by Glenn Rogers
“Let me guess,” I said. “I should stop asking questions about Jane Lindell.”
None of them spoke.
“This is not the way you expected this to go, is it?”
Finally, the one on the left said, “You can't get all three of us.”
“Actually, I’m pretty sure I can. But even if I can't, I can get two of you. The question is, which two? Who wants to die today?”
Again, none of them spoke. I cocked my gun and pointed it at the guy on the left.
I said, “So here's what we're going to do. Very slowly, take out your gun and put it on the ground.”
He did. It was a 9 millimeter Glock.
Then, taking aim at the guy on the right, I gave the same order.
He, too, did what he was told. His weapon was a Smith and Wesson 1911.
Finally, I pointed my .357 at the guy in the middle. I told him what to do and he did it. His weapon was a .22 caliber semiautomatic pistol with a silencer attached.
“Well, well,” I said. “I wonder what you planned on doing with that.
No one said anything.
“Now, I need all of you to back up two steps and then lie down on your bellies and put you hands behind your head, lacing your fingers together.”
They didn’t want to, but they complied.
I collected their guns and put the 1911 and the Glock in my Wrangler. I used the silenced .22 to shoot out all the tires on their Explorer.
Then I said, “If I ask you who sent you, you won't tell me, will you?”
They didn't respond.
“Probably don't even know who sent you. Well, no matter. But here's the deal. If you come after me again, I'll kill you. Understand?”
Then I got into my Jeep, drove around them and drove away.
Chapter 17
Thousand Oaks is an upper middle class community and the street Lisa Morrison lived on was lined with homes and cars that reflected the wealth of the community. Lisa's home was a two-story, sand-colored stucco affair with an attached three-car garage. From the street, it appeared to be about three thousand square feet.
An attractive fifty-something woman wearing jeans and a tee shirt answered the door. I handed her my card, introducing myself as I did.
“Are you Lisa Morrison?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“June Morrison hired me to figure out why Jane left.”
She allowed herself a moment to process that and then stepped aside and said, “Please, come in.”
After closing the door behind me, she led me into the formal living room to the left of the entryway. It was an immaculate, comfortable room furnished in Early American. There was a fireplace with a mantle above it, a place to display family photos. Lisa gestured toward the sofa. I sat down.
“Nice looking family,” I said.
“Thank you. My husband, Jason, and our daughter, Cynthia.”
“You're married but still go by your maiden name?”
The look on her face was quizzical.
“I'm sorry,” I said. “Investigators tend to notice details.”
She smiled and said, “It was one of those odd occurrences, I guess. I fell in love with a man whose last name was the same as mine.”
“That made it convenient, didn't it.”
She smiled again. “Can I get you some coffee?” she asked.
I didn't really want coffee, but I’d learned when I was an agent that if you let people get you coffee, it relaxes them and the interview goes better. Two friends having a chat over coffee.
“Sure,” I said, “that would be nice,”
“How do you take it?”
“Black.”
She went through the house and in a moment came back with two mugs of coffee.
She sat down and we each had a sip. It was good coffee.
“I didn't know June was looking into why Jane left.”
“Are you aware that Jane passed away recently.”
I could tell by the look on her face that she did not know. Tears filled her eyes.
“I didn’t know,” she said, trying to control her emotions.
“I don't think June has told anyone,” I said. I didn't actually know that, but I thought it might ease any resentment about not being told.
I gave her a moment to collect herself and then said, “I understand that you and Jane became friends while your brother and June were dating.”
She nodded.
“I was a year younger than Jane, but we kind of hit it off. We liked a lot of the same kinds of things. We were both shy around men.”
“Why do you think she left?”
“I've asked myself that a thousand times over the years,” she said, her eyes fixed on a spot across the room. Bringing her eyes back to mine, she shook her head and said, “I don't know.”
“What was she like,” I asked, “in the weeks or days just before she left?”
“Not much different really,” Lisa said. “A little quieter, maybe. She mentioned once that she didn't feel well.”
“She ever say anything about wanting to have a different life?”
“A different life?” Lisa shook her head. “Why would she want a different life? She had everything. She was attractive, smart, well educated, rich. Why would she want a different life?”
“Maybe the life she had didn't make her happy,” I said.
“But she was happy. She loved her job. She was enjoying life.”
“Then why'd she walk away from it?”
Lisa took a deep breath. “I wish I knew.” After a moment she added, “I also wish I knew why they didn't try to find her.”
“Have any thoughts on that?” I asked.
“I talked with June about it just once,” Lisa said. “June was heartbroken. She mourned almost as if Jane had died. But since Jane had asked her to respect her decision and not try to find her, June said she wouldn't. She said that Jane had asked her to let her go, and she was going to honor her request. She said she owed her that. I guess I understand that. Sort of. But at the same time … why would they just let her walk away?”
“Did she ever talk of other places she thought she might like to live?”
“Not that I can remember,” Lisa said.
“Can you think of any reason why someone would prefer that these sorts of questions not be asked?”
Her expression told me she thought the question odd.
“No. Why would anyone object to knowing why Jane left?”
“Maybe because of why Jane left,” I said.
I could see that that thought hadn't occurred to her.
“You think the reason for her leaving was somehow sinister?”
“Based on a couple of recent events, I think it may well have been.”
Chapter 18
On the drive back from Thousand Oaks, I called Alex using my Wrangle's hands free Blue Tooth phone system. Safety first.
“Discover any of Lindell Industries’ dirty laundry?” I asked when he answered.
“You sure they’ve got any?” he asked.
“Three guys followed me this morning. Ex-military. Armed. One carried a .22 with a silencer.”
“You didn't kill them, did you?”
“Didn't shoot 'em, didn't hit 'em. Just took their weapons and shot out their tires.”
“You embarrassed them? You got a mean streak in you, you know that?”
“I see them again I'll do more than shoot out their tires.”
“No doubt.”
“So, what have you found on Lindell Industries?” I asked again.
“Well,” Alex said, “based on what you're looking for—something the Lindell girl might have discovered thirty years ago—I focused on the years between 1967, their first government contract, and 1984, the year she took off.”
“Okay.”
“This is going to blow your mind,” he said. “In the late 1970s the government was conducting secret experiments with brain implants designed not only to track an individual's movemen
ts, but also to control his or her behavior. It was a huge experiment. They put implants in prisoners, handicapped people, homosexuals, women, kids, and soldiers. Some of the test subjects suffered brain damage. Some died. And guess who was right there in the middle of all of it, developing the implants.”
“Lindell Industries?”
“Lindell Industries.”
“How did you get your hands on that information?” I asked. “It's got to be classified.”
“It is. And I had to promise a lot of favors to get it. You owe me big time for this one, Jake.”
“I was thinking the date with your sister would cover it.”
“Not hardly.”
“Well, we can talk about that later,” I said. “Right now I need to process this new information. Can you get physical copies of this information?”
“Am I the purveyor of hearsay?”
“Forgive me for asking. When can you get a copy to me?”
“I can drop by your office at lunchtime.”
“Perfect. Thanks, Alex.”
I had no sooner ended my call with Alex, when Gloria called me back.
“Jane Alistair,” Gloria said. “That's the name she was using. She moved to Tempe, Arizona, in 1984 and lived there until her death a few weeks ago.”
“That's good work, Gloria. I appreciate.”
“How much?” she asked.
“How much what?”
“How much do you appreciate it?”
“I think the agreed price was a lunch.”
“And after lunch?”
“Gloria, those kinds of lunches were several years ago.”
“Can't blame a girl for trying,” she said.
“Lunch,” I said. “Next week some time, when I get back from Tempe.”
“You'll call?”
“I'll call. Were you able to come up with details: where she lived, where she worked, that sort of thing?”
“Got a whole history on her. I'll email it to you.”
“Thanks Gloria. The lunch will be a very nice one.”
*****
It was lunchtime when I got back to the office. I ordered Chinese for Mildred and me from Golden Dragon and had them deliver it. I ordered two extra egg rolls for Wilson. When the food arrived, I paid and gave Mildred her chow mien, which she ate at her desk. I took my pork lo mien back to my desk. I like pork lo mien a lot.
I was washing down some noodles with a sip of my Coke Zero when I saw him coming up the front walk. Medium height and build. Nothing distinctive about his clothing. A light jacket and a ball cap pulled down to hide much of his face. His movements were deliberate. He was not a prospective client. I pulled my .357 from under my arm and had it in hand when he walked past Mildred, ignoring her protestations, and came into my office, gun in hand—a nine millimeter.
He was a pro. It would simply be a matter of who fired first. Because I'd seen him coming, I was ready and I fired first. I was shooting 158 grain jacketed hollow points. The slug left the barrel of my gun at sixteen hundred feet per second. Before he heard the sound of the shot, it hit him with nine hundred foot pounds of energy. The impact, just a fraction of a second before he fired, knocked him back, throwing off his aim. His shot went high into the wall behind me. He lay on the floor, blood draining from his chest.
I put my gun down on the desk and just sat there. Didn’t seem to be any reason to get up. After a couple of seconds, Wilson came and sat down beside me, resting his head on my leg. I patted his head. Wilson’s not afraid of gunfire. But he knew something bad had just happened. I told him I was okay. He sat with me another moment and then went to inspect the man lying in the middle of our office. The smell of gunfire hung heavily in the air. I regretted having to kill him. One second a man was alive, and the next he lay dead on the floor of my office. I don't like killing. I'm good at it, but I don't like it. Seems like such a waste.
After a moment, Mildred stuck her head in my office and asked, “You okay?”
“I'm fine.”
“Want me to make the call?” Mildred asked.
“No. I'll call.”
“McGarry,” he said when he answered his phone.
“Frank, Jake Badger.”
“What's up, Jake?”
“I just shot a guy. He's dead. My office.”
“What happened?”
“A shooter. Came to kill me. Wasn't fast enough.”
“Any witnesses?” he asked.
“Mildred.”
“All right,” Frank said. “You know the drill. I'll send a squad car to secure the scene. I'll be there in a while.”
While I waited for Frank, I called Alex.
Instead of hello, he said, “I'm on my way right now.”
“It just got serious,” I said.
“Serious how?”
“I got a dead shooter laying on the floor in my office?”
“Mildred okay?”
“She's fine.”
“You okay?”
“Pissed off,” I said. “I don't like having to kill people.”
“Ever occur to you to be relieved that you're alive and able to make this phone call?”
“No.”
“Didn't think so. So what can I do?”
“Just wanted you to know what you’ll be walking into when you get here.”
“I'm about ten minutes away.”
Chapter 19
The black and white that McGarry sent arrived a few minutes before Alex. The uniforms wanted Mildred and me and Wilson to wait in her side of the office. When Alex arrived, he flashed his FBI badge and got in. He sat with us and gave me the report he’d brought. I put it in the top center drawer of Mildred's desk. The coroner arrived next. Finally, McGarry showed up.
He sat down with us, focused his attention on Mildred, and said, “Hello, Mildred. Been a while.”
“Since the funeral, I think,” she said.
Frank nodded. Then, nodding his head toward me, he asked her, “This guy as hard to work for as he is to work with?”
“I raised two teenage sons,” she said, “so I can handle it.”
In a way, Mildred was like my mom had been: gentle and kind when she needed to be, straightforward and tough when she needed to be.
McGarry smiled and then asked her what happened. She explained. He made a couple of notes.
He knew Alex. So he asked, “FBI got an official interest in this?”
Alex shook his head. He didn't say anything else.
“Tell me about it,” Frank said to me.
I explained what had happened. He listened and nodded.
“Why?” he asked.
“Case I'm working on.”
“Uh-huh. Want to be more specific?”
“Not really,” I said. It wasn't that I worried about Frank. He was a friend. But he was also a representative of the LAPD, and what I was looking into, especially as it concerned Lindell Industries, needed to remain strictly confidential. I knew he understood that.
Frank nodded. “Anything else you want to tell me?”
I thought about it for a moment. “There were two prior attempts to warn me off,” I said.
He waited for me to explain, so I told him about the first two guys and the second group of three.
“And then a shooter shows up,” he said.
I nodded.
“Sounds like you're really pissing somebody off.”
“Or scaring them,” I said.
Frank looked at Alex. “FBI know anything about this?”
Alex shrugged. “Can't really say.”
“Okay guys,” McGarry said, “I get it. You don't want to talk about what you're into. But we got a corpse in the next room. It wouldn't be there if somebody didn't have a serious hard on for you, Jake. How much more difficult is this going to get?”
“That depends on the bad guys,” I said.
He nodded and stood. He told the uniforms to stay until the coroner was done. He asked the coroner if it looked like there were going to b
e any problems. The coroner said he doubted it. The guy died as a result of being shot in the chest. McGarry asked the senior uniform if he had signed statements. The uniform said he did.
“Okay then. We're done here. Watch your back, Jake.”
“Always careful,” I said.
To Alex Frank said, “He won't ask for help on this. Doesn't mean he doesn't need it.”
Then to Mildred he said, “Nice to see you again, Mildred.”
*****
Twenty minutes later, the coroner was gone. The uniforms had followed him out.
Mildred said, “I'll call the carpet cleaners. A big blood spot on the carpet is not going to create a positive experience for prospective clients.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“What about the bullet hole?” she asked.
I shook my head. “I’ll come in and patch it.”
She nodded and went to her desk.
Alex said, “McGarry was right.”
“You think they'll send somebody else?” I asked.
“In their place, wouldn't you?”
I asked Mildred for the report Alex had brought. She handed it to me and I went back to my side of our office. Alex followed. Wilson was inspecting the bloodstain.
“Is it time to confront Lyell Lindell?” Alex asked, as I looked over the report he'd brought.
I took a breath as I sat down behind my desk. I thought about confronting Mr. Lindell and then shook my head. “I don't think so. We don't know enough yet. We need to find out who at Lindell Industries was involved in the brain implant research. We need some additional documentation, if possible. At this point, there's a report that says Lindell Industries was involved. All they have to do is deny it. We need more.”