by Julie Cave
“Nope. I’m definitely thinking that these hits are professional,” Ferguson said. “They’re just so tidy.”
“Wouldn’t a professional use a gun though?” Dinah countered. She drank more coffee and actually started to feel more human.
“Maybe not,” said Ferguson. “Guns can be traced. We have ballistics to help us link crimes. Anyway, I’ll see you at the office?”
“Sure,” said Dinah. She gulped down the last of the coffee, poured herself a second cup, and thought about whether she should eat breakfast. She decided against it and left the apartment.
Traffic was reasonable along the beltway because it was still a little too early for the rush hour commute, and Dinah arrived before Ferguson. The floor where she and Ferguson worked was starting to fill, except George Hanlon’s office. While Dinah waited for her computer to boot up, she started thinking about the connection between the Smithsonian, IAFSI, and Andy Coleman.
It was clear that Thomas Whitfield had a close relationship with IAFSI. They had helped him, early in his career, to publish in well-respected scientific journals. They had obtained for him coveted media spots in television and radio. They had made him the resident “expert” to whom the media turned when they needed a scientific opinion. As a result, Thomas Whitfield’s profile grew brighter and brighter. In fact, he grew so well known that he was given the Smithsonian secretary position without any real competition. It was easy to see why Whitfield had agreed to the partnership between himself and IAFSI.
But what was the payoff for IAFSI? They had to be getting something out of it, too. Dinah was willing to bet all the wine in her refrigerator that IAFSI wasn’t doing it out of the goodness of their hearts. There had to be a payoff.
The trouble was, Dinah couldn’t work out what IAFSI got out of the deal.
Then there was Andy Coleman, IAFSI’s natural mortal enemy. The two were locked into a fierce battle between evolutionism and creationism, with Thomas Whitfield the mouthpiece for IAFSI. Andy Coleman seemed to be of the belief that it was this battle that had killed Thomas Whitfield. Surely Andy Coleman wasn’t so right wing as to be militant? Dinah pursed her lips. Perhaps Coleman had gotten sick of the constant arguments with Whitfield and decided to take him out?
That didn’t explain why Lara Southall and Damon Mason were killed. They had both been murdered after speaking to the FBI, but Lara Southall had never met or spoken to Andy Coleman and wouldn’t have been able to incriminate him in any way. Damon Mason made a more likely victim in Dinah’s Coleman theory, so why wait so late to get rid of him? And why would the board of regents be so cagey about the alleged conflict with Whitfield? Why would the crime scene of Whitfield’s murder be at a site owned by one of the board members?
There were too many holes in the theory for Dinah to seriously consider Coleman as the perpetrator. What about the other side? What if IAFSI had gotten rid of Whitfield because he wasn’t living up to his end of the bargain? Damon Mason had stumbled across the plan, threatened to talk, and been killed as a result. Although that was a reasonable theory, it didn’t explain why Lara Southall was murdered because again she didn’t have any connection to IAFSI. Nor did it explain the board members’ reluctance to talk, or the crime scene at MacIntyre’s factory. Again, there were too many holes for that theory to be taken seriously.
Dinah sighed in frustration. That left the board of regents and their mysterious conflict. She was more convinced that she simply had to get to the bottom of what the conflict was about.
A sudden rap at her cubicle wall startled her. Ferguson waved with one hand and stuffed a doughnut into his mouth with the other.
Dinah gave him a wave, still preoccupied.
Ferguson got the message and left Dinah alone. She stared at her computer screen and wondered if there might be an obvious material connection between the board of regents and IAFSI or Coleman.
Dinah entered the bureau’s broad database search function and typed in the organization’s full name. The search, similar to a Google search, would bring up every mention of IAFSI in the media, on websites, and on blogs, similar to a microfiche search at a library.
The results of the search were massive, and Dinah began to methodically scroll through, taking short notes. There was mention of IAFSI in many scientific journal and magazine articles; apparently IAFSI was a big advertiser and supplier of information regarding the articles. IAFSI was quoted on many subjects, including genetic engineering, hereditary disease, anthropology, molecular biology, and so on.
They sponsored a large number of seminars, and often the keynote speakers were members of IAFSI. The seminars, as Dinah looked through the material, seemed to be aggressive in style. The subjects were similar, but each speaker devoted a good deal of time within his or her speech to criticizing the opposition — the fundamentalist Christians. Every seminar, without exception, focused a great deal of time on pointing out the weaknesses in the creationist argument and denigrating the creationists in general. Was this one of the requirements IAFSI had of its speakers? Dinah wondered. Perhaps part of the agreement was that they would sponsor you, if in return you adhered to their agenda. What had Mason called it? A mutually beneficial relationship.
IAFSI was also active in the social and charity scenes. They sponsored golf days at exclusive country clubs, they hosted charity balls and dinners, and they held award nights for high achievers in the scientific field. Dinah read through a number of newspaper articles about the events and found a similar theme. For the money they spent, IAFSI got airtime. Their favorite charity cause was hereditary and degenerative disease — they threw all manner of events for cystic fibrosis, for Lou Gehrig’s disease, for Parkinson’s disease. At each event, an IAFSI speaker would present a short seminar on the disease, its treatment, and how IAFSI and the scientific community at large were trying to overcome such diseases. In each speech, the speaker would disparage other community groups — usually ethics and Christian groups — for hampering their efforts. They concluded by urging the guests to support IAFSI endeavors and to vote for politicians who supported them.
Ah, here’s the rest of the truth, thought Dinah. They’re lobbyists too, if you are of the correct political persuasion.
Dinah began to flip through the pictures that accompanied the newspaper and magazine articles. Not surprisingly, there were many featuring Thomas Whitfield with the recently deceased president, Damon Mason. Many pictures included prominent atheists. Still other photos displayed politicians, past and present, usually thanking IAFSI for their support of funds and votes among their members.
Then Dinah stopped and stared hard at a familiar face, standing next to Damon Mason, shaking his hand at yet another black-tie function.
It was the now senator from California, David Winters. He was publicly thanking IAFSI for vigorously campaigning with him and funding much of his election campaign. It was the very same David Winters who was on the board of regents at the Smithsonian.
Dinah didn’t know what it meant, other than the fact that she had found a tenuous link between the board and IAFSI. She kept going through the pictures, searching for names she knew. Finally, she found another.
This time, the event was hosted by IAFSI to thank their financial supporters. Dinah remembered that for all of the events IAFSI held, and there were many of them, someone had to be picking up the tab. And there he was, amongst a group of them, a certain Kenneth MacIntyre.
Another link between the board and IAFSI, and now this latest link extended to include Thomas Whitfield’s death. Kenneth MacIntyre, benefactor and friend of IAFSI, member of the board of regents, and owner of the factory where Thomas Whitfield died.
It was still circumstantial, Dinah knew, but too coincidental to be disregarded. She needed to find out more, but she was running out of people to talk with.
She stood and found Ferguson, once again munching on a sugary treat.
“Let’s go,” she said. “I’ll tell you about it on the way.”
• • • •
The Colemans were staying in a residential hotel to the south of the city, away from the tourists. There was no view of Capitol Hill, nor was it within walking distance of any of the other monuments in the city. The Colemans were simply setting up camp, where Andy would wait to speak to the FBI and continue his work for his Genesis Legacy organization.
Andy and Sandra welcomed the two agents into the small living room. They made small talk for a few moments, Andy explaining that he had conducted some speaking engagements up here.
Then Dinah asked him to continue telling about the growing relationship with Thomas Whitfield. They settled back as Andy began.
Washington, DC — 1999
Thomas Whitfield arrived home to a dark, empty house after a particularly long day. He ambled aimlessly from room to room calling his wife’s name. After several minutes, he began to feel worried. Eloise was always here. Where on earth was she?
He switched on the kitchen light and looked at the little calendar Eloise kept on the refrigerator. It was the only way the two of them could keep track of each other. Thomas was often away or had long days, and Eloise filled in her lonely stretches of time with her sister and friends.
He found the date and his stomach dropped. Eloise was in the hospital! How could he forget? It was a simple procedure, one that required an overnight stay only, but it had utterly escaped him. Frantically, he closed up the house and drove to the George Washington University Hospital, remembering to pick up a bedraggled bunch of flowers — the only ones left — from the hospital florist.
Eloise was eating an early dinner and watching a rerun of a daytime soap when he burst into her room. She gave him a half smile, as if she knew he’d forgotten. He made a show of kissing her and asking how she felt, bustling around the bed, offering to fetch more pillows.
She said finally, “Thomas, just sit down. I’m fine, everything went well.”
He sat, realizing how tired he was. They watched the television companionably in silence for a while, and then Thomas’s cell phone startled them both.
“Thomas!” Eloise hissed. “You’re not supposed to have your cell on!”
“It’s Billy,” he said. It was unusual for his brother to call him. Normally they left it up to their wives to arrange get-togethers. William Whitfield was a high school history teacher in Colorado.
“Hello, Billy,” he answered his phone. Instantly, he knew there was something wrong. Bill was crying.
“What is it?” he asked, suddenly apprehensive.
“It’s Rebecca,” Bill choked. “Have you seen the news?”
Thomas immediately changed the channel. “No, what happened?”
The footage on the news and Bill’s story echoed each other in a terrible way. Two students at his daughter Rebecca’s school had come to class with a gun. They had opened fire during a bloody rampage and killed 11 students and injured 24, before turning the gun on themselves. Rebecca had been one of the 11 who had died in the gunfire.
Thomas felt the life being sucked right out of him. Beside him, Eloise grabbed at his hand, asking, “What? Thomas, what is it?”
“I’m so sorry, Billy,” he said finally. “I’ll come out to see you, help you with things.” There was silence as both men digested what things would be involved in burying a 16-year-old girl.
“You don’t have to do that,” said Bill, his voice thick.
“I want to,” declared Thomas. “I loved her, too.”
“She — she wanted to be a scientist …just like you,” sobbed Bill. “She was doing great in physics and chemistry …she would have been….”
Thomas felt tears well in his eyes. “Oh, Bill. I’m so terribly sorry. I’ll come out as soon as I can. I’ll call you back with my flight details.”
When Thomas hung up, he looked desolately at his wife, lying in a hospital bed. Eloise had guessed by the conversation what had happened and looked stricken.
“Is it Rebecca?” she whispered.
“Yes,” said Thomas. “She’s …gone.” He pointed mutely at the television, unable to articulate the gruesome details.
“You must fly out there and see them,” Eloise told him. “Don’t worry about me. My sister can pick me up tomorrow. You should be there for them.”
“Are you sure?” Thomas asked. “I don’t want to leave you here either.”
“I insist. This is nothing compared to what Bill and Emma are going through. You must go!”
So Thomas found himself catching the very next flight to Denver that he could find. His brother Bill and his wife, Emma, met him at the airport. Rebecca had an older brother, Evan, who was currently in Canada and was also flying in at the earliest opportunity.
Thomas didn’t know what to expect, but Bill and Emma both looked completely ravaged by what had happened. Bill’s eyes were dead and hollow, and in the past few hours his skin had gone a sickly gray color. Emma looked no better, and she was shaking.
Thomas embraced them both and tried to comfort them. What could you say at a time like this?
Bill drove the three of them directly to the school. It was after seven in the evening now, and bitterly cold. The shooting had happened nine hours earlier but the high school was frenetic.
The police had cordoned off parts of the school with yellow crime scene tape, mostly for recording purposes, as there was little doubt as to the perpetrators. There were lights on in some of the buildings, and Thomas wondered if they were cleaning crews, getting rid of the blood and bone. At the school fence, a memorial had been set up. A mound of flowers, cards, photos, and drawings had been placed there, and it was ever growing. Small clusters of people stood at the memorial, some crying and some quiet and still in disbelief at what had happened.
“We spoke to the police chief,” said Bill quietly. They stood at the memorial where a photo of Rebecca fluttered in the chill wind. “The guys who did it roamed around the school at will. They went into the library and asked questions of each of the victims before executing them. It was like …like they were trained killers.” Beside him, Emma cried into her hands. “They were cowards, they hit kids who didn’t know what was happening. It only ended when they shot themselves.”
Thomas couldn’t think of anything to say so he stood with his arm around his brother.
“I guess you were right all along, Tom,” Bill said. “How could we do this to each other? We are nothing but animals. Yet you guys think we’ve evolved into a higher form. I don’t call this a higher life form.” He chuckled bitterly. “I think you guys have got it wrong. I think we’re devolving, getting worse every day. We’re just a bunch of vicious brutes.”
Thomas didn’t have a reply.
Littleton, Colorado — 1999
Thomas spent a sleepless night in the guest room. He didn’t think his hosts were sleeping either; he heard them moving around all night, speaking in hushed whispers.
At breakfast, they resembled a small contingent of zombies — all were ashen with fatigue, their spirits numbed. Nobody could stomach anything to eat, so Emma made some coffee and they sat at the kitchen table drinking coffee in silence.
“There’s a memorial service at our church later,” Bill said finally. “You are welcome to come with us.”
“Yes, of course,” agreed Thomas. So they dressed somberly and drove to the Baptist church. The service was for all the victims of the shooting, and Thomas was surprised to find that this included the dead gunman. It was a community still reeling in shock, and the congregation was quietly mourning as the service began.
There were several hymns, which Thomas remembered from his childhood. Then the minister of the church stood and said, “I would like to introduce to you a special speaker today.” His voice was soft and serious. “I asked him to speak because he has lectured a great deal on the subject of suffering and grief. My hope is that his words will provide you with some comfort at this time.”
There was no ceremony or pomp, but Thomas was still astonished to see Andy Co
leman take his place behind the lectern.
“First let me begin by expressing my sincerest condolences,” Andy began. “This is a terrible tragedy and I can assure you that you are all in my prayers.” He paused and the sound of soft crying was clearly audible.
“I hope today that I can give you some measure of comfort,” he continued. “I suppose the biggest question many of you have is how could God let something like this happen to our kids? Why couldn’t He have protected our children? Isn’t God supposed to be a God of love? In fact, I know that many of you are probably angrily asking these very questions of God. Do you think God dropped the ball? Do you think God was a bit busy somewhere else and forgot to check in on your kids?”
There was silence. Thomas glanced around the church and saw rapt faces drinking in the words. Personally, he felt uncomfortable. He could debate it intellectually without pause for thought, but religion that was raw and emotional was a little too unsettling. He looked sideways at his brother and saw the intent expression on his face, too. Thomas knew that he would just have to sit through it.
“I came here tonight to answer a question. How could a loving God allow death and suffering? This is a question that does have an answer, but if you tonight are looking for me to take away your pain, I can’t. We all are going to feel deep hurt, grief, loss, and anger whenever we see tragedies such as the one that has occurred here. When God created this world He made a statement at the end of each day. He saw that it was good. At the end of the creation week, God proclaimed that it was ‘very good.’ You know if God saw something that was very good, it must have been perfect, because He is a perfect God.
“But when we look around us, we definitely do not see a perfect world. This tragedy is a very painful reminder of this fact. We live in a world that is dominated by bad news. We turn on our televisions and hear of tragedies and disasters. I can tell you that nothing is any worse than what we have just seen here. God created for us a home in this world vastly different to the present one we are living in. Something huge happened.
“We can point the finger at God in anger about this change in our world, but we would be missing the point about why the world is like this. The truth is not always easy to hear, but it can help us with a sense of understanding.”