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Victims of the Past
Victims of the Past
Victims of the Past
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Victims of the Past

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Iraq War combat veteran-turned-detective Moe Flynn, who has the improbable real name of Matthew Oliver Emmett Timothy Ambrose Flynn, must overcome emotional scars left over from his war experiences to take on the biggest case so far in his new career as a private eye.
The story begins as some children are enjoying an outing at a river beach. Their pleasure quickly turns to tragedy, however, when they suffer severe burns from caustic chemicals that have leaked from an unknown source into Pennsylvania’s Susquehanna River.
A New Jersey oil and gas refinery is accused by state authorities of being the source of the leaked chemicals, so the refinery hires Moe to track down the real source of the leaking chemicals, and to find the persons responsible for the contamination. The detective must dig into old records, and interview potential suspects from many years in the past in order to unravel the complex history of the refinery’s dealings with those who were contracted to rid the refinery of its caustic waste products.
As he gets closer to digging out the truth, however, his investigations are noticed by the real culprits in the crime. As a result, Moe is made to confront his old combat demons, and is forced to decide whether “fight or flight” is in his best interest.
Making his decision even more complex, is his relationship with beautiful Diane, who was a client in an earlier case. Moe has fallen in love with his former client, and the only thing keeping the couple from making a lasting commitment is Diane’s uncertainty about Moe’s war-induced nightmares. Moe had already killed once before to protect Diane, and now she fears that as this case escalates into extremely dangerous—even fatal—territory, their history may have to repeat itself.
As Moe’s investigation reaches its exciting and action-packed climax, Moe discovers that he can, indeed, put the past behind him—solve the case, and win the heart of the woman he loves.

LanguageEnglish
Release dateDec 16, 2013
ISBN9781621831884
Victims of the Past

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    Victims of the Past - Bill Kenney

    Victims of the Past

    Bill Kenney

    Published by

    Brighton Publishing LLC

    435 N. Harris Drive

    Mesa, AZ 85203

    www.BrightonPublishing.com

    Copyright © 2013

    ISBN: 978-1-62183-188-4

    eBook

    Smashwords Edition

    All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. All the characters in this book are fictitious and the creation of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

    Acknowledgements

    My thanks go to several people who encouraged me to continue on the novel trail, and those who helped me put together a story worth reading. Don, Joe, Steve and Sylvie from the fiction writers group in Morristown, NJ who provided insight on plot and character, and my son Bill and friend Joan who ploughed through the manuscript to find lots of improvements. The positive response from the editors at Brighton Publishing has given me the confidence to progress on a sequel.

    Prologue

    The sun burned down on the shores of the Susquehanna River for the second day in a row after a week of torrential July rain. By mid-morning, on what promised to be a hundred-degree day, the townspeople of Beach Harbor, Pennsylvania, had begun arriving at the town beach in happy anticipation of spending the afternoon splashing in the river.

    The beach sat in a cove created by a curved, rocky point that jutted into the river like an eagle’s talon. The water there was tranquil, even while the river flowed by a hundred yards to the east. A little larger than a typical high school football field, the beach was an island of sand carved out of the white birch trees and mountain laurel that lined the bank of the river. It wasn’t the gleaming white sand of the seaside, being tan in color and imported. But still, it was thick enough to prevent the weeds from growing through it, and to provide a little give when stepped on.

    The swimming area was marked off with blue and white floats strung on white nylon lines tied to stakes on the shore, and to pipes topped with small, orange flags anchored near the end of the calm water. The flags fluttered in a gentle westerly breeze as they might at a posh Caribbean resort.

    Several families had already staked out places on the sun-dried sand. A bus full of kids from the nearby Fresh Air Fund camp arrived with a squeak of brakes, a burst of excited voices, and a whiff of diesel fuel.

    The camp housed kids from Philadelphia who were being treated to a week in the country by the charity. Local college kids comprised most of the camp staff, but a cadre of professionals supported them. The campers came from various inner-city neighborhoods. They laughed and shouted, and ran everywhere, perhaps unaware that they were learning many things during their week in the country.

    A couple of staffers got off the bus first, selected an area on the beach for the kids to colonize that was a bit away from the rest of the folks, and then cut the leash. Forty boys and girls aged ten to fourteen rushed out of the bus. The kids threw towels on the sand, then piles of jeans, T-shirts and flip-flops, exposing bathing suits ranging from bikinis to floppy shorts that extended below the boys’ knees. One teenage girl in a bright-pink bikini sprinted into the water squealing with excitement, as if she were plunging down the first hill of a roller-coaster ride. Others followed at a more cautious pace.

    Susan Cassidy, one of the counselors, shouted to her brother, Jerry, Hey, bro, get over here by the water. Some of these kids can’t swim. We don’t want anything bad to happen.

    Both Cassidys were students at the University of Scranton. Susan was dressed in a two-piece suit that would have been approved by her old-school mother, had she been alive. Jerry wore the knee-length drawers preferred by teenagers. They both stood at the water’s edge, alert but relaxed on what was intended to be an afternoon of fun.

    The first girl into the water ran until she could no more, and then dove ahead, splashing wildly to the white nylon line that separated the cove from the mainstream of the river. There, she turned to shout at the others. Come on in. The water is warm, and it’s not over my head all the way out here.

    A dozen of her fellow campers inched into the water up to their knees, but none was willing to set out for the rope quite yet.

    The swimmer’s smile gradually faded. She let go of the rope, began to rub her face with both hands, and then screamed, Help! I’m burning up!

    Susan Cassidy launched herself into the water, and raced toward the girl in a strong crawl. She got there in less than a minute, wrapped her arm around the screaming girl, side-stroked to water shallow enough so that she could hoist her up, and carried her to the shore. She felt her own skin start to burn but, rather than get out herself, she ran back into the water, and began to herd the waders out. Soon, she felt as if she were on fire. Her eyes burned fiercely, and tears blurred her vision. She shouted, God, I’m on fire!

    Susan’s brother, Jerry, carried the screaming child up toward the road looking for a shower, but there was no fresh water at the beach. He put the girl down on a towel, tore into the plastic-wrapped case of drinking water bottles the group had brought, and splashed water onto the girl’s face. The screaming continued. One of the local bathers dialed 911. Another took two water bottles from his cooler, ran to the staggering Susan, poured one bottle into Susan’s eyes, and splashed the other over her, but there was nowhere near enough water to quench the burning.

    Several of the kids who had waded into the water were now crying and rubbing their legs. The bus driver and another counselor joined the effort to rinse them off. Soon, the water was gone, but the crying and burning continued. Other bathers brought their water, and even bottles of soda. The crying escalated. Susan collapsed on the sand like a wounded soldier.

    The bus driver began yelling to the kids who hadn’t been in the water. Come on, you guys. Get your stuff, and get back on the bus. Now. Right now. Move it!

    A state trooper arrived with lights flashing but no siren. The driver whipped the cruiser around in a screeching U-turn, filling the air with the stench of burning rubber, and stopped at the edge of the sand. He leaped out of the car, and realized in an instant what was happening. He shouted to his partner, who had just stepped out of the passenger seat, Call for a HAZMAT team and ambulances. I’m going to try to get more water.

    Then he jumped back into the car, and roared back up the road toward the town, sirens blaring and lights flashing. Five minutes later the cruiser returned with two five-gallon bottles of water in the back seat.

    From the supermarket water fountain, he said. They’re coming with more.

    He dragged the bottle over to the screaming girl, and poured it carefully over her face, and then her body. His partner took the other cask to Susan, doing the same, finding it inadequate to ease the pain. She lay on the sand, rubbing any place on her body that she could reach, crying uncontrollably.

    Jerry gathered the kids who had only waded into the water into the shadow of the bus. Some were crying. Some merely scratched or rubbed at their legs in silence. He spoke gently to them, Easy does it. It’s going to be OK. You’ll be OK in a minute.

    An SUV from the supermarket slid to a stop at the edge of the sand with three more casks of water. An ambulance followed immediately behind. Everybody helped rinse kids’ legs with the water, while two paramedics dressed in gray jump suits examined the girl and Susan. Another went to the water, and rubbed a little of it between his thumb and forefinger.

    He ran to the crew chief who was with Susan. It feels oily like drain cleaner. Must be lye or some other caustic. When the wind stops for a moment, you catch the smell of rotten eggs. Whatever it is, it’s corrosive as hell. We need to get these two to the hospital.

    We can’t contaminate the rig. We need to wait for the HAZMAT guys so they can decontaminate them, replied the chief.

    Walt, we can’t wait for those guys to get here in their moon suits. These girls need treatment now. The counselor is in shock, delay could be disastrous. Suppose we wrap them in the sheets from the gurneys, and just throw the sheets into the bio-hazard bin when we get to the hospital.

    OK. Let’s do it.

    In minutes, the girl and Susan were wrapped up and secured to the gurneys. The ambulance screamed up the road toward the hospital, blasting its two-tone siren, flashing its roof lights, and rocking severely as it rounded each turn. Jerry and the other counselor wrapped the legs of the waders in clean towels, and sat them in the front seats of the bus for the ride to the hospital. They were calm now. Jerry led a song as the bus pulled off.

    The local police arrived. Despite the chaos, the words of anger, and shouts of fear from the beach-goers, they ushered the would-be swimmers off the beach calmly.

    Once the public was all gone, the police set up barriers, and waited for the HAZMAT team.

    ***

    The team consisted of a half-dozen specially trained members of the volunteer fire department. Even though they had jobs in and around town, it took longer for them to turn out for a hazardous material incident than for a fire because of the required preparations. They had been trained to handle spills from trucks on Route 11, but not for anything like this. Four of the team arrived in orange, protective coveralls and boots. The cops filled them in.

    The HAZMAT team took multiple water samples at various distances from the shore. Simple analysis showed that the water was very caustic, the opposite of acid. The pH close to the shore, instead of being the normal seven, was more than thirteen. Out near the rope where the girl had been, it was still twelve.

    This cove is like a vat of lye, and it smells like rotten eggs, said the man with the pH meter. This water will just corrode the hell out of anybody it touches.

    They theorized that a load of a corrosive, alkaline substance had somehow gotten into the river. While much of it had likely been carried downstream, hopefully diluted enough to cause no further damage, some of it had collected in the cove at full strength.

    The Pennsylvania Department of Environmental Protection (PADEP) arrived about an hour later. They set up a series of continuing analyses of both the river and the water at the beach. They also called the Federal EPA, and began an immediate joint investigation of the cause of the contamination

    Even though the day had started beautifully sunny and promising, it had turned into an ugly disaster.

    Chapter One

    An assistant attorney general for the State of New Jersey, a man named Jules Brownstein, stomped into the office of Liam Gallagher with a uniformed sheriff’s deputy in his wake. Liam was the in-house counsel for the Manson Trading Company’s refinery in Linden, New Jersey, and he handled all environmental complaints. Liam was tall and lean, with a bent nose and salt-and-pepper hair that he wore a little long so it covered the tips of his ears, and flowed into waves at the back of his head.

    He was no stranger to the ways of aggressive assistant AGs. He had been one. But this chubby, short guy in a brown suit—who smelled of Old Spice shave lotion, and who sported a chip on his shoulder—seemed all fired up about something.

    I didn’t appreciate being forced to wait downstairs to see you, snapped Brownstein.

    Tough shit, Liam thought. But he said, Sorry. The site manager was briefing me on your unexpected arrival, and asked me to handle the situation. We can’t have visitors wandering around our offices without an escort, you know.

    The Manson Trading Company traded crude oil, and all the things one could derive from it. Its refineries processed a wide range of crude oils, some of which the equipment wasn’t designed to handle, leading to occasional violations of environmental permits. Liam often had to deal with complaints on such matters. The NJ Department of Environmental Protection (NJDEP) was suspicious of the operation, but the solution was generally a matter of negotiating fines. This smelled different.

    I expected to deal with the site manager. In any event, it would have been more respectful to have me wait up here, replied the AG.

    Liam’s office wasn’t luxurious, but he had insisted on real wood furniture and nice carpet when he had joined the company six years ago. There was no sign of luxury in the rest of his furnishings. A bookcase full of New Jersey regulations stood against one wall, but that was for show. He did his law research on the laptop perched on the corner of the uncluttered cherry desk he sat behind. A photo of his wife and three daughters graced the matching credenza, which also held two telephones.

    The walls were bare, save for two commercial paintings of scenes from the Jersey shore, and an ancient photo of men in white shirts and caps swinging sledge hammers on a railroad track. There was no couch or coffee table, just a half-dozen chairs with wooden arms, and seats upholstered in a dark-green-plaid cloth. He liked to think of his lair as frugal professional. He didn’t want a deep pockets image.

    Again, we have to live by our rules as well as the law of the land, he told the AG.

    Brownstein wasted no more time with small talk, not even sitting down when invited—perhaps relishing the opportunity that standing gave him to look down at Liam. The officer he brought with him took a seat on the chair closest to the door.

    I am here on behalf of the Federal Environmental Protection Agency, The Pennsylvania Department of Environmental Protection, and the New Jersey Department of Environmental Protection, he said. I have here a subpoena for all of your waste shipment records for the last twenty years. With a gesture toward the other man, he continued, This sheriff’s deputy will remain here until its terms are fulfilled.

    With that, he tossed a large envelope onto Liam’s desk.

    Liam didn’t touch the envelope. Do you want to tell me what this is all about?

    You are suspected of being responsible for severe injuries to a number of children at a beach in Pennsylvania by having illegally disposed of caustic refinery waste. A joint investigation by the EPA, the PADEP, and the NJDEP is under way.

    That shook Liam up a little, though he remained deadpan. He was pretty sure that nothing illegal had gone on during his watch, but twenty years ago was long before he arrived.

    Will ya explain that, please? he asked Mr. Brownstein.

    A couple of weeks ago, some Philadelphia kids—enjoying a supposedly wonderful week away from their ghettos at a camp in Beach Harbor, Pennsylvania—went for a swim in the Susquehanna River. They came out of the water burning and screaming. The river had been contaminated with mercaptan-containing caustic, an obvious refinery waste product. One kid and one of the counselors are still in the hospital with severe burns. There is evidence that the caustic came from this refinery, and possibly others.

    What evidence?

    You will find that out during discovery after the indictment, said Brownstein with a smirk. In the meantime, you will promptly supply all of the information demanded in that subpoena.

    Of course, said Liam, his hands folded on his desk. The paper records for ten to twenty years ago are stored in an offsite warehouse, and will take some time to recover. We’ll notify you when we have all the information this rather thick document requires.

    That’s unacceptable, replied Brownstein. A deputy will be here every day to see that the evidence chain isn’t corrupted, and that all possible speed is being brought to bear.

    And, of course you’ll charge us for the deputy’s time.

    Just another incentive for you to expedite the process, answered Brownstein, still smirking.

    Liam stood behind his desk. Well then, he thought, you had better get your fat ass the hell out of here so we can start the process. He said, In that case, my secretary will guide you out of the building so we can get started.

    Brownstein opened his mouth, started to say something to Liam, but thought the better of it. Instead he said to the deputy, You know what your job is. I’ll be in touch every day. Then he left much less brusquely than the way he had entered.

    ***

    Liam had come to his present job by a circuitous route. His background was the antithesis of what was normal for a corporate lawyer. After graduating from Fordham’s law school, he had joined the staff of the New York Attorney General, where he made a name for himself cleaning up corruption within New York’s dockworker unions. In respect of that success, the Teamsters Union hired him to do some of their own internal cleanup.

    Subsequently, Manson had sought his services to defend the refinery against allegations by the Oil, Chemical, and Atomic Workers Union that a number of their members had contracted mesothelioma from working with asbestos in the plant. He had managed to work out a solution that all parties could accept. The company loved him for minimizing what could have been a major crisis; the union felt his plan protected those workers who were truly ill; and he had also kept some predatory tort lawyers from scamming the union members in the process.

    In the course of all this he had found a home at Manson, had learned a lot about environmental law and corporate policies, and had developed a sense of when things weren’t kosher.

    ***

    He turned to the deputy seated against the left wall of his office. The people’s hero didn’t bother to introduce you. What’s your name?

    John Mahoney.

    With a connection to the old sod? What county?

    I’m half Irish. My mother was German. I have no idea what county the Mahoney’s came from.

    OK. It’s fun to track down your roots though. You might try it. My grandfather came from Meath. Helped build the railroads, you know. He gestured toward the photo of the men with the sledgehammers.

    "He fought the prejudice, the booze, and the cholera, and vowed that his children would never have to do that. My father went to night school, got to be a teacher, and saw to it that his only son had more advantages than he. Knowing all this, I’m prouder of my ancestors than I might have been. I even sound like them once in awhile.

    But back to business. My first thought is to get you an office down the hall where we can deliver boxes of paper as they are unearthed and copied. Does that suit you?

    That works as far as it goes, but I’ll have to go out to the warehouse to see the boxes collected and loaded. I’ll have to ride on the truck back here as well. I suppose I’ll have to watch the copying process too. I’m supposed to verify the chain of evidence.

    Gonna stick it to ol’ daddy deep pockets, I see, said Liam. I guarantee you we’ll meet the requirements of the law, but no belligerent twerp is going to scare us. We’ll find out the truth of the situation, just like we always have, you know.

    Look, Brownstein is a well-known jerk. He’s gotten a couple of my brother officers in trouble. Whether I like it or not, I’m going to do it his way. I have four kids to feed.

    Liam pushed a button on his phone. His secretary appeared in his office doorway.

    OK, John. We’ll keep your kids’ food on the table, he said. This is Debbie, my secretary. She’ll find you an office nearby. Debbie, meet John Mahoney. He’s from the sheriff’s office, and will be with us until we get a bunch of papers together for him to take.

    Debbie nodded, forced a smile, and said, Hello, John. Come on, we’ll see what we can find for you.

    Liam then pushed another speed-dial button on his phone, and waited for Ted Flynn, a captain in the Newark Police Department, to answer. Flynn was a friend from the Ancient Order of Hibernians, and sometimes they did a little police business together, like when one of the refinery operators was found selling drugs.

    Liam, old son, what’s up? You’re lucky you caught me. I’m planning to get out of here early today, said Flynn.

    Good luck with that. The freakin’ AG just dumped a monster subpoena on me, and I need some unofficial help. Didn’t you tell me your son was a PI, and that he had some corporate experience?

    I did that, Liam, and we worked the end of one case together with very satisfactory results. He has a couple of creative talents, and he’s persistent as hell. In fact, he sort of wore some of the edge off my prejudice against PIs in general, but I still wasn’t happy that he decided not to join the force.

    Spoken like a proud pa.

    I am, but I still have some worries about him. He got caught in an explosion in Iraq five years ago. We almost lost him. It took him over a year to heal physically, and he still struggles with some leftover effects of the trauma.

    Can you tell me about what happened?

    I need you to swear that you’ll never tell anyone I told you this, said the captain.

    Sure and you have my word on that.

    "He was on a patrol in a Humvee with two buddies. It got blown up by a massive roadside bomb, which actually dismembered his friends. The shrapnel blasted right through his Kevlar vest, and also shredded his legs. There were surgeries in Germany. And, when he was out of the woods, they sent him to Walter Reed.

    "I cried when I saw him. There he was—a good high school football player all shriveled up and in despair. My wife stayed with him for over a month. Slept in a chair next to his bed, making damn sure he took his meds, and did his best with the physical therapists. In time, he took over, and made the recovery process his own. It took a year, but he walked out of the place. It took another

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