One Hand On The Podium (14 page)

Rebecca surveyed the surroundings: the old bridge itself, down to the dirty Mississippi River below, and up to the top of the giant steel Gateway Arch. She hoped that in time she would find a job at another station in another state. The reporting of Simon’s fighter plane dedication was her first for the small town newspaper.

She stood at the side of the bridge and looked down at the crowd gathering below around the fighter plane. Then her eyes scanned the eastern horizon and the dilapidated, economically blighted city of East St. Louis, Illinois, then back across the river and up the northern leg of the Arch. She remembered as a girl, watching a documentary of the enormous structure being built, and it brought back other memories of the time when downtown St. Louis was just beginning to rebuild itself. Times were simpler then, and people had simple lives, she thought to herself. She wondered how her life had turned from being one she had complete control over, to one where she had none at all.

One of Moss’s aides signaled down to a group of musicians set up by the Congressman’s constituents, as they began playing a rousing assemblage of bombastic music. The man then turned and began backing people away from the side of the bridge to make way for an oncoming caravan of limousines.

The camera focused in on the entourage, the small cluster of Moss supporters smiled at each other as their man’s arrival neared.

Rebecca shook her head in utter amazement and contempt at the spectacle. The air grew colder as the first car stopped near the side of the bridge. Getting out, were a couple of men in long overcoats who checked out the scene. The cameramen then followed the second of four big cars, since the first held no one of importance.

Then, as a sharply dressed white-haired man exited the second car, the people surrounding began clapping and cheering. The crowd below the bridge heard the small ovation and assumed that Moss had arrived, so they, too, began applauding.

A wave, a smile and a few handshakes accompanied the congressman’s arrival, as the other two autos emptied their riders. Rebecca looked over at the men who came with Simon and then, vaguely recognized one of them.

She moved through the crowd, leaving behind her photographer so he could get some pictures of the man of the hour readying himself to toss the wreath into the muddy waters below. The man she was approaching stood next to a half-dozen other serious looking men.

“Hey, you,” Rebecca called out to the man, “You?!!”

The man saw the reporter coming toward him and quickly turned away, acting like he was carrying on a conversation with the man next to him.

“I want to talk to you!” she called out.

When she was only ten feet away, three of the other men, quickly stepped in front of her, took her by the arms and moved her back.

“Don’t,” she pleaded. “Please. I need to talk to him.”

She pointed to the man, “I need to talk to you, Frankano! Please!”

He knew immediately who she was. “Alright. Let her through!” he commanded them.

A few yards away, Simon Moss was beginning his speech, in memory of the dead Vietnam warriors, peppered with highlights of his career in congress.

Rebecca Ray came closer to the agent.

“You’re the federal agent who was on TV at the scene where Tony Bix’s body was found a few months ago, aren’t you? Frankano, right?”

“What do you want?”

“I’m Rebecca Ray. I know everything about Simon Moss. Tony Bix and Tom Merritt, told me everything.”

The man looked at her with a deeply concerned look on his face, as she continued talking.

“Tony Bix was murdered, wasn’t he?” she desperately asked him. “It was no accident, was it? Moss killed him, didn’t he? I never heard from Tom Merritt again either. He was an FBI agent, like you. Did you know him? Is he dead too?”

“I don’t know what happened to Tom. I know what he was trying to accomplish though. I’m very sorry he got you involved.”

“You’re sorry? You’re sorry?” she paused, looked out to the north and adjacent Martin Luther King Jr. Bridge, then back to the agent. “Why? Why did Tom Merritt and Tony Bix have to come to me for help? Do you realize my whole career is all but ruined?”

“Why is that, Miss Ray?”

“You tell me, damnit, Frankano.”

“Like I said, I’m sorry.”

“Well, sorry isn’t going to cut it, damn it! Your partner knew what Moss was up to all those years, so he came to Tony and I for help to expose him.”

“Yes, we know.”

“But just as soon as they came into my life, they were both gone. I just don’t understand. Someone’s got to explain all this to me so I can get my head around it. Where is Tom Merritt at? What have you done with him?”

Frankano didn’t respond, as he checked his watch, then glanced past the toll way on the entrance to the bridge.

“Why are you here?” she asked.”Why are you letting this whole circus go on?”

“Come over here, Miss Ray.” He took her by the arm and walked her to the north side of the bridge. Simon Moss stood across the pavement from them, facing the south railing. Moss looked over and down to the foot of the bridge, shouting out his speech into a microphone, to his constituents below, and those followers and media standing around him on the bridge.

The agent cautiously spoke, “I’m not any happier about this than you Miss Ray. My bosses got worried when Tony Bix and Tom Merritt joined forces to get Moss. They were obviously keeping an eye on Tom, since he had made his feelings known about the way we were handling the case up to that point. They moved quickly to transfer him. After Bix was found dead, Tom was ordered not to have any other contact with you. He was also re-assigned. I haven’t seen or heard from him.”

“Damn it!” she shouted up at the sky, in the cold winter air. “Whatever happened to this administration’s talk of transparency in government?”

The agent stood silent, looking over at the congressman, who was wrapping up his pompous speech.

Rebecca looked over at the grinning white-haired politician, too, positioning himself to toss the dedication wreath into the river below.

“How many lives has that man ruined?” She pointed in Moss’s direction.

“Too many,” the agent answered. “But all the games are over.”

“What did you say?”

“The case against the senator fell apart. We don’t have enough to prosecute him. He covered all his tracks and he is off scott–free. All we have left is Moss and his trail of destruction.”

“But Tom Merritt said you had built up a good case against that senator.”

“We all screwed up in a big way, I admit it. It’s complicated.”

“You must be very proud of yourself! You’re no different from that jerk,” she pointed at the proud incumbent. “So, at least he’s going to jail, right?”

Frankano didn’t answer.

“Well, Moss is going to jail, isn’t he? Please tell me he’s going to jail.”

“I’m not so sure. He struck a deal with the DA in Washington, Rebecca. There’s nothing we can do about it. He may do a little jail time but I doubt it though. You can be sure his days as a congressman will be over after today.”

“Are you telling me that he might go free? How can you make a deal with a murderer?”

“Like I said, it’s all very complicated.”

“This man probably murdered Tony Bix, and then there was that innocent girl. On top of that,” she angrily stated, “you’re still allowing this to go on here,” She gestured to the crowd and Simon Moss.

“That was part of the deal. He could have his day here today, then, we will take him into custody right after this ceremony. His political days are definitely over. He will resign his seat immediately tomorrow morning at a press conference in Washington.”

“And if I expose your so-called deal?”

“We’ll do everything to stop you from doing that, you know that, Miss Ray.”

“Oh, I’m sure you will.” Rebecca looked out over the spectacle around her. “I can’t believe this. I give up! I became a reporter because I believed in fighting for justice. I can’t stay here and watch this bullshit.” She started to walk away.

“Rebecca,” he shouted. “Wait, wait!”

She stopped and looked at him.

He looked at his watch again, then over to an approaching sedan, then drew his gun.

“Stay here, Rebecca, and watch. Get your photographer up here.”

“What?”

“You’ll see.”

“Frankano?” Rebecca quickly motioned to her photographer to come to her side. Things started moving very, very fast.

Suddenly a car, coming from the St. Louis side of the bridge, stopped by the roped off area Simon was standing in. A figure in a heavy coat, wearing a dark blue ski mask and leather gloves, jumped got out of the car and dashed toward the congressman before the agents had time to react.

A gun was drawn, a woman screamed and Moss immediately turned to see why. When he did, he came face-to-face with the masked person, the barrel of the pistol laid on the shocked and frightened white-haired man’s cheek bone.

All of the agents moved into unspecified locations. The camera crews moved as close as possible to catch the scene. Rebecca’s partner began snapping photos.

The crowd below wondered what all the commotion was up on the bridge.

“Drop the gun!” Frankano shouted, as he pointed his weapon at the assailant, as did the other agents.

Simon could see the scarred lips of the man holding the gun to him through the mouth opening of the mask. “Jump, you son-of-a-bitch, or I’ll kill you myself!” the masked man commanded him. The voice was raspy and barely audible.

“Somebody help me!” Moss cried out. “He wants me to jump!”

Frankano shouted out to his men, “Something’s wrong. That isn’t our agent.”

With a quick hard blow to the neck from the masked gunman, Moss flew against the concrete side rail and then fell, flipping over it, grabbing desperately onto one of the antique steel-tube street light poles that line both sides of the bridge. The crowd on the bridge deck and those down on the street below, gasped in disbelief, as Moss screamed out, dangling from the side of the bridge. The agents started to rush the assailant.

Immediately the man’s pistol was in Moss’s face again as he barely held tight to the light fixture.

“Stop!” Frankano commanded his men, “Stand back. He might shoot. He’s not our agent!”

“Help me! Please help me, Frankano!” cried Moss, holding on to the steel lamp tubing in desperation. “This wasn’t our deal Frankano, this wasn’t our deal! Do something fast! Somebody help me! This nut’s going to kill me.”

“I think you need to pay for what you did, Moss,” stated the gunman calmly.

“Shoot him, damn it, Frankano!” Moss shouted at the agent, as his grip weakened. His eyes darted over to the agent, then back to the masked gunman.

The man suddenly and viciously jabbed the gun barrel into Moss’s eye socket, pushing his eyeball back into his head. Blood gushed out from around the barrel of the gun. Moss screamed out in agony, still desperately clinging to the light pole, as the turbulent river below lapped up against the old cobble stone riverbank, near where his supporters stood, watching in horror. His feet dangled and kicked, trying to find a foothold. People below screamed, seeing Moss legs dangling above them. Some ran up to the bridge to get a better view.

Rebecca watched in disbelief. “Oh my gosh,” she said to herself.

“You have ten seconds to drop the gun!” Frankano shouted to the masked man. “We’ll shoot! I’m going to count to ten. Now put the damn gun down and let Mr. Moss back onto the bridge.”

The man’s eyes stared at Moss without any compassion.

“One! Two! Three!” Frankano counted out.

“It’s your turn to die, colonel,” the masked gunman quietly stated to Moss.

Moss suddenly realized who the masked gunman was. “Help me, Frankano! Please help me! Somebody shoot him!”

Blood covered Moss’s cheeks and mouth, as the barrel twisted deeper in his skull. “A-h-h-h!” Moss screamed in horror.

Rebecca gasped as she put her fingers to her lips.

“Five! Six!” Frankano carefully counted, “Put the fucking gun down now.”

“This one’s for my beautiful Mary, who you murdered, Mr. Moss!”

Then, a shot rang out, blowing away the back of Moss’s head, hurling the congressman’s body away from the bridge, then down to the murky gray water’s edge below on the cobblestone pavement. Everyone on the bridge dashed to the railing to see the corpse land.

Instantly, without reaching the count of “ten”, the agents let loose a barrage of gunfire into the masked man’s back, neck and legs, killing him on the spot.

When the shooting stopped, people screamed while some stood silently in shock. Some stood at the rail to see if they could get a glimpse of Moss’ body, as the river splashed against his tangled legs.

His white hair was drenched in dark blood.

Frankano ran over and looked down over the bridge railing and saw Moss laying below, lifeless. He turned around and crouched down to the masked gunman’s body, still lying lifeless near his feet, and gently removed the mask and gloves.

“Oh, Jesus Christ!” He immediately recognized the figure. Rebecca ran over next to him. “Who is it, Frankano?”

It’s Spencer! It’s Alex Spencer.”

“Who?” She asked again.

“It’s Alex Spencer. I can’t believe this. We thought he was dead. He survived the crash three years ago. Jesus! I should have kept searching for him.” Frankano rubbed his hand over his head. “What a fucking mess.”

The cameras moved in to get a close-up of the dead gunman. His face was gruesomely burned and scarred, barely any facial features at all and his hands, were deformed, with only partial digits attached.

Someone screamed out, “Oh-h-h! His face has been burned off.”

Rebecca stood silent, as Frankano ordered his men to check the dead man’s car. “Oh, Lord,” she whispered. Her photographer feverishly captured the gruesome scene, furiously snapping dozens of photos.

A young Hispanic agent moved quickly to report back to Frankano, after inspecting the car, “There’s nothing in the back seat, Sir.”

“Well, check the fucking trunk!” Frankano shouted, frustrated and angry.

“Yes, Sir.”