Chapter 58

The police chief and one of his officers arrived at McGowan’s estate to find the attorney, Miller, and the camera lady, waiting for him.

“Got your camera ready?” the chief asked, trying to calm nerves.

They smiled, appreciating his attempt to do so, but they were unflappable. The attorney, however, was not. His stomach juices were bubbling.

Inside, McGowan was watching the group heading to the portal.

“Straight, get your ass down here. The Centerville cop is here with the reporter and my ex-attorney. I doubt if he has a warrant and I don’t want him inside snooping around on account of me being magnanimous and inviting him in.”

Miller’s photojournalist began filming. The doorbell rang.

“What do you want?” McGowan asked the chief through the unopened door.

“Straight here?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe I’ll call in some reinforcements and we’ll break down the door. Send him out and come with him.”

McGowan turned off the alarm and he and Straight stepped outside.

“Mark Straight, I’m arresting you for breaking and entering a garage this morning,” the chief said as he put handcuffs on him.

Straight and McGowan knew there was no point in denying what Straight had done.

“Why is the sniveling attorney here? He belongs in jail,” McGowan stated.

“You admit that you knew what went on this morning?” the chief asked.

“All I know is what Mr. Straight told me a short time ago that he was contacted by my former attorney there, who said he needed to get into a garage owned by Jon Stone to obtain information. Mr. Straight merely used abilities that he has; my understanding is that he never entered the building. If the attorney didn’t take anything, then I don’t see what the big deal is. Let Mr. Straight go.”

“The big deal is he committed a felony, one which you orchestrated, and which makes you complicit in the crime. I’m placing you under arrest.”

McGowan resisted.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he shouted. “I had nothing to do with this.”

“It was your idea,” the attorney asserted. “You told me to prove my loyalty to you by getting information on Stone’s whereabouts from his garage or I’d be fired. I was cowed into doing it, and regret it more than anything I’ve ever done. Too bad for you though, I’m through being a wimp.”

McGowan laughed with scorn.

“Once a wimp, always a wimp. Chief, the wimp is full of shit. If you arrest me, things will go badly for you.”

“Always with the intimidation, Mr. McGowan. I am not a wimp, and you are under arrest.”

He placed handcuffs on McGowan and read him and Straight their rights.

Under fire in the court of public opinion for his recent actions and arrest at Stone’s garage, McGowan considered the camera that was filming his every word and slowly calmed down. He got into the police cruiser and, now that his words were not being recorded, told the chief to kiss his career and pension good-bye. The chief wasn’t wearing a body cam, so he responded by turning on the siren and lights. He wanted to get as big an audience as could be gotten to witness McGowan being arrested again, with Miller pumping out minute after minute of film showing McGowan being McGowan.

Even the powerful people have difficulty overseeing their kingdoms from a jail cell. In McGowan’s case, he had spent, and was going to spend, little time in jail. But being in a cell encouraged some of his ambitious employees to question whether he was as powerful, poised, and in control as he once seemed to be. Dissension and intrigue are the pathogens that could bring the kingdom of McGowan to its knees. People began to whisper these thoughts in Curt Jeffries’ ear; they needn’t have—he had the same observations.

The chief of police did not radio ahead to have his officers clear a path for him to bring McGowan through.

The better to involve the gathering crowd with.

Miller checked her appearance in the car’s mirror; her cameraperson did the same. It wasn’t vanity on their part. It was a response to the shallowness of our culture—if you don’t look good, you suck at your job. It was hard to imagine that anyone might think that Miller or her cameraperson weren’t good looking, but there are a lot of jealous people in the world. They got out of their car and positioned themselves beside the cruiser. They were broadcasting live before the chief got out.

Most of the crowd who had seen McGowan arrested before had congregated outside the police station; they were already riled up and ready to berate him. The difference between these people and the gutless ones who post opinions anonymously on social media was that these people were exposing their identities, unafraid of consequences.

McGowan was pissed to see the riff-raff before him. He couldn’t control himself. He began yelling at the chief to bring him into the station through a private entrance, or clear the parking lot so he didn’t have to listen to the rabble. The chief ignored him and opened the cruiser door. “Out you go, Mr. McGowan,” he said as he took hold of McGowan’s arm. McGowan tried to yank it away.

“Let me go, you stupid son of a bitch. I’ve been brought here on erroneous charges. My lawyer will have me out of here in no time,” he said, nodding in the direction of his former, and formerly wimpy, attorney, who by now was standing next to Miller. McGowan thought that the attorney recognized the nod to mean that he was back on the payroll.

The camera swung in the attorney’s direction.

“No, the charges are correct. It’s about time that you pay for your law-breaking activities. My hope is that you wind up in a courtroom presided over by a judge you don’t own or control. Maybe the president can assign your case to the United States Attorney General for this purpose. I cannot wait to testify against you.”

The attorney was not aware of the battle going on between McGowan and the president regarding the thought-reading eyewear. As he watched the scene on his TV in the Oval Office, the president was astounded to hear of the request to have his attorney general get involved with McGowan’s legal woes. He was being given an opportunity to get into McGowan’s business by a request from a third party rather than by using his heavy handed, behind the scenes actions.

I’ll have this threat neutralized, and I’ll be the sole owner of the technology. I will rule the world! Who in hell is my attorney general?

Shit. I, Evan McGowan, keep making unforced errors. I don’t need this waste-of-my-time attorney. I should have been patient and waited for my new attorney to come. But I have no patience. Now I have this punk thinking his actions are righteous and he’ll be energized to bring me down. And he’s given the president basis for action against me. What a jerk I have become. That freaking maggot Stone has bored his way into my skull. I need him and I have to get rid of him at the same time.

The police chief politely asked the crowd gathered in front of the entrance to clear a path. They complied. The chief’s firm grip on McGowan’s arm aggravated him; he naturally thought that he should be handled with kid gloves.

“Show some respect, officer, and loosen the grip. I am Evan McGowan after all, not some of the riff-raff you normally deal with.”

He was ignored. The grip got tighter, and the chief’s smile got bigger.

“Right this way,” he told McGowan as he guided him to his office. “I’m sure you know where to go by now.”

The reporter and camera lady were allowed to remain; the public were not.

McGowan was arrested on conspiring to break and enter, threatening a police officer, and resisting arrest. He was put in a cell. Rather than put the two in adjoining cells where they could talk, he had Straight put in a secure supply closet, out of sight.

Straight was pissed and complained loudly that his rights were being violated. McGowan stewed quietly, wondering how things had gotten so out of control.

“Ms. Miller, the show is over for now,” the chief told her. “I won’t stop you from waiting outside until McGowan’s new attorney arrives, but please leave the building.”

He then went outside and told everyone to leave. Most did so; some protested, whining that their right to peacefully assemble was being trampled on. He gave them five minutes to leave or they’d be arrested. They began to leave.

A few minutes later, a commotion started in the parking lot. A few of the people who wanted to see McGowan do a long stretch in prison had been joined by a few who didn’t. The chief sent out a couple officers with orders to clear them out or arrest them.

Two of the men who wanted McGowan to become a jailbird were not at his arrest a few days earlier. They were Connecticut “friends” of the president—fringe elements of society who would not believe that Strump had shot someone to death even if they stood next to him as he pulled the trigger—drawn to Centerville to ensure that the truth came out. One was Jimmy, the other Herman. They were brothers. They were looking to make trouble, and they succeeded.

When the officers got to the commotion, Jimmy sucker-punched a McGowan supporter in the jaw, knocking her to the ground. The woman’s husband came to her defense and wrestled Jimmy down to the ground and punched him solidly multiple times on his head.

“How do you like it?” the man asked.

One of the officers tackled Herman as he was about to smash the woman’s husband with a rock, and quickly slapped handcuffs on him. Then he assisted his partner in forcing the people who hadn’t been scared off by the violence to leave by shouting that if they were not gone in sixty seconds, they would arrest them.

Jimmy’s punch did not break the woman’s jaw, but a couple of teeth were cracked and she had a bad headache. Her husband’s hand was bloodied and sore, as was Jimmy’s face and head. Herman was spitting mulch and stones out of his mouth. The officers had gotten all of them on their feet and moving towards the building. By the time they were inside, ambulances arrived.

The medics checked the woman first; they wanted her to be checked for a concussion as well as having her teeth and jaw looked at. The woman’s husband needed x-rays of his hand. They were loaded into an ambulance and taken to a hospital. Herman was cleaned up and put in a cell.

Jimmy was checked and given the ok to be kept there. He was put in the cell with Herman, next to McGowan’s.

Because of the chaos, the Centerville Police did not search their new prisoners’ clothing before locking them up. Had they done so, they would have found that Herman had a flexible case containing a short syringe stitched into the waist of his pants; Jimmy had a sac of pure heroin stitched into his. The cells adjoined; McGowan was leaning back to back with Jimmy. Herman sat facing the lobby of the building, watching the officers. Occasionally one glanced in their direction, but no one made eye contact. Jimmy passed the heroin; Herman removed the syringe, filled it, and handed it to Jimmy, who turned, grabbed McGowan by the hair, and plunged the syringe into his jugular vein.

McGowan grabbed his neck and began making choking sounds. A moment later Jimmy and Herman watched in silence as the chief opened McGowan’s cell; he’d seen this sight before when he arrived too late to help a sixteen-year-old. Nothing was going to save him. McGowan was unable to speak. He began frothing. In less than two minutes, he was dead. The chief lifted his eyes to see Jimmy and Herman calmly doing fist bumps.

Who kills someone in a police station without regard to their future? Who is controlling these guys?

“What the hell, Chief? These guys come into our house and take a guy out? I don’t think so,” said one of the officers, as he and another officer charged towards the killers’ cell.

“Leave them alone!”

“Chief…”

“You heard me. Move the body into my office, and then separate those two, cuff them, and do a strip search. Make sure they have nothing else in their clothes.”

I don’t want them killing themselves before they can be interviewed.

The killers were expressionless as the chief’s orders were carried out, almost as if their participation was happening in a game they couldn’t lose. They put up no resistance.

Once the chief contacted the Centerville mayor, the state police, and the governor, Julie Miller, contrary to the advice of everyone the chief had spoken to, was allowed to re-enter the building. Her camera lady took some stills of McGowan’s body, the disbelief in his face showing he knew that he was dying and that all his power and money meant nothing now.

Curt Jeffries saw the face of a person with a fried brain—no neuronal activity, no way to have thoughts read.

Straight heard the commotion and demanded to know what happened. The chief told him to pipe down, he’d find out soon. Straight sensed that whatever happened was bad for him, worse for his boss, and somehow inspired by Stone. Then again, Stone had gotten into his head as well as McGowan’s; maybe Stone had nothing to do with it.

The chief asked Miller to wait outside again, and to hold off on reporting McGowan’s death and releasing the pictures until the State Police arrived to secure the scene. Someone, perhaps in the governor’s office, was going to leak the story and then scores of reporters were going to arrive. The crowd, too, would return. The wheel kept turning; the chief now felt like he was getting caught under it.

The news of McGowan’s death astounded, confounded, and surrounded the public in speculation, calculation, shortened periods of gestation, and untold numbers of ejaculations of “you’re shitting me.” Thousands of people who received payment from him were apprehensive about where their next payment was coming from. Those were the people who would miss him most. His ex-wife, long ago estranged, but the recipient of a monthly alimony payment of a million dollars, was due to receive $250,000,000 from his estate. He had no children, but had several concubines who would get multi-million-dollar payments as per his will.

People immediately speculated on who would pick up his mantle. No one, was the line of thinking. His empire would eventually crumble under the weight of the infighting and intransigence of his highest level of management. A few of McGowan’s managers thought themselves to be worthy successors, but none had the strength, cunning, or ruthlessness needed, except for one. Curt Jeffries.

Straight knew he didn’t have those qualities; he didn’t know anyone who did, except, he guessed, the President of the United States.

Perhaps I can help him find Stone. Who would I contact?

“Jon, McGowan is dead,” Veck told Stone.

The shocked Stone shook his head in disbelief. “That’s not possible. McGowan is in his prime.”

Veck filled Stone in on what happened. Stone told him that it was hard for him to believe that McGowan died while in police custody; Veck mentioned that the president was unabashedly happy with his death, and that he didn’t care how or where it happened.

“He’ll probably give the two brothers medals of freedom for eliminating an existential threat,” he told Stone. “Why not? His people undoubtedly hired them.”

“The president will continue to look for Gary and me in spite of McGowan’s death.”

“Yes; he’s learned that the Chinese are looking for you as well. That’s another reason for my call.”

“Thanks, we’ll be careful. There are several groups looking for us; being captured by the president may be something we can use to our advantage.”

“I don’t follow you. He’s the biggest threat to the future of humanity if he gets ahold of you, isn’t he?”

“Unless Gary and I do something.”

“Like?”

“Like we never had this conversation.”

“Gary, McGowan is dead.”

“Who is next to die, I wonder. Meet up with you soon, Jon.”

The president’s impatience was never sated. His biggest threat, McGowan, was dead.

“The Chinese have no match to my resources in this country, so how can they find Stone and Danders before me?” Strump asked Veck. “Because they started gathering information about them before we did, when the competition to build the thought-reading began,” he said, in answering his own question.

The ever-simmering personality of the president was once again at a boiling point. His feelings of paranoia were elevated again as well.

At Veck’s urging, the president’s physician came to the situation room.

“What the hell you doing here?” the president yelled. “Get out! Get out! I’m in the middle of something big. Who the hell told you to interrupt me?”

“I did. You’re going to kill yourself if you don’t calm down,” answered Veck.

“Like hell I will. How come you haven’t found those two yet? I put you in charge and what happens? Nada!”

The doctor stepped in.

“Mr. President, take some deep breaths, exhale slowly. No arguments. Follow me. Deep breath in, hold it, slowly let it out. Don’t say a word. Again, breathe in, slowly let it out. Again. In. Out. In. Out. Feeling better? Let me check your pulse. 102. Keep doing the breathing exercises.”

The president felt wiped out, and believed that if he didn’t calm down, he’d have a heart attack. He followed the doctor’s instructions and gradually his heart rate began to go down. His crimson-colored face faded to red. People in the room felt relief that a medical crisis may have been averted. Not that they were happy that the president was still alive, but because they wouldn’t have to spend hours being interviewed by the Secret Service if he had died.

A trembling president sat in the chair behind his desk.

Maybe I should let my guys find Stone and Danders and I’ll work with the scientists I’ve got here to get my improvements done. I guess I’ll stay healthier if I do. But everything takes so goddamn long to get done…

The doctor saw the darker red begin to take over the president’s face.

“Mr. President…”

“Shut the hell up. Why can’t anyone do their job? Veck, find those two before the freaking chinks do, you incompetent waste of time.”

Veck and doctor nodded to each other, acknowledging that the end of this presidency had come.

The president saw the nods, felt threatened, and went into an uncontrollable rage. His blood pressure rose quickly. In seconds, the damage done to his heart by a coronary blockage was irreparable. The doctor was unable to save him. He died four minutes after falling to the floor.