|
CHAPTER TWENTY The Robbing
of the Cradle Over the next few months, Agent Denahy visited me several times at
the rectory. He asked the
same questions in several different ways.
It’s the nature of his business to trust no one.
We became closer after he said his confession.
Our discussions involved more than just the Aragóns.
Denahy shared with me the story of his life.
He left very little out. In
the beginning he shared with me because I was his priest.
Later, we talked as friends. Denahy's meeting with McKenna had been called for 10:00 a.m.
McKenna was a stickler for promptness.
Walking into the Deputy Director's office at exactly ten o'clock,
the last thing Denahy wanted was an ass chewing.
As he entered the large paneled office, McKenna was on the phone.
Peter McKenna impatiently motioned Denahy to sit at the briefing
table across the room from his desk.
The office was bureaucratically correct with the Bureau flag and
Old Glory behind McKenna’s large, mahogany, glassed topped desk.
As Denahy sat waiting for his boss, he overheard him back
pedaling about the Aragón case. Less than a minute later, a very angry Peter McKenna was off the
phone. “Well, lets here
it.” McKenna demanded in a
curt voice. Handing McKenna
his action plan, Denahy began going over the details.
“How long?” McKenna interrupted without emotion.
“You know that bastard on the phone wants answers yesterday.”
By his last comment, it was
obvious that Denahy’s boss had just received his own ass chewing.
“We should have some answers within a few days.” Denahy
had made his response as positive as possible, knowing it was a lie.
McKenna was edgy. Standing
up from the desk, he began pacing his office floor.
“Who was this Aragón?”
McKenna asked out loud to himself. “We
don't know.” Denahy
commented sounding exasperated. “He
looks clean, too clean if you ask me.
No priors, no traffic violations, and no record of “I can tell you what we do know.” Denahy
said coldly, not responding to McKenna’s outburst.
“Michael Aragón was a war hero who made it big.
What makes him unique is the fact that he made it big despite a
handicap. He was a Hispanic
when it wasn't too popular to be one.
This means the guy was both smart and tough.” Denahy
stopped his briefing, waiting for his boss to respond.
“Obviously he wasn't smart enough.
The Colombians killed him and three of his bodyguards.
To make matters worse, they killed him in some banzai style
attack in front of the damn Biltmore Hotel.
No, this wasn’t some upstanding citizen.
War hero or no war hero, he was a lousy Mafioso
and we both know it.” McKenna
shouted the angry words to the world.
Then he stopped talking and went over to the office window,
staring off into the distance while collecting his thoughts. “Brian, we need answers and right away!” McKenna
said in a quiet, almost pensive voice. “This
cocaine thing is out of hand and we both know it.
The Latino gangs are operating out in the open. We
can't allow this to continue. That
call was from the Director, telling me that if I can't handle this mess,
he’ll get someone who can. Denahy,
my ass is on the line here. Just
remember one thing. If I go
down, I'm taking a lot of you guys down with me.” McKenna
had said the threatening words in a stern tone.
“Boss, I'll give you all I've got and you know it.
But this thing is a political hot potato.
The Latinos vote you
know. They have clout.
This is a Republican President with a lot of IOUs out there in
California. A lot of them
have Spanish names on them. For
Christ’s sake, his favorite daughter–in-law is a Mexican.” Denahy
stopped now, not wanting to go too far.
McKenna had watched Denahy closely as he delivered his last
comments. “Brian, I know
this is a tough one. But
you're the only guy I have who can fix it.
What happened out there in LA is bad news.
It means nobody’s safe on the streets.
The press is on this one big time.
They've been calling me non-stop.
We need answers and we need them now.” Looking
exhausted as he finished his last sentence, McKenna’s words were said
softly. “Boss, I think we may have something.
There’s a guy named Grover, a known associate of Aragón's. We have pictures of
them together. Grover’s
also a Bureau asset. Mullen
knows him. I think that's
the place to start.” Denahy
knew this would brighten up his boss's day.
“What do we have on him?” McKenna
asked, genuinely interested. “Nothing
now, but I'm going to call Mullen right after this meeting and get some
facts.” Denahy had nothing
else to offer, and McKenna knew it.
The meeting was over. Leaving his boss's office, he went back to his desk.
Opening up his card file, he found Mullen's telephone number.
He called Mullen and the two spoke for several minutes about
Grover. According to Mullen,
Grover was a stand-up guy who could be counted on to give Denahy the
straight skinny on Aragón.
A long-time asset of the Bureau, Grover had helped break some
pretty big cases. Mullen
thought Grover could help. The
second call Denahy made was to Jaime.
The two spoke at length about Romero.
There was a lot there. Denahy
just had to ferret it out. César
Romero was a Cuban exile.
As a relative of Batista,
his family was one of the first to go when Castro
took Cuba.
Becoming a citizen of the United States in the early 1960's, Romero
was connected. Running with
the right people, he was well known on Washington's embassy row.
Romero had many friends
in high places. Jaime told Denahy that Romero
knew Presidents Reagan and Bush personally.
Romero was one of those
shadowy figures that Denahy had come across before.
The world was an interesting place.
Here was Romero, a
Cuban in exile and a close friend of the president.
This same man knew several diplomats from many countries.
And he was also connected to a wealthy West Coast Chicano
from the barrio of East Los
Angeles. Though powerfully
connected and largely untouchable, no matter how much pull Romero
had, this one was too big to sweep under the rug. Denahy had made up his mind to see Grover first.
Then, he would connect with Mrs. Aragón and her son.
Next, he would see me. Denahy
estimated that these interviews would take him two days in Los Angeles.
Next, he would catch the red eye out of LA for Miami.
His plan was to find out who Romero
really was. The little voice
in Denahy’s head told him there were two keys to this case, Romero
and Grover. Both had been
close to Michael Aragón;
these two could unlock a lot of doors.
Sitting at his desk completing case notes, Denahy was deep in
thought when Robertson wandered over to his desk.
The guy was a pain. A
young punk of a kid, one of the Bureau's Yale techno rats, the kid knew
everything there was to know about computers.
Robertson and others were part of the Bureau's technology
facelift. New agents had to
be computer literate. It was
believed that the Bureau had to attract agents who could easily access
computer-based information. “This
kid spent more time banging his computer, than chicks.” Denahy
commented out loud. “Good morning Agent Denahy. The
word is, they gave you the Aragón
case.” Robertson said
cautiously. “So?” An
obviously irritated Denahy responded gruffly.
“It's just that the case is humongous.” Robertson
replied sheepishly.” The
kid was like a puppy dog. Giving
the kid the once over, Denahy saw a tall, skinny guy with a long skinny
neck. Robertson’s hawk
like nose sat on a long, thin, pale face.
Wearing granny style glasses made him look every inch the
bookworm. His short, dark,
curly hair reminded Denahy of a college geek.
Even wearing the right clothes, he still never looked quite
right. Robertson’s suits
and shoes looked too new and his shirt collars were always to large for
his skinny neck. “I can help if you need it.” Robertson
said, trying to be helpful. “I
have friends at the Feeling sorry for the geek, Denahy was kind.
“OK, go ahead and look into it.
But remember, it’s unofficial.
Use my name. Tell
your assets that you’re looking into it under my directive.
Don't screw this up kid!” Denahy
barked at Robertson. “Yes
sir!” Robertson answered,
sounding like he was about to wet his pants with joy.
Denahy then excused himself and headed toward the door.
“Where would you like for me to begin?” Robertson
asked thankfully. “Get me
everything on Aragón's
family. Go back as far as
you can on the tax records. I
want birth certificates and military records.
Dig up everything you can get on real estate transactions.
I need all bank accounts. Also,
get me everything on schooling. I
want names and dates. In
short, I want a family and financial profile.” He
also asked for everything he could get on me, an Irish priest named
Ignatius Michael O’Brien. The
file had me as the lead priest at Our Lady of Guadalupe
Church in East Los Angeles, California. Having buried the poor little son of a bitch under a ton of paper
work, Denahy laughed to himself as he left the office.
Robertson wouldn't be bothering him for a while.
What Denahy didn't know was that computer networks were mightier
than the sword. Robertson
was a master at investigating on net.
The military had built it and other governmental departments were
allowed access. What he
didn't have access to, his friends did and Robertson was obsessed with
his new assignment. Secretly
admiring Denahy, Robertson saw him as the last of the true cowboys.
To him, Denahy was a comic book character, the tough honest cop.
They didn't make them that way anymore.
Wanting more than anything else to have Denahy's respect, he was
going to earn it. Denahy's plane left at 2:00 PM.
He’d made arrangements for the Los Angeles office to pick him
up. Agent Aaron Gomez was waiting at the LAX Airport terminal when Denahy arrived.
Young and confident at thirty-two, Gomez
was a barrio whiz kid.
Proud of his Chicano heritage, he was ready to take on all comers.
His days were spent bringing down the bad guys, his nights,
working out at the gym. At a
solid six feet and two hundred pounds, Gomez was ready for whatever came his way.
A handsome man with olive skin and dark brown eyes Gomez
smiled easily. His thin lips
gave way to gleaming perfect white teeth.
Holding up a sign, Agent Gomez
was waiting as Denahy deplaned and entered the terminal lobby area.
The sign read, Denhee. Brian
Denahy was decidedly unimpressed with Gomez’s
spelling abilities. Approaching
Gomez, he told him that his
name was spelled wrong. Gomez apologized sheepishly for the mistake. Making good time through the heavy LA traffic, they arrived twenty
minutes after leaving LAX. The
two hadn't spoken during the ride to Denahy's hotel.
As they pulled up to the curb Gomez
turned toward Denahy. “Agent
Denahy, there’s something I want you to know.
Kiki was my cousin. He
told me that you and he were friends.
If there’s anything I can do to help out while your here, just
drop me a line.” Facing
forward, Gomez said nothing more waiting for Denahy's response.
Looking at Gomez, Denahy thanked him for the ride.
“Your cousin was a good man and one hell of an agent.
I'm sorry it ended for him that way.
Nobody should have it end that way.” Denahy
stopped suddenly, getting out of the car.
“Hey Gomez, I'm sorry
about the crack I made earlier. Hell,
I can't spell very well either.” With
those words, Denahy began walking into the hotel.
Gomez stayed only long
enough to see Denahy enter. It was nine o'clock at night when Gomez dropped Denahy at the Wilshire Hilton.
He then began his long drive home to the city of Santa Ana in
Orange County. Gomez
never moved away from the barrio,
he liked it. It was home.
Aaron was known to everybody in the neighborhood, including the vatos.
Once in a while, he ran into one of them and they had a beer.
They never talked shop or about the Family.
There had never been any bad blood between the Family and him.
As he drove along the 405 freeway, Gomez
thought about Denahy. Years
ago, his cousin, Kiki, had
told him that the guy was a legend.
His cousin had once said, “If Denahy ever called you friend,
you were always a friend. Denahy’s
a stand up guy, the kind of guy that didn't bullshit you.” That
was good enough for Gomez.
But he knew that even a tough guy like Denahy was over his head
on this one. It was no
secret that he was here in Los Angeles looking into the Michael Aragón
killing. But out here,
Denahy was a fish out of water. Gomez would have to keep an eye on him.
Somebody had to cover Denahy’s backside.
If he didn't, Denahy might end up in some skid row back alley
with a Colombian necktie. Besides,
he owed it to Kiki.
The Eme was not above
taking out an FBI agent. These
people were deadly. The
Family was now in almost every major city in America.
And Denahy had come to their home turf.
If they wanted him badly enough they could get to him. The next morning, Gomez
showed up at Denahy's hotel room at five a.m.
Wanting to make sure that Denahy would have no unwelcome guests,
he called room service from an empty room down the hall from Denahy.
Let in by the Mexican cleaning lady, he waited until six
o’clock. Ordering two cups
of coffee be sent up to Denahy's room, Gomez
waited until the room service clerk came into the hall before
approaching him. Calling the
boy aside, Gomez had a nice
heart to heart with him. Patting
the kid down, Aaron was now sure that the boy was clean.
Gomez didn't want any
surprises from a Family soldier. Taking
the coffee from the bellman, he knocked on Denahy's door.
When it opened, no one was standing in the open doorway.
Before Gomez could make
a move, Denahy had his weapon leveled at his head.
Knowing the drill, Denahy would allow no surprises. The two stared at each other across the patio, neither wanting to
escalate the situation. Denahy
needed Rolf's help. Rolf was
insulted by this personal attack in his own home, but wanted no further
problems. Denahy was first
to offer the olive branch. “Mr.
Grover, we need your help. The
Bureau knows you have contacts that can be helpful to us.
We have information that you were at the Biltmore that night.” Denahy
had dropped the bomb to see Rolf's reaction.
There was none. “So,
you know that I was at the Biltmore that night?” Rolf
responded with disgust in his voice.
“Yes, we do. We
also know you made a phone call to Mr. Aragón's home
that night.” Denahy tried
to handle the ruse forcefully, but had done poorly.
Rolf Grover now was aware that Denahy was on a fishing expedition
with his questioning. At
that moment, Rolf became aware that the Bureau needed him more than he
needed them. “Of course I
want to cooperate with the authorities.
How may I help?” Knowing
his offer of help would throw the agent off, Rolf waited for Denahy’s
response. “Yes, you can be
of help. We just want to
know what you know.” Denahy
responded calmly, though confused. “Would
you like a drink, Mr. Denahy? It
appears that you can use one,” Rolf offered, needing time to plan his
next move. “Yes, Scotch
will be fine." Denahy
replied with mock civility. Denahy waited calmly as Rolf took a few minutes to pour the Scotch
and return to the table. Handing
Denahy his drink, he joined him at the table.
As they sat down, Rolf began his explanation.
“Yes, I was at the Biltmore that night.
I went there to join Mr. Aragón
and his wife for dinner. I
arrived rather late. I was
picking up an anniversary present for them.” Rolf
waited for Denahy's response. “Did
you see the fireworks?” Denahy asked.
“Yes.” Rolf responded calmly.
“Do you know who pushed the button on Michael Aragón?"
Denahy asked, sure that
Grover had the answer. “No,
I don't.” Rolf again
answered without emotion. “What
do you suspect happened?” Denahy inquired.
“I believe it was a drug hit.” Rolf
answered flatly. “Who do
you think was behind this?” Denahy
continued, already knowing it was the Colombians.
“My guess is that it was the Colombians.
They have always wished to regain the retail business from the
Mexicans. I assume that they
believe the profit margins to be greater there.” Rolf
responded honestly, knowing the agent suspected Aragón's involvement with the Eme.
“Do you have any names?” Denahy
asked without caution. Rolf
then suggested that one name might help him. The
name was César Romero. After getting them another drink, Rolf explained to Denahy that Romero
was a Cuban living in Miami. He
then gave Denahy a telephone number for the man.
Sensing that Grover wasn’t dirty, Denahy was satisfied for the
moment with his answers. As
an FBI, DEA, and Denahy had been in the house for only twenty minutes before
reappearing. Walking quickly
toward the car, he jumped in. “Let’s
go.” Denahy said tight
jawed. “Where to?” Gomez
asked cautiously, not wanting to make a bad situation worse.
“East LA, Our Lady of Guadalupe Church on Brooklyn Street.
Do you know where it's at?” Denahy
asked irritably. “Sure.”
Gomez
responded coolly. They had driven for a few minutes.
Gomez could tell
something was bothering Denahy. “What’s
up?” Gomez
asked, trying not to push it too far.
He knew that Denahy had a lot on his mind.
“We’re going to see a priest.
I haven’t been to confession in a long time and I know he's
going to ask me.” Denahy
was surprised that he had blurted out his concerns.
Denahy always felt like a kid whenever a Catholic priest was
involved. Gomez
laughed out loud. “Don't
tell me, you were an altar boy too?” Gomez
asked with a hearty laugh. “You
too?” Denahy responded
with a smug look. Gomez
shook his head, yes and Denahy laughed. As the ride came to an end, Denahy could see that East LA was a
dump. There was graffiti
everywhere. He couldn't help
but notice the poverty, and he wondered where all the government poverty
program money had gone. Denahy
was certain that it hadn't gotten this far.
The streets were dirty with trash everywhere.
The houses were painted with bright blues and yellows.
Denahy noticed that the signs were in Spanish, even the
billboards. The place was
like an extension of Mexico. Denahy
saw several young teenage girls. With
their long dark hair and olive skin, the girls were as tough as they
were beautiful. It was the
way they looked back at him, as if telling him to go to hell.
Denahy liked that, to him it was a challenge. Arriving at the church by late morning, Denahy left Gomez
in the car and came directly to the rectory.
As he walked around the front of the building, he saw me sitting
in the side garden. Pulling
out his shield, he introduced himself stating he had come to ask some
questions about Michael Aragón.
Appearing embarrassed, Denahy acted like a ten year old child.
It’s the way all good Irish Catholic boys were raised to act
around priests. Unlocking
the garden gate, I offered Denahy a seat.
Sitting down, he got right to the point.
“I'm here to ask you some questions about Mr. Aragón.”
By his tone, Denahy was now
past the fact that I was a priest. He
wanted information and he wasn't going to take no for an answer.
I quickly understood that I was dealing with a no nonsense
policeman. What I didn't
want to share with anyone was that I had lost a friend.
We spoke about Michael Aragón
at length. I was frank with
Denahy, telling him what I knew. Aragón
was now dead and there was nothing for me to withhold.
I told Denahy about family matters.
We spoke of Anna and Kenneth. Talking
about the family, I explained there were three children, including Christina
and Benjamin. I told him a
lot about Anna and the children, but offered little about Aragón.
Denahy already knew that Aragón
was a war hero. He also knew
that Aragón was a successful businessman who owned several
companies. But he hadn't
known about the import/export business.
That was a new wrinkle for him.
It soon became clear that I knew more.
I could tell that Denahy felt that most of what I said was
standard information. This
Catholic FBI agent was also aware that my vows kept me from going beyond
the surface. We spoke for
over an hour. Finally,
having to hear confessions, I excused myself.
As I left, I asked if he were a Catholic.
Denahy answered with a guilty, yes.
Then I asked how long it had been since his last confession,
fixing my eyes on Denahy as I asked the question.
“Too long Father.” Denahy
answered, with that tinge of guilt that most fallen Catholics exhibit.
Even this hard boiled agent couldn't escape the grip of Mother
Church. Then Denahy broke
off the conversation abruptly, wanting to get out while the getting was
good. He didn't want to give
me an opening for an invitation for confession.
As we two began to go our separate ways, Denahy asked if we might
talk again. I agreed with a
nod. Then he left to explore
the sins of Aragón and I went to hear the sins of my parishioners. When Denahy reached the car, Gomez
was waiting eagerly to hear what the Priest had said.
“Well, did he ask you?” Gomez
questioned Denahy with a twinkle in his eye.
“Yes.” Denahy
responded, not wanting to be laughed at.
“Well, did you?” Gomez asked, trying to ruffle Denahy's feathers.
“Did I what?” Denahy
questioned playfully. “Did
you go to confession?” Gomez
asked the question knowing the answer. “Just
drive you crazy bastard!” Denahy
said affectionately. Both
knew by that comment they were now friends. “Where to next?” Gomez
asked. “Lunch, I'm
starved. Let’s go get some
Mexican food.” Denahy
growled. Gomez
knew of a place nearby where the food was good and the beer is ice cold.
The two spent the next two hours drinking Mexican beer and eating
authentic burritos.
Denahy and Gomez talked about Kiki
and life as an agent. After
a while, Denahy wanted to talk shop, paying Gomez
the highest compliment. He
wanted to know what Gomez knew
about the Eme.
This meant that Denahy trusted what Gomez
had to say. Confirming
what Denahy already knew, Gomez
passed the test. It was more
a test than an exercise in information gathering.
Denahy had more knowledge on the Mexican-American Mafia or the Eme, than any
other living agent. His data
included organizational charts, names, dates, and places.
What he didn't have was something on Aragón.
Gomez had only heard
the name in connection with community charity groups.
There had never been a hint of illegal activities.
The man was clean as far as Gomez
knew. Gomez
also confirmed that a man named John León
was the head of the Eme
Family. It was late afternoon and both men were tired.
Gomez offered Denahy a
home cooked meal for dinner. At
first, Denahy declined the offer. Later,
as he thought about it, he decided to take Gomez up on his offer. Arrangements
were made. Denahy would
catch a quick shower and shave, and Gomez
would pick him up at 6:30 that evening. Dropping Denahy off at his hotel, Gomez headed back to the Los Angeles Bureau office.
After arriving, he called his wife to let her know that they
would have a guest. Wanting
to know about Aragón and his
son, Gomez then made a few
calls to his assets. Gomez
knew the Family tradition. The
father was now gone, the son would be next in line for succession.
If there was a way to find out anything, he could.
His contacts were family, standing on both sides of the fence. Some
of his own cousins were La Eme.
The words were never spoken,
but he knew. Later, Gomez arrived
promptly at When they arrived in Santa Ana, Denahy observed that it was an
upscale version of East LA. There
was the familiar writing on the walls, and the beautiful young girls
with there Levis and tank tops. Their
long black hair was worn straight. Denahy
was taken by their beauty, but it was their anger that was the most
obvious. They walked hard.
The girls had the ability to stare right through you.
They were as tough as the barrio
in which they lived. Arriving at the Gomez’s
home, it was a small yellow house with a well-kept lawn and brightly
colored flower beds lining it. Anita,
Gomez’s wife, met them at the door with their two sons, Roberto
and Johnny. They were young;
Roberto was six and Johnny four.
There they stood with large smiles and a keen interest in their
guest. Anita was in her mid-twenties and quite a beauty.
With long black hair and almond shaped brown eyes, her olive skin
was clear and flawless. Reaching
out, she hugged Denahy. Her
graciousness wasn’t feigned, it was real, and Denahy could feel it.
Anita then ushered them
into the small dining room where dinner was waiting. During dinner the three talked about local politics and the many
problems of the barrio.
Anita was a medical
assistant at the local hospital and saw daily, the carnage brought about
by gang warfare and drugs. She
talked for a long time about the sense of hopelessness that pervaded the
barrio and it’s young.
In the barrio, death
had become a casual thing, and murder was an everyday occurrence.
No one was immune to it. All
agreed that the problems with life had become too much for the average
family to handle. It was now 10:30 PM and the boys had been put to bed.
The three moved to the living room.
As they had their coffee, Denahy and Gomez
spoke about the case. Anita
saw to the dishes and left them to their shoptalk.
The two talked for a while and called it a night.
Before leaving, Denahy thanked Anita
for the meal and said his goodbyes.
The trip back to Los Angeles took forty-five minutes.
There was no traffic and few accidents.
They went over the next day’s activities.
Gomez was to pick up
Denahy at eight in the morning. Their
first stop would be the Aragón
home in East LA. They would
talk to Mrs. Aragón and her
son Kenneth. Both Denahy and
Gomez knew that their visit could cause waves.
After the interviews, Denahy would head back to DC.
Dropping Denahy off at the hotel a little after midnight, Gomez
arrived back at his home after 1:00 a.m. Gomez
had spent the ride back thinking the Aragón case
over, arriving at the same conclusion that Denahy had.
Aragón had to
be connected. The Colombianos wouldn’t have made such a blunder.
He arrived at three possible conclusions.
First, Aragón
could have been directly involved with Eme.
Second, he may have been indirectly involved in a drug money
transaction. Finally, Aragón might have been an innocent bystander.
The most likely was the second possibility. To
him was that Michael Aragón
must have been on the periphery of the drug business, investing money
with them or owing them money. This
would account for the lack of previous information regarding his
involvement with La Eme. After
all, according to Denahy, Aragón was known to have associated with shadowy
underworld figures. It
wasn't much of a leap from acquaintance to business partner.
The final possibility was too far fetched.
The fact that an experienced hit squad was sent in to Los Angeles
to take someone out meant a very well planned and coordinated hit.
The target would have been watched and followed for days before
the hit. A complete case
history would have been developed outlining the subject’s every move,
where he went and how often, how he got there and with whom, how often
he frequented a certain club or restaurant, and how long he usually
stayed. Each action would
have been noted. Finally,
the possibility always existed that there was inside information being
provided. These Mafias
went so far as to plant sleepers a year or two in advance of a hit. In the end, Gomez
believed that Aragón's hit was no accident. There
had been no mistaken identity; Aragón
was a hard target. The Colombianos
knew who he was and why they were hitting him.
The killing had been planned.
This was a mafia show of force hit. This
hit told the world if the Colombianos
wanted someone badly enough, they could get to him.
Not only get to him, but get to him with force.
These were Gomez's last thoughts as he kissed his wife good night and fell into
a deep sleep. The next morning Gomez
arrived at Denahy's hotel at exactly eight.
Waiting outside with a big smile on his face, Denahy liked Gomez
and his family. After Denahy
got into the car, the two talked about the dinner the night before and
the children. Then they got
down to business. Driving to
East Los Angeles, they discussed Aragón's
possible Eme involvement.
Both were convinced that there had to be a connection.
The question on both of their minds was how to make that
connection. They knew that
if they dug long and hard, they would find it. They drove to the old large, two story house that backed up to a
hill. While the house was
well-kept, it showed its age. The
neighborhood was run down but was oddly clean of graffiti.
The area was quiet when Denahy and Gomez
pulled up in front of the Aragón
home. Gomez stayed and waited in the car as Denahy went on to the house.
Climbing the few steps, he rang the front doorbell.
After several rings there was no response.
Walking along the side yard, he peered into the window.
Nothing was out of place. He
could see the dining room table and china cabinet.
Everything appeared to be in order.
He then walked around the back of the house and looked into the
kitchen window. The sink was
clear of any dishes. Again,
everything looked to be in order. It
appeared that the place had been kept tidy and that no one was home.
Having no search warrant, he decided to leave.
When he returned to the car, Gomez
was waiting. “Well?” Gomez
asked. “Well what?” Denahy
responded angrily. “Was
anyone there?” Gomez
asked, wanting to know. “Yeah,
the boogie man and Santa Clause. That’s
why I'm back here with you.” Denahy
responded sarcastically. Gomez
thought it better to ask no more questions.
Denahy and Gomez decided
to go back to the FBI field office.
Denahy wanted to call Robertson for the information he’d
requested before leaving D.C. The
drive was made longer because of the heavy LA traffic.
Concerned that he had hit one brick wall after another,
Denahy’s investigation was going nowhere in a hurry.
He needed answers and he needed them today.
McKenna would be waiting for his written report. When the two arrived at Gomez's
office, an Internet E-mail was waiting for Denahy.
What Robertson found was dynamite.
He’d confirmed the citizenship papers of Anna
and Christina Aragón.
Birth certificates were attached.
The name Señorita Anna
Duron caught his attention. They
showed the two to have been born in Mexico.
The information on Benjamin Aragón's
school records showed his original pre-adoption name to be Benjamin
Levy. LAPD had records
dating back to the 1950's, showing that his grandfather had been
murdered during a hold up attempt at the family liquor store.
Kenneth Aragón was
the problem. Those documents
would be at the hall of records and held on microfiche.
Robertson couldn't get access electronically.
Wanting to know everything about the kid, Denahy would have Gomez
do the search while he returned to D.C.
Maybe he was the link to the hit. Maybe
his father was never the target. “What
if it was Kenneth Aragón
all along?” Denahy
commented to himself out loud. Robertson also confirmed the Aragón's
marriage in the late fifties. There
was other information that would be in by the next day.
Robertson had accessed a hard copy of Aragón's military records and that of several others serving with him.
He had asked for a preliminary listing of the documents being
sent. There was one document
that seemed odd. It was the
last will and testament made by Aragón's
commanding officer, a Captain Peter Wellington. The education information on the three kids was due in within a
week. The Denahy decided to take a cab back to the hotel.
Before leaving, he asked Gomez to track down the Aragón
family information at the Los Angeles County Hall of Records.
Gomez promised that he
would get on it first thing in the morning.
Asking Gomez for one
last thing, Denahy wanted him to work with his friends in the LAPD and
get everything he could on Kenneth Aragón.
Understanding immediately, Gomez
agreed that Kenneth Aragón might be the link. Packing quickly, Denahy left the hotel for LAX.
Settling in for a long flight, he had lots to think about.
Robertson had uncovered valuable information and his next step
was to analyze the data. Denahy
would next direct Robertson to create a database that segmented the
information into military, education, financial, legal, time lines, and
other. Flow charts would be
developed correlating the data by dates from beginning to end.
What he needed was help to close the information gap quickly.
He would be asking McKenna for something which he’d never done
before; Denahy wanted a fire team made up of the Bureau’s best people
to ferret out anything that might be of value.
Each would be given a category with Robertson coordinating.
Gomez would act as
their West Coast point of contact. When Denahy arrived in D.C. six hours later, he was tired and
wanted sleep. Leaving the
airport, he went directly home. It
was very late when he opened his front door.
Throwing his bags on the living room couch, he went directly to
bed. As Denahy fell off into
a deep sleep, he could think of only one thing, those beautiful tough Chicana girls. Denahy awoke at 6:00 a.m., drank coffee, took a shower, and dressed
in a half an hour. Out the
door, he was at his office in forty-five minutes.
The first order of business was his preparation for that
morning’s meeting with McKenna. Arriving,
he found Robertson asleep at his desk.
He appeared to have spent the night working on an assignment.
As Denahy looked at the screen of Robertson's terminal, he found
an E-mail from the National Security Agency.
Robertson was tapping into every source available for background
on the Aragón
family. To his surprise,
Denahy found a pile of inter-agency E-mails addressing the Aragón case.
Robertson had found several kindred spirits out there in
government cyberspace. Making a strong pot of coffee, he shoved a cup of the steaming
stuff in front of Robertson's nose and shook him into reality.
“Get up, there's work to be done.” Denahy
shouted at a startled Robertson. It
took him five minutes to become coherent.
Going to the restroom and cleaning himself up, when Robertson
returned, Denahy was ready to begin work.
They both knew that they were on to something big.
Robertson briefed Denahy on the various E-mails.
Robertson's friend, Roybal,
at the NSA had something worthwhile.
Evidently, Aragón
was an international corporate type.
Nothing added up about him. Living
in East LA, he owned homes in Beverly Hills, Santa Barbara, Palm
Springs, and Spain. Recently,
he had purchased two estates in Argentina.
Owning construction businesses in Europe, he also held stocks in
foreign banks. The NSA's
interest in him was his banking connections.
It might have sounded racist, but what was a Mexican-American
from the barrio of East Los Angeles doing with international banking
holdings? This meant
transfers of large sums of money. The
Aragón
Empire was taking shape. But
nothing about it made sense. Already
having begun a database linking businesses with countries, Robertson had
inputted each by date. The
data provided a fairly good idea of domestic holdings.
The second key was an import/export business.
Denahy wanted to know what Aragón was
shipping in and out of the U.S. Leaving Robertson to his research, Denahy had only a half hour to
prepare for his briefing with McKenna.
Beginning his briefing paper and arranging supporting
documentation, he reviewed his earlier report.
Citing those areas of progress which he had accomplished, Denahy
was ready when he got the call from McKenna's secretary.
Walking down the hall to McKenna's office, Mildred, McKenna's old
battle axe of a secretary, showed him in.
There sat McKenna looking tense.
The two nodded hello and got down to business.
McKenna wanted to know what Denahy had uncovered in Los Angeles.
After listening to Denahy’s explanation of interviews and
findings, McKenna was disappointed with the progress.
It was at that point that Denahy asked McKenna for a fire
fighting team. “Let me get
this straight. You want me
to assign you four or five of my best and youngest agents.
You, Brian Denahy, a guy who couldn't get along with Mother
Teresa?” Genuinely
shocked, in the five years that McKenna and Brian had worked together,
Denahy had refused to work with anyone else.
He had always been the Lone Ranger.
Explaining the areas of concentration to McKenna, he needed the
resources to research and analyze the data that Robertson was
collecting. Specific
expertise was needed in the areas of international finance, banking,
property, tax, and education. Gomez
and he would act as the field agents for the team and others as
analysts. Once McKenna
realized what the old warhorse was up to, he was impressed.
Not thinking the old guy had it in him, McKenna agreed, and
within a half hour Denahy had his team. On the newly organized team was Daryl Doami, a young third
generation Japanese-American from California, with expertise in
international finance and currency movement.
The strong, silent, brooding type, his crew cut hair wasn’t the
only conservative thing about him. Denahy
felt that Doami had fallen out of the pages of an Ivy League yearbook.
Doami was a thinker, giving everything he touched a thorough
going over. Kayee Chan, the petite, beautiful young Chinese-American woman, was
an expert in banking fraud. Denahy
couldn’t help thinking that she looked too young to balance her own
checkbook, let alone a corporate P&L.
Wearing her black hair straight at shoulder length, Chan’s
suits were well-cut and conservative.
Everything about her said she was a heartfelt workaholic. Shonita Stevens, the tall, young, African-American woman, was the
picture of dressing for success. From
clothes to car, she was the poster girl for American businesswomen in
Vogue. Her large framed
glasses accentuated her beautiful brown-green eyes.
After graduating at the top of her class at Yale, she became a
specialist in property and assets seizure.
Stevens was obviously on her way to somewhere, no glass ceilings
for her. Jim Mitchell, the only White guy of the bunch, was in his fifties
and the oldest of the group. His
wrinkled suits and white shirts were as well-kept as the rest of his
life. Denahy had been warned
about his drinking problem. Mitchell’s
five divorces had left him emotionally and financially bankrupt.
At five foot, five inches tall, with a round bowling ball beer
belly, he reminded Denahy of a rumpled dwarf.
But he knew his business. An
expert in tax evasion, Mitchell had hundreds of successful prosecutions
to prove it. Finally, there was Colleen Dunaway, an expert on education.
The tall blonde was known for her accuracy and effective results.
In her early forties, she was a no-nonsense academic.
Denahy liked her and her work.
She was the kind of gal a man could have a beer with and tell
dirty jokes to. There
wasn’t a bit of women’s lib in that cookie. Responsible for the military aspects of the case, as well as total
program coordination, Robertson was the point man for the program’s
data collection and analysis. It
was his job to tie it all up in a pretty ribbon for McKenna. Word spread like wildfire that he had requested a team of
specialists for the Aragón
case. Everyone chosen knew
that this could be a career maker. All
of the Bureau’s staffers wanted in.
But the major one for all was a chance to work with Denahy, a
legend. Each was surprised
when they got the call from Denahy.
The team understood an opportunity when they saw one.
The word in the Agency was that he was the original hard nose.
All business, it was well known that Denahy didn't play games.
The team meeting had been called for one o'clock in the
afternoon. No one was late.
All were seated when Denahy arrived in the conference room.
Robertson had prepared documentation for each team member.
When Denahy entered the conference room, the seated group
remained silent, almost cautious. “You’ve
all been selected for an important assignment.
Each of you has expertise and contacts that are necessary for the
success of this mission. We
are the team that will investigate Michael Aragón's
past and determine whether or not he was a part of La
Eme, the Mexican-American Mafia.
I won't go into the details about the case.
I know that each of you made calls to your assets about the case
before coming to this meeting.” Denahy
stopped and watched the team members for a reaction.
There was none. “This
case will involve a twenty-four hour, seven days a week commitment.
If you can’t adjust your schedules, please say so now.” Denahy
stopped again and looked around the room.
There were no comments so he proceeded.
“Robertson will give you your assignments and act as the
library of information. Each
of you will analyze the details and completely research the Aragón
family. You will begin in
the year 1941, and end your research on the date of his death.
I expect flow charts, time lines, and summary findings including
footnotes.” Denahy stopped
to see if his team followed, they did!
“I believe Michael Aragón was killed by the Colombians because he stood in
their way. Further, I feel
that he was an active member of the Eme,
if not its leader. Operating
from those assumptions, I expect this team to uncover any and all
evidence to prove these assumptions.
Finally, there will be no leaks to family or friends.
If the press is alerted to any of these activities, I will know
that the leak came from this room. Are
there any questions?” Looking
around the room at a stunned group, no one had questions.
“This meeting is ended. Please
provide Robertson your full cooperation.
All correspondence in this case is to be considered confidential.
Thank you!” With
those words, Denahy left the room. The team left soon thereafter, each knowing the case was high
priority. All scrambled to
get to work on it. Robertson
was amazed at Denahy's approach. There
was little to say. He was
what he was, a hard nose. If
anyone could break this case, it was Special Agent Brian Denahy and the
team. All selected
understood this. And within
the hour, everyone was hard at it. They
were aware that time was of the essence.
Each knew that there would be no excuses.
None wanted to be the first removed from the case. Back at his office, Denahy made reservations for a five o'clock
flight to Miami. He would go
to meet Mr. Romero.
Romero had been close
to Aragón
and had known the guy for years. César
Romero had knowledge about Aragón's
business, his friends, his wife, and his family.
Romero was the key.
Before leaving D.C., he made a call to Romero's
home. Reaching an answering
machine, he left a simple message. Denahy
would call on him in the morning to discuss Michael Aragón. Checking in with agent Gomez,
Denahy called Los Angeles, leaving a voice mail detailing his flight to
Miami. Once that was done,
he left for his house to pick up a bag.
Arriving at his place by three o’clock in the afternoon, there
was just enough time to make it to the airport.
He raced to make it on time.
All he could think of during his drive was Romero.
This entire matter was political.
He had to handle the situation with diplomacy.
If push came to shove, Romero
might have some political clout that could hurt the investigation.
Arriving at the airport with only fifteen minutes to spare, he
raced to try to make it through the gates.
The gate closed, he had to show his shield in order to make the
plane. Once in the cabin, he
could relax. It was to be
another long flight. Denahy
would have to become used to the pace.
For the next few months, he would be on planes every other day.
Breaking this case would take a lot of legwork.
At least with Gomez on
the West Coast it made things a bit easier.
His flight set down in Miami on schedule. Taking a cab to his hotel, it was late at night by the time he
arrived. Hungry, tired, and
dry, after checking in at the front desk and having his bags carried up
to the room, his first stop was the hotel bar.
Wanting to get good and drunk, he belted down several scotches.
Denahy wanted to do something in his life he could control.
Since he had been handed this case, Special Agent Brian Denahy
felt as though everything was in someone else’s hands.
He didn't like depending on other people; they’d always let him
down. But here he was,
depending on that pinhead, Robertson, and a group of kids.
“Thank God I have Gomez.” He said out
loud, as a couple next to him in the bar, stared.
Finishing his last Scotch, Denahy headed up to his room.
After unlocking the door, he shut it behind him and made his way
to the bed. Denahy’s head
hurt, his back was bothering him, and his job was a pain in the ass.
Sleep was his cure. He woke up to one hell of a headache. It
was a combination of jet lag, stress, and booze.
Undressing as he walked to the bathroom, he entered the shower.
Turning it on, Denahy stood under the steaming water for a half
hour. Once the hot water was
off, the exhausted agent toweled himself off.
Stepping out of the shower, all he could see was a pair of puffy
red eyes surrounded by a face full of gray and brown stubble.
Finally, feeling well enough to attempt a shave, he looked into
the mirror. Agent Brian
Denahy shaved with as much care as he could muster.
It was one of those days when a razor became a meat cleaver.
Escaping decapitation, he proceeded to comb what was left of his
once full head of hair. Finished
with the impossible grooming task, Denahy put on a bathrobe and headed
to the phone to order room service.
After ordering a pot of coffee and an omelet, he went to the
hallway and picked up his newspaper.
Turning to the front page, the agent got his second migraine
headache of the morning. The
headline was a cover story on Aragón. The
Cuban community was crying out for answers on who killed Michael Aragón. The
article was a plant and Denahy knew by whom.
Someone wanted the Colombians to be front and center.
The real target was the President.
He owed the Cubans a big IOU.
These people had clout. All
Republicans, they voted with the ballot and their checkbooks.
Denahy felt the heat in the Bureau kitchen suddenly go up fifty
degrees, and he was in the frying pan. As he began to read the article, the phone rang.
Answering it, the voice on the other end said, “Good morning Señor
Denahy, this is César Romero.
May I join you for breakfast?” Taken
by surprise, he hadn't expected Romero
to be this aggressive and self-assured.
“I'll be down in fifteen minutes.
Let’s meet in the hotel restaurant.” Trying
to act as nonchalant as possible, Denahy had failed.
Romero had won round
one. “Very well, I'll see
you then.” Romero
responded in an even tone. As
the line went dead, Denahy was left to respond to Romero’s
challenge. Ten minutes later, Denahy found himself face-to-face with a very
secure César Romero.
Both men were as pleasant and charming as possible.
Denahy’s experience told him that he was dealing with one of
the rich and powerful. Romero
recognized instantly that he was faced with a professional warrior.
Neither would give an inch, and both understood the stakes.
Romero was well
rehearsed, ready with canned responses.
Denahy sized Romero up
quickly. Looking past the
thousand-dollar suit and ten thousand dollar smile, he found a neatly
crafted elitist. A man who
had had things his way all of his life, César
Romero was a member of the American upper crust.
Unlike his Hispanic cousins in East LA, Romero
was considered more than socially acceptable.
His pedigree had given him access to the nation’s powerful.
He’d been to the White House and had drinks with the President. Agent
Denahy was first to begin the game.
“Mr. Romero, I'm here
to talk to you about your friend Michael Aragón.”
He said nonchalantly. “Señor Denahy, I will be delighted to cooperate with you.
How may I be of service?” Romero
delivered the lines with the smoothness of a 1930s Latin matinee idol.
Denahy went through the usual investigative approach, asking Romero
how long he had known Aragón.
Going through the motions, he spent thirty minutes glad-handing Romero.
For his part, Romero had been very cooperative, answering every one of Denahy's
questions honestly. Finally,
Denahy asked the million dollar question.
“Who killed Michael Aragón?”
Denahy watched Romero's eyes. As he
did, Denahy saw hurt. Romero was smooth, but even he couldn't hide the pain that Aragón's
death had brought him. It
was clear to Denahy that Aragón
and Romero had been close, the
eyes gave it away. For
thirty years, Denahy had been an investigator.
The years had taught him the looks and the moves.
Romero couldn't fake
the pain. “Agent Denahy,
you know who killed Michael. Why
do you ask me such a question? We’re
not children. Ask me what
you really want to know.” Romero
gave himself away. The
smooth veneer was gone. Denahy
had touched a nerve. “OK,
let’s talk off the record. I
know that the Colombianos
pulled the trigger, but why?” Denahy
had hit Romero where it hurts.
It was the kind of question that no one could be prepared for; it
was too honest. Romero's
eyes watered as he began to think back on the death of his friend.
“Michael was a good man. He
had no enemies that I know of. But
he did know many people, some good and some bad.
One man, John León,
was to be there at dinner that night in Los
Ángeles. Some say León
is La Eme.” Romero
stopped, waiting to see if Denahy had fallen for the bait.
Denahy had heard about León, but he wasn't sure about his connection.
Hearing that little voice calling to him from deep inside, for
Denahy, something didn't quite add up.
It was too easy. “Mr.
Romero, I thank you for giving
me this time. I know
you’re a busy man. I think
I've got what I need for now. May
I call on you again?” Denahy
asked off handedly. Romero
appeared relieved, telling Denahy he would be available to talk to
him anytime. With those
words the meeting ended. Romero
quickly excused himself and left the restaurant.
Denahy stayed to finish his coffee. After finishing his coffee, Denahy left the restaurant and headed
up to his room. As he closed
the door behind him, the phone rang; it was Gomez.
“Hey buddy, I've got something hot for you.
I found it.” Gomez
said excitedly. “What is
it?” Denahy asked,
slightly annoyed. “Your
boy, Kenny Aragón,
that’s not his name. He's
adopted. His real name is
Kenneth Wellington. Michael Aragón
adopted him in 1951.” Gomez said the words with pride, waiting for Denahy to reward him.
Denahy didn't. He
just gave him another assignment. “Call
Robertson and get him on it. I
want to know anything and everything about this guy's old man, his real
father.” Denahy then hung
up. Gomez knew that Denahy was happy about the information; he just
didn't know how to say thanks. Denahy remembered the name Wellington from Robertson's briefing the
day before. Again, the
pieces were falling into place. Needing
to understand the family profile, he wanted to find the weakest link in
the Aragón chain and then exploit it.
He had to have Robertson and Gomez
work on the family records in LA. Then
he would have Dunaway close the loop with their education records.
Wanting to understand what made these people tick; he believed
that one of Aragón's children
had to know about his real business.
Maybe it wasn't Kenneth Aragón.
Maybe it was his brother Benjamin or the sister, Christina.
But one of them had to know.
They were all in their forties.
Each had private lives. One
of them had to have some dirt in their closet.
If he could get dirt on one of them, they would all talk. Denahy then called Robertson and asked him how his research was
coming along. Sounding like
the walking dead, Denahy asked Robertson to be prepared to meet with him
first thing in the morning. He
wanted the low down on the man, Peter Wellington and Kenneth Aragón.
Telling Robertson to push the team harder, Denahy waited for an
answer. Finally, a tired
Robertson answered, promising to push the team harder.
Concerned that Robertson was on the edge, Denahy told him to take
the afternoon off and get some sleep.
Robertson thanked him and hung up.
Putting on the heat, Denahy had no choice.
Time was the enemy, not him, time and the press.
Within minutes he left for the airport. His flight from Miami to
Washington was long and boring. Hoping
for a breakthrough, Denahy’s thoughts were constantly on the missing
pieces. He knew that finding
one missing piece of information could make all the difference in the
world. It was never anything
big, it was always that small something that led to something bigger.
It was the little morsel that broke a case wide-open.
Cops chewed and chewed until something came up.
That was the way it had always been.
After landing in D.C., Denahy took a cab to his home.
Once in the door, he made several phone calls to Robertson and Gomez's
voice mails. He used the
technology as a things–to-do box.
Every time Denahy had a thought or a lead he wanted to be
followed up on, he made a call. After making his calls, he sat down at his kitchen table and opened
a bottle of cold beer. An
exhausted Denahy lit a cigarette and blew smoke rings while going over
in his mind what he knew. Taking
a note pad from his brief case, he began to jot down some points on the
case. When it came to
Kenneth Aragón,
Denahy pushed down so hard on the paper that the point of the pencil
broke off. The pressure of
the case was getting to him. The
lack of time and room to maneuver were taking their toll.
He needed a break in the case. Denahy
was wiped out. As his
frustration grew, so did his lack of patience.
Throwing the broken pencil across the kitchen, Agent Denahy
decided he needed some sleep. After
finishing the little bit of beer left in the bottle, he tossed it in the
nearby trashcan. Then he
turned off the lights and went to his bedroom to catch some shut eye. The next morning, he was up early as usual.
Showering and shaving quickly, he left for the office.
Out the door by five a.m., his drive was uneventful.
Denahy arrived at an empty office.
As usual, he was first to walk in the door.
Starting the morning routine as he had ten thousand times before,
Denahy put on a pot of strong coffee and lit his tenth cigarette of the
day. Then he pulled out his
private case notes and began reviewing them.
By the time he’d reviewed his notes, the coffee was ready.
Pouring himself a large black cup, he drank it down quickly.
It tasted like hell. As
he reached for his in-basket there was a stack of memos from his team.
“Ass kissers.” He
offered out loud in the empty office.
Denahy was surprised by what he saw.
The memos were good. Each
had prepared daily briefing reports for his review.
Denahy could see that they were going all out for this one.
Robertson had started a computer-based milestone chart.
Each area was clearly defined with subcategories.
He’d taken their individual reports and created a nodal flow
chart. All areas; finance,
banking, real estate holding, By ten o'clock, Denahy was in McKenna's office unrolling the flow
chart for his boss. Beginning
his report, he explained each point.
He watched as McKenna's interest grew. His
boss attempted to remain aloof. While
Denahy provided the details, Peter McKenna nodded his approval of the
approach. “So when do I
get the answers?” His boss
asked flatly. There was no
emotion, only thinly disguised rage.
“Push your people harder. I
need a break in the case by the end of the week.
I don't want excuses, just results.
If they can't or won't do it for you, replace them.
Brian, you get to replace each one before you go.
Do you understand?” McKenna
asked in a low, husky threatening voice.
Denahy shook his throbbing head acknowledging his boss's threat. The pressure was on; McKenna looked as though he hadn't slept in a
year. White House aids were
calling the Bureau daily. Cuban-American
activists had angered the President and the bad press he was getting
didn’t help. McKenna
wanted answers. The Director
and Congress wanted answers. Hell,
everybody wanted answers. And
they wanted them now! Completing his briefing, Agent Denahy was preparing to leave
McKenna's office. “Brian,
I need you to pull this one off. Find
out who killed Michael Aragón
and why. Don't let me
down.” McKenna sounded
like a beaten man. His ship
was full of holes and sinking and the President was threatening a tidal
wave that would sink his career. As
Denahy left McKenna's office and walked back to his desk, he was feeling
the pressure. Michael Aragón’s death wouldn’t go away. The
Cuban community was up in arms. California’s
Chicano community wanted
action. Both the President
and the Director of the FBI wanted the monkey off their backs.
Looking at the stacks of paper on his desk as he opened his
office door, Denahy prayed for a break in the case. Later that afternoon, a desperate and angry Denahy met with the
team. Each of them was
beginning to fray at the edges. All
had been operating at hyper speed for days.
Each had reports in progress.
It was clear to everyone that Robertson's information was needed.
They were analyzing the data as soon as Robertson received it.
But each member wanted the information more quickly.
On the spot, he agreed to press his sources for faster
turn-around on the data. The
meeting ended in the late evening with nothing solid to report.
Denahy went back to his desk to go over his private case notes.
Choosing not to share the potential of bank transfer information
with McKenna, he knew this knowledge would become a political football
kicked all over Washington by the next morning.
It would hurt the investigation rather than help. Denahy left the next morning for LA. Gomez
picked him up at LAX. With
more news from the hall of records, his study of the microfiche showed
formal adoptions of the two boys during the very early fifties.
First Kenneth, then Benjamin.
Records also showed that later, Christina
was adopted. The records
also confirmed the marriage of Aragón
to an Anna Duron in the late
fifties. Gomez
was now chasing down school records for Dunaway.
Briefing Denahy on his progress as they drove to Denahy's hotel,
he would be meeting later that day with the LA Unified School District
people in Downey, California. When Gomez informed
Denahy that Mrs. Aragón
was nowhere to be found, he slumped in his seat.
This meant that the Los Angeles Police Department had been unable
to question her. That
translated to no new leads. Then
Gomez laid another bomb on
Denahy, Kenneth Aragón’s
attorney had shown up in Santa Barbara and announced that his client
would be interviewed by detectives within thirty days.
Benjamin and Christina Aragón
were represented by counsel and had both issued statements.
Dead-end, after dead-end had been hit.
Denahy had hoped that he could lean on the Aragón children. But
they were solidly sealed off and not easily ruffled.
The Aragóns had money
and knew how to use it. If
he pushed too hard, the Chicano
Community would come down on him like a lead balloon.
It was then that Denahy decided to visit me again. After checking in at his hotel, Denahy made several calls to
friends in D.C. He also
called Robertson to check on his progress.
There was now another lead. Robertson
had received Aragón's
military records. According
to Captain Peter Wellington's last will and testament, he had left two
sons to Aragón,
Kenneth and a second brother named Peter.
There was no next of kin. The
records showed that Mrs. Wellington had died of cancer a few weeks
before Peter Wellington left for Korea.
Wellington had left the children in the care of a couple in
Boston. Robertson had the
names and address of the couple. Both
Robertson and Denahy wanted to know what had happened to the second boy,
Peter. Later that afternoon, Denahy called for a cab and made the long
drive to East LA. The
streets of East Side were alive with people.
To Denahy, it was like being in some foreign Latin American
country. Everywhere, people
were coming in and out of the small stores housed in rundown, two-story
stucco buildings. The
streets and sidewalks were cracked and dirty, but none of the people
seemed to notice or care. It
was early evening when he got to my rectory. Special Agent Denahy arrived at the rectory close to seven-thirty.
He knocked on the front door, but no one answered. So
the angry and frustrated agent walked along the side of the building and
there in the garden he found me. I
was staring at my chessboard when he called to me.
As I turned toward him, I said very little.
Then I motioned Agent Denahy to join me, offering him a seat at
my table. But I said nothing
as I planned my next move on the board.
“Father, can we talk?” Denahy
asked me respectfully. Still,
I didn't answer. Finally,
out of frustration Denahy spoke up.
“We need to talk now!” Shouting
the words with anger in his voice, I looked at him over my horned rimmed
glasses and gave him a long hard stare.
“What is it now, my boy?” I asked, as a father would speak to
an errant child. “Father,
I need to talk to you about Michael Aragón's
family. I need to understand
what they’re all about. I
need to know whether or not Mr. Aragón was involved with the Eme." Denahy had
asked me the questions in a level, but firm voice.
Knowing my vows as a priest, he understood I would have a problem
with the questions. I had known Michael Aragón for
over fifty years, more as a family member than the Aragón's
priest. I’d shared their
lives, birthdays, sicknesses, and holidays.
In many ways, I had become a part them.
But still, I was a priest. A
man of the cloth with a higher obligation; I had to tell the truth.
The agent had placed me in a difficult situation.
How could I lie? I
wouldn't lie, so I avoided the issues.
My responses were literal. Since
I had no firsthand knowledge of Michael's involvement with Eme,
I could be honest. Never had
I seen Michael do anything illegal.
So I responded to Denahy's questions in my own way and kept faith
with my dead friend. I owed Aragón
not to endanger Kenneth. I did speak to Denahy frankly about the family's life in the barrio
and about how Kenny had suffered as a little White boy in a Chicano
world. I explained how Aragón
had always lent a helping hand to those in need.
By the end of the conversation, Denahy understood the pain and
suffering that Mexican-Americans had endured over the past fifty years.
They had been shut out of the system.
Early on, there were no jobs.
The returning veterans of WWII came home to nothing after giving
everything. And later, after
Korea, little had changed. Doors
remained closed, jobs withheld. We
two spent hours talking about life and the Aragóns.
I spoke of Aragón's successes and his hard life.
Aragón had
never shirked responsibility, nor had he been afraid of hard work and
dedication. Michael had
suffered much in his life, loosing his manhood in Korea.
Returning to the barrio
with the little boy after losing his friends in violent ways was no easy
life. Later, he took on the
responsibility of Benjamin after his grandfather was killed. Finally,
he adopted Christina. Of these
things, I did have first-hand knowledge.
There was also Anna and
her beauty. There was their
love for one another. By the
time we had finished talking it was after midnight.
I was tired, and Denahy left for his hotel room. Denahy was now beginning to understand the man Aragón.
No longer just another case, Michael Aragón had become real and alive through my words.
His family was now also more than a backdrop; they had become
people with hurts and pain. Denahy
knew he was no longer dealing with abstractions, but real flesh and
blood. He wanted a family
profile and he was receiving it in spades.
His team would do the fill-ins with facts, getting to know the
names of their schools and friends with dates.
But he knew them as real flesh and blood people.
These were the thoughts that he had as he drifted off to sleep in
the early morning hours. It was early morning when Denahy heard the insistent knocking at
his hotel room door. Feeling
like hell, he was never able to get any sleep.
There was always so much to do.
It was always the case. His
life had ceased to be his own. Denahy
opened the door to find a smiling Agent Gomez
holding two Styrofoam cups of steaming hot coffee.
“Don't you ever sleep?” Denahy
asked Gomez with a slight smile. “Yeah,
but only when you’re not in town.” Both
men laughed as they walked over to the sofa.
“Well, what have you got for me?” Denahy
asked, ready to get back to business.
“Robertson and I talked late last night and we compared notes.
The kids were all adopted. Aragón
used his business attorneys to do the legal work.
His marriage to Anna was legit. Everything
I told Robertson has checked out.” Gomez
said almost mechanically. “But,
where is the second kid? Wellington's
other son, Peter. There’s
no information on him at the hall of records.” Gomez quizzed Denahy. Denahy asked Gomez a few
more housekeeping questions before coming back to the second boy. Explaining
Robertson's findings from the Wellington will, there had been a second
son left to Aragón. But there was
nothing there. Peter had
disappeared after Aragón's return home. Robertson
had the names of a couple living in Boston who had taken care of the two
boys after the death of Wellington's wife.
While Wellington was off in Korea, the O’Neil’s had cared for
his sons. Gomez explained that they would be in their eighties by now.
“They’re probably dead.” Gomez
commented to Denahy. This was just one more loose end to tie up.
Denahy would have to get over to Boston and look up the old
couple, if they were still alive. Besides,
he hadn't been home in three years.
He could stand a trip back to the old neighborhood courtesy of
old Uncle Sam. Denahy
instructed Gomez to call
Robertson and get an address on the O’Neil's.
Denahy needed some time off and a trip to Boston would do the
trick.
06/08/2016 13:53 |