The Darwin Variant

by Kenneth Johnson

  Subj: High School Football Game, Ashton, GA, played 8/28/20

  To: FBI Atlanta Field Ofc, Georgia State Patrol, et al.

  Full 137-page PDF transcript of scene-by-scene analysis is available at:

  www.FBI.gov/forensics/digital/sub/AHS729416SA-7452

  Summary: In response to the request that this office examine numerous sequences of the aforementioned Ashton HS game, which were initially captured on cell phone and/or by the team’s student videographer and other civilian amateurs. Upon up-resolution of original footage to 8K video accompanied by FBI proprietary video enhancement and/or enlargement, and then meticulous frame-by-frame analysis of the resulting video, this office has confirmed that there were sixty-seven (67) clearly visible examples not only of unsportsmanlike conduct, but intentional brutality as has been described by several witnesses (full list in transcript). Twenty-eight (28) of those actions were called as penalties by the referees, the others were not.

  There were also a minimum of seventeen (17) other probable incidents that were not totally verifiable. Additional information provided by the Atlanta field office notes that seven (7) of the opposing team from Carrollton High School sustained serious injuries, four (4) required hospitalization and two (2) may have permanent damage.

  Courtesy FBI, ODF

  Simone Frederick. . .

  My husband, Clarence, shouted, “Yeah! Go Warriors!” as they literally stomped over two Carrollton players to make yet another touchdown. “Wow!” He enthused. “What a rout!”

  “And way too violent for high school,” I said firmly.

  “Well, it’s a rough-and-tumble sport, honey,” Clarence mansplained. Sometimes I wanted to smack him. Another Carrollton player got carried off the field while many around me shouted jubilantly for the Ashton boys. Clarence went on authoritatively, “But they’ve got much better equipment now, honey. Those new helmets—”

  I stood up and headed for a less hostile environment. I didn’t care if he was annoyed.

  Katie McLane. . .

  Late in the game when Mom leaned closer to me, she was almost gleeful. “God, Katie! It’s been a slaughter!”

  “. . . Yeah. It has.” I was worried. I’d long since stopped cheering. I didn’t like what I’d been seeing: how the whole Warriors team seemed to have the same new edge that Charley and Lisa had. Even Tim, who had always been such a good guy. I saw him step on one Carrollton guy’s hand and grind his cleats into it. The guy screamed, a ref turned, and Tim instantly switched into Mr. Nice Guy and helped the injured kid up.

  Darren glanced at me from the sideline. As concerned as I was.

  Lisa McLane. . .

  When the handgun was fired, signaling the end of the game, the home crowd erupted with the loudest, wildest cheer I’d ever heard for their victorious team. But I was totally livid.

  Charley got lifted onto the shoulders of his hard-breathing, triumphant teammates and carried toward the sidelines. Families and friends were streaming down onto the field to congratulate the players.

  I was moving slower, eyeing each guy carefully. Confirming my suspicions one by one. When Charley finally got set down, I pushed through the adoring crowd and sweating players to confront him up close. My voice was low and furious in his ear, “You gave it to ’em, didn’t you?”

  Charley turned to me, his face aglow with perspiration and the flush of victory. “What? C’mon, Lise. Did y’see how we ground up those little dickweeds! Wooo-eee!”

  Others nearby reached around me to bat at Charley and shout praise. I got even closer to his face. “You gave ’em the strawberries, didn’t you, you little shit!?”

  “Lisa, lighten up, Jesus!” He shouted off to another player, “Way to go, C.J.! Man, that last play was killer.”

  I pressed him, seething, “It was our secret, Charley! Just for us!”

  “Hey, c’mon, Lise, you said I ought to give it to the team so—”

  “I did not!” I flared angrily. “You absolutely should not have—”

  “Hey. Lisa?” Charley shrugged dismissively. “Fuck off, huh?” He let himself get pulled away from me by a group of laughing parents and students. I saw his eyes flash with pleasure from his newfound fame as he was swept off by their wave of enthusiasm.

  I stood rooted. Beyond mad.

  Charley Flinn. . .

  About an hour later, I’d ducked Lisa ’cause I didn’t feel like indulgin’ her drama. I was startin’ my third beer, drivin’ on a dark road through pine trees at the edge of Ashton. Me and Tim kinda made it up after the game. We were gonna drop off Steph, then meet some of the guys. We were all feelin’ the rush. Steph was in the back seat with Tim all jazzed up about what he and the rest of us did in the game. I adjusted the rearview so I could glance at ’em. Almost drove off the road once. They’d just been kissin’, but then Tim started around the bases, and she started fightin’ off his busy hands. She was gettin’ kinda squirmy, and when Tim’s hand slipped under her plaid Goodwill skirt and slid upward on her thigh, she was suddenly all: “No, Tim. Stop it!”

  And Tim was all, “Stephie, Stephie, take it easy. Just go with it.”

  And she said, “No. I don’t want to!” When his hand reached her panties, she pushed at him. “Stop!”

  Tim nuzzled her neck. “It’ll be really good.”

  “No! I mean it!” She was soundin’ desperate, now.

  “C’mon, Stephie, you know you want it.”

  “No, I don’t!” She slapped him, hard in the face.

  Tim saw red. Slapped her right back. Hard. “You little bitch!”

  Whoa. This was gettin’ good. I eased to a stop off the side of the road so I could pay attention. He ripped open the top of her dress. He musta been surprised as me to see that her boobs were larger than I thought and blooming out of the top of her bra. I felt a surge of blood rush to harden me up. And ol’ Tim was way ahead of me.

  “No! Will you stop it! Tim!” Steph was crying now or maybe fakin’ it. You know, wantin’ it but not wantin’ to say so. Lisa’d told me Steph was a virgin. “Charley!?” Steph shouted at me, “Make him stop!” I just held up my hands like, Hey, it’s between you two.

  Tim totally ignored Steph. He pulled her bra down and her skirt up, tearing through her panties. Steph cried out. But he was way stronger and rolled right on into it. She squealed, “No! Please!” And from the way she was gaspin’, I wasn’t sure if that meant “No, stop” or “Please, go.”

  Tim plowed on ahead while I watched from the front seat, suckin’ my beer as ol’ Tim dominated the situation.

  Katie McLane. . .

  Around midnight, I was coming down the stairs from my bedroom, wearing my nightshirt. Our Bernese mountain dog, Madison, galumphed along ahead of me, figuring I was headed for the kitchen and ever hopeful of getting a treat. But I slowed down when I heard Steph sobbing about Tim raping her! And then Jenna’s voice.

  “. . . I found her walking along the road. With half her clothes torn off. And that was after C.J. tried to rape me!”

  Easing down a little more, I pulled at Madison to keep her back and quiet. Then peeked through the partially open door into the kitchen.

  Steph was sitting, leaning her disheveled head on our oval oak table, quaking with sobs. Jenna had an arm around her and said, “We’ll call the sheriff.”

  “No!” Steph shouted tearfully. “My father would blame me!”

  Lisa stood still, not offering comfort but observing Steph’s anguish with what seemed like detached anger. Her voice was deadly calm as she finally nodded her head emphatically.

  “Okay. If the boys are going to have their little team, then we’ll just have to have ours.”

  Steph looked up, red-eyed, distraught and confused.

  Jenna also looked curiously at Lisa. “What do you mean?”

  I was wondering that, too. And worried.

  8

  CONSPIRACY

  Dr. Susan Perry. . .

  A week after I’d seen that rude Georgia ra
ncher and that strangely lush, cordoned-off peach orchard, I was reading a file as I walked across the CDC’s atrium. I was so engrossed that I was startled when I collided with Lauren.

  “Hey. Heads up, girl.” She smirked. I felt like a klutz, particularly because of her elegant Bacall-style, haughty demeanor. She’d actually seemed a bit more arrogant and aloof than usual in the last few weeks.

  “Oh, sorry,” I said, trying to regroup and push back a little. “Hey, have I missed a report, or have you not looked at those hog specimens and bird droppings I sent to you?”

  “Sorry, no. I’ve been swamped with a new project.”

  “Really? What?”

  She barely glanced at me, but I detected a secretive glimmer in her eyes. “I’ll call you next week, hon, fill you in.” Lauren smiled casually and moved on. I knew a dodge when I heard one.

  I watched her walk smoothly across the atrium to the man Prashant had pointed out before: Bradford Mitchell. I scanned the nearby area and noted four of the trim, gray-suited men and women with their tiny earplugs and stony faces. Lauren and Mitchell shared a quiet laugh, then walked out together, preceded and followed by the grays.

  I kept watching as they went outside. When I finally turned slowly to move on, I caught a glimpse of my reflection on a lab’s window. My brow was furrowed with a suspicious frown.

  Heading along the cluttered third-floor hallway, I saw Hutch approaching my office. He had on that faded, brown Montana U sweatshirt I liked because it set off his light-brown hair. But my thoughts were elsewhere. I said, “Did you ask for that info about where the comet fragments fell?”

  “Yes, ma’am, and good morning,” Hutch said with a slight inclination of his head.

  I drew up apologetically. “Sorry, I’m a little preoccupied. Hi.”

  He smiled. “And with our government’s usual efficiency, we may have an answer shortly before we retire.” Then he casually moved closer and spoke hesitantly, “Would you maybe like to have dinner while we wait?”

  I smiled faintly as I turned into my office. I’d sensed this invitation coming and had decided how best to handle it. “Sure.” Adding nonchalantly as I picked up an iPad, “I’d love to meet your wife.”

  Behind me I heard him say quietly, “Marianne woulda liked you.”

  I looked back, saw his wistful expression, and my face flushed. “Oh. I’m sorry.” Hutch nodded, gracefully accepting my sympathy. “Has it been long?”

  “Two years. In Namibia.” He looked away and, I sensed, back two years into a dusty village with its grass huts, dung heaps, buzzing insects, stone ovens, and coal-black native children with their huge, gentle, beseeching eyes. I knew it all too well. “We were with MSF.” Médicins Sans Frontières was the original French name of Doctors Without Borders. I processed it instantly: MSF, Namibia, two years back. I drew a sharp, fearful breath as he sadly confirmed it. “Ebola.”

  I had seen that particular horror firsthand. Despite my most intense efforts, I had lost many patients to the fearsome virus, which ate away and destroyed living flesh. Hutch was leaning one hand on my desk. My fingertip touched one of his. It was a moment of sincere professional understanding coupled with a tender personal connection. But we were jarringly interrupted as birdlike Prashant flitted into the room with a file folder clutched to his thin chest and his paranoid eyes narrowed conspiratorially.

  “All right. All right,” he hissed quietly, casting a furtive glance out into the hall to be certain no gray-suits were hovering within earshot. Then he continued, speaking low, “I did some more homework, Susan. Check out our pal Mitchell.” He pulled some news photos from his file. “The guy’s a power broker.” They were shots of Mitchell in various uniforms. “He was a major, see? Army. Then a lieutenant colonel. But reduced back to major again.” He pointed to a summary page he’d created on his iPad.

  I scrolled through the document as Prashant recited it.

  Mitchell, Bradford Howell

  Born: November 17, 1971—(Base Hospital) Fort Benning, Georgia

  Father: Randolf Kane Mitchell, Army drill instructor, retired as master sergeant

  Mother: Ruth Elsworth Howell, political activist, (today would be “alt-right”)

  Physical: Height: 6’4”, Weight: 215, Hair: Brown, Eyes: Brown

  Medical: Appendectomy (scar), Rotator cuff R (scar); Knife wound L shoulder (scar)

  Meds: Lipitor Allergies: Shellfish Blood: AB- Physical Condition: Excellent

  Schooling: Virginia Military Institute, United States Military Academy (West Point)

  Collegiate Career: Part of an elite group of cadets known as the “star men.”

  Captain of championship wrestling team. Captain of track and field team.

  One of ten of 1,000 applicants admitted to premedical studies. Later said not really interested in medicine but took the course of study because it was the hardest rock to climb. Graduated first in his class.

  Early Military: Joined infantry as Distinguished Cadet. Volunteered for Ranger training. Finished with top honors and legendary status among his teammates.

  Command and General Staff College, Ft. Leavenworth, KS: Winner General George C. Marshall Award for top graduate.

  Princeton University, School of International Affairs: Masters & Doctorate.

  Doctoral Thesis: “Counterinsurgency in Vietnam.” Began developing different theories about winning over populace.

  Later Military: Baghdad, later Mosul as general staff officer, army intelligence. Emphasis on human intelligence (HUMINT) gathering. Cultivated relationships. Rose swiftly. Promoted to major. Then lt. colonel in Bosnia.

  Personal Conflict: His superior officer, Brigadier General Maxwell Torkington, pressed for a “hearts and minds” approach in winning over Mideast adversaries, which Mitchell claimed had been co-opted from the core principal of Mitchell’s own doctoral thesis. He insulted Torkington in public, was disciplined by military tribunal, and reduced back to major. He soon quit the army.

  Post-Military: Extensive work in private and corporate security. Also involved with NGO intelligence-gathering operations.

  Courtesy Dr. Susan Perry

  Dr. Susan Perry. . .

  Prashant pointed out a small article he’d scanned from The New York Times. “He was so mad at the army he returned his decorations. Then he did private corporate security work, including for some companies in Alabama and Georgia. He also became involved with those NGOs.” Prashant went on with quiet intensity, “His work became more difficult to trace. They were involved in dark ops.”

  Hutch glanced at him. “You mean black ops?”

  Prashant nodded vigorously. “Yes, yes. Black ops. Dodgy undercover stuff. Two of the military contractor groups he worked with were accused of many abuses. Torture. Even murders.”

  I scrolled through some of the additional pages on the iPad. “Is there any actual proof of Mitchell being personally involved in any of that?”

  “Not that I have yet found,” Prashant said. “I am still digging. But my grandmother in Mumbai always said to me, ‘Be careful, Prashant, you are known by the company you keep.’”

  I felt the weight of my lobby encounter a few minutes earlier. “I just saw him with Lauren again. And there were a couple of gray-suit types that whisper into their lapels.”

  Hutch was pondering it all. “Okay. But what’s he doing here?”

  “Exactly,” Prashant said. “That is the sixty-dollar question.”

  I knew he meant sixty-four thousand, he was frequently a little off. And I knew he might be off again regarding Mitchell.

  “That’s the third time he’s been here then,” Prashant confirmed. Then he glanced around to be certain that no one other than Lilly could hear as he leaned closer to Hutch and me. “Did Lauren say anything about that porcine tissue you had sent to her?”

  “Just that she was busy with—”

  “Some new project, right?” Prashant cut me off with an arched eyebrow, as though he had just revealed proof of his
suspicions. “Which she is extremely secretive about, logged as CAV.”

  My brow knitted. “I haven’t heard anything about that.”

  In the hall outside my office, I noticed someone edging slightly closer to the doorway, then I saw it was only Joseph, our gentle custodian, making his usual broom-and-dustpan rounds.

  “I am not surprised,” Prashant said darkly. “She has put a private entry code on the new files. I have not cracked it yet, but I’m telling you, Lauren is up to something very peculiar.”

  Only in hindsight did I later recall that Joseph had paused outside my door for a moment, occupied with his dustpan. Had I chanced to observe him more carefully, I might have noted in Joseph’s eyes something uncharacteristic of him: that unsettling, superior gaze which I’d detected in the eyes of Petey, the farmworkers’ child; the patronizing rancher Hickock; and the steely military policeman. And perhaps also in Lauren’s.

  Eric Tenzer. . .

  Grading my students’ latest essays the afternoon before the next football game, I was intrigued by the higher erudition many of my seniors suddenly exhibited. Charley Flinn’s unprecedented analysis of Conrad’s novel seemed to have triggered a surge of intellect, particularly odd because it was only among the boys. Then in my other senior class, Lisa McLane had a similarly abrupt increase in scholastic ability. When I asked Lisa about it, she smoothly attributed it to my “stellar abilities as a teacher.” Flattering, of course, but their sharp intellectual spike struck me as definitely peculiar.

  That it oddly coincided with the football team’s new aggressiveness didn’t occur to me until the next Friday’s game. The Warriors didn’t just slam viciously into the boys from Americus High. Led by Charley’s sly quarterbacking, the entire Ashton squad played more cleverly as they chewed through Americus, causing many bloody injuries, and repeatedly trouncing them brutally.

  Katie McLane. . .

  The game against Americus was even uglier than last week’s. But most of the crowd loved that we were winning. I saw Sheriff Randolph happily shove a huge mouthful of hot dog into his round cheeks and nudge Darren’s dad beside him. “I tell you, Rupert, these guys are unbeatable!” Then he shouted toward the field, “Go Warriors! Yeah!”