Soul Sucker
Taking Him Out

Lonnie Dortmund’s POV

New York, NY

Tuesday, December 5, 2022

It didn’t take Mom long to figure out that John Miller was still unconscious in the Intensive Care Unit at St. Josephs. She’d asked me to meet her in her office when she returned home. “I’m going to poke around here and see if I can find anything out,” she told me. “You need to fly to New York as soon as possible. I need to know what Miller knows about us.”

“And if he knows too much?”

“Then we will do what we must. No one will be shocked if John Miller dies in the hospital after a sudden collapse.”

I more than understood her caution. “We have to be careful about this, Mom. It would raise questions if a man investigating unknown causes of death were to die from unknown causes.”

“Do you have a better idea?”

“Yes. Let me handle it. John will be too busy to bother us again, and nothing will trace back to you.”

She looked at me for a few seconds before nodding. “You’re right, it’s better if I stay here and be seen. Take as long as you need, and don’t contact us unless absolutely necessary. I don’t want any traces back to me.”

“I’ll take care of everything.” After a kiss and hug, I returned to my office and booked a first-class flight to New York under one of my aliases. I had my black bag (of course) packed and was outside waiting for my Uber fifteen minutes later. I’d sent everything I’d researched about John Miller to my tablet to review on the flight.

The flight took almost four hours, giving me plenty of time to learn about my target. I’d bought the adjoining seat, leaving it empty so I didn’t have to worry about someone seeing what I was doing. A retired police detective was not a soft target, so I’d have to be quick and quiet with him.

It was nearly ten PM when the taxi dropped me a few blocks from his Manhattan apartment. I could hear the protestors before I saw them, a dozen or so women and men standing near the door with signs, led by a man with a bullhorn. Two cops were watching them yell, but most people in the area ignored them. I stayed back, waiting until one of the men walked off. I caught up with him a block later. “Can I talk to you about your protest?”

“Who the fuck are you? Cop? Reporter? Get da fuck outta my face.”

I held out the hundred-dollar bill. “I’m the guy who is buying you dinner and drinks if you’ll get the guy with the bullhorn over to talk to me for ten minutes.”

He grabbed the bill from me and stuffed it in his jeans pocket. “I gotta take a piss. You wait in this alley.”

Fifteen minutes later, Reverend Robinson arrived with a big guy with prison ink behind him. “Private discussion,” I said as I held out my hand to his bodyguard. “We’ll be right over here.” The Reverend nodded to the muscle, and we moved about ten feet into the alley and turned to face each other. I held out my hand. “Ron White.”

“Reverend Carl Robinson, First Covenant Church of the Redeemed,” he replied. “Rod said you wanted to talk.”

I nodded. “I want to support your protest, but I can’t do so publicly,” I told my new friend. “What would it take to turn that group of yours into a big crowd?”

He thought for a minute. “Lots of folks think DeWayne had it coming to him by pointing a shotgun at the cops. I’m not saying he’s a saint, but to shoot a brother three times in the back! He didn’t even ask him to surrender first? That’s over the line.”

“It is. I want the television stations, the politicians, and the District Attorney to hear that loud and often.” I reached into my suit pocket, removing an envelope and handing it to him. “I need these protests to get loud and grow until action is taken. If you need to pay people, feed people, or convince people, this should help. By the weekend, I want everyone in New York talking about DeWayne getting gunned down from behind.”

He looked in the envelope. It held two packs of hundred-dollar bills and some documents. “That’s twenty grand.”

I nodded. “Walking-around money, plus some interesting background on the guy who killed him in cold blood. It will help in your search for justice.”

“I won’t lie about a man,” he replied. “I’m a man of God.”

“The truth is what it is, Reverend. I don’t want trigger-happy white men gunning down black youth from behind. I want these streets filled with angry people demanding justice. Protest at his home, protest at his workplace, and protest the office of District Attorney of Manhattan. Keep protesting until you’re satisfied.”

He looked at the envelope. “That could take months.”

“I’ll have more delivered each week provided I remain satisfied with your efforts. You’re going to be the face of the people demanding justice. Embrace the responsibility and the notoriety that comes with it. Your cause is just, and your heart is pure. The envelope is merely covering expenses.”

“You got it, Ron.” He pocketed the envelope and walked off, his bodyguard leading the way back to the protest.

With that effort going, I checked in to a nearby hotel and called a florist. I arranged to have a bouquet delivered to the lobby in sixty minutes. I changed into dark jeans and a black shirt, adding a watch cap, glasses, and a beard to hide my identity. I caught the delivery woman outside, taking the bag with the vase and flower arrangement before she reached the door.

I stopped a block from John Miller’s apartment, exchanging the cap for a ballcap with a “800-FLOWERS” logo. I walked along the sidewalk and saw the crowd had tripled, and two news crews were on site. I walked past the cops and entered the vestibule of the building. It wasn’t a rich enough neighborhood to have a doorman.

I pressed buttons until the elderly Mrs. Phelps answered. “Flower delivery,” I told her as I looked into the camera.

“I’m not expecting anything. Who sent me flowers?”

“I just deliver the things, Ma’am.” She buzzed me in, and I took the elevator to her floor. I handed her the flowers and had her sign the fake invoice on my tablet, then walked off. Instead fo going back to the elevator, I went to John’s apartment.

I donned surgical gloves and pulled out my Kronos lock-picking tool. The aluminum device looked like a chrome sex toy, but the vibration was the only common thing. I inserted a flat tensioning wrench into the bottom of his deadbolt key and put a little tension on it in the unlock direction. The narrow blade of the tool went above it, finding the back before I backed off a little. I pressed the button to start the thin blade moving up and down with a buzzing sound.

The lever moved in my fingers once the tumblers vibrated to the correct positions. I withdrew the tool and continued to turn with the tensioning wrench until I heard the deadbolt release. The simple door handle lock went even faster, and I was inside.

There was no alarm box in the small studio apartment. I went to the desk first. I removed the computer case and connected my device. It would clone the hard drive while I searched the room. I sat down and started looking through the desk.

In the top right was an old, leather-bound journal. Embossed on the cover was a priest holding a cross and commanding a demon to leave a young woman.

Shit! I picked up the book and carried it to the small kitchen table. Opening it to a random page, my worst fears were confirmed. I flipped through it quickly, taking note of the sketches and the names mentioned.

The journal’s author had been a demon hunter, and this book contained his knowledge.

I closed the book, unsure of how to handle this. If I took it, John Miller would know someone burglarized his apartment and what they were after. If I left it, John would not know I’d been here, but this book was dangerous to my Mother. Maybe I should burn the place? I’d have to defeat the sprinkler system, and I didn’t want to draw more attention to my breaking, so maybe that wasn’t the right play either.

I took another hour, carefully going through his apartment and finding nothing else of note. He had a gun safe in the closet, but it was a combination one that I didn’t have time to bust into.

I disconnected the backup drive from his computer and put it back together. The book went into a canvas shopping bag before I left. It was simply too dangerous to leave behind, and I had an idea about how I could manage its disappearance. I walked out of the building, past the growing protest, and back to the hotel.

I broke into the copy of the hard drive, searching his emails and documents for anything incriminating. I found nothing helpful, so I put the tablet down and picked up the book. A Google search showed me John Miller’s great-great Grandfather wrote the book. “Shit,” I whispered to myself. “Of COURSE, he’d be from a family of demon hunters!”

The book contained multiple descriptions of exorcisms, most in the company of priests. A few mentioned the ‘Dagger of the Lord’ and its power to remove and trap demons. You see, you could perform an exorcism to remove a Demon, but humans couldn’t cast the supernatural creature into Hell. Even Jesus cast ‘Legion’ into a herd of pigs before sending them into the sea.

Mom couldn’t get an exorcism because she’d bargained with the Demon, giving him legal rights to occupy her body. If John or a priest told him to leave, he could refuse. The book made it clear the dagger could draw the demon inside and trap it there forever.

He probably kept it in his gun safe, dammit! The ONE place I didn’t search contained the key relic of all.

I looked at the clock; it was almost three in the morning. I wasn’t going to have time to do anything tonight, so I showered and went to bed instead.

The morning news on Wednesday covered the growing protests over what community leaders call the ‘extra-judicial execution of a black man by a racist ex-cop.’ The Reverend was interviewed in the segment, bringing up the multiple shootouts and killings John Miller had been in back in Boston. I dressed in a suit and went to the lobby restaurant for breakfast.

District Attorneys are political animals, and politics runs on money. A call to Andrew Craig’s campaign manager led to a $50,000 donation and a private afternoon meeting with the busy lawyer. I only had five minutes, but I made them count. “I represent people shocked and outraged at the murder of DeWayne Thompson, and they expect you to take action quickly to ensure justice is done.”

“The investigation is still in progress, Mr. White.”

“Not quickly enough, as you can see on the news. My advice is to get ahead of this.” I handed him a manila envelope. “This information may help change your mind.”

“What is it?”

“His service record from the Boston Police, medical records and statements regarding his alcoholism, a copy of the allegations in his ex-wife’s divorce complaint, and video of Mr. Miller’s matches in Mixed Martial Arts. It’s not a pretty picture, Mr. Craig. You’ve got a cop who should have been retired on a medical, but he’s carrying a gun in your city and killing our young men. If Miller sat in his chair and let the professionals handle it? Thompson would be in jail, not the morgue. Miller had the martial arts skills to take him down without using deadly force and chose not to. My backers and the protestors out there want him arrested for murder. We will settle for nothing less.”

He sat back, thinking about it. “The grand jury might not vote to indict him. The witnesses and videos are a strong case for his actions in defense of others.”

I leaned forward and tapped the table. “We both know that Irish cops from Boston are racist. We both know you don’t need a grand jury to file the complaint and arrest him. You can placate the angry citizens on the street and are seen as a champion of justice, standing up against the racism in the Police. If the Grand Jury doesn’t indict, you still get your perp walk, and your name is the one in the paper standing up for the downtrodden.”

He held up the envelope. “This might not be enough.”

“Get a search warrant, seize his guns, and put his ass behind bars.” I stood up and extended my hand. “It’s the smart play, sir.”

I was back in my hotel for dinner, watching the growing unrest on the television as I ate a really good ribeye with a local beer.

John Miller was going down, and we’d be long gone before he got out of jail.

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