One Hand On The Podium (15 page)

After retrieving the keys from the ignition, he and a few other agents, went to the rear of the car and opened the trunk, revealing a man with his legs and arms tied behind him, and his mouth taped shut. It was the agent who was supposed to decoy the event to take Moss into custody.

“It’s our guy, Sir!” came the report. “He’s alive. He’s breathing.”

“Jesus Christ, what the hell happened here people?” Frankano asked, throwing his hands in the air.

Rebecca walked up to Frankano and tried to get his attention.

She asked firmly, “What’s going on? Who are these men?” She pointed to the man in the trunk, then to the dead masked assailant.

Frankano walked away from the scene, back to the side of the bridge and leaned against the rail, looking out at the adjacent Martin Luther King Bridge. His eyes suddenly caught a figure climbing down from the rusty olive green, steel bridge structure, about twenty feet above the roadway. It was far enough away that he could barely make out a face.

Rebecca interrupted his observation, “Are you going to offer any explanation for this, Frankano?”

“Listen,” he snapped, while still keeping his eyes on the other bridge. “I don’t owe you a damn explanation.” Then he quickly glanced at her, “Who the hell do you think you are?”

Just then, the young Hispanic agent called out, “Frankano, Sir!”

Frankano looked over Rebecca’s shoulder, “Yes? What is it?”

“Sir,” came the eager rookie. “Look! Have a look here, Sir,” he was carefully displaying a pistol. “Spencer’s gun hasn’t been fired. There’s still a full clip. How could that be, Sir? It just doesn’t make sense. We saw Moss get shot. If this guy didn’t shoot him, then who did, Sir?”

“Let me see that,” Frankano ordered, taking the gun from him. He gave the weapon a quick inspection, as he examined the unspent cartridges.

“Get this gun back to ballistics.”

“Yes, Sir.”

As he walked away, Rebecca turned and also saw the male figure climbing down from the Illinois side of the Martin Luther King bridge.

Frankano turned and got a fix on him again, noticing he was carrying, what appeared to be a rifle. No one else on the bridge seemed to notice.

The male figure came down from the steel bridge span, to the road’s surface. He glanced toward the two familiar onlookers, stared for a moment at them, knowing they knew who he was, then, he turned and jogged to the east.

Rebecca and Frankano looked at each other in disbelief for a moment, their mouths wide open, then watched as the red-bearded man disappeared from sight, into East St. Louis.

“Oh, my gosh,” Rebecca cried out. “I can’t believe it.” She looked up at Frankano and put her hand over her mouth.

He let out a sigh, keeping his thoughts to himself.

Rebecca waited to see what he would say.

Frankano took her by the arm, saying nothing at all, then, escorted her through the dozens of other agents and reporters taking over the crime scene, as policemen moved in to keep back the press and horrified crowd.

***

A few days later, Rebecca Ray’s compelling headline article, chronicling the crimes of Simon Moss and the botched FBI cover up that followed, appeared in nearly every national newspaper across the country. Agents Steve Frankano and Tom Merritt were put on extended paid leave until the bureau could complete its formal investigation into the matter.

THE END