by JJ Gould
Not quite. The body Stan was coupled to hit first at chest height, the guy wire catching it under the armpit, a garish scene lit up in vague red shadows. Then came a rip and a jolt. The first set of gray plastic blocks that prevented the electrical charge of the tower traveling to the ground caught the arm of the man, checking their speed, swinging Stan up and into the guy wire like a pendulum and striking a stinging blow to his cheek. With a rip, the two bodies were free. The force of the impact on the insulating block had ripped the dead man's arm loose, and the guy wires had caught the carabiners that still joined both of them. The wire sang as they started again in their dizzying descent, a macabre sort of downhill zip line.
Grabbing the lapels of the dead man, Stan pulled himself in tight and braced himself. Again, there was a jarring stop in midair when the carabiners ran into the last set of insulators.
The jolt and violent swinging slowed their descent but opened Stan to peril.
The tower was falling.
Or at least, the top two hundred feet were.
As the tower fell away from the broken guy wires, it descended toward Stan. The guy wires slackened, decreasing the slope of Stan’s descent but keeping him within the range of the falling tower debris.
Drifts of fluffy wet snow started striking the feet and body of the corpse as the slackening guy wire raced to the ground. The chain-link fence that surrounded the anchors that held the guy wires was about eight feet tall and acted like a trampoline as Stan slammed sideways into it at thirty miles an hour. Crack. He felt a stab in his chest. Broken ribs. He knew the feeling well.
But the dead man and the snow and the chain-link cushion had saved his life. He lay there gasping. While he was catching his breath, the broken tower about fifty feet to his right started hissing menacingly in the snow, red lights still flashing.
Chapter 88 - Deidre
Stupid, she thought with grim satisfaction. She hefted the bolt cutters she’d used to hit the woman.
A blow to the head would be easier to explain if there was a bloody tower piece nearby. She walked to the transmitter shack, which was miraculously undamaged by the falling tower pieces. There. A segment about four feet long, jagged at the end, was sticking out of the snow. Perfect. She bent to reach it and remembered the danger of the tower. Stepping carefully, she entered into the shack and switched the switch to Off. Much better. Back outside, she reached down for the piece, bracing her hand against a crumpled segment of the tower.
An instant glaring heat burst out of her right wrist below where her hand had touched. It was a full second before she registered the shock. Suddenly, she realized what had happened—she’d been burned.
She jerked away then whirled and slipped, staggering against the same tower segment. Both ankles exploded with heat, her back and hips tingling like a funny bone only more painful.
Something must have been wrong with the power switch. She'd worry about that later. She had to hurry home before the police arrived. She needed time to think and prepare.
Halfway to her SUV, Deidre Hall felt nauseous. She collapsed and started vomiting. Her bowels cramped then let loose, staining the snow as she writhed in pain.
Chapter 89 - Cal
Wes and Cal were turning off Highway 106 when they saw the tower fall. Flooring the truck, Cal swerved down the road, noting that Stan’s car and Claire’s truck were already there.
“Hey, look.” Wes pointed. Sure enough, a familiar white SUV was there too.
“Better shut ’er down.”
Wes nodded as Cal stopped at the driveway. He hopped out and killed all power to the site. Only the tower lights continued to blink.
Chapter 90 - Claire
“Claire? Claire, you all right?”
With a searing pain, Claire opened her eyes, looking up into Stan’s concerned face. Panic flared up. “Where’s John?”
“Right here.” Wes was plodding through the snow, carrying little John.
Whimpering slightly, the boy reaching down for Claire. Sitting up and stifling a cry of joy, Claire held him close. She sobbed with relief. John squirmed in her arms until he was facing her. He looked solemnly into her eyes, touching her cheek. Her pain seemed to go away.
“Where was he?” she asked.
Wes nodded. “Over in that sick gal’s SUV.”
Claire remembered the woman and the danger she’d caused. “Be careful! She’s the one that hit me.”
Cal smiled grimly. “Don’t worry about that. She ain’t gonna hurt anybody no more.”
Wes nodded. “Nope.”
Chapter 91 - Stan
It turned out that Stan and Claire and John did not go to the Christmas Eve service after all. Running on adrenaline, despite the pain in his ribs, Stan called the entire station together to explain the situation. Christmas Eve into Christmas day, writing through the night, KCAH’s Christmas morning email headlines were astonishing:
“KCAH Tower Cut down by Deidre Hall, Wife of Harrison Benjamin Hall IV.”
“Unknown Assailant, Linked to Deidre Hall, Attacks KCAH News Director.”
“Unknown Assailant Decapitated by Cable of Collapsing KCAH Tower.”
“KCAH News Director Survives Fall from Four-Hundred-Foot Tower.”
“Deidre Hall Implicated in Kidnapping of KCAH News Director’s Child.”
“Deidre Hall Hospitalized with Severe RF Burns.”
Every reporter got a by-line. The email letter caused a firestorm of reverberations through the city and even across the country. Fluff pieces about after-Christmas shopping and Salvation Army donations were swept aside as the unbelievable stories of murder, cover-up, and corruption spread across the country.
But as astounding as all of that news was, a different story, shocking in its own way, was released just six hours later: “KCAH Disbanded. Employer Fires all Employees, Building Shuttered.”
Chapter 92 – Cal
It was still Christmas Day, so you couldn’t blame the police for leaving the tower unguarded. The trouble was over, and the police tape was in place. Cal and Wes stepped carefully around the tape and walked purposefully toward the transmitter shack. If asked, they would claim innocence, just a couple of radio techs following up after a tower collapse. The chain-link fence around one of the guy-wire anchors was cut, and inside the fence, two of the guy wires, cut clean through, could be seen.
Wes nodded. Thought so.
Continuing to the shack, Cal opened the door and looked around. The coast was clear. Nodding to Wes, Cal stepped inside toward the jack switch.
Days before, they’d had a conversation about a beautiful blonde with green eyes who probably was harmless but might be very dangerous. Since Cal and Wes were the only ones who were supposed to have access to the shack, they’d decided a little experiment might be in order to see if their suspicions were confirmed.
Wes carefully peeled loose the On and Off labels of the jack switch and placed them back where they belonged. Back in the truck, Cal broke the silence. “That was one evil woman.”
Wes nodded. “Yep.”
Chapter 93 - Harrison Hall
The Sioux Falls Regional Airport was small by most standards, no noise or hubbub, just people going about their business, traveling to Vegas and Orlando for fun and Chicago and Minneapolis for business. The day after Christmas, travel would be busy, but Harrison Hall wasn’t worried. The charter was a direct flight that would take him over the mess of O’Hare or other points between.
The plane had been deiced, and he was waiting for takeoff when he noticed the flashing lights. Interesting. Craning his head, he was able to see the police cars heading down the runway and around from behind the terminal. He looked for the smoke of a fire. Maybe another plane was in trouble. The cars came closer and stopped by the plane. Policemen jumped out and ran. Maybe it was a hostage situation. He hoped he was safe.
Moments later, the sealed door of the plane was opened, and a detective in plain clothes walked carefully toward him. “Dr. Hall? You are
under arrest for suspicion of murder.” After reciting something about Hall’s rights, he put cuffs on his wrists and escorted Hall off the plane.
Chapter 94 - Stan
It was New Year’s Eve. All the former KCAH staff was gathered at Stan and Claire’s house. Pizza boxes, cases of beer, and cans of soda were scattered about the floor. A fire roared in the fireplace.
Matt Bradley’s uncle owned a furniture store and had let Matt haul in some chairs and couches and a few coffee tables and a stereo. The mood was bittersweet, as everyone knew what was about to happen and that, as the saying went, all good things must come to an end.
Stories were swapped, details and perspectives shared. They discussed the truly evil nature of the woman known as Deidre Hall. Her diagnosis was grim as her health continued to deteriorate. She was puffed and bloated and in extreme pain. Death from radio-frequency electrocution was days away.
“That is the thing that doesn’t make sense.” Stan was shaking his head. “Why did she deliberately touch a hot tower?”
Wes and Cal looked at each other. Cal shook his head slightly.
Don Keshane piped up. “Here’s what I wanna know… what the hell is Charlie Hofer getting away with? That asshole just gets to dump us on Christmas Day? What are we gonna do about it?”
Stan shrugged. “I can’t say I’m surprised. When you get into business with a snake, you can expect to get bit.”
Doris was sitting in a couch next to John Returns From Hunt. She had a wrapped cardboard box heavy enough that she had to slide it across the floor. “This is for you, Donnie. And maybe Matt. Stan, I suppose you may have some obligations based on the contract you signed with Charlie.”
Curious, Donnie bent over the box. “Shit, it’s heavy! What is it?” Not waiting for an answer, he opened the box to find it full of what looked like balance sheets, profit-and-loss statements, and more.
“This is… books? for Goodies?”
Doris shrugged. “Charlie is a creature of habit. I decided he might be up to something, so I’ve been doing a little dumpster diving. I bet you’ll find something.”
Matt was going over the papers. He whistled slowly.
Doris flashed a brilliant, victorious smile. “Merry Christmas, Charlie.”
Chapter 95 - Everett Meyer
Everett Meyer was seated across from the federal prosecutor, trying to not feel uncomfortable.
“Mr. Everett, I’m Jim Hanson. We talked on the phone.”
“Yes, and you are aware that I am here of my own volition to answer and help in your investigation of the Hall-Hauptmann Hospital. While I knew nothing of the events surrounding the tragic deaths and cover-up, I will try to help you in any way I can.”
The speech was well rehearsed, and Hanson waited politely for him to finish. “That’s great, swell. We really appreciate it. I suppose you’ve had a chance to think about what kind of legal malfeasance you might be accused of.”
“Am I being charged with something? If so, this meeting is over, and I will seek counsel.”
Hanson raised his hands. “No, no. No need for that. I’m sure you know the law as well as anybody. But there seems to be a possibility that the Halls got some sort of legal advice to help them circumvent the law, which could be construed as someone being an accomplice in a cover-up, and I’m asking—just asking, mind you—if you might be able to point in a direction of who might be bending the law beyond where it should go.”
Meyer sucked in his breath and paused, considering his move. “Well, there is a junior associate with the hospital, Jessica Wright—a nice kid, really, but maybe a trifle… overzealous. I feel like she may have offered council to Benjamin Hall and Deidre Hall.”
“Both deceased?”
Meyer shrugged. Dead men tell no tales.
“Maybe leading them in what to say?”
Meyer shrugged again. “She is very bright, perhaps lacking a certain moral compass.”
Hanson sighed. “Any proof?”
Meyer spread his arms. “Hard to imagine leaving evidence so damning.”
Hanson gave a disarming smile. “Yet you know it happens sometimes.”
The door opened, and Jessica Wright entered along with a vaguely familiar man. Meyer felt a sudden sick feeling.
Hanson leaned forward. “So this is Jessica Wright. You know her, and you have probably met Spencer Thomas. He’s the IT guy at Hall-Hauptmann, the one who sets up equipment, video recording”—Hanson put a tape on the desk—“audio recording…”
Meyer’s sick feeling got worse.
Hanson shifted again in his seat. “You know, Mr. Everett, on second thought, maybe you’d better get that counsel.”
Chapter 96 - Dr. Schneider
The room was dark, and the machines in the intensive care room beeped and whirred, keeping the patient alive hopefully long enough for more tests to be run. As a pathologist, Dr. Schneider was technically concerned with the processes of diseases and their cures, but there was no cure for radio-frequency burns, only a rare chance to document as much about the symptoms as possible, in the hopes of maybe helping diagnose future patients.
As he stepped closer, the smell of decomposition was unmistakable. Her wrists and ankles were bloated and grayish brown, with seeping wounds that followed the nerves up the forearms and calves. The theory might be that the nerve cells were more conductive to RF and, therefore, were the path the burns took. Dr. Schneider smoothed a hank of hair away from his pale forehead and suppressed his excitement.
The breath of the patient was rattling. She would need to be intubated soon to avoid suffocation. Since admittance, the patient had swollen to an alarming degree until her face and torso were bloated and blotched. Schneider guessed that up to twenty percent of her internal organs were cooked. But which organs and how much? Yes, he could find out many of these details in a postmortem, but there was so much more to learn while she was still alive.
Dr. Schneider looked carefully to make sure he was alone. Then he stepped close to the patient and pressed the flesh at her wrist. It dented in like gray bread dough, and the patient whimpered. Cool. Dr. Schneider leaned over the patient and whispered, “I wish you could tell me how much it hurt.”
He pressed again. This time, he could see tears weeping out of her left eye, which was startlingly green next to the deep and mottled gray flesh. Cool.
Chapter 97 - Matt Bradley
Matt Bradley was in his aunt Judy’s office. Still the same cluttered space, it hadn’t changed a bit from when he was young enough to swing his legs from the edge of the battered leather armchair. He was collapsed into that chair, paper sack in hand, waiting.
“Quite a box of stuff there, boy-o.” She studied him, looking down the rims of her glasses. “You hang around at strip clubs?”
“No, Aunt Judy, no. This is just a lead from a friend who knew I was an investigative reporter.”
Aunt Judy let the glasses fall to the end of their chain, sniffed, and then put them back on the edge of her nose. She sniffed again.
“C’mon, Aunt Judy. You think I’d bring this stuff to you otherwise? You’d squeal to Mom in a second.”
“Don’t think I still won’t, boy-o.” She pulled a file from the top, a summary of what she’d found. She opened her mouth to speak and then shut it. Finally, she said, “You don’t look so good, Matt. You look a little lunchy. No girl wants a lunchy-looking guy. If you want, I could take you down to Normans. They’ve got a sale on large and tall sizes. You’d look so good in a new blazer. Maybe some loafers—that way, you don’t have to tie them.” She looked pointedly at his untied tennis shoes.
Matt set his jaw and sighed.
His aunt raised her arms in surrender. “Okay, okay, the report.”
A forensic accountant for the Justice Department, Judy Bauer was often called upon to testify at trial. As such, she was greatly feared—one, she could make technical stuff easy to understand, two, she was a natural teacher and a bit of a ham, and three, she was impossible t
o intimidate.
Staring at an invisible jury, she pushed her glasses up a notch and started preaching. “The first thing and the last thing is that embezzlers always get caught. If you write nothing down, cash only, you will get caught for not paying taxes. Ask Al Capone. If you write anything fake down, you still get caught—by me. Forensic accounting is the art and science of investigating people and money. Most people who run a set of false books write down numbers at random, skim a little off the top, and fudge the numbers enough to make it look good. And all I have to do is run a sample of numbers through Benford's Law and see what I can find.”
Mat fed her the question, just like a friendly prosecutor. “What is Benford's Law?”
“Any group of numbers, no matter the size or origin, will start with the number one more than thirty percent of the time. And this paradox persists. Numbers start with one more often than two, and numbers start with two more than three, and so on. Numbers that start with nine are the least common of all.”
“Any exceptions?”
“Well, when you’re comparing just two numbers, the odds can fool you. But for this?” She patted the cardboard box full of spreadsheets, invoices, pay stubs, and tax documents and smiled grimly. “Not a chance.”
“And?”
“Boy-o?” She pulled a graph off the top. “The normal Benford’s Law graph is a nice curving slide from one to nine. Your pal Charlie Hofer has a graph that is all over the place. These numbers are funnier than Jack Benny, and it would definitely be worth a call to a buddy of mine at the IRS.”
