pile of magazines a look of intense longing as I popped an individual-size frozen lasagna in the microwave. I’d made a quick stop at Panera’s on the way home so I had low-fat black bean soup, a Greek salad and a crusty baguette to round out my meal.
I ate it at the table that doubled as my desk, savoring every bite as long as I could before I dumped the dishes in the sink. There they would sit for the rest of the weekend, my declaration of independence from neat and orderly.
I heard noises outside and had to battle the urge to join the Friday night crowd. Instead, I dragged out my briefcase and set up my laptop. Didn’t take long until I was once again up to my ears in property inventories and Chapter Seven reporting requirements. While I was hammering out what I hoped was the final draft of my report, my cell phone pinged.
I recognized O’Reilly’s number and experienced an instant frisson of alarm. Shows you how shell-shocked I was by our recent string of disasters. I’d last seen O’Reilly driving off with Noel and was envisioning both of them caught in tangled wreckage or hijacked by banditos when I flipped my phone open.
“What’s up, Dennis?”
“Are you near a TV?”
“Huh?”
“A television. Are you near one?”
I glanced at the set sitting mute in the living room.
“Yes.”
“Turn on Channel Six. Now!”
CHAPTER EIGHT
I hit the remote and tuned into Channel Six. A perky blond reporter holding a microphone in front of her face morphed into view.
“. . . in the death of Patrick James Hooker, the American mercenary accused of selling stolen arms to drug lords. Three U.S. Marines and six Colombian paramilitary officers died in an ambush when those arms were turned against them. Special Agent Paul Donati from the FBI’s El Paso field office provided the details.”
The camera zoomed to a phalanx of uniformed law enforcement types and plainclothes officials standing on the steps of the federal courthouse. Front and center was the trim, wavy-haired FBI agent I’d met in the back room at Pancho’s.
A very familiar Border Patrol agent was next to him. Jeff Mitchell stood at a loose parade rest, his arms clasped behind him and his face unreadable as Donati spoke into a bank of microphones.
“Working from a list of personnel who’d either been stationed with or were friends of the three marines who died in Colombia, FBI agents across the country conducted a series of interviews.”
So Dan-O or his boss had come through with the names Mitch requested. The Constitution must have weighed as heavily on his shoulders as it had on mine! Shoving aside a pile of yet-to-be-read magazines, I dropped on the sofa and curled my legs under me.
“Those interviews led us to Mr. John Armstrong,” Donati continued. “Mr. Armstrong lost his only son, Gunnery Sergeant John Armstrong Jr., in a similar raid two months previously. Mr. Armstrong at first denied any involvement in Hooker’s death, but his neighbors indicated he became increasingly angry after the charges against Hooker were dismissed. One neighbor quoted him as vowing ‘to make things right.’ We then obtained a search warrant and matched a boot in Mr. Armstrong’s closet to a print found at the scene.”
Well, whaddaya know! EEEK and ole Rock’s data synthesizer had provided the evidence that cracked the case. I basked in a reflected glow of pride for my team’s sleuthing skills as Donati continued.
“At that point we advised Mr. Armstrong of his rights. He then confessed to shooting both Patrick Hooker and Juan Sandoval.”
The guy confessed? That would save the government big bucks on what would no doubt have become a sensational trial. I might even have been called as a witness. I was feeling a little miffed again at missing out on my few minutes of fame when the camera cut back to the reporter.
“FBI agents arrested Armstrong at his ranch outside Sierra Blanca earlier this afternoon. He was brought to the El Paso County Jail
I ate it at the table that doubled as my desk, savoring every bite as long as I could before I dumped the dishes in the sink. There they would sit for the rest of the weekend, my declaration of independence from neat and orderly.
I heard noises outside and had to battle the urge to join the Friday night crowd. Instead, I dragged out my briefcase and set up my laptop. Didn’t take long until I was once again up to my ears in property inventories and Chapter Seven reporting requirements. While I was hammering out what I hoped was the final draft of my report, my cell phone pinged.
I recognized O’Reilly’s number and experienced an instant frisson of alarm. Shows you how shell-shocked I was by our recent string of disasters. I’d last seen O’Reilly driving off with Noel and was envisioning both of them caught in tangled wreckage or hijacked by banditos when I flipped my phone open.
“What’s up, Dennis?”
“Are you near a TV?”
“Huh?”
“A television. Are you near one?”
I glanced at the set sitting mute in the living room.
“Yes.”
“Turn on Channel Six. Now!”
CHAPTER EIGHT
I hit the remote and tuned into Channel Six. A perky blond reporter holding a microphone in front of her face morphed into view.
“. . . in the death of Patrick James Hooker, the American mercenary accused of selling stolen arms to drug lords. Three U.S. Marines and six Colombian paramilitary officers died in an ambush when those arms were turned against them. Special Agent Paul Donati from the FBI’s El Paso field office provided the details.”
The camera zoomed to a phalanx of uniformed law enforcement types and plainclothes officials standing on the steps of the federal courthouse. Front and center was the trim, wavy-haired FBI agent I’d met in the back room at Pancho’s.
A very familiar Border Patrol agent was next to him. Jeff Mitchell stood at a loose parade rest, his arms clasped behind him and his face unreadable as Donati spoke into a bank of microphones.
“Working from a list of personnel who’d either been stationed with or were friends of the three marines who died in Colombia, FBI agents across the country conducted a series of interviews.”
So Dan-O or his boss had come through with the names Mitch requested. The Constitution must have weighed as heavily on his shoulders as it had on mine! Shoving aside a pile of yet-to-be-read magazines, I dropped on the sofa and curled my legs under me.
“Those interviews led us to Mr. John Armstrong,” Donati continued. “Mr. Armstrong lost his only son, Gunnery Sergeant John Armstrong Jr., in a similar raid two months previously. Mr. Armstrong at first denied any involvement in Hooker’s death, but his neighbors indicated he became increasingly angry after the charges against Hooker were dismissed. One neighbor quoted him as vowing ‘to make things right.’ We then obtained a search warrant and matched a boot in Mr. Armstrong’s closet to a print found at the scene.”
Well, whaddaya know! EEEK and ole Rock’s data synthesizer had provided the evidence that cracked the case. I basked in a reflected glow of pride for my team’s sleuthing skills as Donati continued.
“At that point we advised Mr. Armstrong of his rights. He then confessed to shooting both Patrick Hooker and Juan Sandoval.”
The guy confessed? That would save the government big bucks on what would no doubt have become a sensational trial. I might even have been called as a witness. I was feeling a little miffed again at missing out on my few minutes of fame when the camera cut back to the reporter.
“FBI agents arrested Armstrong at his ranch outside Sierra Blanca earlier this afternoon. He was brought to the El Paso County Jail
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