Deadly Disclosures

by Julie Cave

  “Did you say anything about me?” There was a gasp as a new and horrible thought occurred to Perry. “Did they say anything about me?”

  “Of course not. Despite what you seem to think, this whole debacle does not revolve around you.”

  “How can you be so calm?” Perry wailed. “I don’t know what to say to them!”

  Mac was thoroughly disgusted. “Stop being a princess,” he snapped. “Tell them as much of the truth as you can. It’ll actually sound believable. Got it?”

  “Tell me what you said,” begged Perry. “Where were you when they spoke to you?”

  Mac tried to tamp down his temper. He took several deep breaths before replying, “The FBI demanded that the board of regents gather for a conference, which we did. They asked us if we knew anybody who might want to hurt Thomas Whitfield. They asked if we knew of any conflict in Thomas Whitfield’s life. They asked about his history with the Smithsonian. In all honesty, they were very innocuous questions.”

  “Okay,” said Perry, sounding as if he were trying to digest this. “Okay.”

  “Try to calm down and think about information that is of public record,” advised Mac. “Or information that could easily be discovered. Do not lie about anything of this nature. If they find out you’ve lied once, they’ll turn the spotlight onto you. Just try to be intelligent about it.”

  “Yes,” said Perry. “Right. Okay. Intelligent.”

  Mac smiled slyly to himself as he inquired, “And you do have an alibi for the period in question, don’t you?”

  “What?” Perry sounded like he was on the verge of panic once again. “You didn’t mention anything about an alibi. The FBI didn’t ask you for an alibi, did they?”

  “No, they didn’t.” Mac felt a delicious thrill of anticipation before he slid the metaphorical knife into Perry’s ribs. “But then, I am who I am, and you are who you are, and I don’t need an alibi.” It was always satisfying, thought Mac, to remind certain individuals that there was a class system in operation in this country, and that he was many rungs higher on the class ladder.

  There was silence on the other end of the line, and when Perry spoke again, he was calm. “You know, you might want to think about the fact that you need us as much as we need you.”

  Mac scowled. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’d really hate to withdraw our support from you and put you in a tough situation.” Perry’s tone was sly and Mac hated it. He swallowed back several retorts, because much to his chagrin, Perry was right.

  “Of course. I understand,” Mac said smoothly. “I don’t want to jeopardize our relationship.”

  “Then you better cut that ‘I don’t need an alibi’ rubbish,” Perry said harshly. “I may only be one person, but IAFSI is far bigger than all of us and it is under my control. You would do well to remember that.”

  “I think what we all need to do is remember each other during these proceedings,” suggested Mac. “I’ll make sure you are protected, and you make sure I am protected. What do you think?”

  “That’s precisely what I was thinking,” said Perry, “but the trouble is, you weren’t sounding so enthusiastic a few moments ago.”

  “My mistake,” said Mac. “Don’t worry, Perry. I know we need each other. I won’t forget that.”

  “Good. Please keep me updated if the FBI contacts you again.” It was an order, not a request, and it made Mac burn with anger. However, he kept his voice cool and calm.

  “Of course. Anyway, must go.” He hung up without waiting for a reply.

  With hands shaking angrily, Mac poured himself another whiskey. Perhaps he needed to think more carefully about whether Perry was a liability. It was true that Mac needed IAFSI, and he had never been able to forget that fact. However, with or without Perry, IAFSI would continue to thrive. If Perry should happen to meet with an unfortunate accident, Mac’s support would not be in danger of being cancelled. In fact, the only danger could possibly come from Perry remaining alive. The man was clearly unused to dealing with these occasional, admittedly distasteful necessities and was in danger of falling apart. Any FBI agent worth his or her salt would dismantle Perry in about two seconds flat. The question was, would Perry then start singing about who else was involved in this operation?

  Almost certainly.

  Mac downed his drink and dialed another number.

  “It’s Mac,” he said when his call was picked up. “I need to get in contact with Wolf.”

  • • • •

  Dinah and Ferguson’s flight to Cincinnati got in at about 6:30 that evening. Both agreed to eat dinner in the hotel’s restaurant before questioning Andy Coleman. Dinah went up to her room to freshen up beforehand.

  In the bathroom, she splashed water on her face and combed her hair. The dark circles underneath her eyes were now permanently etched into her complexion and her eyes were red. She was wearing a black pants suit that had fit perfectly a couple of years ago but now was baggy around her hips. She stared into her own eyes in the mirror for several moments and did not like what she saw there.

  Ferguson was waiting for her in the restaurant dining room. He handed her a menu and announced, “I’m having the chicken-fried steak.”

  Dinah smiled. “Yeah, you look malnourished to me.” She looked pointedly at her partner’s torso, which was beginning to strain at the shirt he was wearing.

  Ferguson just laughed amiably and sat back in his chair, waiting for her to choose. Dinah wasn’t hungry — she was rarely hungry and only ate out of necessity — but she spent a lot of time looking at the wine list.

  Ferguson noticed and watched her. Dinah felt him watching her, took one last, longing gaze at the bottle of Australian riesling, and went back to the real menu. Dinah closed her eyes briefly and imagined the cool, dulcet tones of the wine in her mouth.

  “Would tonight be one of the first in a while where you would not have any alcohol?” inquired Ferguson suddenly.

  Here we go, thought Dinah wearily.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t really keep track.” She kept her tone light and airy, as if the subject was of little concern to her.

  “I’m willing to bet that it is,” Ferguson continued, much to Dinah’s chagrin. “I think it’s been a long time since you went to bed sober and had a good night’s sleep.”

  Dinah spent a few moments hoping for a hotel fire or some other emergency that would get her out of here. “There’s a difference,” she remarked, “between someone who has a few drinks with dinner and someone who gets wasted every night.”

  “Is there? I’m not sure there is a difference — both exhibit an inability not to drink every night.”

  “I fail to see that this is any of your business,” said Dinah coldly.

  The waitress who appeared with their food noticed the tense atmosphere, put down the plates quickly, and left.

  “It certainly is my business,” said Ferguson. “You are my partner, in whose hands I place my life every day.”

  Dinah dropped her fork on her plate with a clatter, and the people around her looked over and stared. His words, like a poison-tipped arrow, had found their way directly to her heart. “Is that what this is about?” she asked quietly. “You’re afraid I’ll screw up again and get you hurt?”

  Ferguson considered his next sentence very carefully. “No. To be frank, I’m worried more about you than me. You will get slaughtered in the media, quickly followed by the agency, if you so much as fail a breathalyzer test. You know that. You can see it happening as we speak. They follow you to take pictures of you buying more alcohol. Why do you keep flirting with danger?”

  Dinah stared at him. “Do you have any idea,” she asked, “what it’s like to wake up every morning and wish that you hadn’t?”

  “No,” said Ferguson truthfully. “But do you think alcohol is the answer?”

  “I don’t know, Einstein. Why don’t you tell me what the answer is?”

  “What about therapy? You coul
d get medication,” suggested Ferguson.

  “I don’t want therapy and I don’t want medication,” snapped Dinah. “The pain I feel reminds me that I’m alive and I shouldn’t be.”

  “You think punishing yourself will help you?” Ferguson shook his head. “You….”

  “Excuse me, folks,” the maître d’ interrupted, wringing his hands and looking flustered. “Is everything okay here?”

  “Yes. Sorry,” said Ferguson, his eyes not leaving Dinah. “We’ll keep it down.”

  The maître d’ gave a strange little bow and hurried away. The two agents ate in silence, Dinah hoping that the subject was dropped, and Ferguson trying to figure out a way to bring the subject back up.

  Finally Ferguson asked, “Please tell me that you haven’t thought about doing anything stupid with your service pistol.”

  Dinah wasn’t sure how to answer. The truth was, she had thought about it. In fact, she didn’t know what was stopping her, except a strange feeling that the time was not yet right. How would she explain that?

  “I’m not going to do anything stupid with my pistol,” she replied.

  Ferguson added, “Because no matter how bleak you think the future is, please remember that things will always get better. There are people who care about you.”

  Dinah pushed back her chair and stood, anger bubbling. “How would you know?” she demanded. “You have no idea what my life is like. You have no right to judge me or my actions. Just leave me alone!”

  She threw her napkin down and left Ferguson sitting at the table, looking miserable. She was glad that the elevator was empty, and when it stopped several floors below her room and a happy-looking couple with their arms wrapped around each other tried to get on the elevator with her, she glared at them until they decided to wait for the next elevator.

  In her room, she feverishly searched the mini-bar until she found the little bottle of Russian vodka. She tossed the contents down her throat, feeling the slow burn all the way to her stomach, and lay on the bed until the anger subsided.

  When Ferguson rang her cell phone 15 minutes later to enquire whether she would accompany him to Andy Coleman’s house, she was calm and composed.

  And slightly drunk.

  • • • •

  Andy Coleman and his wife lived a little way out of the city, on a quiet, wooded property with a little pond at the front of the house. The two agents took a rental car out to the property. Ferguson glanced at his partner, probably wondering if she had consumed alcohol in her room. Dinah refused to look at him and stared out of the window until they arrived.

  The Colemans were waiting for the two agents to arrive, standing on the porch under the light watching as the rental car drove slowly up the drive.

  It was a mild night compared to the chill of DC, but the Colemans had lit the fire in the living room, and it was very warm as Andy Coleman ushered them toward a large couch. Andy was a tall, thin man with a shock of graying hair that looked always in need of a cut. He had dark, sharp eyes and several days’ worth of stubble on his cheeks. He wore khaki chinos and a short-sleeved plaid shirt that was buttoned to his neck.

  After the formal introductions had been made, Andy sank into an ancient armchair that creaked alarmingly. “You don’t know how sorry I am to hear about Thomas Whitfield’s death,” he said. “It’s a tragedy.”

  “Can you tell us about what you’ve been up to over the past few days?” said Dinah, ignoring the small talk that most other agents would use to put their interviewee’s at ease.

  Andy blinked at her abruptness, but replied, “Sure. I think I mentioned on the phone that I had been to Israel for the past two weeks. I’ve been lecturing to the Christian church in Jerusalem. While I was there I took the opportunity to trace the footsteps of Jesus and other biblical history.”

  “Yes,” said Dinah, wanting to stay on the subject and not meander down the path of history. The effects of the alcohol and the warm room were making her feel uncomfortably hot, and she felt sure her face was bright red. “When did you get back from Israel?”

  “This morning,” said Andy. “I flew into Cincinnati at about six.” As he finished speaking, his wife came into the room with mugs of steaming, hot coffee and plates of sweet cookies. She sat down with them at the table.

  “Did you go to Israel, too?” asked Dinah.

  “Yes, I did,” said Sandra. She was noticeably shorter than her husband, pleasantly plump with short, curly blond hair and large blue eyes. She exuded a very motherly, capable air. Dinah could imagine her slapping away an over-eager hand reaching for the cookies as they came out of the oven. Sandra continued, “We left two weeks ago Monday and arrived back this morning, as I overheard Andy tell you.”

  Sandra spoke with a strong accent that Dinah couldn’t place. The only indication that she’d been living in Cincinnati for a fairly long time was the way her r’s were softer and rounder.

  Andy noticed her curiosity. “She’s Australian,” he said. He sneaked a glance at his wife. “I was down there a lot when I was younger. A friend of mine took me to the beach there — a glorious beach, white sand as far as the eye can see, the bluest water. Out of the waves came this beautiful blond girl with a surfboard. She was the coolest girl I’d ever seen. I was entranced.”

  Sandra shook her head and blushed. “I don’t get out on the surfboard much anymore.”

  Isn’t that lovely, the sarcastic commentator in Dinah’s head remarked. Now can we get back to the topic of murder?

  Ferguson seemed to sense Dinah’s impatience, and he interjected smoothly, “Speaking of your life’s work, Mr. Coleman, can you explain more of that for us?”

  “I’m a creation scientist,” Andy said. “What that basically means is that I believe that this earth, this universe, and everything in it — including you and I — were created by God. I believe that the account of how this happened, our origins, is clearly documented in the Book of Genesis, in the Bible. I believe the Bible is an accurate history book in addition to being the inspired Word of God, and, therefore, that the world is about six thousand years old. What I don’t believe is evolution — that a group of molecules, over millions of years, evolved into many different life forms and has eventually led to humans inhabiting the earth. I don’t believe that the universe is billions of years old and I don’t believe the big-bang theory.”

  Dinah and Ferguson glanced at each other. “Right. So you fly in the face of all known scientific discovery and ignore all the evidence?” asked Dinah sarcastically.

  Andy didn’t take offense; in fact, he looked amused. “Not at all, Agent Harris. The evidence that evolutionists use and the evidence I use is exactly the same. I have evidence of fossils and dinosaur bones, just as they do. The difference is how these items of evidence are interpreted. You should also remember that the idea of evolution is just that — an idea, and one that hasn’t been proven.”

  Dinah threw Andy some bait. “What about natural selection? Hasn’t that been proven?”

  Andy’s eyes glimmered amusedly. “Ahh, the old classic raises its head again.”

  “Classic?”

  “Creationists are constantly accused of rejecting natural selection. We do nothing of the sort. Natural selection happens in this world. Species die out because of weather changes, or predators, or other influences, while other species survive. That’s part of natural selection and as such has only ever been observed within a kind, whether animal kinds or even plant kinds. Evolutionists believe natural selection is one of the driving forces that eventually establishes new and different kinds — for instance, dinosaurs evolving into birds. Natural selection is not capable of such a major change. And anyway, no one has ever observed such large changes to change one kind into a totally different kind. It’s much more plausible to explain natural selection in terms of biblical history that tells us that God created each kind after its own kind. The implication here is that kinds remain stable, even though there can be great variety within each kind.�
��

  Dinah didn’t feel like arguing. “Okay, so is this why you get death threats?”

  Andy seemed quite blasé about it. “Yeah. I get death threats from people who don’t think I should talk about God, the Bible, and science all in the same sentence. It normally amounts to people who do not want to answer to an authority other than themselves. Rejecting God’s authority is what the Bible describes as ‘sin.’ I am a scientist who believes in God’s authority and the evidence confirms it.”

  “And is this how you came into contact with Thomas Whitfield?” Ferguson asked.

  “Yes,” said Andy. “We were on opposite sides of the argument, and we came up against each other pretty regularly. As secretary of the Smithsonian, he was a staunch advocate of evolution and the big-bang theory.” Andy smiled wryly. “And he had the good fortune to have mainstream society on his side. It’s widely accepted that we evolved from apes, because that’s what we’re taught in schools and universities right across the country. That’s in spite of the fact that evolution can’t be proven and requires faith just like Christianity does. In that way, evolution is really a religious belief.”

  “So you and Thomas Whitfield were enemies then? On opposite sides of scientific thought?” Ferguson asked, wondering if he was on the right track. Could religious fundamentalism have led to Thomas Whitfield’s death?

  “Actually, no,” said Andy. “We became very good friends because we ran into each other so much. Aside from the fact that we didn’t agree with each other, we had a lot in common. We both had close families and pride in our children’s endeavors. We spoke about our kids all the time. I might add that becoming friends with someone in his position is not normal. Many evolutionists and I are polite toward each other, but we aren’t friends.”

  “So when was the first time you met Thomas Whitfield?” asked Ferguson.

  Andy sat back in his creaking armchair. “Well,” he mused. “I remember it pretty clearly.”

  Chapter 10

  New York City, New York — 1998

  — Thomas’s Story