Office of Inspector General, Enforcement Directorate, Industrial Credit and Investment Regulation Agency, Hillcrest Heights, MD, USA PART II: The failing four
Gert opened her laptop.
The Ballad of Balladour
"Nutjob number one: Pierre Michel Balladour, 48 yo Male. Retired from the Sûreté. StoneBriar's squeezing hands on the campaign trail in Sheboygan, Wisconsin. Old Pierre pulls a k-bar and goes straight for the carotid artery. StoneBriar stops it half inch short of target, snaps Balladour's elbow and rams k-bar right back through his neck. Butcher's report says severed spine, so poor old Pierre was likely dead before he hit the ground".
He took a sip of his coffee and remarked, "The French attacking instead of surrendering. At least he had that goin' for him".
"Not French, Canuck. Québec Sûreté", Gert clarified. "Retired SWAT team commander. Balladour was as Québécois as poutine and a radical seperatist who got his panties in a wad about the proposed NORAD base near Miquelon".
"That explains the motive and the k-bar. Standard unofficial issue for North American Police Militias. Besides, the French simply don't have that kind of cojones these days".
"True. They just kill you with shitty poetry".
Santos strikes out
"Whacko numero dos. Lance Corporal Pilar Santos de La Something Doohickey. 28 yo Female. Colombian National Police. Foreign trip to Bogota. Honor Guard inspection. StoneBriar struts past our charming protagonist who is standing to attention and dressed to the nines as a Doorman. Corporal Santos tries to score a home run off StoneBriar's noggin with her rifle butt, but whiffs and ends up with a bayonet through the throat and yadda, yadda, yadda".
"Like old Pierre ? What was this girl's motive ?"
"Yeah... pretty much like old Pierre, except that it was a 'ceremonial' bayonet and likely as sharp and rigid as a tofu penis. Corporal Santos, as it was discovered later, was loco en cabeza, off her meds, believed StoneBriar was the Satan and had to be eliminated".
"I think you just exactly described a VA nurse I dated a very long time ago, right down to the homicidal home run attempt off the head", Mark reminisced. "Who's next ?"
Hoboken Marty
"Victim number three"
Mark raised an eyebrow and looked at Gert. "Victim...?!"
"Martin Loewenbacher. a.k.a Abu Mateen Al Hubukani a.k.a 'Marty from Hoboken', which I might add is a rather uninspired and lazy nom-de-guerre. 62 yo male, retired English teacher, from... you guessed it - Hoboken, Noo Joysee. Town hall meeting in... surprise, surprise, Hoboken again. Dun! Dun! Shitty Police Procedural Pattern Alert, Boss !"
Mark chuckled, "Oh come on...! Law and Order was a great show. And besides, you can't binge watch all twenty three fucking seasons and then bitch about it".
Gert looked up, "The only good thing about Law and Order was all the hottie ADAs they had. You know I love you to death, Boss, but I've said this before and I'll say it again. I'd gladly bury you alive in a lime pit for a romp with Angie Harmon".
"How about you don't love me to death or better yet, just don't love me. Period. Besides, I've seen what happens to people you 'love' - they always seem to end up a lime pit, just like the people you 'hate'", Mark mumbled and paused for a moment. "Looks like I'm getting buried in a lime pit no matter what. Why is it always lose-lose with you ?", he shook his head. "Let's move on. Please...?"
Gert continued. "Ole Marty had a suicide bomb concealed in his pacemaker. Got up to ask a question, charged the stage and pulled out his trigger, which he claimed was wired to a dead man's switch. Had StoneBriar on a decent neckhold and would have pulled it off, but the moron started monologuing. Four seconds in, StoneBriar has the trigger on the right hand, Abu Marty's neck in a chokehold with the left and poor Marty drops to the floor like a sack of taters".
"I get all that, but why is Hoboken Marty the victim here ?"
"Cerbral Hypoxia. Fell down like a sack of taters and stayed that way. Turned into a slobbering quadriplegic vegatable. Wasted away and died nine months later. Already had advanced stage colorectal cancer, which would have mercifully finished him in two, but our benevolent guvmint did everything to keep him alive for 'questioning' and prolonged his misery. A tad cruel, I thought"
"That's messed up..".
"No shit Boss. I mean, he was just some terminally ill, batty old codger off his rocker, but..".
"No. That part is fine - I'd have strung him along as far as possible to squeeze the last drop of intel. But, what's with you getting all sympathetic and shit...?! Did you recently discover your softer side ?"
Gert struck a pose, flashed a toothy fake smile and fluttered her eyelashes. "You betcha! Oh, mah ovaries...!", she squeaked.
Mark stifled a laugh and almost choked on his coffee. That was a great impression of the House Majority Leader ("Chief Skirt Bitch" as Gert called her).
"Now, guessing from the shitty nom-de-guerre, that Hoboken Marty got all Youtube jihadified and stuff ?"
Gert nodded. "Yeah. Pretty much".
The almost accurate accountant
"Moving on to bachelor number four. Arthur Andersen"
"Wait... What ?!", Mark interrupted. "Like, Andersen with an E ?"
"Yep. Arthur Andersen with an E, same as the pimps who cooked Enron's books back in the days"
"Straight outta Hollywood. You couldn't make this up if you wanted, Gert"
"Boss... you ain't heard nothing yet. Anyways, Arthur Andersen with an E. 22 yo individual..".
" 'Individual' ?! What... you auditioning for a Politically Correct Police Procedural in the Hallmark Channel ? Male ?", Mark interrupted again.
"That's the rather innnnnnteresting part", Gert dragged. "Sir Arthur was in the process of becoming... shall we say... Lady Arthur ? At least, about halfway there, so technically both I guess. Anyways, Arthur was born in Geegumgaw, Michigan and dropped out in 10th grade, but not much else is known. No rap sheet, no prior work history, unless you count three years of ape-shit batty tumblr rage directed at StoneBriar for not vetoing the InterAmerican pipeline. Waiter at a fundraiser in Detroit. Fully background checked, frisked and scanned. Pulled out a .38 and started firing. While he was emptying his clip, StoneBriar stands up and pulls out the bodyman's 9mm. One shot. Between the eyes. Poof, King Arthur joins his slampiece Galadriel in heaven".
Mark let out a frustrated sigh. "Guinevere. Queen consort and technially his wife. Not his mistress. Galadriel was an elf in the Tolkien universe and nothing to do with King Arthur"
"That's right, Ginny Weaver...!", Gert looked up from her laptop. "Galadriel's from the thing with the midgets and shit. Wait... I thought Galahad was the wife and Ginny-whatsherface was the fuck buddy ?"
"They are called Hobbits ! And it is GUINEVERE, not Ginny bloody Weaver. Also, it is SIR Galahad and if he had been the wife, that would have made for some very awkward conversations in medieval England, what with the Crusades and Pope and stuff. Seriously, what the fuck did you study in Barnard ?!"
"Mostly fuck, to paraphrase your question", Gert paused. "I mean... you know, it WAS a liberal arts women's college and shit, so practically an all you can eat pussy buffet", she laughed. "I'm sure it all counted towards my Women's Studies major"
"Major in Economics with a minor in Europian Studies ! That's what your file and the copy of the damn diploma in it says !!", Mark raised his voice. "Jesus Christ Gert, even I wasn't that stoned and horny in college !"
Gert raised two thumbs up. "You certainly made up for it in Kabul, Boss! Annnnyhooo... that's the lot. At least as of this morning".
Mark was still tired from the flight. "I'm gonna get some more coffee".
Gert was working on her laptop as Mark returned with his coffee, sat down and gazed at her. She always typed at the exact same tempo - 4 keystrokes per second, never once touched the backspace key and never paused, not even to ponder her next words or collect her thoughts - until she was done. Mark looked at a familiar sight, sometimes comforting, most times scary - "Gert in The Zone" he called it. The banter, sarcasm, emotions, opinions and any trace of her humanity disappeared and she became a cold, analytical and ruthless machine. Her face became expressionless, her eyes drooped as she intesified her gaze and she spoke with authority and confidence in a steady, measured tone. It was Mark's signal to shut up, listen and step aside. Four years ago, Mark had looked at that same calm and focused face as she slammed Zaheer Manjid to the ground face down, pinned him down with her knees and patiently sawed off his right arm. Zaheer had been one of the luckier ones.
"Sorry, Boss. Catching up on the number crunching", Gert looked up and smiled.
Mark snapped out of this thoughts. "That's fine. I'm still jet lagged and needed the break. Any connecting dots, even if they are Shitty Police Procedural style ?"
"Besides the neck fetish ? Nope. Even, the NSA came up emptyhanded". Gert seemed to be back to her salty old self.
"Unbelievable. Their fancy-ass billion dollar computers couldn't find any common thread in four strikes ?"
"Naah.... They probably just use those to stream high-def Swedish lesbian porn".