Containment Theory

What would you do if you found out that Pro-Football was rigged? What would you do if you found the form that gave all of the winning teams and scores for the entire season? Hank O'Malley found out what he would do, but he didn't live long enough to enjoy his winnings.
Mr. Peters is in charge of Security for the National Football Association. It is his job to keep this information from getting out into the general public. A homicide investigation is one thing that he really didn't need. The police and the press snooping around and asking questions puts his theory of containment to biggest test it ever had to face.
Lieutenant Mike Raleigh of the Ocean County Sheriffs Department was assigned to the O'Malley case. Although it looked like an accident, a gut feeling told him it was more, much more. ----------------------------------------------------------


THE FBI
Several green-colored files were stacked neatly atop the large dark oak desk. One file, labeled Marley, Nelson: Homicide Case #1567913A, laid open in the middle of the desk. Three of its pages were folded back, revealing a police report dated April 16, 1991. An FBI agent sat behind the desk studying the content of the files while scribbling a few of his own notes on a yellow legal pad. The veteran agent folded back the police report, revealing a newspaper-clipping underneath that described the life and death of the famous football coach. Nelson Marley, the article explained, was the coach for the New Jersey Vikings during their most successful seasons. According to both the author of the newspaper article and the investigating officer who filed the police report, Coach Marley was the victim of carefully planned execution by a professional hit man. Both men based their conclusions on several clues, including the
fact that the killer used a 22-caliber handgun—probably with a silencer—based to deliver four bullets at close range into the back of Coach Marley’s head. Professional killers, the story explained, prefer to use the low-caliber weapon because the bullet will enter the head,
but not exit. Instead, it ricochets off the skull causing extensive damage to the brain, while totally destroying the bullet, making it difficult to match the bullet to the gun.
Buck had been studying the contents of the files for several days. He was starting to realize the links between the ten-year old murder case of the famous coach and a recent football bet over some fixed games. There were obvious coincidences that tied the two cases together, yet
plenty of issues that separate them. He read more from the file, then jotted some notes, and then paused to rest his eyes. He laid his pen down on the legal pad, sat back in his chair, took off his glasses with one hand and rubbed his eyes with the other.
Each time he looked at the files, something new would become apparent. For one thing, he noticed that the investigating officer on Marley’s case was the same officer who investigated the recent game scandal. In addition, the journalist who wrote the Marley story was also the same journalist who made the scandal public. Was it a coincidence? Not likely. Buck was not a believer in coincidences. He believed there were reasons for everything. But, the trick is to determine what the reason is and how it affects the results of your investigation. As an FBI agent, Buck often saw life as a series of threads linking people together in activities, beliefs, occupations, and so on. Buck had always thought that if it was meant to be, then it happens, and if it happens, it was meant to be. It was Buck’s destiny that drew him into law enforcement. In 1981, Lantrx International Incorporated, a company that specializes in computer network security, hired him right out of college. The FBI had contracted Lantrx as consultants to help them solve some of their high technology cases. Buck got to work on many of these cases and enjoyed the work so much that he applied for a permanent position with the FBI.
The cases assigned to him usually have to do with crimes involving technology. This means that he is dealing with suspects with above average intelligence involved in very complex crimes. In which case, his investigative techniques are near genius and often unconventional. There isn’t a computer hacker in the world that can out hack Buck Foreman. He knows operating systems, computer languages, network architectures, communication protocols, encryption algorithms, and anything else that has to do with technology.
Today, like every other day, he is wearing his normal office attire: a wrinkled white cotton shirt with an out-of-style, thin, solid-colored tie (usually dark brown), dark brown polyester trousers, and brown, unpolished loafers. His dark blue sports jacket with its frayed cuffs is hanging in its usual place: over the back of his chair. His shirtsleeves are rolled up to his elbows, and the top button of his shirt is open; the knot of his tie loose. His dark black hair is curly, long and uncombed. His hair is thinning on top, but he isn’t completely bald. His boyish looks made him look younger and less serious than he likes; so, in order to change this perception, he sports a thick beard. This, however, has created the opposite effect and makes him look more like a mountain man in an old suit. But, it does create a useful illusion: he now looks like a person who
would be unlikely to have any understanding of technology. As Buck returned to his task of reading and jotting, the phone rang. The person on the other end informed him that the
representative from the Attorney General’s office was in the main lobby. “Thank you,” Buck responded. “Can you have someone escort Mr. Hyatt to this floor? I’ll meet them at the elevator and accompany Mr. Hyatt the rest of the way.”
Buck closed the ‘Marley’ file and stacked it on top of the other files. He picked up his pen and stuck it in his shirt pocket. Then picked up a large soft-leather briefcase off of the floor and unfastened the strap that held its cover. He slid the files and legal pad into the case and stood up He pulled his jacket from the back of his chair and slipped it on. He grabbed the strap of the leather case and slung it over his shoulder. Buck walked out of his office, down the hall, and toward the elevators to meet Mr. Hyatt.
As he walked up to the elevator, the doors opened, revealing two men inside: one in uniform, and the other, an older man with graying hair, in a wool overcoat and expensive Italian shoes. The man in the overcoat stepped out and offered his hand to Buck. Buck shook the man’s hand, and then turned to the uniformed security guard still inside the elevator car: “Thank you. I’ll take it from here.”
“Very good, sir,” the guard responded and pressed the ‘close doors’
button in the elevator. The doors closed between the guard and the two
men.

A valet handed over the keys to the black SUV as Reynolds handed him a couple of bills. Reynolds slipped in behind the wheel and started the engine. The pimpled-face piece-of-shit thanked him and closed his car door. Just as Reynolds put the car into gear and started pulling
forward, his cell phone rang. Reynolds picked it up and pressed the ‘send’ button.
“This is Reynolds,” he said.
“This is HQ. Peters wants to talk to you. Hang on while I transfer
you.”
“Sure,” Reynolds said. He pulled the car over to the edge and stopped. While waiting for Peters to come on the phone, Reynolds shook out two aspirins from a plastic jar, popped them into his mouth and chewed them. The headaches have been coming on stronger over the last few weeks.
“Reynolds,” Peters barked over the phone. “This is Peters. Are you
still at the Tropicana?”
“I was just pulling out. What’s up?”
“We have an Exacta hit. It’s a complete match. I need you to check it out. Turn your fax on and I’ll send you the details.”
Reynolds lifted up the armrest and pressed the ‘on’ button. Within seconds, the familiar low hum sounded as the paper glided out through a slit in the armrest. “I’m getting it now.”
“Good. See if you can locate this guy. Watch him until I call you back with more information. I’ll talk to you soon.”
“Yes, sir,” Reynolds said, and then pressed the ‘end’ key on the cell phone. When the fax had finished printing, he folded it up and stuck it in his pocket. Reynolds took the keys out of the ignition and got out of the car. The valet gave him a confused look when he tossed the keys to him, “Park it. I’ve got more work to do.” Reynolds walked back through the large hotel doors where he had just exited not five minutes earlier and made his way toward the sports counter where the bet was entered several minutes earlier. Reynolds approached one of the agents at the counter and produced one of his fake ID cards that described him as,
John Smith,
Investigator
New Jersey Casino Control Commission Atlantic City Office
The agent looked at the card and asked, “John Smith? That’s your real name?”
“Yes. And the wife’s name is Mary and the dog’s name is Spot.”
“Funny,” he said. Reynolds could tell he was going to say more about it, but Reynolds shot him a look that said, Can it shit head, or you’ll be drinking your dinner through a straw for the rest of your pathetic life. Reynolds could tell he got the message because he swallowed and then asked in a trembling voice, “H-how can I help you?”
“A man placed an Exacta bet here earlier,” Reynolds said. “I need to find him.”
“Seriously? There were at least fifty men who placed Exacta bets at this counter just since my break alone. If you can be a bit more specific, I might be able to help you.”
Reynolds pulled out the folded fax from his pocket. “The man placed this bet within the last 20 minutes,” Reynolds said, pointing to the fax. “These are the teams that he picked. Does that help any?”
“Most of the time I don’t read what the person picked.” Sure, fuck head; tell me another lie, Reynolds thought.
“Usually, I just run ‘em through the computer. Let me look it over.” He took the fax from him and glanced over it. “Oh, yeah. I remember this one, all right. This idiot picked Arizona. Can you imagine that? One thing for sure, he won’t get them all right. Philly is going to wipe Arizona’s butt.”
“Yeah, I’m sure they will,” Reynolds said, showing little evidence as to whether he gave a shit about either team. “Do you know if this guy is still in the casino?”
“Yeah, I think I saw him walk over to the bar. I don’t see him now, but he might be on the other side watching the TV monitors. He has dark hair and a beard. He’s also wearing a red North Face jacket.” The agent was pointing to one of the island bars that sat in the middle of the casino where people sit and drink while keeping an eye on their favorite table, just in case it starts to get hot again. Such pathetic lives, Reynolds thought. Reynolds gave the asshole a ten-dollar bill, thanked him and headed toward the bar. Sure enough, his Exacta man was sitting at the bar on
the opposite side; obviously so he could watch the games on the television monitors that were mounted above the bartenders’ heads. Just to be sure Reynolds had the right guy, he squeezed in between him and another man. Both men made a remark that pissed Reynolds off – but he ignored it, he just apologized and ordered a drink from one of the
bartenders.

The full moon was reflecting off the rolling water, making the ocean look like a brilliant white sheet blowing in the wind. The people walking along the boardwalk would stop and look out at the beauty and huddle close together. The light rain had let up and the clouds were starting to break up allowing the moon to shine through. It was still cold and breezy though, and it was going to get even colder now that the clouds have gone. Chris Donley walked into the restaurant and over to a booth by the window. He always enjoyed looking out at the people on the
boardwalk. He wished he had someone to hold close and enjoy the beauty of moonlit nights. Chris removed his trench coat and Fedora hat, slid into the booth, and placed the coat, hat on top, next to him. Chris had always been a fan of Phillip Marlowe and the trench coat and hat
was his way of showing that respect. He had a heavy resemblance to Humphrey Bogart and did his best to have the same mannerisms. Too much at times, or so said his friends, especiallywhen it came to his voice. Chris sat there staring out the window thinking about that night’s events.
“Are you ready to order” Sarah asked, as she tried to get his attention, “Mr. Donley?”
“What? Oh I’m sorry, I was daydreaming” he said.
“It is pretty this time of year isn’t it” she said smiling.
“Yes it most certainly is,” agreed Chris.
“Are you ready to order” she repeated?
“Not just yet, I’m waiting for my sister” Chris said, “but I will take a mineral water with a slice of lime.”
“Very good, I’ll be right back” she said.
“Thank you” He said watching her walk away. He was wondering if the wiggle in her walk was on purpose or not. Chris returned to staring out the window and did not notice his sister until she kissed him on the cheek.
“Hello big brother, sorry I’m late” she said sliding into the opposite side of the booth. Sarah walked up and sets a glass down in front of Chris.
“Can I get you anything Sue” Sarah asked?
“Yes, I’ll have a large iced tea with lemon please” said Sue.
“I’ll be right back” Sarah said. Again Chris watched as Sarah walked away. He was really
enjoying watching her wiggle knowing it was for his enjoyment. He started to smile slightly. Sue had to chuckle as she watched her brother.
“I don’t know why you don’t ask her out,” Sue asked, “It’s apparent that you both like each other and I think she is a really nice lady.” Chris just turned and smiled at his sister. “Okay, whatever. Now since I’m late, I supposed you have already ordered for me,” said Sue.

The northwest corner on the twenty-second floor of the UTB building is an office filled with monitors, awards, degrees, paintings, and television sets mounted on dark mahogany walls. The only illumination in the rooms comes from television sets on which the daily football games had been seen, from monitors showing the most secure parts of the building, and four lamps on the circular desk in the middle of the room.
Mr. Peters is standing in front of the large windows on the west side of the room looking out over the Hudson River, arms crossed with an unlit cigar between the index and middle fingers of the left hand. A fifty-nine year old man with neatly groomed silver hair and sporting a goatee that enhances the seriousness in his face. Today he is wearing Docker pants and a knit shirt that shows his large muscular frame which instills the fear needed to be Chief of Security of one of the most powerful companies in the nation.
Peters is responsible for the security of the computer systems, buildings, stadiums, and play books for all the football games played each Sunday. This is a job that get considerably harder each year with the additions of new teams and the number of people involved with the play-book. With the advancements of the home computer and the increasing intelligence of its
operators, protecting the NFA computer system is a twenty four hour job for a full staff.
Mr. Peters returned to sitting at his desk and watching the news report on the parkway accident via one of the screens in the wall.
“Mr. Reynolds is here to see you, sir,” a female voice said over the intercom.
“Send him in,” Peters replied. Reynolds entered the office through the double doors, and walked across the office to one of the chairs in front of Peters’ desk. “Have a seat. We need to talk.”
Reynolds sat down. Peters pulled out a box of Cuban cigar and offered it to Reynolds. Reynolds shook his head. Peters cocked his head to one side and then, for himself, clipped off the end of his cigar with a pair of small scissors. He picked up his lighter and sat back in his chair. “You endangered the lives of a lot of people on the expressway this morning.” He clicked the lighter with his thumb, stuck the large cigar into his mouth and began sucking on it as it lit. Once the cigar was burning satisfactorily, Peters continued. “So, what was the reason for putting the lives of innocent people, as well as the association, at risk? Surely, there was a better way to handle this.”
Reynolds knew he had screwed up. He was pissed at Mouse for the defective triggering device and for not explaining the power of that small vial. He was going to make sure Mouse paid dearly for putting him through this humiliation. “I’m afraid I screwed up. I underestimated the power of the explosive I used.”
Peters looked at him quietly, and then took a long puff from his cigar. He let the smoke stream out of his mouth, and then said, “I guess we should count our blessings that no one else was
killed. Let’s hope that this doesn’t come back to haunt us.”
“I’m afraid we have a problem,” Reynolds said in a meek voice.
Peters looked Reynolds squarely in the eyes, and then asked softly, “What is the problem?”
“There were only four bodies in the car.”
“How do you know this for sure?”
“The truck driver. He was able to see down into the car. He told the police that there were only four people inside.”
“Do we know who got away?”

Sergio was not ready to wake up when the alarm started going off so he threw it against the wall and curled up next to Sue. The alarm clock was still going off but now instead of the normal pulsating chirp, it had this annoying steady screech. Sergio decided he better get up and make
some coffee. He picked up the clock and headed out to the kitchen. He filled the coffee maker up with water, put in a new filter, added the coffee, and then pushed the button to start the
process. Normally he would grind fresh coffee from his personal blend of choice beans, but this morning the sound of the grinder would be too much. He turned and open the drawer at the end of the counter, pulled out a hammer, and smashed the clock with three quick blows. “I always
hated that clock anyway,” he said to himself as he returned to the bedroom. Sue had already made it to the shower so he walked in, pulled the curtain back and saw her leaning against the wall with the water running off of her head.
“You did this to me,” she said sounding like her head was in a fish bowl.
“What did I do,” he asked?
“You kept pouring the damn wine.”
“You kept drinking the damn wine.”
“How am I going to make it through this day?”
“A couple of cups of my coffee and you will be as good as new.”
“Is it here yet?”
“Soon my love, soon.” He closed the curtain and ran back to the kitchen. The coffee had just
finished, so he put another scoop of grounds in and ran it back through. Then it was back to check on Sue. “How do you like your coffee,” he asked?
“One cream and one Sweet and Low,” she replied.
“I don’t have any Sweet and Low,” he said.
“Well then, you had better put it on your list of things to get, huh.” He could tell she was not in a very good mood so he decided to run down to the little corner market and pick up some Sweet and Low. He slipped on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt and ran out the door. Since the store was only a block away, he decided to run there. He was out of breath as he ran through the big double doors and was bending over resting his hands on his knees trying to get a little of the oxygen he knew was out there somewhere.
“Sergio, what brings you out this early,” asked a familiar sounding voice?
“Sweet and Low,” he gasped, “I need Sweet and Low.”

Once they were in the car and driving down the road, Chris started to tell Sergio about the National Football Association. “Since you already know that pro football is rigged, I guess I can tell you everything.” Sergio looked over at Chris and then quickly back to the road. This was a story he really wanted to hear. But then again.
“If you tell me this, am I going to be chased around and hounded for the rest of my life?” he asked with a chuckle.
“Not unless you do something stupid.”
“Like what?”
“Like trying to do something with the information I’m about to give.”
“Something tells me that no one would believe me anyway.”
“Whether they believe you or not, just talking about it will have you being watched.”
“Okay, I won’t mention it to anyone.”
“It doesn’t matter to me whether you do or don’t, it’s your life.”
Sergio turned and stared at Chris in disbelief. Why does Chris care so much about the NFA. Chris looked back at Sergio, smiled and started to explain. He told Sergio that the NFAconsisted of three different divisions; owners, operations, and security. The owners were in charge of their individual team as well as determining who will be in charge of the other divisions.
The operations division took care of everything that had to do with the daily running of the association. Mark Cavanaugh was in charge of the operation division. He was known as the commissioner of the NFA and ran a pretty tight ship. He put one of the toughest drug policies in
place and an even tougher code of ethics policy. His policy was you either stayed drug free and became a respected member of the community, or you didn’t play for the NFA. Cavanaugh only had one problem, he didn’t like Peters at all. It used to be that the operation division was in charge of everything including security. Doug LeRoy, the previous commissioner was the one that hired Peters. When Cavanaugh became commissioner, he wanted to bring in his own people and tried to fire Peters. The owners put a stop to it by dividing operations into two separate divisions. Peters was now the chief of security and not under Cavanaugh’s control. This of course infuriated Cavanaugh to no end. To say the least, the two of them have never got along.
Peters runs the security division with an iron fist so to speak. Everything runs through his office, he has a chain of command, but the chain had better end at him. His philosophy is pretty simple, ‘the least that know the better’. It is easier to contain something in a small circle than a bigger one. The people that actually know that pro football is rigged are very few; the owners, Cavanaugh, Peters, three field agents, the alpha team, and of course the referees. The field agents and the alpha team are all under Peters’ division while the referees are part of
operations. The great thing about having the ref’s determine who wins the game is, fewer people have to know. LeRoy came up with the system and Peters perfected it, that’s why he is so popular with the owners. The system works like this, Cavanaugh sends the needed information to Peters by secured courier, the information is imputed into the security computer, and the program that Peters designed makes the schedule for the season. This schedule tells who plays who, winners and losers, throughout the season, playoffs, and championship game. The only two to have a complete season schedule is Peters and Cavanaugh. Each week right before game time, the referees receive the schedule for the game they are working. Since the ref’s only know about the games they are working, it is easier to keep everything secret.
“Okay Chris, you’ve explained how it’s done and who does it, how are you involved?”  ¶ 6:16 PM