Election Day: A Harry Cassidy Novel Page 14

  “That he is,” Ramos said. “But the pizza’s done and we’re ready to get serious. Right, George?”

  “Yes, Massa, I sure is. Now dat de plantation owners be here.”

  Although they tried, the group couldn’t suppress another outburst of wild laughter. Carson only smiled realizing their hilarity was about to end when the news hit them.

  “Okay, listen up,” Ramos said as he passed a copy of the first letter to each of them.

  They read it carefully and when they all finished, Joe passed out the second letter. The tension visibly rose in the room as the detectives and agents took it all in, some with a tremble in their hands. When they finished Ramos said, “Commissioner Carson, the floor is yours.”

  The commissioner told them of his plans to have John McKee assume the deputy commissioner position. He said, “However, Mayor Miller would not approve the appointment and, in fact, ordered me to eliminate several more high-ranking positions. Budgetary restraints, he told me.”

  There were boos and hisses and thumbs down gestures from those assembled and Mike Morra muttered, “Fuck this Miller.”

  When they calmed down Carson continued, “I have therefore transferred Inspector McKee to my staff to report directly to me and to be the coordinator between my department and your Task Force. Fuck Mayor Miller, indeed.”

  They broke into cheers and smiles and realized that Charlie Carson was a stand-up guy just like his predecessor, Harry Cassidy. “I have to get back across the street now,” Carson said. “John will stay here and help formulate your plans. Brief me tomorrow morning, John.”

  “Yes sir,” McKee said.

  After Carson left Mark Negron said, “The lab results are all in and the Minutemen’s claims of responsibility are true. These letters will be published in the Sentinel on Friday, and we await the fallout.”

  “Who were the Minutemen of old?” Alicia asked.

  “They were heroes of the American Revolution,” Spider said. “You know, Paul Revere and others ready at a minute’s notice to go attack the British.”

  “And these guys are imitating them?” Danny asked.

  “Maybe,” Ramos said. “I guess we’ll have to wait and see what develops. I mean they have to set out some demands to be met, right?”

  “I guess so,” Danny said, “unless they just plan to keep killing left-wingers until they get all the key players.”

  “I don’t think so,” Morra said. “If they wanted to do that, they would have continued doing it. Why send any letters at all?”

  “Like they said in their first letter,” Negron said, “maybe they won’t have to take further actions. I sure hope so because Washington is all over my butt and the butts of the ADIC’s all over the nation. A lot of liberal politicos are demanding protection. In fact, I have to go to a big meeting on that very subject right now. I’ll leave you to work out some ideas – please.”

  After Negron left John McKee said, “Speaking of that first letter, did anyone get the impression that there was a threat to Red Baker in there?”

  They all looked at the letter again and George Washington said, “This could be it where it says if you criticize us reasonably you have no fear of any consequence to you or your publisher.”

  “That’s it,” John said. “I wonder what will happen if Red criticizes them unreasonably.”

  “He’d be a fool to do that,” Spider said.

  “Well, I shouldn’t say this, but it wouldn’t bother me if the Minutemen whacked that nasty old cop-hater,” McKee said.

  “I ask once again,” Alicia said, “who are these modern-day Minutemen and how do we find them and lock their asses up?”

  Her questions were greeted by silence and blank stares. Other than paper research, there were no ideas and nothing to do. And the somber mood was deepened by the absence of Lizzy Cassidy. “I wonder how Lizzy made out.” Mike Morra asked. “Who do you think she called?”

  “Her old man, no doubt,” Danny Boyland said.

  “And just where is that old beat cop and great friend of ours anyway?” Spider asked.

  Inspector John McKee knew the answer to that question, but chose to remain silent.

  * * *

  On Friday June 4, the early edition of the Sentinel began rolling off the presses at the paper’s main printing plant on West Street. Bill Brennan and Red Baker each grabbed a copy and headed for the office of the plant manager. Brennan lit up a cigar and Red took a swig of whiskey from his pocket flask as they read the headlines. At the top of the front page it said:

  EXCLUSIVE TO THE SENTINEL AND RED BAKER

  THE MINUTEMEN CLAIM RESPONSIBILITY FOR TEN DEATHS

  PROMISES MORE IF DEMANDS NOT MET

  The headlines took up three-quarters of the page. In smaller type, right after a two-inch square photo insert of Red Baker, his column appeared:

  Late last week, this columnist received two letters from the group called the Minutemen claiming responsibility for the ten murders of prominent liberal politicians and businessmen that recently took place across the country. For reasons known only to them, they chose the Sentinel and this writer to convey their message to the public.

  The letters and items of evidence received by me were turned over to the NYMPD and the FBI. Analysis of the evidence verified the Minutemen’s claims of responsibility. There are threats of more murders, many more murders, if their demands are not met, but these future targets have not yet been identified to this writer. Nor have their demands been specified.

  The Minutemen claim they committed the murders of those who, in their opinion, were the strongest supporters of left-wing causes in the country. They also claim their goal is to destroy the left-wing fanatics who they see as driving our country to ruin. They have promised no further bloodshed and will communicate how they will do that in their next letter, which I have yet to receive.

  Although this group did not demand that we print exact copies of their letters, the publisher decided we should do so in the interest of accuracy. We believe the public should know precisely what they are up against in the exact words of the Minutemen. Both letters follow.

  Baker and Brennan looked at each other and nodded in approval as they finished reading the copy. Bill had ordered an extra 100,000 copies of the day’s edition of the Sentinel, and he glanced at the lined up delivery trucks on the streets and in the parking lots as he and Red walked out of the plant.

  “How do you think the Minutemen will react?” Brennan asked.

  “I’m sure they’ll let me know, one way or another,” Red said.

  “Let’s get some sleep. Tomorrow, I believe will be a hopping day.”

  * * *

  The Sentinel’s loaded trucks rolled and bumped through the dark, muggy streets of the city and its ‘burbs. The drivers, sweating profusely on this early summer morning, dropped their bundles of newspapers with their ink-stained hands at the curbs in front of candy stores, kiosks, and diners, delivering the story that would focus everyone’s lives for the next two months.

  By ten o’clock, there was not a single copy of the Sentinel left for sale. Bill Brennan had severely underestimated demand – he could have sold another 200,000 copies with ease. He would not make that mistake with the next edition containing news of the Minutemen.

  The members of the Task Force were drinking coffee and watching the cable news channels, switching between CNN, FOX and MSNBC, to get their reactions to Red Baker’s column. Several copies of the Sentinel were scattered around the conference table and John McKee said, “I hate to admit this, but that hump Baker did a pretty good job.”

  Joe Ramos entered the room followed by a hulking blond-haired man, no doubt to all that he was Special Agent Pete W, and no doubt to all that Lizzy Cassidy had failed in her bid to re-join the team. Joe made introductions all around and George Washington immediately went into his routine asking Pete if he was queer. Pete, who had been tipped off by Ramos about George’s Eddie Murphy act, kept a straight face and said, “I don’
t think so George, but I do dress up a lot in women’s clothes. Maybe Alicia can clue me in on where to get a decent pair of nylons to fit my hairy legs.”

  They all erupted in a great tension relieving laugh and Mike Morra said, “You can dress up all you want Pete, but you still won’t be as pretty as Lizzy Cassidy.”

  “That’s for sure,” he said with a big grin. “We go out together, you know.”

  “Yeah, we know,” Danny said, “and we also know she brought you up to speed on terrorist tactics and how we beat them in the past.”

  “That she did,” he said. “Now how do we beat the Minutemen?”

  “We have no fucking idea,” Spider said.

  Just then the chimes on CNN broke in with a news alert that the President would address the nation at eight that evening. “Wonder what he’s going to say?” McKee said.

  “He’s going to say that we in law enforcement will find them, capture them and put their asses in jail immediately,” Danny said.

  “That’s right,” Washington said. “We gonna send our new secret weapon – a blond hairy Polack cross-dressing monster queer – right into their midst and wipe ‘em out.”

  “Let me loose,” Pete said. “Point me in the right direction. Which way do I go?”

  No one answered him.

  * * *

  At eight that evening, Harry Cassidy and his wife Susan, along with millions of their fellow Americans, sat in front of their television set anticipating the words of President Marcus Nelson. They were snuggled together on the sofa, a beer in Harry’s hand and a glass of chardonnay in Susan’s, when the announcer intoned, “The President of the United States.”

  Nelson took to the podium looking drawn and concerned. He was dressed in a dark blue suit, light blue shirt and a solid silver tie that matched his wavy, white hair and he got right to the point.

  My fellow Americans, I am sure you are aware of today’s news reports and the past murders committed by this new terrorist group in our midst known as the Minutemen.

  What we have to say in response to their threats is simple: No! The United States of American will never capitulate to your threats or demands. The United States of America will not abandon the democratic process at the point of a gun. Let me give the Minutemen an ultimatum of our own: We will hunt you down and bring you to justice for the murders you have committed. There is no higher priority, indeed no other priority of my administration than the destruction of your organization. All the resources of the government of the United States have been directed to accomplish that mission. The gauntlet has been thrown, our swords are drawn and our victory over terrorism is assured. Good night, and may God bless us all who fight for peace and justice.”

  “I didn’t think he could say anything else,” Harry said. “And he sure didn’t mince words.”

  “No, he didn’t, but what about all those targets? How does the government protect them? We don’t even know who they are.”

  “Unless the Minutemen identify them in the next letter to Baker, or they will have to protect every politician who has ever voiced his support of left-wing policies.”

  “I’m not sure there are enough cops and agents in the whole country to do that.”

  “Well, let’s see how the Minutemen react to Nelson’s statements. I’m guessing they will be mighty pissed off.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Christopher Steadman and his fellow Committee members sat at a rectangular table in the dining area of a six-bedroom, one-level rustic ranch set back in the rear of the compound surrounded by tall pine trees. The ranch had served as their temporary home for over a year now and would not be abandoned until their campaign to save America ended in success, or failure. The five men had now worked many hours and had just finished editing the next letter to be sent to Red Baker at the Sentinel. “I think we nailed it,” Colonel O’Grady said.

  Dennis Nolan, the Committee member whose specialty was the nation’s economy agreed saying, “I’m positive this will have the desired effect and response.”

  “I’m not so sure of that,” said Nicholas Santucci, the professor of American Studies and Constitutional Law. “The President’s tough speech may have shot some epoxy into the spine of his fellow leftists.”

  “Well, if they resist our demands,” said Charles Knorland, the Committee’s social scientist, “we will have to make our next strike somewhat stronger. What do you think, Chris?”

  All eyes turned to their leader who was sitting with his hands steepled in front of his face as if in prayer. He did not respond immediately continuing his silent pose. After thirty seconds he said, “I have some concerns going forward. No doubts, but concerns about possible roadblocks to achieving our goals. For example, what if the Sentinel refuses to print this letter?”

  “Why would they not?” O’Grady said. “They must be making a ton of money – and they have the exclusive on this.”

  “Pressure from the man in the White House. I bet he demanded to see our next letter before the Sentinel prints it.”

  “Red Baker will print this letter verbatim, Marcus Nelson be damned,” Dennis Nolan said. “He smells another Pulitzer Prize and a tripling of his salary.”

  “What about Brennan, the publisher?” asked Professor Santucci. “He has the final say, and not only is he weak in his principles, he will easily cave in to political pressure.”

  “How about we edit this letter a bit more,” O’Grady said. “Let’s add a caveat that if the Sentinel doesn’t print it in its entirety, both Baker and Brennan will become targets.”

  “And if they refuse to print it?” Knorland asked.

  “We carry out our threat,” O’Grady said. “That way the next media outlet we choose will certainly be more compliant.”

  “Are we all in agreement on this?” Christopher asked.

  They all raised their hands and answered in the affirmative. “Any other concerns, Chris?” Nolan asked.

  “Harry Cassidy specifically, and law enforcement in general. They are probably gearing up their Task Forces already. I was so hoping I could get Cassidy to join us. That’s why this house has six bedrooms instead of five.”

  “I haven’t seen anything on TV or in the papers with his name in it,” Knorland said. “Just the usual law enforcement total mobilization nonsense.”

  “Chris, why not call Phil MacDonald and see what he knows about Cassidy?” Colonel O’Grady asked, pointing at the telephone on the table.

  Chris smiled and said, “Excellent idea.” He took out his cell phone and scrolled through his contacts pressing Phil’s cell number. “Better to use this phone than the house phone. Never know who may be listening.”

  When the conversation was over, Chris looked at the group and said, “The ex-mayor is enjoying an expensive bottle of scotch compliments of Mr. Cassidy.”

  “And that means…?” O’Grady asked.

  “It means Harry was asked to participate – by both the NYMPD Police Commissioner and the FBI Director – and he politely declined. He also pulled a few strings and prevented his FBI agent daughter from being assigned to the New York Joint Terrorist Task Force.”

  “That’s great news,” Nolan said. “You must have made him a true believer in your one-on-one talk.”

  “I hope I did, and if so, I want to keep him that way. If we proceed as planned, there should be no problem. Which now brings me to my final concern – unforeseen circumstances.”

  “Ah,” O’Grady said, “I recognize a military planner when I see one, but you know as well as I, that you can never plan for everything, no matter how careful you are. That’s why those are called unforeseen.”

  “But we can minimize them, right?”

  “I think we have done that. All attempts by law enforcement to locate us will fail. They will go to the Reverend Phineas first and that will result in a dead-end. He doesn’t even know we are only ten miles from his place.”

  “Maybe we should consider re-locating if we have to strike again,” Chris said
. “You are right; they will go to Phineas first. I think we should change our plans and distance ourselves way away from here.”

  “We could do that easily,” Nolan said. “I’ll start working on locations at least a few hundred miles away.”

  “Good, do that. I’m also worried about leaks. I know the supporters who attended our meetings possess no information to allow law enforcement to identify or locate us, and our sixty field troops who are here with us at the compound have been thoroughly vetted…”

  “But…?” O’Grady asked.

  “But we will have to occasionally contract for specialty work like we did with the bombs provided by the Red Satans. Every person we add to our cause is a potential leak.”

  “Chris, only you met with our one field member who personally knew Don Diablo, and who handled the entire transaction,” the professor said. “Neither Diablo nor any of his group ever saw any of us, or knows of our existence.”

  “He’s right,” O’Grady said, “and any further use of outside help should be very limited.”

  Chris looked around the table and nodded his head. “Okay,” he said, “let’s make that change in this letter and get it in the mail forthwith.”

  That third letter arrived on Red Baker’s desk on Wednesday, June 9. He had already prepared part of Friday’s column which was devoted to President Nelson’s speech and the Minutemen’s possible reaction to it. He slit the large manila envelope open, took out six typewritten papers and began to read:

  Dear Mr. Baker,

  Your first column was very well done and your decision to publish both our letters, unedited, was most appreciated. We request you do the same with this letter, in fact, we insist on it. Our insistence is based on the fervent hope that no more murders or bombings will be necessary. The following pages contain a detailed list of the races for political office that will take place on next Election Day, Tuesday, November 2. We have indicated our preference in the race by placing a red asterisk next to our choice. The persons we have not selected, we believe, are extremely dangerous to the ideals of our Founding Fathers and the American Dream. They must not win. They must withdraw before the election.