Truth Insurrected: The Saint Mary Project

by Douglas, Daniel P.

  “I thought you had some aspirin in here?”

  Zemdarsky got up from his desk and followed the sound of Harrison’s voice. Since there was room for only one person at a time in the alcove, he remained in the doorway. “Got a headache?”

  “More like a migraine.”

  “I’m not surprised, what with how you were staring at that computer screen a few minutes ago. By the way, pizza’s on its way.”

  “Double cheese? Found them.”

  “Yeah, the usual. You should use a typewriter, like I do. Does the job just as well, and you don’t hurt your head.”

  Harrison swallowed the aspirin with a gulp of tepid coffee, and then refilled his mug. “Your flask is low. And it’s only Monday. You just don’t want to spend the money.”

  “I already bought the refill, just haven’t transferred it.”

  “No, I mean for a computer. You’re just cheap. They don’t cost that much. How do you even manage to function these days without one? Having one will save you a lot of time. And time is money.”

  “Speaking of which, with tip the total is fourteen dollars and twenty-eight cents. A nice even figure.”

  Harrison laughed. “I’ve even got an estimate from Bits and Bytes. If you want, I’d be glad to give you a copy. We should try to save some pizza for Janice. What do you think?”

  Closing one eye and furrowing his brow, Zemdarsky said, “Just a second.” After a moment, his nose wrinkled and the other eye closed.

  “Well?”

  “Wait.” Finally, the eyes reappeared, sweet and bright like maple syrup. “If we include Janice that makes it four dollars and seventy-six cents per person. Think she’s good for it?”

  “The question is whether you’re good for it.” Harrison massaged his forehead and limped from the alcove. He took seventeen dollars out of his wallet and laid it on a filing cabinet next to the globe. “It’s my treat this time. Tell the delivery person that he, not you, can keep the change.”

  Pete swept by, mumbling something about rising cheese and dough prices, and grabbed the cash. Harrison gave the globe a gentle spin and grabbed his mail before returning to his desk.

  One of his many marital infidelity cases involved a client whose husband allegedly had an affair with an attractive coworker. Since the case file was on top of the left stack on his desk, it was the first item he began to review. After unfolding it in his lap, he rotated the chair so that he could face the window and elevate his right leg on the credenza. The position helped to stretch his muscles and, with the help of the aspirin, to ease the pain in his thigh.

  This particular case, initiated by an affluent and apparently unhappily married woman by the name of Elena Zinser, had been easy to investigate, and Harrison had more than enough photographs to implicate the husband.

  There was also refuse. Receipts, notes, cards, and other innocuous pieces of litter, methodically collected for six weeks from restaurants, the Long Weekend Motor Lodge, A-1 Trips and Tours, and the other woman’s garbage containers effectively documented Mr. Zinser’s hidden agenda.

  Harrison labeled or tagged each piece of evidence with a serial number that he cross-referenced to the log entries and field notes he had made during the investigation. These handwritten accounts of Zinser’s comings and goings still needed to be typed, but there was one last document he wanted to include.

  Harrison swiveled back to the desk and dialed a telephone number noted on one of Zinser’s log sheets. “Hello, may I please speak to the office manager?”

  After a moment, a man’s gravelly voice answered, “I’m the manager.”

  “Hello, sir, my name is Wesley Hiatt. I hate to bother you, but one of our employees, Chuck Zinser, asked me to call. He stayed at your hotel last Wednesday night, and I’m trying to handle his reimbursement from the firm’s expense account. The problem is that the date on the receipt is smudged and very illegible.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “We’ve got kind of a strict accounting manager. She’s insisting on seeing a copy of the registry form, where Chuck signed it. If it’s not too much trouble?”

  “What’s the name?”

  “Zinser. That’s Z-I-N—”

  “From last Wednesday?”

  “Yes. It’ll help me get him reimbursed.”

  “Yeah, here it is. You just want a copy of the page?”

  “That’s it. I really appreciate it. Just send it to my attention, Wes Hiatt.” Harrison rattled off the address to a post office box he used for business purposes. “Thanks, and Chuck wanted me to tell you that he really likes your establishment.”

  “That’s nice to hear.”

  “I’m sure if the need arises, he’ll make it a point to come there again.”

  Harrison hung up the phone, smiling. He thumbed through his mail. Stopping abruptly, he went to the outer office and witnessed Zemdarsky, in one seamless movement, pay for, take, set down, open, and remove a slice of the pizza.

  Harrison picked up one of the napkins left by the delivery person and then sat in the chair at the front counter. He examined the individual slices, finally selecting a piece that had the best overall combination of appealing characteristics, such as size, shape, amount of pepperoni, lean crust, and good cheese coverage. The first slice was always the most satisfying, and he wanted to make the right choice.

  “Oh,” Zemdarsky said, “I forgot to order the Coke.”

  “I guess we’ll just have to drink coffee.”

  “Did Janice make it right? Strong, but not too strong?”

  “Yep. She passed the first test with flying colors.”

  “Mmm, hat tree mimes me.” Pete’s mouth was full again.

  “What? You should swallow first, then talk. I have to say, though, what you say with a full mouth is much more interesting than—”

  “Let me try again. I said, ‘That reminds me.’”

  “About what?”

  “I wanted to see if Janice sorted the mail correctly, you know, to check up on her work.”

  “Did she?”

  “She did. Everything for me was in the ‘Zemdarsky’ pile, and everything for you was in the ‘Harrison’ pile. Nothing was mixed up.”

  “She does accurate work, and makes good coffee.” Harrison eyed the tip of his carefully chosen slice, and then bit into it. A thick, sweaty pepperoni brushed against the roof of his mouth, moist crust collapsed under his teeth, and hot mozzarella cheese and sauce spilled across his tongue. He silently complimented himself for the excellent selection.

  “Yeah, but I was curious about something, Bill.”

  “What?”

  “Who’s Echo Tango?”

  Harrison looked at the mess. The underside of the pepperoni pizza slice, minus one bite, was staring up at him from the low-pile carpeting.

  “What the hell do you mean, Pete?”

  “In today’s mail, there’s a postcard from some ‘Echo Tango’ person. I thought it was rather mysterious, especially since that’s the only thing on it.”

  Zemdarsky spoke to the back of Harrison’s head, which grew smaller with each passing step.

  Once inside his office, an attempt to halt his swift movement failed. The strain on the injury was too great, causing his right leg to stiffen, nearly pole-vaulting Harrison over the desk. He jammed an arm outward, a new axis, with counterclockwise rotation. The remaining journey to the floor gave him time enough for a wince, a chuckle, and a feeble grasp at something. Anything. Nothing.

  Harrison’s head thumped the wall. “Oh yeah, that’ll hurt later. Isn’t this day over yet?”

  “In need of assistance?”

  “No, no, I’m fine, thanks. Could you hand me my mail, please? It’s next to the phone.”

  Stepping over Harrison’s legs, Zemdarsky said, “I think, Billy boy, that you should practice your gymnastics at home. If not for your own safety, then for the preservation of our building’s historic architecture.” He shuffled through the envelopes. “Here it is.”

 
Taking the postcard, Harrison immediately turned it over. “I don’t get it—there’s no message. It’s just signed ‘Echo Tango.’”

  “That’s what I was trying to tell you. It caught my attention.”

  Harrison stood slowly and squeezed past Pete, collapsing into his chair. “I have another one of these. Let’s see, yes, here it is. Take a look.”

  While Zemdarsky examined Explorer 1 and read the message about Groom, Harrison flipped over the new postcard several times. On its front, an aerial photograph showed eight orderly rows of white and gray F-4 Phantom fighter jets partially surrounded by the desert terrain of Tucson. On the back, the postcard had a typewritten signature, “Echo Tango,” Harrison’s typewritten business address, the photograph’s caption, and a Wichita postmark from October 31.

  “Huh,” Zemdarsky said, sitting. “So who’s this Echo Tango?”

  “I don’t know.” Harrison tapped a corner of the postcard on his lips. “That message about Groom is weird, but this one, frankly, is weirder.”

  “It’s just a signature.”

  “The one about Groom was probably a joke, but this one—whoa!”

  “What?”

  Harrison sniffed again. “Take a whiff.” He handed the postcard to Zemdarsky and smelled his fingertips. “What is that?”

  “Kind of…” Zemdarsky snickered and then closed his eyes. “Kind of boozy, don’t you think?”

  “Yeah, but it…Here, let me smell it again.” Harrison took the postcard and fanned it in front of his face. “It’s sweet too. There’s definitely an alcohol odor, sweet but clean.”

  “Rubbing alcohol?”

  “It’s sweeter, or cleaner, than that. Damn, I know I’ve smelled this before.”

  “Maybe the posty is nipping vodka on his rounds. Can’t say that I would blame him, just as long as we get our mail on time. So, you don’t know anybody with the initials ET?”

  “You think someone’s using the phonetic alphabet for their initials?”

  “Why not? It makes sense. Law enforcement types use it, don’t they? It’s probably someone you worked with at the bureau. Either that or an extraterrestrial is trying to establish contact with you.”

  “Echo Tango. ET. Hmmm…No, no, none of the aliens I knew had those initials. Must be a former colleague.”

  “Well, obviously he has far too much time on his hands, whoever he is.”

  “I guess. Still, the pictures are nice.” Reading the caption aloud, Harrison said, “These decommissioned F-4 Phantoms bask in the desert climate of southern Arizona. Tucson’s low humidity make Davis-Monthan Air Force Base home to thousands of mothballed aircraft, stored for later use, deployment, or sale.”

  “It’s the boneyard.”

  “Yeah, I’ve seen it from the road.”

  “They have tours. Maybe ET was in town and went for a visit?”

  “But why mail it from Wichita? And why was the earlier one sent from Dayton?”

  “I’m sure I wouldn’t know. ET’s your friend. Maybe he’s a traveling salesman?”

  “Wait, ARDCom’s in Dayton.”

  “Huh?”

  “ARDCom, it’s the Air Research and Development Command, part of the air force. When I was at the bureau, I used to work with their liaisons, military types, air force officers who were assigned to assist us on counterintelligence cases. I wonder if our Echo Tango is one of them.”

  “An air force officer?”

  “Maybe, although none of them were very humorous. They always seemed under siege. We bailed them out often enough; you’d think they would have taken a liking to us, but they didn’t. There was this one that was just the absolute meanest son of a bitch.”

  “Mean to you?”

  “To everyone. My last partner, Art Holcomb, stopped speaking to him. This guy was the worst.”

  “Doesn’t sound like a promising lead.”

  “No, it doesn’t. I doubt any of them would even remember me, let alone want to play some sort of postcard peekaboo, or whatever you’d call this. They’re the kind of people who’d stamp the Bill of Rights ‘top secret’ and quietly file it away. I didn’t make too many friends there.”

  “Then it’s probably someone from the FBI.”

  “Yeah.” Harrison fanned the postcard again, and then slid both cards into the desk.

  Zemdarsky grunted and straightened his vest. “Let’s eat.”

  Harrison’s thumb found the “H” tab in the Rolodex on his desk. He started dialing Art Holcomb’s phone number. “I’ll be right out.”

  Chapter 6

  Las Cruces Alliances

  Las Cruces, New Mexico, straddling the Rio Grande River roughly halfway between Truth or Consequences and Ciudad Juarez, could be a dreary and forlorn place without direct sunlight.

  On this Saturday, November 16, billowy, rain-laden clouds converged just after sunrise, draining the color from adobe, plaster, and masonry. The city’s rolling, scrubby, brown hills, dark against the gray sky, would soon struggle to absorb the heavy rainfall.

  But the people gathered at the Ernesto A. Trujillo Community Partnership and Neighborhood Services Center were never happier. Some seventy strong, they stood close together, some arm in arm, in the parking lot or on the center’s front walkway listening to hearty speeches.

  Around the podium, the VIPs sat in folding chairs, waiting for their chance to speak. Behind them, an undulating breeze nudged a balloon arch anchored between two flagpoles. One pole flew the American flag, the other, the New Mexico flag. The arrangement wobbled occasionally, nudged by an increasing northerly breeze, which also wafted the wide, red ribbon draped across the front doors of the new community center.

  With every congratulation made, or vision of success offered, the delighted families, dignitaries, business owners, and community members registered their approval. The vigorous applause and cheerful smiles spread easily through the crowd.

  A few times, even Edward Taylor clapped his hands.

  In the back row, which only he occupied, he saw Senator Vaughn after she stood and approached the podium. Plain in dress and looks, the second-term senator—a former journalist, lawyer, Chaves County executive, and college professor—struck her trademark pose: fists on hips, elbows out, hazel eyes centered on her audience.

  The applause ended, Taylor’s hands providing the final clap.

  “I dare those clouds,” Vaughn said, her voice loud and clear, “to rain on ’Nesto’s parade. I just dare them.” Cheering, some whistles, and then she continued, “I know that if Ernesto Trujillo has anything to do with it, he’ll keep us dry.”

  Vaughn gazed skyward. Her little crow’s feet deepened.

  “He is still with us, and his inspiration is all around. His humble ways made his wisdom and imagination just that much more profound. His mere presence was enough to spur creativity in each of us. He was an example to us all, showing us that doubt and apprehension could be overcome through faithful commitment to such simple ideas as cooperation and mutual respect.”

  Her eyes met the crowd again. “I just know he is smiling at us, grateful, and wondering where we will go from here!”

  The first tap on Taylor’s right shoulder went unnoticed. His beige trench coat, covering his suit, V-neck sweater, and bulletproof vest, presented a formidable barrier for a polite fingertip.

  A second tap, repetitive, culminated with a palm resting on the epaulet and a whispered, “I’m here, sir.” The palm slid away.

  “Just a moment,” Taylor said.

  Vaughn continued. “This community center not only honors the memory of a fine citizen, but forges a dynamic partnership between the university, chamber of commerce, local government, and the community as a whole to address the challenges we face in our homes and neighborhoods. This center and the services it will provide remind us that meaningful solutions do not just happen. They are nurtured by hard work and realized through the cooperation of many.”

  Taylor stepped away from the crowd and slowly walked out of
the parking lot. He did not look back, though he knew the man who had tapped him on his shoulder was not far behind. Once behind the steering wheel of the rented Dodge Caravan, he checked the mirrors and started the engine. Taylor opened the sliding-panel door and gestured to the man to enter the van. “Please sit on the floor.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  As the door closed, Taylor eyed the rearview mirror. He was pleased with his passenger’s choice of attire. The Colorado Rockies baseball cap, flannel shirt, Ray-Ban sunglasses, and bomber jacket made him look so ordinary, so American.

  Pulling away from the curb, Taylor said, “What did you tell headquarters?”

  The passenger’s muffled voice emanated from behind the driver’s seat. “White Sands is my next stop, so no explanation was necessary.”

  “Good. Stone is still in Ohio?”

  “Yes. He has me working on the reclassifications and the online alert systems. Needless to say, I’m on the road a lot these days, like Jack Kerouac or Charles Kuralt.”

  “But that means you are out of touch.”

  The passenger took several seconds to respond.

  “And what about yourself? You know, General, the border is only a short drive from here. What makes you so sure I won’t just slip away for good?”

  “That would only bring failure.”

  “For you.”

  “For me, yes. And for you.”

  More silence, except for a clicking turn signal and squeaky brakes.

  After the van rounded a corner, Taylor said, “Besides, where would you go? Think about it. Your mission is the only thing you have left. History has seen to that.”

  “My point is that the more you rely on me, the more likely it is that we will get caught. And even if we succeed, where does that leave me?”

  “This is not about you or me anymore. It is about everybody. I thought you understood that? Besides, I have to rely on you. Stone has managed to render me virtually irrelevant, while you are still very much on the inside. I cannot do this without you.”

  “So, I’m just supposed to trust you.”

  “Yes. I have protected you so far, have I not?”