Memoria. A Corporation of Lies

Chapter Eighteen. The Bent Cop

The day was nearly over but Bud Jessup stayed put at the former Yankee stadium with the rest of his police squad. He hoped for some news from his man in the camp, but he didn’t answer the captain’s calls and code messages.

From his seat, Jessup turned to the young radio operator at his station in the corner of the HQ room. The staff duty officer next to him caught his glance and shook his head. The camp frequencies were silent. One would think all migrants had left the Bronx. However, the satellite picture that detected personal bracelet signals showed otherwise. Apparently, the migrants had switched off their cell phones and gathered in Fordham.

Jessup fiddled with his phone and dialed his informant’s number again. For the hundredth time, he heard a raspy signal followed by a synthesized female voice telling him that the number he’d dialed was not available. He slid the phone back into his pocket and rose.

“Keep on trying,” Jessup ordered as he walked out into the hallway.

Behind the open doors, his men were busy working, their voices subdued, radio receivers crackling with white noise. The captain took the steps to the upper floor and stood by the window. Not a single light showed amid the trees, not a single whiff of smoke, not a spark escaped the chimneys. Buildings loomed in the growing darkness outside, vacated by their inhabitants who’d even taken their children along.

“Permission to speak, sir?” Gizbo’s soft voice said behind his back.

Jessup knew why he came.

“No need to, Lieutenant,” he shook his head.

“But why, sir? Just a quick recce is all we—”

“We don’t trespass the perimeter, period. These are the regs. Dismissed.”

“But sir…”

“I said dismissed, Lieutenant.” Jessup clenched his teeth and turned back to the window.

Memoria’s choppers had left four hours ago. He still didn’t know what had happened in the camp. Had Memoria’s men seized Shelby? Why did Gautier show no response to the attack? Why was there no response from their council? They had the right to protest and demand explanations from the administration, but they didn’t.

Behind his back, Gizbo sniffed showing no intention of leaving. Jessup could yell at him all he wanted, he could suspend him, but he knew that they both wanted the same thing. And other department workers who’d assisted in their covert investigation wanted it, too, even though they wisely kept it to themselves. Uncertainty and the lack of action are a detective’s worst enemies.

“Come on now,” Jessup hurried down the steps. He knew what to do. “Tell Salem to double-check all the reports for the last forty-eight hours. You will form four groups. Two will surveil Memoria’s HQ and the surrounding area. Tell them to watch all the exits, intercept all the phone calls and make a video record of everything they observe. No radio contact between groups. Tell them to use plastic bottles if they need to take a leak. If they have something worth reporting, they must use our cell phone numbers, yours or mine.” He glanced back.

“Yes, sir,” Gizbo nodded.

“No one leaves their surveillance positions.”

Judging by the events of the last two days, someone listened to their classified frequencies and even sent their own messages. Jessup didn’t want to risk the lives of the people he was now sending on an unauthorized surveillance operation.

“The third group will watch Binelli. Exercise caution and use your imagination. Sign up for all the equipment you may need and explain the objective well so that our people know what they’re getting into.”

“You can count on them, sir.”

Jessup stopped on the landing to give way to two sergeants hurrying upstairs. Having watched them pass, he motioned Gizbo to approach.

“Now listen to me, Lieutenant,” Jessup whispered. “It’s twenty-six years I’ve been with the police: ten as an operative, eight as Chief of Homicide, three more as a chief of this base, plus three more as a deputy head of internal investigations. I’ve been head of New York police for the last two years. I’ve seen a lot. I’ve seen corrupted patrol cops and trigger-happy detectives,” Jessup paused. “One thing I’ve never seen is a mole in the department. To think that one of my own men channels classified information to Memoria…”

“Rooting him out won’t be easy,” Gizbo said softly.

“That I know. But you,” Jessup poked Gizbo’s chest, “you’ve got to be a hundred percent sure your people won’t let you down. It’s not that we have a prosecution warrant.”

“I understand, sir.”

They continued their descent.

“You yourself will take the fourth group. You’ll penetrate the perimeter and find out what the fuck’s going on in the camp. I need to know why Shelby had to go there, of all places. Also, what’s making the migrants assemble in Fordham. Come back and report to me,” Jessup stopped and looked into the man’s eyes. “Make sure they don’t suss you out.”

“I will, sir.”

Jessup looked up to the sound of hurried footsteps and lowered his voice. “You’ve got to find out what Shelby had in his attaché case — if he had something there at all. Just find that out, Lieutenant, and make sure you don’t get caught. I’ll give you my contact in the camp. His name is—”

“Captain Bud Jessup?” he heard from above.

“Here!”

Footsteps clattered overhead. The next moment, the chubby dark-skinned Lieutenant Salem appeared on the landing.

“Finally I’ve found you, sir,” he managed, out of breath.

“Don’t tell me you’ve got radio contact with the camp,” Jessup gasped in anticipation.

“No, sir… You’ve got to listen to the news, sir… They’ve just made a statement…”

“Who has?”

“Memoria, sir. It’s breaking news, sir.”

Jessup slapped his forehead. Hadn’t Gautier told them to watch the evening news? How could he forget?

All three ran out into the ground-floor hallway. Jessup was the first to reach the fishbowl of the watchman’s booth by the building exit. His men rose, alarmed.

“Turn on the TV,” panting, Jessup dropped onto a chair pulled up by Gizbo. A gray-haired sergeant — he had to be as old as Jessup himself — reached for the remote and pressed the “on” button pointing at an ancient valve TV set resting on top of a dusty filing cabinet in the corner.

“Put it up! Where’s the sound?” Jessup ordered.

The sergeant obeyed. The anchor’s confident voice filled the room. With his every word, the tension grew. Jessup didn’t move. His men held their breath as they listened. Occasional footsteps and voices behind the glass partition died straight away. No one noticed them: all eyes and ears were on the screen. On the breaking news.

It lasted three minutes and started again without a commercial break. Jessup stared at the wall unable to speak. It all sounded like the ravings of a madman, but now Gautier’s words finally made sense. He looked back onto the screen when Gizbo stood between him and the TV.

“Sir?” the lieutenant, worried, shook Jessup by the shoulder looking into his face. “Sir, we’ve got DC on the line.”

The duty staff officer passed Gizbo the receiver. He handed it to the captain.

Jessup rose. It took him some time to realize he was the center of attention. Several dozen policemen crowded in the hall watching him through the glass partition. They’d all seen the news; those at the back whispered their explanations to newcomers. Relief officers streamed in filling the stairs and the hallway. Jessup looked out of the window. Reserves were already lining up on the drill grounds in front of the building.

“They’re waiting, sir,” Gizbo reminded him.

Slowly, Jessup took the receiver, weighed it in his hand as if to throw it back on top of the scrambled army telephone set, then brought it to his ear.

“Captain Jessup speaking.”

Secretary of Homeland Security was on the line.

First, he asked Jessup if he’d watched the news. To the affirmative, the Secretary demanded that law and order were maintained by whatever means necessary. He wanted Jessup to coordinate his actions with the Feds who were now busy in New York. He finished by demanding Jessup to hand Agent Archer the independent reporter detained earlier.

“Who do you mean?” Jessup asked, perplexed.

After a pause, the Secretary gave him the name. Serge Gillan.

Then he remembered. The reporter was among those who had covered the morning’s talks at Memoria’s. The problem was, only two people knew about it: Jessup himself and Lieutenant Gizbo who’d taken the detained reporter to the station. Gillan had told them nothing of interest, apart from the fact that Shelby had an attaché case which, he’d claimed, contained some evidence of his innocence. Most likely, the Secretary himself didn’t know that. It was some Memoria rat again, trying to kill two birds with one stone: get Jessup out of the way and deal with the reporter at the same time. It still didn’t explain how the secretary had got hold of the man’s name in the first place.

The clock kept ticking but Jessup didn’t know how to react. He had no reason not to trust Gizbo. In fact he’d just warned him, ten minutes previous, that they had a mole in the department. No way Gizbo was the one. Jessup could believe anything but that.

“Yes, sir,” he finally mumbled into the phone. “I’ll do as you say.” He handed the receiver back to the duty officer and sat still staring at the control panel behind the glass partition.

“Sir?” Gizbo said. “You sure you’re all right?”

Jessup heard him but lingered, unwilling to speak. He didn’t want to jump the gun. There was too much at stake. He knew of a few cases when old staff buffers like himself had failed to see the obvious. He chuckled. Did he really think he was immune to treachery? Having said that, Gizbo probably didn’t even realize he was being used. And now it was too late, anyway. Now Jessup had only two ways of action left to him: either keep playing the predetermined losing party or admit his failure.

Jessup smoothed his hair, rubbed his neck which was numb with tension and froze. How was he supposed to deal with Archer now? The Secretary made his order clear. Jessup’s stare scrutinized the officers waiting in the hall. His people wouldn’t let the Feds have the detained reporter. Competition was rife between the two offices, and the top brass would be happy to sink their teeth into a new scandal. They all thrived on being at each other’s throats: the FBI and the CIA, the army and the secret service, but until now, Memoria had played no part in it. This last incident was too much like a post-war gangland act.

“Lieutenant Gizbo,” Jessup said looking him straight in the eye, “you’re under arrest on suspicion of treason. Surrender your gun and badge.”

Everyone stared at their chief.

“Sergeant, what are you waiting for? Take him into custody.”

With those words Jessup began to turn away from Gizbo. Reaching for his gun, the lieutenant lunged for the file cabinet with the TV set. Salem and a few other officers grabbed his hands before the traitor had a chance to pull the trigger.

Jessup walked out of the room. The men in the hall fell quiet. They’d been watching the incident through the glass and were now expecting an explanation. Watching their stern faces, Jessup decided on a third course of action. He told them the truth.

He had little doubt now that Shelby had evidence against Memoria in that attaché case of his. And the corporation was bending over backwards trying to get it back and destroy it. Apparently, their arrival at the camp hadn’t gone as planned. That’s why Gizbo had tried to talk Jessup into infiltrating the perimeter. Possibly, that was why they tried to pull strings in order to make Jessup hand the reporter over to them. More than likely, Kathleen’s killers would then clean up the reporter’s memory, the way they’d already done with the other witnesses. Either that, or get rid of him permanently.

He looked over the room again. His men were waiting. Time to act, time to give orders.

Fighting off his emotions, Jessup spoke, slowly and clearly, making sure everyone heard every word and understood what was going on. They had to believe him. In less than an hour, enormous queues would start snaking around Memoria’s offices, like on Black Friday sales. Only now human memories were the discounted merchandise. Jessup hadn’t expected a move like that.

His mind kept replaying the words of the TV anchor reading from the prompt screen. Everyone who made it to a Memoria branch before midnight could try their new service for free. Everyone could choose to have any skill he wanted downloaded into their minds. The list of professions offered was long: after all, the corporation database had amassed quite a few files over the last years.

Now Jessup understood why Memoria had been so active in the last several months, opening new branches all over the country. Its directors were busy working on the project of the century, willing to give everyone happiness and prosperity and to revitalize the nation — something that their pushy motto had been promising for the last three decades.

He knew well that this objective was only a smoke screen for a much more important goal: to amass as much money and power as possible. Those were the only two things Memoria cared about. With the exception of Jesus, no one had ever given people bread for free. Very soon, he and his men would be history. Professional skills would be a dime a dozen, and army veterans like himself would become the new cannon fodder: Memoria would still need their minds, but only in order to extract the memories they needed, digitize their professional experience, then compress the resulting files to the desired size and sell them like hot cakes. Another week or a month, and new professionals would arrive to replace them: bright-eyed and chock-full of competences, who would pass any employee rating with flying colors — and who would probably teach Jessup how to do his job.

That’s why he hurried to explain to his men what the Vaccination could mean to them. He shared his reasons behind Gizbo’s arrest and told them about the reporter who’d seen and heard Frank Shelby in Memoria’s tower. After that, he started setting new objectives for his unit commanders.