Blood Money: Murder In Memphis

Acknowledgements

I want to express my sincere gratitude to my wife Marilyn, for her continued encouragement and constructive feedback…To our daughter Shannon Paavola who once again designed the book cover…To Bradley Harris who, for the fourth time, edited my work…Thanks also to Charlie Lambert for attempting to teach me something about money laundering and the role of the federal government…And to our daughter Nicole and her husband Jerry Penley for advising this technophobe about computers. To all of you—Thanks. The portrayal of the computer technology and money laundering within this book is my responsibility alone. Lord knows, they tried.

DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to Bridgette Ann Amalfitano Correale—a Life Force who immersed herself in family, friends, Our Lady of Perpetual Help church, cooking, charitable causes, and life. She had the ability to take over a room with her stories, her humor, her compassion, and her signature uninhibited laugh. And, when the occasion called for it, she could teach sailors a few new words. Bridgette and her husband Vince owned and operated the Brooklyn Bridge Italian Restaurant in Memphis, Tennessee. For over 25 years, Bridgette welcomed customers into their family restaurant—a down-to-earth woman who nurtured others through laughter, hugs, and food. Bridgette died of cancer May 19, 2012 at age 72.

Chapter 1

Never Know What You'll Find

Saturday, May 16, 2009…no good deed. Julia fished in her pocket for the key as she climbed the porch steps, but stopped when she saw the door cracked open. She looked around quickly, moved to the door, and pushed it open gradually, a faint musty scent drifted out, the darkness of the living room contrasted with the sunlit porch. She listened hard—nothing. Surely no burglar's in here in broad daylight on a weekend with lots of neighbors outside, she thought. Maybe Aunt Louise asked a neighbor to check the house. But, still…

Julia moved slowly through the doorway—her steps soft, measured, trying not to let the floor's usually comforting groans and creaks announce her presence. Her eyes adjusted. The living room and the dining room looked unchanged. She continued, senses alert. Stepping guardedly into the kitchen, Julia caught a blurred movement coming down from her left. Her body instinctively swayed back like a fencer avoiding a thrusting foil, feet anchored in place. She felt a puff of air as a knife blade flashed inches from her face. Julia sprung back through the entrance, eyes wide. The assailant's hand returned, driving the point of the blade upward, directly at her midsection. Julia shot both arms straight in front of her, blocking a sweaty forearm. The blade sliced into her right arm. She held tightly with her left hand, her grip with the right insecure, only her fingernails digging into flesh. She stepped back on her right foot, and snapped a quick kick into what she hoped was a knee. A man howled. For a second, his arm relaxed. Julia grabbed his wrist with her right hand, slid her left to his armpit, twisted, and leveraged the man forward, slamming his face into the lower cabinet doors. His painful cries ceased. A switchblade spun on the floor, in slow motion. Stopped.

***

Memphis Police Sergeants Anthony Marino and Johnnie Tagger arrived minutes apart—Tagger, a tall African American, workout shorts and wick-away T-shirt showcasing his muscular build, and his Caucasian partner Marino, fresh from the public library, his stomach gently straining the buttons on his white dress shirt. Four patrol cars had already made the scene, surrounding an ambulance. They found their boss inside directing traffic.

He's groggy, but his vitals look okay, Lieutenant. said the paramedic. He has a few loose teeth and his nose is broken.

You might need a cervical collar, said Julia. He hit the cupboard pretty hard with his face.

Good call, said the paramedic. I'll get one.

Oh, said Julia, and you'll probably need something to stabilize his knee while you're at it.

Lieutenant, said Marino, hurrying in. You all right?

He got me with a knife, Julia said, holding up her bandaged arm. Paramedic said I'll need stitches.

What the hell happened? Tagger asked.

Just came over to open up the house for my aunt, and this joker takes a couple of swipes at me with a switchblade, said Julia. I'm surprised to see you two.

Teresa, said Marino. She heard the officer needs assistance call to this address, and recognized it as your aunt's place.

She at the station? Julia said.

I'm not sure, said Marino. But she always seems to know what's going on.

Hey, Lieutenant, said Tagger. Have you taken a good look at this clown? If you straighten out his nose, he looks an awful lot like the person-of-interest sketch we put out on the guy who's been beating up and robbing senior citizens.

The one who killed the eighty year-old woman? said Marino.

That's what I'm thinking, Tagger said.

I'll be damned, said Julia. And my aunt was supposed to be here instead of me. I don't want to think about that.

According to his wallet, he's Wilbur Sanderson, Tagger said.

Lieutenant, said the paramedic. We'll take Sanderson to the MED to get checked out. Can we get someone to ride along?

You got it, said Julia, pointing to one of the officers. Make sure you keep him handcuffed to the bed.

"It'll be a while before he's cleared and transported to 201 for booking," said Marino.

Yeah, said Tagger, I'll get cleaned up and meet y'all down there.

Remember to go to the ER, Lieutenant, said Marino. You don't want to be messing around with a wound like that. You don't know where that knife's been.

Appreciate the concern, professor, said Julia. I'll take care of it. Promise.

Chapter 2

Two-O-One

201 Poplar Avenue, the Shelby County Criminal Justice Complex…Julia, Marino, and Tagger met in the large complex known simply as 201, and made their way to the interrogation rooms.

They looked at Sanderson through the two-way mirror. He sat in a wheelchair, his nose taped, lip cut, face and forehead bruised and swollen.

He looks worse than I remember, said Julia.

That's Mr. Bernquist's doing Tagger said. You know, the husband of the murdered woman? He heard about the arrest and went to the MED to see for himself. Told the hospital staff MPD had asked him to come down and identify a person-of-interest in his wife's murder. They led him to Sanderson's room. Bernquist grabbed a bedpan and began wailing on Sanderson's head and face. He got in five or six licks before the officer pulled him off.

Five or six licks? said Julia. How incompetent is this officer that he or she couldn't stop an eighty year-old man?

Don't think he tried very hard, said Tagger. But he did call for medical attention.

Sanderson needed treatment? Julia said.

Not Sanderson, said Tagger. Bernquist was sucking air, looked like he was having a heart attack. They helped him get one of his nitroglycerin pills under his tongue, and sent him home after an hour's observation.

Julia shook her head and sighed. Let's do this thing. She and Tagger entered the interrogation room while Marino observed.

You the bitch who did this to me? said Sanderson.

Depends, said Julia. You the SOB who tried to kill me, in my own home?

I'll get you, Sanderson said. I've got plenty of friends. And you'll need more than this big-ass jock to protect you.

After looking at you, tough guy, said Tagger, I don't think the Lieutenant needs any help.

Some crazy old bastard beat me with a bedpan when I was handcuffed to the bed, said Sanderson. I'll sue his ass.

You sure you want it getting around that an eighty year-old man with a bad heart beat the crap out of you? said Julia.

You think this is funny, bitch? Sanderson said. We'll see who's gonna be laughing out the other side of her head.

You're going away for a very long time, Julia said. Going to a place where you can't hurt any more old folks and women.

I want my lawyer, Sanderson said. Now!

***

Friday…a plea bargain. The officers sat around a conference table, Assistant District Attorney Robert H. Diggs at the head.

I've got good news and bad news, said Diggs.

Good news first, said Julia.

You caught the man responsible for the rash of aggravated burglaries and battery targeting senior citizens, including the death of Mrs. Bernquist, said Diggs.

And the attempted murder of a police officer, said Marino.

Yes, Sergeant, said Diggs. That too.

And the bad news? said Julia.

I finalized a plea agreement, said Diggs. Sanderson will plead guilty to all counts except murder.

And in return? said Tagger.

He does twenty years, no parole, said Diggs. I really don't think we could get more than second degree murder, given Mrs. Bernquist died of complications due to an existing medical condition. And even then, he could be eligible for parole. Besides, this deal saves us the hassle and expense of a trial.

Well, at least he'll be a senior citizen himself when he gets out, said Julia.

Lieutenant, said Diggs. He's still worked up about the beating he took from you. His attorney couldn't keep him quiet. Says he has friends in high places and that you'll pay. He only shut up when I told him one more threat against a Memphis Police Officer and it'd be twenty-five years without parole. Watch your back, Lieutenant. Just in case.

Chapter 3

Hide the Dongle

Tuesday, May 26, 2009…time to pay the piper. Two agents escorted an attractive African-American woman into the building. Everyone around them wore a holstered gun. Security pads on each door. Long, windowless corridors. The crisp echoes of her high heels softened as the trio chewed up more of the unending hallway. The woman's posture relaxed, her eyes tracked every movement, her body reacted to the slightest sounds—electronic beeps and soft metallic clicks of doors opening, closing. The trio stopped in front of a door, 127 C stenciled above the security pad. The male agent swiped his security badge and punched in a five-digit code. When the lock clicked, he opened the door and entered. The female agent nodded to the woman to follow. Special Agent Anita Davenport sat behind a desk, pen in hand—mid-forties, short brown hair, light make-up, a dark blue long-sleeve blouse, an authoritative presence.

Ah. Welcome to Langley, Dr. Mitchell, said Davenport, setting down her pen. We've been waiting for you.

No response.

Any problems? Davenport said as she turned to the agents.

No, ma'am, said the female agent. Mitchell's been the perfect guest all year—obeying the rules, brushing up on her languages, learning the customs of the various countries, exercising, and keeping up with the stock markets.

Now we'll see just how good she is, said Davenport. And the doctor, here, will stay out of prison by providing an invaluable service to her country. If all goes according to plan over the next five days or so, you can prep your safe house for another guest of the government. Thank you.

The two agents left.

Davenport gestured for Mitchell to sit. You and I are going to become close friends, the next few days.

Can't say I'm looking forward to it, Mitchell said.

Believe me, Dr. Mitchell, this is nothing anyone would look forward to. You'll want to hang on my every word. Your life will depend on it.

Charleze, she said softly.

What's that?

Charleze. Since we're going to be so chummy you can call me Charleze.

Okay, and you can call me Special Agent. Coffee?

Mitchell shook her head.

Let's get started. We're on a tight schedule. I'm going to assume the agents didn't tell you much about what the US government is expecting in exchange for keeping your ass out of jail.

Mitchell smiled.

Yup. You made a deal with the devil, and the devil wants his due. I see from your file you're a fast learner, she said, placing her hand on a thick blue hang folder. You'd better be. This won't be any cake walk. One misstep and you lose a limb, maybe your life.

Mitchell's stomach tightened. She said nothing.

Davenport eyed her intently. I understand you speak several languages, she said.

Five, fluently. I can read a few others.

And that includes Arabic? Specifically, speaking and reading literary Arabic?

Mitchell nodded.

Good. Very good. Davenport leafed through the blue folder. You've got a PhD in business, rode the fast track on Wall Street. Ran your own hedge fund. Made hundreds of millions…before you went belly up. Allegations you used industrial espionage and insider trading to manipulate the stock market, not to mention the five murders in Memphis. I see the name of a colleague of mine. His office is in New York City. You remember FBI Special Agent Lawrence Masterson?

I've heard the name. Don't remember meeting the man.

He worked your case. Even moved down to Memphis for a while to assist the local police. He's the kind of guy takes everything personal—the murders, the fraud. I bet, even after a year, he's still pissed your attorney got the murder charges thrown out. Probably plans to be at your trial next month, sitting in the front row.

No response.

Okay, let's move on. Ever hear of Hakam Bin Kadar al-Ahmad?

Mitchell shook her head.

"A powerful man in the underworld. People in the business call him, the Judge. He's smiling in almost every picture we have. Come to think of it, you're smiling in almost every picture I've seen of you. I asked our chief psychologist about people who smile all the time. You know what she said?"

Mitchell smiled. I suppose they're happy?

Actually, she went into a lot of psychobabble about disarming defense mechanisms, poor relationships with parents…usual stuff. But the one thing she said stuck with me is that when a person I don't know smiles at me, I should count to three before making any assumptions. And during those three seconds, I should study their eyes. Like right now. You're mouth is smiling but your eyes aren't. In fact, I'd say your eyes are scared.

Mitchell lost her smile. Her eyes flashed anger.

Davenport raised her eyebrows, then smiled. "Anyway, as I was saying, the Judge has a wonderful smile. He's charming, engaging, and like a colorful snake, extremely dangerous. Makes your alleged crimes look like child's play. He runs an international money laundering business for drug lords, gun runners, terrorist organizations, and even a few terrorist nations. Each year he moves well over a hundred billion illicit dollars through legitimate banks. He gets a cut, banks get a cut, and the bad guys get the bulk of their money back—laundered. For kicks, he also dabbles in the markets, preferring to improve his odds with insider information."

And this involves me how?

As it turns out, the Judge has just had a few vacancies in his cadre of techies. Seems they flew too close to the sun. Found the allure of money overwhelming—the allure of the Judge's money. No one's seen or heard from them since last Friday. We can only surmise.

Mitchell's breathing quickened.

Lucky for us the vacancy leaves the Judge short of expertise in playing the markets. And thanks to you, we have someone the Judge would love to have in his circle.

What do I have to do?

Pretty much what you've been doing. Except you'll need to be more careful. The Judge is not as forgiving as your Uncle Sam, and he's far more paranoid. Davenport let that sink in. We've put the word out on you. Seems you've skipped town on your bail just days before your trial, and gone into hiding. We know the Judge will be enticed by your skills, and we're hoping he'll buy our cover story. If so, he should be pressuring all his informants to find you within a day or so. He'll want to have a little chat.

What do I tell him?

Nothing. We'll take care of that. In the meantime, we have maybe five good days to prepare you.

Prepare me?

So many things could go wrong. Dead wrong, you might say. It's incumbent upon us to prepare you. We've sunk lots of time and money into this project in the hopes we'd find someone just like you. Now that you're here, all systems are go. She paused. It might be helpful for you to think of this as a game. A game with life-and-death consequences. But a game all the same.

What kind of game?

"Let's call it Hide the Dongle."

Mitchell knitted her eyebrows, and looked away, lips pursed.

Davenport stood, motioning to Mitchell. They left through a back door, opening onto yet another windowless hallway. Davenport stopped before a door on her right, sliding her badge through the security slot and punching in her code. The lock clicked open. She waived Mitchell in ahead. An elderly Caucasian man adjusted items on a table—a high-powered computer positioned in the middle of a bank of monitors, a pencil, a single sheet of paper, one worn sandal, and a glass bowl of what appeared to be small, rectangular, black jelly beans.

"Dr. Charleze Mitchell, this is The Amazing Fred Preston," said Davenport.

Pleased to meet you, Doctor, said Preston, using both hands to shake hers.

In his day, Fred was quite a performer, specializing in prestidigitation.

In what? Mitchell said.

Sleight of hand. Magic, said a smiling Preston, holding up the bracelet he'd taken off Charleze when they shook hands.

Mitchell frowned, held out her hand. He let the bracelet drop.

Not bad, Fred, said Davenport. I was watching and I still didn't see you take it.

This is the game? Mitchell said. I'm supposed to be the shill in a pickpocket show?

You're certainly attractive enough to distract the audience, said Preston, still smiling.

Pay attention, Charleze, Davenport said. "Our techies have developed an amazing virus. Or is it a Trojan horse? I forget. Anyway, they tell me this program is smokin. And they've created a type of paper that will stay rigid enough to upload the virus, but within days the paper will disintegrate, releasing an acid which in turn will reduce the microscopically fine wiring to powder. There'll be no obvious sign it was ever there. The program allows us to enter a computer without triggering any alerts, send every scrap of information to one of our satellites without leaving a record of the transaction, unleash this super destructive virus wiping out all the data whenever we tell it to, and then just disappear. It's all packaged in this ultra-small black paper thingy." She dropped something on the table. It bounced with a soft tapping sound, like a cheap toy from a Crackerjack box.

Mitchell watched intently.

Our next step is much easier, said Davenport. We simply need to plug the black thingy—

Dongle, interrupted Mitchell, her gaze fixed on the black paper object.

Yes…dongle, said Davenport. We simply need to plug the dongle into the computer. But as these things go, it's not that simple. The computer is always being monitored.

Monitored? Mitchell said.

Preston walked to a projector and flipped a switch. A sketch appeared on the white board.

This is what the Judge's computer room looks like. At least it's our best guess, Davenport said.

You don't know? said Mitchell.

Not really, Davenport said. "But anyway, it's our best guess. Take a good look. The network consists of a large central computer in one corner of the room, kitty-corner from the doorway. Two screens sit on either side, dwarfed by the computer's monitor. The screens correspond