by Glenn Rogers
She came in at eight twenty-five, went to the counter, ordered, waited, and when her food was ready took her tray to a table. She was trying so hard to be inconspicuous, she was conspicuous. I got up and went to her booth.
“Joan?”
“Mr. Badger? “
I smiled. “Jake,” I said as I sat down.
Joan looked around nervously.
“Joan,” I said, “relax. I've been here for an hour. There's no one here watching us.”
She leaned toward me. “Are you sure?”
“Quite sure. Just relax and tell me your story.”
She still looked uncertain.
“Please,” I said, and gestured toward her styrofoam container with my head. She hadn’t yet taken the top off. “Eat some of your breakfast and drink some coffee.”
She took the styrofoam lid off the styrofoam plate. She had ordered the breakfast with scrambled eggs, sausage, and two small pancakes.
“When I was in Afghanistan,” I said, “one of the things I missed most was breakfast at McDonalds. I love Egg McMuffins.”
“You were in Afghanistan?”
I nodded. “Marines. Two tours.”
“My son was in Afghanistan. He was in the army. He's out now. He has PTSD.”
“I'm sorry. Lots of good men were wounded in Afghanistan.”
“He wasn't actually wounded,” she said. “But the memories haunt him.”
“There's more than one way to be wounded,” I said.
She took a bite of her eggs and studied me while she chewed. When she'd swallowed, she said, “You're a very kind young man, Mr. Badger.”
“Jake.”
She smiled and nodded. “Jake.”
She looked down at the table and took a deep breath. She was more relaxed now. She thought as she ate a couple more bites. I sat quietly and sipped my tea. She nodded and looked up.
“Okay,” she said. “It was 1982. I was an aide to Congressman Vernon Walters. There had been several secret operations. Black Ops stuff. Equipment had failed and people had died, three SEALs and some civilians. Walters was on the committee trying to figure out what had happened and what to do about it. Some of the surviving SEALs who had been involved came in to testify. Some of the commanders, too. Then they brought in a couple of contractors. Lyell Lindell was one of them. He had gone in to testify. I was in the hallway outside the chamber. A call came through from Mrs. Walters. Their daughter had been in an automobile accident and had been taken to the hospital. She wanted Vernon to know. She insisted that I go in and tell him. So I did. Walters was listening to Mr. Lindell's testimony. I went up to him and whispered in his ear. He looked at me, nodded, stood and the two of us walked out. As we were leaving the chamber, I heard Mr. Lindell’s response to questions asked by Senator Salem. The first question was, Mr. Lindell, did your company produce the L211? Mr. Lindell said, Yes. Then the senator asked, And Mr. Lindell, did that piece of equipment fail to operate properly? Mr. Lindell said, Yes. Then the senator asked, And did people die because of the failure of the L211? And Mr. Lindell said, Yes.”
“Do you know what the L211 was?” I asked.
“No. All I know is that it malfunctioned and people died because it did.”
She ate some more of her breakfast. I took another sip of my tea.
“Joan,” I said. “If it was necessary, would you be willing to swear to this under oath?
“Necessary?”
“If the only way for justice to be done, the only way for the families of the victims to receive reparations was for you to testify to this in court, would you?”
Her eyes locked onto mine. She took a deep breath and thought about it. “For the sake of truth and justice, yes.”
“Is Joan your real name?”
She pulled her eyes from mine for a moment and then brought them back. “No. My name is Julie Winthrop.”
“Okay, Julie. Unless there is no other alternative, I will not mention your name or testimony to anyone. If I need to involve you, I'll let you know ahead of time. To do that, I'm going to need a cell phone number where I can call and speak with you or at least leave a message.”
She nodded and gave me her cell number.
Chapter 37
I went back to my hotel room and called Alex.
“How'd it go?” he asked.
“Quite well,” I said. “She has a clear and detailed memory and is articulate. A good witness.”
“Did her story shed any light on the case?”
“Yes,” I said. “But we still need more information.”
“Like what?
“The device that malfunctioned is an L211. I don't know what it is or what it does.”
“L211.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Whatever it is, it malfunctioned in 1981 or 82 and people died as a result. I need to know precisely what it was and what it was supposed to do.”
“Okay, no problem.”
“You get the gun?”
“Yeah. Nice Smith and Wesson. Thanks.”
“Sure. So, now what?” Alex asked.
“Boston,” I said.
“Good luck.”
I decided to drive to Boston, so I could just hang on to the revolver Alex had arranged for me. The four hundred fifty mile drive took me nine hours. I wasn't in any hurry. There were a couple of restroom and drink stops. I checked into the Charles Hotel in Cambridge a little after seven and went to dinner at Al's Harvard Square Cafe. Had a nice pastrami sandwich. I had a good hard workout at the hotel fitness center and went to bed at ten, tired and ready to sleep.
I was out the door headed for Harvard by eight-thirty the next morning. June had given me a list of five people, professors, who would remember Jane.
First on the list was a history professor, Dr. Hillary O'Conner. I went to the library and used my iPad to find the location of Dr. O'Conner's office. I was wearing my basic uniform: Levis, a blue Oxford button down shirt, and a gray herringbone sport coat. I had the .357 in the shoulder holster I'd brought with me. Aside from the gun, which no one could see anyway, I fit in with the Harvard crowd rather nicely, I thought.
I found Dr. O'Conner's office and knocked on the partially open door.
“Come in,” she said from within.
Hillary O'Conner was tall, thin, plain, and wore no makeup. She had a nice smile. I introduced myself, gave her my card, explained who I was working for, and what I was trying to do.
“I remember June and Jane,” she said. “I had not heard that Jane had passed away.”
“It was just a few weeks ago,” I said. “Brain tumor.”
“And so you are trying to discover what, exactly, about Jane?”
“I'm trying to locate men she might have had a relationship with while she was here.”
Dr. O'Conner looked at me with raised eyebrows. “Indeed,” she said. “And your reason for that would be?”
“Jane had a son,” I said. “He'll soon turn thirty. He says she never told him who his father was.”
“And you think there are faculty here who will know who she dated and who will be willing to give you a name?”
“Hope springs eternal,” I said.
She smiled, but it was brief and a little sad, as if my naiveté saddened her.
I said, “I understand there are privacy issues involved here. But I'm not asking you to identify the father. I'm asking for a name of someone who might have been close to Jane and knew who she spent time with.”
She took a deep breath and thought about it.
“If I'm remembering correctly, both girls were involved in a service club called Making A Difference, M-A-D for short. They'd go into urban ghettos and work with the kids—tutor them, help them with projects, sometimes turning an old building into a community center for the kids, those sorts of things. The faculty advisor for that club is Belinda Adamson. I think she had just become advisor for that club about the time Jane and June joined the club. Of course, this was thirty years ago. I might have it completely
wrong.”
“But at least you've made the effort to help,” I said. “And I appreciate it.”
Dr. O'Conner told me where I would find Belinda Adamson. I thanked her and went to find Dr. Adamson.
Chapter 38
Oddly enough, when I checked the list of contacts June had given me, Dr. Adamson was on the list in the number four spot. I found her office and knocked on the door. She came to the door and asked if she could help me. Dr. Adamson was in her seventies but was still obviously quite vital, as Dr. O'Conner had been.
I introduced myself and gave her my card. “I'm working for June Morrison,” I said. You would have known her as June Lindell.”
“June and Jane,” she said.
I smiled. “Yes.”
She studied my card and said, “So, you're working for June?”
“Yes.”
“In what capacity?”
“Are you aware that Jane passed away a few weeks ago?”
A shadow of sadness darkened her face. “I had not heard that,” she said.
“Cancer,” I said. “Brain tumor.”
She shook her head and took a deep breath. Then she said, “And June has asked you to do what, exactly?”
“After they graduated from law school and went to work for their father, Jane, one day, walked away from everything and everyone. No explanation. She just left and moved to Tempe, Arizona, changed her name and started over. June has hired me to find out why.”
“And you think people here might know why?”
“Jane had a baby. A son. He'll be thirty in a few months. He claims Jane never told him who his father was. June would like to know.”
“June would like to know,” she said. “What about the young man?”
“He's not sure.”
She nodded and thought.
“There was a young man who was in MAD along with Jane and June. The club members spent a lot of time together. They often became close friends. This young man was a very capable historian and was invited to stay on here at Harvard as a member of the faculty. As it turns out, he's still here.”
“And his name?” I asked.
“Dr. Winston Thornebridge.”
“Where can I find him?”
She told me. It took me ten minutes to get from her building to the one that housed Thornebridge's office. It was a pleasant, sunny day and I was enjoying walking around the old campus. The sense of history was amazing.
I went through the introductory routine with Thornebridge. He invited me to sit in one of his guest chairs. Winston was in his middle fifties, tall and thin. His brown hair was streaked with grey and his eyes were beginning to sag. His nose was too small for his face.
“I didn't know she had died,” Winston said, sadly. “June must have been devastated. They were very close.”
“That's why Jane's sudden and unexplained departure thirty years ago was so hard on June.”
He looked at me, somewhat confused. “Sudden and unexplained departure?”
I explained what had happened.
“I had no idea,” he said, his expression a mixture of surprise and disbelief.
“June is unaware of Jane having had a boyfriend,” I said. “Obviously she had one. I'm trying to find out who it was.”
Winston thought and nodded. “There was a guy she liked. Bradford Manning. She went to law school with him. When we were all in a group, they played it casual, as if they were just friends. But I knew Brad. We hung out together. They were more than just casual friends.”
“Why do you think Jane wanted to keep the relationship a secret from June?”
He shook his head. “No idea. They were very close. You'd have thought they'd have shared everything.”
I nodded, and then asked, “How can I get in touch with Bradford Manning?”
“He teaches constitutional law at Yale.”
“How far is that from here?”
“Little over two hours.”
“You and he still buddies?” I asked.
“We're not as close as we used to be.” He shrugged. “Time and distance. But we still talk a couple of times a year. See each other at class reunions.”
“If you call him and explain, and ask him to see me, will he?”
“Probably. Only one way to know for sure.”
Thornebridge took out his cell phone and called Bradford Manning. There was small talk. Then he explained, listened, explained some more and listened some more. Looking at me, he asked, “When will you be there?”
I looked at my watch. It was just before ten. “One,” I said.
He told Bradford, listened, and then to me said, “How about two?”
I nodded. “Two o'clock.”
The drive down to New Haven was pleasant. There was a light rain, but the traffic was moving right along. I arrived with plenty of time to spare, so I went to a place called Bar for a pizza. They bake it in a brick oven. Tasty.
After lunch, I found the Yale campus and the law school. I found Bradford Manning's office and knocked on his door at two o’clock.
Manning opened the door and said, “Mr. Badger, I presume?”
“Correct,” I said, “but Jake is fine.”
He stepped back from the door and said, “Please, come in.”
He gestured toward one of his guest chairs and I sat. On his desk was a family photo arranged so it was visible from both sides of the desk, Bradford and his wife and daughter.
Bradford sat behind his desk and said, “So Winston said this was about Jane Lindell?”
“Yes,” I said. I gave him the run down. He seemed genuinely distressed to hear of Jane's passing and perplexed to hear that she had abandoned her former life without any kind of an explanation.
“There's more,” I said.
He waited.
“Jane had a son. He's nearly thirty now and says that Jane never told him who his father was. June would like to know. And I think that at some point the young man would like to know as well.”
“And Winston told you that Jane and I had had a relationship. So naturally, you're wondering if I might be the father.”
“Something like that, yeah.”
He nodded. “A legitimate question,” he said, “given the circumstances.” Then he said, No, it wasn't me.”
“How can you be sure?” I asked.
“When I was eighteen,” he said, “I was diagnosed with testicular cancer. They caught it early and were able to get rid of it. But the treatment left me unable to reproduce. Jane was the first woman I was with after the treatments. She was kind of a test case. Turned out I could still enjoy sex, but I couldn't have children.”
I looked at the family photo again. He saw me.
“That's my wife, Cindy, and our adopted daughter, Melissa.”
“Nice family,” I said. Then, after a brief moment, asked, “Were you under the impression that you were the only guy Jane was seeing at the time?”
“I would have been very surprised to discover she was seeing anyone else.”
“Why?”
“Because Jane was very shy. When you got to know her, she was very passionate. But she was also very guarded and not easy to get to know.”
“Why do you think she kept the relationship from June?” I asked.
He thought and shook his head. “I don't know. I was under the impression that the two of them shared everything. I think everyone assumed that.”
“June certainly thought so,” I said.
There didn't seem to be anything else to say. I stood and said, “Well, thank you for your time. What you told me was helpful.”
Bradford nodded. “Please, tell June how sorry I am.”
I nodded. “Sure.”
Chapter 39
I needed to think before my next move, so I found a hotel—the New Haven Hotel on George Street—and checked in. When I travel, I like to work out. Keeps me from getting stiff and it helps me think. The hotel boasted a large, well-equipped fitness center, so I thought I'd give i
t a try. I lifted weights for an hour and then went back to my room. I showered, put on some clean clothes, clicked on the TV, found CNN, and sat down with a Coke Zero. In a few minutes, they ran a story about a women in Falls Church, Virginia, Julie Winthorp, who was murdered by an unknown assailant as she returned to her home after grocery shopping. The killer was waiting in her house and shot her to death when she came in carrying her groceries.
When the CNN reporter moved on to the next story, I turned off the TV and called Alex.
“Yeah,” I said, “just now, on CNN.”
“Who'd you tell?” Alex asked.
“Only Mildred and June Morrison,” I said. “I was sitting in her office when I told her. You tell anyone?”
“Only you,” he said.
“Someone must have been watching me, saw Julie, followed her, broke into her home when she left, and killed her when she returned.”
“We know it wasn’t Mildred,” Alex said. “So either June Morrison is involved in a murderous cover-up, or someone in Lindell Industries has her office bugged.”
“Looks that way, doesn't it?” I said. “But I can't see June being involved. She wouldn't have hired me if she didn't want me to find out about Jane.”
“So someone in her company,” Alex said, “has her office bugged and has been listening to your conversations. It's the only way they could have known where you were going.”
“I agree.”
We were silent for a moment.
“What are you going to do?” Alex asked.
“I don't know. I need to think about it. Maybe by the time I get back, I'll have something figured out.”
I asked him what he wanted me to do with the gun.
“In the New Haven office,” he said, “there's a guy named Matthew Alston. I'll let him know you're coming by. Leave it with him. He'll ship it to me.”
By the time I got back to L.A., I'd come up with a very complex plan: I was going to talk with June and confront her with the fact that I needed to talk with her father. Jake Badger, master strategist.