Deadly Disclosures

by Julie Cave

  “Absolutely!” exclaimed Damon.

  • • • •

  The meeting was organized for the following Tuesday. Thomas hadn’t been so nervous in a long time. He discarded three shirt and tie combinations before he was happy. He polished his shoes. He combed his hair and fleetingly realized that he was losing more hair by the day.

  He tried to eat breakfast. Eloise watched him over the kitchen table.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked finally.

  “I don’t know. I guess I’m just not that hungry,” said Thomas, pushing the bowl of cereal away. He drummed his fingers on the table. He got up and sat back down again. His skin seemed too small for his body.

  “Do you know what today is?” Eloise asked quietly.

  Thomas looked at her impatiently. “Of course I do. Why do you think I’m so tense? It’s my interview at the Smithsonian today.” He glanced at his watch. “And I’ve got to go.”

  He jumped up, kissed Eloise on the cheek, and checked out his reflection in the hall mirror.

  “Bye! Wish me luck,” he called as he closed the front door.

  Eloise didn’t reply but stared at the kitchen clock. This time, she couldn’t bring herself to cry.

  “No,” she said to herself. “Today is our 20th wedding anniversary.”

  Finally, Thomas stood at the end of Independence Avenue, looking down the National Mall. In the distance, the Capitol building rose from the horizon majestically. Clusters of people moved across the manicured green lawns between the buildings that made up the institution. It was a surreal feeling, Thomas thought, to survey the Mall and wonder if perhaps one day he’d be in charge of it.

  He made his way to the castle, the main building where the offices were located. A young lady who was volunteering at the information center showed him to the boardroom where he would meet with several members of the board. While he waited, he drank in the atmosphere of the place. He felt an almost mythical air of solemnity that this was where important truths were communicated to the public, where secrets of the great civilizations were celebrated, where the ingenuity of mankind was commemorated. To be a part of that would be an honor and a privilege. Suddenly, Thomas knew that he must have the position of secretary and that he would do whatever it took to have it.

  A secretary finally showed him into the boardroom, where the members of the board of regents sat around a long, polished table. As they introduced themselves, Thomas couldn’t help but feel impressed and a little overwhelmed. The vice president of the United States, the chief justice of the Supreme Court, several congressmen and women, and several senators!

  The Chief Justice, Maxwell Pryor, seemed to be in charge. After introductions, he suggested, “Why don’t you tell us about yourself?”

  Thomas launched into an explanation of his anthropology career, his studies of indigenous populations, the articles he’d written, and the research he’d championed. As he finished, he wondered if it would be enough.

  “As you may be aware,” Maxwell Pryor said at the end of Thomas’s speech, “the purpose of the Smithsonian Institution is to distribute truth to the people. We like to think that we can provide understanding and reason to this country. What are your thoughts on that?”

  “The very reason for all of my research,” said Thomas, “is to promote our understanding of the human race and how we evolved. I firmly believe that we cannot know where we are going if we do not know where we came from.”

  Several members of the board nodded their heads. “One of our requirements for the secretary this time around,” continued the chief justice, “is to appoint somebody who can speak knowledgeably about scientific matters in the media. You may know that fierce debate rages between the scientific community and religious groups at the moment. How do you think you will handle that particular controversy?”

  “To be honest, I already have been dealing with it,” Thomas replied. He searched the faces of the board members in front of him for their reaction to his words. “I’ve already been involved in radio interviews and television appearances, including debates, arguing on that very topic. I think I’m experienced enough to handle that aspect of the position.”

  Again, several board members nodded. “What, in brief, did your arguments convey?” Maxwell Pryor asked softly.

  “Broadly, that science is the answer to many of society’s problems,” said Thomas. “To anyone closely interested in history, we can see that religion is the cause of many problems and not the answer. And so I find it quite concerning to think that religious groups want to exert any power in our society. Science has eradicated many diseases, provided treatment and comfort for many other diseases, vastly improved our life expectancy and infant mortality rates, and provided us with many creature comforts previously unavailable. Science is the savior of mankind, because science will allow us to live as long as we wish, disease- and degeneration-free. Personally, I look forward to that day.”

  Chief Justice Pryor glanced at his fellow board members and allowed a small smile. “Excellent, Professor Whitfield. It is certainly clear where your loyalties lie.” He allowed the room to digest that cryptic remark before continuing, “Professor, we must advertise the position openly to be fair, and therefore we will conduct interviews with other applicants. However, thank you for your time today. You did an excellent job.”

  Thomas stood and shook hands with the chief justice. On his way home, he felt the light-headed excitement of anticipation.

  Three weeks later he received a phone call from Chief Justice Pryor. “Congratulations! You are the new secretary of the Smithsonian.”

  After Thomas hung up, he let out a shout of excitement. He raced around the house, trying to find Eloise so that they could go out to a celebratory dinner.

  He didn’t find Eloise. He instead found a note, saying she had gone to her sister’s house.

  Thomas frowned for a few moments and then shrugged. He didn’t have time to wonder about the hidden messages contained within that note.

  He had to prepare for his new life as secretary of the Smithsonian Institution.

  Chapter 13

  Dinah hadn’t sat at her desk in days and it showed. Her e-mail inbox was overflowing and her phone was flashing with messages she would have to deal with at some point. The very first message turned out to be the most important — Zach at the forensic lab.

  “My favorite FBI agent?” Zach answered his phone.

  Dinah let a beat go by. “You are really a very strange person,” she commented.

  Zach chuckled. “Yeah, I know. How’s the investigation going?”

  “Well, you know,” Dinah sighed. “Nobody will talk to me.”

  “That’s surprising,” said Zach. “What with your gregarious personality and all.”

  “What’s surprising,” rejoined Dinah, “is that you even know the word gregarious, let alone how to pronounce it.”

  “Yee-oww!” howled Zach, thankfully away from the phone so that he didn’t rupture Dinah’s eardrum. “You’re hot, girlfriend!”

  Dinah couldn’t help but laugh. “All right,” she said at last. “What have you got for me?”

  “Just some confirmation,” said Zach. “The tooth and the blood were matched to Thomas Whitfield, according to samples taken from the autopsy.”

  “Great. Now do you have any idea who took him there, beat the living daylights out of him, and killed him?”

  “No,” admitted Zach. “I’m good, but even I can’t conjure up this killer.”

  Dinah hung up and relayed the news to Ferguson.

  “We’ll go back to MacIntyre,” suggested Ferguson. “He may have lawyered up, but we still might be able to shake him a bit.”

  “What about Maxwell Pryor?” Dinah added. “We need to talk to him about his arguments with Thomas Whitfield and why he warned Biscelli not to talk.”

  Ferguson pulled out his cell phone and dialed the number Catherine Biscelli had given them. After a brief conversation, he hung up and announce
d, “Chief Justice Pryor is in chambers this afternoon, but he’ll meet us after his session. In the meantime, let’s swing by MacIntyre’s joint.”

  This time, the guards standing outside the front doors of the glass and steel headquarters of Seismic Corporation didn’t argue when Dinah and Ferguson held their badges up. Nor did Cheryl, MacIntyre’s secretary, who sat guard in the atrium, say anything as the agents walked into the large office of Kenneth MacIntyre.

  MacIntyre, who was on the phone, glanced up at them and motioned them toward two egg chairs. A mixture of fear and resignation flitted across the businessman’s face. MacIntyre finished his conversation, then without acknowledging the agents, buzzed Cheryl.

  “Please send up Jeff Downing,” he instructed her.

  He then rubbed his temples with his hands. “What can I do for you this time?” he asked, a weary note in his voice.

  “Bad news for you, I’m afraid,” Ferguson told him. “The forensic evidence we found in your factory definitely belongs to Thomas Whitfield. So I need you to tell me about that.”

  Kenneth MacIntyre just shook his head and sat in silence. It didn’t take Dinah and Ferguson long to figure out why. Only a few moments later Jeff Downing burst into the room, and it was apparent that he was MacIntyre’s lawyer. He was a tall, austere man with graying hair at his temples and stern blue eyes. “I hope you haven’t asked my client any questions in my absence,” he said, sitting next to MacIntyre and eyeing Dinah and Ferguson up and down as if they were a deadly contagious disease.

  “We were just wondering why a murdered man’s blood and tooth were found at your client’s factory,” Ferguson said pleasantly. “Rather odd, we thought. Leads us to the next question: what was your client doing early last Tuesday morning?”

  Kenneth MacIntyre leaned forward and murmured in his lawyer’s ear. Downing smiled. “He was hosting a breakfast seminar for several of his top suppliers,” he said, a note of triumph in his voice. “He was there until ten o’clock, with about 30 people who can vouch for his whereabouts. What else do you need to know?”

  “Why would the secretary of the Smithsonian’s blood be found at your factory?” Dinah asked. “And why was he murdered there?”

  “I can assure you,” Downing replied, “just because the unfortunate victim died there doesn’t mean my client had anything to do with it. I know he’s already told you that he rarely goes there and that he has on-site managers who oversee the operations there. I really don’t see the relevance.”

  “Its relevance lies in the arguments we know your client and our victim had immediately prior to his death,” Dinah said bitingly. “Why won’t he talk about that?”

  Downing smiled condescendingly. “An argument between adults hardly means a murder will follow, even if such an argument did occur. If Mr. MacIntyre tells you there was no argument, then you’d better believe that there wasn’t.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t believe him,” snapped Dinah, losing what little patience she had for smug, well-paid Washington lawyers. “As I don’t believe him when he tells me he doesn’t know anything about Thomas Whitfield’s death.”

  “I see. So you have physical evidence that my client was at your murder scene?” Downing asked. If it were possible, he sounded even more patronizing. “Hair? Fingerprints? Fibers?”

  There was an uncomfortable silence. Dinah and Ferguson both knew that they didn’t have a single specific item of evidence linking MacIntyre to the crime scene.

  “Ah,” said Downing smugly. “Just as I thought. You seem to have a very circumstantial case. A murder was committed at my client’s premises, which is horrible, I’ll grant you. But my client has an alibi and you don’t have any physical evidence. That’s an awfully shaky case.”

  “I’ll want a list of your employees who work at the factories,” said Dinah shortly.

  Downing smiled again. “Certainly. Once you hand over your subpoena, I’d be glad to help you out.”

  “If your client is innocent, there shouldn’t be a problem in handing over a list of employees,” Ferguson commented. “Unless he’s afraid one of them will talk.”

  “Nevertheless, I appreciate the law for what it is,” replied Downing smoothly. “And the law stipulates that you must provide a subpoena. Was there anything else?”

  “No,” said Dinah coldly. “But I can assure you that you’ll see more of us. We want the truth and if I have to move heaven and earth, I’ll get the truth.”

  The lawyer just looked at her, unimpressed. “Of course,” he said mildly. “We’re on the same side, Special Agent.”

  Dinah could have hit him.

  • • • •

  Maxwell Pryor, the chief justice of the Supreme Court, was in chambers when Dinah and Ferguson arrived at the court building. It gleamed whitely in the pale sun, the Corinthian columns imposing. As they passed under the banner, Equal Justice Under Law, Dinah felt a sense of kinship with the purpose of this grand building. Its purpose, the mandate of protecting this great nation with justice available for all, enshrined the doctrine of all men and women being born equal. It formed the cornerstone of an egalitarian society, where your birthplace was not as important as your work ethic; where your measure of contentment was limited only by the scope of your dreams; and where the hope of a new life was sweet and tangible.

  But there was no place on earth, reflected Dinah, where you could outrun your past or forget how it molded you.

  The chief justice’s associate, a young, balding man who seemed to be trying too hard to copy the mannerisms of the judge, showed them into a small office and left with an air of superiority.

  The agents knew that they couldn’t very well barge in on the judge like they would any other person, and it chafed on Dinah. She bit at her nails, tapped her foot, paced, drummed a pattern with her fingers on her leg, and twisted her ponytail until Ferguson finally glared at her.

  “If you want something to do,” he said, “you could call the office and organize a subpoena for the employee lists of Kenneth MacIntyre.”

  Dinah did just that, and as she was finishing the conversation on the phone, Chief Justice Maxwell Pryor appeared, still wearing his billowing black robes.

  “Special Agent Ferguson, Special Agent Harris,” he said, sounding harried and out of breath. He was tall with a hooked nose and prominent cheekbones. “I came as soon as I could call a small break.”

  “Thank you for meeting with us,” Ferguson said, immediately taking charge. Dinah knew that he had concerns with her abrasive interviewing style, which probably wouldn’t have worked with Pryor.

  “As you can probably guess,” continued Ferguson, “we are here to talk about Thomas Whitfield’s case, and also by connection, the Lara Southall case.”

  “What a simply dreadful situation,” said Pryor, shaking his head mournfully. “To lose these wonderful employees so violently in such a small space of time is astounding; a terrible coincidence.”

  Ferguson paused. “I’m afraid the FBI doesn’t believe in coincidences,” he explained. “We are treating both murders as being related.”

  The judge looked shocked. “How awful! On what grounds?”

  The agents knew very well how the two deaths were connected but weren’t about to divulge to a possible suspect. “That’s what we’re trying to find out, sir,” said Ferguson. Dinah noted his courtesy. She probably would have said something like “none of your business.”

  “So what we’re trying to find out about, specifically, is the source of conflict between the board of regents and Thomas Whitfield,” added Ferguson.

  Predictably, Pryor said, “I’m sorry, I don’t know that there ever was any conflict.”

  Ferguson waited a beat. “Some of your colleagues on the board disagree with you, sir.” That was, perhaps, the tiniest of white lies.

  Pryor raised his eyebrows. “Really? Well, that’s certainly news to me. What have they told you?”

  Ferguson was not about to aggravate the lie with details he di
dn’t have. Instead, he said, “How is it that you were not aware of this conflict?”

  The chief justice drew himself up importantly. “I certainly do not involve myself in any petty squabbles, if indeed there were any,” he explained loftily. “Therefore it is entirely possible that I simply didn’t know about them. I am sure that were there any major problems, I would have been told.”

  Dinah sighed loudly, conveying her impatience. The board was a tight-knit little group, she conceded. She was getting rather sick of the same old story they insisted upon regurgitating. Pryor glanced at her in annoyance.

  “I’m afraid we have it on good authority that you were aware of the conflict,” Ferguson said. “And that not only were you aware of it, but that you were one of the instigators and that you were heard frequently arguing on the phone with Thomas Whitfield.”

  Pryor actually looked flabbergasted. “I have never heard such garbage in all my life!” he thundered.

  “Did you have occasion to speak to Thomas Whitfield outside of normal working hours?” probed Ferguson. “And by calling his home?”

  This calmed the judge down. He seemed to be thinking, then said, “Of course I spoke to him outside of hours. However, I must insist that I argued with Thomas Whitfield very rarely. There may have been the occasional small problem, as there is with any professional relationship.”

  “Well, you see, Judge Pryor,” interjected Dinah smugly, “we are interested in why you have gone from having no idea of any group conflict to admitting personal conflict with Thomas Whitfield.”

  Ferguson shot her a warning glance while Pryor barely deigned to acknowledge her.

  “What were these occasional small problems about?” Ferguson asked, trying to get the judge back on track.

  “They were so minor that I don’t recall,” snapped the judge. “And I have to get back to court.” He stood and gathered his robes about him. “Ought I obtain an attorney?”