Death of a Cure

by Steven H Jackson

  “OK. What do you suggest?”

  “Reveal me to them. Tell them that I am an FBI agent. That alone will turn up the heat. I’ll take it from there and give them reason for concern but some hope because we will appear to be headed in the wrong direction. We need them to be concerned yet still confident in their ability to keep the truth from us. If there is a guilty party in the room, he, or maybe it is she, will not be able to keep from taking some action.”

  “I don’t know about this,” I responded, my voice concerned.

  “You doubt my abilities? She asked, feigning arrogance.

  I ignored the humor and got to the point. “If there is a killer here in New York, and he learns that you are more than a friend, even worse, an FBI agent, it could place you in danger. I’m not doing that.”

  She laughed, “You mean it could get worse than being run down in the street just because I walk next to you on the way to dinner?”

  Even though she had used that incident to play it down, I considered what she had said as having merit. She was already in danger if someone came after me again. Collateral damage a real possibility.

  “I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

  She smiled. “I’m tougher than you think, and you are highly capable. If the situation calls for it, you will protect me. If you do not, I will complain to the Marine Corps and have them withhold two weeks pay.”

  “I’m serious, Marilena. This is not a part of your job — it’s a favor. I appreciate what you are doing for me, but if I think that this is getting too deep, I’m going to put you someplace safe while I finish it. I will not be responsible for you getting hurt.”

  “Thomas, we are beyond that. This will almost certainly end with a simple arrest. However, if and when this becomes violent, some confrontation with your brother’s killer, you will know what to do. Your probability of succeeding, however, will be much higher if I am there to watch your back. I’m not leaving you.”

  *

  I packed my bag for the trip to Boston and went into the living room to wait for Marilena. It was taking her longer to get her clothes reacquainted with her suitcase than it had taken me. Then again, I am sure that when we unpack, her things will look less wrinkled than mine. I looked around and thought about when I would return here. Walking into the den, I took a last look at the helicopters. They were silly adult toys that had provided hours of fun for two brothers, brothers who while very close, were so very different. I’d like to fly them again but was not sure how much fun it would be without Ron. I made the decision to pack them up and ship them to Boston as soon as I could. I’d fly them again, but there, in Boston, not in Central Park. Not without Ron.

  “Penny for your thoughts?” Marilena had come into the den. Her question was prompted by the fact that she had entered the room unnoticed — very unusual for me.

  “Just thinking about what to do with this place. And, about helicopters.”

  “Helicopters?”

  “Yeah. Come on, I’m hungry,” avoiding the subject while walking past her, moving quickly back to the living room. I needed to leave the den. She hurried to catch up sensing the distress I had failed to hide.

  “I want to go with you when you fly them. The helicopters,” she said, hurrying after me and grabbing my arm.

  She wasn’t going to let me leave unsettled, angry. She waited for my answer, the first of many answers she wanted to hear.

  “It takes dedication, serious commitment, to become an ace radio control helicopter pilot. Are you sure you are up to the challenge?”

  “If you are willing to show me, I will do my best.”

  “All right.” I took her hand. “I think that Ron would have approved.”

  She smiled. The big smile.

  *

  The bags were collected by Antonio and a helper. They took them down to the curb and loaded them into Ricardo’s limo. While this was taking place, Marilena and I visited the security desk. I modified “the list” of approved people who could enter the condo. They acknowledged that I was the approved owner and controlled who was on the list. I eliminated everyone currently named and then added just three names: Marilena, Maryanne Straley, and Gus Perentanakis. Maryanne and Gus worked for our family at the house in Boston. Their help would be needed here at the condo at some time in the near future.

  We walked to Arno’s for breakfast, passing the sidewalk where the cab had almost run us over. The landscaping that had been uprooted had already been carried off and was being replaced, the incident erased, New York moving on.

  Ricardo was waiting for us in front of Arno’s for the drive across midtown to the CID Society headquarters. He helped Marilena into the limo. She was dressed in a conservative suit, the skirt a modest length. The transformation was interesting and another example of her ability to play whatever role was required.

  THE COUNCIL

  Arriving at the society offices, we were met in the lobby by Suzie. She had been assigned the task of delivering us to the conference room by Alison Montgomery. It seemed that Montgomery was not taking any chances on my getting detoured and having an incident similar to the one with Margaret Townsend.

  “This should be good,” Suzie said.

  “Why’s that?” I asked.

  “They’re only expecting you and not Marilena.”

  “Is that a problem?” I followed up, Marilena’s face expressionless as she listened to Suzie.

  “They don’t like surprises. But it’s not a problem for you. You are the gatekeeper to your family’s cash. You can do anything you want.” Then, with a mischievous grin, she said, “And, I am the minutes recorder, so I get to watch it all!”

  We rode the elevator up and walked into the lobby. The same receptionist that I had pulled the vanishing act on was at her desk. I winked at her and got a giggle in return. Obviously, a fan of anyone who could put one over on Chicken Woman. Suzie led us down a hallway toward the society’s version of Mahogany Row, that collection of expensively appointed offices that housed the senior staff. The fact that Ron’s office had been in a different area and his workplace furnishings favoring function over style did not surprise me. He would have been happier near his troops and did not need to have a designer office lined up with the big dogs to support an ego. The Briggs boys had egos; it’s just that they were self-supporting.

  The conference room we entered was twenty by forty feet in size with a large, rectangular table dictating the room’s purpose. A credenza at one end held the obligatory coffee pot and a selection of pastries that would go mostly untouched. The room was already occupied by members of the executive team, some that I already knew and a few strangers.

  “Tom, thank you again for coming today,” said Alison Montgomery moving toward me. Before I could get my hand out, she reached up and hugged me like a long lost and very close friend. I kind of hugged back, but without as much enthusiasm. I didn’t know that we were on a hugging basis. She then turned to Marilena and without missing a beat said, “Marilena, I’m so glad you came as well.” While she seemed sincere, all Marilena got was a handshake. Hugs were obviously intended for those of us higher up in the potential donor strata.

  “Let me introduce you to the council,” she said while turning to face the room. Starting from my left, and demonstrating her egalitarian nature, she said, “You know our indispensable Suzie, of course.” She then moved on to each participant, the first being Sylvia Canfield.

  Sylvia Canfield was effusive and had been waiting for this moment. “Colonel Briggs! I am so happy to finally meet you! Your brother used to tell all of us about his brother the Marine and all of the exciting things that you do. It is great to finally put a face to a name!” She was living up to her task at getting next to high net-worth donors, the enthusiasm in her words and the excitement in her body language palpable. She had a handshake that would hold up in any officers’ club.

  “Thanks, I’m happy to be here.” My words belied my feelings about her based on what Suzie had told u
s.

  Alison kept the intros moving along, and we shook hands with two consultants that I did not know, Barry Ledderman and Jonathan Treece. They were described by my hostess as so important to the mission that they were as much a part of he council as the rest of the senior staff. She then introduced us to two others, both new to me — Jennifer Covington, the Chief Financial Officer, and Cindy MacGuire, the Vice President of Human Resources. We reached the last one in the line, Margaret Townsend. Before she could speak, I jumped in.

  “Ms. Townsend. Good to see you again!” She was on the other side of the table and a little way off for a handshake, so I gave her the friendly “I can’t reach you to shake your hand so here is a wave instead.” I continued, “This is my friend, Marilena Rigatti.”

  “It’s good to see you again also, Dr. Briggs. I hope that you will forgive me for our misunderstanding when we first met. I am sorry that I did not know who you were, and I was only….”

  I cut her off. “Hey, no harm, no foul.” I was doing as Marilena had asked — not kicking any sleeping or mostly sleeping dogs and making everyone feel good. At the same time, I wanted to telegraph a little “even though I let you off the hook, it doesn’t mean that I want to be your buddy.” So I left her hanging by quickly turning away and back to Alison.

  “President Montgomery, thanks again for inviting us. We don’t want to hold up your meeting, so please begin.”

  “Thank you, Tom. For everyone else here, I invited Tom and Marilena to participate in our meeting today. I wanted them to see what we do as the organization’s leaders. I hope that we can show them that we are good stewards of our donors’ money and that we are dedicated to finding a cure. Given that, the reality is that we are running a large organization, and we have many challenges. I want everyone here to feel comfortable sharing the good as well as the bad. Ron, as we all know, was proud of his little brother, who by the way seems to be about a foot and a half taller than he was, and Tom as you have heard, he shared your adventures with our team, so I doubt that any problems that we are having will frighten you. I will be the first to admit that most of the things Ron told me about what you do in the military made me very concerned for your safety. Your brother was less diplomatic. He said you had caused his hair to turn white several decades before its time.” This caused an appropriately conservative round of laughter.

  She was very smooth, even though she bent the truth when she implied that she had invited Marilena as well as me. I smiled back and said, “Ever since I was ten years old, it was my job to worry Ron. I think that I did that very well.”

  Alison, with support from me, had managed to quickly get the room full of people to a comfortable place where we could interact. I had handled the exchange with Townsend and prevented a problem there. She had moved us from a business to a personal interaction by relating her experiences with Ron about me.

  The agenda for the meeting covered several high-level issues about the society’s direction. The only item that generated any real conversation was about the protocol for dealing with pharmaceutical companies. The position that Alison supported was that all of the pharmas had to be treated the same. No favoritism — 100% transparency. One of the consultants, Ledderman, tried to get her to bend on this. He believed that some of the pharmas rated more attention than others. His arguments made sense to me but not to Alison Montgomery. No sale.

  When the call came for any new business not on the agendum, I waited a brief time for others to talk if they wanted to. Then I spoke, “Alison, I have an item of interest for your team, if you would allow me?”

  “Of course, Tom,” she replied but with a little concern creeping into her voice. Suzie was right — surprises were unwelcomed.

  “As many of you know, a working hypothesis for the authorities has been that Ron’s death was a suicide. Since my arrival in New York, I have interviewed police and crime lab personnel so that I might learn what they know. I am pleased to report that the authorities have decided to keep the investigation into Ron’s death open. There has been evidence uncovered that does not support a suicide finding.”

  Apart from one small gasp from Sylvia Canfield, the room was silent. I was doing my best to look at as many people as possible and to discern reactions. I let only a moment pass before continuing — I did not want questions yet.

  “Because of this and due to my personal desire to resolve the facts surrounding Ron’s death along with my personal struggle about him ever taking his own life, I requested the help of a friend and professional acquaintance with significant criminal investigative experience.” Nodding my head in Marilena’s direction, I continued, “Miss Rigatti is an agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

  To say that I held everyone’s attention was an understatement. The first to shake loose from the surprise was Omar Sayyaf.

  “Miss Rigatti, you are with the FBI?”

  Remembering us on the dance floor last night, Townsend spoke simultaneously, loudly, and redundantly asked, “You’re an FBI agent?” her face incredulous.

  “Yes, I am. I am assigned to the Washington, D.C., office.” She held up the leather wallet holding her badge and I.D. card for everyone to see.

  Omar was a quick study and had pushed aside surprise, “Can you tell us the status of the investigation?” His tone was that of serious interest but not concern.

  “The inquiries that Colonel Briggs initiated and the forensic information he collected have reopened the case and established that Dr. Briggs did not jump to his death. He was pushed through his office window. This evaluation has been confirmed by the FBI’s National Crime Laboratory and is the basis for a murder investigation.”

  Now she had everyone’s attention. She let the words register and looked calmly at the meeting attendees as they simultaneously began to clamor for her attention: “What do you mean?” “You think he was killed by someone?” “Colonel Briggs?” “How can you know that he didn’t jump?” She brushed off all of this, and when an opening in the questions came, she continued.

  “The investigation into the murder of Dr. Ronald Q. Briggs is now a joint effort between the FBI and the New York City police department.” Her voice was formal as if she was delivering testimony in a courtroom. “We have also determined a list of persons of interest in this case. Those individuals are located in Boston and New York. We are traveling to Boston today to continue our line of inquiry.”

  Omar, as expected, was the first to recover. He spoke, “You’re going to Boston.” A statement with an implication — not a senseless repetition of the previous statement. I was starting to like Omar, more and more. “Then you believe that your principal suspect is there?”

  I won’t say that there was a sudden, physical relief in the room, as if a collective mind had just realized that our investigation was headed to Boston. But you could tell that as a group, they were very focused on the fact that Boston was a better place to have a primary suspect than New York, especially because they were all in New York. Marilena had accomplished her goal of making someone think that we were headed in the wrong direction. That is, of course, if someone in the room was Ron’s killer. Except for Canfield, the innocent players in this little drama wouldn’t care as long as we found the killer. Innocent of murder or not, she wanted Ron out of the way. Now it was time to add a little more pressure, and Marilena did not disappoint me. Her next words hopefully the catalyst for some poorly considered move by Ron’s killer.

  To that end, Marilena continued. “Murder investigation is a process of elimination. If we are successful in Boston, we will report that back to you. If we determine that those in Boston of interest to us today had nothing to do with Dr. Briggs’ murder, then we shall return to New York and continue our work. The identity of the person who murdered Colonel Briggs’s brother will be determined.”

  Someone had to ask it. Everyone wanted to ask it. Omar, again, stepped up for everyone.

  “Are you considering any employee of this organization as a susp
ect in your investigation?” His voice was even, unemotional, his inquiry professional and reasoned.

  Marilena addressed the room. It must be something that they teach at the FBI academy in Quantico She conveyed to everyone with her posture and her words total professionalism, total confidence in the ability of the FBI to uncover the truth behind any crime. The application of available talent and dependable technique would be all that was needed to solve the case. She even had an advantage beyond that of her peers at the Bureau — her accent made judging her veracity difficult, if not impossible, for her audience.

  “We have not eliminated anyone, anywhere, who was associated with Dr. Briggs, as a suspect in our investigation. I am certain that we can count on all of you for your cooperation. His killer will be apprehended, tried, and convicted.” Her words, statements of fact, defined the future and left no room for interpretation. Her delivery underscored the absolute certainty that those who worked in the house that J. Edgar built would always get their man.

  THE THIRD OPTION

  Most of the members of the council had recovered enough to wish us good luck on our trip to Boston and to offer their unconditional support. I noticed Alison Montgomery surveying her executives as they spoke. Maybe she was having the same thought that I had: In a situation like this, how do you determine if someone’s behavior or facial expression is the product of an attempt to hide something or just a nervous reaction to being a suspect? I could ask Marilena; she would know. Alison probably didn’t have anyone who could help her with that question. She was, however, certain to be unhappy at the thought of any of her senior team being involved in Ron’s murder but was hiding her emotions behind a carefully controlled, neutral expression. As I had previously surmised, she would work hard to help me if indeed the killer was one of her employees. Her motivations were twofold: first, ridding her organization of some evil person, a killer no less, a normal protective instinct, and second, if that person did exist in her organization and she helped me find them out, then maybe I would help her minimize the public relations damage when it became generally known. She would want to have me in her debt so that when the killer was exposed, any comments sought from me would be positive about the society and limit my condemnation to one individual. Maybe I would even discredit the killer while lauding the society?