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The Butcher Beneath Keeper: Doug Iannelli Friday, January 2nd, 1998. 12:22 p.m. |
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| Keeper: | Hastily rummaging through your closet and drawers, you realize that it's times like these you wished you were married, or at least had a live-in. Grabbing two suits still in the plastic from the cleaners, you are forced to dig through your overflowing hamper to select a few more outfits to fill the suitcase. |
| Keeper: | Having collected several sets of undergarments, a couple of ties, some casual wear, and your toiletry bag, you look around, performing one final last minute check to ensure you haven't forgotten anything. |
| Piscapello: | (whispered) Do I have a laptop for reports and communications? |
| Keeper: | (whispered) If you own one, it's definitely not Bureau issue. A personal one, however, is by no means out of the question. |
| Piscapello: | (whispered) Cool. |
| Keeper: | (whispered) What kind of car do you own? |
| Piscapello: | (whispered) Let's make it simple: '94 Saturn SA-1 |
| Keeper: | Loading up the car, you begin the drive to the airport. The normally short trip is made slower by hazardous road conditions. Flipping between the music of WBRU and the quarterly traffic and weather reports among the Providence and Boston news-talk stations, you proceed north on I-95. Merging into I-93 and the Boston metropolitan area, you successfully beat the thickening rush-hour exodus from the city. As you enter the Callahan Tunnel, a haunting rendition of Tainted Love by This Mortal Coil bleeds into static over the stereo. On the other side, the flyway delivers you to Logan International Airport. |
| Keeper: | Parking in one of the secure long term lots, you check your baggage and, after a brief discourse with airport security to clear your service weapon, find your ticket waiting for you at the terminal. It is a little after 3:00 p.m. and your flight is scheduled to depart at 6:30. |
| Piscapello: | I work my way through Logan looking for the least unappealing airport restaurant and grab myself a bite to eat; killing time till my flight leaves. |
| Keeper: | Finding decent fare at an exorbitantly priced kiosk/restaurant, the time passes excruciatingly slowly. Finally, with a boarding call for Flight 1845 to LaGuardia, you rise and move down the terminal to your gate. |
| Keeper: | Your seating - par for the course for an agent of your rank and tenure in the Bureau - is coach. The flight is only half-filled, mostly businessmen and Delta employees heading home or to the City for the weekend. |
| Keeper: | Despite the increase in snowfall, the flight departs on time and before you realize it, the cumulative fatigue of so much commuting in one day has taken its toll and you doze only to be awoken by the sound of the pilot announcing imminent landing in New York. |
| Keeper: | By the time you've claimed your luggage, navigated the byzantine airport, and located your company car (a gunmetal gray '96 Mercury Caprice) in the Port Authority lot, it is dark and snowing heavily. |
| Keeper: | Quickly tossing your bags in the trunk and getting in, a check of your watch shows the time to be almost eight. Clipped to the dashboard-mounted notepad is a pair of photocopied Mapsco pages with the route from the airport to your hotel highlighted in yellow. Aside from that, the vehicle is a standard busteed complete with all the trappings (except the shotgun in the trunk). |
| Piscapello: | I take a few minutes to familiarize myself with the map and then start out for the hotel. |
| Keeper: | The drive into the city is horrendous - worse than you can ever remember. Between the normal congestion and the poor weather, it's a crawl most of the way. |
| Piscapello: | Not particularly comfortable in Providence traffic, I try to alleviate the stress of the drive by looking for a local news station on the radio. |
| Keeper: | The news-talk stations feed you their normal fare, but you do pick up one call-in show who's host bemoans the City's lacking efforts to apprehend the so-called "Subway Butcher". Catching the program mid-broadcast, it doesn't really provide any useful information other than a lot of complaining New Yorkers. |
| Keeper: | Once over the Triborough Bridge, it only worsens with resident, tourist, and weekend traffic vying for road space and bottlenecking Manhattan. Through the glare of melted snowflakes smeared across your windshield it stands before you: New York City. |
| Keeper: | Depending on who you talk to, it's either the most magnificent exercise in urban management or the asshole of the world. You're more inclined to fall in with the latter. At a quarter to ten, you finally reach the Marriott FC, located in the heart of the Financial District. While not the closest hotel to One Federal Plaza, it's the nicest in the area that the Bureau's willing to flip the bill for outside of an undercover assignment. |
| Keeper: | Pulling up to the front on West Street, a valet gestures for you to roll down your window. Dressed in a uniform hat and a bulky petticoat, the man bobs up and down in the cold, only assuming a more professional demeanor upon seeing you draw near. |
| Piscapello: | (rolling down window) "Cold enough for ya?" |
| Keeper: | Shoulders hunched, the Puerto Rican man leans to the window, expired breath streaming from his mouth and nostrils. |
| Valet: | "Yeeees it is. Get your bags, sir?" |
| Piscapello: | "Sure, thanks." |
| Keeper: | The valet circles to the rear of the car, removing your luggage and placing it on a cart which another hotel employee quickly rolls into the lobby and out of the snow. He then returns to the open window and points to the keys in the ignition. |
| Valet: | "Your car, sir?" |
| Piscapello: | I step out of the car. |
| Keeper: | Opening the door for you, the man peers around at the action up and down the street, obviously not very interested in you but rather mechanically behaving in a courteous fashion. |
| Piscapello: | I tip him. "Thanks." |
| Keeper: | He tips his hat in gratitude and, once you are clear, hops in and steers the car into the underground parking garage. |
| Piscapello: | I go into the hotel and head to the main desk to check in. |
| Keeper: | The doors open into a spacious lobby adorned with burgundy carpeting and fine furnishings. A long concierge counter eats up half of the left wall, and a sizeable lounge declared "The Legal Tender" in golden script letters matches it to the right. Two elevator lobbies sandwich a modern flight of stairs rising up in the center of the rear and a complimentary coffee/continental breakfast area and restroom facilities fill out the rest. |
| Keeper: | Men and women mill about the large room, engaging in seated conversations, reading newspapers and complimentary periodicals, and moving into and out of the hotel bar. Glancing across the lobby, you spy your luggage parked near the concierge counter. There are several groups of people clustered before the check-in area, but the hotel has ample staffing and you are quickly attended to by a pretty redheaded girl whose name tag reads "Megan". |
| Megan: | (reading your ID) "Good evening Mr. Pisca . . . (looking again) Pis-ca-pel-lo. Welcome to the Marriott Financial Center." |
| Piscapello: | "Thanks. Is my room ready?" |
| Keeper: | The concierge enters some data into a computer terminal. |
| Megan: | "Let's see . . . there you are. Room 721. I see you have an associate staying in the adjoining suite, 723. Is that correct?" |
| Piscapello: | "Yeah, that'd be Dr. Inglewaithe. Has he checked in yet?" |
| Keeper: | The young girl smiles as she retrieves a key card from beneath the counter and swipes it through a credit card-type scanner to format it to the lock on your room. |
| Megan: | "Yes, sir. Mr. Inglewaithe checked in earlier this evening." |
| Keeper: | Handing you the key card, she produces a small clipboard with the data, for the most part, already provided by whoever (presumably Mary Tidwell) procured your reservations. |
| Megan: | "Looks like all we'll need is your signature, Mr. Piscapello. Can I provide you with assistance with your luggage or direct you to our lounge?" |
| Piscapello: | I sign the form. "No, I'll be okay on my own. Thanks." I gather my luggage and head to the elevators. |
| Keeper: | Taking the elevator up to the seventh floor, you exit and quickly locate your room. Next door, a "Do Not Disturb" placard hangs from the door handle. Another glance at your watch: 10:15 p.m. |
| Piscapello: | (muttering to himself) "Early sleeper I guess." Taking the key card, I let myself into 721. |
| Keeper: | The room is an exceptionally classy single. A little claustrophobic, but comfortable. |
| Piscapello: | Feeling the day weighing heavily upon me, I flop into bed. "Inglewaithe has the right idea." |
| Keeper: | Stowing your luggage, you drop, exhausted, into bed. The weariness that so swiftly struck on the flight over rapidly returns and, before long, you are fast asleep. |
Saturday, January 3rd, 1998 |
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| Knockknockknockknockknockknock . . . | |
| Keeper: | It's dark. |
| Piscapello: | I awaken and check the clock. |
| Keeper: | Peering around through sleep-coated eyes, you find the dim red LED display on the nightstand beside you. 5:46 a.m. Knockknockknockknockknockknock . . . |
| Piscapello: | After I find the light switch, I get up and go to the door. |
| Keeper: | Flipping on the bedside lamp, you stumble out of bed, scantly giving any thought to your level of decency as you move to the door. |
| Piscapello: | I open the door. |
| Keeper: | There, standing before you in the doorway, is a wiry black man who beams at you with a smile punctuated by one gold tooth. He is impeccably dressed in a tailored blue blazer and gray slacks with a sharp crease, and sports a white shirt and red-striped tie. A dark overcoat drapes neatly over on arm. |
| Keeper: | His hair is a frizzy mass shot with gray, and his exceptionally dark skin accentuates unusually pale blue eyes that seems to pierce through you from behind a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles. Of average height and slight build, the man before you defies any obvious discernment of age. He is either a young man who appears much older than he actually is or an old man who looks much younger. |
| Keeper: | Try as you might, you cannot escape the immediate impression that invades your thoughts. |
| Keeper: | Nigger voodoo witch doctor. |
| Piscapello: | "Dr. Inglewaithe, I presume?" |
| Inglewaithe: | (still smiling) "Special Agent Piscapello. I thought we might share breakfast together before getting to work." |
| Keeper: | His voice is soft, yet resonant, and oddly accented. British, definitely, but more likely originating from one of the remnants of colonial England than from the seat of the Crown itself. |
| Piscapello: | (groggily) "Yeah . . . sure. Gimme a second to throw something on . . ." |
| Keeper: | Never breaking a smile, the man enters your hotel room, switching on more light and peering around as if to auger some intricacy about you through the environment of your slightly messy hotel room. |
| Piscapello: | I quickly fish out one of my clean suits. "How was your trip in?" |
| Inglewaithe: | "Uneventful. I regret if I woke you, but I'm afraid that I'm an early riser, so you might as well start becoming accustomed to it if we're to effectively work together." |
| Keeper: | Finding a seat beside the small table in the corner of the room, the doctor positions himself with posture not often seen this side of the Atlantic and withdraws a copy of the New York Times from beneath his folded overcoat. |
| Inglewaithe: | "Please. Wash up. Shave. Do whatever you feel is necessary. I inquired with the concierge downstairs who recommended the buffet at 'Houston's' on Wall Street. They don't begin serving till half-past-six, so we have time to spare. In the mean time, can I get you a beverage from the complimentaries?" |
| Piscapello: | "Yeah, thanks. Grab me an orange juice, will ya'? This should only take a little bit." I head into the bathroom to shower and shave. |
| Keeper: | Emerging from the bathroom, you find Dr. Inglewaithe staring through the drawn curtains upon the (admittedly) magnificent snowy skyline of Lower Manhattan. Hearing you behind him, he muses out loud . . . |
| Inglewaithe: | "You know, when I was a boy growing up in Bridgetown, I always dreamed of someday being able to visit this city. I find it ironic that it is always under circumstances similar to these that I am afforded the proverbial answer to my childhood prayers. So many people . . . so many secrets . . ." |
| Piscapello: | "How 'bout that OJ?" |
| Inglewaithe: | "Oh? . . . Yes. My apologies . . ." |
| Keeper: | Turning with a smile, he retrieves a small plastic cup of juice from the table and walks it over to you as you brush your damp hair. |
| Piscapello: | "Thanks. So . . .How long have you been with the Bureau?" |
| Keeper: | He chuckles quietly. |
| Inglewaithe: | "I became, shall we say, acquainted with the Bureau in 1983 when I was 'rescued', along with the large majority of my students, from the True Blue Medical School campus in Grenada. I had taken a position as Chief of Staff of Psychiatric Medicine there two years previous." |
| Inglewaithe: | "In the wake of the invasion, several American agencies took an interest in my field of expertise . . ." |
| Piscapello: | "Specifically, this is . . .?" |
| Inglewaithe: | "Forensic pathology. Ultimately, it was the Bureau that offered me a position as an advisor and instructor at Quantico. Years later, once I obtained citizenship, I was allowed to begin work with the then Behavioral Science Unit. That was in 1994. And now, here I am, none the worse for wear. (laughing gently) Even if I do still find it exceedingly difficult to find a good cricket match in this country." |