Special Agent Read online

  “Thank you, Mr. Overton. I’ll be on my way…”

  Frank Overton was lost in another daze. He appeared to be tuned in to his television program, but perhaps he was listening to other voices. Voices only he had been gifted to hear.

  I let myself out.

  It seemed like everyone was going crazy these days.

  Twenty-One

  When I got back to the office, I told Christine what had happened with Mr. Overton.

  “So, there was nothing there? Christine asked.

  “There was nothing there that he didn’t bring into the house himself, certainly no electronic eavesdropping or video recording devices. Still, he was hearing voices and felt like he was being watched.”

  “Why do you think he was afraid of something that wasn’t there?”

  “He’s a very strange man. I think he’s opened himself to some pretty bad influences.”

  “What influences?”

  “The Bible in the book of Ephesians refers to Satan as ‘the prince of the power of the air’. It’s an odd term. In ancient times, people thought ‘the air’ was where the spirit beings lived, the angels and demons. Some believed storms and other meteorological phenomenon were caused by these spirits. ‘The air’ was believed to be a different dimension from the one in which we live.

  They could not imagine anything like what we have now, Christine. Can you imagine someone from the ancient world hearing a stereo or seeing a television image? It would seem like magic. Do you think it’s just a coincidence we refer to television and radio broadcasts as being ‘on the air’?”

  “No, we also call some people ‘on air’ personalities, but are you suggesting radio and television are evil?”

  “Not, exactly. Television and radio broadcasts are just things we’ve created by using natural phenomenon in new ways. A television is just an object, as are cameras, recording equipment, computers, satellites, and broadcasting equipment. The medium is not evil. However, as with anything else it can be used for evil, or by evil. With satellite uplinks and downloads, TV and radio are now universal and have the capability to reach billions of people in virtually real time. The medium is not evil, but the media may well be a tool.”

  “I guess it could be, but there are also very good programs and religious broadcasts, sharing the Gospel with people who otherwise might not have heard it.” Christine said.

  It’s one of the things I appreciate about Christine. She always tries to see the good in everything, and she won’t hesitate to challenge my thinking. I had to agree with her statement.

  “Sure, and Billy Graham was the first evangelist to really make full use of the radio and television potential. God can use broadcast media, if He wants to. He created every aspect of the physics involved, but He does not need the medium, because He’s omnipresent and omnipotent. Satan is neither omnipotent nor omnipresent. He can use the medium and he does need to use it, to spread his deceptions and lies throughout the world. There are people who believe pretty much everything they see on TV. They never question whether there might be an agenda into which they are buying. There are people who worship the TV and the people they see on TV or in the movies, as idols. They have been seduced into a modern form of idolatry.”

  Christine laughed.

  “John, I know for a fact you watched ‘American Idol’. Does that make you an idolater?”

  “No, it doesn’t, because I know the God of the universe. My worship and awe are for Him alone. I enjoy seeing people use the gifts God has given them, whether on a stage or in a sports arena. I enjoy fine art, music, good writing and good acting. There is a value to stories that reveal the truth in interesting ways. Watching television, listening to the radio or enjoying recorded media, is not a wrong or evil activity in itself, if we are aware of the message the messenger is carrying ‘on the air’. Every broadcast carries a message. Sometimes the message is obvious and open, at other times its hidden and deceptive. It could be a bad thing if we fail to recognize the message and test the source. It could be a bad thing if it takes time away from more fruitful pursuits. It could be wrong or used for evil, if the people getting the message are drawn away into lies and deception.”

  Christine was thoughtful for a moment.

  “Is that what you think is happening with Frank Overton.” She asked.

  “I’m afraid it’s only one of the many things happening with that gentleman and his family.”

  “It’s so sad. It sounds like he might be mentally ill.”

  “It is a possibility. There’s a lot we don’t know about brain chemistry and the things that cause changes in it. The term “mental illness” encompasses a huge range of attitudes and behaviors and the cause/effect relationship is not fully understood. In ancient times, this might have been called demonic oppression. Today we try to adjust brain chemistry through experimentation with prescription of psychiatric drugs. I wonder, do you think demonic oppression could create changes in brain chemistry which would cause mental illness? It might be hard to tell one from the other, sometimes. There have been studies of brain activity, observing the electrical impulses in the brain and the changes which occur under different types of visual and auditory stimulation. Think of all of the people who let their children have televisions in their rooms. They let the children watch pretty much whatever comes on. They let them listen to music and they don’t know what the message is the kids are hearing. Their children play violent video games, some with demonic themes. Would you like to talk about what the average six year old can find on the internet? What changes to the brain might these things contribute to? We spend way too much time ‘on the air’. It may not be good for anyone’s mental health.”

  Christine pursed her lips and nodded her head in agreement.

  “John, you make a good point, and we live in a world where media shapes the message.”

  “And, Satan is the Prince of this world and the Prince of the Power of the Air.”

  “That’s a scary thought.”

  “Not when you remember his days are numbered. The fallen angel is not omnipotent, his power is limited. He can only do what God allows him to do, in the season he has left. God is just allowing him to act out his role for the purpose God has ordained. We have no reason to be afraid.”

  Twenty-Two

  Often, as I did my on-line research, I would listen to digital music I had saved as the playlist on my computer, my own personal groove. I’d been listening to some of my favorite music the next morning, but my ear buds were bothering me, so I pulled them out. Even as they were coming out of my ears, I heard the screaming.

  It was coming from outside our office. I checked the video feed on the monitor. The cameras out in the hall showed a woman standing outside the elevator doors. She was screaming as she backed away from the open elevator

  I jumped up from behind my desk and ran through the reception area, finding myself just a few steps behind Christine, who must have seen the same video feed I had seen. We burst out into the hall together and raced to the screaming woman.

  That woman was no longer screaming. She had collapsed in a heap, leaning against the wall next to the elevator. She was sobbing now, and making the sign of the cross, in the air before her.

  I left her to Christine as I stepped to where I could see into the elevator. The doors had just closed, but the elevator wasn’t moving. I punched the button.

  I was waiting when the doors opened.

  The overhead lights in the elevator were flickering. A big man was standing with his back to me. He was standing in a pool of blood. Evidently the blood was his own, as there was no one else in the elevator. His shirt, which appeared to have been a white dress shirt, was completely saturated with it and had turned crimson. The shirt was slashed and shredded, and stuck to him like glue. In his right hand hung a club made entirely of twisted barbed wire, about two and a half feet in length. It had bits of flesh and fabric clinging on some of the barbs. Blood slowly dripped from the end of the twisted wire,
each drop splashing into the congealing pool at his feet

  He turned toward me, and fixed his eyes on me. Those eyes were cold and vacant, not unlike the eyes of a dead man. His face was spattered with dried blood. His mouth opened and he began to speak.

  “We see you, Shepherd. You have opposed us for too long. We have grown weary of your interference. We think it is time for you to go away,” he said.

  There was mucous, slowly running down his upper lip, dripping from one of his nostrils.

  “To whom am I speaking?”

  “We are many. You are alone.”

  “No, I am not alone. I am never alone.”

  He growled a low, deep, guttural growl. Then he bared his teeth. Someone else might have mistaken it for a hideous grin.

  “I come against you in the name…” I started.

  He was amazingly fast.

  He rushed me, just as the elevator doors began to close again.

  He lashed out with the barbed wire and I felt cold blood spatter my face, as I lurched back away from the strike. I ducked under the next swing and slammed the heel of my hand up under his chin.

  I heard his teeth clap together, as his head was knocked back. I had hit him hard, with the full weight of my body behind the blow. I had expected him to be nearly lifted from the floor, and knocked out cold, but he was barely effected and otherwise unmoved.

  He stood ready to spring as I backed up against the opposite wall, in the now much too narrow hallway.

  Blood ran down his chin from his lacerated tongue. He had bitten through it when I hit him.

  I started to speak again, but he leapt straight at me, both hands now bringing the club down in a whistling, overhand arch.

  I rolled to the side, narrowly missing having that club slam straight down on my head. It did burn its way down the outside of my thigh, shredding part of my sport coat and the outside of my pants leg.

  He spun then and hit me in the head with an elbow, knocking me to the floor.

  He towered over me for a second with the club raised above his head with both hands.

  He was howling.

  I shot him three times with my Browning, two in center mass, the last up through his head, spattering gore on the ceiling.

  He fell directly on me, as if he had been a marionette and all the strings had been cut at once. I scrambled to get clear of his dead body.

  My leg was bleeding much more than I would have imagined, more than Christine and I could completely control with our hands. Soon the police arrived, as did a fire truck and a couple of ambulances.

  I knew the drill, so I had laid my Browning off to the side and identified myself to the first uniformed officers who appeared on the scene. An officer had taken the Browning, checked me for other weapons, and looked over my credentials. Christine and the cleaning lady from the attorney’s office were taken away by a female uniformed officer. The poor cleaning lady was still crying and making the sign of the cross on herself, again and again.

  An EMT put a pressure dressing on my leg and checked my vital signs. They hooked me up to an IV drip.

  “Some of these lacerations are quite deep. At a minimum you’re going to need some stitches, and a tetanus shot. We need to carry you into the E.R,” The paramedic said.

  I saw Tony just arriving on the scene. He was talking to the uniformed supervisor. The supervisor showed Tony my Browning, now ensconced in a plastic bag, which the uniforms had passed off to him.

  “I’ll need to talk to Lieutenant Escalante for a minute. Can you wait?”

  “Sure, you’re OK, for now. Just let us know when you’re ready to go.

  Tony bent down to examine the club of bloody twisted wire, where it lay next to the man’s lifeless body, then he walked over to where I was sitting on the bench in the hall, outside the office of Doyle, Doyle and Starnes.

  “Howdy, J.W., are you alright?

  “I guess I need some stiches, but otherwise I’m OK. At least I’m way better than he is,” I nodded towards the corpse.

  They had not covered the body, awaiting the Crime Scene Analysis team to finish gathering evidence and for the coroner’s permission to bag it, and remove it to the county morgue.

  Tony nodded solemnly, in agreement.

  “J.W., I’ll need you to make a statement about the shooting. Can we do this interview now, or do you need to go to the hospital?”

  I looked at the paramedic, who replied with a shrug.

  “I can do it now.”

  Tony pulled out his ubiquitous digital recorder.

  “I am Detective Lieutenant Anthony Escalante of the Robbery/Homicide Division of the Tyler Police Department. The current time is nine forty seven A.M. Saturday, June seventeenth. I am interviewing Mr. John Wesley Tucker, about his role in a fatal shooting, which occurred at this location at approximately ten minutes after nine o’clock, this morning.”

  He looked at me.

  “Mr. Tucker, you are not under arrest, so I don’t need to read you your rights, but this is the first part of an official investigation of the shooting that occurred here today. Are you ready and willing to make a statement?”

  I nodded.

  “Just tell me what happened,” Tony prompted.

  I told him the story, not leaving out any details.

  “Did you know the man?”

  I nodded again. I was getting very tired now. The adrenaline had worn off and the trauma was taking its toll.

  I suddenly realized the recorder could only record my voice, not my body language.

  “His name was Frank Overton. He had asked me to do some investigating for him. I only met him once. There was no trouble between us, but he was a troubled man.”

  “Now that’s an understatement,” The EMT interrupted.

  “Why do you say that?” I asked.

  “Well, look at him. His hands are flayed, cut to the bone. How could he do such a thing to himself, not to mention what he did…”

  “Let’s just finish your statement, Mr. Tucker,” Tony snapped, glaring at the EMT.

  “That’s all I can tell you, Lieutenant Escalante. I shot him in self-defense, but I wish I could have stopped him some other way. I did try to do that.”

  Tony put away his recorder.

  “I understand, J.W. I’m just glad you survived and Christine wasn’t hurt.”

  The EMT asked if they could load me on the gurney.

  “Yeah, OK. We’re done here, J.W., unless there’s anything you want to add to your statement?”

  I shook my head.

  “You sure you don’t know what set him off?”

  “I do know what ‘set him off’, Tony. It wasn’t Frank Overton who attacked me…”

  Tony held up his hand.

  “Stop, right there, J.W., the body lying there is that of Frank Overton. We have witnesses and video of him coming into this building. We have the video from the security cameras here in this hallway. Christine and the cleaning woman have given us a statement. That dead man is Overton. It even says so, on his I.D, which was still in his pocket.

  What you don’t know is we have the bodies of his wife and child, which we found at his residence earlier this morning, after responding to a 911 call from his neighbors. We have the statements from his neighbors, attesting to what he did to his family. Now I understand what you’re saying, but it won’t help with the inquiry. You’re pretty shaken up, as well you should be. Go on to the hospital and get patched up. We’ll talk about this later.”

  Tony nodded to the ambulance attendants and they helped me onto a gurney and strapped me down. Then we got in the freight elevator for the ride down to the waiting ambulance. I knew the sinking feeling I had was a product of multiple, nearly simultaneous, descents.

  Twenty-Three

  I didn’t get out of the hospital for nearly six hours. Since my injuries were not life threatening, I was near the bottom of the list for treatment. Eventually they got me into an examining room and cut my shredded and blood saturated khaki
pants off. When they got the mess all cleaned up, there were numerous deep cuts and bruises from my hip down to the top of my knee. After the doctor put seven internal stiches, thirty eight surface stitches and one anti tetanus shot into me, they were ready to let me go. They had bandaged my leg and I had been instructed not to get it wet for three or four days.

  No showers for me, I would have to take bird baths… bring on the wet wipes.

  Christine had followed the ambulance to the hospital and had kept me company through the whole ordeal. She took my prescription for antibiotics and my things, and left to get her car, while an orderly pushed me in a wheelchair to the front entrance. I limped outside, wearing a pair of borrowed, blue scrub pants, which really didn’t match my dark brown, partially shredded sport coat or my blood spattered tan shirt.

  I was met outside the front entrance, by a local TV news crew.

  I saw Christine trying to bring her car to the curb, but the TV van had blocked her approach. The camera man and the reporter were between us.

  “Mr Tucker, is it true you were attacked by a man named Frank Overton?”

  The reporter was a pretty and vivacious, new girl, who I had not seen before.

  I paused to consider my answer.

  “You have a history of violence, Mr. Tucker. What did you do to provoke Mr. Overton?”

  I stiffened at that.

  “Why didn’t you call the police?”

  I tried to ease past her to get to Christine, but she stepped in front of me, blocking my way and thrust her microphone in my face.

  I brushed it away, and hobbled toward Christine’s car.

  “We called 911.” I mumbled.

  “Did you have to shoot and kill him, Mr. Tucker? Why did you have that gun?” the reporter yelled.

  That nearly stopped me.

  I wanted to tell her I almost always had “that gun”. I wanted to tell her that if I had not had “that gun”, there would have been more dead people, before Frank Overton was eventually stopped. I wanted to tell her I would certainly have been the next person he killed, but probably not the last. I wanted to explain the situation to her, but more than anything, I just wanted to go home and lie down.