by Julie Cave
“I’ve already thought about it,” Ferguson said smoothly. “I think we’ll want to set up a joint task force, since Thomas Whitfield is so high profile. Also, we have reason to believe that his disappearance and murder is politically motivated.”
Samson Cage flexed his massive shoulders. “Whatever. I’ll let you and my chief handle it. I take it you want the crime scene?” He gestured at Dinah, who was ready to go.
Ultimately, both agents knew that the murder would be handled by the FBI, but there was no point getting into a discussion about it with Detective Cage.
Ferguson moved off to speak to the tow truck driver and the wrecking yard owner. Cage helped Dinah through the yellow tape and then left her alone.
Dinah stood still for a moment, looking at the big picture, imagining the wrecked Chevy as a blank canvas, hanging in space on its own, yielding clues that possibly had nothing to do with this wrecking yard or even this city.
It was an average family sedan and had once been silver with black trim. The nose and grill were completely crushed in and down, so much so that the wheel arches had been compressed onto the blown-out tires. The steering column had been pushed right into the driver’s seat. The roof had been crushed down and had imposed itself on the seat headrests. The back seats had been left relatively untouched. The trunk had been crushed inward, but not nearly to the same extent as the nose of the car. Both bumpers had fallen off, all four tires were blown, and the head and taillights were smashed beyond salvage. Dinah kneeled down and peered through the driver’s side window to see inside the car. There were still some of the owner’s personal effects inside the car. Dinah could see the rosary beads swinging from the smashed rearview mirror and a city directory hanging out of the glove box.
Dinah made several mental notes to herself: Who did the car belong to? Where had the killer obtained the car? How had he organized the car to be picked up by the tow truck driver?
She moved around to the trunk of the car and lifted the lid. The body of Thomas Whitfield had been unceremoniously jammed into the space left, and he lay on his left side, his wrists bound behind his back. His head was crusted with dried blood, so much so that the features of his face were almost unrecognizable. He was still dressed in the clothing he had gone missing in. Dinah tried to avoid touching the body, but she leaned closer to the body and looked around the trunk, searching for any clues. The crime scene techs would pick up most of the fibers, hair, and finer materials, but if Dinah could find any glaring evidence to direct the investigation, it usually meant a saving of days.
The trunk was otherwise bare, however. Dinah took some mental snapshots of the scene and backed away. The crime scene techs had set up their lights and equipment and were waiting to start.
Dinah walked under the yellow tape and started shedding her plastic protective clothing. Ferguson was waiting for her.
“How,” he inquired, “does the secretary of the Smithsonian end up murdered in the trunk of a Chevy?”
Washington, DC, 1996 — Thomas’s Story
Thomas Whitfield sat in the study of his Georgetown townhouse, researching his next article. There had recently been a discovery of several bacteria that had mutated in response to the antibiotics being used to kill them. The world’s media was worried about the “Super Bug,” a bacteria that couldn’t be killed. Thomas was more interested in the evolutionary ramifications of the discovery. It wasn’t often that scientists could examine evolution in action, and he was excited about researching it.
“Hi, darling!” Eloise Whitfield poked her head around the study door. “Your article has been published!” She waved a copy of a journal in her hand.
Thomas grinned. This was his first published article, and furthermore, it had been published in the most prestigious scientific journal in the world. Eloise brought it over to him, and he looked it up. There was his name and photo in highlights, with a blurb about him.
Thomas Whitfield is a molecular biologist and anthropologist who has extensively studied the relationship between people groups and their environments. Mr. Whitfield has spent time with indigenous tribes in Canada, South America, Australia, and Micronesia.
As Thomas read his blurb, he felt a warm glow come over his face. Finally, he was getting the recognition he deserved after many years of hard work and research. He was currently a fellow on the staff at the Washington University, and this publication would lift him well above his peers.
“Congratulations, honey,” Eloise said, her eyes glowing. “Why don’t we go out to celebrate tonight?”
Thomas was too preoccupied. Now that one article had been published, he was pumped up to keep churning them out. “Sorry, maybe some other time,” he said. “I need to keep working.”
“You’ve been in here all day,” objected Eloise, her elation at her husband’s success starting to fade.
“Everything is flowing really well at the moment,” Thomas said distantly. “I just want to make the most of it.”
When Eloise left the room, disappointed and angry, Thomas barely even noticed. He was on a roll and time ticked by, unnoticed.
When the phone rang in his study, it scared the life half out of him. His mind still pondering bacteria living and destroying a host body, he barely even remembered to say hello.
“Hi, Mr. Whitfield. I just wanted to congratulate you on your article,” a male voice said. “It’s excellent.”
“Thanks,” said Thomas, trying to place the voice.
“If you keep writing articles like that, your profile should continue to rise,” continued the caller. “I can foresee television spots in a few years.”
Thomas considered and then said, “Sorry, who is this?”
“Yes, let me introduce myself,” agreed the caller. “My name is Damon Mason. I am the president of the Individualist Association for Scientific Integrity. Although it’s not technically correct, we shorted it to IAFSI.” He pronounced it AY-fsee.
“I’m sorry, I haven’t heard of you,” admitted Thomas, starting to wonder what relevance his caller and his association had.
Damon Mason chuckled. “I guess you wouldn’t have. We like to keep a low profile. But we help our members be high profile.”
“What do you mean?”
“Our association has members who are scientists or specialists in their field, are exceptional in their field, and who show an ability to further our cause. In return, we — that is, the board — offer increasing media profiles for members. This can lead to more publications in scientific journals, media spots, televised debates, and in some cases, even book deals.”
Thomas started to listen harder. “Who have you helped so far?”
Damon named several scientists who regularly appeared on programs such as Good Morning America and Sixty Minutes.
Thomas left the world of viruses completely behind at that point and began envisioning himself on television. “What is your cause?” he asked.
“I’d like to meet with you in person,” Damon suggested. “I can tell you all about it and you can ask me questions.”
Thomas agreed and a date was set.
• • • •
Thomas and Damon met at a tiny coffee shop, far away from where both of them lived and worked. Thomas wasn’t sure what to expect from the other man. He had a mental image of a similarly scholarly figure like himself, but the Damon who walked through the door looked more like a lumberjack, with dark hair cropped short, a thick goatee, broad shoulders, and muscled hands.
They shook hands and Damon sat down opposite Thomas, unashamedly eyeing the other man up and down.
“It’s nice to finally meet you,” said Damon. “By that I mean I’ve done so much research into your scientific credentials that I feel as if I know you.”
Thomas wasn’t sure whether to feel flattered or disturbed. “Did you like what you discovered?”
“Yes, I was very impressed,” said Damon. Had Thomas seen him in the street, he’d have thought Damon the least likely candidate
to even understand the research Thomas had undertaken over the years. “I particularly liked your theory regarding the way humans and animals lived harmoniously for millions of years in their tribal cultures. The evolution of the human brain wasn’t yet advanced enough to forget that they had once been animals themselves living in the same surroundings. Brilliant stuff. The next step, the civilization of man, is another rung on the ladder of human evolution.”
“Yes, precisely,” agreed Thomas. “It’s a fine example of survival of the fittest — mankind is the dominant species on the planet.”
“Perfect. Let me tell you a bit about IAFSI,” suggested Damon as their coffees came. Surprisingly, the big man had ordered an espresso, and the tiny cup looked out of place in his big bear paw of a hand.
“We stand for the complete separation of church and state, to begin with,” explained Damon. “And, not unexpectedly, the majority of our members are atheists. We are mostly scientists of one form or another, although we have a handful of members from other intellectual professions. We believe that we live in an age of reason and rationality and we want to break the shackles of religious fundamentalism that are holding this nation back.”
“Okay,” said Thomas.
“We have all kinds of scientific evidence for the questions that have plagued humanity for so long,” continued Damon. “And mankind is intelligent enough to rule itself without relying on some God somewhere to ratify our decisions. Religious fundamentalism seeks to plunge us all back into the Dark Ages, when superstition ruled society. We want religion taken out of schools and workplaces, and to some degree, we’ve succeeded. But there is always work to be done, to combat religious fanatics who insist on cloaking scientific reason with their own brand of flawed logic.”
“I understand,” said Thomas. “Is that where the members come in?”
“Exactly. Our members write articles, appear in the media, and generally defend the principles of science in the public arena. This in turn raises their profile, which, of course, is invaluable to a scientist.” Damon paused for a moment. “Of course, it’s vitally important that before we accept you as a member, we understand where you stand. As your profile increases, you will be questioned about your beliefs.”
“Okay,” said Thomas. He drained his coffee and thought about it. He’d never actually given a great deal of attention to formulating his own ideas about God. “It’s pretty simple really. I believe in evolution and I believe that science holds the answers to all of life’s mysteries. I believe in what I can touch and see and experience. I find it difficult to believe in the concept of a God that I can’t see.”
“Good, that’s perfect,” said Damon enthusiastically. “You will note that many of our projects are scientific in nature. Let me explain. In schools you may have heard the debate raging around prayer in public schools and whether it should be allowed. Of course, we don’t think it should. But when it comes to causes we publicly support, it’s not one of them. We’d prefer to support the teaching of evolution in public schools. Whether people pray or not is not really our concern. What does concern us is children growing up believing in fairy tales about how we all got here when it’s clear there is now a scientific explanation for it. Does that make sense?”
“Sure,” said Thomas. “And I would agree. I don’t think I’d feel comfortable talking about whether prayer is right or wrong. But I certainly wouldn’t have any qualms in debating evolution.” He paused while he drained the last of his coffee. “Who are your main antagonists?”
Damon laughed. “Have a guess — they’re mostly from the Midwest. They call themselves young-earth creationists. In that regard, they take the Bible literally.”
Thomas frowned. “I must confess, I don’t know what a young-earth creationist is.”
“Well, to start with, they are fundamentalist Christians,” explained Damon. “They believe the earth was created by God in literally six days, as it says in the Bible. They also take the age of earth by adding up the genealogies in the Bible and so they say the earth is only about six thousand years old.”
Thomas shook his head, dumbfounded.
“Sadly,” continued Damon, “people actually believe them. They use dinosaurs and fossils and rock layers to ‘prove’ their theory. They’re pretty vocal and have a lot of support behind them, particularly the conservatives.”
“Amazing,” said Thomas. “I can’t believe they’re taken seriously.”
“Well, that’s what we’re here for,” said Damon. “Can we count on you to join our cause?”
Images of published books, articles, television spots, and the title of expert were floating through Thomas’s head when he replied, “Yes, absolutely.”
Washington, DC — Present Day
As the first pale threads of golden sunlight peered over the horizon like saffron filaments, the two agents drove directly to their office on Pennsylvania Avenue from the auto wrecking yard. Dinah was keyed up about the discovery of Thomas Whitfield’s body and eager to move forward.
“I’ve had a thought,” said Dinah at length, her mouth full of glazed donut. “I really want to get the board of regents together today.”
“Okay,” agreed Ferguson. “But why?”
“It’s something that has been bugging me,” explained Dinah. “Don’t you think it’s weird that the FBI was called about Thomas Whitfield’s disappearance in the first place?”
“Yeah, I guess so,” admitted Ferguson. “But we thought he’d been abducted. Kidnapping is a federal offense.”
“Right. But for the first few days we had a missing adult with no sign of foul play. There was no evidence of kidnapping. Yet we were still called. What would you do if somebody you knew had gone missing?”
“I’d call the police.”
“Exactly. You wouldn’t call the FBI.”
“So what are you saying?”
Dinah pursed her lips. “I don’t know yet. There just seems to be something off-kilter about it. I almost think that the person who first alerted the FBI knew what had happened to Thomas Whitfield before we did.”
“Well …that person was Catherine Biscelli,” said Ferguson thoughtfully.
They fell silent for a few moments, considering. “I’m just thinking aloud,” said Dinah. “Don’t put too much stock in it yet.” She picked up the phone and called Catherine Biscelli’s direct line. When the other woman answered, Dinah said, “Hello, this is Special Agent Dinah Harris.”
“Yes, Agent?” Catherine said imperiously. “I’m rather busy here at the moment.”
Dinah was silent for a moment as she was reminded of why she really didn’t like this woman. “Thomas Whitfield is dead,” she said after a lengthy pause, deciding not to bother with niceties. “He has been murdered.”
There was a gasp at the other end of the phone. “Oh no!” she exclaimed. “How terrible. Do you know who is responsible for this?”
“We have some leads,” said Dinah. “I need you to get the board of regents together immediately.”
“Oh …well, that’s going to take some time,” said Catherine. “The board is made up of some fairly influential and busy people, as I’m sure you know. I’m not sure….”
“I don’t care how busy or influential they are,” interrupted Dinah. “This is a murder investigation and I expect the board to cooperate with us fully. Otherwise I can charge you with obstructing the progress of an investigation.”
“You surely wouldn’t!” Catherine was outraged.
“Just get the board together and you won’t have to find out,” said Dinah. “I’ll call you back in an hour to organize our visit this afternoon.”
Dinah hung up before Catherine could reply. She turned to find Ferguson looking at her bemusedly. “You really don’t like her, do you?” he said, shaking his head. “One of these days you’re going to have to learn how to communicate with the human race again, you know that?”
“Yeah, maybe. Hey, you haven’t told me about your conversation with the wr
ecking yard owner or the tow truck driver.”
“Oh, right.” Ferguson flipped open his notebook. “The wrecking yard owner wasn’t much help. He pretty much saw the body in the car and that’s about it. I was more interested in the tow truck driver. He received a call at about four o’clock this afternoon. It wasn’t a client he knew — he normally receives calls from the police at the scene of an accident, or insurance companies. This was a random call. The car was found at the front of a property owned by a guy upstate. The guy was unhappy that the car had been dumped there and asked the tow truck to charge the owner of the car.”
“So the person who owns the property doesn’t own the car?”
“Right. He claims the car turned up the previous night. He waited all day for the owner to claim it.”
“So the car was crushed up like that when it appeared on the property?”
“Apparently. The guy who owns the property doesn’t recall hearing a car accident though. According to the local police, there is no record of an accident occurring in that vicinity over the past week. So I surmise that the car was picked up somewhere else and dumped, along with Thomas Whitfield’s body, to avoid detection for as long as possible.” Ferguson paused, flipping through his notes. “In fact, when you think about it, it’s possible we would never have found his body. The owner of the wrecking yard says he was going to crush the car into a cube because there was nothing to salvage. If he had just crushed the car without the trunk popping open, the body of Thomas Whitfield would never have been discovered and we would never have been sure that a murder had even taken place.”
“Yeah, that is lucky,” agreed Dinah thoughtfully. “Have we put a trace on the registered owner of the car?”