by Nick Pirog
Paul / St. Louis Cardinals / -135 / $75.
I smiled.
The last “L” in Cardinals was slightly smaller than all the other letters.
“You sneaky sonofabitch,” I muttered with a smile.
I continued flipping through pages. I was starting to think it was a fluke when I found a second height discrepancy.
Morgan / Houston Rockets / +150 / $100.
The “U” in Houston was distinctly smaller than all the other letters around it.
I pushed forward in my chair a few inches.
May and Harold pawed at my legs. They must have sensed my rising adrenaline.
Six pages later, there was another entry, this time the “N” was slightly smaller.
It took me another hour of combing through all the entries. There were seven letters in all that stood out: L-U-N-H-I-L-L.
I pushed back in my chair. My hands were shaking.
Lunhill Corporation.
Big Biotech.
And the most hated company in the world.
Chapter Eighteen
I didn’t know a whole lot about Lunhill, but my sister, who became extremely food-conscious after she was diagnosed with MS, and rightfully so, mentioned them a few times.
GMOs are destroying the planet, Thomas!
Lunhill is poisoning people, Thomas!
You have no idea how fucked up this corporation is, Thomas!
They are the most hated company in the world, Thomas!
She’d even gone to a couple anti-Lunhill protest rallies when we were living in Maine.
I searched “Lunhill” on my phone and spent the next hour reading everything I could find.
In a nutshell, Lunhill was an agrichemical and agricultural biotechnology corporation. They had been around for more than a hundred years, starting out as a chemical company in the early 1900s. At some point in the 1980s, they turned their focus to biotechnology, and in the last thirty years had become the leader in genetically modified organisms.
Controversy followed them at every step, from their involvement in the creation of Agent Orange during Vietnam; to being the leading producer of saccharine in the 1930s; to DDT, one of the most dangerous insecticides ever created; to a horrible dioxin spill that destroyed an entire town; to their glyphosate-based herbicide Spectrum-H; to most recently, their Spectrum-H(R)—Spectrum-H resistant—line of genetically modified seeds.
According to Lunhill, they were saving the world.
According to most of the world, they were destroying it.
Many people believed genetically modified organisms (GMOs) were making people sick and Big Biotech firms, specifically Lunhill, were suppressing data that showed GMOs cause harm. Others felt Lunhill was going so far as to deliberately cause food shortages to promote the use of genetically modified food.
There were several other allegations, including Lunhill’s incestuous relationships with government agencies like the Food and Drug Administration (FDA) and the Environmental Protection Agency (EPA). An unprecedented number of Lunhill employees either worked at the FDA or EPA before they were hired or went on to work at the FDA or EPA after working for Lunhill.
Then there was the Lunhill Protection Act, signed into law by President Barack Obama, which essentially gave biotech companies like Lunhill immunity in federal court. The bill stated that even if future research showed GMOs caused significant health problems, cancer, infertility, birth defects, kidney or liver damage—anything really—the federal courts no longer had any power to stop their spread, use, or sales.
My favorite of all the accusations against Lunhill was that they had banned GMOs from their own cafeteria while promoting them for sale and consumption by the public.
All science mumbo jumbo aside, most disturbing was the fact that Lunhill spent millions of dollars each year to strike down GMO labeling laws even though the vast majority of the world supported such laws and wanted to know what was in their food.
Why didn’t Lunhill want people to know their food contained GMOs?
I made a mental note to keep this in mind the next time I went to the Harvest Food and Market.
Lacy had mentioned they were the most hated company in the world, and I wondered if this was hyperbole or gospel truth. According to a number of different websites, it was closer to the latter. Though Lunhill wasn’t always ranked number one, they were usually in the top three, surrounded by the likes of BP, Dow Chemical, Haliburton, Bank of America, and Bayer.
But get this, though Lunhill might be a global company, they were based less than a hundred miles from Tarrin, just outside of St. Louis.
“Shit,” I swore under my breath.
Still, their proximity didn’t explain their connection to the Save-More murders.
I Googled, “Lunhill and Tarrin, MO.”
There were several hits, but only one that caught my eye.
Save-More Victim Worked at Lunhill.
I clicked on the link.
It was from a blog called GMOs, Guns, and the Uprising.
It read:
November 17, 2012
* * *
Last month, there was a horrific massacre in the small Missouri town of Tarrin, population just over two thousand. A disgruntled ex-employee returned to the grocery store he worked at and took his revenge on the manager who fired him, as well as five other individuals (there was a sixth, one lone survivor). Lowry Barnes, a convicted felon, had legally—yes, legally—acquired a semi-automatic pistol just the week before. Nice work, Show-Me state. Show Me just how fucking easy it is to get a gun. Anyhow, one of the five who were killed had worked for the Lunhill Corporation.
* * *
Forty-seven year-old Neil Felding worked for the Lunhill Corporation for nearly twenty-two years. He was one of the lead scientists on a number of their big hitter projects, including possibly their worst Frankenseed creation, Bt-corn, which has been genetically modified to produce its own insecticide. Only it doesn’t stop producing that fun insecticide after little Joey eats his taco shell, and two years later he gets colon cancer. Yes, this is happening, people. Here’s the link: http://www.medikjournal.com/2349484
* * *
Anyhow, three weeks before his death, Neil Felding stepped down from his position at Lunhill after a heated quarrel in the corporate cafeteria with Lunhill CEO, David Ramsey. Yes, THE David Ramsey. AKA, Vader himself.
* * *
One can only wonder what the argument was about. Had Felding had a change of heart? Had he decided to turn his back on the Dark Side? Had he decided to join the Rebellion?
* * *
But because of one stupid asshole and a state with possibly the most lax gun laws in the known universe, we’ll never know.
I set my phone down on the table.
There was only one word on my mind.
Whistle-blower.
What if Neil Felding uncovered something mind-blowing, something he felt the public had a right to know about? Then he confronted his boss, this David Ramsey, in the cafeteria. There was a heated argument, and Neil stepped down. Now maybe it was just semantics, but usually when you verbally assault your boss—at least from my experience—you don’t “step down,” you’re “fired.” But then again, maybe the CEO begged Felding to stay. Maybe Felding knew too much for this Ramsey guy to let him go.
With a company like Lunhill, Felding would have been forced to sign all sorts of non-disclosures with likely heavy repercussions should he break them. If Felding leaked anything, it would have been sure to cripple him financially.
But what would stop Felding from leaking whatever he knew anonymously?
Is this what Mike Zernan thought, that Neil Felding was the real target of the Save-More murders? Is that why he sent me the notebook with “Lunhill” as the clue? Did he think Lunhill was behind it?
I ran my fingers through my hair and thought about the theory that was taking shape.
Neil Felding was about to blow the whistle on Lunhill. Something big, someth
ing groundbreaking. And coming from Felding, one of their top-dog scientists for more than twenty years, it would carry unquestionable validity. It would shake Lunhill to the core. It would cost them millions, maybe even billions.
So they (Lunhill) need to get rid of Neil Felding.
But if Felding gets murdered or has an accident so close to his stepping down, it will look suspicious. A good investigator—like Mike Zernan or yours truly—might even trace it back to Lunhill. They would need Felding to go away, but it couldn’t look like he was the target—just that he was caught in the line of fire.
But how do they do this?
I smirked.
Where is the only place in a small town everyone is going to go at some point?
“The grocery store,” I said out loud.
Somehow Lunhill learned about Lowry Barnes, a felon who was just fired from the grocery store. They get to him. Offer him money, threaten his family, or both.
For the first time, I thought about Lowry Barne’s family. He had a wife and two kids. Where were they now?
I made a mental note to find out.
Anyhow, Lowry Barnes agrees to do it, to kill Neil Felding but make it look like it is a revenge murder and Felding was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.
I thought back to what Victoria Page had said, how Lowry Barnes had come into the Save-More just a few seconds after Neil Felding.
My head unconsciously began to nod up and down. Maybe this was plausible after all. Maybe this wasn’t science fiction.
Lowry does the deed. Then he makes his getaway. The police find him in his car on the side of the road where he’d supposedly killed himself. But what if he hadn’t?
What if he was there to meet someone? Maybe to get his money. And they overpowered him, shot him in the temple, and made it look like a suicide.
“Holy shit, Mike,” I said. “You could have this right.”
I wondered what Mike stumbled on to make him think this. And if he thought this, why would the Tarrin Police Department and Chief Eccleston not want this to come out?
Did they have ties to Lunhill?
I would have to find out.
Regardless, there was still one giant piece missing. Lunhill was a multibillion-dollar corporation. They spent millions on lobbyists, they spent millions on lawyers, but if my theory was correct, then they also employed murderers.
I searched “Lunhill and murder” on my phone. There was only one article that contained both words. It was titled “Lunhill tied to Elite Murder Squad, Blackwater.”
“No way,” I said, staring at my phone.
Blackwater.
Them I knew.
In my decade-long tenure with a number of different law enforcement agencies, I’d heard rumblings about the private military for hire. Founded by a former Navy SEAL in the late nineties, Blackwater provided contractual security services for the federal government, including a $250-million contract with the CIA. They were infamous for a 2007 incident when a faction of Blackwater’s employees killed seventeen unarmed civilians in Iraq.
According to the article, Lunhill and the controversial security firm were in bed together, or as they put it, “Lunhill contracted with the shadow army in order to protect the Lunhill brand, to develop an acting intel arm of the company, and to collect intelligence on anti-Lunhill activists, politicians, and competitors.”
No wonder Mike Zernan was so paranoid. He must have feared this shadow army was listening to his every word and watching his every movement.
I thought back to the ligature marks on Mike Zernan’s neck.
The garrote.
A military weapon.
Chapter Nineteen
Lunhill headquarters was located on the outskirts of St. Louis, a little over an hour drive from Tarrin. It resembled a college campus, and not just because of the twenty activists picketing on the sidewalk in front of the Lunhill Corporation sign. They were all ages and races. They held signs and chanted.
I read a few of the placard signs as I drove past.
Protect the Land.
Protect our Farmers.
Stand against Lunhill.
No One Should Own a Patent on Mother Nature.
I am not an Experiment.
Quit Trying to Get in my Genes.
Lunhill = Evil Seed of Corporate Greed.
Geez Louise.
These guys really were hated.
I drove down a long expanse of road until I came to a sprawling building of glass and sharp angles. There were over a hundred cars in the parking lot, but I expected more considering Lunhill employed close to twenty thousand people. But then again, the company had offices all over the world.
A minute later, I pushed through the glass doors and into a wide atrium. I wasn’t surprised to see two security guards manning a metal detector. One was older and graying. The other, young with a wispy blond goatee.
They scrutinized me as I approached, my handsome mug not being one of the hundred they saw on a daily basis.
“Hey, fellas,” I said.
“You need an ID badge,” Wispy Goatee said, “or a visitor’s badge.”
“How about this badge?” I quipped.
It’s funny how people react when they realize you work for the FBI. Or had worked for the FBI. Or had stolen the badge of someone who worked for the FBI.
Both men’s backs straightened.
I handed Old Gray the badge, hoping he wouldn’t look too hard at the picture—I was a decent looking guy, but Todd Gregory had been pretty to a fault—and notice that although Gregory and I had similar hair and eyes, it wasn’t me in the picture.
After a moment, he said, “Go right on through, Agent Gregory.”
I walked through the metal detector, the light blinking green, and the guard handed back the badge.
Easy peasy.
Technically, I just committed a federal crime and possibly an even bigger ethical one. I impersonated an FBI agent. A dead one. One who would most likely be alive had a severely pissed off serial killer not been exacting his revenge against me three years earlier.
Sorry, Turd.
Anyhow, I had no doubt the security guards made a call alerting someone to my presence and I wasn’t shocked when a striking woman stepped off the elevator and headed in my direction.
She was clad in a pencil skirt and a flowing white top. An executive. She reached out her hand and said, “Welcome, Mr. Gregory. I’m Allison Daniels, head of PR.”
We shook.
“What brings you to Lunhill Corp?” she asked.
That was a good question. I didn’t want to play my hand too early so I went with, “I was in the area and just hoping for a tour.”
She scoffed, though she attempted to hide it as a cough, and said, “We don’t really do tours here.”
“Great, then I’ll be your first.”
She reached out, grabbed my elbow and attempted to turn me back toward the entrance. “I think maybe you are confusing us with the St. Louis Science museum.”
As I may have mentioned previously, I don’t like having my arm grabbed.
I shook off her hand and said the two words that not only make people’s butts pucker, but are the skeleton key to 99.9 percent of the world. “Actually ma’am, this is a matter of national security.”
If I was already in deep, I was now in the Mariana Trench.
Allison rose two inches in her heels. “Are we in danger?”
“There’s no immediate threat, but there have been some rumblings. I was sent out here to get a better lay of the land and see up close what’s happening behind these walls.”
“Oh, well, I guess I can get someone to show you around.”
“That would be great.”
She told me to sit tight, then headed back up the elevator.
I twiddled my thumbs for two minutes, then the elevators opened and a young man stepped out. He had glasses, a white shirt that was half untucked, and a half-eaten sandwich in his hand.
; “Hi, I’m Brian,” Brian the twenty-five-year-old virgin said, his mouth half-full of egg salad.
“Hi, Brian.”
“I, um, guess, I’m like supposed to show you around or something.”
I was curious if Allison had told Brian that I worked for the FBI, but it appeared he was under the impression I was merely your average Joe.
I forced a smile.
He took another bite of sandwich and said, “So, um, like what do you want to see?”
I was overcome with a fatherly instinct to admonish him for talking with his mouth full, to tell him to tuck his shirt in, and maybe spank him.
“How long have you worked here?” I asked.
“Like, um, three days.”
I glanced around until I found one of the many security cameras on the walls and glared into it for whoever was watching.
Then I turned back to Brian and said, “Lead on.”
I followed Brian into the elevator. He hit the button for the third floor. Then he asked, “So, what exactly do you want to know?” He finished his sandwich, but there was a big piece of yolk on the side of his mouth.
I scratched at the side of my mouth. Once, twice, three times. Brian didn’t react.
I said, “You have egg on your face.”
He forced a laugh, then wiped it away.
The elevator stopped, and I followed him into a gray-tiled corridor. I still hadn’t answered his question and I said, “I really just want to know the basics about what goes on here.”
“Do you know much about the company?”
“Just what I’ve read.”
“So you pretty much think Lunhill is the evil face of corporate greed and that we are silently trying to kill everyone on the planet.”
“Pretty much.”
“Well, we’ll see if I can change your mind a little.”
“Challenge accepted.”
He pointed down the corridor and said, “Down there is where most of the science takes place.”