And also, Carme. Even at her most humble and gracious self, my sister is going to intimidate a lot of people, especially Fran, and that’s the root of the problem. My oldest friend and mentor can’t handle that Dick and my sister have all the power. They really do. Not her. Because they have power over me. Enough to prompt me to throw in my lot with them and leave Langley and all involved forever.
Without looking back. Or missing Fran. Or thinking about her again, period. That’s the way her phobic mind processes what she perceives as data, at any rate. Doesn’t matter what’s true or rational. I know this is how she feels, regardless of whether she doesn’t say it, denies it or tells me I’m full of crap.
“He wanted me to give him a lift so we could catch up since we’d not seen each other in three years,” I find myself explaining to her, on the verge of defensive.
“What about his security detail? What did he do, ditch them?” her voice challenges inside my respirator helmet. “What was so important that he’d go to all the trouble to tell his detail to get lost? I mean, what freakin’ 4-star general does that? Makes no sense, in fact sounds kind of suspicious, if you ask me. What did he really want?”
“We’ll talk about this later.” It’s not up for debate, and I don’t like the innuendo. “Before we do anything else,” I point at the pale-blue Tyvek shoe covers over her rubber boots, “I need a few pairs of those. And plenty of gloves. And for you to fill me in on what you know so far.”
I intend to gather all the data I can before walking in, no matter how curious I might be. And I am curious. Not just a little, but insanely, insatiably, even if I don’t let on, don’t give the slightest sign of the magnetic force pulling at my attention. It’s hard to explain, but I’m tactile and sensuous with an exploratory drive that keeps me from taking another person’s word for it, from sitting still and being complacent.
I have to see something for myself. I have to look, hear, taste, touch, and that’s the compulsion I’m feeling. It’s all I can do to restrain myself from at least catching a glimpse through the open doorway leading into that chlorine-pickled bedroom. Grateful no one, not even Fran, has a clue what’s going on inside of me.
It isn’t obvious, and I make sure of it. I can’t let anybody pick up on my inner match of impulse versus will, each grappling for control and determined to overrule. My parents are always saying that my greatest gift is also my fatal flaw, feeling empathy among other potent emotions. What they’re really getting at is the dirty truth that unlike my sister, I’m too sensitive. Too quick to assume responsibility and blame. Too tuned in to everything and everyone.
Too inclined to make it my responsibility to find what’s lost and fix what’s broken, to encourage and heal, to satisfy and soothe. Don’t ask me where such traits came from because I’m not sure I know. Although genetics plays a role. Also growing up the way I did in the shadow of my ambitious overachieving twin who never suffers from self-sacrifice or doubt.
Carme doesn’t know what those are, doesn’t begin to feel the way I do. Never has, but no big deal. Fortunately, at the age of 28 I’m disciplined by now at resisting the usual temptations, having learned in the military the importance of not giving in to my high-voltage impulses and passions. Before that, during my earliest days of interning, Fran taught me to keep my limbic flares and surges to myself. To quash my reactions and temper my strategies.
Most of all, to sit on my desires, and probably the most overwhelming one bar none when pulling up on a scene of injury or death is to zero in on the human factor first thing. Translated, we’re wired to make a beeline to the victim no matter how dead and gone or for how long. Our most primitive instincts compel us to stare, study, circle the mauled or deceased, and by the time we’re done, we’re not going to be objective and open minded anymore. Certainly not about witnesses and evidence.
Not really about anything, and to show up on a death scene with my mind already made up about what happened is rather much like setting out on a cross-country flight without factoring in airspace regulations and fuel stops. Or having sex before knowing the first thing about someone. Or planning the wedding before getting engaged. In other words, unwise. Yes, stupid. Or as Spock was always saying on Star Trek, “Illogical.”
Cheating, taking shortcuts, your wish is your reality. Rushing to the coveted prize instead of honestly earning it. Garbage in, garbage out, and the result is as predictable as quantum computing at its worst. The output is changed by the input, and the correct answer depends on who wants to know. Therefore, it’s critical what data you take in and when, and to avoid raising questions you’re not prepared to ask.
When everything depends on everything else, the more you can observe and preserve in advance, the more objective you’re going to be when you finally reach the end goal. Whether it’s a rocket launch, the top of Mount Everest or a dead body hanging from a closet door. The purer your method and reasoning, the less likely it is that the great nemesis of precision and fairness will have its way with you. The less likely you’ll fall prey to what every self-respecting colleague of mine fears most of all.
Bias.
Which compromises computations and weakens our defenses, leaving us vulnerable to malfunction and destruction. Because the most treacherous enemy is the one you think you know and understand. The one you trust and love. The one whose darkness threatens your very light, the heart and soul of your very power, and you’re none the wiser. Your subjectivity, your bias has rendered you blind, deaf and dumb. You see what you want to see instead of what’s there.
One of the great ironies is our defenses are knocked out most efficiently by our own personal beliefs and learning, by our own programming and wiring. As Mom used to say, “We’re our own worst enemy.” Bias is masterful at carrying itself convincingly, nimbly, glibly, even lovingly on the legs of the preacher, teacher, colleague, friend, mentor, or worst of all, the significant other or family member.
If you ask me, the kryptonite for all humanity is bigotry, prejudice, us against them. Well-intended people blinded by rivalry and ambition or love and the bonds of blood.
Overpowering and being the decider of who’s in and who’s out. Dividing people into groups. Making lists and assumptions. Deciding I’m okay and you’re not.
18
“I’LL tell you what I’m telling everyone.” Fran hands me shoe covers and a box of exam gloves, size XL to fit over our cumbersome rubber boots and gloves. “Anybody who comes in here, we need to make sure they’re not allergic to bleach or have some preexisting respiratory problem.”
“Absolutely,” I agree, and already my face is hot inside my helmet.
“Or aren’t the sort to fake it, to malinger, right?” she says next.
“How are we supposed to know that, exactly?” I have to ask. “What polygraph are we going to use for laziness and greed?”
“Ha-ha, very funny. I’m just putting it out there in case you have reason to worry about someone coming in here and trying to take advantage of the situation,” her voice goes on as if she’s hijacked my thoughts. “Everyone’s to cover up from head to toe the same way we are. What we don’t need is a lawsuit on top of everything else.”
“Copy that.” Working a pair of nitrile exam gloves over my rubber ones, my hands cold and stiff. “We’re very lucky she didn’t pick something really awful like hydrofluoric acid. Which there’s plenty of where she was working in 1110, and also in the materials labs and so on because some of the scientists use it for etching, metal cleaning.”
“I don’t get why you’d do any of this to yourself,” Fran stares at the bedroom as Joan walks past the doorway, holding a camera. “Me? I’d just take pills. Not that I have enough of anything to do me in. Well, I probably do, but it would hurt like hell, and I’d probably wake up brain damaged.” She actually thinks about it for a second. “Never
mind, don’t want to go there, but I sure wouldn’t do what she did.”
“If she did it.” I continue to explain as Fran’s attention bats about like a moth, “My point is, considering where she worked, she had easy access to any number of corrosives used in the labs, used in pyrotechnics at the gantry, used for a lot of things. Sulfuric and nitric acid come to mind. And hydrochloric. All of which make chlorine bleach seem like aromatherapy by comparison if your intention is to damage your own dead body and everyone who gets near it.”
“We can be grateful for small favors, I guess. Because imagine working around hydrochloric acid. Jeez.” Gloves off, Fran is busy scrolling through whatever’s landing on her phone. “One thing’s for sure, it’s going to be a bloody mess to clean up as is. Not literally bloody. Most of it not our problem, but how are you supposed to collect evidence with bleach everywhere?”
“Very carefully.” I lean against the front door, balancing on one leg at a time, pulling the Tyvek shoe covers over the lower part of my boots. “Also, are you aware that her Lexus is unlocked, the keyless fob in a cup holder on the center console?”
“Say what?” Fran is definitely startled, and I hope she doesn’t get defensive next.
“When you were checking out her SUV, did you by chance try the doors?” I ask as diplomatically as I can.
“Like I told you, I looked through the windows with my flashlight because I didn’t want to touch anything yet,” she answers with an edge.
“I don’t blame you, same thing I did. The only reason I tried the doors is because I noticed the fob inside.” That’s not exactly true but close enough to keep her feathers from getting ruffled, if I’m lucky.
“So, the answer is no, I didn’t try them,” she huffs and puffs, nudging me out of the way. “Gotta keep the air flowing in here. Lord, I hate chlorine, don’t think I’ll ever go to a swimming pool again.”
“I’ll make sure not to tell Easton that.” As I avoid the frigid air seeping in, images from childhood flashing in my head, Carme and I swimming at Fort Monroe from the time we were old enough to wear water wings.
Which was probably until we were three and got comfortable with our faces in the water. Our parents would bring us out here to Fort Monroe’s YMCA when time allowed. But if we were really fortunate, we might get the extra treat of the heated indoor pool at the former Officer’s Club. But only when family friends would take us there. Neither Mom nor Dad were members.
“And you didn’t notice the key in the cup holder?” I’m going to keep probing even if Fran blows up at me.
“I didn’t, and that’s kind of weird. Was it hard to see?” She’s more baffled than defensive, thank goodness.
“Not with my flashlight,” I reply candidly. “It wasn’t hard, especially if looking through the window of the driver’s door.”
“Okay, I don’t know why I didn’t see it. Obviously, it had to be there if I looked through the windows not even an hour before you did.”
I don’t say anything, and sincerely hope she’s right. Because I’m fast reaching the point of believing there are no hard-and-fast rules, that all bets are off. In a nutshell, nothing’s normal about what’s going on, and I’m beginning to feel that nothing will be again.
“But how does it make any sense that she would leave her key inside?” Fran gestures toward the bedroom as if Vera Young can hear us. “Unless she was hoping her car would get stolen.”
“If we’re talking suicide, why would she care what happens to it after she’s dead?” I reply dubiously.
“Maybe she didn’t want someone to have to be responsible for paying out the lease.”
“I’m not saying that’s impossible, but I have a strong feeling that’s not going to be the explanation.” I begin to move around, headed to the fireplace, to the plaster-and-exposed-brick wall where a thermostat is mounted, set on 70 degrees Fahrenheit, the actual temperature in the room 61.
I’m digging in my gear bag for a notebook and pen when Fran’s cell phone sounds its Spider-Man ringtone, her phone instantly slaving to the Bluetooth intercom.
“Sorry, gotta take it,” Fran loudly lets us know. “What’s up?” she answers her son, Easton.
“About to have supper . . . ,” his tiny voice.
“Well that’s good, but you’ve probably figured out I’m tied up for a while, got a case to deal with. You and Aunt Penny go ahead and eat without me . . .”
00:00:00:00:0
THE AUNT PENNY she references is my mom, whose real name is Jane. She was called Penny as a child because she’s so thoughtful, as in “a penny for your thoughts.” Or equally apropos, she’s like a bad penny, always showing up. So the stories go.
“Well aren’t you lucky . . . ,” Fran’s voice through our respirator helmets’ intercom system.
Subjecting us to that special voice she reserves for her Little Mr. Sunshine, as she calls him, especially when he’s cranky.
“Make sure you save some for George . . .”
That’s my father.
“. . . And you’d better leave some mac and cheese for Calli and me, okay? And yes, the fried chicken . . . ,” Fran goes on.
I stop by the coffee table, making rough sketches in my notepad, visual prompts that later will help me recall with photographic clarity what I’m seeing as I scan my surroundings. Standing on the edge of the braided rug, I jot notes and draw whatever catches my attention. Waiting for what might land on me unexpected, uninvited. Imagining myself as a two-legged spectrum analyzer before I sweep the place with a real one.
I’m curious about signals while already having a good idea about some of what I’ll find. Wi-Fi. Cell phones. Radios. Any beacons including the lighthouse on the other side of the moat. No telling what else, but taking into account who this woman was, what she knew, was working on and all the rest? I plan to poke a stick at it, so to speak. See what’s invisibly all around us that might be a witness, a snitch, a tattletale.
“. . . Well you know what I say to that. No Spider-Man until after supper and homework . . .”
“No fair . . . !” Easton’s shrill chirp.
I tune out their phone conversation, letting my intuition run wild before I muddy my cognitive waters with thoughts and deductions that might prove baseless and biased. As I flip pages in my notebook, making comments and sketches, it’s obvious the apartment came furnished.
Nothing I’m seeing would be worth moving all the way from Houston, and I’ve noted similar arrangements in other Fort Monroe rentals. The green corduroy sofa and matching side chair, the nested glass end tables, the walls arranged with prints of Colonial Williamsburg in the snow and similar Virginia themes.
The cherry coffee table is a reproduction, and nothing is on it except an empty bottle of Tsingtao Light beer, and a plate with the remains of a ham sandwich. Wheat pita bread, chopped lettuce, a lot of pico de gallo and mustard, an unusual combo that reminds me of my sister. She thinks everything is improved by salsa fresca, although what I’m looking at doesn’t exactly qualify as “fresca” anymore.
Could I smell anything through my charcoal filter, I’d detect the faint foul odor of food turning bad, and I lean closer to the white plate with its several bites of sandwich. Drying and beginning to wilt and rot, the food has been sitting out for a while, several hours at least, possibly giving us additional clues about what went on and when.
For example, one might suppose most people don’t start the day with a sandwich and beer. Certainly not NASA-level scientists, but the bigger mystery when contemplating someone facing imminent annihilation is why bother with a last meal at all. I’ll never understand fantasizing about what to eat one final time on death row or before committing suicide. I couldn’t swallow a bite if my . . . about to say if my life depended on it, but I guess that’s a bad choic
e of words under the circumstances.
Not that I can put myself in another mortal’s shoes with total accuracy. But it’s difficult to imagine staying home from work intending to torture and disfigure yourself with a caustic chemical before committing suicide. Yet at some point in the midst of this it’s time for a snack? And further, you’ve got a hankering for your favorite beer and a sandwich prepared to your liking?
But then again, there’s really no playbook for such desperate acts, and believe me, I’ve heard my share of depressing accounts that on the surface don’t make sense. Why go about business as usual while plotting and planning to shoot yourself or jump from a building? Why put on makeup and fix your hair? Why leave a hateful recording blaming everyone? Saying this is what they get while in the same breath promising to slash your throat in the bathtub to minimize the mess?
I can say with great confidence that it’s nearly impossible to know why people do what they do. Just when I think there are no more surprises, I get one.
“Have you looked inside the refrigerator yet? Or checked the trash. For other beer bottles, for example?” I ask nobody in particular, my voice and breathing loud inside my helmet.
I walk into the kitchen in all my rubberized and filtered gear, and the shoe covers over my hazmat boots would make papery sounds on the hardwood floor if I could hear them.
“I took a quick glance,” Butch’s voice as he films away, and I’m starting to get a headache. “A lot of vegan-type stuff like miso soup and tofu. But also normal food.”
“Would that include ham?” I inquire pointedly. “Is that what you mean by normal?”
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