THE CRUNCH
CHAPTER ONE
J
AMES MILLER WAS FORTY YEARS OLD and he worked with the Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI), in Baltimore, Maryland. He was married with two children; boys aged twelve and fourteen years old.
Miller came from a reasonably wealthy background. His late dad, John Milton, was an oil millionaire from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. About one year earlier, before Milton died, he had left his son a fortune of one million U.S. dollars. Miller had deposited the money into a bank account. He hoped to buy a house and horses when he left the FBI.
Miller and his wife, Patricia Claire Watson, who was a florist, had always needed a daughter. However, after having three miscarriages, Claire realized, that dream might never come true, unless she adopted, a baby girl, from an adoption agency.
The couple’s two children, Juan Baker and Ray Martins, were in an elementary boarding school, in the New York City. The two boys only came home during school holidays. Miller's home often got lonely because of the boys' absence. Claire was thus on the lookout for the ideal baby-girl.
That Sunday evening, Miller had promised to take his wife out for dinner. He had already reserved a table for two in a posh downtown restaurant in Baltimore and he hoped it would be a romantic dinner. It was then 6 pm and the couple planned to go to the eatery in an hour's time. Meanwhile, they were getting ready for the outing. This was their first date in a couple of months and they hoped to make the most of it.
Miller and Claire have been just about to leave their home for the restaurant, when the phone rang. Miller took the phone and he discovered a close neighbor was calling. His name was Meir Segal. He said that he had a sick daughter at home and he needed Miller to take her to the hospital for treatment. Segal claimed that his own car had broken down and yet his daughter's condition has gotten worse.
Although Miller felt Segal’s phone call would interfere with his plans that evening, his consciousness could not allow him to let his neighbor down. He therefore promised to help him, and then he hung up.
Miller was Meir Segal’s longtime neighbor. He had been close to Segal’s late son, Uriel Doron, before the latter mysteriously died, about a year earlier.
Doron was a newspaper journalist, and he died, when he poked his nose, in the wrong place. He had tried to infiltrate, a clandestine organization, called the Crunch, which mostly dealt, in drug trafficking and firearm smuggling. Unfortunately, he died before he had succeeded in his mission.
Meanwhile, as Miller replaced the receiver on the cradle, after talking to Segal, his eyes met those of Claire, who sat on a couch opposite him, across the room.
“Who was that on the line, dear?” She asked, picking a cuticle from a thumb.
“It was Meir Segal,” he answered. “He has a sick daughter, at home, and he wants me to take her to the hospital for treatment. His car has broken down, and yet her condition is getting worse.”
Claire seemed surprised by this. “I didn't know Segal has a daughter. I thought Doron was his only child. I wonder what we shall do now. Remember, we have already reserved a table at a restaurant.”
“Give me half an hour and I'll be back, I promise that. It would be dreadful to let the geezer down when it's obvious that he needs my assistance.”
“I'll accompany you to Segal’s place,” she instantly volunteered. “I would like to meet his daughter too.”
“No, Patty,” he called her, by her favorite pet name. “Please remain here. The sight of hospitals depresses you, and that can spoil your appetite. Give me just a few minutes and I'll be back, so we can go for our date.”
Claire looked down, morosely. She had never won a single argument against Miller, in the fifteen years, she had been married to him, and so she did not expect to win this one, either.
“Okay,” she said reluctantly. “You may go alone; if that's your wish. However, make sure that you do not keep me waiting for too long.”
“I won't.”
Miller was a huge man. He stood about six feet tall and he weighed about two hundred and fifty pounds. He had dark brown hair and blue eyes. That evening, he wore black Levis jeans, a blue tee shirt, and blue sneakers. On his wrist was an Omega watch. He instantly put on his Ralph Lauren yellow double breasted tuxedo, took his cream Sturgis Stetson cowboy hat, and then he briskly walked to his cream Chrysler 200, which he had parked outside, in the driveway.
The hat had the initials JM - standing for James Miller - inscribed on it and was precious, to him. Claire's parents had given him the Stetson at the couple's fifteenth wedding anniversary.
Once he reached his car, he got in and he immediately drove to Segal’s house, which was about two hundred meters, away. Segal was waiting for him at the door when he got there. “I'm glad you've come, Miller,” he said, shaking his hand. “Sorry for inconveniencing you with my problems. Nonetheless, under the prevailing circumstances, I had to do that.”
“It is okay, my friend. You do not have to apologize for anything. How is your daughter?” He asked.
“She’s in bed and she can hardly walk.”
Segal then took Miller to a room in the basement of the old-fashioned building. Miller noted portraits and mural paintings of Trotsky, “Che” Guevara, Carl Marx, and Lenin decorated the room's walls.
A lone table stood on one corner of the room and feminine lingerie and clothes were on it. On the single bed in the room was a woman.
The woman was about thirty-five years old and she seemed sick. She wore a Rolex watch on her wrist, a bronze ring on her finger and several bracelets on her arms. She had her eyes closed and there were tiny sweat droplets on her forehead. Segal’s wife, Yehudit Maya, sat on the edge of the bed and she held the woman's hand in hers. “Ingrid has suffered a heart attack,” she announced when the two men entered the room.
Segal sat on the edge of the bed too and he felt for the woman's pulse. “Too bad,” he said after a while. “We must give her an intravenous injection immediately, before she passes out.” He then turned to Miller. “Her cardiologist recommended that we should give her an intravenous injection in case she suffers a heart attack. This can help to release the cardiovascular pressure building up in her heart region.” He instantly left the room in search of her medicine.
With Segal gone out of the room, Miller studied the woman carefully. She wore a blue and colored sequin wrap dress and a blue ribbon kept her long and dark hair in place. Her forehead was thick and her chubby dimpled cheeks enhanced her beauty.
Segal came back into the room moments later carrying a hypodermic syringe, filled with some substance. He gave the syringe to Maya and then he left the room again. He seemed troubled by the young woman's sickness.
Maya fumbled with Ingrid's arm, for a while, searching for the correct vein, to apply the injection. “Miller, I can't find the correct vein. My eyesight is poor. Please, inject her for me,” she suggested after a while. She gave him the hypodermic syringe and she moved away, from the bed.
“I guess we should wait for Segal to come back here to give her the jab. I've never administered an intravenous injection before and I could make a fatal mistake if I try to do that now,” he confessed.
Maya gave him an imploring glance. “My husband’s eyesight is worse than mine. He had an eye surgery several days ago and thus he cannot do a good job. Please, inject her, before it’s too late.”
After thinking about it for a while, Miller administered an injection to Ingrid. He heard Maya heave a deep sigh as she came back to the bed.
“That was a nice job,” she commented smiling.
“I suppose so,” Miller agreed. “Can we now take her to the hospital?” He asked, giving the syringe back to her.
“No,” a deep male voice said behind him. Miller turned around to find Segal standing in the doorway, a Kimber pistol in his right hand. “Do you know what you've just done, Miller? You have injected the woman with pentobarbital. She'll be dead within five minutes,” stated Segal. Miller noted that he held a Fujifilm Instax mini 90 Camera in his left hand.
“But Maya told me to do that!” He exclaimed, puzzled.
“Yes, I instructed you to do that,” she agreed. “Nonetheless, Ingrid is not my biological daughter, but she was once married to my son, Uriel Doron. Ever since Doron died, about one year ago, I have always suspected that she killed him. Thus, I have been longing to avenge his death, by killing her too. Even so, I did not have the courage to do that. We called you here so that you could help us to do the job.”
“But the woman was sick when I came in. I can swear about that,” Miller protested.
“No, she was not sick. We had put Zolpidem in her coffee, to induce sleep. Nevertheless, now that you have killed her, it is up to you to know what you will do with her corpse,” Segal pointed out. “Moreover, I warn you Miller. Do not tell the police about this. Otherwise, you'll be in a lot of trouble for that.”
Miller looked at Ingrid and he noted her lips were turning blue. He touched her forehead and he realized it was cold. She was dead. He panicked. “I do not understand all this!” He exclaimed stunned.
Segal smiled. “Relax, my friend. I will explain some things to you so that you may understand. My late son, Doron, was a freelance journalist with the Washington Post. In the course of duty, the newspaper had instructed him to investigate the clandestine activities of a drug trafficking cartel called the Crunch, with the aim of publishing the same. Doron was a cunning journalist and he realized the best way he could infiltrate the Crunch was by befriending some of its members. One such member was Gina Ingrid, the woman you have just killed. Doron befriended her and after several months of friendship and courting, he married her. Six months after their marriage, the Crunch discovered that Doron was a spy and they ordered her to kill him. She did that. She was three months pregnant when my son died. I do not know what happened to the unborn child.”
“Ingrid was a beautiful and desirable, woman,” Maya chimed in. “She got remarried to the Crunch boss, General Daniel Jackson only eight months after Doron's death. General Jackson loves Ingrid dearly. She means the world to him. He had to divorce his first wife, Eleanor Benedict, in a bitter, and an acrimonious divorce lawsuit that was all over the press, so that he could marry her. I am sure that, her death, would terribly devastate him, and he will stop at nothing, to avenge the death.”
“I took a picture of you as you killed the woman and I will send a copy of the snapshot to the Crunch and General Jackson, if you do not do everything I say. You won't know, what has hit you, when he comes after you,” said Segal. He then pressed a button on the camera, and the device instantly produced a picture. He hurled the photo to Miller.
Miller caught the picture in midair, and he studied it carefully. The photo had prima facie evidence incriminating him in Gina Ingrid’s death. The FBI agent instantly realized that he would be in a lot of trouble if the snapshot ever reached General Jackson or the Crunch.
“What exactly do you want me to do, Segal?” He asked after a while, when he realized that he was cornered.
Segal smiled. “Excellent, I can see that you're now starting to think rationally. What I want you to do is this. Take Ingrid's corpse and dispose of it as far away from here as possible, then go home and shut your mouth. Do not tell anyone about the murder. Your wife, children or friends should not know about this. That way, no one will ever know who murdered Ingrid. The police and the Crunch would imagine that some criminals mugged her and they will not connect us to her death, whatsoever. You're now free to go,” he said, backing a few paces and pointing the pistol at the FBI agent’s forehead.
Miller hesitated for a while, picked Ingrid's corpse from the bed and he walked to the door in slow unsteady steps.
“Good luck, Miller,” Maya said as he reached the door. The federal agent turned around slightly, gave her a cold look and then he trudged out of the room with the dead woman in his arms.
JAMES MILLER opened, the door of the house, and he looked outside. No one was in sight. He walked to his car, which was in the driveway, several meters away, opened the passenger door, and put Ingrid's corpse into the vehicle. He fastened the safety belt around her and ensured that she sat upright on the velvet-padded passenger seat. The federal agent then took his cream hat from his head and he placed it on her head, pulling it to just several inches above her eyes. He locked the car door, walked around the vehicle and he got on the driver's seat. He was just about to switch on the ignition, when a woman came to his car.
“Is she okay?” She asked breathlessly, her eyes on Ingrid. “I was upstairs in my apartment when I saw you put the woman into the car. What happened to her?”
Miller looked at her puzzled. “I guess, that's none of your business,” he snapped, irritated, and then he drove away, at top speed. He hated clumsy neighbors who did not mind their own business. The woman looked, at the car speed away, removed her spectacles, and then she put them on again, bewildered.
Miller did not stop until he was two kilometers away. He looked at Ingrid and he noted saliva was dripping from the corner of her mouth. Her head lay awkwardly on her shoulder. He adjusted her head, into an upright position, got a rag, from the glove compartment of the vehicle, and he wiped her face. He wondered which the best place to dump the corpse was. After pondering over the issue, for a while, he decided to drive to Washington, D.C., which was about 40 miles away, to dump the corpse there.