The Surrogate

By Donald L. Smith

A federal judge is executed in New Orleans. An unknown assassin hangs him from a giant oak tree in Audubon Park. A female reporter happens upon the scene soon after it happens and scoops this sensational story for her newspaper. She attempts to follow up story but finds the police baffled. She meets and falls in love with an older FBI agent assigned to the case.

Michael Bannister, the antihero, is embittered and frustrated at the federal judicial and penal systems because he believes his brother and brother’s wife died due to callous indifferences of federal judges and prison officers. He conceives a plan of terrorism amid it forcing reforms.

His plan involves recruiting fellow inmates on an extremely selective basis, choosing only those in which unconditional allegiance could be expected.

Federal judges, penal and parole officials are selected for execution. No official is chosen who was ever connected with any of the inmates involved.

The story begins with the first assassination and continues through six executions, during which demands are made for reform.

Murder in cold blood, raw sex, tender love scenes, and bitter irony all join hands to tell this story of unusual suspense.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Dec 15, 2021
• ISBN: 9781662450372

Book preview

Chapter 1

A federal judge is executed in New Orleans. An unknown assassin hangs him from a giant oak tree in Audubon Park. A female reporter happens upon the scene soon after it happens and scoops the sensational story for her newspaper. She attempts to follow up story out finds the police and FBI baffled. She meets and falls in love with older FBI agent assigned to case.

Michael Bannister, the antihero, is embittered and frustrated at the federal judicial and penal systems because he believes his brother and brother’s wife died due to callous indifference of federal judges and prison officials. He conceives a plan of terrorism aimed at forcing reforms.

His plan involves recruiting fellow inmates on an extremely selective basis, choosing only those in whom unconditional allegiance could be expected. He manages to transfer numerous times and limits recruitment in each institution to minimize the risk of exposure.

Federal judges, penal and parole officials are selected for execution. No official is chosen who was ever connected with any of the inmates involved.

The story begins with the first assassination and continues through six executions, during which demands are made for reform.

Murder in cold blood, raw sex, tender love scenes and bitter irony all join hands to tell this story of unusual suspense.

It had been one of those phenomenal crisp fail days. The sky appeared as a flawless blue sapphire, marred only by a few fingers of crystal-white jet streams pointing after the jumbo’s flight lane. Fall weather in New Orleans could be treacherous. The proximity of warm gulf air could roll in from the south, changing a day which started in the morning bright and cold to a hot, muggy afternoon. Not so that day. In fact, the last five or six days had been ideal for enjoying the outdoors. Audubon Park, named for the famous naturalist and painter of bird life, was the recipient of those who wished to savor these rare days of perfect weather. The park encompassed an area four or five city blocks wide, beginning at the entrances of the adjoining campuses of Tulane University and Loyola University, which fronted the street car median of St. Charles Avenue and ran all the way to the level of the great Mississippi River, a distance of perhaps three quarters of a mile. The park was appropriately divided by Magazine Street, a major artery feeding traffic to and from the downtown section. The section closer to the river, the southern section, housed the Audubon Zoo, the riding stables, and a miniature train that circled that half of the park, delighting parents and kiddies alike. The north section of the park, that closer to the universities, contained the eighteen-hole golf course and clubhouse, a crescent-shaped lagoon which bordered most of the course, large open spaces for picnicking, touch football, frisbees, bicycling, strolling, or perhaps studying by the many students taking advantage of the brilliant weather.

A single-lane blacktop road, bowered by the limbs of ancient oak and sycamore trees that lined either side, encircled the entire complex with cut-a-crosses at Magazine Street, thus allowing one to ride, cycle, jog, or walk around either sector without crossing the busy street. A path for cyclists and joggers or walkers paralleled the blacktop, allowing the one-way traffic of automobiles to proceed unmolested at the posted ten miles per hour.

A tall figure dressed in dark-brown jeans and a like-colored turtleneck sweater biked into the park from the entrance off Calhoun Street on the eastern perimeter. It was five o’clock, and though the days were getting shorter, daylight-saving time was still in effect, so there was still several hours of light remaining. He parked the ten-speeder against one of the huge oak trees bordering the path alongside the blacktop and sat with his back against the centurion, facing the park entrance, with a book opened in his lap. He appeared, for all pretense and purposes, to be studying. This was the fourth day in a row. Each previous day something had gone wrong. The first day a group of young people, probably students from one of the universities, had encamped a short distance from the tree and had persisted in smoking pot and listening to a portable radio tuned raucously to a rock station. He had ridden around the park numerous times until it became apparent that the group had settled in for the duration. The next day the park was unusually crowded. That wouldn’t do. The following day a party of three black women were fishing in the lagoon directly across the road. He had not attempted to wait them out and simply made one circle round the park and out. This day an elderly man strolled toward him as if to engage him in conversation, but he remained aloof behind mirrored sunglasses, barely nodding in response to the pleasant greeting tossed out like a cast from a fly rod. As the sun bent lower toward western skies and the park began to empty of fall revelers, he thought the old man might thwart his purpose once more. The evening chill proved to be his ally, for with shivering regret, the old man reluctantly reeled in his bait for conversation for that day and trudged along toward home.

As soon as the elderly gentleman left the park, the figure went to his bicycle, opened the pack attached to the handle bars, and retracted his gear: a pair of dark-brown leather work gloves, a ski mask, a lawn-mower pull cord made of quarter inch nylon with a wooden handle on one end and on the other a loop completed in thirteen carefully wound coils of the traditional hangman’s noose. A quick survey of a radius of two hundred yards found it empty of humans, only a dog chasing a squirrel. He threw the cord end with the wooden handle up into a forked limb, tugged on it to test it, and pulled himself easily up into the tree where he perched momentarily as he once more scanned the area. Finding it clear, he donned ski mask and gloves and retrieved the nylon cord after freeing the handle. He then crept to a huge limb overhanging the path and blacktop, some eight and one half feet from the ground. He stretched out prone on the giant limb, the nylon cord grasped firmly in his right hand.

He watched. Time crawled; it stopped. He could hear the tower clock at Loyola University strike 6:00 p.m., but he could not see the clock for the heavy foliage which still clung tenaciously to the branches which shielded him from view. He was acquainted with the appearance of his prey. He had ridden by him a number of times in the last month and a half. The Strider, as he had named him, always entered the park from the St. Charles Avenue approach at just before dark. He would walk briskly around the outer path, circling the golf course twice, and then exit the park onto St. Charles Avenue again. He was always attired in a blue jogging suit trimmed in white, with matching blue jogging shoes. He was a strikingly handsome man in his early sixties. His salt-and-pepper hair enhanced a majestic and proud head set upon broad shoulders held straight upon an erect yet fluid body. At just under six feet, he was still in good shape, having exercised regularly most of his adult life.

The shadows grew longer as the sun began its accelerated plunge through the oaks and sycamores guarding the western horizon. Would he be able to see well enough? He had waited so long for this moment, planned so meticulously and prepared with Jobian patience. If he didn’t come soon, it might get too dark; he couldn’t chance botching an attempt. It had to come off as planned. There! He could see him coming; the Strider entered the park just before dusk for his usual walk, moving briskly with long, effortless strides that relentlessly ate up distances. His blue suit with the white stripes became more obscure as the many trees in concert with the growing darkness and distance joined hands to enfold him completely from view as he followed the first half of the circling road on the opposite side of the park.

The masked man moved carefully now, shifting his weight with slow and deliberate movement only after first satisfying himself that the immediate area was still clear. His position, once taken, must remain inviolate until the very last possible moment. He now watched with intensity the other half of the circle from which his prey would emerge. His heart began to pound wildly, hammering blows against his chest sending reverberations to his head. The ski mask itched, but he would not move even that slight amount to scratch his face against his arm or shoulder. He saw movement; it was indistinct because the haze of foliage in the curve of the road only allowed a partial glimpse, but now the familiar athletic strider broke into full view as the path on which he walked cleared the tree line. He was moving fast. Another few seconds, and he would be under the limb. The masked figure would be allowed only a split second to turn his head for a quick look that would have to be almost instantaneous with the downward motion of his arm. He didn’t like it, but he couldn’t chance being detected before his quarry was beneath him.

The man was almost under him. He looked, saw two strollers at the far end—he decided he could risk it—thrust his arm down, dropping the noose deftly over the strider’s head, yanked it tight around the neck while holding the handle of the other end with the cord between his fingers, and swung off the limb. As he did so, the cord twanged taut and snapped at the strider’s head and body, jerking him upward and backward. He outweighed his prey by at least forty pounds, and as his feet touched the ground, the Strider’s legs began to jerk convulsively, as though trying to regain footing from a toppled ladder. He quickly hitched the handle to a large hook, placed at the base of the tree a month earlier.

There had been little sound. Only a short, whistled gasp, cut short as the noose jerked tight. The Strider had stopped thrashing; he only twitched some. The dark figure moved quickly. He reached up and yanked the jogging pants by the elastic waistband and let them fall over his jogging shoes. The man’s sphincter muscle relaxed, and as the dark figure mounted his bicycle and casually pedaled away, he could hear the strider fouling himself. The Strider was truly a hanging judge.

Chapter 2

Jason Kimbel opened one eye and looked at the clock on the bedside table, 4:00 a.m. At the same instant that he was careful not to awaken Elizabeth, he knew she wasn’t there. Elizabeth had died from an automobile accident eighteen months ago. She had been visiting an aunt in New England. A trucker had fallen asleep, and his semi had crushed the driver’s side of her aunt’s station wagon, killing Aunt Tillie instantly. He had always believed Liz had tried to hang on to see him one more time. By the time his flight reached Boston, he knew intuitively she’d gone. He had called the hospital from the airport mostly to confirm what he already knew. She had died an hour earlier, still fighting to stay alive. He missed her.

They’d had no children. Jason had been a bachelor until he was forty-one. Liz was thirty-two when they married, and they had simply decided it was too late to have kids. Their marriage had been good, and Jason was completely unprepared for a single life once more.

Jason attempted to resume sleep, but it was no use. Once he had thought of Liz and the involuntarily memories flooded his conscious mind, sleep was in exile.

He groped for a cigarette and lighter, found them together, and headed for the bath room. He splashed cold water in his face, toweled, found his cigarettes and lighter again, and lit one as he shuffled to the kitchen. It had been his routine for years before he met Liz, and she had tolerated his bumping around, feigning sleep.

As he sat in the kitchen nook, smoking and waiting for coffee to make, he grappled with a decision with which he’d faced for some time. That of retirement from the FBI. The last ten years had not been particularly fruitful. Several disappointments had soured his zest for his job. He had seen politics at work inside the bureau, and knew he would never make it beyond departmental head, but he was passed over on that promotion. The Watergate scandal and the revelations of covert operations and secret files tarnished the once impeccable image that was a source of pride and satisfaction to Jason. Now he felt cheated. The lack of promotions, he could handle, but to have given his best to the company because of what it represented, only to find out that it had been manipulated and just used like any other political tool. Well, it could never be the same.

* * *

His boss, Raymond Decker, was typical of what Jason despised in the bureau, a political in-fighter who weighed everything in terms of how it would appear on his record. He backed away from issues that might bring ridicule upon him. Jason had a confrontation several years ago with Decker and had stalked out of his office after being replaced on a sensitive case involving a powerful political figure. Jason had satisfied himself that the man, although a wheeler and dealer in political life, was not involved in the allegations contained in his file, and Jason had made his report and indicated the investigation was completed. Several weeks later, he accidently discovered the file on another agent’s desk and, still unwary of the situation, had inquired if he could be of assistance, thinking that Ritter was cross-checking some information. Ritter blushed and had stammered, You better talk to Decker about that, Jay, and had closed the file, put it in his desk drawer, and walked out without looking Jason in the eye.

Decker knew that Jason would have no part in compiling a smut sheet. He had expressed himself openly on that issue many times. Jason had fumed when it had finally sunk in. He had been replaced on the case and wasn’t even informed! He had waited until the next day to see Decker so that he would have time to cool off. He was still angry, but controlled. Decker had been tipped by someone, probably Ritter; he was all smiles and conciliatory. Jason never knew how to be tactful when it involved his own feelings.

Why didn’t you tell me you had assigned Ritter to the Richard case? he demanded.

Decker, smiling benignly and knowingly, motioned Jason to sit down, offered him a cigarette, and said, Kimbel, I’m not going to apologize or cover up. I just didn’t think the file was complete, and I didn’t want to damage your ego by telling you so. Ritter was instructed to be discreet, and quite frankly, I didn’t think you would find out. Decker’s colorless blue eyes were veiled, but continued to smile.

Jason said bluntly, He is not involved, you and I both know it, and if there was some other area of concern, I certainly would have made a thorough report.

Decker’s smile faded slightly and said, Why don’t you forget about it? It was no slur on your ability nor your character.

Suddenly Jason knew. Of course, Decker wouldn’t ask him to do something that he was so much opposed to. Decker was probably asked to obtain other information only after the file had been completed by Jason. Decker saw the disgust register on Jason’s face. Jason looked at him in silence for several moments, rose, crushed his cigarette, and turned to leave.

Have you given any more thought to retirement? Decker queried.

Jason didn’t answer and didn’t look back as he closed the door behind him. Since that incident, he had been assigned very simple, straightforward cases. Nothing really important. He was through, and he knew it. He would be eligible for retirement in seven months. He wished it was over. He hated it now. Everybody knew he was just treading water, and he had never done that before. So it had come as a surprise when Decker had left word that he wanted to see him about a new assignment first thing in the morning.

* * *

Jason saw the coffeemaker light blink on and reached over and poured a full cup of thick, black coffee with chicory and lit a second cigarette. He took the coffee with him to the bathroom and finished drinking it while shaving. It had been his habit for as long as he could remember as an adult. How could you get a good shave without coffee and a cigarette? His beard was so heavy he had to shave against the grain the second time each morning. As he turned his head to trim his sideburns, he thought he detected a few more gray hairs at his temple. He ran his fingers down his face to his chin. He was a tall, lean six-footer with larger shoulders than normal. He had ordinary features, except for a slightly hawkish nose and bedroom gray eyes that could turn as cold as steel in an instant. He had never shown real anger to Liz, but once he had come close, and she had remarked later that his eyes had frightened her. It seemed silly now. He couldn’t remember what it was about, something to do with buying new furniture, he thought.

Satisfied with his shave, he hung his pajamas on the hook, on the back of the door, just like his dad had done before him, showered, turned the hot water off at the end, and shivered wide awake as the cold streams jolted him into full consciousness. He stepped on the scales, 175, toweled off, and checked his image in the full-length mirror in the bedroom. He was still in top shape even though he could pinch some loose flesh around his middle for the first time. He shrugged at himself, knowing there was not much he could do about it.

After he had dressed in what Liz had always called his Clark Kent uniform, standard, nondescript, he had one last cup of coffee and drove to the office on Loyola Avenue. It was a little earlier than usual, but he wanted to rap a little with some of the guys. Maybe he could pick up on what Decker had in mind.

* * *

To Jason’s surprise, Decker was already there, and when he saw Jason, he walked out of his office to Jason’s desk and said, Since you’ve come in early too, we might as well go into this assignment now. Decker was smiling his usual I love everybody smile and waited for Jason to rise and follow him to his office.

Fine with me, Jason grunted and tried to measure Decker, as always, with little success.

Decker closed the door to his office, motioned Jason to sit, and called his secretary, who was also in.

Hold my calls, Emily. I’ll let you know when I’m in. He turned to Jason, Coffee?

Jason shook his head, saying, No thanks.

Decker drank some kind of instant crap that was never strong enough.

Decker picked up his cup and, after several sips, placed it on his desk in careful manner, as though it was important to place it just so, and after studying it for several seconds, looked up at Jason with no smile, but a pleasant expression remained.

Jason, I’ve been giving this a good deal of thought, and I have decided to square with you because I believe you will handle the situation better if you know my feelings from the start. Jason waited, legs crossed, gray eyes scanning Decker’s face for a hint. Judge Westland’s case is at a dead end.

Jason lit a cigarette and waited. Decker rose and walked over to his filing cabinet, withdrew a folder, and moved around to the front of the desk and sat with one leg still on the floor.

Anytime a federal judge is even threatened, a major investigation is launched, but when one is executed in such a vengeful manner, all the stops are pulled. I have had a team working on this for a month and not a shred of evidence. Decker rose and tossed the file on the desk in front of Jason. "I know you are retiring soon, so I’ll