Complicated Matters

Chapter 1 

   “… and her tits were--” Clancy opened his hands and lifted them as if grasping something. “She was so big and so firm.”

   Officer Taylor’s gut churned as he and other members of the Miami-Dade Police Department sat around listening to Officer Clancy talk about his latest conquest. The room where they gathered resembled a classroom more than a squad room. 

   Clancy’s subject was a well-endowed stripper, named Duchess. He met her at a nightclub just off Ventura Boulevard. Clancy had a thing for strippers, which was ironic, considering he wouldn’t be caught dead in a used car. 

   As the story progressed Taylor became bored and let his thoughts drift.

   “What’s wrong, Taylor? Am I being too graphic for you?” Clancy paused his story long enough to sit next to the lost member of his audience. “I tried to keep this at PG thirteen, but some things are just too good to water down.”

   “The descriptive is okay, Clancy.” Taylor rubbed his head trying to calm a headache.  “I’m not into fantasy.” 

   Clancy’s face turned red as he stared directly into Taylor’s eyes. “Are you calling me a liar, Officer Taylor?”

   Taylor had seen this before. Clancy was a hothead who loved drama. “I’m saying there’s a fine line between stretching the truth and breaking it.”

   Clancy stood up amidst the “Ooohs” of the rest of the squad.

   The fluorescent light, overhead, glinted off Taylor’s wedding band. He settled down prepared to go back to his brooding. 

   A little over a year ago his wife, Lianna died in a car accident. Taylor still hadn’t let her go. Every time something shined on his wedding band, it was as if Lianna was trying to reach him. Today she was telling him Clancy wasn’t worth it.

   All around him cops played to Clancy’s posturing and rude remarks. 

   Taylor just stared at the cold metal on his left ring finger.

   “You got something better to do than listen to me?” Once again, Clancy managed to pull him away from  his thoughts.”

   He looked up disgusted by the aging playboy. “Who doesn’t?”

   Ooohs and moans bounced from around the room.

   “Listen up, boys and girls.” Sergeant Marx interrupted the day’s festivities from behind his podium. “It’s time to play, Patrol That Area. Baker and Sanchez, you have little Havana. Crowley and Fierra, you lucky dogs get South Beach. Do something besides work on your tans and check out the bikinis this time.”

   The other members of the squad laughed as Marx continued to hand out the assignments.

   Taylor sat at his desk. Everyone was gone except him and Marx. “What’s up, Sarge?”

   Marx shut the door. There was a long period of silence. “Taylor, every once in a while a cop comes along, and I just don’t know what to do with him. You’re too good to fire, but I can’t keep you on the force.”

   “Am I being assigned desk duty, sir?” Taylor asked in a voice meant to hide his anguish.

   “The last time I tried that, you nearly crashed the freakin’ system.” Sergeant Marx held a manila envelope labeled
Taylor, A. H
. He sat down in the seat next to Taylor. “Do you know what this is?”

   Taylor stared at the folder. “I assume it’s my personnel folder.”

   “I prefer to look at it as proof that you set the standard for both, bravery and stupidity around here--especially since Lianna’s death.”

   Taylor tugged at his collar. Anger built up inside him and caused heat to rise from his neck. His jaw muscles clenched then relaxed. He took a deep breath. “With all due respect, sir, I fail to see what my wife’s death has to do with my job performance.”

   “Allow me to enlighten you.” Marx scanned the first page of Taylor’s personnel record with his forefinger. “In the last month you’ve been in eight fights, two high speed chases, and one shoot-out.” He hesitated. “Of course we still have another week to go, so there’s still a chance things might get interesting.”

   Taylor looked up at his supervisor. “Do I have to remind you, that every one of those instances resulted in an arrest? It’s not like I go looking for trouble.” He blew out a breath and looked back down. “Trouble just seems to find me.”

   Marx put the papers back in the file folder. “What am I supposed to do with you, Taylor?” Marx’s voice elevated. “You’re such a risk taker, nobody wants to work with you. And I don’t know what you’re doing on the streets, but a drug dealer begged me not to let you book him yesterday.”

   “So I guess I am fired.” Taylor sat back in his seat. His temper started to subside.

   “I’m not gonna make things that easy on you,” Marx said.

   Taylor sat at attention waiting for what he knew had to be bad news.

   Marx went to his desk and retrieved an eight by ten envelope. “A while back you expressed an interest in special operations. Clean out your locker. You’re getting your wish.”

   Taylor fought the impulse to grin. “I don’t know what to say. Thank you, sir.”

   “Don’t thank me yet, you haven’t heard the assignment.” Marx dropped a picture of a blonde girl on Taylor’s desk. “Meet Farrah Mathews. She turned eighteen last Christmas. These are her brothers; Alex, who just turned fifteen, and Jess, who’s thirteen.” He laid a picture of the boys on top of the girl’s picture. “They don’t know it yet, but their lives are about to take a turn for the worse.”

   Taylor picked up the pictures and studied them one at a time. Then he crinkled his forehead. The girl looked like she belonged on the cover of a magazine. The boys looked like well adjusted kids. Why would Marx think anything bad was going to happen to this family? “I don’t understand.”

   Marx sat back down. “A few weeks ago I was contacted by the Florida Department of Law Enforcement. They’re in need of a young Latino hot-shot to go undercover as interim sheriff of Morgansville, Florida.”

   “Why? Are there many Latinos in that area?”

   “Just the opposite.” Marx went to his desk and picked up his coffee mug. “The area is mostly black and white.” He drank from the mug. “FDLE wants someone who will stand out and not be trusted easily. Less trouble spotting potential suspects that way.”

   Taylor shuffled the pictures. “You might want to start at the beginning and tell me what’s going on.” 

   Marx set a laptop computer on the table and turned it on. 

   A man, who looked to be of average build with a receding hairline appeared on the screen. He seemed to be sitting down so Taylor couldn’t judge his height.

   “Taylor,” said Marx, “this is Commander Phillips. He’s in charge of this operation. Commander, this is the kid you requested.”

   Taylor stared at the commander’s sagging face on the screen. “Glad to you selected me, Sir.”

   “It wasn’t me who selected you.” The man’s voice came across as a bit gruff.  “Sergeant Marx told me to take you or leave you.”

   Betrayal twisted and soured Taylor’s gut.

   “How long have you been on the force?”

   A sour taste stung his throat. “Three years.”

   Marx headed toward the door. “I’m going to leave you gentlemen to your business.” 

   A picture of an older man appeared on the screen. His scarred, block-head made him look like a bulldog who had been in too many fights.

  “This is Sheriff Daniels, of Morgansville, Florida,” Phillips continued with his introductions. “Somewhere during his tenure, he decided to step across our little, blue line and branch out into drug trafficking and murder.”

   Taylor stared at the picture. The man reminded him of the sheriff in
Smokey and the Bandit
. His jaws sagged, and his expression screamed,
“You don’t want to mess with me, boy.”

   The commander continued the briefing. “He, along with three as yet unidentified accomplices, tortured and murdered two of our agents.” The split screen showed two dark-haired men in dress uniforms on the screen. Both appeared to be in their mid to late twenties. “Meet Special Agents Andrew Stevenson and Javier Morales. We owe them and their families a debt that can never be repaid. The best we can do is find, arrest, and convict the sons-of-bitches who did this to them.”  

   A picture of a couple appeared on the screen. The woman looked like an older version of the girl. Both were beautiful.  “This is John and Tara Mathews. Marx already discussed their kids with you.”

   “Sergeant Marx said the kids were about to meet up with some sort of tragedy.” Taylor shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

   “A few days ago, John and Tara were in the swamp that joins their property looking for an escaped cow. They stumbled upon the torture and subsequent murder of two agents sent to investigate them. This is the nine-one-one call.”   

  
“Emergency services, how can I help you?”

   “My name is John Mathews. I’m in the Wiggins swamp on Old Rocky Ford Road.  I think somebody’s killin’ someone out here.”  
             

   Taylor cringed as he heard the screams and cries of the victims. Someone in the background called out the word sheriff. He made out four distinct voices, plus the voices of the agents. Taylor couldn’t understand what was being said, but it was clear that the agents were in a hell of a lot of pain.  

   No stranger to gory scenes and brutal torture, but after hearing the play-by-play, Taylor was no longer able to disassociate himself from the victims. Looking at them, his mind told him they were just victims. Bodies to be processed and passed on to the detectives. Things from which to gather evidence. The voices turned them into real people. Anger, hatred, and the overwhelming desire to strangle those murderous sons-of-bitches rose from the pit of his insides. “Where do I come in?”

   The commander stopped the recording. “Mr. and Mrs. Mathews have received some vivid and detailed death threats, so we’re putting them into protective custody. In order to keep them alive, we have to make it appear as if they’re dead. You will establish yourself as interim sheriff, then tell the girl her parents are dead. Do it as publicly as the school will allow.”

   He studied the photos again. They looked so young. “Why not just take the entire family in?”

   “Because in a town that small somebody will get curious and start asking questions if the entire family disappears. If we make it look like a car accident, friends and family will insist on a funeral. We can’t just produce a family of five corpses with their body types.”

   Taylor took a deep breath. “So in order to protect Mr. and Mrs. Mathews we are going to destroy their kids?” He pushed the pictures away. “That doesn’t seem right.”

   “There are three other unidentified men on that tape. Somehow, they found out about the nine-one-one call. They know John Mathews and his wife can identify them. If we don’t do it this way, Morales and Stevenson’s killers will come after them. Do you think they’ll leave the kids alive? This way, no one else has to die.”

   “No.” Taylor clenched his jaw. “The kids will just wish they were dead.”

   “Special Agent Taylor, let me make one thing crystal clear.” Commander Phillips held up a copy of his personnel folder. “You don’t have a choice in this matter. Deliver the news and protect the Mathews family, or lose your job and forfeit your pension.”

   Taylor shook his head. He stuffed his fists into his pockets. “How long until-until this goes down?”

   “You have three weeks from Friday. The high school graduation ceremonies are held on the last Sunday this month. I want Farrah Mathews informed on her final day of school. The place will be a mad house. Anyone watching her will see her reactions for themselves. If anyone appears overly friendly towards you, contact us immediately. Most of the people of Morgansville won’t welcome you. I want the names of the ones who do.”

   “You say I’m supposed to protect them. How am I supposed to do that if I’m undercover?”

   “Find reasons to go out there. Hide in the shadows, if you must. Your sergeant says you’re resourceful. Use your imagination. Your senior field agent has already established her cover as a dispatcher named Flo. She usually works the day shift. This computer is your way to contact me when you need to pass along information.” Phillips also gave Taylor his personal cell phone number for emergencies. “I expect you to give me daily reports, but e-mail me if you must. Sergeant Marx has left your FDLE credentials and your standard-issue firearm in the top drawer of his desk. You are to leave your Miami PD identification in there then turn in your firearm. Trust no one except me and your senior agent. We don’t know how far this thing goes. Good luck, Special Agent Taylor.”

   After swapping credentials and shoving his new pistol in his boot, he gathered his information packet and headed to his locker. 

   Clancy hung around his locker. “What happened, kid? You look like the Sarge crawled your ass good.”

   Taylor grabbed his jacket and turned in his weapon. “I don’t work here no more.” 

   *

   Taylor’s apartment wasn’t much, just a small, one room place rented by the month. He threw his things into a few suitcases and told the landlord he was gone. Everything in his life was disposable or movable since his wife died.