The Goldilocks Zone

by David D. Luxton

  “He doubles as Security Chief,” Daniel said before shoving a forkful of pancake into his mouth

  “Why exactly do you need a security detail?” I asked.

  “That should be obvious,” Daniel said, giving me an appraising look. “We are dealing with a major government conspiracy here. Think about it. Everything will change if the public has access to alien energy technology. The government doesn’t want us telling the truth to the public. They’ve threatened me before. I’ve got evidence.”

  “So protection from the government?”

  “And their crony corporate henchmen,” Mike said.

  “So if this is all true, wouldn’t they have already…”

  “Assassinated me?” Daniel said. “If they do, a cache of information that blows the lid off the entire thing will automatically be released.”

  “We’re lawyers, Ben. We think of these things,” Nadine smiled.

  “What kind of information cache are you talking about?”

  Daniel crossed his arms and leaned his chair back. “Mountains of documents in our secure archives.”

  “Like what? Are these documents anything I can see?”

  “We can share some, yes,” he said, glancing at Nadine.

  “That would be great.” I hesitated. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but are you certain about this government conspiracy thing? There’s a lot of government conspiracy stuff floating around on the Internet. Even with all the evidence you have, how do you know for sure?”

  Daniel smiled. “My life’s work has been about getting to the truth and knowing it for a fact by gathering and evaluating. Sure, we’re trained as lawyers, not scientists, but we think like scientists do. We consider all hypotheses before ruling anything out, and we do so carefully. In the 1980s, I was fortunate to meet the famous Nobel Laureate physicist Richard Feynman at a quantum mechanics lecture. He said that the first principle of being a good scientist is that you must be careful to not fool yourself, and you are the easiest person to fool. To know, really know, you must be objective when looking at the evidence, acknowledge its limitations and remain aware of your own biases. These are standard Ranch principles.”

  “I get it. You don’t want to just see what you want to see, but have reliable evidence to test hypotheses.” I glanced at Daniel, then Nadine. “You need enough evidence to prove more than a reasonable doubt. That’s how a lawyer would approach it in court, right?”

  “In criminal law, yes,” Nadine said. “Being satisfied with proof beyond reasonable doubt is the standard, but that doesn’t mean there must be no doubt at all. It’s about demonstrating evidence to show guilt or liability, not necessarily the truth. Our work here is also about demonstrating the evidence towards the truth while acknowledging the unknowns. Is that any different than how an investigative journalist would approach a story?”

  “Journalistic truth is about gathering the facts and conveying them in a truthful manner while realizing that you may not know the whole truth yet.”

  “That’s exactly it,” Daniel said. “Our goal with the Proxima Foundation is to collect and make available information to help people judge on their own, but based on a preponderance of evidence. I’m not here to convince or make anyone believe anything.”

  “Makes sense to me,” I said. “You ran a fundraiser this past year. It looks like you’re raising a lot of money for the Foundation and the new Center. Congratulations. How much have you raised so far, and how much from donors and how much from membership?”

  “It’s all in our annual report,” Nadine sighed, passing the pancakes to Daniel for seconds. “We’ll get that to you, Ben.” Her crow’s feet crinkled as she smiled. “I can tell you really like what you do, investigating.”

  “Yes,” I said. “I like getting to the truth, and I think that what you are doing here is very compelling. Another question; I read somewhere about a lawsuit between you and the editor of Cynic magazine, David Ellis. What was that all about?”

  “That man is as crooked as a dog’s hind leg,” Nadine said. “He was spreading lies about us, so he got himself hit with a restraining order.”

  “The truth is, Ben,” Daniel added, “he was on the CIA payroll, front publisher and part of a controlled opposition operation. You know about those, don’t you?”

  “The best way to control the opposition is to lead it yourself.”

  ”Vladimir Lenin.” Byrne smiled. “You know your history.”

  “I took a course on mass communications in graduate school.”

  “That’s good, Ben. Then you know how governments use media to create deception. But don’t print that about Ellis—we don’t need to get his lawyers going again.”

  “Sure, I won’t mention it,” I assured him, doubting the CIA story, anyway.

  “Good. You should come to my presentation at the 18th annual UFO Conference in McMinnville Oregon next weekend. It would give you an opportunity to learn more about the UFO topic, for your story. You’ll meet all kinds of interesting people there too.” He looked at Nadine. “Isn’t that right, honey?”

  “Always,” she answered, tilting her head toward him.

  I thought about it for a second. “I may be able to come down for a day. I’ll have to clear it with my editor, but I think he’ll be okay with it.”

  “Good. I’m giving the keynote on Saturday. It will include a major announcement,” Daniel said, smiling enigmatically.

  “What kind of announcement?” I asked.

  Daniel looked at me. “You’ll have to come and listen.”

  “Cool,” I said stupidly. “Another question, this one regarding the death of Sally Jensen.” Briefly, they riveted their eyes on me. Had they been worried that I’d bring it up?

  “Obviously, you know about it.”

  “It was on the news,” said Nadine, gathering up dishes, “terrible thing.”

  “Was she doing a story on you and the Proxima Foundation?” A shot in the dark, but—

  Daniel shook his head. “Not that I’m aware of. Where did you hear that?”

  I shrugged. “Her body was found not too far from the Valley of the Moon, so I thought maybe—”

  Daniel and Nadine exchanged glances. “We don’t know any more than you do,” Nadine said. “I’m sure the police will figure it out.”

  “Did the police talk with you?” I asked, handing Nadine my plate.

  “What do you mean?” Daniel asked, shooting Nadine another glance.

  “No,” Nadine said, looking at me. “I’m sure they would have if they had a reason to, but they didn’t.”

  I tried to sound casual. “Yeah. I’m planning to stop by the Sheriff’s office and see what else I can find out about her.”

  Nadine smiled at me. “Of course, you are, you’re looking for a story.”

  “Never leave a good story,” I said, smiling back.

  When we finally finished brunch, I shook hands with Daniel and Nadine, reminding them about Petulli and the documents. Nadine promised to get them to me.

  Outside, Mike shook my hand. “See you in McMinnville,” he promised.

  As soon as I got out to my car, I called Jennifer to tell her that I had one more interview and would take a later flight. Of course, she was all horns and rattles about my being late for Gabriella’s baby shower, but I had to talk to law enforcement about the dead reporter. Getting a whatever hang-up from her wasn’t good, but neither was a half-assed story.

  I set my GPS and made my way to the Missoula County Sheriff’s office in downtown Missoula. The deputy at the window, a tall, skinny guy with brown eyes and a tight mustache, said the Sheriff wasn’t there. I asked if anyone else knew about the Sally Jensen case—and would they be willing to talk to me? He said no and took my name to give to the Sheriff.

  As I left the building, the Sheriff arrived. He too was tall, in his late fifties with peppered gray hair and the usual police potbelly. I was betting that he was just coming back from lunch.

  “Sheriff, I’m Ben D
avenport, Hot Reports. I spoke with you on the phone last week. Can we talk about the Sally Jensen case?”

  He talked as he walked me back into the building. “Kind of busy here. If this is a press inquiry, you can talk to Ms. Helens.” He pointed to a woman sitting in an office down the hallway. “She’ll let you know when we are having a press conference.”

  “I’m leaving town today. Just a few minutes of your time,” I stressed.

  “What’s your name again?”

  “Ben Davenport, Hot Reports.”

  He let out an annoyed sigh. “All right, only a few minutes, though.”

  He led me to his office and sat down at his desk. “What paper did you say you’re from again?”

  “Hot Reports,” I said for the third time, taking a seat in front of his desk.

  “One of those online papers?”

  I nodded.

  “Okay, what is it that you want to know?”

  “What’s going on regarding her murder? Any suspects?”

  “It’s still an active investigation. Because the body was found on the border of federal land, the FBI has taken over the case. My people are only assisting now.”

  I could tell from his tone that he wasn’t too happy about the feds leaving him out. I also knew that this meant a bureaucratic no-go on getting any information. I would squeeze him, anyway.

  “The news said a ranch worker found her in the Valley of the Moon. That’s not all private land, is it?”

  “Right. All that land there, except for the federal park land, is owned by Petulli. But the body was on the border between the two, like I said, which means it’s out of my jurisdiction.”

  “How was she killed? The local news coverage didn’t specify.”

  “Like I said, Mr. Davenport, this is an active investigation. You’ll have to talk to the feds.”

  “Any idea on a motive? I’d think that would clue you into suspects.”

  “You’re not trying to do my job, are you, Mr. Davenport?”

  “Oh no, sir, I’m just trying to get what information I can.”

  “Does your being out here have anything to do with the UFO folks up there?” He was putting his own two plus two together.

  “Yes. I’m doing a story on Daniel Byrne and the Proxima Foundation. Did you talk to them?”

  “Why should we?” he asked. “Have you been talking with them?”

  “Yes, last night and this morning. Why?”

  “Just wondering.” He looked at the clock on the wall. “When is your story coming out?”

  “I don’t know yet—soon. I’m still gathering information,” I said.

  “Do you mind if I get your contact information again?”

  “No, not at all,” I said. I gave him one of my cards. “Is it okay if I check in with you in a couple of days? See if you have any more information?”

  “I don’t see the harm in that. Anything else?” he said.

  “I think I’m good for now,” I said.

  He escorted me out to the lobby. We shook hands, and I thanked him for speaking with me. After he strolled back into his office, his deputy from behind the glass partition, said irately, “Don’t be printing no stories on our investigation. We don’t need no big city hipster journalists getting in our way, talking to suspects.”

  I walked over to the partition. “Suspects? You just said you didn’t want any journalists talking to any of your suspects, implying that you have some.”

  He began backpaddling. “Are you harassing an officer of the law?”

  “That’s enough!” the Sheriff shouted from his office.

  When I got to my car, I called Ramblin’ Joe’s to see if Brenda was working. I hate to death-knock, but perhaps she’d be more willing to talk with me now that I’d talked to the Sheriff. She wasn’t on shift yet. I headed to the airport for my flight to Seattle.

  3: Rabbit Hole

  Jennifer was stretched out on our sofa in yoga pants and a sweatshirt, her blond tousles falling loosely around her shoulders. As usual, she was watching a celebrity dance show on TV.

  “Nice of you to come back,” she said, as I closed the door to our one-bedroom apartment. Here it comes, I thought, expecting her to rip into me for getting in so late and missing her friend’s baby shower.

  I kissed her on the forehead. “How was the shower?”

  “Fine,” she said, her eyes fixed on the screen.

  I set down my overnight bag. “Did you eat dinner?”

  “We went out afterward,” she said. Her tone and lack of eye contact confirmed her irritation.

  I went into the kitchen, hoping to find some leftovers but had to settle for a bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch. I grabbed a beer to go with it, set my laptop on the dining room table, and checked my email before visiting the Proxima Foundation YouTube Channel. There it was, the latest upload.

  “Jennifer, come see this. They posted a video of what I saw at the sighting event.”

  She got up from the sofa after a few seconds’ delay and stood behind me. I clicked the play button.

  On the monitor was the back of my head, barely visible in the darkness. “I was sitting there.”

  “What am I looking at besides the back of your head?” she asked, glancing back at her TV show.

  “Just watch.”

  Amber lights appeared in the distance, fuzzy and blurry until the camera came into focus. We could hear Byrne in the background giving commands to Mike.

  “Looks like some lights in the sky,” she said. “It could be anything, airplanes probably.”

  “They weren’t airplanes. Planes don’t look like that.”

  She watched it with me until the lights disappeared. “Huh. What do you think they were?” she asked as she headed back to the living room.

  “I’m not sure, but I want to find out. There’s a UFO conference in McMinnville, Oregon next weekend. I’m thinking of going.” I was hoping that she’d be more amenable if I made it sound like I hadn’t yet made my decision.

  “McMinnville? We’ve got dinner with James and Rebecca next weekend. Did you forget?”

  I’d forgotten all about the dinner with her friends. “I have to go to this conference, I need more for the story,” I said, speaking louder so she would hear me over the TV.

  She sighed loudly. “I don’t see why you need to attend a conference with a bunch of UFO nuts.”

  “I’m sure they aren’t all nuts. Why do you need to be so judgmental?”

  “Whatever,” she said.

  I started pulling up UFO videos on YouTube to see what was out there. If I could find some intriguing evidence, I’d show it to her. I came across one that showed footage taken from a Navy F/A-18 Hornet tracking an object off the coast of San Diego in 2004. I recalled having seen it on the news recently. Ping, another Navy F/A-18 video surfaced with footage of a fast-moving UFO taken off the East Coast in 2015. I’d caught that one, too, and remembered thinking that the footage was probably just an advertisement for a military contractor’s new weapons tracking system. But the videos had been acknowledged by the Department of Defense.

  “You know there’s some pretty cogent evidence out there of UFOs—credible witnesses, reputable people.”

  Jennifer didn’t respond. I looked at some more videos. I heard her get up to get something to drink. She stood in the doorway between the kitchen and the dining area, looking at me.

  “I thought you were going to give up the freelance journalism. Why not write press for Amazon or some other company—one that pays benefits and stuff?” she asked.

  I looked up. “We’ve talked about this before, Jennifer. I like what I’m doing, and I think this story is going to turn into something big. Maybe I’ll write a book on UFOs or something.” I wasn’t serious about a book, but I said it anyway just to push her buttons.

  “Tell me you’re not serious,” she said. “UFOs? Really? Why would you want to waste your time on a conspiracy theory?”

  I went back to the 2004 UFO footage fro
m the Navy F/A-18. “Look at this.”

  “What?”

  “Just come here, I want to show you this.”

  She came and stood behind me, her hands on her hips.

  “This is official government footage. The Department of Defense released this,” I said.

  “I’m looking at something flying in the sky. It’s probably a drone or something.”

  “I don’t know, maybe, but why would U.S. Navy pilots come out and insist that what they saw was a UFO? I’m mean, these people are highly trained, and their reputations are on the line.”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Just because they see something in the sky doesn’t mean it’s aliens or whatever.”

  Whatever was her favorite word.

  “I know that, but what if there is alien life out there? Wouldn’t you want to know?”

  She went back into the living room and flopped down on the sofa. “Why do you need to know? We have enough problems on our own planet to deal with. I still don’t know why you’re doing a story on something that’s in the National Enquirer. Maybe you should write for them.”

  I got up and stood in the doorway so I could speak directly to her. “I’m doing this because I’m creating a good story, not watching TV. And what if they are real? What if alien life is visiting us? It’s kind of egocentric to think that we’re the only life in the universe, don’t you think?”

  Her eyes were glued to the TV. “I thought you were going to do a story on a UFO hoax. Now you’re a believer?”

  It was true: I was no longer sure. “I want to find out what this is about, that’s what an investigative journalist does. If you have to ask me why then you don’t understand me or what it means to be an investigative journalist. If this thing with the Proxima Foundation is all a dupe, then I’ll expose it. I want to get to the bottom of it, like all the other things I’ve investigated. Can’t you see that?”

  “I guess,” she said.

  Now I was pissed. I was tempted to go down to Jonesy’s, the dive bar at the corner. Out the window, I could see the air dancer tube man in front, flapping and waving at me to come in for a drink. I switched the temptation and decided to watch UFO sighting videos and eyewitness interviews while I finished off my soggy cereal and beer.