by Ed Markham
An hour later they parked on the grounds of Stanford’s campus and made their way to Vince Beatrice’s office.
The professor had driven back from Carmel the previous evening after he’d learned of the FBI’s concerns about rabies and his need to be vaccinated.
During their drive down to Stanford, David and Martin had heard from Fred Takagi. Garrison Pool had indeed died from a rabies infection, the medical examiner had informed them.
When they knocked on the door to Vince Beatrice’s office, it was Derek Gould who answered.
“He’s just in his office there,” the young man said, pointing past the cluttered outer-chamber to the pristine interior quarters that held Beatrice’s workspace. Speaking in that direction, Gould called out, “Vince, those FBI agents are here.”
“All right, tell them to come on back,” a voice called.
Beatrice didn’t smile as he greeted David and Martin and invited them to take seats in front of his desk. “Two days, two requests to speak,” he said as they all sat down. “How worried should I be?”
“You’ve been vaccinated?” David asked, ignoring his question.
The professor nodded. “Yes, last night. I spent about five minutes online reading about rabies, and that lit a fire, as the colloquialism goes.” He rubbed his upper arm. “Packs a bigger punch than a flu shot, I’ll tell you. My whole arm aches, and I woke up with a headache. And they tell me that was just the first of four shots.”
“I’d say that beats the alternative,” Martin said.
“Certainly,” Beatrice said. He held his hands apart in query. “But how could someone infect me with rabies without my knowing it?”
“We’re working on that,” David answered.
Beatrice nodded, and then his expression clouded. “Of course I heard about Garrison.” He started to speak again, stopped himself, and then went on, “My attorney counseled me against meeting with you both again, but I saw no fair reason to decline your request. Will I regret that decision?”
Not in any mood for this kind of small talk, David again ignored the professor’s question. He had one of his own. “Do you know a man named Peter Newton?” He watched Beatrice’s face closely.
The professor cocked his head. “Sure. Pete was a student of mine back at U-Dub.”
“Have you spoken to him lately?” Martin asked.
The professor furrowed his brow. “No. Not for years. We kept in touch a bit after he first earned his Ph.D. He was considering academia. But we lost touch after he gave that up. I think he took some kind of government job.”
“He was an analyst for the Defense Department,” David said, relating what he’d learned from Wes Harris about Newton’s career following his doctoral work at the University of Washington. “Later he moved over to the National Security Agency.”
“I didn’t know that,” Beatrice said. He looked at David warily, and shifted in his chair. “May I ask why we’re talking about Pete now?”
“Last night he confronted me after I’d come out of a restaurant in downtown San Francisco,” David said. “He seemed agitated, and he said some things related to our investigation into these murders. Then he took out a gun and shot himself in the head.”
For a moment, Beatrice was speechless. His eyes scanned his office as he seemed to grapple with this information. Finally he said, “I’m very sorry to hear that. I liked Pete a great deal.” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. His eyes settled somewhere on his desktop and appeared to lose their focus. He said again, “I’m very sorry to hear that.”
“Based on some of the things Newton said to me, we’re going to take a good look at his recent email and phone records.”
“Mmm,” Beatrice said absently, his eyes still on his desk.
“We’re expecting to find information that pertains to our investigation,” David said. “Information that might explain the things Newton said to me last night.”
Now Beatrice’s eyes refocused and met his. The professor nodded, and then shrugged. He seemed suddenly exasperated, and as he spoke his voice gradually rose. “All right? That makes sense? Good luck? I’m not sure what you’re hoping I’ll say here. Pete was a former student of mine. I haven’t spoken or otherwise communicated with him for years. I’m sorry he decided to commit suicide, and it concerns me to hear he might somehow be involved in the murders you’re investigating. But I have no idea what his involvement might be. I don’t know anything about Brad Ketchner and Garrison Pool’s deaths. Is that clear enough for you two?”
Father and son sat quietly, watching the professor.
When Beatrice had finished speaking, David shook his head. He could sense now that he was pressing in a way he normally wouldn’t, but his sleep-deprived brain was overriding his usual discretion.
“No, that’s not clear enough for us,” he said. “And I’ll tell you why. The last thing Peter Newton said to me—just before he shot himself in the head—was, was it Beatrice? Before that he’d said something about trusting the wrong people.” He paused to watch the effect this would have on the professor, whose mouth had fallen open. He added, “So you can see why we’re talking with you again this morning.”
Beatrice crossed his arms and let his head fall back against his chair. For a time, he stared at the drop ceiling of his office as though trying to discern some instruction in the pattern of its tiles. Finally he lowered his eyes to David’s and shook his head. As he spoke, his tone was softened and he seemed no longer perturbed. “I have no explanation for that. It occurs to me Pete may have tried to get in touch with me somehow—maybe an email to an old account I no longer check, or a voicemail I somehow missed or inadvertently deleted. I’m going to look every place I can think of for him, because all this upsets and bewilders me. I’ll notify you immediately if I find something. But as of this moment, I have no idea what Pete could have meant when he said those things to you last night.”
Again his eyes lost their focus, and he seemed to be considering something. He said, “I’m sure that, in your line of work, you both have training in psychological disorders and the type of delusional psychoses that occasionally precipitates suicide.”
“You’re suggesting your old student just went nuts?” Martin said.
Beatrice looked at him with real annoyance in his eyes. “I’m just trying to find a logical explanation. It occurred to me something traumatic might have driven Pete into a state of despondence and delusion, and somehow I became a part of that delusion.”
“Always possible,” Martin said, though it was clear from his voice and his expression that he didn’t believe delusional psychosis was at play in this particular case.
“Please look through your old emails and voicemails,” David said as he and his father stood to leave. “If you find anything from Newton, let us know.”
Beatrice didn’t stand or offer to shake their hands as they left. “Of course,” he said absently, his eyes lost again on his desktop.
As they left the computer sciences building, David received a call from Wes Harris.
“We’ve hit a snag,” Harris told him.
“What snag?”
“Warrants for Newton’s email and phone records were denied.”
David stopped walking. “What?”
“Newton has a high security clearance with the NSA. They petitioned to have all access to his phone and email records blocked until they’ve had a chance to verify that nothing top secret will be leaked with his cellular and electronic data.”
“What about his personal accounts?”
“They included those in their petition. They argued that in his unstable frame of mind he may have sent himself state secrets. NSA told us they’ll release batches of data as they’re cleared, but they didn’t provide any timeline.”
David took a moment before replying. “And our warrants for Beatrice?”
“Physical surveillance was approved, but not electronic. Not enough justification, according to the judge.”
When he got off the phone, David had to take a minute to calm himself down. He could feel anger knotting the muscles in his upper back and shoulders.
“What is it?” Martin asked him.
“NSA blocked our access to Newton’s email and cell records. He has security clearance, so they’re telling us they have to check everything before we can have a look.”
“You’re kidding me?”
“Electronic surveillance of Beatrice was also denied. We can have people keep an eye on him, but that’s all.”
The two men stood for a moment, looking at each other and at the ground and trying to find their bearings in an unfamiliar place and unfamiliar circumstances.
“This whole thing smelled rotten from the start,” Martin said finally. “Sending us out here when we don’t know the terrain or the players . . . none of it makes any damn sense. I haven’t dealt with anything even close to this before—not in thirty-five years with the Bureau.”
His son nodded, but said nothing.
“So what are we going to do about it?” Martin asked.
David looked at him. “Let’s start by finding out more about Peter Newton. There’s more to a man than his email and phone records.”
.
Chapter 30
The upper branches of redwoods converged high above the road, forming a loose canopy under which David and Martin drove.
After helicoptering down to Felton, father and son had borrowed a green-and-white police SUV from the local authorities. “Compliments of the Santa Cruz County Sheriff’s Department,” an officer had said as he gave them the keys. Grinning through his moustache, he had added, “Feel free to crash it or steal it. I’m sure the FBI has plenty of cash to replace it, and we’re phasing out these old Durangos as quickly as we can.”
After leaving their meeting with Vince Beatrice, David and Martin had first returned to the Bureau’s San Francisco office, where they’d learned from Megan Brandt that people living in Peter Newton’s Marina District apartment building had called the police the previous evening after hearing frightened shouting coming from his unit. That was around seven at night, and when police arrived they’d found his place empty.
Brandt told them, “The police also found a metal trash can with the charred remains of some computer hard drives and memory sticks.”
Speaking to his son, Martin had said, “So Newton gets spooked, thinks someone is trying to kill him, and burns something. Then what? He comes and finds you so he can kill himself with an audience? How does he know anything about us? Or where we’d be?”
As he’d lay awake in bed the previous night, David had spent hours considering these questions. “With his security clearance, he might have been able to find out that you and I are handling this investigation for the FBI.”
“So how’d he find us at that restaurant?”
“He was a technology expert with NSA training. I’m sure they have their ways.”
After searching for close friends or family of Newton’s in the city—a search that had proved fruitless—David had learned Newton was close with his mother, who lived seventy-five miles south of San Francisco in a town called Felton. She had been notified of her son’s death, but because of a physical handicap, she hadn’t yet been able to make the trip north to identify his body. She was waiting for her brother to fly in from Colorado to comfort her and drive her to the city. But the brother wasn’t due in until the evening, and David had called to ask if he could come down and speak with her in the interim. She had agreed.
Now David and Martin pulled up in front of a cabin-style ranch home surrounded by trees and encircled by a large deck. The deck featured a wheelchair ramp and several large glass sculptures.
Knocking on the home’s door, David could hear Mrs. Newton’s electric wheelchair whirring as she approached from somewhere deep in the house. It took her a moment to unlock her door and pull it open.
Antonia Newton had thick curls of gray-blonde hair and a ruddy complexion accentuated by the residual dampness of her tears. She was dressed in a lime-green colored smock, and after opening the door to look at them she let her plump hands fall into her lap.
David introduced himself and his father, and then expressed his condolences.
He thought Antonia would break down, but was surprised to see her rosy face stiffen. “Come in so we can talk properly,” she said.
Manipulating a joystick on her wheelchair, she swiveled away from them and moved back into the house. She waved over a shoulder for them to follow her.
The inside of Newton’s home felt like a log cabin crossed with an art gallery. Abstract sculptures were arranged among the main room’s sitting chairs and other furniture. The wood walls were hung with blocky Rothko and Mondrian knockoffs, and the kitchen countertops and cabinets were bright yellow and orange.
A low easel and canvas stood in a spot near the kitchen that would normally have been occupied by a breakfast table. David expected to see a rudimentary landscape or nature scene, but on closer inspection the canvas revealed a cubist portrait, finely rendered and featuring a seated man holding a small dog.
“You’re talented,” he said to Newton as he turned from the painting and took a seat in a chair upholstered in yellow leather.
His father sat at his side on a matching couch, and Antonia Newton steered her wheelchair to a place facing them on the other side of a square area rug with a southwestern motif.
Newton didn’t reply to David’s compliment. Instead she sat looking at him, her small eyes blinking. Finally she said, “So my Peter shot himself right in front of you.”
“He did,” David said.
She let out a soft hum, and her lips tightened. “So now I’ve lost my son—my only child.” She paused to dab a knuckle at the corner of her eye. “And I lost his sweet father to cancer ten years ago.”
David and Martin stayed silent, both recognizing it would be crass in this moment to mention they’d recently lost a loved one of their own to cancer. A mother who’d lost her son was entitled to believe she had a monopoly on grief.
“You said you wanted to know about Peter,” she said. Then, after a long pause, “I’m so full of hurt and sadness right now that I can’t muster the energy for anything but the blunt truth, so I’m going to tell you what I know about my son.”
Again, David and Martin stayed quiet as she gathered her thoughts and composure.
“Peter was a good son and a good person, but he had struggles when he was young that required medication—antidepressants and antianxiety drugs. Also, I can admit that I probably over-watered him a bit with love and attention. He was an only child, and I couldn’t help myself. But he seemed mostly over his issues by the time he started college. His father’s death rekindled some of his old hang-ups. But then studying with Vince seemed to bring him out of his funk. He was happy while he was earning his doctorate, and then afterward when he was first going to work.”
As she spoke, she clutched her hands together in her lap and her eyes shifted from David and Martin to an indistinct spot somewhere on the rug in front of her.
“I say happy, but by that I mean Peter’s version of happy. He was always a bit of a Nervous Nelly, and I don’t think he ever felt comfortable enough in his own skin to make close friends. So when he started his government work and moved up and up into roles that came with more pressure and more secrets, I worried about him, and it didn’t surprise me when some of his old anxieties started to push through again. He’d come down here to visit with me once or twice a month, and he’d tell me there were things he was working on that troubled him, but that he couldn’t discuss. Secret things. He’d start to say more, but then he would stop himself. Seeing him so angst-ridden and conflicted, I’d try to change the subject to something less agitating. And that usually worked.” She smiled. “Peter loved baseball—especially all the numbers and statistics involved. So I’d ask him about his Giants, and that would usually cheer him up—get his mind on a different track.”
&nb
sp; She stopped, and was overcome with emotion.
David knew from experience that these were not moments to interject with a useless show of sympathy. He sat quietly, and so did his father.
After a minute or so, when Antonia’s weeping had subsided, David stood and retrieved a tissue for her from a box on the kitchen countertop. She took it and dabbed at her eyes and nose.
“The last time he was here, he was different,” she said.
“When was this?” Martin asked her gently.
“Just a few weeks ago, over Easter.” She sniffled, and again dabbed at her nose. “We’re not very religious people, but we celebrate the big ones, as Peter’s dad called them.” She crumpled the used tissue in her hands. “Peter was quieter than usual. On edge. I could see in his eyes he hadn’t been sleeping, and he seemed to have trouble carrying on a conversation with me—like his mind was too preoccupied to hold the thread of what we were discussing. I asked him what was the matter, and at first he just stared at me and said nothing. But then, finally, he opened up.”
She turned and looked at the section of couch next to where Martin was seated, and David knew that was where her son must have been sitting when this Easter conversation took place.
Antonia went on, “He told me there are some things he had been privy to that distressed him very deeply. I don’t remember the exact words he used, but some kind of ultra-secret government computer work. I’m not at all technologically savvy, so a lot of it didn’t make sense to me. But he made it sound like some people involved in computers or Internet things were doing something the government knew about—or maybe things the government wanted done—that Peter regarded as quite wrong.”
Again, her eyes became lost somewhere on the rug. “He told me he felt like he needed to do something about it—that he had an obligation to do something—but that doing something might have consequences. He said it a few times—‘There might be consequences, Mom’—and I knew without him saying it that he thought his life might be in danger.”