Operation Mockingbird (14 page)

“Come on,” Matt shouted as he began to take the stairs two at a time.

He looked back and saw that Alex was keeping up with him easily. They raced across the bridge. Once on the other side, Matt pressed some tokens into the machine. They
pushed their way through the turnstile and jogged along the platform, stopping as the train pulled in and ready to board the train when the doors of the incoming train slid open. Matt urged Alex in ahead of him.

Once on the train, Matt turned to the window. He saw two stocky men race across the bridge they had just crossed. Matt thought he recognized one of the guys as the man that had been standing under the street lamp on the night he had the visit from Commissioner Suarez, but he couldn’t be certain. They could be just regular guys trying to catch a ride on a form of transport commonly used by many Downtown commuters. The train began to move and the men faded from sight.

When Alex and Matt got off the train, they were still a few blocks from their destination. Matt guided Alex past an empty parking lot that served as a campground for the homeless and toward Bayside Marketplace, an open-air complex sitting along the water’s edge. With more than 140 shops, restaurants and bars, it was a destination spot for the thousands of tourists coming through Miami every day. Next to the American Airlines Arena, home of the Miami Heat, it also attracted people attending a home game.

They wandered through the crowd, pretending to admire the wares of the local cart operators as they made small talk. A cruise ship was in port so the marketplace was packed. Matt checked his watch frequently and scanned the crowd looking for Stephen. Five minutes before their appointed meeting time with Stephen, Matt and Alex headed to the middle of the main courtyard. Matt noticed
two seats next to each other and gestured toward them. They sat together for a few minutes, as kids ran around them, chasing each other and squealing with laughter. Parents watched absently while enjoying the live band and colorful frozen drinks.

Matt finally decided to make use of the time to find out more about Alex.

“So tell me about yourself.”

Alex looked at him quizzically.

Matt shrugged. “It looks like we may have some time to kill.”

“Well,” she began slowly. “My dad was in the military so we traveled around when I was little. We ended up in Tampa when he was transferred to MacDill Air Force Base. I was about 10 and grew up there.”

“Ahh.” Matt nodded his head. “An Air Force brat. That explains a lot.”

“Also, the youngest of four and the only girl.”

“That explains even more. A real tomboy, I’ll bet.” Matt smiled as he put his hands in a defensive gesture. “Remind me not to pick a fight with you.”

“Actually, it gets better. I’m ex-military myself.”

“Really?” Matt was shocked. “I never would have guessed.”

“Yeah,” she chuckled softly. “My short-lived military career started with the smooth seduction of a four-year ROTC scholarship. I majored in computer technology at the University of South Florida.”

“Interesting. And now you’re a writer. What made you decide to go from the exciting world of combat and foreign travel to the calm -- not to mention solitude -- of writing?”

“That part was easy,” she smiled. “Writing was always my passion. Unfortunately, our government doesn’t place a high value on that particular profession, which is why I majored in computers.”

“Ah, practicality and love of country prevails. How’d you make the transition to writer?”

“Well, I haven’t yet. For now, writing is just a hobby. I don’t actually make a living at it. After I completed my commitment to the government, I took some time off to try and break into the world of writing. Unfortunately, though, no one would hire me without some background in journalism or without having been published. So I decided to write the book. Hopefully, I can parlay it into a full-time career.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Matt said encouragingly. “I’m sure it’ll pay off.”

“It better pay off soon, because out-of-work computer techs are a dime a dozen since the technology bust.”

“Well, I hate to tell you this but writers aren’t worth much more.”

Matt checked his watch again. Stephen was thirty minutes late. He canvassed the faces of the passersby one final time. The family of tourists was still there, but the kids were starting to tire and were whining to their parents that it was time to go. A trio of suits were walking unsteadily by and headed toward the parking lot. An unkempt homeless man was picking through the large trash can next to Matt.
The man stopped when he noticed Matt staring at him. He snarled in their direction and Matt quickly looked away.

“Damn!” Matt said suddenly. “I’m an idiot!”

“What?”

“I know where to find Stephen.” He stood up and grabbed her hand. “Let’s go!”

“But ... where?” Alex stammered as she followed him.

Matt didn’t reply. Outside, he strode back the way they had come and to the large city parking lot across the street from Bayside. He continued through the lot, weaving his way through parked cars.

Matt noticed a crowd had gathered at the back of the lot, the dark and shadowy part under the I-95 overpass. No man’s land. The area was covered with large cardboard boxes cobbled together as shelters as well shopping carts and black plastic bags used to transport personal effects. Here, the homeless had established a camp, a city-sanctioned place to loiter and sleep without being accosted. The police were not allowed to harass or arrest them.

The wind strengthened and there was a chill in the air that felt heavy with moisture, redolent of approaching rain. Matt picked up the pace. A few grizzled faces squinted out from the shelter of boxes in various shapes, some apprehensive, most angry at the intrusion on their personal space.

Matt noticed a crowd of people had gathered up ahead, some in dirty layers of clothing, others in Tommy Bahama shirts, Bermuda shorts and flip-flops. Not the usual cast of characters hanging around the homeless camp. Matt headed in that direction, with Alex still following closely
behind. He passed the army of rags and then wove his way through a crowd of homeless men and women along with a few outsiders that had also found their way to the action.

Matt and Alex pushed their way to the very front where a police officer was talking to a homeless man who appeared to be in his late thirties. His long, matted hair hadn’t seen a comb in a very long time. Matt could see foreign objects in the thick long mustache and beard. He was holding court, talking loudly to an enthralled crowd. He seemed thrilled to have an audience and was telling a story with great dramatic flair.

“I already told you, officer,” Matt heard when they were within earshot.

“I know,” the patrolman said, “but tell me slowly this time.”

The man sighed heavily before continuing.

“I was just sittin’ in my crib mindin’ my own bizness when this big guy comes walkin’ down the sidewalk. Actin’ like he owned the damn place. He bumped up against my house and knocked it down.” The man gestured to a large refrigerator box laying crumpled next to him. “He had no cause to do that. The man didn’t even stop to apologize.”

“Then what happened?” The officer asked patiently.

Matt noted that, with his boyish good looks and bright blue pressed uniform, the police officer couldn’t have been on the job for more than a few months. Those were the ones typically assigned to watch over the homeless lots, where the most heinous crimes were petty theft, fighting among the homeless or an occasional homeless beating by bored teenagers weaned on violent video games.

“He walked over to my friend King and just started whalin’ on him. Bam! Bam! Bam!” The man shouted as he gestured wildly, punching an imaginary foe. “He had no cause to do that. None at all. King ain’t done nothin’ to him. This is what you call an unprovoked attack.”

The police officer held up his hand. “Slow down, sir. What exactly happened? I need all the details. Where was your friend?”

“King was sittin’ over there on that bench.” He pointed to a place off to the side where two police officers were pushing the crowd back as they tied a yellow tape around the scene. Matt couldn’t make out what exactly the officers were trying to protect with their yellow tape.

“He wasn’t doing nothin’, officer. Nothin’. He was just mindin’ his own business, writin’ in his book. King never bothered no one. He always kept to himself. The big guy just goes over to King and picks a fight with him. I hear them carryin’ on, arguin’ and such.”

“What was the fight about?”

“I don’t know. I couldn’t hear what they were sayin’. I was tryin’ to put my house back in order.”

The crowd was entranced. One tourist even took a picture. When the homeless man noticed the flash, he stopped to pose for another.

The police officer glared at the tourist taking the picture and gestured for the woman to put the camera down. “And what happened after that, sir?”

“King didn’t say nothin’. He just bent down to pick up his book. And, then, just as he leans down ...” The homeless man leaned down as if to pick an object off the
floor. “BAM!” His fist flew through the air pounding toward the ground. “King fell down. Then while King was down, this guy picks a bottle up off the ground and whacks King over the head with it.” The man picked an imaginary object off the ground and struck the air violently with it.

“I wanted to help but there weren’t nothin’ I could do,” he explained to the crowd. “When King got up, the Big Man just smiled. King’s standin’ there, barely, with blood running down the back of his head and this damn fool is smiling at him. I’m telling you, this was one sick motherfucker.” He then quickly turned and smiled apologetically at a middle-aged woman standing in front of the crowd with two teenage kids. She smiled back tentatively.

“Big Man then throws down the bottle and punches King. One time and then another time. King goes down again. This guy just starts kickin’ him over and over again.” The man pulled his leg back and violently kicked the air. “And stomping on him like he was a damn bug. I ain’t never seen anything like it. It was ugly. He kept at it until King wasn’t moving.”

“What did this man look like?”

“I told you, man.” He scowled at the police officer. “He was a big white man. A big badass white man with a big badass temper.”

The police officer sighed. “Anything else you can tell us?”

“Yeah, this guy is one fucked-up motherfucker, and you better get him off the streets,” he shouted as he wagged
his finger at the cop. A few people in the crowd nodded in agreement.

“We’ll do that. In the interim, we have to track down your friend’s next of kin. This guy King.” The officer referred to his notes. “What was his first name?”

“Nah, man,” the homeless man replied scowling and shaking his head in apparent disgust. “King weren’t his real name. We called him that because he was always writin’. You know, like that scary writer dude. You know who I’m talking about.” He said pointing his finger at the officer. “He wrote
Carrie
and shit. Stephen King. My man’s first name was Stephen.”

Matt had heard enough. He extricated himself from the crowd and made his way over to where another group had congregated, apparently near the area where the attack had taken place. Two police officers stood ground while a small group of onlookers watched the crime scene investigators sift through the area. He inched as close to the scene as the yellow tape would allow.

The body had already been bagged and taken away. Shards of green bottle glass covered with blood were scattered over the ground in a thick pool of a dark liquid. Lying nearby he saw a large clear plastic bag, marked John Doe with an identification number. A wallet. A watch. And a book. The shape of the book and the bright red cover looked familiar. Matt leaned closer. One of the officers noticed him and instructed him to step back.

He turned around and took Alex by the hand, leading her out of the crowd and back to the Metrorail Station
where they had been dropped off. A few minutes later they were back on the train heading south.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Alex said as soon as they sat down in a Southbound train. “But we don’t know that was your Stephen.”

“It was Stephen,” Matt said as he looked straight ahead.

“You don’t know that,” she said grabbing his arm hard. “That couldn’t have been him. He wouldn’t have been living on the streets.”

“He was, and it was.”

She paused and then finally asked, “How can you be so sure?”

“I saw the bag of personal effects of this ‘homeless man’.”

“There was a book,” he continued slowly. “A book called ‘The Media Monopoly’.” She didn’t say a word, so Matt continued. “How many homeless people do you know read about the chilling effects of media consolidation?”

Alex made no reply.

“And then there was what the witness said about the victim. He said his name was Stephen,” Matt reminded her. “Like the writer.”

When they finally arrived at Matt’s house, Alex followed Matt up the walkway and through the front door. He hadn’t invited her in, but he was thankful for the company. She sat down on the sofa as Matt walked to the kitchen. He soon returned with two glasses of amber liquid. He handed one to Alex who took it without comment. The
scotch burned slightly as it went down. Macallan. The good stuff. The stuff he pulled out to celebrate a brilliant and well-received article, a Miami Dolphins’ win against the New England Patriots or, these days, a Dolphins’ win against anyone. Tonight, though, the drink would serve a different purpose. The welcome sensation finally penetrated the numbness.

Matt was the first to speak.

“I met Stephen in New York after September 11
^th
. By then, Stephen had already covered many conflicts -- all over the world. But I was only 22, and this was my first major assignment. Stephen was a reporter at
The New York Times
and had won a Pulitzer Prize for his coverage of the war in Bosnia. He was flying high. Yet, for some reason, he took me under his wing and spent a lot of time showing me the ropes.”

He looked over and saw that she was watching him, so he continued.