Truth Insurrected: The Saint Mary Project

by Douglas, Daniel P.

  The van crept over a shopping center speed bump. “What about the hybrids?”

  “Hold on.” Taylor parked and removed a cellular telephone from a pocket on his trench coat. He pretended to dial, and then held the phone next to his ear. “Avoid the male hybrid as much as possible. He has been transferred to Wright-Pat and reports directly to Stone now.”

  “And the female?”

  “Still in Tucson and not scheduled for a medical exam until next month. I do not think she will be a factor.”

  “You’re not sure then?”

  “All you have to do is keep me posted on Stone’s plans and run interference, if you have to.”

  “And the inventories?”

  “Keep sending them. As a courtesy, I told Stone that I would review your retrieval lists and make recommendations.”

  “I’ve been getting your memos.”

  “Then you know that certain items are particularly sensitive.”

  “Yes, which makes it difficult to delay their containment.”

  “You will not have to wait much longer. I will keep you advised.”

  Taylor’s passenger let out a loud sigh.

  Taylor returned the phone to his pocket, and then drove toward the exit. Three blocks from the Trujillo Center, he had to turn on the windshield wipers.

  “There’s something else,” Taylor said.

  “Yes?”

  “As you know, the most important document on your list remains missing and unaccounted for.”

  “Yes.”

  “It disappeared not long after you joined the ARDCom staff, did it not?”

  Rhythmic windshield wipers set to high speed made the only discernible sound inside the van.

  Taylor entered the vacant parking lot and stopped. A custodian detached two pieces of wide, red ribbon. He checked the van’s mirrors, and then said, “I don’t suppose you still have it?”

  The van rocked and the passenger’s door slid open. An abrupt slam from the shutting door prevented cold rain and wind from blowing inside.

  Chapter 7

  Witch Hazel?

  “I hope I look okay?” Janice said, placing a cup of coffee and her curriculum form on Harrison’s desk.

  He peered from behind the open briefcase on his lap. “Um, you look fine.”

  “I wasn’t sure of the dress code, and since I go to school between shifts, I tried to find a good compromise.”

  Oh, your clothes? “No, you’ve been dressing just fine.” Looking at her khaki slacks, olive blouse, trim waist, curved hips, and cerulean eyes, he was quite pleased. “I wouldn’t change a thing.” Except my age. “Have a seat.”

  As Janice sat, Harrison set the briefcase aside and sipped some coffee. He had just returned from another Monday-morning visit to Old Pueblo Guns and Range and found that Pete was out of the office, leaving Janice without any tasks other than taking phone messages.

  “I’m sorry we haven’t been more attentive during the past week, but we’re not used to having an intern.”

  “I understand. I didn’t exactly give you and Pete much warning.”

  “Still, we should try to be more organized about this. First, I don’t know what feedback Pete has given you, but I really appreciate the fact you’re on time, you’ve been courteous over the phone and at the counter with clients, and the clerical stuff has been accurate. I don’t think you’ve made a single mistake. You’ve picked up things very quickly.”

  “Thank you, Bill.”

  “No, thank you. We’re not all that busy, or at least I’m not, but it’s been nice to have your help. Now, I’ve looked at your paperwork, and I don’t think we’ll have any problem covering the different areas. Of course, if there are other things you want to learn, just let me know.”

  “Well, now that you mention it, I am interested in learning more about field techniques.”

  “Sure, sure.”

  “I’ve also been reading some of your books out there, that is, when I’ve been in need of something to do.”

  “Oh really? Which ones?”

  “Last week I read The Federalist Papers, and today I started The Oxford History of the American People.”

  “That one should take you a while. At least it won’t collect dust. Wait, you’ve already finished The Federalist Papers?”

  Janice smiled and said, “And I started The Oxford History of the American People today. Do you mind if I take it home until I’ve finished?”

  “Home? No, no, not at all. It’s a big book.”

  Silence accompanied mutual stares. She smiled. He coughed.

  Harrison shifted in his seat and quickly scanned the curriculum form. “So, are you interested in maybe doing some essays? We could count those under ‘research and report writing.’”

  “That would be fine, but when do we get to do a stakeout?”

  “Hah, I wish.”

  “Don’t you do stakeouts?”

  “Well, yeah, but they’re not like what you see in the movies or on television. They can be very boring and unrewarding. Of course, that is part of the job.”

  “Right, and I want to see as much of it as I can.”

  “Your enthusiasm is certainly refreshing. What are your plans, anyway? Are you thinking about a career in law enforcement?”

  “I don’t know. My plans are kind of up in the air right now. I want to keep my options open.”

  Harrison hesitated, but then could not resist. “Have you ever thought about the FBI?”

  “Actually, I have. You’d recommend it?”

  “Well, I don’t want you to neglect other options, but the FBI can be a great place to work. It’s tough, but I sure enjoyed it.”

  “What made you choose them?”

  “That’s a good question. I guess…” Harrison swiveled left, toward the window. Two postcards were pinned to the bulletin board directly ahead, next to a memo from their building’s security director about recent “prowler” sightings in the lower-level fire corridors. There was also a white, standard-sized envelope tacked below the memo. “I guess I wanted to serve my country,” Harrison said. “Boy, that sure sounds naive.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  He felt the comment more than he heard it. Twenty years was a long time to go without getting goose bumps. Harrison rubbed the back of his neck then folded his arms. “Yeah, well, those were different times, I guess. But I was also interested in law and couldn’t see myself as an attorney stuck in some office all day long. I wanted to be out in the field to see things firsthand.”

  A portion of the standard-sized envelope hung below the bulletin board’s wooden frame. White paper against white wall. As Harrison swiveled back toward Janice, his eyes met hers. She offered a perfect grin.

  “Okay, so I guess your request to go on a stakeout isn’t so unreasonable after all,” Harrison said.

  “When do we go?”

  “I’ll have to get back to you about that.” He leaned back in the chair and raised his right leg, resting his calf on the corner of the desk. His eyes moved away from hers.

  He saw light pine molding interrupted by white paper, again.

  “Remember this first, Janice: There are three things that go together to make a good investigator, or special agent, or police officer, or lawyer, or just about any professional. Education, training, and experience. So, let’s start with the basics, your education. Now, you are quite intelligent…” Pausing, Harrison massaged his temples and yawned. “Sorry, I haven’t been sleeping too well lately.”

  “Maybe I shouldn’t make the coffee so strong?”

  “No, the coffee’s fine. I probably just drink too much of it. Anyhow, using my little library out there, I want you to put together a short report for me.”

  Janice pointed to the notepad on his desk. “May I?”

  “Help yourself. Need a pen?”

  “Yes, please.”

  He pulled a pen from his shirt pocket. “Here you go.”

  “A report.” Janice made a note,
and then said, “On what?”

  “Hmm…I know, why don’t you surprise me? Use your own judgment and pick something that you’re interested in that has some relevance to law, or legal history, or criminal justice. Maybe you can use it for one of your other classes. You know, kill two birds with one stone.”

  “Do you want me to start on it today?”

  “Sure…” Where did that envelope come from? “And after you’ve finished it, then we’ll move onto the next item, your training. It may sound too formal, but in law enforcement, credibility counts for a lot. If you don’t have the right skills or knowledge, then you won’t make good decisions. You won’t be credible. It can make or break justice. Sometimes it can even mean the difference between life and death.”

  Harrison lowered his leg and stepped toward the bulletin board.

  “Basically, people will come to rely on you, to trust you, only if they know you have the ability to get the job done. Instinct and intuition will only get you so far. What you know and how hard you work to fill in the blanks makes up the rest.”

  Typewritten on the front of the envelope was Harrison’s name.

  “In fact, as tough as the work may be, the toughest part is maintaining your commitment to it. If that falters, well, then you become useless, and the bad guys sleep easier.”

  “You know, I think you’d make a great teacher, Bill.”

  Harrison pulled out the pin holding the envelope to the bulletin board, reuniting the pine-molding border. The envelope had a sweet, clean smell.

  “Why don’t you go ahead and get started, okay, Janice?”

  “I’m already on it.”

  As she slipped out the door, Harrison said, “Wait a second.”

  “Did you need something else?”

  “Yeah.” His deeply furrowed brow drew her closer. “What does this smell like?”

  He held the envelope outward, looking down at her bright face. She was easily ten inches shorter than he was. Compact. Solid. But agile, athletic. Even graceful.

  “Hold still.” She steadied his hand with an embrace from her lean, smooth fingertips.

  “Sorry, must be the caffeine.”

  Her warm breath brushed over his knuckles, dissipating near the white cuff around his wrist. “It’s witch hazel.”

  Harrison’s eyes stung. Better blink now. “Witch hazel?”

  “Yes, I’m sure that’s what it is.” Janice slid her fingers away. “You know, it’s like rubbing alcohol, but gentler. People use it for scrapes or abrasions. It’s like a cleanser or disinfectant. Odd for a letter to smell that way.”

  Leaning on the edge of his desk, the injured leg dangling just above the floor, Harrison said, “Uh-huh.”

  “I’ve heard that some men use it after shaving. You know, for nicks on those sensitive spots.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Are you okay, Bill? You seem like you’re a million miles away.”

  His response consisted of a few brief hand movements: pocket to mouth, pocket to mouth, a snap on his lighter. Minuscule flint fragments sparked and jettisoned from the flame. Two puffs. A third. He held the smoke inside. It emerged finally, when he raggedly said, “Probably just a coincidence.”

  “What?”

  Harrison smiled and youthfully swung his leg back and forth. “Just thinking about something else. I should get to work. And you, young lady,”—he stood, tossing the envelope onto the stack of active case files—“have a report to do.”

  He did not let her see him wince. Once Janice was outside, poking through the bookshelves, Harrison quietly closed the door and limped back to his chair.

  By the time he decided to open the envelope, Harrison had inhaled a second cigarette. Like the first, every shred of tobacco was scorched, turned to ash, the glowing ember sucked inexorably and completely to the butt. The coffee cup also ran dry.

  “ATTN: WILLIAM B. HARRISON” was typed across the front of the envelope.

  “Well,” Harrison said aloud, “you’ve got my attention.”

  Transparent tape helped to form a tight seal on the back flap, leaving only a narrow lip on which to pull.

  “Whoever you are.”

  His fingertips and thumb were too large, nails too closely trimmed, to make it work. He reached for his pen, and then remembered that Janice still had it. Taking the letter opener from the center drawer, he inserted the tip and made a clean incision.

  The single folded sheet was thick. Something was inside it, attached with a paper clip. Slowly, Harrison unfolded the lower flap. The typewritten signature was there, way at the bottom. Above it, there were sentences. Long ones.

  “At least ET has something to say this time.”

  Now, the upper flap.

  “Damn.”

  A quick count of the cash totaled $3,000. After returning the money to the envelope, Harrison read the letter. When he finished, one more thing became clear.

  No, this is not a joke.

  He maneuvered patiently, keeping his thoughts in order and trying not to strain his leg. Easing the door open, Harrison saw Janice seated at the front counter, taking notes. Moving closer to her, he spoke calmly. A nice, pleasant Monday-morning office tone.

  “Sorry to interrupt, Janice, but do you have today’s paper? I think I see it under your book bag.”

  She lifted the bag. “Yes, here you go.”

  “Thanks.” Harrison separated the sports and feature sections, folding them under his arm. “So, did you find something good yet?”

  “Well, yes and no.”

  “I’m sure you’ll do just fine.”

  His smile, wide at first, started to shrink on one side as he thumbed through the front section of the newspaper. He found the blurb buried on page six. The statement, issued by medical authorities in Florida, confirmed that Harold Groom had died from a heart attack.

  “When did Pete say he’d be back?” Harrison said.

  “After lunch. By two at the latest.”

  Reviving his grin, Harrison nodded and collated the paper, then politely handed it back to Janice. He returned to his office.

  First pulling the suit jacket from the hook behind the door, and then shutting the door completely, Harrison checked and emptied his pockets. He dumped the coins, a cigarette pack, a lighter, a couple of throat lozenges, his key ring, and his wallet into a small heap on the desk. He put on the jacket.

  He tapped the ashtray on the round rim of the trashcan beneath his desk. The ashtray went back onto the credenza. A wipe of his hands, then pictures of Explorer 1 and the aircraft boneyard came off the bulletin board. He inserted the postcards into a wide pocket on the briefcase’s inner lid, along with Echo Tango’s letter, envelope, and money. From the heap, his wallet, key ring, cigarettes, and lighter went inside too, into a floppy, zippered pocket. To those items he added a bottle of aspirin just in case his headaches returned.

  Harrison looked at everything. Where things sat. The angle of each item. The position of the blinds. The twisted cord connecting the computer’s keyboard to the terminal. He did not dwell very long.

  Exiting his office, Harrison saw Janice at the front counter still reading. “Okay, I have a few errands to run,” he said, trying to make the right, nonchalant inflection. “Just be sure to lock up. I guess I’ll see you this afternoon.”

  Janice lifted her gaze, and then blinked a few times. “Yeah, about two o’clock.”

  “See you then.”

  To Harrison’s surprise, the walk to his Dodge Charger was easy, without much, if any, limping. He figured this was due to the lighter-than-usual briefcase.

  After driving away from the office, Harrison traveled only a few blocks to the Tucson Police Department’s headquarters. From the briefcase, he took his wallet, a pen, and a notepad. Glancing at Echo Tango’s letter, he wrote down the first of five reference numbers: “49-082705.”

  Although not confused by Harrison’s request, the clerk in the Central Records Bureau showed mild interest.

  “M
y client’s a history buff, I guess. Who knows? I just do what they ask,” Harrison said, a cheerful grin accompanying his response.

  “I know what you mean,” the clerk said. She was a buxom middle-aged Hispanic woman whose measured, ingratiating manner made Harrison’s fingers sore—the ones clenching the notepad at his side. “Never a reason or explanation,” she said. “Just ‘I need it yesterday.’”

  “Yep.” Harrison’s hand really hurt. “So, do you still have it on file?”

  “Not in this office. A police report that old is kept on microfiche in the basement. I’m sure we can find it there. Just fill out this form. The fee is extra, of course, four instead of the usual three dollars.” She leaned toward him. “It’s to pay for the feather duster!”

  “I can only imagine.”

  <> <>

  Another short drive and he arrived at the Sonora Travel Agency. The money accompanied Harrison this time, along with a list of four out-of-state destinations. He watched the lone agent, a young woman with curly black hair, tirelessly helping an elderly couple with Thanksgiving travel arrangements. They had many questions, mostly directed at each other and not the agent.

  Under normal circumstances, Harrison made his own travel arrangements online. But with so many destinations involved, and the anonymity of a cash transaction, he opted for the assistance of a travel agent for this particular trip.

  Harrison did not pass the time by gazing at the full-color posters advertising such exotic locales as Tahiti, Hawaii, and Cancun, nor by looking at the trifold brochures about European getaways. Magazines were also available, left untouched, their covers adorned with happy couples running on silky beaches, snowboarding in Colorado, windsurfing in Puerto Rico, dining in Rome. Even the lobby television, large, quiet, and unalterably tuned to the Travel Channel, eluded his attention.

  After sitting, he briefly assessed the conversation under way between the agent and her customers. It would end soon enough.

  So there was just the list. With legs crossed, it balanced on Harrison’s left thigh. The yellow page, blue lines, and black ink, normally artless symbols, seemed to mock him and his circumstances.

  Secrets did that to him. They insulted. They nauseated.