Carla Borlino sat alone on the well-worn bench within Metro Center along the northbound side of Washington’s Red Line subway. Normally, she would not be here this early in the afternoon ahead of the rush hour crowds. The platforms were mostly empty aside from the groups of families and tourists that were transiting the town by passing through the hub of Washington’s multi-line Metro going from one colored-line to another traveling amongst the nation’s historical landmarks, vast memorials, and government institutions. The seat next to her was unavailable for others to sit, due to the heavy file folder box she had dropped down with a heavy thud of relief. It was no matter, no one was looking for the seat. Carla was the only one sitting still in the massive intersection of the tunnels around her. Everyone else passed this way or that with hurried intentions to reach other destinations.
Carla lifted the lid to the standard-issue, plain white cardboard box next to her and began digging through the eclectic collection of items inside then removed a white 8 ½ x 11 lined pad of note paper, along with, the only pen she was able to find among her things. She crossed her right leg over her left knee exposing a handsomely tailored pant-suit from underneath the khaki overcoat she was wrapped within. Carla pressed the pad to her right calf and shin which provided her with a surface to write against. She no longer had her company issued blackberry nor pc. Email was not an option. She could not be reached nor reach anyone until she could get to her home north of downtown along the red line in the Cleveland Park neighborhood.
Her daily commute had been one of the best perks of her job. A few direct stops north or south along the western side of the red-line’s direct route. Day in and day out she had worked a demanding twelve-plus hour day - weekdays, weekends and even holidays in the line of duty. She had committed herself completely to her career in neglect of her family, her twin four year-old daughters - whom she loved with all her heart – and her estranged husband. At this hour, and on this day of the week, Carla knew Luka had the girls for several more planned hours and would be expecting to have them for the night, again like every other night that Carla worked too late. Her daughters are in the best hands, she thought.
With pen in hand, she set it to the blank white top sheet of paper and started composing the letter she had written in her head hundreds of times over the past three years.
Luka:
I Lost! Its all been taken away. I can’t get it back.
They walked me out of my building under escort, as if a criminal. I have been placed on Administrative leave “until further notice” because my security clearance was revoked due to excessive debt and my continuing therapy sessions with Dr. Card. These events were out of my hands. Please understand, please believe me.
Three years ago – as soon as I went back to work after having the girls – my life changed dramatically. I began to feel and now recognize that I was manipulated extensively through pressures put upon me deliberately, including financial hurdles and obstructions, turmoil instigated in our marriage, and through intentional and deliberate efforts to initiate and accelerate the destruction of my health…..
The remainder of the letter detailed extensively the people, places, dates, times, methods and purposes behind a vast conspiracy Carla knew had been turned against her to make her go away. The final aggression against her – today’s events – were described in detail and depicted along a timeline that Carla had drawn from top to bottom along the left margin of the notepad. Her accusations were incredible – quite literally. She knew that Luka, if anyone, would believe her - despite the fact that the charges she listed in her five-page letter, were made against the highest leadership within the Pentagon and Whitehouse who she knew to be in sinister collaboration with her employer, International Security Solutions (ISS) – the largest intelligence contractor in the United States. Luka will understand, she held firmly.
The final sentence read simply: “Please tell Mallory and Rebecca that I love them.”
Carla separated the pages from the pad carefully along the perforation. She folded all five pages and wrote her final words along the blank side of the last page using the middle fold to address it as if an envelope. Luka – I love you.
Confident in her understanding of the facts that led to her manufactured personal destruction and the corner she had been painted in, Carla laid the letter on top of the pile of items in the box beside her, returned the pen, then shut the lid.
Carla stood, removed her trench coat, and laid it down on the bench where she had been sitting. She felt as if a weight had been lifted from her - much greater than her heavy outer garment or the box of personal effects she had lugged along with her today.
The wind began to exhale from the tunnel to Carla’s right as the fourth or fifth train since she sat down approached the station. The train’s wheels squealed as the brakes were applied to begin decelerating from the high speed it traveled between stations in preparation to stop along the length of the platform to discharge and onboard its’ passengers.
The dark tunnel began to illuminate brightly from the rapid approach of the train’s headlights.
Carla breathed in deeply then exhaled slowly pacing her breath her steps. She closed her eyes just as the platform ended in front of her. She was startled by the sense of falling. She instinctively thought to extend her hands forward to brace her impact. There was not enough time for them to move nor for Carla to complete her thought before the impact from her right. The train crashed into her at 45 miles per hour slamming her hard onto the tracks. Her body was run over by the first and second cars of the train shredding her into a lifeless collection of flesh bones and a lot of blood.
The station collapsed into hysteria. Many within the train had been injured by the abrupt stop attempted by the driver to spare the jumper's life. People were screaming in pain and desperation. Commuters inside the station were either racing to help the wounded or dialing 911 on their cell phones.
Security Management Agency (SMA) Supervisory Analyst, Sergeant Major Burt Paulson walked through the hysteria down the length of the platform toward the spot where Carla had jumped. Without notice, he opened the file box left behind on the bench and removed the letter addressed to Carla’s husband. He placed it within his jacket in the inside breast pocket and walked with a calm yet deliberate pace against the rush of arriving first responders to the station’s exit. Pulling his blackberry from the case attached to his belt, he typed a message that he knew would send shockwave’s through the highest levels of the U.S. intelligence and security communities.
“COUNSELOR committed suicide at 14:27. Metro Center. Full response in progress.”
The text message would be received and immediately assigned the highest priority for relay through the SMA incident management enterprise systems to the leaders of the nation’s broad community of intelligence and security agencies across each of the three branches of the government.
“Boom!,” Bart thought to himself as he depressed the send button on the phone.
Next, Sergeant Major Paulson dialed the phone number he had burned into his memory on a separate pay-as-you-go phone he had purchased for this single use.
The call was answered on the other end with silence, as expected. Bart spoke clearly and concisely informing the call’s receiving party, “The patient is dead.” He hung up the line and dropped the phone into a trash can as he reached the street level at the end of the tall escalator he had just ridden up out of the transfer station below. As he reached the street’s curbside he was met immediately by a dark SUV with government license plates. Bart opened the SUV’s passenger door and entered the vehicle. He was driven from the scene without any resistance.
