Sam Donaldson hated his name.
It was not until he got to college that he understood that his name was a source of distraction. Sam grew up north and east of Deer Park, Washington. Deer Park is, in turn, north of Spokane. His parents, kind of a naturalist outgrowth of the 60s hippie movement moved them to this area from where he was born in the San Francisco Bay area. He was raised in the deep woods - the driveway accessing his house was a mile long - and their home didn't have electricity until he was fifteen, and no TV ever. He was home schooled and finished his requirements for high school graduation when he was seventeen. His parents enrolled him in Gonzaga University because it was closest, but once he was eighteen, he transferred to the University of Miami. He wanted to get as far away from his parents as possible.
It was when he was at Gonzaga that he got his nickname - Anchorman - and that moniker stuck. At first he didn't know what they meant by it - he'd never seen a TV news broadcast, so he didn't know that there was another person who was slightly more famous that shared his name. Then one of his roommates turned on the TV and Sam saw that his Anchorman name was fitting. He actually liked Sam Donaldson - liked his no-nonsense approach to delivering the news, liked his slight southern/western drawl, even felt that his reports were comforting. But he hated his name because he didn't want to be the Anchorman. Sam felt it was demeaning and distracting from the brusque image he was trying to foster.
If only he could change his name as easily as he changed universities...
He'd graduated with honors from the University of Miami with a degree in Criminal Justice. He had been recruited by several law enforcement agencies, but he had always felt a strong desire to be a g-man. So he spoke extensively with the FBI recruiters, and with the CIA as well. But he had no interest in foreign affairs, partially due to his upbringing in such severe isolation, but mostly due to his love of his country. The more he got to know about the genuine goodness of most Americans, the more he hated those who wished to destroy that goodness. He was particularly vehement in his loathing of organized crime, and while the mob may be big in New York, it was nowhere more powerful than in Las Vegas. Sam finished his training at Quantico and asked to be transferred to the OC group in Las Vegas. He'd been here ever since.
Mildly successful in obtaining evidence of fraud, tax evasion, weapons smuggling, and other underhanded and illegal activity, Sam had yet to get the really big one he hungered for. He wanted to prove to himself and to the world that he was not the Anchorman, but that he was a real Agent, working for the good of the people, a meaningful part of the thin blue line that protected the civilized from the un-. He felt good about what he'd done, but wanted to break into the big time.
Which is partially why he was frustrated to be meeting with Frank.
Frank had been brought to his attention by his friend in the Las Vegas PD. Frank and his buddies had been a part of a mugging gone wrong, very wrong. Three of them were in the hospital, Sam knew. One was in the morgue. Frank was relatively lucky - he had a large bruise on his forehead where he'd hit it on his way down, but other than that he's escaped largely unharmed. But he was scared.
"OK, repeat that last part for me. You said they used some kind of martial arts to incapacitate you and your associates?" Sam asked.
"Yes! They were like ninjas or something - quiet and deadly," Frank responded. "They fought with no feeling at all, not even struggling or breaking a sweat. They moved smooth and efficient. I've never seen anyone fight like that!"
"Sounds to me like they were just defending themselves. There's nothing in the law against people defending themselves, particularly when the odds are six to one and the assailants are armed. Yes - we recovered the knives from the storm sewer, with latent prints that match two of your friends in the hospital."
"Look, man. You gotta believe me. These people were not normal. The moves they had were beyond anything I've ever seen. Then they just got into a black Tahoe and drove away."
"Do you know how many black Tahoes there are in Vegas? You're going to have to be more specific... Did you see any kind of identifying marks or symbols or anything?"
"No," Frank said, dejected. "My buddy was killed, others hurt. I could barely open my eyes myself...."
Sam turned away, frustrated. His partner, who should have been in by now, was undoubtedly drunk. Frank was only on loan from the Las Vegas PD for a short time so Sam had to question him alone. But he needed some time to think, time that was frequently given when his partner asked questions. Seeking to buy some time to think, Sam said, "I'm going to make a phone call. I'll be back."
Sam made his way into the other side of the interrogation office, where there were monitoring TVs watching several conversations. The results, he knew, were going to be the same. Six thugs had accosted two people - a male and a female - on their way out of the concourse. They had all been taken down professionally, efficiently, and quickly. Granted, the thugs were not the brightest stars in the criminal firmament. But Frank was right - the actions taken by the two, seen on closed circuit television (and therefore really grainy and not very helpful for identification, particularly given the low lighting levels in the area of ambush) were those of someone trained in hand-to-hand combat, either by military special forces or some other martial arts instruction. This was no casual training, though. This was directed, practiced, and almost choreographed combat, intended to disable and incapacitate several attackers, even armed.
Sam looked at the monitor covering the room he'd just left and noted Frank slumped over on the table. He was still in some degree of pain, but he'd also been up most of the night with interrogations, medical and psychological evaluations, and other disruptions associated with the intake of a new suspect/victim/inmate. Suddenly, Frank sat upright and began looking at the door in anticipation. Sam decided to make him wait just a moment to see what Frank had become so excited about.
Just for good measure, and as a matter of theatrics, Sam grabbed a cup of coffee on his way back into the room. It was completely a prop - actually, Sam hated the taste and smell of coffee, and only drank it when he was either really tired or in situations like this - and highlighted the difference between the suspect and the interrogator: the interrogator was free to get what he wanted when he wanted, while the suspect was completely at the mercy of the system. As he entered the room, he set the coffee on the edge of the table and sat across from Frank.
"I remembered something!" Frank said, barely able to contain his excitement. "I just thought of it. They weren't speaking in English! Well, the lady said 'OK,' but other than that when they spoke it was something like I've never heard before. Might have been Asian, but like nothing I've ever heard before, even at those Cantonese places in Chinatown."
"That's it? That's all you've got? Frank, you're going to have to do better than that," chided Sam. "Now we're looking for a couple who don't speak English, have ninja fighting skills, and drive a black Tahoe..."
"Well, when you put it that way..."
"Not a whole lot to go on."
Sam stood, grabbed the coffee (he hadn't drunk from) and walked to the door. "If you can think of anything else, please let the jailer know."
He was tired. And disappointed. He drove back to the local field office. He knew that there was no way that he had any information on which he could act, but he would dutifully turn in a report and a "be on the lookout for" bulletin. Finishing that up should take the rest of the morning. Then he decided he'd go get some Cantonese. He couldn't remember why that sounded good, but somehow he had a craving...
Comments