The Warren Files 03: George & Alice

After we got in the car, he pulled out his smartphone and touched an icon on the home screen. Instantly, we heard Alice speaking to someone on her office phone.

"Hi, Pat," we heard Alice say. We didn't hear the other half of the conversation. "Two of them were just here, said they were with some kind of task force... Yeah, one of them was Oscar... I didn't tell them anything... You think we should?" There was a pause before she spoke again. "Okay, if you think that's best. Bye." Frank looked at me, concerned.

"So, it looks like the bad guys know you by name, Probie," he said.

"Yeah, I was one of their victims," I said. "That's how I got into this business. Say, how did you manage to get that?" He smiled.

"I put a bug under her desk," he said. "I knew if I pushed, she'd panic. And she did."

"So what do we do now?" I asked.

"We stick to the plan, Probie," he said. "We pick George up at 6:00. In the meantime, I could go for a steak. How about you?"

"Do you think that's wise?" I asked.

"Why not?" he asked. "It'll be hours before we get to eat again and I'm kinda hungry. C'mon, Probie, let's head over to the Texas Roadhouse and get something to eat. There's nothing we can do right now except cause panic. We don't need to pick George up for another three hours yet."

Looking back on it, I would probably have picked George up from his place of work, even though it would have been several hours early, but it wasn't my call to make. So we went to the Texas Roadhouse and had a nice early dinner.

We headed to George's place and got there a few minutes before 6:00. George's car was in the driveway, with one door open. We saw no evidence of George anywhere and got no response when we knocked on the door. We started looking around the house when a man approached us.

"You guys looking for Mr. Fredericks?" he asked us.

"Yes," Frank said. "You know where he might be?"

"Not sure, but I saw someone being put into a odd-looking ambulance here about an hour ago," the man said.

"Ambulance?" Frank asked.

"Yeah," the man said. "It was big and black, but it didn't have any markings on it."

"How do you know it was an ambulance?" Frank asked the man.

"I been in one a time or two myself," the man said. "They had the back doors open and there was a lot of medical stuff inside. They put someone in the back. Looked like they were preparing him for some kind of surgery."

"Shit," we both said at the same time. "Thanks, mister," Frank said as we got back in the car. Frank pulled up the computer we kept in the car and fired up his tracking software. He punched in a code and I could see a flashing red dot on the map.

"That's the tracker I put in his wallet," Frank said. "Let's see if we can nail down his address." He clicked on the dot and a box came up with the current address of the tracking device in George's wallet: N. Ridgestone Drive – a fairly remote area of town easily thirty minutes from our current location. "Call it in," he told me.

Frank turned on the lights and siren as I placed the call for backup and an ambulance. He laid rubber as he took off down the road.

We arrived at the address about 25 minutes later. Several police vehicles and an ambulance were waiting for us and had not yet entered the property. Frank stopped the car and got out, looking for the officer in charge.

"Agent Michaels?" a police sergeant asked.

"Yes," Frank said.

"What do ya have?" the sergeant asked. Frank filled him in on the situation. Not having any intel on this site, we were at a loss and didn't know what we might be facing. Frank and the sergeant looked over a rough diagram of the property and came up with a plan of attack.

We donned our body armor before getting back into the car. It was only rated at level II, the kind used by most officers on the street, and would be effective against small arms, but not so much against rifle fire. Once in the car, Frank looked at me.

"For what it's worth, Probie, you were right," he said. "We should've gone to get George earlier."

"Thanks, boss," I said. I knew better than to press the issue. We turned into the drive and got about halfway to the house before all hell broke loose.

I heard a number of shots being fired from automatic weapons and could see the flashes from the muzzles of the rifles. I instinctively ducked just as several rounds struck the windshield. The car stopped and as I looked over, I could see Frank slumped over. I went to check him and my hand came back bloody. I could see at least two holes in his body armor. He was moaning in pain as he looked at me.

"Looks like... I'll be... retiring... a bit early," he said through clenched teeth. I got out of the car and worked my way around to the drivers side. The guards continued to shoot as the officers around us returned fire. I pulled Frank out of the car and laid him down on the ground where he would have some cover.

An officer came over to me to check on Frank, so I directed him to administer first aid. I keyed my portable radio and made the call every law enforcement officer hates: "Officer down, shots fired." I knew the place would be crawling with police soon, so I decided to stay with Frank until the ambulance crew that was already there came to collect him, which they did. Frank grabbed my hand and looked me in the eye.

"Get the motherfuckers, Oscar," he said before he was carried away.

"I will, boss," I said. "Count on it."

Using the police cars as cover, I made it as close to the front door as I could, where other officers had gathered. The rifle fire had eased up a bit and moved to the back part of the property, so we made our way to the front door. Two officers with a battering ram broke the door open and we entered, firing at the guards waiting for us.

Three armed guards were on the stairway in front of us, so we focused our fire on them, taking them out. We made our way up the stairs to a set of wooden double doors. Opening the doors, I saw what looked like a makeshift operating room. George was laying on the bed, unconscious, and a woman was placing something into a metal tray. She turned to look at me, a bloody scalpel in her hand.

"You're too late," she said through her mask. I pointed my pistol at her and ordered her to drop the knife. She laid the scalpel on a tray next to some other bloody instruments. I directed her to turn around and place her hands behind her back. I cuffed her and read her Miranda rights. I looked at George hoping to assess the damage. His groin was a bloody mess and I hoped that whatever damage had been done could be reversed.

Two officers went to Alice, who was standing in a far corner, and placed her under arrest. They began to lead her out of the room, but I stopped them.

"You'd better hope to God your husband lives," I told her.

"Fuck you," she said. "I hope he fucking dies."

"If he dies, I'll do everything in my power to make sure you die as well," I said. I motioned for the officers to take her away, which they did. By now, medical personnel were filing into the room, checking George's condition.

"Can he be moved? Can this be fixed?" I asked. One of the paramedics shook his head.

"We can move him if we're extremely careful," he said. "It won't be easy. As for reversing the damage already done, I really can't say. We'll get him straight into surgery."

"Where are you taking him?" I asked.

"St. Francis Medical Center," the tech said. I knew the place. It was an excellent hospital with a very good reputation and it was close by. I thanked the tech and called Bill before before processing the crime scene.

"What's your sitrep?" Bill asked when he answered. I gave him a brief rundown of the situation and asked about Frank.

"He didn't make it, Oscar," Bill said. "I'm sorry. He died en route to the hospital. There was just too much internal damage." I felt like I had been punched in the gut and fought back the tears, determined to put on a brave face.

"What about George?" I asked.

"No word yet," Bill said. "The local District Attorney is taking jurisdiction on this one. I'm not going to fight it and I've already told him you'd hand over what you have. If George doesn't make it, he'll be pushing for the death penalty. Why don't you wrap things up there and give me a report first thing in the morning?"

"Okay, boss," I said. "Talk to you tomorrow," I added, ending the call. I took a look around the two-story house and noticed for the first time that except for the medical equipment, there was no furniture in the place – no beds, no couches, nothing. The guards slept on the floor in sleeping bags and there was only a collection of paper plates, plastic utensils and paper coffee cups, indicating that anyone actually occupied the place. I found no books, no television and no papers anywhere to indicate the ownership of the place.

A quick check of online public records indicated the property belonged to one Roger Ogilvie, a man who went missing under mysterious circumstances a few years back. Was he also a victim of MMAS, I wondered.

After we processed the place, I went back to the car and took inventory. In addition to the bullet holes in the windshield, there were a few bullet holes in the hood and one of the front fenders. Opening the hood, I saw no damage to the engine. I checked for leaking fluids and found none. Fortunately, all the tires were still inflated and the car started right up. I headed back to Fort Apache and turned the car in for replacement.

Once home, I checked on the kids and kissed them on the forehead before crashing in my own bed. The next day, I went to the office, still dazed from the previous night's events. It took a while for me to process the fact that Frank would no longer be coming into the office. The other officers gave me their condolences when they saw me.

I sat down at my desk and worked on my report until Bill came by about mid-morning. I had just finished when he called me into a side office.

"How are you holding up?" he asked me.

"I'll be okay," I said. "It just feels strange not having him here." He nodded his head.

"He thought the world of you," Bill said. "You know what a hard-ass he could be at times." I laughed. Yeah, I knew. "But," Bill said, "he felt that you were ready to work without a net." He put a piece of paper on the desk and I could see that it was his most recent evaluation, written the day before he was shot.

"So," Bill said, taking out a new set of credentials, "here's your new badge and ID, Officer Warren. You're official now. Congratulations. And may God have mercy on your soul, because I won't," he added with a smile.

"By the way," he said. "I have a new assignment for you. I want you to find out everything you possibly can from Renee. And I want you to follow up on the husbands of the three women who went on that retreat with her."

"I'll get right on it, boss," I said. "What about Frank's open cases?"

"Those will get farmed out to other agents," Bill said. "I would appreciate it, though, if you could box up his personal stuff. His sons are coming up next week for the funeral and they told me they wanted to meet you. You can give his stuff to them yourself if you want."

"Why would they want to meet me?" I asked. Bill shrugged his shoulders.

"Don't know," he said. "I guess they just want to meet you." We ended the meeting and I went to box up Frank's personal stuff. It was hard for me to imagine that a man's life could just end up in a cardboard box like this.

The funeral was a well-attended, but somber affair. Everyone there had good memories of Frank. He was buried in his uniform, his medals gleaming. I knew he had served in the Marine Corps, but I didn't know that he had won a Silver Star during the first Gulf War back in the 90s. He looked so natural in his coffin and I almost expected him to sit up and tell me, "April Fools." His two sons, both Marine officers, were there, and they came up to me after the graveside service.

"Oscar Warren?" one of them asked. I turned to meet them and shook their hands.

"It's a pleasure meeting you," I said. "I just wish it were under better circumstances." One of them handed me an envelope, marked "Oscar" in Frank's handwriting. I was even more confused when I opened it and found a key and a deed to a cabin on ten acres in north Idaho.

"What's this?" I asked. Tom, the oldest of the two responded.

"Our father wanted you to have this," he said. "He thought the world of you and your kids. You must've made quite an impression on the old man."

"But this should go to you," I said. "You're his children."

"He kinda thought of you as his third son," said Ray, the younger of the two. "So I guess that kinda makes us brothers from another mother. Besides, we don't do too well in the snow. And the place does need a lot of work."

"It'll take a bit for the new deed to come through," Tom said. "But as far as we're concerned, it's yours."

"Thanks," I said. "Feel free to come anytime you want."

"We may just do that," Ray said, shaking my hand. "There's some good fishing up there." We said our goodbyes and I watched as they went back to their cars. I looked in the envelope and found a note. I pulled it out.

"Probie," the handwritten note began. I chuckled at that. "If you're reading this, that means I've died and gone to be with my wife, hopefully in the line of duty. The place needs some work, but I think that in time you can make it into a good home for those kids of yours. Just do me a favor – drink a toast to me from time to time, okay?"

The note ended: "Semper Fi. Frank."

I closed the envelope and looked at the coffin.

"Semper fi, boss," I said. "Rest in peace."

...

George Fredericks died due to complications that arose during his surgery. As a result, his wife, Alice, was charged and convicted of first degree murder in state superior court and sentenced to the death penalty. After nearly 17 years of appeals, she was finally put to death by lethal injection. Her final words were simply, "Fuck you."

The doctor who butchered George at the makeshift MMAS operating room was identified as Sylvia Connor, a surgeon who lost her license two years prior. She, too, was convicted of several charges, mostly surrounding her role in George's murder. Investigators learned that she had been involved in at least three operations similar to George's. All of the men she operated on died from infections and complications that arose from the surgery. She was sentenced to life in prison without the possibility of parole.

I never told anyone – not even the authors who bravely wrote about my fight with MMAS, and certainly not the task force counselors – but Frank's final words stayed with me from that time on. For the next 35 years, those words echoed in my mind with every case – "Get the motherfuckers."

I looked out over the back porch and took in the beautiful scenery below. Frank was right – Lake Pend O'Reille is a beautiful place. Oh yeah, the cabin needed a lot of work. But Rita, my second wife, and I finally got it just right and that's where we decided to retire. I lifted a bottle of beer.

"Here's to you, boss," I said. "I got 'em. Semper Fi."