Bad Day At The Bay

Flashing lights lit up the neighborhood as a parade of activity converged in the 1500 block of Harrison Street. As the drizzling rain and slight fog rolled through, the ominousness of it remained lost to bystanders and neighbors until the meat wagon rolled up outside. One of the officers ran to the black van, telling them there were orders not to move the body.

While the weary patrol officers and three detectives stood on the porch, waiting for clearance to move in and process the scene, a Suburban pulled alongside the perimeter tape. It was Jonas Quinn, and he was there to identify the body.

Jonas wasn't a cop. He wasn't anything, as far as the local officers knew. When he rolled up to a crime scene, department personnel had strict orders to give him full access and cooperation. Since only one person could call Jonas in on a case, they didn't dare violate the orders.

Some officers, both in and out of uniform, didn't care for Jonas and took offense to his presence. Because he wasn't a member of the department, his presence and involvement in their cases felt like an intrusion. Worse yet, they believed the chief didn't trust them to handle their cases.

There were a few that Jonas got along with, and when he got out of his car and approached, he went straight to one of them. Officer Stephanie Richardson was her name, and Jonas found her to be the smartest of all the patrol division staff. It didn't hurt Jonas' feelings that she was ex-military, tougher than half the guys, and very attractive.

"Has anybody been inside?" he asked Stephanie.

"Nobody," she replied. "The chief said to leave everything untouched until you got here."

"Is it as bad as I hear?" asked Jonas.

Stephanie answered, "I haven't seen anything this grizzly since my last deployment."

"You up to taking notes and going through the scene with me?" asked Jonas.

"Me?" she wondered aloud.

"Yes, you. Do you think I want any of these idiots trampling the scene?"

Jonas headed toward the front porch of the large home at 1551 Harrison. Passing a couple of detectives as they made snide remarks, Jonas called for help.

"Officer Richardson, are you coming?"

"Wait a second, asshole. Why does Richardson get to come in before the rest of us?"

Jonas smiled sarcastically at Detective Billings. The two men had a history of bumping heads. He knew Billings was worthlessly riding out his pension, only doing what was two rungs below the minimum.

"What's the matter, Detective? Do you want something to do?"

"You know I want to get started," replied Billings.

Jonas pulled cash out of his pocket, took a head count, and handed Billings money. He told him to get everyone some coffee and breakfast.

"We're going to be here a while," he reminded Billings. "So don't skimp on the donuts."

Stephanie followed him through the wall of officers standing around, and the two disappeared behind the closed door. Once inside, she watched Jonas stopping to take a breath. Even he found the scene particularly brutal.

"I can't say you didn't warn me," he admitted to her.

Jonas began taking photographs. He snapped images of the body multiple times from different angles. Jonas, sometimes, talked his way through a scene. This one was the worst he could remember.

"What did you do to piss someone off?"

"You thinking revenge?" asked Stephanie.

Jonas didn't have any impressions on the scene yet. What he was looking at was a combination of brutality and creativity mixing. He slowly walked around the center of the scene, where the deceased lay, staked to the floor.

"Somebody took their time with him," he pondered.

"How do you know?"

Jonas pointed out that the bruising around the wrists and ankles was antemortem, meaning a while before death.

"Our guy was tortured," she sighed.

"Who is this guy?" asked Jonas.

Stephanie pulled her notes on the deceased. His name was Ralph Stone. He was seventy-two, a widower, and previously a journalist for the Los Angeles Times.

"There's no criminal history, no red flags, and no indicators of problems. By all accounts, Mr. Stone was a model citizen."

What did a model citizen do that put him on the radar, wondered Jonas. Jonas looked at how he was tied down, the condition of the house, and the endless cuts on the deceased. He started walking the rest of the house, taking photos as he progressed from one room to the next. The scene looked like a burglary, but it was less random, thought Jonas.

"Whoever did this, they were looking for something," he told Stephanie.

"It definitely looks like they left nothing unsearched," she admitted.

So, what does a man in his seventies have that someone would torture him to get? Jonas rattled off questions in his head. He thought of questions that needed answering before they could understand what happened.

When Jonas found the deceased's study, it was the most ransacked room in the house. Jonas walked through the office, carefully stepping over the hundreds of documents, the shattered wood, and the glass shards. Looking around, he told her that forensics needed to start in the study.

"They focused on this room," announced Jonas. "And I'd be surprised if they found what they were looking for."

"I see why the boss brought you in on this one," Stephanie admitted. "I don't think our guys would have made that connection."

"That putz Billings wouldn't. That's for sure," Jonas joked.

It was time to let the rest of the troops in on the investigation. Jonas had seen what he needed, and the reports could be forwarded. He told Stephanie they were looking at a professional with one to two accomplices.

"Why, now that remains the mystery," he told her.

Jonas walked back out of the residence. He stopped in the middle of the Bay City cops standing around. After giving them his impression of the crime, Jonas told some uniforms to start canvassing. They needed to look for anyone noticing strange vehicles in the neighborhood, likely darker colored and big enough to carry a few guys with gear.

Jonas took his car and told Stephanie they'd meet later. He wanted her to walk the body through processing and the autopsy. His next stop was the home of James "Jimmy" Roberts.

James Roberts lived on Seaside Drive. It was an upscale neighborhood suited more to his wife than him. By the time Jonas arrived, it was after four in the morning. Repeatedly ringing the doorbell, James swung the door open and asked what he was doing.

"We need to talk," Jonas announced, not waiting for an invitation.

When the two were across from each other, Jonas stared holes through James' soul. After several awkward moments, James asked his friend why he was there so early.

"Who is he, chief?"

"What do you mean?" asked James.

"Ralph Stone," answered Jonas. "Who is he that warrants you calling me?"

James didn't like the interrogation. Jonas was right, however, that Ralph Stone was somebody of some importance. He was about to learn that Ralph Stone's history put him in the line of fire more than once. Stone was a decorated investigative journalist.

"Like Woodward and Bernstein," suggested Jonas.

James laughed, "Try again. Think more outside of the box."

"That tracks," Jonas told him. "His office was the most trashed area. What's he been working on, or what did he know that could get him killed."

James hadn't seen Ralph Stone in a while. Even semi-retired, the man hadn't stopped working. James knew him from the country club, and the two bonded over golf. Other than the occasional interview with the chief, they didn't often discuss work.

"So, no mention of anything he was working on recently?"

"Not that I recall," answered James.

"Any idea if he had enemies?"

"Not that he ever mentioned, but in his line of work, you know how it is," explained the chief.

"Why would anyone want to kill a retired reporter?"

James hesitated before answering, "I'm afraid it's connected to an older story he was chasing. Not anything recent, but he'd made several trips with some investigators and a few that took him to Moscow."

"Do you know what he was looking into?" asked Jonas.

James had heard rumblings and the occasional drunken rant. As his friend got older, he continually voiced his dislike of certain people in power and the abuses of the system. James explained that Ralph Stone had been a decorated journalist in his prime. Over the years, Ralph became intrigued by stories few believed or would ever hear.

"Conspiracy theories?" wondered Jonas.

"Let's say a few of his drunken ramblings went to some dark places. These things are the kind of stories high-powered people wouldn't appreciate on the front page."

Jonas felt like this was something to pursue. There was a time when Jonas was inside the intelligence community. He knew two things about conspiracy theories. Jonas knew fifty percent were false. The other fifty percent were true. He knew one more thing.

Jonas knew all conspiracy theories were born from a seed of truth. Many were more about the optics of a situation than anything else. It was up to people to trace them to their beginning and decide for themselves. A reporter could be like a dog on a bone. If Ralph Stone was that type, he might have stumbled onto something.

"Did he ever tell you the story?" asked Jonas.

"All he ever said was it was the crime of the century," answered James. "He called it the greatest crime in U.S. history."

"If he found something that big," Jonas sighed before being interrupted.

James finished Jonas' thought, "It's motive to have him killed.

"Okay, I'm going to get to work. I'll follow up with you, and we can decide if you want these guys brought in or not," explained Jonas.

James walked his friend to the door. He told him to call next time before showing up in the middle of the night.

"And Jonas, if you find out why he was killed," James stopped, hesitating to finish what he wanted to say.

Jonas nodded. He knew that the Bay City Chief understood the big picture. If Ralph Stone's murder was to cover up a story, it might not be something to release to the public. But they could decide what to do with that information later.

Driving away, Jonas noticed the house was under surveillance. He drove down to the corner. Jonas watched as the surveillance van turned around to follow him. As he looked at the area, he picked a set of shrubs to hide behind.

From his hiding spot, he watched the van park two cars behind his and two men exited. They split the car and approached.

"Idiots," Jonas said to himself.

He took out his twin Glock's and attached suppressors to each. As the two men passed his position, he let them walk to his car. Jonas approached the van and aimed one gun at the driver and one at the two men, finding his car empty.

"Everybody show me some hands!" yelled Jonas. "One at a time, let's get out of the van."

As the sliding van door opened, Jonas lowered the gun in his left hand. He shook his head disgustedly as an older man in the van stepped out. The older man told the two agents by Jonas' car to stand down.

"Dillon," sighed Jonas. "You son of a bitch. What the hell are you tailing me for?"

"Seeing if a freelance son of a bitch like you can crack this one without creating the shit storm of the century," admitted the older agent.

"Gentlemen, meet Jonas Quinn. Once upon a time, he was the man the Farm still calls the Ghost. Now he's Bay City's private knight in shining armor," Dillon told his team members. "If only the chief knew how tarnished that armor really was."

Jonas put his guns away, tempted to get in his car and leave. He was curious why a senior station chief was back in the field. He'd worked with Dillon years ago, and Dillon was one of the few who knew why he left the company.

"What's this all about?"

"You mean, you don't know yet?" Dillon asked.

"I just caught the case," admitted Jonas. "A Bay City Homicide seems out of your jurisdiction. And tailing me so sloppily could have got you shot on principle."

Dillon laughed. He knew Jonas was a hot head. Dillon once watched him put a bullet in an agent with the station in Britain for interfering in an investigation. Dillon remembered that he didn't even ask. Jonas just put the agent out of commission.

"Easy, old buddy," the last thing I need is another agent with a knee injury.

"Why don't you tell me what this is about...then fuck off while I find the guys that did this," suggested Jonas.

Dillon shook his head, "Same old Quinn, still a goddammed cowboy."

Jonas had his fill of the reunion. He walked away. That was until Dillon's question. He asked about an encoded flash drive. Jonas turned around, surprised his old partner gave up anything.

"It's what he was killed for," explained Dillon.

"What's on it?"

"Something sensitive, and something that in the wrong hands could destroy the country."

"How sensitive?" asked Jonas.

"Sensitive enough that it could permanently damage our standing on the world stage."

Jonas walked back to his friend. He whispered 'crime of the century' in his ear. When Dillon nodded his head, Jonas looked down at the ground.

"Which one?" asked Jonas.

"You know which one," Dillon replied.

"No, nobody's found a flash drive," Jonas finally answered.

As Jonas walked away, Dillion yelled to him, telling him he had to play ball on this one. Jonas shrugged his shoulders. He had zero intentions to cooperate with the company.

"Sure, you'll be the first to know if I find it," promised Jonas.

Jonas drove to his apartment, showered, and changed clothes. After, he went to the station to follow up on the case notes. When he arrived, Officer Stephanie Richardson was in the bullpen typing a report. Jonas walked up behind her, whispered something in her ear, and she gathered everything on the desk.

They went into a private room. Jonas locked the door and sat down.

"What have you got?"

"Stone was part of a crew of people investigating..."

"Don't say who," Jonas told her. "Just write it down on a piece of scratch paper."

Stephanie scribbled on a piece of paper as she explained that she'd found some travel receipts. As she handed the paper to Jonas, he looked at it and smiled. He was impressed that the name was the right one.

"How did you find this?" he wondered.

"I found a phone number that I recognized. I've got an uncle who works at the other end of that number," she admitted.

"Anything else?" wondered Jonas.

"Just a vehicle description," she told him.

Jonas motioned for her to write that down and give it to him. When he looked at it and memorized the information, he tore it into shreds and put it in the trash.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"They killed Stone because of something he knew," explained Jonas. "Do you want to be next?"

"They," she said.

"Good work Officer Richardson, but I'll take it from here," he told her.

Stephanie recognized what he was saying. She told him if he needed anything to call for backup and exited the room.

When finally alone, he mumbled, where are you today, you son of a bitch. Stephanie knocked on the door, and Jonas motioned to enter.

"Did you forget something?"

"No, you dismissed me so fast I didn't get a chance to tell you that Ralph Stone's son is here," explained Stephanie.

"Great, I'll talk to him in a minute."

Thirty minutes later, Jonas was on Pacific Coast Highway, hoping to lure out his old buddy Dillion. The visit with James Stone was illuminating. He knew Dillon wouldn't like the truth about the flash drive. Jonas didn't much care.

In his apartment, he walked through the door to find Dillon sitting in his favorite chair.

"Did the kid have it?"

"How'd you know I met the son?"

"We have a man at the front desk," smiled Dillon. "So, did he?"

"I think you know the answer," announced Jonas, turning sharply with his gun pulled. "Now, cut the crap, and tell me what happened."

Dillon sat motionless, slowly raising his hands. He put both of them on the table in front of him. Jonas walked behind Dillon, taking his sidearm and checking him for others. When he finished, he sat across from his old partner, waiting for an answer.

"You going to shoot me?"

"Yep," admitted Jonas.

"That's who you are now? A cowboy that shoots first and doesn't ask questions?" Dillon questioned. "Who do you think I am, Greedo? This isn't Mos Eisley. You're not Han Solo. We have rules."

Dillon realized only the truth would prevent Jonas from putting a bullet in his head. He didn't like it, but he had to tell the truth. Where that would end him up, he didn't know.

"Fine dammit," Dillon sighed. "How'd you know, just tell me that."

"His son. He knew his father's habits. His father was paranoid about technology. He had a mind like a steel trap. And he had a locker rented at the bus stop on 16th Street. It's right next to a coffee shop with free Wi-Fi. One thing he didn't do was use flash drives for more sensitive information."

"Shit!" Dillon exclaimed.

"You're not active anymore," Jonas announced. "It took one phone call. Did you think I trusted your word on things after you decided to abort the rescue mission when I was in North Korea?"

"So, are you handing me over?" asked Dillon.

"Depends on you," admitted Jonas.

Dillon started talking and admitted that he and his two accomplices murdered Ralph Stone. Ralph Stone was a member of the International Press Corps and had ties to Moscow in the mid-90s. He'd worked on a story.

"What was the story?"

"Stone was at a press dinner and met Helena Velgayanko, one of the Russian Intelligence Minister's mistresses. Helena told him a story. It was true. We were going to expose the evidence he collected after his last trip to Moscow, but the bastard decided it wasn't in the country's best interest. He buried the story," explained Dillon.

Jonas demanded to know what the story was. He wasn't going to take silence for an answer.

"The drunk bitch put him onto the heist of the century. A Russian plant inside the United States," Dillon insisted.

"Who is it?" demanded Jonas. "Who was the plant?"

Dillon insisted he couldn't say. Jonas yelled at him to talk, but nothing. He yelled, screamed, and yelled some more. The two were at an impasse until Jonas got up and put his gun to Dillon's head.

"Dammit, Jonas! You know which one it is. And the bastard had the proof. He had concrete evidence tying him to Moscow. There was finally proof!"

"Who dammit!" Jonas screamed, cocking his gun and pushing it into Dillon's head.

Dillon sobbed.

Jonas screamed again, and Dillon looked up at his old friend.

"It was President..."

The gunshot rang out through his apartment. Jonas sighed, called the chief of Bay City, and told him he had answers. He promised James he didn't want to know.

"No, the ringleader's dead. He was the one that tortured him," explained Jonas, "the other two are traceable. We've got their cell numbers. I'd send SWAT and tell them to shoot on-site. These two won't go down with fighting."

Jonas hung up and waited for the police's response. He fixed the scene and fired a round out of Dillon's silenced government-issued sidearm. He'd have the medical examiner fix the report, and nobody would know he'd shot him at close range.

He only had one thing to figure out. When Ralph Stone's son visited, it was to give them something he suspected was responsible for his father's murder. He'd lied to Dillon and anyone that might be listening in. A phone call to Virginia had Dillon listed on a shoot-to-kill order. The company issued the kill order a year ago.

He pulled out the flash drive and asked himself, "What do I do with you?"

Right before the police entered, he called Bay City Marina Boat Rentals. As Stephanie walked in, he asked her, "How do you feel about fishing?"