The Darkness - Jason Pinter [93]
and according to the DOJ, Frank Loughlin was serving
twenty years for the murder of a homeless man on the
streets of Atlanta.
Researching the newspaper records, I discovered
Loughlin had pled insanity, his lawyer making the case
that Loughlin still suffered from post-traumatic stress
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disorder from his time in the military, and that his client
was better served under psychiatric supervision than
under our federal prison system.
Loughlin had been returning home from a movie when
a homeless man approached him on the street. After
asking for change and being denied, the man placed his
hand on Loughlin's shoulder. The ex-Special Forces
agent then threw the man to the ground and pressed his
boot against the man's neck until his larynx was crushed
under the force.
Police testified that when they arrived on the scene,
Loughlin was sitting on the curb by the body, crying.
Nevertheless, the judge disagreed that Frank was missing his marbles, and now the man who once fought for the
United States was rotting in one of its very own jail cells.
Not the kind of irony that brings a smile to your face.
Seeing as how Frank Loughlin couldn't be involved in
this unless he somehow gained the ability to walk through
walls, cross state borders and look like one of his former
squad mates (a possibility considering the amount of
drastic plastic surgery you see in New York), I went to
find Jack to see if he had any more luck.
I found him at his desk, on the phone, writing on a
notepad.
He didn't pay me any attention, just kept nodding as
though the person on the other line could be persuaded
by his nonverbal approval. I took that moment to glance
around Jack's desk.
He'd been back for such a short amount of time, and
since then he'd done nothing to make his desk more personal, nothing to show that a human being actually
worked, breathed and dwelled there.
I wasn't the most sensitive guy in the world and I had
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Jason Pinter
no need to plaster my workspace with pictures of every
living relative, every birthday party and a child from
every conceivable camera angle, but you could walk by
my desk and know that somebody took the time to make
it more habitable.
There was a photo of Amanda and me taken a few
years ago at a concert at Jones Beach. I had a clipping of
the first article I ever published in the Gazette, and the
first piece I ever published in the Bend Bulletin from
back in the day when I was cutting my teeth.
Those articles were steps to me. Chapters in a life and
career. I wasn't sure what the next clipping would be. I
supposed I would only know when, well, I knew.
Finally Jack hung up the phone and turned to me.
"Whaddaya got?"
"Very little," I said. "Three of my six are still alive.
One of them is in prison, one has no records of pretty
much anything, and Rex Malloy hasn't been heard from
in almost fifteen years. The kicker, though, is that Chester
Malloy is dead."
"I had a feeling," Jack said.
"Turns out the older brother was killed in action in
Panama. He was in a transport vehicle with his brother Rex,
Eve Ramos and William Hollinsworth when they made a
wrong turn and ended up on a street not far from Noriega's
headquarters. They were approached by members of the
PDF who tried to detain them, but when the squad resisted
they opened fire. As far as I can tell Chester Malloy was
the only casualty, but according to news reports, all four
members of the team were seriously injured."
Jack stroked his beard, thinking. Either that or he was
ignoring me. But since I doubted that, he just continued
to stroke his beard.
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267
"That give you good luck?" I asked.
"Been doing this my whole adult life. So depending
on your perspective, probably not."
"What did you find out?"
"Well, not as much as you, but between the two of us
I think we know exactly where to go."
"What did you find?"
"Of my five squad members, four are dead. The only
living Bravo Detachment member is Bill Hollinsworth.
Hollinsworth was deployed