The Omega Formula: Power to Die For (Detective Frank Dugan)

by Paul Sekulich

  “Looks like it’s been coated with Cosmoline,” Alasdair said.

  “Old military stuff, but a good sealer.” Frank said, taking the can.

  Frank peeled off the rubbery Cosmoline, opened the can, and lifted out a 6-inch movie reel nearly full with film. He unwound out about a yard of the black and white footage and held it up to the light.

  “See what you can make of it,” Frank said and handed the film to Alasdair.

  “Time for some spectacles, eh?”

  “Just see what you can see,” Frank said.

  “Ay, nothing in this light.”

  “We need a projector.”

  * * * * *

  Frank dug around in the closets of the house and found a 16mm movie projector in a cupboard under the staircase. It was a 1940s vintage Keystone model William used to show old Tom Mix westerns, cartoons, old movies starring Laurel & Hardy and Buster Keaton. Frank set up the projector in the dining room, but the first flip of its chrome toggle switch proved to be the end of movie night. The bulb gave out a burst of light, popped like a muffled gunshot, and went out.

  “I guess ‘that’s all folks,’” Frank said.

  “You know, in a way, this could be a blessing,” Alasdair said. “We could burn up this old film on that dinosaur, or even chew it to pieces in those pointy sprockets.”

  “I’m open to suggestions.”

  “I suggest we visit my wife, whom I haven’t seen for more than eight hours in the past two days.”

  “Your answer to watching this film is to go pester your wife?”

  “Celine is an expert on converting old film media to a digital format. She worked for over 10 years for NSA’s video department, and now she’s my right arm at the production company which, by the way, she’s been operating by herself since her husband’s off chasing flying clouds under old Detroit wonders.”

  “Well, let’s go find Celine.”

  “It’s about time you met her,” Alasdair said. “Been married for almost eight months now. Come over for dinner. Around seven.”

  “How’d you con somebody to marry you? Mail order? Tell her you owned Warner Brothers?”

  “Told her I was great company in the tub, and I could hold my breath for over three minutes.”

  “Good God, you Scots throw more bullshit than Texans,” Frank said and removed the film from the projector.

  “We come by it honest. Sam Houston, don’t you know, was a one of our own.”

  Chapter 13

  Celine MacGowan was everything Alasdair had advertised her to be: charming and intelligent; a dark-haired beauty with hazel eyes who could cook like a master chef. She also was reputed to be able to operate computer equipment with the best IT experts.

  After dinner, Celine sat at her desk in their home office and adjusted a gooseneck lamp for optimum light. Frank handed the reel to Celine who examined the first few frames over the bright bulb with a jeweler’s loupe.

  “Looks like early stages of nitrate deterioration,” Celine said. “It progresses to cellulose triacetate degradation, and from there it’s usually game over for the film. Lucky you showed this to me before we ended up with a can of powder.”

  “Any clue what’s on the film?” Frank asked.

  “First frames say something about being property of the Department of War. Have to see more to know more.”

  “You can convert this to a viewable video format?”

  “Not a problem. Maybe take a couple of days,” Celine said and placed the film back in its metal case.

  “Excellent,” Frank said and gave Alasdair a thumbs-up.

  * * * * *

  Frank sipped the last dram from his glass of 15-year-old Laphroaig scotch while Alasdair and Celine sat together on the sofa in the den.

  “Celine, that was perhaps the best dinner I’ve ever eaten,” Frank said and flopped in a leather recliner.

  “Glad to have someone over who appreciates good home cooking,” Celine said.

  “Frank gets Christmas cards from Pizza Hut,” Alasdair said.

  “How did you two meet?” Celine asked Alasdair.

  “In an all-star baseball game. Semi-pro league,” Alasdair said. “He did something the baseball world has never seen before or since.”

  “For God’s sake, Al, is nothing sacred?” Frank said and got up and poured himself another scotch.

  “Tell, tell,” Celine said tugging on Alasdair’s arm.

  “In the eighth inning, the star pitcher of the other team threw a fast ball directly at Frank’s head,” Alasdair said. “A rocket-fast, fast ball.”

  “What happened?” Celine said. “Wait. Frank was knocked out and you gave him mouth-to-mouth.”

  “Not hardly,” Alasdair said and sipped his drink.

  “Well, what then?” Celine said.

  “In a nanosecond, Frank caught that baseball in his bare hand and fired it back at the pitcher. Now Frank was our center fielder and he could really throw a ball far and hard. That ball hit that pitcher square on his beltline and dropped him like a stone. He had to be taken off the field on a stretcher. It was like something supernatural.”

  “Served him right, I’d say,” Celine said and winked at Frank.

  “Well, the umpire thought different and ejected Frank from the game. However, the crowd cheered and applauded his departure like he was a rock star. They carried on for twenty minutes and later booed every call made by the ump.”

  “Who won the game?” Celine said.

  “We did, 9 to 3,” Alasdair said. “Frank was voted the game’s MVP.”

  “If story-telling is over, who gave you the pricey scotch?” Frank said to Alasdair.

  “Gave me?” Alasdair said. “You miserable Irish boor. It’s my favorite libation. I bought that with my income tax refund just for you on this visit, since I haven’t laid eyes on you for five long years. And without so much as a Christmas card, mind you.”

  “Really?” Frank said and downed his drink.

  “A client gave it to him for Christmas last year,” Celine said grinning at the stern look from her husband. “But it is his favorite, when he’ll part with the money for a bottle.”

  “I knew it,” Frank said and placed his empty glass on the nearby side table.

  “You going back to that old place with the creepy fallout shelter?” Alasdair said.

  “It’s my house now,” Frank said. “I need to reacquaint myself with it.”

  “You’re welcome to stay here, Frank. Anytime,” Celine said.

  “Thanks, Celine, but would we have to keep him?”

  “Did you know he can hold his breath for over three minutes?” Celine said.

  “I’ve often wished he’d hold his breath a lot longer,” Frank said. “Goodnight, you two. Celine, you’re way too beautiful and too good for an oaf like him.”

  Frank strode for the door.

  “I’ll have Alasdair call you when the video's ready,” Celine said.

  “Later,” Frank said and made his way outside to the rented Hyundai and climbed behind the wheel.

  William had left a puzzle, a poem, papers, a photograph, and an old film. Frank pondered their meaning.

  What else has William planted, and where are these discoveries leading?

  * * * * *

  Frank spent hours going through the house on Elm Terrace, again searching for any clues that might shed light on his father’s murder or anything to help him understand his grandfather’s puzzling last words. He pondered whether there was a connection between the two mysteries.

  The house displayed all the signs he expected regarding his father’s living habits. The master bathroom looked like a gorilla had lost a bout with a ten-gallon bottle of depilatory. Frank remembered Joe had always been doubly bedeviled with hair problems. He'd lost most of the hair on his scalp while having more body hair than a sasquatch. The hair and floor grime gave Frank an indication that Joe apparently never found the vacuum a useful appliance.

  Frank gathered up an array of
cleaning items and began the task of getting the house in a semblance of hygienic order. He inspected each room, pulled from it what information he could, then cleaned it. He doubted he’d find anything useful that the CSIs had missed, but the items he might uncover didn’t have to be crime-related. William was providing him with plenty of other clues to unravel.

  The master bedroom had not been touched in years. The bedclothes were wrinkled and stained with everything from slopped booze to pizza sauce. The white sheets had become giant napkins. The kitchen displayed food-crusted china and cookware stacked on the counter tops. Pots sat molding in the sink and dishwasher, with the added joy of stinking beer bottles overflowing the trash receptacle under the counter. It was a career slob’s man cave.

  Nothing turned up on the other floors of the house. The third floor looked like it hadn’t been used since the Eisenhower administration, but the basement held a minor surprise or two. The stacks of labeled cardboard boxes lining the rear wall had been ripped open, their contents scattered on the floor. Old rugs, oil paintings, and outdoor tables and chairs were jumbled in an adjoining section six feet from the oil furnace. The entire basement appeared to be recently visited from the fresh footprints in the dust that covered the floor. Some, Frank knew, belonged to the CSI team and they had recorded the suspicious ones, especially a size 16 group.

  Frank again mulled over why the killers had been there in the first place. If they wanted something, what had they taken? Or was the mission simply to kill Joe? For gambling money? Then why use truth serum? Joe had called him asking for money last winter and Frank had refused. The hypothetical answer was that someone wanted something from Joe Dugan and murdered him for it, but Joe had no real money, so what was it? And if it was money, why kill him? Dead men seldom pay off debts.

  It was time to switch focus and head for the other mystery lying under the garage. Instinct told Frank there was a connection there to his father’s fate. Exhibit A: There was an old secret room underground on the property built to appear to be a fallout shelter. Frank knew William didn’t believe in fallout shelters, and often spoke of the folly of constructing one. The question was then, why was it there? Frank realized the answer had to be in the secret room itself. Exhibit B: The tipoff was the table and chairs. William had held his clandestine meetings in there. And it was where William’s grown-up business took place, and where everyone mysteriously disappeared from view.

  But what were they meeting in there about?

  Chapter 14

  Frank returned to the garage and entered the fallout shelter. He went straight to the desk, gathered up the Omega Formula folder and returned to the house. He sat on the sofa in the parlor and placed the folder on the cocktail table, opened it, and began to examine its papers one by one. There was printed matter typed by an old typewriter using an archaic font. Many of the typed characters were uneven in their leading lines, kerning and density of ink, the latter likely from a ribbon in need of replacement or a worn typewriter platen. Several papers were handwritten in blue-black ink while others contained sketched diagrams and scrawled chemical equations. The papers and inks showed extensive age and their information was faded and, in some cases, barely readable.

  Frank adjusted the floor lamp to focus the maximum light on the documents. Many of the pages contained equations and scientific notations that ended with the words: “Failed” or “Ineffective,” which he set aside. The pile contained dated memos, typewritten with more misaligned letters and partial impressions. He stacked these in chronological order and pulled the first one out and read it.

  June 5, 1945

  To all concerned:

  The pair of bombs may not be enough to effect a surrender, and we certainly have to come up with something better than the invasion alternative. If they discover that we only have the two, they may not even entertain giving up. They are a proud people who are not afraid of death, only ridicule and losing face. Therefore, I will be testing something I have been working on for months that may be our salvation.

  I have proposed a meeting for 8 P. M. tonight to discuss my new plan. I can’t stress enough the need for absolute secrecy concerning our meetings and our decisions. No politicians, including Truman, should be privy to the course we take, lest it be bogged down in bureaucratic wrangling. We’ll need every moment we have left to put what we decide into action.

  The clock is ticking, gentlemen.

  W

  He flipped through to another memo written on July 1, 1945:

  To all concerned:

  I have completed the lab experiments on the formula and the results are encouraging. Tomorrow three of us will be flying west to perform the practical, outdoor tests. Everything will hinge on the outcome of those few days. Aerial filming will accompany the tests V will lead with his air group.

  I will meet with you all on the 7th with my report.

  W

  Frank skimmed through the rest of the notes and placed them neatly back into the file folder along with the photo stapled to the poem. He stood up slowly, like a defendant about to hear a jury’s verdict.

  What the hell was William into?

  Frank piled the chemistry papers into a separate stack and replaced them in the file folder with all the other documents. He tucked the folder under his arm and went out to the rental car.

  * * * * *

  Frank went to the local Kinkos and made copies of all the documents in the Omega file folder. He also had the photo scanned and had it transferred to a thumb drive he carried with him. He thought about scanning the poem too, but that might chance leaving it on a Kinkos’ hard drive. The photo alone, he hoped, wasn’t essential to solve the Omega formula, and even he didn’t know who the second person was in the picture. He was certain he’d need to have a digitally transmittable copy of the photo to later get it identified, so he had little choice but to risk that no one would be interested in an uncaptioned, black-and-white photo from the past.

  When Frank returned from the copy store he separated all the documents into two piles. One set contained copies of everything in the Omega Formula file found in the fallout shelter, minus William’s memos and the photo with the attached poem. This amended set he replaced in the original manila folder and put it on the sofa beside him. The next pile contained copies everything in the original Omega file, plus the original memos from William, and the photo with the poem. This set he put into a new manila folder and placed it on top of the original Omega set. Frank took all the files back into the fallout shelter and replaced the yellowing, manila Omega Formula file back in the oak desk.

  Frank slid his new Omega file under his arm and stepped over to the light switch. For a moment he stood there staring back at the room, considering whether he’d made the right decision to withhold some of the documents. He knew from William’s notations of failure that the chemical formulas were worthless and would lead nowhere in explaining how the Omega formula weapon could be devised, if there ever was such weapon.

  The memos were backup substantiation for the entire hoax, but also gave credence to the reality of the weapon by their mention of its encouraging testing. The fact that they were shared by only the few involved with the plot, and never part of what the Japanese might ultimately view, made the weapon seem real. But the poem attached to the photo was another matter. Frank knew the poem and photo were classic William Dugan modus operandi: Cryptic, nearly impossible to decipher, and usable only by the sacred few who could fathom how a man like his grandfather thought out and processed his puzzles.

  The fact that the unviewed film had so easily slipped from the trusted safety of its inheritor, and could possibly open a 21st Century Pandora’s box, confirmed his resolve. He had acted foolishly before. He wouldn’t chance a repeat performance. No one would ever see the memos, nor the photo and poem document. That was certain.

  Frank switched off the light and left the shelter. He pushed the secret door closed until it latched.

  Frank stepped outside into the thick
, warm air of the back yard and sat on a teak bench near an ornate, alabaster birdbath. He put his Omega folder in his lap, pressed his hands down on the bench on either side of his legs to steady himself and stared straight out, focusing on nothing.

  After a few moments, he opened the folder and studied the photo. It was an 8x10 glossy of his grandfather standing next to another man, both wearing lab coats with the National Aeronautics and Space Agency’s embroidered logo over the right breast. William looked to be about 60, but his strong chin, chiseled features and full head of graying hair gave Frank a future peek at himself. It was obvious he shared most of his grandfather’s traits and few of his father’s.

  The men were working at a laboratory table with a partial view of a metal object before them that looked like a space-age garden hoe. William was smiling at the other man who was handling the object. The attached paper contained a poem signed by his grandfather.

  Another poem from William? I haven’t solved the first one.

  Frank turned the photo over and skimmed over the poem’s four verses and swiped his sweaty face with his hand.

  Men wish to swing in their seventies and fly with eagles,

  like boys who dream of playing on the moon.

  Find someone to recount the sheep, avoid the deep six

  that rusts plain iron, and keep a tool as a rune.

  If need be loosed this awful power,

  it lies asleep until that hour.

  Sealed in a pipe all eyes can see,

  but blind to all, save you and me.

  His eyes stung from the perspiration, causing him to squeeze them shut and blink several times. He replaced the photo, rolled up the folder and went back into the garage.

  Frank made his way over to the Reo, sat in the driver’s seat and studied the simple dashboard and gauges. His eyes fell to the keys hanging from the ignition switch. He removed them, noting the familiar leather pouch they folded into that he’d so often seen in his grandfather’s hand and on the leaving table.