The Twelfth Protocol: A Patti Mac Novel

By John F. Nolan

Hurricane Sandy's storm surge destroyed Long Beach City's boardwalk, washing up mutilated corpses of three men, a pregnant woman, two boys and a skeleton.

Only three months in command of the Nassau County, New York, Homicide Squad South, Detective Lieutenant Patricia (Patti) McAvoy was challenged with investigating a mass murder. "Drug cartels kill like this," she told a detective.

Homicide detectives, spearheaded by Patti, dismissed drug dealers when they discovered US agents had been given Carte Blanche to practice eleven protocols, a smorgasbord of enhanced interrogation techniques (EITs). The protocols, authorized by the US Department of Justice, ran the gamut from sleep deprivation, prolonged diapering, cramped confinement, cold cells, and water boarding. Patti noted a resemblance between the protocols and her victims' wounds. Her team drilled down into the weeds and identified a rogue unit, born in the labyrinth of US government agencies, operating on Long Island, torturing suspected terrorists for intelligence to be sold to the highest bidder, either in Washington, Iran, or in Russia.

Patti learned the meaning of spy phrases like "Black Site", "Salt Mine," and "Safe House."

Homicide detectives uncovered evidence confirming the villains bypassed the eleven protocols restrictions by raising the torture bar. The Twelfth Protocol introduced severing fingers, attaching 'hot' battery jumper cables to genitals, bug infestation and other grotesque tortures, including murder, as a technique to extract intelligence, earning financial rewards from their American and foreign "customers."

Capitalizing on a mistake made by the killers, Patti uncovered a "Salt Mine", interrupted a torture resulting in arrest of the Long Beach murderers. Bombshell photos electrified an apathetic public. An outcry led to a Congressional Investigation.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 18, 2014
• ISBN: 9781499072686

Book preview

Copyright © 2014 by John F. Nolan.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2014916485

ISBN:      Hardcover   978-1-4990-7266-2

                 Softcover     978-1-4990-7267-9

                 eBook          978-1-4990-7268-6

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 09/17/2014

Xlibris LLC

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

649786

Contents

Acknowledgements

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Epilogue

Dedication

To my granddaughters, Shelby Lynn Brennan, her sister, Taylor Morgan; grandsons Matthew John Nolan and his brother, Sean Patrick.

The world is a better place because they are in it.

Acknowledgements

The City of Long Beach Police Department is a first-rate organization. During my tenure in Homicide, the LBPD never failed to impress. The good guys are well ahead of the bad guys in Long Beach City. The taxpayers are getting their money’s worth.

Several people contributed to the publication of The Twelfth Protocol. Henry Hack, Inspector (Ret.) Nassau County Police Department offered several suggestions.

A salute to my wife, Gundie, who read the manuscript aloud allowing me to recognize errors, words amounting to gibberish, and make corrections before the document went to print.

High praise to my niece, Christine Patchen, who provided the art work for the book cover.

Prologue

I never saw it coming.

My husband’s lies, betrayal and double life were facilitated by a legion of enablers. After I took up with Jack, I knew no good could come from a work place romance with a married man, especially when the office is a precinct detective squad. I became the other woman and didn’t care how much anguish I caused. I wanted him and took what I wanted which led to me having the love of a man.

Our love, it turned out, was a one-way street. I gave, he took.

There’s no escape from retribution. He cheated to get me and I got paid back with suffering as I had caused suffering. Sins have to be accounted for in the ledger.

Adding to my troubles was the disadvantage of being the daughter of the late head of Internal Affairs, Chief Michael McAvoy. Dad’s enemies spread the word when he passed away – we couldn’t hurt the old man, make me pay for the sins of my father and the pain he caused. It wasn’t hard for them. Women police officers start out with a disadvantage. The old prejudices stand silent like the Sphinx, jealously guarding the status-quo.

The treatment was unbearable until Dad’s close friend, Ken Carson was promoted to deputy police commissioner. Out of nowhere, I was blessed with a mentor who shepherded me from wearing a blue uniform to detective and then to Detective Sergeant Patricia Ann McAvoy.

Carson was a Dutch uncle, big brother, and friend. That is until Jack’s adultery imploded on my perfect life. The day that changed my life was when, I went to Uncle Ken. My mentor had morphed into a cunning bureaucrat who exploited my tragedy to make himself look good. He took me by the hand and plunged me into an earthly purgatory in which I learned to zigzag around the flames of prejudice and corruption. Carson pushed me into an alien environment, the Homicide Squad South, populated by several treacherous backstabbers whose misdeeds were offset, as the Marines like to say, by a few good men.

Life is not fair. It was the policy of my predecessor to break the rules by practicing shady deeds to solve murders. My choice was clear, either put up with the practices in Homicide South or leave it behind. I chose to persevere and discovered a truth - in the fog of war on crime, there are many variables and people like me get hurt physically and emotionally. It had become the practice of a few detectives to commit crimes at the order of the commander, whose code was in order to achieve good results; you have to break the law. Eventually, the commander and his evil allies were rooted up and tossed into the grinder of the criminal justice system. Good overcame evil.

At the end of the struggle, I wound up with a spot promotion to lieutenant of detectives, commanding officer of the Homicide Squad South, Nassau County Police Department.

Command of homicide detectives has been a life forging experience. Homicide detectives are solely responsible for investigating the murder of fellow human beings. One squad speaks for the dead, one squad hungers for their justice, and one squad brings closure for the victims’ loved ones – The Homicide Squad South.

I have been given the responsibility of managing the best detectives in the business of police work. They trust me to help them overcome obstacles that may hinder an arrest.

As a result of my selfish experience with Jack, I’ve changed my attitude toward expedience. My detectives know I’ll never cross the bridge passing over the road of righteousness to the road of dishonesty. My code of conduct, learned from Dad, is to always do the right thing because it’s the right thing to do.

Patricia McAvoy

Chapter 1

Long Beach City

Thursday Morning

January 31

Boss, the cadaver-sniffing dogs are here, Detective Ron Horton said to his freshly minted Homicide Squad South Commander. I’ll have the handler park them behind the command post bus.

Thanks, Ron. I’ll be right there, his boss shouted from under a wrecked boardwalk.

Hunched over, Detective Lieutenant Patricia McAvoy’s passageway was blocked by icicles dangling from boardwalk planks like stalactites. She smacked the frigid water with her steel handcuffs. Dropping straight down the icicles embedded into the sand like candles on a birthday cake. She kicked the icicles aside and lifted a yellow tape printed with black letters – CRIME SCENE DO NOT CROSS, then emerged from under the boardwalk, and stood to her five foot seven inch height.

Hi, I’m Homicide South’s boss, Lieutenant McAvoy, she said, offering her right hand to a young cop.

Meet Caesar, Lieutenant, Officer Mike O’Leary said, pointing to a tan dog sitting in a police car. Whatcha got going under the boardwalk?

Laborers ripped away a section of shattered planks exposing a sand mound shaped like a mummy. We whisk broomed the sand and found a body in a blue tarp. Since then we’ve spotted a cluster of humps. As you know, Hurricane Sandy’s storm surge stripped away layers of sand. I fear there may be more bodies. That’s why I put in a call for you and your little buddy, Patti said.

Sounds good, Lieutenant, O’Leary said. I remember you from the Police Academy. Your lectures were among the best. What do you want me to do?

Hang out for a while, O’Leary. I’ve got a platoon of recruits on the way. The boardwalk is a little over two miles long and I want every square inch of sand searched. I’m told Caesar can find bodies under water. Is that true?

Yeah. He can pick up odors from a cadaver in the strangest places. Once he found a woman buried behind a brick wall. His alert signal is to sit and stare at the source of the smell.

Can Caesar double as a drug sniffer?

Negative. He’s highly trained and only used for cadavers. Other units have drug-sniffers and searchers for bad guys or lost children.

Does cold weather bother him? Patti asked, sniffling into a tissue. The wind has a bite to it under the boardwalk. There’s little sunlight and the gusts never take a break.

No, Lieutenant. I give him breaks. Caesar puts his little heart into the job.

Good. Standby for the recruits. Detective Ron Horton is the lead detective. Whatever he tells you to do is the same as if it came from me.

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Chapter 2

His secure phone rang. The area code told him in-coming from Long Island. He put the phone to his ear.

Colonel Hannon here. Talk to me.

Sir, First Sergeant Dietrich here. We have a catastrophe. The police have found a corpse under the boardwalk in Long Beach. Nassau County’s Homicide Squad South stationed a mobile command post at the end of Grand Boulevard and strung crime scene tape around the boardwalk like yellow gift-wrap. All of the targets, except the Russian, are buried in this section. It won’t be long before they find the rest of the bodies.

Which one have they found?

Ibrahim Nassad.

"Ah, the toughest of the bunch. Snipping his fingers one at a time all I could get out of him was, ‘Oh, God, accept my blood. Oh, God, accept my martyrdom,’ until he met my rat. Last words from his terrorist lips were Allah Akbar, then he spit in my face, he did."

I remember the interrogation very well, Colonel. Nassad stood up to the Eleven Protocols until you introduced him to the rat.

"That’s right. Dechiquete forced the terrorist to talk after he was introduced to the Twelfth Protocol."

Remind me, Colonel. What does that word mean? Dietrich asked.

Dechiquete is French for mutilation. Soldier to soldier, I had to admire Ibrahim. He showed courage during his finger amputations, that is, until he faced the rat. How’d they find the body?

Grant money from FEMA arrived in truckloads to dismantle and rebuild the boardwalk. Early this morning, work crews at the West End spotted the outline of a body and called it in to the Long Beach PD as a mummy, wrapped up the way it was. Two hours later, the place was crawling with an army of cops, detectives, helicopters, crime scene and media.

I’ve been expecting it. That damned Hurricane Sandy washed away the shoreline and shredded the boardwalk. Her storm surge stacked beach sand like snow drifts. We’re lucky the swirling water didn’t form a tidal wave. Imagine the sight of Nassad and his clan floating to Park Avenue. How have you been getting all these details? You’re not exposing our operation, I hope? Hannon said.

No way, Colonel. I’ve been eavesdropping on the police mobile phones and chatter from their patrol car radios. My team has world-class listening devices capable of hacking into the stock portfolio of a Fortune 500 owner. Compared to that, penetrating police communications is a piece of cake. The media also listens on their radio calls. News trucks got here before crime scene.

Excellent intelligence. That’s why my First Sergeant is the Top Sergeant. Back in the day, First Sergeants were referred to as the Top Sergeant, or simply, Top. I want to continue that tradition. From now on, you’re to be addressed by me and the staff as Top.

Thank you, Colonel. I’m tapped into the Homicide South commander’s mobile phone. She instructed her deputy to order searchlights, generators, extra homicide detectives, and a platoon of recruits from the Police Academy to help with the search. She’s also using a cadaver-sniffing dog and placed a crime scene tech in the police helicopter to take photos.

She? What’s the commander’s name?

Detective Lieutenant Patricia McAvoy who prefers to be called boss, Patti or sometimes, Patti Mac.

Colonel Hannon went silent for a moment.

Are you there, Colonel?

Obtaining accurate terrorist intelligence is our primary mission, Top. Our Washington masters rely on us to deliver intelligence allowing them to destroy the terrorists before they hit us. I’m not about to concede defeat to a rinky-dink homicide squad run by an Affirmative Action woman. What’s our risk of exposure if we extract the rest of the bodies?

Sir, I’m afraid that train has left the station. The Long Beach cops and Homicide South work hand in glove. Good, tight relationship. McAvoy has the Long Beach uniform cops out on aggressive patrol in ATVs and bicycles up and down what’s left of the boardwalk, the side streets and beach. Her tactics remind me of Iraq and Afghanistan, when we established perimeter security in case of a counterattack.

Long Beach doesn’t have a Homicide Squad? Why is that? Hannon asked.

About two-dozen Nassau County villages and cities have their own police force. Their tables of organization aren’t large enough to support specialized units. Municipalities like Long Beach pay special taxes to Nassau County for use of expensive detective services like Homicide, Robbery, Sex Crimes, helicopters, and Crime Scene. Nassau County Police has two homicide squads, posted north, and south of the Long Island Expressway. We drew homicide south. That’s why Lieutenant McAvoy is on site.

What’s your advice, Top?

I respectfully advise against a night incursion which has minimal chance for success. We may recover one or two bodies, but we’re not going to get all of them without running the risk of a gun-fight with the cops. Of course, I’ll sanction a raid if you authorize a shoot-to-kill order. That’s risky because there are three exits out of the city: Long Beach, Atlantic Beach, and the Loop Parkway Bridges. They’re bottlenecks, not escape routes. At the pace Lieutenant McAvoy is moving, I think she’ll find all the bodies by this afternoon. Afraid we’ll have to hunker down and weather it out.

"OK, no shoot-to-kill directive, at this point, Top. As usual, you’re correct. We’re in a war against jihadists, not men and women in blue police uniforms. I’ll keep my options open for that contingency, if it arises. Remember to stay focused on our mission — expose threats of violence to our homeland by using any or all of the Eleven Protocols."

Sir, the police helicopter is hovering over the end at Lindell Boulevard one block over from Grand. It looks like the pilot may have spotted more bodies, Dietrich said.

Gather the team, Top. Establish a command post as close to the scene as possible. I want to watch McAvoy from a catbird seat. Continue to monitor the police radios. I’m flying to Long Island and I won’t have a secure phone until I catch up with you. Wheels down at Farmingdale’s Republic Airport within three hours. See you on the ground. Who’s assigned to pick me up?

Tiffany Thornton, sir.

When I arrive, show me an action plan. We can’t let this get out of control.

Will do, Colonel.

01--edited--.jpg

Chapter 3

A short distance from the crime scene, two men sat in a van. Top said to his driver, Yellow police tape attracts gawkers. Stay alert. If a cop tells you to move, thank him and put the gear in drive. I’m going to mingle with the nosy spectators and listen.

Freezing gusts of winter wind streaking in from the Atlantic Ocean forced Dietrich to move in close to overhear the voice of a crime scene technician, We’re ready for you, Lieutenant McAvoy. Photos, dusting, and measurements are done. We’ll unwrap the body when you say go.

Patti McAvoy perched on the bottom step of a full-size passenger bus converted to a mobile office. She wiggled her toes in new sneakers. Rolling her long brunette curls into a bun, she puffed away on a cigarette, taking advantage of a moment of peace before exploring the catacomb under the boardwalk. Her homicide detectives circled a blue tarpaulin cigar-shaped pouch, bundled with tight bungee cords. Two windscreens concealed the murder scene from reporters’ prying eyes and photographers five-thousand dollar telephoto camera lenses. Patti faced her detectives, Assistant District Attorney Joshua Hirsch and Deputy Medical Examiner Dr. Astrid Ludwig.

"I understand why the laborer called it in as a mummy. It could have lain here for a thousand years if it wasn’t resurrected from its grave by the Frankenstorm, Hurricane Sandy. Go ahead, remove the tarp," Patti said to the crime scene technician.

Bending to unhook the bungee cord hooks, the tech was waved off by Detective Ron Horton. This is my case. I’ll do it if you don’t mind, he said while snapping on latex gloves. The tech backed off. A request from the lead Homicide detective wasn’t a subject for discussion. It was an order.

Horton buried his knees into sand, softened by Sandy. Shafts of sunlight, allowed entry through mangled boardwalk planks, illuminated the scene. Horton unsnapped the hooks, releasing tension on the elastic cords, and laid them aside like open laces on a sneaker. He peeled away at the tarp from head to foot, like peeling a banana, uncovering a bearded man, lying face up.

No fingers and toes. Never saw that before, Horton said.

Laid out, face up, and dressed in a maroon T-shirt and navy blue Bermuda shorts. His bare legs and toe-less feet pointed a straight line to the ocean. Mutilated stumps at the tip of his hairy arms were folded. Black hair matched the color of his beard.

"Hey boss, Stumpy doesn’t smell bad. The body’s in good shape." Detective Bob Kowalsky said, leaning over Horton’s shoulder.

Bob, stop with the nicknames and your opinions. He’s not intact. The body looks like someone went over it with a hedge trimmer. The media will pick it up on your cop humor and broadcast it on tonight’s news. I’ll be answering for you in the commissioner’s office, McAvoy said.

Yes, boss, Kowalsky said, rubbing his toe in the sand.

Patti, Dr. Ludwig said with a trace of a Swedish accent, "Your squad gives every case and body a nickname. The man has been christened Stumpy. It’s a defense mechanism which allows them to cut the tension with humor, often dark humor. Ignore the wit."

Patti nodded while Dr. Ludwig responded to Kowalsky’s comment.

Detective Kowalsky, she said, the decomposition clock went into slow motion because Stumpy’s grave was in an outdoor refrigerator. The atmosphere under the boardwalk was cold enough to preserve him. From what I see, severing of his digits was ante mortem. His lower arms were bound with tourniquets to stanch the flow of blood. You don’t do that with a dead body. I’ll give you my official diagnosis after I complete the autopsy. Time of pronouncement for Mr. Stumpy is 9:45 a.m.

Horton intervened. Everyone, make room for Crime Scene to take close-ups.

OK, when they’re done, remove his shirt and pants for Dr. L. to examine the body, Patti said.

Horton and Dr. Ludwig nodded.

Crime Scene camera lenses clicked as technicians took long shots, angled shots, overviews from the concrete stanchions that once supported the boardwalk and close-ups of mutilated limbs. Patti and Dr. Ludwig listened as the technicians adopted Stumpy’s name and began to use it as if it were the man’s birth name. Dr. Ludwig shrugged her shoulders while Patti rolled her eyes, Astrid, you’re right. They’re all nuts. It’s because they see too much.

Detective Kevin Cassidy arrived and joined his mates, who were drawn to the corpse like a pride of lions at a fresh kill. They re-formed a circle around the body as the crime scene techs backed off.

Patti pointed to the Highway Patrol dog-van.

"Bob, say hello to the dog handler and wait for the recruits to show up and then supervise a search. If Caesar finds another grave, he’ll sit. Peel off two cops and have them guard the spot until we can get a homicide detail to the scene. Keep up the search. I want to find whatever there is to find. I have a