Francis Laurent

By Schuyler Randall

Birmingham, Alabama, is a bustling city on the move in the era of Prohibition. It's a time of corruption, a time where it is tough to be an honest man of the law. Bureau of Investigation officer Francis Laurent finds that out the hard way when his partner and best friend August Day is gunned down in cold blood by a corrupt BOI agent and his gang

• Language: English
• Publisher: Palmetto Publishing
• Release date: Apr 5, 2021
• ISBN: 9781649904737

Book preview

Chapter 1

PAYING RESPECTS

According to Raina, the funeral procession took place in late September 1922. It was a cold, windy day in Birmingham; the cemetery trees’ twisted fingers lay bare of their brown and orange leaves. Moving slowly among the colorful foliage that littered the grounds were many black-veiled mourners. Like the body of a long black centipede, they moved in a steady line through the rows of budding tombstones. Amassing around the gaping mouth of a freshly dug hole, a small crowd assembled on this dreary day to pay their respects to a fallen comrade and friend, Special Agent August Day.

Pale, white faces hung forward in sheer disbelief; their eyes rested wearily on the polished oak casket that centered the group. Floating just above the hole by a series of straps, the wood-lined shell gleamed with the bitter gray sunshine illuminating the stormy skies.

However, the whole formality of the tense situation was not lost on Raina’s father, Special Agent Francis Laurent. And even though he was a strong, professional man, his downcast stare spoke volumes to the hidden battle of surging emotions inside. Ranging from bitter sadness to flaming anger, Francis Laurent felt himself slowly being consumed by the need for vengeance. As he watched the pill-shaped casket descend into its final resting place among the other tablets of stone, he vowed solemnly to himself: No matter what, I’m going to bring those responsible for this to justice… dead or alive.

He seemed to prefer dead, Raina said calmly, enjoying the way the tall grass tickled at her bare ankles as she walked in broad, even steps.

I can’t believe it’s been over twenty years, Jacqueline replied, keeping stride with Raina. The two were strolling along the sprawling grounds of the Bryce Psychiatric Hospital in Tuscaloosa. Coincidentally enough, Raina had just gotten the surprise news that morning that she was soon would be acquitted from the very same hospital. All in all, she had done a clean seven years at the facility for a chain of gruesome murders.

During the highly publicized trial many years ago, Raina’s lawyer craftily opted for an insanity plea. This sneaky way around a possible death penalty or life sentence was a last-ditch effort to save the skin of his client. And after some behind-the-scenes wrangling, the judge soon complied. Instead of spending the rest of her life in prison, the court remanded her to the psych hospital for extensive psychological evaluation and psychiatric counseling. At the time of the verdict, Raina felt she had gotten lucky by avoiding doing her time in a maximum-security prison with the dregs of society. But now, she couldn’t be so sure—it had been so long since she’d been on the outside. And now—after seven long years and several failed pardons—the parole board finally sanctioned Raina’s release under the advice of her doctor. With no warning whatsoever, she was ordered to be cut loose from her rubber room and pushed back out into the world in three weeks. That was it—no meetings or paperwork to be reviewed by anyone. Like a beautiful bird escaping its cage, she would be leaving the gated grounds of the hospital and rejoining the general public—allowed to live her old life—once again.

As they continued to walk the flattened hills of the freshly manicured hospital lawn, Raina spoke, with a detached tone, about when her father expressed he felt forced into leaving her and her mother, Nancy Willoughby, when she was only a newborn. As a company man, he had no choice but to go where the job took him; no questions asked. Any kind of compromise to that occupational loyalty was comparable to treason.

But then Special Agent Day was murdered, and that changed everything. They were like brothers, him and my Dad, Raina explained, not bothering to look up from the neon shine of the sprawling lawn as the bright rays of sunlight willed every blade of grass to stand tall.

Still walking at her side, Jacqueline silently leaned in and placed her hand over Raina’s, patting gently. As Raina’s aunt, she had always been something of a close friend to her troubled niece. Making regular visits to the hospital over the years, she always came by with nothing more than a sympathetic ear and a shoulder to cry on. Jacqueline knew that if she were locked up in here instead, she’d want the same kind of trustworthy connection from time to time. Anything to keep her sanity alive.

Dad says he always teased August Day about his name, Raina continued. The soft-touch of Jacqueline’s hand placed over hers, triggering slightly faded times of old. Scrunching her voice to better sound like her father, Raina added, Hey, August. What’s your favorite day of the month? Then August would always say, if you ask me that one more time, Francis, you’ll be out on your ass.

Caught up in reminiscing, Jacqueline squeezed Raina’s hand tightly and placed her head on her niece’s slender shoulder. She didn’t have to say anything; Raina could vent perfectly fine on her own.

They were very close, Raina continued, her stride across the fragrant sea of grass remaining steady and fluent, "like family, you know? Two brothers from a different mother. Needless to say, Dad was devastated when he found out August had passed. And not just died, but died like that…" Her words trailed off, petering out into awkward silence as the two women continued to walk through the mist of warm, open air. In disbelief, Raina shook her head slightly and tried to contemplate the long chain of seemingly random events that made up her present existence. It had been more than twenty years since it all happened, and now she was left to piece everything back together as best she could. As Raina further delved into those introverted dialogues of the hypothetical, Jacqueline sat down on a large, sun-bleached rock and wiped the sweat from her brow with a floral handkerchief. Raina joined her, both women now sitting quietly and observing the wind rustle through the gated tree line. The clouds, low and wispy, visibly rolled through the towering treetops as they made their way across the crystal blue canvas of the sky. The sight of those boundless clouds, thinning under each sudden gust, made Raina long for freedom that much more.

What were the circumstances that led up to August’s death? Jacqueline suddenly asked, popping the thin bubble of silence that encapsulated them on their rock. It was the first time that Jacqueline had asked a question since joining Raina on her walk, posed at the most opportune moment. Almost bewildered, the sound of the familiar voice jerked Raina back out of her head. Uncertain of what to say, she looked away from the shadowed dance from the trees and quickly glanced over her shoulder at Jacqueline. Their eyes, reflecting each other’s pain, locked for just a moment before breaking away from one another. Jacqueline knew that sooner or later the truth would come out: with or without Raina’s help.

Seeing no point now in keeping the story to herself any longer, Raina let out a deep-chested sigh and said, Alright… I’ll tell you Dad’s story. But only this one time.

Francis Laurent and August Day had found a remarkably enriching friendship through many years of being partnering agents in the BOI. Both in their early twenties, they joined the Bureau at practically the same time in life. The two greenhorn agents worked directly under Captain Warren—Department Head of the Birmingham office—for most of their long careers in federal law enforcement. They quickly became known throughout the Bureau as an excellent team of investigators, responsible for solving several high-profile crimes all over the country.

It was many years into this joint career that a specific Attorney General, Charles Bonaparte, started a politically charged crusade to clean up all the acting agencies under his command. This bold plan included a thorough sweep of the BOI. Bonaparte vowed, usually in one of his fiery speeches behind the White House podium, to root out any internal corruption that was tainting the dignity of the United States judicial system.

I’m going to comb every department on every level, the grim-faced Attorney General would huff and puff to the throng of reporters who came to the nation’s seat of power to hang on his every word I will clean the system; this a promise, not for myself, but for the good of this great nation. Even if I have to investigate every agent myself personally, we will find resolve. Don’t ever doubt that.

So, one afternoon during the first month of this aimless crusade, Captain Warren unexpectedly called Francis, August, and another colleague to his desk at the Birmingham field office. He was passed down vital information he had received from his faceless superiors not twenty minutes earlier. Much to his surprise, Warren was alerted to a potential security threat within his own building. Unfortunately for him, this meant that he was solely in charge of eliminating the problem before it could further escalate. Without haste, he quickly formulated a plan and initiated an internal investigation.

Special Agents Laurent, Day, Reichle, he said cordially from behind the meticulously organized desk in his office. Everything in the room was in its own place, perfectly angled and faced. From the dozens of old framed photos to the gold-plated name tag at the head of his desk, Warren kept a tightly run ship in every aspect of his professional life. As the three agents entered the room, he rose stiffly from his chair and leaned across the desk to firmly shake each man’s hand as they sat down on the other side.

Knowing the social protocols of such a spontaneous meeting, Laurent and Day extended their hands respectfully to shake. Not so gracefully, Reichle clutched at Warren’s outstretched hand with a little too much vigor before flopping into a chair.

Lowering himself back down into his padded leather chair, Captain Warren looked at the agents sternly for a moment in silence. I’m not quite sure how to say this… he finally began, voice rough and fingers laced together on the top of his desk like resting spiders. Unsure at first on how to proceed, he stumbled for a moment then said, Look, I’m just going to get right down to it, gentlemen. I got word from the top of the ladder that Agent Bradford… is officially a security risk. As you could imagine, this leaves me with a little bit of a mess to clean off my doorstep.

Tensely silent, August and Francis looked away from Warren to exchange a quizzical glance. Though they dared not say it out loud, they both wondered if what they heard was real or just an elaborate joke being played by the Captain. Both August and Francis had heard rumors of a possible double agent in the system somewhere, but never imagined it would be someone at their very own office. The whole thing seemed too crazy to be true, like the plot of some Hollywood movie blockbuster starring Douglas Fairbanks. When a smile didn’t crack the stony exterior of Warren’s face, they knew that there was no joke to be told. This was happening. The Captain’s somber expression and patiently laced fingers finally sank the realization home.

Special Agent Bradford is believed to be responsible for the assassination of an undercover agent in Chicago and the president of a federal bank in Washington DC. After he presumably planned and carried out the attacks, Bradford quit fulfilling his daily briefings with headquarters and went completely off the grid; literally vanished. As of the call to Warren that morning, he had been legally declared AWOL. However… Warren paused to slide a single piece of paper across his desk to the men. Each agent leaned in curiously as he continued, I’ve received vital information that he may be hiding out somewhere in Alabama. His finger bludgeoned the detailed spreadsheet of possible leads, coordinates, and details on a now fugitive Bradford.

Wasting no time, Francis reached forward and picked up the paper from Warren’s desk. He quickly scanned its contents, storing bits of useful information for future use, before passing it on to August. Even without any words being said between them, the two agents were undoubtedly thinking the same thing. Having worked together for years at this point in their careers, they developed a kind of special bond, a psychokinetic link, that no doubt contributed to them being one of the best investigative teams in the entire agency.

Reichle, Warren grunted, causing the agent to lift his head sharply from Bradford’s dossier, I need you to head to DC and get all the paperwork and eyewitness reports you can on the murder that took place there. Check in with the local department as you go, make sure everyone is informed on the progress. They’ll be expecting you. Turning slightly in his chair to the other two agents, he added, Laurent and Day, you two are tasked with hunting Bradford down and making the arrest. As you can see from the spreadsheet, we have word that he’s still pretty close by. You two will need to work your magic and bring Bradford in without incident. Captain Warren had always been a no-nonsense guy, not one for small talk. He had a way of cutting right to the core of a matter, not wasting any time with social pleasantries. Most of all, he trusted his men to understand the bluntness to his words without explanation. Professionalism and trust were key.

When all three agents nodded agreeably in response to his commands, Warren slowly stood from his desk. Dipping into the breast pocket of his gray, pinstripe suit jacket, he pulled out the gold shield badge and pinned it proudly over his chest. He then reached down and opened the top left-hand drawer of the large oak desk and fished out three .38 caliber snub-nose pistols.

Here you go, a present from Washington, he said, winking playfully as he generously passed around the hunks of cold steel.

It was Francis who spoke first as he stood up from his chair and unholstered the Colt M1911—a .45-caliber ACP semi-automatic pistol he was particularly fond of—from his belt and held it up for all to see. Hey, Cap. I’d rather stick to what I know if it’s all the same to you.

Warren shrugged as if to say, I don’t care. Francis smiled in return, feeling more than a little relieved and carefully re-holstered the trusty pistol. So, is Bradford working alone, or does he have friends? Francis asked bluntly, his fingers running through the length of his unusually thick mane of rust-colored hair. Thumb hooked in the front of his belt loop, his other hand reflexively tapped the solid face of a gold badge, drawing a curious gaze from Agent Reichle.

Why do you wear your badge on your belt like that? Reichle asked as he tucked his new .38 into the empty holster at his side.

Doesn’t mesh well with my Brooks Brothers suits. Francis replied smoothly with his impossibly white smile spread wide, and eyebrows raised high for comical effect.

Still standing behind his desk, Warren quickly scanned all three men. Taking a long, deep breath of stale office air as if considering his next words very carefully, Warren exhaled and said, "To answer your question, Laurent, we aren’t sure if Bradford is working alone. He may have people helping him hide while he tries to figure a way out of the country to avoid prosecution. But all that is pure speculation at this point. The only thing we know for sure at this moment is that Bradford is armed and dangerous. He’s made it very clear that he won’t hesitate to kill anyone at a moment’s notice, even a once fellow agent. So, as usual, be careful