Rilaly's Blog
Simple Truths

This is the opening scene of the novel Fate’s Tumbling Die.  It is not for sale on any websites.  It is the story of a man who discovers a wonderful theory.  He is a scientific researcher who discovers a theory from another researcher that was never fully explored.  His method through which he plans on revealing this theory to the world may be unusual, but he reaches a point where he can think of no other way of publicizing this theory to the world.

Words: 3,783

Rated: G.  No person, whatever age, should be offended by the subject matter or the words used in this story.  If I am incorrect, please let me know.

Fate’s Tumbling Die

It is the future.

When one is informed that it is the future, what is it that enters the mind’s eye?  Is the future going to incorporate flying cars?  Is it going to involve communication devices so superior to our current devices that we cannot fathom them at this point in our lives?  Does the future point to a year light years from the present, is it the near future, can it be next year, next month or even tomorrow?

When we look into the future do where do we see ourselves, our country and our world? Does the future involve natural calamities? Does it involve political or societal shifts that we cannot, in our present day, comprehend? How much of the future will we see? How much of it are we longing for or fearing? Will the future be dramatically different, or will it remain predominately the same? At a base level, we must ask ourselves how much life will change in the future by how much it has changed in the past. Where were you ten, twenty, thirty years ago and how much of the ordinary aspects of your life have changed? The first instinct of many is to say that our life, and our world, has changed dramatically. If we were to thoroughly examine our existence, and take away our need to be portrayed as exciting and ever evolving creatures, I think we would find that we really haven’t changed that much. We may have a plethora of electronics now. We have advanced toys and many other advances in our lives that those who lived a hundred years ago couldn’t have imagined, but I would guess that the minutiae, the patterns and the course of a day for a human being have remained essentially the same. Ultimately, we define ourselves in the present by what we think we see in the future.

Every once in a while there is an event that changes the course of human history. I’m sure every person can think of at least two or three. The death of a loved one can change our small world dramatically. Natural calamities, political and social change, and wars can change the larger world a great deal. Those are the large changes, and the changes that immediately leap to the mind of individuals who think of events that could transform the course of world history. Some of the times, there are relatively insignificant events that can change the course of history.

***

         In the future, a small sedan traveled down a gravel road. Normally, in a Northeastern town such as this one, the moisture in the earth would eat up much of the sound that occurs between the gravel and the wheels of a car. On this abnormally dry day, however, the car sounded like the rolling tracks of an armored tank. This simple, unmarked automobile rolled down a gravel road trailed by six marked automobiles filled with men in blue.

The sedan was a moderate, department issued automobile. It wasn’t new. It wasn’t old. It wasn’t beautiful. It wasn’t run down or ugly. Department issued usually meant just that. The powers that be didn’t want their officers to stand out in public, but they wanted to provide their men reliable enough transportation to prevent them from being stranded in a place such as this the nowhere, northeast.

The worst thing about department issued, if one were to ask Lieutenant Kevin McMahon, was the leg room. None of them, it seemed to him, were properly equipped for a man over 5’10″. He was 6’5″. On any trip, of any length, McMahon could often be heard cussing and fidgeting and fussing about. On any other trip, McMahon would often request that Lieutenant Michael Murray stop for breaks, for a pop, for a bathroom break, and for anything and everything he could dream up to allow him out of the claustrophobic car so he could stretch his legs out.

“Why is it they always live out in the boonies?” McMahon asked pumping his head forward with the last three words to physically expound on his words. He said this after directing Murray to take a right off of one gravel road and onto another. It was a lengthy ride, and McMahon knew that the time sensitivity of the trip would prohibit any of his usual requests for a pit stop.

“You’re one of the only human beings left,” replied Murray with constrained frustration, “who has yet to adapt to the automobile as a method of travel and transport.”

The comment was effective in that it only silenced McMahon momentarily, but he had been in this car for too long on this day to remain silent for long.

“These car makers,” he complained, “and the way they built these things, I’m talking both Flint and Japan, cut costs on construction so that it’s almost unbearable for anyone of any height.”

“For cripes sake Missy May, you are a five year old,” said Murray without expression. He was gnawing on a toothpick and chewing gum at the same time. It was day three of his seventh attempt to quit smoking.

“I can’t help it, these fricking cars are built for women and small children.”

In his frustration, McMahon accidentally gripped the map on his thigh. He gripped it tighter with each complaint.

“Careful, for cripes sakes,” Murray said quickly before McMahon could do any damage to the map. “We’ll never find this place if you ruin the map.” He looked from the map to McMahon. “You really need to calm yourself, my friend.”

McMahon flattened out the map and smoothed out the wrinkles he had caused. He looked to the search warrant on his other thigh. He was relieved to see that he hadn’t touched that.

The search warrant was one that had been given to them by Judge Kevin O’Neill, and part of McMahon’s relief was in that he hadn’t ruined something he had worked so hard to attain. He didn’t want to have to go through all of that again.

Judge Kevin O’Neill had been a longtime friend and associate of theirs. They were so close, in fact, that O’Neill allowed them to call him by his nickname old Kipper. He used to be simply Kipper, but the younger folk called him old Kipper for the obvious reason that O’Neill was older than most of them now.

Old Kipper gained a reputation, through the years, of being a cop friendly judge. He was a stickler for law enforcement and many were the times when old Kipper ruled in favor of law enforcement in some of the more controversial cases. He didn’t care about the reputation this gained him in the local, liberal media. He stated that he worked close enough with law enforcement to study them, but he kept himself distant enough from them to judge their character judiciously.

Even under O’Neill’s intense microscope, Murray and McMahon had always fared well. For this reason, McMahon and Murray were both caught off guard when O’Neill decided to put them through the ringer after they placed a request for a full search warrant before him.

The two of them had presented O’Neill with full confessions of the perpetrator’s two accomplices. They outlined why they needed to search the perpetrator’s place of residence. They even provided old Kipper with a laundry list of what they expected to find in the household of the perpetrator. This laundry list caused all of them to laugh and joke about the matter in a friendly manner. It was in the midst of this laughter that old Kipper provided them their surprise.

“It’s not specific enough boys,” he said. His laughter remained, trailing after the smoke he issued from his domestic cigar. “Not enough to invade a man’s home.”

McMahon and Murray were taken aback. Their laughter stopped almost immediately, and their smiles slowly dissipated when they realized old Kipper was, in fact, serious.

Old Kipper valued their friendship a great deal, and he appeared to recognize the taint he was placing on their friendship with his decree. They could see him look down at their hands, as their hands went limp and dropped to their laps. His laughter eventually faded as he measured their faces. Then his smile dissipated. He set his cigar down, folded his hands before him and said:

“Sorry boys, you do your jobs, and I’ll do mine.”

“You have full confessions before you, a laundry list, direct implications based on affidavits and sworn statements, but you’re not going to do approve this?” McMahon was unable to conceal his frustration with this man they called a friend.

“I like both of you boys, and I think you’re fine agents of the law, but your asking me to allow you to violate a man’s Constitutional rights. The fourth amendment to be precise. Search and seizure laws dictate that you go above and beyond the call of duty, in matters such as these, because I know I do.”

“Bastard,” McMahon said the minute the door to the judge’s chambers were closed behind them.

“I actually appreciate what he’s doing,” said Matthew Murray. “He’s tough, but he’s reasonably tough.”

“He’s just being a bastard,” McMahon replied. “What does he think we’re up to? We have as much on this case as we had in the Donaldson case and the Baerde case. He gave us search warrants on those? What’s the difference here?”

“C’mon, my friend, we had those people dead to rights. We went in and searched those homes after they were arrested.”

It took them three more trips to Old Kipper’s chambers to get the judge to concede and provide McMahon and Murray the warrant to search the Mastich home. Throughout the trips, Murray’s respect grew as mightily as McMahon’s frustrations.

“With as much as we’ve been through these past few months,” said McMahon as they trailed through the dry, gravel roads of a small burg in the Northeast, “if this guy gives us any trouble, I’m liable to plug this him a few times on principle alone.”

“Easy my friend,” Murray returned with a snicker. “By all accounts, Mastich is a non-violent, white collar type.”

“He robbed four banks, Michael, for God’s sakes.”

“Without a single act of violence…no guns pulled…didn’t even wear masks,” Murray continued. “You’ve said it yourself…he didn’t need the money. I think we’re going to find out that this Mastich guy was on some kind of thrill seeking mission.” Murray was silent a moment, paused in search. “It’s the only thing the makes sense.”

“He did have something of a boring life,” McMahon conceded.

“He was a workaholic. Middle aged. No wife. No kids. The profile speaks for itself.”

“Take a left here,” McMahon said lifting his thumb from that turn on the map to the next one.

“Out in the middle of the boonies here,” Murray furthered. “He probably went frigging nuts with the seclusion.”

“Why is it that we treat the white collar criminals differently than the…the regular fellas, the blue collar types?” McMahon asked after a lengthy spell of silence in the drive.

“Because it’s the regular fellas that usually have the guns.”

“Left right here too,” McMahon said lifting the thumb to place it on the next turn.

“Left right here?”

“Left! Whatever…jerk!” McMahon said with a flirtation of laughter.

“I know what you’re saying though. If I had a violent offender who was a white collar fella, versus one that was a blue collar, regular fella I would treat them differently, but it’s been my experience that the blue collar fellas just seem to have less to lose.”

“Ok, here,” McMahon said discarding the map and pocketing the search warrant . “Here we go.” He pulled the megaphone from the backseat and began signaling the marked cars behind him of the location. They both exited the car, and they both immediately began ordering the officers to flank out the house with trained gesticulation.

Reading the profile of this Robert Mastich, neither McMahon or Murray believed that such backup would be necessary. It was standard operating procedure however, and there was a reason for this. The reason was the unpredictability factor. In their 40 years of combined law enforcement, each of them had experienced too many otherwise tranquil locations go completely the other way to question the ideas behind the standard operating procedures.

There was a farm field located just beyond the east portion of the house, there was a spruce farm beyond the southernmost portion of the north facing house, and there was an enormous barn flanking the west portion of the house. McMahon and Murray stood to the left of this barn, behind the opened doors of their car. They were stationed at a Southwestern point that gave them full view of the living room of the house with the angle coverage of a corner.

“There it is,” Murray whispered quickly. He pumped an eyebrow up to the barn. McMahon followed his line of sight, then quickly looked out to the various points around the house.

In sequential order, he received the thumbs up from the various officers flanking their portion of the house. The reason for the silent acknowledgments was upon the direction of McMahon. The profile said the man was an electronics genius, and McMahon believed that they needed radio silence for this reason. As soon as he received the final, silent acknowledgment, McMahon pulled the megaphone to his lips.

“Robert Mastich, we have your house surrounded. You’re to come out of your house with your hands up!”

They both immediately saw movement inside. Each of them reflexively braced themselves and sunk lower behind their respective car door.

“Proceed to the door slowly!” McMahon directed.

Upon this direction, the man stood behind the screen door, peering out at them. This man, the man who had caused so much commotion in the area, stood 5’6″ at most.

“Hands!” McMahon bellowed through the megaphone. “Let me see your hands.”

The man complied after working the screen door.

The man who had caused so much commotion in the area was thin, almost to the point of frailty. He appeared a little shaken by the spectacle before him when he first stepped out. He looked at all the police cars. He looked out into the farm fields. His eyes were larger when he looked back at McMahon awaiting further instruction.

“Walk backwards towards me!” McMahon instructed.

“I will not step down the steps backward,” Mastich said allowing his screen door to close. He did, however, step slowly with his arms raised high. The minute he made the stairs however, he turned around and walked backwards to McMahon.

“Stop! Down to your knees!” McMahon instructed. He then continued his instructions, until the perp was on the ground, face down with his legs locked behind him. The man followed all of the instructions without event. The man even went so far as to put his hands behind his back without being instructed to do so.

Murray approached him, as trained, with gun posed before him. The standard operating procedure dictated that Murray place a knee in the back of the man to secure him to the ground, but Murray did not do so. He presumably considered that his two hundred and twenty pound frame may be too much for the man who appeared to be around one hundred forty pounds soaking wet. He simply handcuffed the man.

“You’ve caused all this?” Murray asked with a smile of either appreciation or condescension. Murray sized the man up after guiding him to his feet.

The man simply shrugged. No smile.

“You’ve caused us all a great deal of stress my good man,” Murray furthered.

“I meant to do nothing of the sort,” the man said briefly meeting Murray’s eyes then McMahon’s. “I have a great deal of respect for you men of law enforcement.”

The latter line sickened Kevin McMahon. “You didn’t consider the fact that you may have caused us to be stressed?” McMahon said. His disgust was also directed to his partner for appearing to be appreciative of Mastich’s criminal activity. “You do recognize you broke the law right?”

“I apologize for my transgressions,” the man said, “but I assure you that no one was hurt in any of the incidents, all of the money is available and accounted for in the house, beside my bed, and I had a greater cause for doing so.”

“A greater cause?” McMahon continued. He turned and signaled the all clear to the men in blue stationed around the house and came back to the Mastich. “What kind of greater cause would cause you to steal so much money?”

“All in good time my friend, all in good time.”

“Whatever,” McMahon said. Kevin McMahon was not one for the theatrics perpetrators detailed to justify their law breaking. They always had a reason for doing what they did. They always expressed grand motives and incredible designs. No one ever just robbed a bank, smoked crack, or injured another human being for the excitement or the pleasure. They were always too good for that. Their lives were never that simple, according to them. They always believed they should be afforded more respect for who they were or what they did. In truth, however, most of them were simple people with selfish motivations for breaking the law.  They had been fed a steady diet of the search for understanding criminal motivations provided to them by the ‘there’s no simple truths’ crowd.  Whether they believed this or wanted to believe it, the criminals always used such lines to try to feed into the sympathies and understanding of arresting officers.  The truth, as Kevin McMahon saw it, was that they were bored with their simple, pedantic lives.  They also wanted theirs.

Quick, easy money was the other motivation that no one would admit.  They would never admit that their limited skill set would get them nowhere fast.  They had been told for a couple generations that most of the upper 1% got theirs through stealing, cheating and corrupting the system.  Their movies and music told them that, they just wanted to get theirs, but they would never admit that.

“We have a full warrant for a search of the premises here,” McMahon said showing Mastich the document.

“Fair enough,” the man said without reading the document for a full two seconds.

“And,” said McMahon with a little disgust for the enthusiastic nature this man showed in his compliance, “unless you want us to rip your house a part it’s in your best interests to show us where everything is.”

Mastich did. He led them into the house and into the bedroom. The money laid in the middle of the floor in six different stacks wrapped in cellophane.

“I told the boys that I would disperse the money to them in good time,” Mastich informed the officers. “I lied to them, but look at me…do you think I would have the guts to lie to those two,” he said of his fellow conspirators. “They both agreed to the proposal…probably because they had as little trust for one another as they did for themselves with that much money.

“Truth was,” the man continued, “I never planned on spending a dime of it.”

“Checks out,” said one of the men in blue after thumbing through the bills for counting purposes. “It looks like there’s one point four million here.”

McMahon’s expression changed subtly, as he glanced at Mastich. It appeared as if the money hadn’t even been touched. It appeared as if the man was on the level. The golden rule of law enforcement applied here, however, is believe half of what you see and none of what you hear.

With that in mind, McMahon had to search for motivations. His first thought was fear. Maybe the man was afraid to spend it or touch it, for fear of further incrimination. He nixed that thought, as they worked their way out of the house, when he considered that the man robbed four banks in a space of nine months. If fear paralyzed him, he would’ve called it quits after one. McMahon also considered the fact that the man left the money in the open, in his bedroom. If fear paralyzed him, the money would’ve been hidden. It probably would’ve been in four different locations before he was done. Yet, he left this money in the open.

At this point, the men in blue were scattered throughout the property. Some were in the house bagging the money. Others were searching other rooms of the home, and some were out at their cars talking and laughing.

Without further direction, or communication of any sort, the man led McMahon and Murray to the barn.

In the barn, they discovered the blueprints of the banks Mastich had robbed. They discovered the plans and time lines for each robbery, but that was later. The first thing they saw was the enormous saucer that all of the witnesses at the scene had described. They knew what they were looking for when they pulled up to the house, when they saw the size of the barn, when Mastich began leading them to the barn, and when the doors opened.  When the doors were opened and the physical product stood before them, it took their breath away. The saucer was all that the witnesses had described. It stood thirty feet high, as tall as a house, and it went almost as wide as it did tall. Even the normally undaunted McMahon went slack for a moment when the doors had opened.

“You’ve been a busy man my friend,” Murray said backing up from the saucer to fully take in its dynamics.

“Quite an achievement isn’t it?” Mastich returned.

One by one, the men in blue worked their way to the front of the barn. Many of them broke ranks asking the man if it flew, how it flew, and how fast did it go? Did you really build this, one of them asked, or did you find it?”

“I’ll answer that,” Mastich returned. “I built it. Took me two years.”

“Why?” another asked.

“I won’t answer that…yet.”

“Just for robbing banks?” another asked.

“All in good time, my friends, all in good time.”

It was the theatrics that always got to McMahon. The dramatic repetition rubbed him the wrong way.

“All right, all right,” he said, “let’s not start getting our vaginas in a bunch. He robbed banks for God’s sakes. He took people’s hard earned money, and put the fear in a whole lot more.”

On that note, the men in blue quieted. They quieted at the time, and they kept quiet about the moment. Word had gone out from their superiors, as it always does, not to talk about the incident at home or in the office. Whether their motivations were driven by fear or obedience to their superiors, no one said a word to anyone outside their ranks. As magnificent as the object was each of them was a little surprised that they didn’t mention it more, but in the end they were grateful that they didn’t.