Julie was right that reading about Chris Gallagher would not be fun.
She had somehow gotten his service record, plus letters written about him by his commanding officers and others he encountered during his military career.
The service record itself was scary, as much because of what it didn’t say as what it did. There were large gaps that did not detail where he was or what he was doing for months at a time. Instead the only listings during these periods categorized him as being TAD, which I knew to mean Temporarily Assigned Duty.
Having served in the military myself, I had no doubt what this really meant, and the dates confirmed it. He was Black Ops, meaning he was put into both Iraq and Afghanistan before we entered those countries. They would have been mostly reconnaissance missions, to prepare for our full-scale military entrance.
While Black Ops are there to scout the enemy, terrain, etc., they are quite prepared to engage any hostile forces they might meet. If they are captured, the US Government will not acknowledge their existence, which in and of itself is not that significant, since they would certainly be killed anyway.
Suffice it to say that our government uses very few wimps for these missions. They send the toughest of the tough, the most well-trained, disciplined soldiers we have. That was who Chris Gallagher was, and that was who Bryan and I were up against. And if Iraq and Afghanistan did not prove daunting for him, it was unlikely that New Jersey would fill him with fear.
Gallagher joined the Marines at the age of twenty-three, and was trained as a communications and electronics expert. Eighteen months later he applied for Force Recon status, which involves training in everything from parachute jumping to underwater demolition to enhanced combat techniques in extraordinarily difficult conditions.
His psychological evaluations seemed unremarkable, though they were filled with words like “resolute,” “determined,” and “purposeful.” The only relative he listed or apparently ever mentioned was his brother, Steven. Their parents were long deceased.
Nothing about Gallagher, or anyone else for that matter, frightened me physically. I think I was born without the “personal danger” gene; I just never get fearful about my own physical safety. It’s not necessarily a good quality for a cop.
Physical fear is as important as physical pain. People who can’t feel pain aren’t able to be protective; for instance, their skin could be being burned and they might not know it. In a similar fashion, fear acts to help one avoid dangerous situations, and my lack of fear is a negative for that reason. I don’t instinctively avoid danger; instead I must force my mind to be logical about it.
But I can feel fear for others, and I was feeling it big-time for Bryan. He always had the fear gene; we were very different in that way. He once confessed to me that it was a major reason why he didn’t follow me and my father into police work. And at the moment he had to be really, really scared of what was going to happen, so I was scared on his behalf.
One of the most disappointing things about the information Julie had given me on Gallagher was his lack of connections to anyone but his brother. I had hoped for friends, or other relatives, who he might be in contact with. They might have led me to Bryan; they might even have been helping to keep him captive. But at least for the moment, that avenue was closed.
I decided to focus on something more upbeat, though pretty much anything would have qualified. I again dove into the Appeals Court cases, since I needed to pick one to focus on. I wasn’t necessarily looking for the one most likely to tie in to the Brennan murder, but rather the one I could make Gallagher believe. They might have been one and the same, but maybe not.
I narrowed it down to two possibilities, and then chose the one that made the most sense. It was a case in which the town of Brayton was suing to prevent a company from doing something called fracking on land adjacent to the town. Fracking, which was the extrication of natural gas from shale, was claimed by the town to be environmentally devastating.
I chose the case for four reasons. One, it was relatively nearby. Two, there was close to four hundred million dollars at stake, just representing the purchase price of the land, and maybe billons more once the drilling took place. Three, the case was nearing a completion and Brennan’s addition to the court could have upset the applecart. And four, emotions in the town were running very high; there had even been violence that was being attributed to the situation. The guesthouse of the man who owned the land had been blown up.
All of this seemed to add up to a believable set of circumstances to lead to a murder.
“I am with you one hundred percent,” Edward Holland shouted.
He had just said pretty much the same thing, albeit more softly, at the council meeting inside the Brayton Town Hall. There he had been talking to the elected town officials, as well as the small number of citizens who could fit inside the cramped quarters.
But this was a much bigger gathering, and in many ways a more significant one. It numbered more than fifteen hundred people, holding signs and chanting their determination to protect their families and their lifestyle. For Brayton, it qualified as something akin to a Million Man March.
They were also voters, and they had put Holland in office. They had supported him throughout the fight against Richard Carlton and his company, trying to prevent the fracking that they all believed, that Holland had in fact told them, could threaten their health and well-being.
But they had to be handled, and Holland was the guy to do it. He was their hero, fighting valiantly against the corporate villains. It was an image that he had carefully cultivated throughout the battle, so much so that his “soldiers” were apparently getting carried away.
“I know how you feel, and I share your passion and your anger,” Holland said. “And I know you agree with me that violence is not the answer. It is not what we are about; it is not what Brayton is about.”
There had been no arrests made for the destruction of Richard Carlton’s guesthouse, but it was commonly believed that the perpetrators did what they did in retaliation for Carlton’s attempt to sell the land for fracking.
Holland’s call against violence was greeted by a mixture of cheers and angry yells; it was clear that not everyone in the audience was inclined to take the high road.
“The moneyed interests and many in the media are trying to paint you as vigilantes, as outlaws who are dangerous and disrespectful of the process. We cannot let them do that.”
This seemed to get a more enthusiastic response, so Holland continued. “We don’t need bombs, or guns, or violence of any kind. We have a greater power on our side; we have the truth.”
This was greeted with a roar of approval; Holland now had them under control. He turned to look at Alex Hutchinson, who had emerged in recent weeks as an unelected leader of the townspeople. Alex was nodding approval.
“We are law-abiding citizens,” Holland continued. “All we are seeking is justice and the ability to protect our children and our families. We will get that justice; I will accept nothing less.
“So have faith in the process. Have faith in the American system. Have faith in God. Your faith, our faith, will carry us through to victory.”
