The Homewrecker Series ™

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Mr. Penn stared out the window, eyes slit against the sun, hating the tiny room. Hating the man he was waiting for. Hating the reason for being here in the first place.

Cheap room. Smoking of course. Underlying smell of cheap liquor absorbed into the paint. The kind of room a cheap man would take a cheap woman for a drunken, drugged out night, neither of them would remember clearly the next day.

His name was not Mr. Penn. He wasn’t even sure where he had gotten such an idiotic nom de guerre. Maybe it was short for “pen name” for “war name.” Pen Name was a pseudonym or Nom de plume. War name was an anonym or nom de guerre. Could be. Wasted liberal arts education. Should have taken economics instead, then he would be a millionaire instead of a victim of the recession.

Either way he would probably still be here, or some place like it, waiting for some punk with the info he needed. He would probably be dressed the same. Only the outcome would change: You can’t escape who you are, only what you become. What he was about to become.

Too late now.

Wouldn’t have to ever had to pay this bastard if Mr. Penn knew more about computers and stuff. Well, won’t have to do that any more. Five hundred thousand dollars would go a long ways if you treated it right, even today. Why the hell would anyone set that much aside for his kids college education?

Blasted computer age. Can’t do anything without them and all I know how to do is to push keys. If it isn’t loaded with software for business, accounting, word processing, or a spreadsheet, I don’t know a thing. Have to rely on some drug addict kid who knows how to set up equipment and software.

Now he had to trust the kid. Not good. Dealt with him before but that was business, no real crime involved. This time what he was doing wasn’t simple spying, it was a crime. This time the kid could not only expose him, or sell the information to the other side; this time the kid could send him to prison big time. Everything before this was play, just a game, for money mostly, sometimes just advantage. But not this time. It was for real and the stakes were real.

The stakes were his future. A five hundred thousand dollar future.

Bastard. You do something for somebody their entire life. Then when you need help they let you down. He brought this on himself. Nobody else to blame. He brought it down on his family, his wife, his kid, or kids, who knows how many he really has. The no good snake. Why did I ever think of him as a friend?

Well, he will pay. Him and his wife and the kid. And it is his own fault.

Names. Everything seemed to come back to names.

At least there was nothing in his name here. He had the kid sign in under his own name and leave the door open. Nothing to link him to the kid, the equipment, or the room. Good.

Where the hell was he anyway? He was supposed to be here already. With the stuff.

Hated dealing with a druggie, always had. But it was the best choice for what he wanted. Also the price was right. And the ethics of course. The kid had none. Which meant they were perfect. There were professionals out there who did the same job, but they had rules and ethics and had to report some things to the police or just refuse to do them outright.

He could see the kid coming down the street, with the suitcase in his hand. Good. That should mean he had everything with him.

The kid liked calling him Mr. Penn. Stupid druggie kid. He did as he was told, spent hours bragging about what a great job he did, took his money for his drugs and ran off to get high. When he had a woman he was probably too cheap to even use a room like this.

Mr. Penn’s hand went to his pocket. Feeling what was there he smiled slightly. He had what the kid wanted.

Cody was unaware he was being watched from the window. He was also unaware he was being followed. He knew he was late for his meeting but he was in his good place. He had just met with his good buddy Barney who just happened to have what he wanted and he just happened to have enough money to buy it. No need to ask for a front today. All was well with the world. He was in his good place, he was going to get lots of money for doing a great job, who cared if he was a little late. He strolled into the hotel like he owned the world and all of its suburbs.

The person who followed Cody was a little more alert. He saw the figure in the window, and recognized it from the description. Lonnie was right, Cody was meeting with his boss. Black suit, black tie, black hat. Couldn’t see the face from here though. But it was him. Mr. Penn.

Lonnie wanted one thing in life: That was to be like Cody. Cody was the bomb. Cody was the man. Cody could do anything. Cody knew all about electricity. Cody knew all about cars. Cody knew all about computers. And more. There wasn’t anything Cody couldn’t do.

And Cody worked for the CIA.

Someday Lonnie was going to be just like Cody. He knew the best way to do that was to copy everything Cody did. The way he walked, the way he talked, it took a lot of watching to become just like somebody. Like he was watching now.

Course nobody on the street could know Cody worked for the CIA. Nobody would trust him if they knew that. But Cody never turned on his friends, he used his skills to help the CIA stop bad outsiders from interfering. But most street people wouldn’t understand. Some of them would turn on him.

Only Lonnie never quite trusted the CIA. He had read too much about them. He wasn’t sure Cody should trust them either but Cody always blew such fears away as meaningless.

Lonnie stationed himself outside where he could see but not be easily seen.

Inside the room Mr. Penn made sure he was sitting in the cheap, frazzled overstuffed chair looking relaxed and confidant when Cody walked in.

“Your late.” Said Mr. Penn.

“I had to stop and chat with a friend. Didn’t want to look suspicious like I was in a hurry or nothing. Just chillin along, casual.”

“Make sure you weren’t followed?” Mr. Penn couldn’t think of anyone following this creep except for a cop, and he couldn’t picture him being that high on a cop’s scale, but it sounded like the right thing to say. Cody asked him once if he were with the CIA and he had answered cryptically, “You know I couldn’t answer a question like that.”

Mr. Penn, sure he had cast the right impression stood up. “You have everything?”

“All right here, Mr. Penn.” Cody opened up the suitcase and showed him all of the evidence. Every wire, every cable.

Mr. Penn nodded.

Cody closed everything up. Turned, smiling.

Mr. Penn reached into his pocket, pulled out a roll of bills. Let it lay in the palm of his hand, end of the roll conveniently against the butt of his thumb. It looked a little awkward but Mr. Penn decided that did not matter. The druggie kid was so sure of himself he wouldn’t pay attention, and if he did notice anything odd by the time he was through thinking about it everything would be over.

Smiling, Cody reached out for the money roll.

He reached for the money with his right hand. Mr. Penn grabbed his wrist, holding his arm out, while he jammed the money roll into the crook of Cody’s arm. The syringe hidden inside, protected from sight and from Mr. Penn’s fingerprints, emptied its entire contents into Cody’s arm. Probably not his vein, but that shouldn’t matter.

It didn’t.

It was interesting to watch the series of expressions on Cody’s face, from greed to curiosity, to surprise, to elation, to blank death.

Mr. Penn quickly took off his black hat, shirt, and tie, tossed them in the suitcase, and slipped into something more appropriate for the hood. An old sweatshirt.

Lonnie didn’t have a watch but when it became evident no one was leaving the building, at least from the front, he went inside. He knew which window was on the outside, not that hard to calculate which room it was from the inside.

Not hard to get through the lock either, Cody had taught him that.

Not hard to see what happened either.

Lonnie left the room quickly, not bothering to relock it.

“Damn CIA killed Cody. Used him for his skills and then just killed him like he was nothing.” Lonnie vowed he would do something about it. He didn’t know what — But he would do something.

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Tags: Associated Press, Child sexual abuse, Cody, Criminal procedure, Jerry Sandusky, Mike McQueary, Pennsylvania State University, Philadelphia Inquirer