The Listed

Chapter Four

Lieutenant Sally Mason reviewed the list that she was assigned by the Bureau's new office, Department of Abnormal Forensics, which predicted patterns of deviant behavior from criminals in the prison data base who had possible predictors of future crimes, particularly serial killings, based on past social behavior, trauma, and emotional IQ. Mason didn't understand all the goobledegoop. She followed orders. The ten names on the list were men and women who didn't pass the psych test and showed sign of growing aggression that rehab and three hots and a cot just didn't squelch. 

She was assigned three ex-cops. All she knew was that they were accused of police brutality, but she never got the specifics, and there was no need for her to know, so she didn't question her new team members. All they had to do was follow orders. The other three members were ex-military, two marines, one army, far as she could figure out, what with the tattoos and all. They were all the quiet type, which was fine by her. They scored high marks on the first kill, though it wasn't pretty, and far from perfect. The target seemed more like a wife-beater than a serial killer, but the FBI Psychs knew best. These ten had to be put down, including all the wife-beaters. 

"Hey, Lieutenant," shouted Greeley, the army man, "when do we eat?"

"You can pull into the next Denny's," she answered. "Just making sure our next target is kosher."

"Kosher or no," said Blaine, an ex-cop from Texas, based on his accent, "a target is a target is a target."

The team in the back of the military van whooped and hollered. The camouflage green was painted back, which she thought made the vehicle look more conspicuous. Thus she parked the van walking distance from the target and hoped local punks didn't spray-paint their gang insignia over the outside panels. The driver, Sargeant Baker, ordered the men to shut the fuck up. 

Mason wasn't familiar with the 101 Highway that ran along the Pacific Ocean. There wasn't enough moonlight or city light across the dark stretches of road to give her a good view of the water. She wondered at the people who lived in the beachfront homes that lined the highway. The big California earthquake followed by the bigger California tsunami would surely knock these little piggy houses into the sea. Is this where they really wanted to spend their last days?

"Sarge, Denny's at 12 o'clock," yelled Blaine over the noisy engine of the vehicle.

"I see it," Sarge replied. "ETA ten minutes. Strap in and keep your yaps shut."

"What the hell's a 'yap', Sarge?" asked Greeley. 

"Ask me again when we pull over and I'll shut yours for you," Sarge said without a hint of humor. 

"Shutting my yap now, Sarge," said Greeley, who couldn't wait to order pancakes, courtesy of the U.S. of A. secret police. 

Mason regarded the second victim with some interest. The first woman. Petite. College grad. One of those straight A types. All work and no play. Victim of abuse as a kid, no doubt. Her file didn't say, but you could read it between the lines. Poison was her skill apparently. Chemistry major. The lieutenant never could fathom the college mind. Right out of high school she enlisted, hoping for a chance to fly, but she didn't pass the eye exam. Seemed she couldn't distinguish far from near, and that was important when flying an aircraft. Air Force didn't want their pilots flying into a mountain. Still, she managed to climb rank pretty fast in the Army. She was good leader material, her tests showed. And she proved that not only on the exams but in the field as well. 

Won three straight capture the flag missions in high stress environments. Got her team to safety every time. Except that last time. Wasn't her fault. The new recruit wasn't ready for the heat of the desert. Two of the team had to carry him for most of the mission. And she completed the mission. Captured the flag. Only the recruit was pronounced dead. Her C.O. liked her record and offered her a chance to lead a new team for a secret mission, off the record. If she succeeded, her error in judgment for placing the flag over the health of the recruit would be buried. And she knew just what that meant. If she didn't complete the secret mission, she would in all likelihood end up dead. Win-win for brass. But she liked the odds. Nine more names on the list to go. And the good news was, they had just pulled into Denny's. 

Chapter Five

Miguel Winter pulled into the University of Southern California faculty parking lot.  As he exited his car, a well-dressed woman in her forties approached him with an extended hand. "Hello, Mr. Winter, I suppose," she said. 

"Yes, that's me," Miguel answered. 

"From the Daily Gazette, if I'm not wrong," she said tentatively. 

"You're not wrong," he assured her.

"Good. I'm Pamela Hensworth, Executive Assistant to Professor Hinecker. He sent me to make sure you didn't get lost on your way to his office." She waved her hand in the direction of the Psychology Department building. "He's there waiting for you now."

Kashmir Hinecker was a medium built man in a ruffled grey suit that didn't seem to fit right on his thick shoulders. He was seated at his cluttered desk with his elbows resting on some ungraded essays and his fingers interlaced supporting his sharp chin. He took a deep breath, stood, and extended a hand to Miguel, the reporter. He wondered for a second if in this day of bloggers and vloggers, if there was still such a thing as "reporters". "Mr. Winter?" he asked courteously. 

"Yes, that would be me. Call me Mike, if you prefer," he said, immediately regretting not giving him the option to call him Miguel. What was it his brother used to call him? Coconut. Brown on the outside, white on the inside. 

"And you may call me Professor Hinecker. I worked hard for the title. I think I've earned it," he said with a  overly friendly grin. "As I'm sure you've earned the name Michael. Winter? Your father's or mother's surname?"

"Father's," Miguel admitted. "Mother's Chicana, father's German."

"Of course," Hinecker chuckled. "Vinter, right? No, no. No need to answer. I'm sure you're eager to get to your questions, Mikey boy. Shoot."

Miguel fumbled through his flip notebook, but his mind was elsewhere. He wanted to defend his name. But which one: Mike or Miguel? What was his mother's maiden name? Ramirez. She worked in the school cafeteria. She always brought home those leftover baloney sandwiches. His brother always called them mayonnaise sandwiches. But she was born and raised USA. People just couldn't understand that. She helped fix his German dad's immigration papers. Why did everyone assume they were Mexican?

Hinecker knew what he was thinking. Plant a few seeds and watch them grow. He smiled triumphantly, but the clock was ticking, so he cleared his throat. "Excuse me, Mr. Vinter, but you have some questions. I have a class to teach in a few, you see. Es ist Eile geboten. I mean, Time is of the essence."

Miguel Winter closed his notebook and pocketed it. "If you'll excuse me, Professor, I'm not feeling well right now. Can we reschedule?"

"Of course. Talk to my secretary.... I mean, my Executive Assistant, Pam. She handles my schedule. Hope you're feeling better. Hope it wasn't something I said. I did so look forward to our tete a tete."

"Bad breakfast, that's all," he lied. "We'll talk soon."

"Goodie." Hinecker stood but didn't walk the reporter to the door. "Ta ta."

Miguel approached Pamela's desk to reschedule, then he was going to go somewhere to throw up whatever was left in his stomach. 

Pamela looked up at the reporter's pale face and tucked her smile away. It was Hinecker Shock, as she called it. Newbies and their first time, every time. They were never prepared to face their deepest insecurity. And, boy, could he dig it out, root and stem. She opened her scheduling calendar. "Real peach, isn't he?"

Chapter Six and Seven

Coming soon...