This was the one long, straight section of the otherwise bend-ridden road. There was only one sharp curve left and that’s where it would happen. He could see the Triumph fading away, but could not give up. He jumped out of the Acura, leaving the door open behind him and began to run like a machine.
It was beyond unreal, but somehow he was not only keeping up with the old TR6, he was actually catching up to it. The straight section of the road seemed to go on forever, but he knew it would not. That final turn was out there. Waiting for them.
He was close now. Twenty feet. Why doesn’t she see me?
Ten feet. He cried out in desperation. “Becky, stop! Please stop!”
Five feet. He could smell the exhaust from the aging engine. He was running out of air. His lungs were burning; his legs growing sloppy, loosing their coordination.
The curve in the road was on them now. He gathered all the energy he had and made a last chance lunge. Sailing through the air, reaching for the bumper, hoping against hope. Got it! Then his chest hit the asphalt. He lost his grip.
“No!” He watched as Becky and the Triumph sailed over the guardrail into eternity.
* * *
Chad awoke drenched in sweat. The recurring dream of his last morning with his wife often haunted him, particularly at times like this when he hadn’t had a drink for a few days.
In reality, he had never tried to chase Becky on that fateful morning. She took off in his Triumph and that was the last he ever saw of her alive. He got the call at work at around 10:00 AM.
The investigators never fully explained what had gone wrong. Perhaps Becky had lost her focus and simply misjudged her speed and the sharpness of the curve. For certain was only the fact that instead of making that last curve, Becky Swan had flipped over the guard rail and out of Chad’s and Morgan’s lives.
It was hard for Chad to accept. She had been so full of energy and life and love.
He sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed to the floor, and held his forehead in his hands.
He needed to pull himself together. He had plans to make and Morgan was waiting to hear from him.
Chapter 29
Now
Over a dozen members of the Syracuse PD were assembled in Situation Room 1 for the briefing on Chad Swan. Add that to the ten or so FBI special agents and four members of the Amherst PD who were participating via phone conference and you had a pretty serious enforcement presence focused on one individual.
Detective Tom Drake called the meeting to order at 10:00 AM sharp. “Attention everyone, please. We’re starting.”
Drake stood in silence and waited for those in the meeting room to quiet down, which took all of about ten seconds.
For the benefit of those joining the meeting by phone, he began by introducing himself. “This is Detective Tom Drake of the Syracuse PD speaking. The subject of this briefing is Chad M. Swan, who has recently been identified as a person of interest in a 24-year-old missing person cold case and who is also wanted by the FBI in connection with suspected violations of the Espionage Act.”
A cell phone sounded, suddenly and loudly, and a junior detective could be seen fumbling to mute it.
Once silence was restored, Drake continued. “Here in Syracuse we have thirteen detectives and officers present. Participating via phone conference, we have the FBI DC Division with Special Agent-in-Charge Milton Fox and nine Special Agents. Also participating by phone are four officers from the Amherst, Massachusetts PD, including Chief of Police, Warren Lester. This is a concurrent jurisdiction situation, but overall jurisdictional authority rests with Special Agent-in-Charge Fox, as SAC. Any questions before we begin?”
Drake didn’t expect any questions at this point and there were none. “Okay, then let’s continue. Those of you on the phone will need to refer to the packets that were faxed to you earlier. The subject, once again, is Chad M. Swan, age 48, current whereabouts unknown.”
A picture of Chad that was at least fifteen years old flashed up on the screen in front of the Syracuse meeting room.
“Dr. Swan is a cryptography and computer systems security expert who has worked for various government agencies at one time or another, including DARPA, the FBI, and Homeland Security. For the last seven years, until his disappearance approximately eleven months ago, he has served those same government agencies on several sensitive projects as an independent contractor. Before becoming a fugitive, Swan had TS/SCI clearance with the US government. Swan is highly intelligent and highly educated. He has a documented IQ of 157 and holds Masters and PhDs from MIT. He is also a polyglot—”
“So, he eats too much?” blurted out Detective David Crass, an old-timer with the Syracuse force who could not have been more aptly named.
Drake shot optical daggers in Crass’s direction. “No, Dave. It means he speaks multiple languages.” Drake motioned to the phone and gave one of those “use your fucking head” looks to Crass. “In this case, our subject is fluent in English, Spanish, and Japanese and can also converse in Mandarin, French, and Russian well enough to get by.”
“Did you say fluent in Japanese?” asked a voice from the phone.
“Yep. His uncle worked in the US embassy in Tokyo in the ‘70s and Swan apparently spent several summers there. He also studied judo with Grand Masters in Tokyo from an early age and is a sixth degree dan. As a side note on this, between 1990 and 2005, Swan ran summer judo camps for inner city kids in several cities throughout New York State.”
“Great, let’s teach the little thugs to fight better.” Detective Crass again.
Another voice spoke up from the back of the room, that of a rookie detective named, Chris Carlton. “No, it’s not about that. I actually attended one of his camps. They teach respect, self-discipline, and—”
Drake cut this off. “We’re not here to debate the merits of Swan’s activities. Let’s hold questions and comments until the end, please. That being said, I would like to ask you right now, Carlton, have you actually met Swan?”
“No sir. Some of his previous students actually ran the camp I attended. Several of them knew him and seemed to think he could walk on water.”
“Hmm,” Drake grunted with a nod. “In any case, although this guy is no ex Navy Seal and we do not believe he is armed, keep in mind that he does know how to handle himself.”
Drake moved on. “Swan’s wife of twenty-one years was killed in an auto accident seventeen months ago, in December of 2010. He has a 22-year-old daughter, Morgan Swan, who attends Amherst College in Massachusetts and currently resides in Amherst.
“As I said earlier, the federal warrant for Swan relates to suspected violations of the Espionage Act. It began with classified information that was disclosed to his sister-in-law, Paula Andrews. You may have seen this in the news. Ms. Andrews is a journalist with the National Discloser and was about to be jailed on contempt charges for not revealing the source of information related to a classified government project known as Bigeye. Almost a year ago, in June, 2011, Swan admitted to being the source, via an email message to the FBI, the delivery of which Swan arranged to delay for several hours. The contempt threat on Andrews was lifted, but Swan disappeared before he could be further investigated.
“Then, before a search for Swan could even be mounted, evidence was uncovered that Swan had been attempting to sell top secret encryption technology to the Chinese. Since that time, the FBI has been actively seeking him. It is believed that he is currently in Central or South America, where he has established numerous contacts during volunteer trips to those areas over the last twenty years.
“Now, as to the reason we expect Swan to surface in the near future.” Drake paused and took a drink of water before continuing. “Twenty-four years ago, Swan’s then-fiancée, Jill Paulson, disappeared.”
A not-so-great, old, grainy picture of Jill flashed up on the screen. She somehow managed to look good even in this lousy snapshot.
“That case has never been solved. However, one wee
k ago today . . .” Drake said, as a shot of Jill’s brief note to Chad appeared on the screen, “Jill Paulson’s fourteen-year-old nephew discovered this note, which she had written on the very day she disappeared.”
A couple of hands were up now. Drake decided that things had calmed down enough to take a few questions. He pointed to one of the questioners and nodded.
“Where did the kid find the note?”
“Strange as it may seem, the note fell out of a semi-hollow guitar as the kid was playing it. The guitar originally belonged to Swan and had been untouched in its case, since Jill Paulson’s disappearance.”
“How did the note get inside the guitar?”
“We have no idea,” Drake admitted. “Forensics has gone over the note completely and the note itself offers no physical clues. No DNA, and most of the prints on the thing belong to the kid who found it. Only one older print was found to be viable and it was Jill Paulson’s.”
The back door to the situation room gently opened, and a tall, casually dressed, older man carrying a folded brown paper bag entered. He quietly took a seat in the rear.
Drake acknowledged another questioner.
“Any significance to the note being on a torn piece of paper?”
Tom Drake’s face took on a slight smile. “We don’t know for sure yet, but—” He looked to the back of the room and made eye contact with the older gentleman who had just arrived. “Your timing couldn’t be better, John, thanks for coming in.”
Then, addressing the whole group, Drake said, “This is John Decker, who originally headed up the investigation into Jill Paulson’s disappearance. John, would you mind taking that last question?”
John Decker stood slowly. Several in the Syracuse meeting room turned around to face him and those participating by phone listened intently.
Decker’s voice was soft, deep, deliberate, and sincere. “Well, as Tom said, I headed the initial investigation into Jill’s disappearance. For me, this is that one case that just stays with you. I guess all us old dogs have one.”
Decker took a second to clear his throat. “Anyway, we never had anything concrete to go on. No real physical evidence. Nothing. But there was one detail—one almost literal piece of the puzzle—that always bothered me and has haunted me for almost twenty-five years. And it wasn’t answered until I got Tom’s call yesterday.”
Chapter 30
At this point, Decker had everyone’s undivided attention.
“I’m not at all sure it will help solve the case, but I think I can tell you where the paper the note is written on came from.” He paused for a minute as his brain visualized the mundane scene that was Jill Paulson’s home when he first saw it.
“There was really nothing unusual at Jill Paulson’s residence when we arrived there two days after she was last seen. There was some shattered glass in the kitchen, which was eventually determined to be the remains of a single drinking glass that appeared to have been thrown against the pantry door. There were three pieces of that glass big enough to lift prints from and all the prints found were those of Jill Paulson.
“But we also found a bag of groceries on the kitchen counter. Nothing to get excited about for sure. But a good-sized chunk of the bag was ripped off and missing.”
Decker unfolded the paper bag he had carried into the meeting room and which had been safely harbored between old detective books on his bookcase for the last two decades.
As he held up the bag for the others to see, he continued to explain. “We even checked with the grocery store the bag came from. The cashier remembered Jill coming in the day before she disappeared. She insisted that she would not have given Jill a bag that was torn in this way. Not enough to be considered evidence—I just held onto the bag because, like the case itself, it stuck in my mind like a splinter I couldn’t reach.”
The fact that the notepaper had actually been torn from the grocery bag would still need to be confirmed by a match-up. But everyone in the meeting room could clearly see, given the shape of the missing section compared to the shape of the note on the screen in front of them, that was almost certainly the case.
The retired detective motioned to acknowledge a raised hand in the back of the room. “Was the guitar checked out when the scene was processed?” asked the young man in the back, employing a tone that suggested any cop worth his salt would have ensured such checking took place.
To some extent, Decker seemed ready for this. “We dusted it. But no one looked inside if that’s what you’re getting at. Why would we?”
There was a brief pause in conversation and Drake, not wanting to get bogged down in what would have, could have, should have been done a quarter-century ago, took the opportunity to tie off this segment of the meeting. “So, we apparently now know where the piece of torn paper the note was written on came from, but we don’t know who tore it off the bag or why. It does seem that in her own home, Ms. Paulson would have chosen more conventional paper unless there were some unusual circumstances.
“The content of the note is actually of more value right now.” Drake began to read the note directly from the screen. “As you can see, the note simply says: ‘Dear Chad, I’m truly sorry, but I will have to break our dinner date for tonight. Maybe I’ll call home and explain later. All My Love, Jill.’
“There really is nothing remarkable about what this note says, save for one thing: Swan specifically stated that he and Ms. Paulson had no plans for the evening she disappeared. This inconsistency is what makes Swan a person of interest and very nearly an outright suspect in her disappearance.
“Now, we know Swan is aware of the discovery of this note, but we are fairly certain he does not know what it says. We also have reason to believe he will soon surface to find out.
“We are in the process of developing intelligence regarding where Swan is likely to turn up. We want all of you to be prepared. We expect to have to move very quickly once we have it confirmed that Swan is in play.
“Okay, I think that’s all I have. Other questions?”
Drake and Decker fielded a few more routine questions, after which Drake wrapped up the meeting, well within the one-hour time slot allotted.
Chapter 31
Then
July 25, 1987
Jill Paulson came to with a suffocating start. First came the distressing realization that her mouth was duct taped, the reason she couldn’t seem to get enough air. She next realized that she was sitting at her own kitchen table with her hands and feet bound to the chair she was sitting in.
As her chloroform hangover slowly cleared, she became aware of someone sitting beside her. With her wildly startled eyes, she saw a ski-masked figure dressed entirely in black, down to black tactical gloves. Her heart began to pound fiercely as she twisted and squirmed to no avail.
“Relax. I am not going to harm you,” Jill heard the dark form say. But was that a voice? Something was not right with that voice. It was like a machine’s voice.
“If you will be quiet and behave yourself, I will take the tape off your mouth. If you yell or scream when I take the tape away, I’ll just have to put you under again. Agreed?”
Jill stopped uselessly trying to free herself and nodded her agreement.
“Good. That will make things easier for me and more pleasant for you.”
The dark interloper began to slowly pull back the duct tape, taking care not to damage Jill’s tender flesh or soft lips. As the last of the tape pulled away from her mouth, her skin snapped back into place. She sat quietly for a full minute before saying anything.
“May I speak?” she asked.
“Yes,” the dark figure said.
“Who are you?”
“You can call me Romeo.”
“Romeo. Great. Why are you doing this?”
“You should not waste your time with questions like these.”
“Okay.” Jill sat silently for a moment, then asked, “May I have a drink of water?”
Romeo didn’t answer. He w
as still folding up the duct tape he had removed from Jill’s face. When he had it folded down to about a two-inch square, he slipped it between the index and middle fingers of his left hand. The way he held the folded piece of tape seemed odd to Jill, but she didn’t make the connection—not just yet.
He walked over to the cupboard, pulled down a drinking glass, and filled it with tap water. She fleetingly thought it odd that this Romeo seemed to know his way around her kitchen.
He slowly and gently brought the glass to Jill’s lips. “I’ll tip the glass so you can take a drink. When you’re done, blink your eyes and I’ll take it away.”
Jill indicated her understanding with a nod. As she started to drink, she heard Romeo saying. “Easy now. We don’t want you choking.”
When she’d had enough of a sip, Jill blinked her eyes and Romeo placed the glass on the table in front of her. As her mind continued to race, her glance came upon Romeo’s left hand, the piece of folded duct tape still stuck between his fingers.
That was when she began to remember. There was something about the way he held the tape between his fingers like that—it was familiar, from somewhere.
Then, just as he pocketed the telltale shred of tape, it dawned on her. She had seen him hold his playing cards between his fingers that same odd way. Even through the elaborate disguise, she was almost certain now that she knew who he was.
Without looking up to directly confront the dark invader, Jill cautiously asked, “Don’t I know you?”
Romeo stood silently still for ten full seconds—then abruptly exploded. The back of his hand swept violently across the table, sending the half-empty glass of water to a dramatic destruction against the pantry door. Then, through barely parted lips and clenched teeth, he seethed only one word. “No!”
Romeo's Tell (A disappearance mystery turned international thriller) Page 9