THE EARLY SUNRISE was upon them. As they all stood in McGarry's lower-level office. Late Tuesday night had become early Wednesday morning. But no man showed any sign of fatigue as their discussions with Lieutenant Governor of Missouri regarding the election rigging, bribery, and corruption (going as high as the Governor himself) continued and details pieced themselves together.
Within a few hours of the phone call made by Lieutenant Governor McGarry, three special agents of the FBI were in his office with Mitch, Keating, and Knight, eager to take their statements.
Much to Knight's displeasure, this had become a federal issue and was in the jurisdiction of the FBI.
"You know," Knight said as he spoke candidly with the three FBI agents, "this was my case. I broke this case. I know everything about this case."
"We know," one of the agents said; a tall dark-haired man in his early 40s who called himself Agent Smith, "and we will definitely pass on the credit. We aren't here to take away credit, we're here to solve this."
"I appreciate that," Knight said with mild shock and confusion in his voice. He was expecting the quintessential territorial pissing match over jurisdiction.
"This isn't like the movies," another agent said, Agent Mallory, an attractive middle-aged blonde woman, "where the Feds show up and say, 'We'll take it from here.' If you've been in on the investigation, you'll work right here with us."
"Exactly," the third agent said, another young man who identified himself as Agent Anderson., "So let's shut this down together."
"Sounds like a plan," Lenny said.
"What about us?" Keating said, motioning to himself and Mitch.
"You guys are key witnesses," Agent Mallory said, "so when the U.S. Attorney gets here, he'll talk to you so that he can get an arrest warrant for this woman, Lenore Sable, the governor, and Ray Doyle.
"Wait," Mitch interjected, "why is Ray being arrested?"
"Well," the male agent said, "it sounds like he's complicit in this entire voter fraud scheme."
"But he—" Mitch said before being interrupted.
"He has to at least be detained," Agent Anderson interjected, "because we will definitely have questions for him.
"Ray Doyle is my best friend," Mitch said in a declaratory tone. "Please don't arrest him."
"Mitch," Lenny said, approaching him and placing a hand on his shoulder, "I think we crossed that bridge a long time ago."
And then, seemingly on-cue, Ray Doyle walked into McGarry's office.
No one was quite sure what to say — no one, except Ray.
"Go to Hell, Mitch Bradley!" Ray said as he suddenly entered the conference room, pointing an accusatory finger in Mitch's general direction. "You betraying backstabbing—"
"Wait," Mitch said, holding up a hand in symbolic defense, "nothing I've done is personal. We all just need to do the right thing."
Ray gave a sweeping glance to everyone in the room. He made eye contact with all three Agents, and McGarry, but seemed to ignore Keating and Detective Knight.
"Why don't you two go sit outside and talk about this," Agent Smith said. "We still have some details to work out here."
"Fine," Ray said.
The two men exited through the glass doors into the tunnel. They walked the full length of the tunnel, side by side, without speaking a word to one another. After exiting, they walked to an iron bench on the far end of a grassy area outside the Capitol — an area with two park benches and a replica of the Statue of Liberty. The time was nearing 9AM and people were walking by, on their way to work, out for their morning jog, out walking their dogs.
Not far behind them, Keating exited the tunnel as well. He watched as Ray and Mitch sat down on the bench together. "This is not going to end well," he said quietly aloud. And with that, he disappeared up the hill of West Capitol Avenue and hailed a taxi.
This grassy area with the benches and statue was a very public place, so Mitch felt safe about having a civil conversation with Ray, knowing he (being a public figure) would not want to raise his voice and draw attention to them — especially with the looming accusations they may be facing.
The two best friends sat motionless and silent on the bench — Mitch on the right, Ray on the left. In front of them, two other men sat down at the adjacent bench with their backs to Ray and Mitch.
Finally, one of the best friends spoke to the other.
"I'm sorry, brother," Mitch said to Ray.
Ray leaned in to whisper into Mitch's ear. "I hate you, brother."
Mitch felt an unfamiliar pressure and pain. It was sharp and unexpected, but he couldn't physically move or react. He was pressed against the armrest by Ray's leaning body. But after a moment, Mitch realized what just happened — Ray had just plunged a four-inch pocket knife into the left side of Mitch's back, just below his ribs.
"Go to Hell, Dr. Mitchell K. Bradley." Ray spoke slowly and with pure hate in his voice, twisting the blade slightly before pulling it out. "Sit here and die — and die slow."
Ray stood from the bench and walked toward the other bench, the one populated by the two men with their backs to Mitch and Ray. It was less than a 30-second walk to them, but when he approached, he handed one of the men the knife. "Get rid of that," he said callously. He handed off the knife without breaking his stride and walked back into the tunnel, giving a quick glance and a grin at the engraving, "BE JUST AND FEAR NOT."
As stealthily as he could, Agent Smith put the knife into a plastic bag and gave it to Agent Anderson, the man sitting next to him. "Make this disappear," he said.
"Consider it gone," Anderson replied. Both men looked back at Mitch Bradley as he slumped motionless over the armrest of the iron bench.
"Then call Lenore." Agent Smith said in an all-business tone. "Tell her we took care of Bradley and Mallory took care of the old cop."
"You want me to tell her we took care of Bradley?" Anderson inquired. "You don't want to tell her Doyle did it?"
"No," Smith replied. "Ray is her golden boy now, and somehow, he's just completely snapped. So, let's keep that little detail to ourselves for now."
The two men stood from their bench and walked in opposite directions.
Another drop of blood dripped from the dying fingers of Mitchell K. Bradley.