by Chris Mooney
‘There are things I have to give you from Karim’s lawyer.’
‘Leave everything on the bed. Call a cab and come out wearing nothing but the clothes I purchased for you.’
‘Where am I going now?’
‘To the Clarion Inn on West Elm Street. Wait for me inside the lobby.’
‘How do I know you’re coming?’
‘You don’t,’ Fletcher said, and hung up.
He memorized the makes, models and locations of the cars parked in the motel lot and alongside the road. The cab came fifteen minutes later. M stepped out of the motel wearing the clothes he had purchased for her – sandals, bright blue fleece-lined sweatpants and a matching sweatshirt. She couldn’t run in sandals.
The cab pulled away. He left the alley and walked around the boulevard, watching the motel. He ducked into several shops. Slowly he made his way through the back streets around the motel and kept watching. Nothing changed, nothing happened.
Finally, after an hour of surveillance, he went back to his room.
M had dumped her clothes inside the bathtub and filled it with water. He sorted through them and went to the bed. She had laid out the items very neatly – her car keys, a leather wallet with a money clip that could easily fit inside a pocket, and a compact SIG SAUER. The package from Karim’s lawyer was sealed. Fletcher opened it, found ten thousand dollars in cash and a new pair of contact lenses that matched a passport and Washington licence for Francis Harvey. The handwritten note Karim had included contained all the necessary information to access an account set up at a Cayman Island bank.
Inside the gym bag he found a netbook computer and a CD tucked inside a jewel case.
Fletcher removed a pair of headphones from his backpack and connected the audio jack into an RF Bug Detector. The palm-sized unit used by the government could detect phone taps, hidden cameras, eavesdropping devices, cell-phone bugs and GPS trackers in a range up to 9GHz.
Fletcher scanned the items left on the bed. They were clean.
He placed the car keys inside his pocket. Everything went inside the backpack, except the contacts. He put those on in the bathroom.
Fletcher collected the recorder he had placed underneath the bed. He plugged the audio jack for the headphones into the recorder, turned up the volume and pressed PLAY. He heard Emma White moving through the room and then listened to their phone conversations. He heard her slip out of her clothes and he heard her run the bathwater and call the cab. She didn’t call or speak to anyone else.
Fletcher hung the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on the doorknob and left the motel, slipping on his sunglasses. When he reached the Cadillac Escalade, he discreetly checked the outside for a GPS tracker. The bug detector did not go off. Next he checked the interior. The bug detector did not go off. The car was clean.
The hotel where he’d sent M had a parking lot in the back. Fletcher pulled into the nearly empty lot and checked to make sure he had an escape route. There was a road near the dumpster. He parked, left the engine running and loaded the CD into the netbook.
66
Four video files had been burned on to the compact disk. The first one was footage from the treatment room. Fletcher skipped it for the moment, wanting to watch the video taken from the security camera positioned inside the garage.
Boyd Paulson walked across the driveway, heading for the BMW. He popped the trunk. Then a figure appeared from around the outside corner of the garage. Boyd had turned to the sound and was shot in the head.
Fletcher paused the video. Then he clicked through each frame, stopping when he had a good view of the shooter’s face – not the woman from Colorado but a man. The woman’s partner, Fletcher suspected. The man was roughly the same size as Boyd – five foot ten – but he was wider. Fatter. The left side of the shooter’s face … something was wrong with it. Fletcher couldn’t see anything specific. The man was too far away from the camera, and there wasn’t enough light.
Fletcher found out on the third video, the one showing the fat man rushing into the treatment room and apprehending Dr Sin at gunpoint.
The man had been in some sort of accident; what remained was a face drawn by Picasso – a jagged, scarred mess of severed nerves that resulted in a sagging eyelid and a permanent crooked grin. He bound Dr Sin with zip ties and carried Nathan Santiago out of the room.
The final video showed Santiago being loaded into the backseat of the Lincoln. The disfigured man made a return trip inside the house. He came back with Dr Sin and placed her gently inside the trunk – gently because the man knew the woman was a doctor, and he needed her to remove Nathan Santiago’s organs. If that was true – and Fletcher suspected it was – the disfigured man and his partner, the woman in the fur coat, were holed up somewhere.
Fletcher called M.
‘Meet me in the hotel parking lot,’ he said, and hung up.
Here she came. She did not run, even though she shivered in the cold wind. He found the car controls and turned up the heat.
M slid into the roomy passenger’s seat and kept her body pressed close to the door. Her eyes were cold, but not from anger.
He didn’t drive away. He turned slightly in his seat and said, ‘You left your sidearm on the bed, but not your knife.’
‘What knife?’
‘The one you carry with you at all times. The one tucked underneath your left-hand sleeve.’
She tilted her head. ‘How did you know?’
‘The fine scars on your palms and wrists. Give it to me handle-first please.’
‘No.’
‘Do you want to help Karim?’
‘What kind of question is that?’
‘Give me the knife and you’ll find out.’
M stared at him for a moment before dipping a hand inside her sleeve. She displayed no emotion at being found out.
She came back with a Smith & Wesson Special Operation Bowie knife with a black aluminium handle and a seven-inch black stainless-steel blade. She placed it handle-first against his waiting palm.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘How long have you been practising Bowie knife-fighting?’
‘Only a few months.’
‘Please lean forward and place your hands on the dashboard.’
‘I’m not wired.’
‘I need to be sure.’
‘No.’
‘Then you can’t help Karim. Goodbye.’
Fletcher opened his door, about to step out, when she said, ‘Wait.’
He shut the door. M did not lean forward. She pulled the sweatshirt over her head and dumped it on the floor. Then she slipped out of her sweatpants. Every inch of her body was exposed. No wire, just smooth skin and a slight puckered scar on her left shoulder.
She showed no sense of self-consciousness at being nude. Nor should she. M had worked exceptionally hard on her body.
‘Satisfied?’
‘Very much so,’ Fletcher said. ‘My apologies for having put you through this. You’ll understand my reasons momentarily.’
67
Fletcher divided his attention between the road and the SUV’s rearview and side mirrors. While he felt confident that they were safe, he needed to remain vigilant.
M had finished getting dressed. She sat with her palms flat on her thighs and stared out of the front window with that impenetrable glare that hid her emotions. Her mind, he knew, was very active.
‘Where are we going?’
Fletcher didn’t answer.
‘I don’t like surprises,’ she said.
Of course you don’t, Fletcher thought.
He needed to address it. Now.
‘Your rating,’ he said. ‘What is it?’
She cocked her head towards him.
‘During CARS testing, you were given a rating,’ he said. ‘What is it?’
Her face was a blank mask, but he’d caught the fury building in her eyes at having been found out.
‘Childhood Autism Rating Scale,’ he said. ‘The diagnostic tool measures �
��’
‘I bloody well know what it is. What did Karim tell you?’
‘He didn’t. He would never betray a confidence.’
That seemed to relax something inside her. ‘Then who told you?’
‘You did.’
Fletcher didn’t elaborate, wanting her to ask the questions so she could control the flow of information, process and store it. The autistic mind demanded order.
‘How did – what gave me away?’
‘The way you kept your distance on the plane when you shook my hand,’ Fletcher said. ‘The way you’re keeping your distance from me right now by keeping your body pressed up against the car door. Like all autistics, you’re aggressively protective of your personal space. And you abhor physical contact – you undressed rather than allowing me to touch you.’
‘I don’t like being touched by people I don’t know.’
‘When I called and told you about what happened to Karim, your tone was calm and neutral in the way all autistics discuss emotional matters.’
‘I was focused on helping him – on helping you.’
‘You have a difficult time maintaining eye contact even though I’m wearing sunglasses. You walked to the car instead of running because you’re in a new setting and need time to absorb it so you don’t overload your senses. And there’s your insistence on knowing our exact destination.’
M was no longer looking at him. She was staring out of the window, her gaze darting over the houses and street signs.
‘There’s no reason to feel ashamed,’ he said.
‘I’m not. Are you ashamed of the way your eyes look, Mr Fletcher?’
‘I wish they were different. It would make my life much simpler, but there’s nothing I can do to change it.’
‘I don’t wish to change what I am, and I’m certainly not ashamed of who I am.’
‘I wasn’t suggesting you should be. You’re quite adept at handling emotional regulation. I suspect people don’t know you’re autistic.’
‘They don’t. People think I’m cold. Different. I choose to be private. And, regardless of what my tone says, I do care about Karim.’
‘Of that I have no doubt, Miss White.’
‘Don’t call me that. I’m not anyone’s “miss”.’
‘What’s Karim’s condition?’
‘He’s in a coma,’ she said. ‘His personal physician is there, in New Jersey. He wants to move Karim to Manhattan.’
‘When?’
‘Sometime later today. Possibly tomorrow. I have no intention of turning you in, if that’s what you’re wondering.’
‘I believe you.’
‘I would hope so.’
M kept studying the landscape, memorizing signs and routes. She kept squeezing her knees. A coping mechanism, Fletcher thought.
‘Forty-six point eight,’ she said. ‘That’s where I fell on the CARS scale.’
Her words carried a sharp edge, as though she’d never been able to dislodge herself completely from the diagnosis.
‘The number is complete bollocks,’ she said. ‘It says I’m incapable of functioning in social situations, incapable of forming or maintaining relationships. I have friends, I’ve had a number of satisfying sexual relationships, and I don’t shy away from social situations. I can hold a conversation. I’ve learned through reading textbooks and from experience to pick up nuances in speech and body language so I can mirror social situations. And I can speak about myself when I feel it’s appropriate, like now.’
But not without great effort, Fletcher thought. Even equipped with all her textbook knowledge and hard-learned experiences, each day she had to fight her way through an alien land plagued with people autistics called neurotypicals. He suspected she lived in a constant state of exhaustion.
Clearly M fell into the high-functioning category on the autism spectrum. Clearly what saved her from a life of complete isolation and loneliness was a high intelligence quotient.
‘I’ve answered your questions, and now I want you to answer mine,’ she said. ‘Is it true what they’re saying about you on the telly and in the papers?’
‘Which part?’
‘They said you killed three agents sent to arrest you.’
‘They weren’t federal agents.’
‘Who were they?’
‘CIA operatives skilled in wet work. They were dispatched to make me disappear.’
M turned in her seat and gave him her full attention. She was watching his face very closely now.
‘Tell me,’ she said. ‘Tell me everything.’
68
The unique psychodynamics and wiring of the autistic brain demanded structure and clarity. Fletcher took a moment to gather his thoughts.
‘When the Behavioral Analysis Unit was first established,’ he said, ‘we were working with a number of psychiatrists who specialized in violent crime. They were assisting us in developing our profiling methods. While interviewing incarcerated serial killers and mass murderers, we learned that, in addition to being overwhelmingly male, they all exhibited certain key traits during childhood.’
‘Broken and abusive homes, bedwetting, torturing animals, etcetera.’
Fletcher nodded. ‘A good majority also had neurological impairments from past trauma. It changed their brain chemistry. In a few rare cases, their brains had been formed that way in the womb.
‘While working as a profiler, I discovered that Behavioral Analysis was engaged in classified research, something called the BMP – the Behavioral Modification Project. Three psychiatric hospitals were involved. They sifted through lists of juvenile offenders in their respective cities and towns and with the help of Behavioral Analysis identified those young males who exhibited traits associated with serial killers and mass murderers. The stated goal was to remove these potential killers from their environment and give them access to therapy and medical resources, education and, later, employment opportunities that were unavailable in their former existence – all of it funded by federal dollars.
‘In reality, BMP was using these young men to test a vaccine being developed to eliminate, or at least curb, male violence and aggression.’
‘The profiling unit was involved in human medical testing?’ M asked.
‘Not the entire unit. The director of Behavioral Analysis at the time was involved, along with three other agents. There were also a number of high-ranking agents within the Bureau who were profiting from the testing.’
‘Profiting?’
‘A vaccine that would curb or eliminate violence would be worth billions of dollars to the drug company that could successfully manufacture it. They paid handsome sums of money to the three hospitals providing the patients.’
‘You mean guinea pigs,’ she said.
Fletcher nodded. ‘The agents involved doctored paperwork so the patients would never be found. They were generously compensated.’
‘Were you involved?’
‘No. I discovered what was going on by accident.’
‘Did this vaccine work?’
‘No. All the patients died.’
‘How many?’
‘Dozens, possibly hundreds,’ he said. ‘I was never able to find out an exact number.’
M digested this for a moment.
Then she said, ‘Go on.’
‘The test subjects were carefully selected so their deaths wouldn’t raise any questions. The paperwork was doctored in advance, and after a patient died his medical file was transferred from one facility to another. With no one looking out for these young men, these mass murders were washed away in tides of bureaucratic paperwork.’
‘And the bodies?’
‘We never found them.’
‘We? Another agent was helping you?’
‘No,’ Fletcher said. ‘Karim was helping me. I helped him on a … private matter a long time ago. He said if I ever needed a favour, I should call him. After the three psychiatric hospitals associated with the BMP shut down, I asked Karim to discree
tly search for evidence. Two of the hospitals were set in private, wooded areas. He hired forensic archaeologists to study the topography for burial sites. Nothing came of it.’
‘What about the parents? Surely one of them must have –’
‘Most of the patients were orphans. Wards of the state. Of those who did have a parent, the mother or father wanted nothing more to do with their troublesome son. No one wanted these young men, and no one came looking for them after they died.’
‘That’s …’ She didn’t finish the thought.
‘Barbaric?’ Fletcher prompted.
‘I was going to say ghoulish.’
‘History gives us examples at every turn,’ Fletcher said. ‘Let’s take your British government – their child-migration scheme. The British wanted to dispose of those members of society who would be a drain on their financial system, so they rounded up thousands of poor and orphaned children and shipped them off to Catholic monasteries in Australia. The Aussies received free slave labour, and the orphans were treated to decades of sexual abuse, beatings and death.’
‘That happened in the early 1800s.’
‘And continued well into the mid-1800s, when the Children’s Friend Society continued to send vagrant children to Australia and Canada,’ Fletcher said. ‘The truth wasn’t made public until 1987, when a British author and social worker took it upon herself to launch an independent investigation. And then we have the esteemed myrmecologist, psychiatrist and eugenicist, Auguste Forel, who, in the thirties, convinced Swiss officials to adopt a racial-hygiene law. Over sixty thousand women were sterilized. Hitler later adopted a similar eugenic law, and we know what occurred there. Here in America we have the Tuskegee syphilis experiment in the thirties, where the United States Public Health Service infected nearly four hundred impoverished black sharecroppers with syphilis. Voltaire said, “History doesn’t repeat itself – man does.” ’
‘Voltaire?’
Fletcher sighed. ‘Never mind,’ he said. ‘The British government hid their sins, just as the American government used its vast influence and powers to hide the Behavioral Modification Project. I was in the process of collecting the necessary information to expose what was happening when the three aforementioned CIA operatives were dispatched to my home.’