Blind Justice (11 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Jonas Black watched the worry lines crease across Munroe
’
s forehead as the blind man placed the phone back in the pants pocket of his dark tailored suit. Black tugged against the collar of his own suit and said, “Is everything okay?”

“No, Mr. Black, something is very wrong with this whole situation.” Munroe pulled a small device from his pocket and rolled it through his fingers. “I think we may have walked into a trap.”

“What do you mean?”

Several objects bursting through the windows of the small dwelling answered his question. Black immediately recognized the metal cylinders rolling across the floor and spewing white smoke as tear gas canisters.

Training kicked in, took over.

Assess the situation.

Their enemy
’
s tactic was clear. The strike team outside had filled the space with tear gas, making it impossible for them to stay inside. The enemy would expect them to rush from the building where they would be mowed down by gunfire or could be easily subdued and captured.

The gas quickly smothered the space, stealing all breathable air.

Munroe and the local detective, Cullins, hacked and coughed and tried to cover their faces with their shirts. It wouldn
’
t help, only prolong the inevitable. Cullins stumbled toward the front door, but Black stopped him and said, “We can
’
t go that way or out the back. They
’
ll be waiting.”

Clear liquid dripped down the detective
’
s face as he said, “We can
’
t stay here!”

Black
’
s eyes, nose, and throat burned as the gas attacked mucous membranes in those areas, but this wasn
’
t his first experience with tear gas. In Recon training, one of the final exercises required him to carry a fallen comrade through miles of rough terrain as his instructors shot tear gas in his path. It didn
’
t come close to making him immune to the effects of the gas, but it had showed him how to push through the pain and disorientation in order to achieve his mission. In Recon, the mission always came first, long before concerns over a soldier
’
s own safety or personal comfort. And today, his mission was to protect Deacon Munroe.

“Come on!” he said as he dragged the other two men into the home
’
s tiny kitchen. If they couldn
’
t use the current exits, the only other option was to make one of their own.

Black raised his PT845 and fired a full magazine of .45 caliber slugs into a circle on the linoleum of the kitchen floor. Then he used his considerable weight as a tool to stomp through the flooring and plywood sheeting into the home
’
s crawlspace.

Unfortunately, the strike team outside either thought that he had opened fire on them or realized what he was attempting. Bullets shredded the modular
’
s walls to pieces and made the air a maelstrom of drywall dust, pink insulation, and shards of broken glass.

Black dropped to the floor, hauling the dead weight of Munroe and Cullins with him. Then he violently shoved the crying and gasping pair into the hole he had created. The two men fought for air as they rolled in the dirt and spider webs beneath the house.

He pushed Cullins clear of the opening and dropped in behind them as the barrage of gunfire subsided above. Wasting no time, his arms and legs scrambled through the dirt as he struggled to pull his sizable bulk through the tight space toward an access panel at the back end of the house. With barely enough room to maneuver and his back scraping against the floor joists, he finally reached the panel. The view through the louvered opening showed a large Hispanic man wearing a bulletproof vest over street clothes. An MP5 submachine gun stretched from the man
’
s shoulder as he crept toward the house with an economy of movement that spoke of training and skill.

Wiping the sleeve of his new suit over his eyes, Black cleared the tear gas as best he could and prepared for combat. With his right hand, he readied the PT845 as his left prepared to push out the panel. Taking three sharp breaths, he shot forward and tore the panel from its housing. It flew into the backyard and struck a nearby tree trunk with a loud crash.

The gunman spun toward the sound but had enough discipline not to fire blindly. His enemy less than ten feet away, Black easily dropped the man with a well-placed shot to the head. The gunman crumpled in on himself as a red mist filled the air.

Over the ringing in his ears, Black could hear two sets of running footsteps. One coming from each side of the building. If he stayed in the crawlspace, he knew that he
’
d be a sitting duck. The only option was to meet them head-on. He ripped himself from the tiny opening and tried to gain his feet. The suit jacket caught on a nail, and the material tore away.

Black didn
’
t hesitate.

He sprinted toward the left side of the house. As the gunman came around the corner, the man
’
s eyes went wide at the sight of Black bearing down on him. The man raised his weapon, but Black batted it aside. Without slowing, he lowered his shoulder like a linebacker going for a tackle on the other team
’
s quarterback. He caught the smaller man low, spinning him end over end. As he landed on his back, the man wheezed and gasped violently.

Black spun on his heels and jerked the disoriented attacker from the ground like a rag doll. Grabbing the gunman by the back of his bulletproof vest, Black held him out as a human shield and rushed toward the third enemy, who was coming around the opposite corner of the house.

The third man didn
’
t hesitate to sacrifice his comrade as his MP5 spit fire at Black. His human shield shook with each impact as Black rushed forward. But he didn
’
t halt his forward progress until he was within fifteen feet of his opponent. Then without warning and in one fluid movement, he dropped his human shield, raised the PT845, and fell to one knee in a shooting stance. Sighting down the barrel, he squeezed the trigger three times.

The first two rounds caught the third gunman in the chest, rocking him back on his heels. The final shot caught him in the face.

Wasting no time, Black grabbed up one of the MP5s, checked the magazine, and methodically secured the perimeter. He saw no signs of more attackers but did hear a vehicle peeling away in the distance beyond the trees.

When he returned to the rear of the small house, he found that Cullins had helped Munroe out from the crawlspace. Doubled over with hands on knees, the two men coughed and hacked out the remnants of the tear gas. Cullins rubbed furiously at his eye sockets as he growled in pain.

Black knew better than to ask if they were okay. Instead, he said to Munroe, “This is why I told you to where that damn Kevlar vest I got you. Are you hurt?”

In a harsh whisper, Munroe said, “I
’
m fine, but we need to send help for Joey. I suspect he may be in worse trouble than us.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Annabelle Dixon had come to think of Joey Helgeson like a younger brother. Joey excelled to the point of genius in some areas, and yet in many situations, he was clueless. During the previous week, she had spent two hours on the phone discussing ways for Joey to ask out some girl who worked at the local Starbucks. They hadn
’
t made much headway, but at least she had dissuaded him from enacting an elaborate plan involving origami and Hershey
’
s kisses. As she sped down New Hampshire Ave NW toward Joey
’
s apartment, she couldn
’
t dispel a twisting fear in her guts, a fear of losing yet another brother.

Police cars surrounded the building, and officers had erected barricades on the sidewalks. She pushed through the crowd of onlookers and flashed her DCIS credentials to the officers to gain access. The interior of the building smelled of old wood and the white vinegar used for cleaning it. She bounded up the dark wood stairs to Joey
’
s apartment. Ghastly images flashed before her eyes. She expected to see her friend
’
s lifeless form covered with a white sheet, blood soaking through its surface.

Instead, she found Joey in his office being questioned by the DC police. He noticed her and stood. The churning knots in her stomach untied, and relief overwhelmed her. She rushed forward and embraced him. “I thought you were dead,” she said in a choked whisper.

Joey returned the hug and said, “I won
’
t sleep for a year, and I may have ruined a good pair of Superman undies, but other than that I
’
m fine.
”

“What the hell happened?”

He described the intruder and his requests and then added, “The guy said that he only takes life when it
’
s absolutely necessary and that my death wasn
’
t required for the completion of his mission. He said it just like that. No emotion. Just facts.”

“You
’
re lucky to be alive.” She turned to the officer who had been questioning Joey. “Sorry to have interrupted.”

The handsome cop gave her a large smile and said, “No problem. I have everything I need. Mr. Helgeson, if we have any more questions, someone will be in contact.” He stood and headed for the door.

Annabelle said, “Deacon will want to know you
’
re okay.” She dialed Munroe, who answered before the second ring. She and Joey explained the events that had transpired. Munroe expressed his relief and informed them that he and Black were still answering questions in Annapolis but would be done soon.

“I need you to book the two of us on the next flight to Leavenworth, KS,” Munroe said. “It
’
s time for Black to pay a visit to his old friend, John Corrigan, and get us some answers.”

Annabelle hesitated. Munroe had requested to be informed if Corrigan had any visitors and so the warden at the USDB had felt that Munroe would also want to know about an incident that had taken place in the prison
’
s laundry room. She had received the call not long before hearing of Joey
’
s situation.

“Speaking to Corrigan is going to be a problem, Deac.”

Silence filled the line for a moment, and she knew that Munroe could sense her unease. “Why is that?” he said slowly.

“Because some inmates attacked Corrigan and one of the guards. The guard
’
s fine, but Corrigan suffered a lot of damage. He
’
s in a medically-induced coma.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

An investigation could often seem like a house of cards that would topple if one lead or piece of evidence was moved or shifted or fell through. The investigator
’
s job was to make the house of cards stand on its own despite what sometimes felt like a million insurmountable forces pressing against it. Normally, this process didn
’
t frustrate Munroe. But most cases didn
’
t lead back to the people responsible for his best friend
’
s death.

In this instance, the loss of whatever information John Corrigan may have held devastated him. He tried to ignore it and move forward to the next lead, but he couldn
’
t shake the feeling that he would never learn the truth. The people who wanted this case buried obviously held positions of power within the government, and despite the favors owed to him by those in the upper echelons, he was still just a DCIS investigator. Quite a bit exceeded his pay grade.

Such thoughts still weighed on him even as Black led him into the office of Dr. Phillip Karnowski, one of Wyatt Randall
’
s former colleagues. Randall had been a chemistry professor at Georgetown University before abruptly abandoning his tenure and dropping off the grid. Joey had contacted the university, tracked down the person with the most knowledge of Randall
’
s work, and scheduled a meeting.

Dr. Karnowski greeted them at his office, a small space within Georgetown
’
s Reiss Science Building. He had a firm handshake and thick hairy forearms. Munroe gripped the man
’
s arm with both hands and could estimate Karnowski
’
s height relative to his own from the angle at which the forearm sloped upward or downward. Karnowski was a short man.

Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, and the stink of dry erase markers hung in the air. Munroe bumped his shin against something hard as Black shoved him roughly into a padded office chair. He had explained to Black that the proper procedure was to guide his hand to the back of the chair and let him find his own seat, but apparently the big man wasn
’
t a quick study, another stinging reminder of Gerald
’s absence.

“So how can I help? Your associate didn
’
t give me much information over the phone,” Karnowski said. He possessed the booming voice of a professional lecturer.

Munroe replied, “We
’
re here to get more information about Wyatt Randall and his work. I understand that the two of you were friends?”

“I suppose you could say that. We weren
’
t close, but we went out for drinks a few times and consulted with each other.”

“So you were aware of what Randall was working on?”

“Yes, officially, he was invested in the stereodynamic chemistry of chiral compounds and the development of new antimalarial drugs.”

Munroe raised an eyebrow. “And unofficially?”

Karnowski tapped a finger against the surface of his desk and took a deep breath. “The truth of the matter is that I never thought much of Wyatt or his work. He was sloppy and prone to fantastical thinking. Don
’
t get me wrong, I respect visionaries, but Wyatt didn
’
t have the brains to back it up. He was coming dangerously close to losing all his funding, and honestly, the money would have been better off going to someone else.”

“But he had some kind of pet project that showed promise?”

Karnowski laughed. “Oh, he had a pet project, but I wouldn
’
t refer to it as promising. Randall
’
s father had died from some degenerative brain disease. After that, Wyatt went on a bit of a personal crusade to find a treatment for such conditions.”

“Sounds like a noble cause.”

“Yes, but unfortunately, his passion led him into areas that I would consider pseudoscience at best. He became obsessed with m-state metals.”

Munroe felt his excitement rise as things started to click into place. Dr. Stapleton
’
s words floated through his mind from her report on General Easton
’
s death and her discovery of
elevated levels of certain monatomic metals.

“Monatomic metals?”

“Yes, are you familiar with the concept?”

“Only on a surface level.”

Karnowski shifted into lecture mode. “The center of the periodic chart of elements consists of what are known as the transition elements, meaning that they can transit from metallic to monatomic or diatomic via chemical treatment or through other means. Because they are chemically inert, they can be ingested.”

Munroe had already heard from Stapleton that certain supplements on the market contained monatomic metals, but he played dumb. “Eat metal? Why would someone do that?”

“Well, not only do our cells communicate via chemicals and electricity in our nervous system, they also communicate intercellularly through the exchange of photons or light particles and other processes as well. The human body is a marvelous bioelectric machine, and all of its processes depend on the clear and ideally unimpeded conduction of electrical messages. Light, as proven by fiber optics, can carry more information with less interference. It
’
s a purer form of transmission. The theory behind ingesting m-state metals is that it’s like transforming the body’s wiring from being simple copper cable to being wired with fiber optics, where the same wiring is able to carry many times as much processing information. There are supplements available that claim to have this ability, but while the properties of m-state metals are fascinating, most reputable scientists don
’
t believe in such effects, and there isn
’
t any real scientific evidence that I
’
ve seen to support these claims.”

“But Randall thought that by boosting people
’
s brains with monatomics, he could repair the damaged pathways?”

“That and more. But as I said, it
’
s a pseudo-science at best, and in my opinion, many of the proponents aren
’
t scientists but new-age scam artists. Despite my objections, Wyatt claimed that he had found a way to combine m-state metals with an ampakine and a revolutionary nanobot delivery system that provides the user with more energy, concentration, a quicker reaction time, and even increased intelligence, essentially allowing the user to operate at their fullest potential even with very little sleep or rest.”

“Did you see any of his results from this? Anything to back up his claims?”

“No, shortly after he told me about his supposed breakthrough, he resigned his post and left the university. He didn
’
t tell me why he was leaving or even that he was leaving. I heard about it second-hand after he was gone. I suspect that it was more of
breakdown
than a
breakthrough
.”

“And you haven
’
t heard anything from or about him since?”

“I heard a rumor that he was working with an old friend to bring his discovery to the market, but I don
’
t put much stock in that.”

Munroe stood. “Thank you, Dr. Karnowski. We appreciate your time, and you
’
ve been most helpful.”

He shook hands with the professor and left a card in case Karnowski remembered anything else. Then Black led him out of the office and down the hall. The tile squeaked beneath Black
’
s thick-soled shoes. The former soldier had refused to wear dress shoes with his new suit, quoting something about tactical concerns and opting instead for black steel-toed boots.

Black said, “We
’
re coming up on the stairs.”

“Okay, walk in front of me a bit, and I
’
ll feel your body shift as you step down.”

It was around dinner time, and most students and faculty had abandoned the halls. This made the quick footsteps of two people behind them seem all the more out of place. Munroe was about to tell Black to check who was coming up on them so quickly when a man at their backs said, “If you move or turn around, I
’
ll shoot you.”