Retribution

Retribution

Richard Gerber

RETRIBUTION

Copyright © 2015 Richard Gerber.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4917-7189-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-7190-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015911007

iUniverse rev. date: 08/12/2015

CONTENTS

Part 1

Fast Track To Perdition

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

Part 2

House of Worship House of War

29

30

31

32

33

34

35

36

37

Part 3

Kicking the Hornets Nest

38

39

40

41

42

43

44

45

46

47

48

Acknowledgments

Part 1

Fast Track To Perdition

…in a time of deceit, telling the truth is a revolutionary act.

George Orwell

1

.—.-.-.

Oklahoma City, Oklahoma

May 1, May Day, Present time

The bomber’s pickup truck sat in front of Meg Leon’s car. She blew the horn impatiently. Her daughter would be late for school if he didn’t move soon. A bright flash appeared, then the windshield burst into Meg’s face. In a nano second, glass and metal from her car, and the bomb, ripped through her and her daughter’s bodies destroying tissue, membrane, and bone, as their world ended.

Fred Overstreet changed his mind about taking a short-cut, but it was too late. A pessimist at heart and a Murphy’s Law adherent, he was caught in traffic, stopped at a green light and late for a nine o’clock appointment because some fool in a pickup had decided to park in the middle of the intersection, tying up everything. Joining the other honking drivers, he laid on his horn, thinking it might get the jerk moving. The jerk didn’t move, even with his efforts. Annoyed as hell at being trapped by the gridlock, he removed his sun glasses, rolled down the window, and hollered.

The explosion shattered his eardrums. Pain instantly invaded his ears and his eyes with shards of glass. Confused, Fred tried to see but the torment prevented him and he kept his eyes shut. What happened? He took a breath and coughed. Smoke filled the car. Flames were lapping in the back seat. Glass fragments embedded in his forehead caused blood to ooze down into his already damaged eyes so he could not see the other vehicles on fire. Overstreet ran his hand over his eyes, removed a piece of glass, and cleared some of the blood. Smoke wafted out through his broken windshield, and he saw the engine blazing. Bewildered and with his stomach hurting, he moved the deflated air bag to vaguely see…what was that? He couldn’t tell right away; he thought it looked like a thin piece of pipe or rod. Fred touched the area where the rod had entered. He felt a sticky wetness. He quickly raised his blood-covered hands and squinted at them. Panicked, he grabbed the rod and yanked. Searing torment ripped through his body as he wrenched it half way out. Fred fainted as the fire consumed the back of his seat and shirt.

More explosions filled the air, then screams and yelling as another car’s fuel tank ignited.

The first responder to the disaster, Oklahoma City police officer, Pedro Pete Sanchez, killed his siren, jumped out of his black and white scout car, and ran to the nearest totaled vehicle. A young woman, restrained by her seat belt, hung out of the car where the door used to be, bleeding from her head and mouth.

Ma’am, I’m gonna help you.

She moaned as he gently lifted her hair to check her wound. Pete Sanchez then looked around at the carnage. What the hell?

Sanchez counted at least nine vehicles totaled and a dozen more damaged. The emergency medical technicians haven’t arrived yet, but a quick glance showed him everyone in the area seemed hurt…or dead. He heard more sirens close by. Behind him someone touched his shoulder. He turned.

Help me, the man slurred.

Pete Sanchez stared at him; the man’s face, well…it just wasn’t there, except for an eye. Sanchez held back the bile. He took the man by the arm and led him to the curb.

Lie down here.

Sanchez sprinted back to the scout car and grabbed a medical kit and blanket from the trunk. Dashing back to the man, he covered him. Sanchez relaxed a little as other rescuers arrived on the scene.

I heard the blast before I got the call, a sergeant said approaching Sanchez. How the hell did this happened? He looked at Sanchez.

I don’t know what happened, Sarge. Just got here myself, Sanchez said.

What a hellava mess, Sarge said.

The sergeant scanned the area.

Well, it’s no wreck.

Sarge turned toward a fast food restaurant and said, Damn.

All the glass had been blown out and the restaurant burned like a torch. An Italian restaurant next door also had blown out windows and a small fire grew inside. A couple of wounded patrons stumbled to escape. A short distance to the South, Krispy Kreme stood with its windows gone but no fire.

Aw, shit! The sergeant shook his head.

Look over there at that crater. Must be three feet deep. Sarge pointed his hand.

Sanchez ignored him and walked over to the man he had covered, his one eye staring blankly. He felt for a pulse and found none. Damn.

The sergeant came up and asked, Dead?

As a doornail.

We’ve got a major problem, the sergeant tried again.

I would think so. Homicide.

More like suicide. Looks like a suicide bombing.

What makes you think that?

It’s obvious. Seen plenty of ’em after I deployed to Iraq.

I thought if our guys were over there, the suicide bombers wouldn’t be over here.

Boy, you believe that shit?

He waved his hand over the chaos.

They’re here, Pete. This is really going to ramp things up.

An Emergency Medical Services Authority paramedic truck arrived. Two medics jumped out, bewildered as they surveyed the disaster. Recovering quickly, they ran to the nearest victim, jumping over debris and body parts along the way.

The sergeant said, This is all? I’m calling in more.

He grabbed his lapel mic.

Pete walked toward a vehicle near the crater with its top peeled back like a tin can. He perceived a body in the car, missing from the chest up. He turned away, doubled over, and spewed his breakfast.

More sirens heralded the arrival of black and whites. Sarge hollered at the officers to spread out and help the wounded and control the traffic. Cars approaching the blast site were jamming up, most of them in a helter-skelter pattern. Some drivers were out, walking and gawking, leaving their vehicles empty and in the way. One woman stood beside her car and screamed at a smoking arm on the hood of one of the wrecks.

Back up!

The officers rounded them up and pushed them back into their cars. One patrolman unrolled the yellow crime scene tape, tied it to his car, unrolled the tape across the street and tied it to another patrol car. It worked like a steel barrier.

Detective Art Morgan had been on his way to Central on the Broadway Extension from Edmond when he heard the call over the radio for all available officers to proceed to the disaster. He’d just passed the turnpike exit so he continued south until the Hefner Road exit and took it heading west flipping on his lights and siren. Morgan carefully threaded his way through the traffic that had stopped at the light on Penn and Hefner. Slowly making a right turn heading north on Penn and tromped the gas on the Ford Fusion. He arrived five minutes after he heard the call. Because of the growing traffic jam, Morgan had to park his Fusion a block away. He was six feet tall, athletically built so he sprinted to the carnage, passing the damaged Krispy Kreme shop and spotted Sanchez looking pale green and wiping his mouth with a cloth. Art strode over to him, sucking in air.

Pete, got any idea what happened? Morgan asked.

Not yet, lieutenant. Pete wiped his forehead.

The Sarge said it looked like a terrorist attack.

Are you okay?

Yes, I’m fine.

Morgan eyed him, not believing that. He let it go.

Where’s Sarge now?

Over there, Sanchez pointed.

Morgan looked in the direction, and asked Sanchez, What do you think?

I think he might be right. After he said it and I checked the scene, he placed the cloth over his mouth, then removed it, it sure seems like terrorists. He wiped the sweat from his brow. Wasn’t any accident.

Call in Special Unit, Morgan said.

Any deaths or murder on the roads, Special Unit had to be informed.

Morgan continued. And also the Technical Investigator unit. I want the on, off ramps blocked from the turnpike for a mile in both directions. Close Memorial road and the main roads.

The Technical Investigators unit was Oklahoma City’s CSI.

As Sanchez fumbled the mic on his shoulder and spoke, Morgan walked around absorbing the butchery. That’s what it was, he thought, butchery possibly by the Islamic terrorists bastards. No proof…yet…but it did look like Al Qaeda or ISIS.

Art Morgan continued walking through the mess, moving pieces of twisted metal with his foot and seeing dead bodies in their vehicles burned or still burning. The breeze blew the stench away from him and played with his wavy brown hair. A couple of auto horns from damaged vehicles were blaring, more sirens were wailing, and he heard loud moaning and some crying. Art watched a paramedic rush over to the moaning. He stopped and put his fists on his hips. Morgan spotted the bomber’s truck next to the crater and went over. Inside, nothing left of the fool who did it, except half a leg that had been rammed into the dash. Not much left of the truck either. Then he saw the vehicle close by that had given Pete Sanchez his green hue. He turned away.

Yep, he did it, lieutenant.

The sergeant had come up behind Morgan, who flinched. He hoped the sergeant hadn’t noticed. Morgan turned and squinted, the sun in his brown eyes. He put on his Ray-Ban Aviator sunglasses.

So you think it was a terrorist act?

Yes sir. Has all the earmarks. Just like in Iraq.

The sergeant wiped his forehead with his hand.

He’s right in the middle of this mess, Sarge said.

When special unit and TI arrive tell them to pay particular attention to that.

Yes sir, I will.

If they give you any lip, tell them I said it.

Okay, lieutenant.

Morgan made a slow trip back to his unmarked car taking in everything on the way. The reports and photos would get to him later. Morgan reached his car, got in, and wiped the sweat from his forehead. He wanted to inspect farther south of the disaster. He started the Ford, punched on the A/C, turned the car south, and drove slow using his siren sporadically to move people.

Damn, he said aloud after he’d driven almost a half mile south on Penn.

Morgan had noticed drivers heading north toward the site; he saw a break in the line and swung his Fusion across the path of the approaching vehicles. He stopped, dismounted, and twirled his arm around in the air and pointed south. They got the message and cars began the slow process of obeying.

In short order more units arrived.

Push ’em back, Morgan hollered. Close it down. I want a mile buffer.

He jumped into his car and drove north to check the area under the turnpike bridge.

Morgan returned to the epicenter again at Pennsylvania Avenue and Memorial Road to survey the scene and decided he wanted more help. Since the scene was the boundary between the Spring Lake Briefing Station and Hefner Briefing Station, he called Captain Bruce Ritter at Central, which was his base.

Captain, we need all resources here at the explosion area.

I’ll call in second shift for some overtime. Will that be enough?

That should do it, captain.

Morgan thought for a second, You might want to come here yourself and bring Larry Daye…it’s a real mess.

I’ll be there after I get second shift on the move.

Ten-four, Morgan said.

Morgan noticed fire trucks forcing themselves to get through the clog of vehicles. He heard, then looked up and saw two police helicopters circling the area. Higher up three news stations had their copters above the police. He surveyed the street south of him. The news media had muscled their trucks to the crime scene tape and parked. He used his cell phone to call the sergeant.

Keep the news hounds at the tape. No one gets through, he told the sergeant.

Morgan spotted some civilians trying to help. He rushed over.

Back off people! I know you’re trying to help but this is a crime scene. We have people to do this.

Art Morgan felt like a heel but he had to preserve the scene. The stakes were too high to have civilians contaminating it, even if they meant well. The walking wounded had already removed themselves away from the blast area to adjacent parking lots.

Oklahoma State Troopers arrived and set up road blocks at the on and off ramps of the John Kilpatrick Turnpike. The Penn Avenue entrance ramp from the turnpike was closed and traffic was routed to the Western Avenue exit. The turnpike was not involved except for some debris that the troopers hurriedly kicked off the road. They had a rough time clearing the junk off of the turnpike and keeping the traffic moving without being run over by the looky-loos.

There was some overlapping of troopers and city police but the jurisdiction belonged to the Oklahoma City Police, since the explosion occurred on a city street. So, the OKC police caught the challenge to clean up the disaster.

Two white, Dodge crime-scene trucks arrived, as well as the medical examiner’s black car. The ME, Dr. William Palmer, slowly left his vehicle, carrying a cup of coffee, and sauntered over to Morgan.

What a mess, Art. I’ll have to call my whole staff for this scene.

Yeah, this is really bad. Most of the scene is taped. We’ll have it all done in a couple of minutes, Bill.

Okay, when the rest of my team gets here we’ll start from the center and work out.

Palmer looked around.

The investigators can start working now from the perimeter, then to the center, as usual. Of course, no one touches the bodies until we’re finished.

Of course, Morgan said.

Palmer pulled out his iPhone and called.

The hot morning sun struggled through the smoke filled atmosphere. A whisper of a breeze that kept the heat bearable, now swirled the smoke around. A blue Ford Focus pulled over to the curb just short of the police line. Father Gregory Keller stepped out and hung onto his door.

Holy Mother of God, help them.

Father Keller had heard the explosions and saw the smoke from his chapel near by. He hurried under the yellow tape carrying his black pouch with a stole, holy water, and other paraphernalia for the sick and dying.

Hey, you there, get back!

Father Keller twisted his head to the left and saw an officer closing the distance between them at double time. He turned and faced the charging patrolman.

I’m a Roman Catholic priest. I need to help the wounded and dying.

That slowed the cop down to a brisk walk.

I didn’t see your collar. It’s bad here, Father.

Be strong for them, my son.

Over here, Father. This guy really needs you.

The officer led the priest towards a man lying on his back next to a car, his elbow on the pavement and his hand slowly waving back and forth.

Father Keller rushed up to the victim.

Are you a Roman Catholic?

The man’s face had blood covering it and he coughed. His pants were ripped and bloody, as was his torso. He groaned and tried to speak.

The cop said, Aw, geez, and ran off yelling, medic, over here!

Father Keller said, Nod if you are Catholic.

The man nodded once.

Do you want to confess your sins?

The man nodded again.

Father Keller quickly opened his case and pulled out a two-color stole, white on one side and violet on the other side. He kissed it and laid it around his neck, violet side out.

Okay, can you tell me your sins?

The man groaned, coughed and said, Ahggh.

Okay, just nod. Are you truly sorry for all of your sins and wish to make amends?

The man nodded.

I’ll say the Act of contrition for you now.

O my God, I’m heartily sorry for having offended Thee and I detest all of my sins because I dread the loss of heaven and the pains of hell. But most of all because they offend Thee, my God, Who art all good and deserving of all of my love.

Father Keller coughed to hold back tears, then continued.

I firmly resolve, with the help of Thy grace, to sin no more and to avoid the near occasions of sin. Amen.

As God’s representative on earth, Father Gregory Keller then gave the man absolution in Latin, making the sign of the cross over him.

I absolve thee from thy sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost, Amen.

The man choked and Father Keller held his hand as it slowly slackened.

The officer came running up with a paramedic. The paramedic knelt beside the man and checked him.

I can’t do anything for him.

I’m sorry, Father, the cop said.

Father Keller smiled and said, Don’t be sorry for me…or him.

The priest hurried off to help someone else.

2

Baltimore City, Maryland

May 1, May Day, Present time

The soft light from a lamp across the hotel room shown on her smooth coffee cream legs. His hand moved slowly from her calf to inside her thighs.

She whispered, I love you.

He kissed her long and deep.

Oklahoma City detective, Nicholas Witkowski and his wife, Tessa, had arrived in Baltimore on Southwest Airlines flight 246 early Sunday evening, April 30. They had planned the vacation for a long time. Nick wanted to get away from the crime and lowlifes that every major city had. The only drawback was that Baltimore held some bitter as well as pleasant memories. The hotel stood at the edge of the bitter, and he wanted to show and tell Tessa the bad as well as the good.

After the lovemaking, Nick stayed on the bed while Tessa called room service to take the breakfast cart away. After room service got the cart Tessa waved at Nick and went into the bathroom for a shower. On his back he stared at the ceiling with his hands behind his head, not really thinking about anything—just feeling good. Then a memory popped in.

Baltimore, Late Spring, 1976

Remembering that they had been working from a tip that a wanted killer had been spotted lurking down by the waterfront on Pratt Street, Nick and three other officers had been sent to check it out. Flashlights were aimed at the broken windows of abandoned warehouses slated for demolition gave him a prickly sensation—the pucker factor was high. The buildings almost looked like World War II bombing victims. Urban renewal couldn’t come fast enough for him. Dead fish, oil, and diesel fumes breezed by him from the harbor.

Witkowski maneuvered around trash and broken glass, battered tires, chunks of metal and other debris always found at abandoned sites. His footsteps crunched on the street scattering the rats that scurried about him. Nick’s light, bobbing and scanning in front of him, explored the darkness. His breathe came in short gasps through his slightly opened mouth. The night was hot and he wiped the perspiration from his forehead with his bare arm. The others now had their guns drawn and he did the same.

The empty buildings, with their thousand dark eyes leered down on him, mocking—I have a secret. The rotten smells coming off the harbor, seventy-five yards away, mixed with the odors of the empty warehouses made his stomach queasy. The city stunk and McCormick’s Spice Company nearby couldn’t mask the fumes.

Witkowski moved slow with the others near him but slightly in front of him. As the rookie he was told to stay a little behind. He thought they looked like the Earp’s and Doc Holliday in Tombstone—four abreast.

Nick squinted, thought he saw something and aimed his light at it.

Over there! Nick shouted as a phantom ran across his flashlight beam.

They ran towards the door where the image had been, Witkowski being twenty-five feet behind. Just before they reached the door the suspect popped up in the doorway firing his weapons, deafening them and blinding them with muzzle flash. Everything seemed to slow as Witkowski pointed his service revolver in the direction of the suspect and fired.

Nick was the last one shot.

He twisted when a bullet hit him in the left arm and felt a burn in his side. Then his leg collapsed under him.

Witkowski laid in his pool of blood; its stickiness made him more uncomfortable and seemed to glue him to the pavement. The strong copper smell wafted unpleasantly into his nostrils until a breeze carried it away. His eyes pointed up at the starless night. Why couldn’t he see the stars? Of course, the ambient city lights. He tried to move his leg and winced. Hit three times, the left side and arm, and leg, he knew he couldn’t help arrest the suspect.

Where were the other officers? No sound, except…footfalls running closer toward him. The suspect fired his gun again at Witkowski as he charged by. Bits of concrete peppered the side of his face. The dark figure got smaller as it retreated away from Witkowski into the night.

A distant ship’s horn sounded. He didn’t hear the other officers. Were they chasing the suspect? No, he now remembered seeing them fall. Was he the only one alive?

I can hardly wait to see the sites, Tessa announced from the bathroom destroying Nick’s morbid thoughts.

"It’s good to get away for a few days,