthorne removed a small envelope from an inside coat pocket and slid it across the desk.

His smile beamed, momentarily. I hoped you might be curious. That’s a flash drive with information on a thousand and forty-eight deaths from various causes that seem to fit our broad search criteria. From what we’ve investigated so far, there could be ten times that many. We have no idea how many of the total are associated, in any sense, to the specific person or persons we’re seeking.

I tapped the envelope. You’ve determined that these folks were all conservatives?

All registered Republicans for voting purposes, Castor replied. Mostly men, but about ten percent are women.

Chapter 2

That evening I sat in my home office attempting to make sense of the puzzle Hawthorne had outlined. How could I possibly be of help to the FBI? The answer had eluded me since his visit.

Angela was in her studio down the hall working on a new canvas. She and Tina spent much of their time together and regarded me more as a roommate than an integral part of their lives.

The issue of marriage hadn’t arisen between us in the ten months since Angela returned. I’d often suspected, even during sex, that there was more to her story than she was sharing. Angela basically acted as my housekeeper who also willingly provided sex as part of the arrangement. I expected that when her career as an artist became sufficiently lucrative, I’d return home to find her and Tina gone.

Two years previous, she’d suddenly left the home we shared in Maryland, seemingly to avoid the authorities. The note she’d left on the seat of my car said that she loved me, but instructed me not to look for her. The longer I’d thought about it, the more I suspected the love part had been a token.

When we first met, I’d given her shelter believing that she was being hunted by someone who had murdered her roommate. Through my stories, I’d helped uncover the roommate’s killer, but I never found the greater undisclosed threat she was avoiding.

A year and a half after departing without a trace, she showed up in my new office with her seven-year-old daughter, Tina, whom she’d never mentioned during the year we’d lived together. At that moment I was in the early stages of making a film about Sherrie Northfield using a script I’d written, The Heiress and the Black Monk. The novel I wrote on the subject was titled Life and Death, the Sherrie Northfield story.

My experienced co-producer had the script polished by a professional, who cleaned up the dialogue and added a few fictional scenes to enhance the drama. The director had initially suggested that Angela test for one of the roles because of her good looks, but she declined. The film was now in post production with a tentative release date in about six months.

Then there was Sherrie, aka Anne. Sherrie was obviously alive, but she originally disappeared without a trace until I began writing newspaper stories about her seemingly tragic end. The man who had actually saved her life during her escape had gone to France with her and had joined an order of monks near the property Sherrie purchased.

After we met, I pledged to keep Sherrie’s secret. The film showed her headstone in France after the reporter in the film, Carl, was lead to it by the monk. The monk’s account of Sherrie’s escape during the fire, which destroyed her home, and subsequent events, was the basis for that part of the story.

In the years preceding Sherrie’s death, the groundwork had been laid to identify Anne as a distant relative… and to make her the primary beneficiary of the estate. As in real life, the estate manager, a lawyer, recovered Sherrie’s rightful assets, and the bad guys were rounded up by the police and FBI. Except for her being alive to witness the movie version of her life, it was ninety-nine percent a true story.

I’d periodically wondered how I happened to stumble into two situations in which the women were running from their previous lives. Was it that common, or some weird karmic lesson for me? Regardless, I was proud of the work I’d done that had eventually helped Sherrie recover the remainder of her life. That effort had launched me into a new career running her Foundation. But I had to wonder if being a big-time business manager was the best use of my time.

Back to Angela. What should I, or could I, do to address the void in our relationship? Even though she’d contacted me originally, seemingly to investigate the fate of her roommate, I had to wonder if her purpose all along only had been to find a temporary and disposable relationship to keep her protected. Was I just another chapter in Angela’s give me shelter story? It didn’t sit well. But what if that was actually the truth?

Shaking off the gloom, I returned to the serial killer investigation and began to make notes. A few minutes later my cell phone startled me. It was a number I knew well, that of Amos Moses in Costa Rica.

Hola, amigo, I greeted. He was my friend and technical advisor for a novel we were working on, The Caspian Rendezvous.

Buenos noches, compadre. I hope you weren’t in bed.

No, I had a visit today from the FBI about a serial killer investigation. I was just making notes.

I assume they didn’t arrest you.

No. They must be really stuck to ask an outsider like me to offer any insights. Dennis Hawthorne. Remember him? He came to the office with another agent.

Something local or otherwise?

It seems that someone’s murdering conservatives, and has been busy at it for many years all over the country. They’ve only searched the past eight years so far, so there’s no telling how far back it goes. At least that’s their story.

And what, they think you might know the killer? Are they after a politician you might know?

At the moment, they claim to not have a clue. But I can believe that part.

How many murders so far?

They really don’t know, but Hawthorne gave me a flash drive with over a thousand names and short bios. Identifying murder victims will be extremely complicated because the FBI believes many look like natural causes and were never investigated.

Wow. That could be big.

I agree. Their visit was on the pretext that a death in our office building might be related. They sort of had a reason to think of me because the victim was one of the guys who had hired the hit men to kill me, Charles Trendle. The agents were here to interview the people Trendle had visited in the building, and naturally, they dropped in to chat me up. He actually doesn’t fit their profile, but they apparently wanted to see me anyway.

Was Trendle out of custody?

Out on bail with an ankle bracelet, apparently. They said he’d been poisoned many hours before he died. They found him in the garage here.

Amos chuckled. They must be at a dead end if they’re hoping you’ll summon your cosmic spirits for assistance. Even if they could exhume the bodies, the stiffs would have been embalmed. That could disguise most poisons. And I’d guess that if the deaths look natural or accidental, there were no autopsies.

We didn’t get into much detail, but that’s most likely the case. I suspect they’re imagining, perhaps praying, that I somehow have a connection to the other side, via the Internet, and can work magic.

"Interesting problem, amigo. However, the reason for my call was to ask if you were coming our way soon. I have a few suggestions on The Caspian Rendezvous, and it might take a long time on the phone."

I thought you might. We have visitors scheduled this week, and possibly part of next week, as well. So, I can’t get out of here for a while. Could you jot down your thoughts in email? Don’t worry about grammar or punctuation. Or what part of the story they apply to. I can figure it out.

I’ll do that. But we’d still enjoy seeing you. How are you and Angela getting on?

I’m not sure. She takes care of the house, cooks for all of us part of the time, and fucks me periodically. Other than that, there’s not much connection. She and Tina spend most of their time together. She’s never returned mentally. To me, that is.

Sorry to hear that, Amos commiserated.

She’s still painting very well, and prolifically it seems. I assume she’s making money on sales since she’s never asked for money after getting back to painting. But I have no idea about that.

It’s an odd situation, said Amos.

I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Yes, it’s an extremely odd situation.

We wondered if she would be with you when you visit us, but I guess not. I made notes reading the manuscript, so I’ll collect them in an email next week. Take care, compadre.

You too, Amos. It’s always nice to hear from you. Say hello to Madeline for me.

I plugged the flash drive into my laptop and saved the FBI’s list in a file. The file size was astonishing — over ten megabytes, roughly the size of ten large novels. Is this really what I want to work on? I wondered.

Angela and Tina briefly hesitated at my doorway. We’re heading to the art gallery for a show with a few of my pieces, Angela said. I apologize for not fixing dinner. We’ll be back late, so don’t wait for us.

I’ll manage. I nearly said, It would be okay if you don’t come back, but decided to postpone that conversation until we were alone.

After eating reheated pizza, I took a glass of wine back to my office and turned on the Knicks game against the Washington Wizards who were leading the NBA Eastern Conference. The Foundation had two season tickets at the Garden with seats a few rows up from the floor, mid-court. I used the tickets myself a few times, but Angela wasn’t into basketball. So I used them as bonuses for employees.

I muted the TV and began scrolling through the FBI’s list of the dead. I had no plan, but perhaps something would jump out at me. I quickly realized the data had been organized in