by Julie Cave
He was relaxing in his study late one night re-reading an article he had written about the correlations between the diets of early Neanderthals and apes. The diets had been very similar, proving that Neanderthal man had not yet completely severed their ties with their ape cousins and that the evolution of man was still in its infancy. The article had been published in Nature journal.
The phone rang next to him, startling him. “Hello?”
“Hi, it’s Damon. I’m just reading your latest article about the whole diet thing.”
“What do you think?” asked Thomas. He still felt absurdly proud when he had something published.
There was a pause, much longer than Thomas would have liked. “Look, it’s a great article,” said Damon at length. “It’s accurate and precise and exactly what it should be.”
“What’s the problem?” Thomas asked, frowning. He had thought it was one of his best articles.
“Well. It’s just that, it’s very …scientific.” Damon cleared his throat. “Which of course it’s supposed to be, but you know, it’s a bit . . . dry.”
“It’s not a short story,” said Thomas curtly. “It’s a scientific article.” He was confused. He thought he had been doing what IAFSI had asked him to do.
“Right. Well, I didn’t mean it like that. It’s not the way the article is written exactly, it’s the content.”
“Why don’t you tell me exactly what it is you’re trying to say,” suggested Thomas. “I’m incredibly confused.”
“Yes. Right. What I’m trying to say is: I wonder if there is any way to add to the article, in a very subtle way, that this proves there was no intelligent designer or creator? You know, you take the first step by saying evolution is science, and presenting the evidence. It would be great if you could take the second step and say that this clearly disproves the existence of a creator or designer.” Damon’s tone changed slightly, and Thomas immediately understood that he wasn’t making a request exactly; it was more like a directive.
“You want me to be more anti-God in my articles,” said Thomas flatly. “Is that what you’re getting at?”
“I just don’t want readers missing that second point, you know?” Damon said. “Even the most intelligent scientist might not get the second point unless it was spelled out.”
“Okay,” said Thomas, suppressing a sigh. “If that’s what you want.”
“Look, I know you’re purely a scientist,” said Damon. “But we have multiple areas of influence. You aren’t the only scientist we’re championing, you know.”
Thomas knew this to be an understated threat, but a threat nonetheless. “I get it, trust me,” he said. “I’ll do as you ask.”
“Great!” Damon’s tone brightened. “I hope you’re sitting down — I have some exciting news!”
“What?”
“Would you like to try television?”
Thomas felt a tremor go through him. “Are you serious?”
“We need someone to do a spot on American Morning,” said Damon. “It’ll be a quick spot, but we need an expert. I’m still getting the information on what the spot will be about, but are you interested?”
“Absolutely!” Thomas was almost speechless.
“Okay. I’ll start to organize it then. In the meantime, I need you to brush up on what we’ve just talked about.”
“What, the anti-God thing?”
“Yes. We need you to be crystal clear if you’re going to be on television.” Damon paused. “We wouldn’t give this opportunity to just anyone, you know.”
“You can count on me,” said Thomas hastily.
“You’d better get to it,” suggested Damon. “We never get much notice of these things and the program is likely to want you in only a few days.”
Thomas hung up and stared moodily at the screen saver on his laptop. He’d always known, deep down, that it wasn’t possible to get something for nothing. IAFSI wasn’t going to give him all the opportunities they had without something in return. What’s the big deal, anyway? he asked himself. They weren’t asking him to espouse a view he didn’t already hold. Anyway, he was going to be on television. The excitement of that alone soon dealt with any uneasiness he had about Damon’s request.
“Are you nearly ready, honey?” Eloise asked from the doorway, startling him.
“Ready for what?” Thomas asked, glancing up at her. She was dressed up, wearing her best black cocktail dress.
“Tell me you haven’t forgotten!” exclaimed Eloise. “We’re going to the opera with Harold and Cynthia tonight.”
“Oh.” Thomas couldn’t have sounded any less enthusiastic if he’d tried. “I’m really busy here. Did you know I’ve been asked to go on television?”
“We need to leave in 15 minutes,” said Eloise sharply. “Are you going to be ready?”
“Can’t you tell Harold that I’ve got the flu or something?”
“This is not about Harold. I want you to come,” said Eloise.
“I’m sorry, honey. I’ve really got too much to do. I need to prepare for my television program.”
Eloise clenched her fists at her sides and spoke through clenched teeth. “I’ve barely seen you in I don’t know how long. Are you sure this is what you want to do?”
A more perceptive man may have realized that his wife’s deceptively soft tone hid a much larger anger. But Thomas was too wrapped up in his impending fame. “Thanks, honey,” he said cheerfully. “I knew you’d understand.”
When Eloise left the house ten minutes later, she slammed the front door so hard the whole house shook.
Thomas barely noticed.
• • • •
The woman holding the makeup brush hovered near Thomas, trying to get in a few final swipes of powder on his nose. Thomas was going through his notes again, memorizing the important parts.
“Are you ready?” the carefully made-up and coiffed host asked, looking immaculate even though she’d been up since 3 a.m.
Thomas could only nod, hoping that when the interview went live, he would find his voice.
The American Morning introduction music swelled and the two anchors smiled professionally at the cameras.
“Welcome back to American Morning,” said the host in her honeyed tones. “Our next guest is a well-known anthropologist, Thomas Whitfield, who is a prolific writer and has tenure at Washington State University. He is here to discuss the latest fossils found in the desert in central Africa, which are thought to be some of the most significant discoveries in recent times.” She turned to Thomas, who forced himself to stop fidgeting. “Just what is so significant about these particular fossils, Professor Whitfield?”
“What makes this discovery so exciting,” replied Thomas, relieved that he was speaking and that it made sense, “is that we have now found six species of sub-human fossils in the same area of Africa. All six species are different and seem to represent different links in the evolutionary chain of human development.”
“So are these fossils the ‘missing link’?”
Thomas smiled. “Not exactly. What I can say is that the discoveries of these fossils do provide continuity through time. What I mean by that is that we can see a steady progression of man’s ancient ancestors from sub-human to human.”
“Over what time period, Professor Whitfield?”
“We believe it to be over six million years, if we date all the fossils found in that particular area of Africa. Discoveries like these help to fill in the gaps about how our human ancestors made the leap from one species to another. We can see steady evolution of the shape of the skull, the appearance of sharper, carnivorous teeth, and height.” Thomas paused. “Over the six-million-year time period, we see our ancestors getting larger skulls and, by default, brains; become taller and stronger, and turn from herbivores to carnivores.”
“Is it possible that the two or more of the sub-species evolved independently of each other?” the host asked, looking down at her notes.
“Sure,” agree
d Thomas. “It’s certainly possible. However, the qualifying evidence in this case is that each species gets stronger. Even if some of them evolved independently, the weaker species became extinct as the stronger species took over. It’s one of the foundational precepts of evolution — survival of the fittest.”
The host flashed a million-watt smile. “Thank you for your time, Professor Whitfield,” she said, turning back to the camera. “After this commercial break, the results of our back-yard swimming pool survey are in!”
The mood on the set momentarily relaxed as the cameras stopped filming, and the crew rushed at Thomas, removing his microphone and ushering him off the set. The host and her co-anchor didn’t leave their positions but shook Thomas’s hand and thanked him for being part of the show.
Thomas left the studio, feeling elated. He’d gotten through his first live television spot pretty well, he thought. He’d managed to sound articulate and competent, and that was all he was worried about.
Seconds later, his cell phone chirped.
“That was great!” enthused Damon. “How do you feel?”
“Pretty good,” admitted Thomas. “It wasn’t as hard as I thought.”
“She called you well-known and prolific,” Damon went on. “That was perfect. I’m sure they’ll ask you back.”
“Really? Wouldn’t they just get someone new?”
Damon laughed. “No. The networks like to get the same experts back time and time again. It helps build viewer trust. Do you know what I think will happen?”
“What?” Damon’s excitement was infectious.
“I’m seeing regular spots on American Morning. And then I’m seeing a televised debate!”
“What, like the presidential candidates do?”
“Right! It’s never really been done before, but I think we can pull it off in this climate,” said Damon, sounding like he was starting to talk to himself. “Yes, it’s coming together, Thomas. I’ll talk to you later. I just wanted to tell you how great you were!”
As Thomas walked to his car, he felt it was time to congratulate himself. It was all starting to come together — the published articles, tenure at the university, television appearances. His profile was rising, the money was starting to pour in, and he was regarded as one of the most proficient scientists in his field.
It was perfect. It was what life was all about, wasn’t it?
Chapter 9
As Dinah stood, gathering her notes from the phone conference with Andy Coleman, Ferguson held up his hand to stop her.
“Just a moment,” he said. “While we’re in here, I want to make another phone call.”
“Who to?” Dinah asked curiously.
“A phone number I got from Thomas Whitfield’s phone records,” explained Ferguson. “I spent last night reviewing them and checking against numbers we know — like Whitfield’s family and friends. There was a particularly high call rate from Whitfield’s cell to this particular number.”
“Haven’t we been through the call records already?”
“Yeah, but there’s something about this one I have a hunch about. Eloise told me he was a work colleague, but I haven’t found him in any of the personnel at the Smithsonian. I want to know exactly what kind of colleague we’re talking about.”
Dinah sat, and while Ferguson found the number he wanted to dial, she rang the administrative assistant who sat on their floor and asked her to book flights to Cincinnati.
Ferguson dialed and then a male voice answered, “Hello?”
“This is Special Agent David Ferguson from the FBI. To whom am I speaking?”
There was a pause. “This is Damon Mason.”
“The reason for my call, Mr. Mason,” continued Ferguson, “is the investigation into the murder of Mr. Thomas Whitfield. Your name, more specifically, your cell phone number, has come up in the course of our investigations.”
“The investigation of what?” Damon Mason sounded aghast.
“The murder of Thomas Whitfield,” repeated Ferguson. When he got no response, he prodded: “You have seen the news reports that Thomas Whitfield has been murdered, haven’t you?”
“Yes, of course,” said Damon. “I’m just …anxious that my name has come up, I suppose.”
“Obviously you knew Mr. Whitfield. There are a number of dialed and received calls between your cell phones. What was the nature of your relationship with Mr. Whitfield?”
“Well, it’s hard to explain. I suppose I gave him career advice.”
Ferguson glanced at Dinah with a skeptical look on his face. “With all due respect, Mr. Mason, why would the secretary of the Smithsonian need career advice? It would seem Mr. Whitfield had quite a secure position.”
“Yes, that’s certainly true,” agreed Damon Mason. “I met Thomas some years ago while he was a university professor. I had some experience in the media and he was interested in lifting his public profile. I organized television appearances and that sort of thing for him. When he became secretary, he didn’t really need me anymore, but we still kept in touch.”
“Still asking for advice?”
“In a manner of speaking. Despite the fact that he was the secretary of the Smithsonian, Thomas wasn’t really media savvy. Sometimes he’d ask advice about a press release or public appearance.”
“Do you work for a public relations company or something?” Ferguson asked.
“No, I’m an independent consultant,” said Mason.
Ferguson pursed his lips. “Are you shocked that Thomas Whitfield has been murdered?”
“Yes, of course!” said Mason, sounding outraged. “I can’t imagine who would want to hurt him.”
“Mr. Mason, we’re going to want to speak with you in person,” said Ferguson. “Are you located in DC?”
“Yes. I work from home.”
“I’ll give you another call shortly to organize a time to see you,” said Ferguson. “It will probably be in the next day or so. Will you be around?”
“Yes, absolutely. If there is anything I can do to help you find whoever did this to Thomas, I’m glad to help.”
Ferguson thanked him and hung up. He looked at Dinah, who was in pensive thought.
“What do you think?” he asked her.
“I think,” said Dinah, standing up again, “that I hope either Andy Coleman or Damon Mason knows what happened to Whitfield.”
The two agents returned to their desks. The administrative assistant handed Dinah a printed receipt. She had booked the agents on a flight to Cincinnati, leaving that afternoon at three o’clock.
Dinah called Andy Coleman’s number. This time, he answered.
“Hi, it’s Special Agent Dinah Harris again. We’re flying down to see you this afternoon. We’ll want to speak with you as soon as possible,” explained Dinah. “I wanted to make sure you’d be around.”
“Yes, of course I will,” he said.
Dinah took his address and hung up. Ferguson was staring at the pile of paper and files stacked on his desk that made up the Whitfield case so far.
“What are you thinking?” Dinah asked.
Ferguson shrugged. “I’m just wondering how a media consultant, creation scientist, and a school shooting tragedy will solve Whitfield’s murder.” He paused and looked at his partner. “Because that’s really all we have, isn’t it? Does it make sense to you?”
“Not really,” said Dinah.
• • • •
Mac was currently sitting in the back of a limousine, drinking a whiskey on the rocks, being driven to the airport. He was preoccupied, having seen the newscasts that had splashed the murder of Thomas Whitfield all over the country.
Mac was extraordinarily self-sufficient and composed, but this latest turn of events had nettled him. He’d been assured by Wolf that the body wouldn’t be found, yet it had been. His instructions had been to make it look like an accident, yet when the wrecked car had been discovered by police, the body was in the trunk, of all places, thereby immediately ruling out
the possibility of an accident. If he himself had been in charge of disposing of the body, he would have at least buckled the body into the front seat to create a more believable scene.
It was just like anything else, Mac thought, if you wanted to get something done right, you’d better just do it yourself.
He drained his glass and made a mental note to himself to take care of Wolf. He’d never intended for the goon-for-hire to outlive this operation, anyway. Wolf knew too much and that was the only excuse Mac needed to get rid of him.
Mac was, after all, in a distinguished, high-profile position; his face was well-known all over the country; and his reputation was as pure as new snow. He fully intended to keep it that way.
His cell phone chirped while Mac was considering another whiskey. “Yes?” he answered.
There was no mistaking the panicky tones. “It’s Perry. The FBI is coming.”
Mac waited a beat. “Suppose you start from the beginning,” he suggested, not bothering to keep the contempt from his voice. “What exactly is the problem?”
“The FBI wants to speak with me. I’ve just finished speaking to them on the phone,” said Perry. “They want to see me in person!”
“I see,” said Mac. “I’m still not clear on what your problem is.” He looked longingly at the whiskey bottle.
“The FBI, Mac. I’m scared to death. Do you think they know what happened?”
Mac had often over the years been irritated by people who flew into hysterics over the tiniest thing. “Perry, I have already spoken to the FBI,” he said. “It’s no big deal. Of course they’re going to want to talk to you.”
There was a beat of silence. “You’ve spoken with them already?” Perry asked. “What did you say?”
“That I was appalled, that I was saddened, that I would do anything to help find the person responsible,” said Mac. “You know, the usual sort of thing people say when they find out someone they know has been murdered.”