by W.H. Harrod
Terrance’s actions, once he arrived outside, resembled his earlier mini-freak out. He again questioned his presence in Harmony as he attempted to put aside those unsettling coincidences that continued to surface. Surely, he’d secured enough information by this time to allow him to go back home and produce a sensational story. Why should he hang around here if, as Mrs. Bidwell told him, there might be danger present?
Then a new thought came to mind. If the danger is from Howard Douglas, still the only suspect, and Howard Douglas is, in fact, Joseph Right, and if Joseph Right is now deceased, who is there to be afraid of? The answer, obviously, is no one.
Terrance glanced at his watch. Almost 6 p.m. He’d lost track of the time. “No,” he said, “you’re going to go back inside and finish this. Then you can return to the motel, sort things out, and make plans for tomorrow.” He left out food intentionally as plenty of snacks were left over from his trip over from Kansas. Turning abruptly, he headed back through the heavy metal library doors. Upon reentering the archive room, he quickly took noticed of the presence of a new person sitting behind the counter. A much younger white male appeared to pay little attention to Terrance as he passed by.
“That’s my stuff over there on the far table,” said a conspicuous-feeling Terrance as he passed by the young man. The bespectacled, cold-eyed, new attendant said nothing as he watched him until he took his seat at the table. The seeds of rampant paranoia sewn earlier began to sprout in all directions around Terrance’s receding zone of confidence. The hair on the back of his neck stood up. He sensed the new attendant staring at him. Possibly, the previous attendant informed her replacement that he was researching the time period when the Whiting murder took place. Maybe he’s one of the informants the landlady talked about? Oh, just shut up and finish your work.
Realizing there were but a couple more weeks in the November 1981, folder to review, his spirits lifted somewhat. He’d made a deal with himself on the way back in. If no additional revelations appeared in the remaining papers in the folder on the table, he was out of there. So with this in mind, he reopened the folder to the point where he previously stopped to take his most recent break. He turned to the last page reviewed before taking a deep breath in anticipation of viewing the next day’s headlines. The sudden rush of air being expelled from his lungs may have caused an unknowing bystander to suspect a stomach punch precipitated it. The next day’s headlines glared back at him. WHITING COMPANY A FRONT? FBI ENTERS CASE. All RTW Holdings, Inc. Records Are Seized.
Terrance fought to constrain himself from obeying his natural inclination to jump up and run outside to think about what he should do. “The FBI, the F-B-I?” he stammered. Now it involved the FBI. It’s one thing to worry about withholding information from a small town police department, but the FBI? You don’t mess around with the FBI. What had he gotten into here? You don’t have to go outside, he reminded himself. You can think it through right here.
Before he did anything though, Terrance glanced back towards the new attendant who, in turn, stared directly back. Right then, Terrance decided to retrieve his backpack from the chair beside him, ever so slowly open it as if to be looking for something inside, and then grab all his notes, shove them into the bag, and run like crazy out the doors to his strategically located get-away car. And absent the sound of the new counter attendant’s voice coming from a position of no more than three feet to his rear, he might well have made his move.
“Mr. Walker, may I remove these two folders piled here on the end of the table for you? That is, if you’re finished with them,” said the polite voice from behind him.
Terrance, upon hearing the unwelcomed sound, relaxed his grip on the backpack. Turning to face his imagined nemesis he forced a response. “Why, yes, thank you, that would be a great help.”
He wasn’t at all fooled by the obvious feigned cordiality exhibited by the attendant as he retrieved the folders and transported them to the storage room, so Terrance decided to wait for a better time to make his escape. This pallid creature, displaying an aversion to sunlight, had to be the mole Mrs. Bidwell alluded to earlier when she cautioned him to expect his inquiries to attract attention. Therefore, his research of the FBI investigation would continue as he waited for the right opportunity.
Terrance recalled reading any number of stories about other investigative reporters skulking around here and there ferreting out information. It all sounded so exciting from that vantage point. But now, as he sat in the trenches, it wasn’t nearly as much fun as he thought it might be. Matter-of-fact, this may very well be the first and last time for him. But first, he had to finish the job and get out of there.
He forced himself to return to his work. Not at all an easy task, but ultimately, his commonsense prevailed. Soon entirely new words and phrases appeared before him. Such as: International Cartel, Money Laundering Scheme, Mexican Mafia, Off Shore Holding Companies, Gambling, Narcotics, Prostitution, VP Possible Victim of Foul Play, and Anonymous Sources. The story exploded right in front of his eyes. To Terrance’s credit, the magnitude of this new information caused him to view everything from a more mature perspective. He now knew why Mrs. Bidwell said there might be danger. This could also explain at least part of the reason for Howard’s abrupt departure, taking nothing with him as he walked out the door of his home, and never looked back. But it didn’t answer the question as to whether or not he killed Richard Whiting. Possibly, he feared the cartel more than the police. To this very day as far as Terrance could determine, no one has ever accused Howard Douglas of the murder.
Terrance also realized that drawing more attention to himself would be the worse possible thing to do. He needed to be calm, finish his work, and get back to Kansas. One thing for sure, he wouldn’t be making inquiries at the high school tomorrow. He had all the information he needed. However, he still wanted to take photographs of Howard’s condo and the Whiting mansion, and lastly, to drive outside of town to a small graveyard to see Whitney McClain’s grave. For some strange reason, he felt he must do this. Not only is this whole thing starting to get dangerous, thought Terrance. Now, it’s starting to get surreal.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE