by Steven James
So, if it truly was the same observer at each site, the senator was in the clear.
Years ago, when I was tracking a serial killer in the Midwest, I’d studied flight records to see if we could pinpoint who’d traveled to and from the regions where the murders were occurring. In the end, the process had led me to a man named Richard Basque, a killer I eventually captured and who was still in prison.
Now, I wondered if I could apply the same strategy to this case.
Since one of the deaths was in Seattle and another was just outside of Miami, it was implausible that the observer could have driven from the first site to the second—the timing just didn’t work.
That left flights.
Angela’s computer, which she’d congenially named Lacey and treated like a coworker rather than simply a machine, could tackle a meta-analysis of the names of passengers who flew into and out of nearby airports on the days preceding and following the suicides. If we found a name appearing more than once, it might be a good indication that we were on the right track.
I contacted Angela and got her and Lacey looking into it.
A text message from DeYoung informed me that he would be bringing the senator up in a few minutes.
I decided to spend the time nailing down which questions to ask him—and how to do so tactfully.
Which was going to be a challenge, considering the topics I would be addressing.
69
Christie knocked lightly on the door to Dr. Calvin Werjonic’s hospital room.
He enjoined her to come in, and she introduced herself. “Dr. Werjonic, I’m Christie Ellis, Pat’s wife.”
“Ah. Yes! Please. Have a seat.”
Though he looked frail lying there in bed, he had a distinguished air about him.
“I brought you a card,” she said somewhat awkwardly.
He accepted it, read it, then warmly thanked her and positioned it on the stand beside his bed next to a pile of paperwork that she noticed had his signature at the bottom.
“Patrick has told me so much about you,” Calvin said, “about how thankful he is to have found you.”
“I’m thankful too.”
“I understand that fate brought you two together under an umbrella in April?”
“Well, yes . . . but I like to think it was more than fate.”
“He mentioned that you’re a spiritual person. So, part of a divine plan, perhaps? The two of you meeting the way you did?”
“I guess I just don’t believe that there are such things as coincidences. Fate isn’t a big enough explanation to me to account for the blessings that come into our lives.”
But, Christie, what about the things that aren’t blessings?
Who brings those into your life?
Is pain, is suffering part of the divine plan too?
“And in that belief,” Calvin noted, “you share a common bond with your husband. He believes that apparent coincidences are simply clues to a deeper truth in an investigation, and you see that deeper truth at play as well—in all of life.”
“I suppose so.”
“Brilliant. Perhaps you’re both right! And truth lies at the center of both perspectives, which I am always glad to see. When he was in my classes, I taught him the principle that truth is the greatest scalpel of all.”
She wasn’t exactly sure how they’d gotten to this philosophical point so soon in their conversation—talk of fate and truth and divine plans—but Calvin didn’t appear to be someone who was much interested in small talk. “How is truth a scalpel?” she asked.
“Most of us layer on lie after lie until our hearts are thick with them. And nothing slices through misconceptions and distorted beliefs as effectively as the impartial blade of truth.”
Christie thought of the Scripture verse in Hebrews that talks about how God’s word is sharper than any two-edged sword and how it divides soul and spirit, judging the thoughts and intentions of the heart.
The Word of Truth.
The Sword of the Spirit.
The Scalpel of God.
Hmm.
“Yes,” she told Calvin. “I believe that truth is a scalpel as well.”
“I’m relieved that you two have based your relationship on such a blade.” As he spoke, he winced, and it was clear that he was in a lot of pain. “It’s been my experience over these many years that without truth at the nexus of a relationship, it stands little chance of weathering the storms of life that will inevitably come its way.”
At that, she was quiet.
It was almost like he could read her inner struggle and that his words were laser-focused on her current situation and her dilemma of whether or not to be honest and tell her husband the truth about her cancer.
And about your faith struggles.
About your questions.
About your doubts.
You haven’t told Pat anything about those either.
“Is it always best to tell the truth?” she asked Calvin. “Or is it better, at times, to keep it from someone for their well-being?”
“I would say, my dear, that truth is always a gift, no matter how hard it is to hear or to bear. To obfuscate it is to judge that something is greater than knowing the truth, and I can’t think of any instance where that might be the case.”
“Now you sound like Pat,” she said.
A tiny smile. “He does have a few redeeming qualities.”
* * *
+++
DeYoung and Senator Murray showed up at my office.
“You remember Agent Bowers?” DeYoung said by way of introduction.
“Yes.” Senator Murray nodded. “Of course. Agent Bowers, how is your progress coming on the case?”
“Moving forward.”
“If anyone can get the answers for you, it’s Patrick,” DeYoung told him confidently.
“I’m glad to hear that.”
With that, DeYoung left us alone, and I said, “Senator, do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”
“Certainly. But may I ask you one first?”
“Yes, of course.”
He peered down the hall earnestly. “Is there a place in this building that serves coffee? I’ve been on the move since I woke up and haven’t had a chance to grab my morning cup.”
If we were talking coffee that was drinkable, the cafeteria was out of the question.
“There’s a kitchen down the hall. I can’t guarantee that the coffee there will be fresh, but one of the agents here keeps a stash of organic, shade-grown whole beans in the freezer. We can grind our way to a good cup if we need to.”
“Sounds like my kind of agent,” he said.
I couldn’t tell if he had guessed that I was that agent or not. “Mine too,” I told him.
* * *
+++
Tessa tugged her coat up over her head to keep the freezing rain at least sort of at bay.
Umbrellas were one of those New-Yorky things she’d never quite gotten into since moving here from Minnesota with her mom when she was in fifth grade.
She stood outside the school debating where to go.
Two things to take care of.
Yes, she wanted to deliver the journal to Timothy Sabian, but first she needed to find out what was up with the woman disappearing after his last book signing.
So, go home and work on that, or do it at a restaurant or something?
Home was close.
Home was free.
Two for two.
Doing her best to stay out of the ever-deepening puddles, she left for their apartment.
70
The coffee—if you could call it that—that awaited us in the pot was cold, somehow gray, and in need of immediate disposal. It might have been sitting there for days.
Troubling.
I found
the beans that I kept on hand and headed to the grinder.
“Senator, Mannie told me that he was watching Jon’s funeral to see who you might talk to but that he wasn’t able to confirm what he wanted to confirm. Do you know what he might’ve been referring to or who he might’ve been looking for?”
“No. I have no idea.”
“Do you remember who you spoke with while you were there?”
“I don’t know, exactly. I mean, well-wishers. Family. Friends. The media was on hand.”
“What about someone named Jake Reese?”
“Yes. From Phoenix. He flew in.”
“How do you know Mr. Reese?”
“He was on an advisory committee that we put together from the pharmaceutical industry. We met when the Senate was addressing the opioid epidemic.”
“What about Marcus Rockwell?”
“Yes.” He was slow in answering. “Now that I think about it. He was there.”
I poured in the beans and dialed the knob toward a coarser grind, which provides a better cup of coffee than a finer one when you’re using a drip percolator, then I punched the button and waited.
The machine whirred to life, and when it was done grinding the beans, I poured in enough filtered water for four cups, transferred the beans into the filter, then found the spray bottle in the cupboard and carefully spritzed a mist of water across the beans.
“What’s that for?” the senator asked.
“Dampening them makes for a more uniform brewing experience. Adds to the flavor.”
“You take this seriously.”
“There’s a lot at stake.”
“A tasty cup of coffee.”
“Exactly.”
I closed the lid and started the coffeemaker. “You were saying that you spoke with Marcus Rockwell?”
“Yes. As you know, my son interned with him over the summer, but seeing him there did surprise me. We aren’t what I would call close.”
“Do you recall him saying anything out of the ordinary to you?”
The senator looked at me curiously. “Is he under investigation?”
“No. Not at all.”
“Just that he was sorry for all that I was going through and sorry that the Internet had been used in this way.”
“The Internet?”
“Yes. It was almost as if he was apologizing that something he was so personally invested in would be implicated in any way with Jon’s death. That struck me. I hadn’t really thought of it again until just now, but yes. He seemed apologetic.”
Interesting.
Ralph had mentioned legislation involving Internet privacy, and now I asked the senator about it. “What can you tell me about the bill that deals with quantum encryption? I understand it’s in committee right now.”
“What does this have to do with my son’s death?”
“I’m really not sure.”
The coffee began to percolate.
“The future of message transmission is through quantum encryption,” he told me, “specifically what’s referred to as high-dimensional quantum encryption, or 4D encryption. The data is sent on photons that each encode two bits of information: 00, 01, 10, or 11.”
“Okay.”
“In order to secure sensitive data, we’re striving for a worldwide quantum encryption network that’ll be able to send messages securely between earth and our satellites.”
“We?”
“The government. The military. Our allies. Right now, the Chinese are at least two years ahead of us in the development of light-harnessing quantum key distribution, or QKD, and we can’t afford to be left behind.”
“I’m sorry. I’m not very familiar with all of this. What does that mean? Quantum key distribution?”
“Basically, it’s using quantum states of light to provide decryption information. If someone tries to listen in on the transmission—that is, hack into it—the data will be altered, and this will immediately be obvious to the sender. Then, the actual message won’t be sent.”
I could see why this was important. Clearly, there was a lot hinging on it. And when you have something this high-stakes, it doesn’t necessarily bring out the best in everyone.
In fact, the opposite would more likely be the case.
“Every week the Chinese are siphoning off millions of dollars’ worth of corporate and military secrets,” he told me. “If they’re able to encrypt their information in a way that’s unhackable and we’re not, we would fall behind in ways that our country might never be able to recover from.”
Enough coffee had brewed for a couple of cups. I poured one for each of us.
He tried his and gave me a satisfied smile. “Very nice.”
“It’s called Total Eclipse. The blend is from Leopard Forest roasters in South Carolina.”
“I’ll have to remember that. And a coarse grind.”
“You noticed.”
“Yes.”
“That’s very observant of you.”
“I try to keep my eyes open. Sometimes it’s easy to miss the things right in front of you.”
“Of course.” I wondered if there was something right in front of me that I was missing. “You were telling me about the encryption?”
“Adaptive optics technology is necessary for overcoming atmospheric turbulence, but that’s just one hurdle that needs to be addressed. Thankfully, Marcus Rockwell is contributing resources to the fight. Consequently, that’s the main reason that we know each other—his involvement in this area of research.”
“And your son’s internship.”
“Yes.”
“And the bill—would it benefit him? Marcus, I mean?”
“Sure. All of us will benefit if we can catch up with, or surpass, the Chinese.”
With regard to the investigation, I tried to process what he’d told me.
Marcus Rockwell.
Jake Reese.
Senator Murray.
There were evidently threads connecting all the different people, and the more I looked at things, the more those threads all seemed to be intertwined around Jon’s suicide.
Which brought us right back to the start.
“Senator, did someone pressure you to offer the twenty-thousand-dollar reward?”
He had his cup on the way to his mouth but paused with it halfway there. “What do you mean?”
“The money. Why did you go against our advice and offer it?”
“A friend encouraged me to do whatever was necessary to find out the truth surrounding my son’s death. I just decided I needed to be more proactive in solving things.”
“Which friend?”
“What is all this about?”
I debated whether or not to bring up the gambling debts that Greer had uncovered, and finally decided that I needed to get everything I could from the senator, even if some of the questions made him a little uncomfortable.
“In the course of our investigation,” I said, “it came up that you owed some people some money.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Gambling debts.”
“Were you digging into my life?” Fire had crept into his voice. “Am I the one who’s under investigation here? You can’t possibly be serious.”
“We’re just looking for answers, Senator. It’s possible that the people you owe money to might have been involved in some way in your son’s death.”
He was quiet.
“What can you tell me?” I said. “Anything at all might be helpful.”
“Sports betting. It’s not out of hand. I just got a little behind. It’s all being sorted out. I can’t imagine that it has anything to do with Jon’s death.”
If he has gambling debts, I thought, then how does he have the cash on hand to offer a twenty-thousand-dollar reward?
Maybe he isn’t the one who’s footing the bill.
“I’d like you to write up the details for our team,” I told him. “Accounts, amounts, contacts, anyone involved who might have wanted to see you suffer or take retribution on you in any way.”
“This is ludicrous.”
“We’re just trying to find out who might have convinced Jon to act the way he did. Sometimes if you threaten someone that a person cares about, you can get him to do something he would never otherwise do.”
The senator didn’t look happy, but at last he agreed. However, he told me unequivocally, “I don’t appreciate you prying into my personal affairs.”
Alright.
Well, here we go.
“Were you aware that your son was using illegal substances?”
“The Selzucaine in the tox screen?”
“Yes.”
“My son was not a drug user.”
Rather than argue, I simply said, “We need to find out who supplied him with the drug that was in his system the night he died.”
The senator set down the coffee mug. “I don’t know anything about that.”
Mannie had told me that Jon was talking about his father when he said his final words, “This is for you.” Mannie hadn’t been forthcoming on how he knew that, but I believed he was telling me the truth, or at least what he believed to be true.
Even though I’d established that the senator couldn’t have been present when the other suicides occurred, I still didn’t know about the death of his son.
“Were you there, Senator?”
“What?”
“Behind the door, watching when Jon died.”
“You’re blaming me?”
“I’m not blaming you. I’m asking you.”
He shook his head angrily. “I’ve done all I know to help you find the identity of that person, and I have to say I’m insulted that you would even ask me a question like that.”
It wasn’t lost on me that he hadn’t given me an answer.
“Good day, Agent Bowers.”
Before I could reply, he spun on his heels and left the kitchen.
Okay.
That went well.
After taking my mug back to my office, I found a message waiting for me from Angela that Lacey couldn’t locate any matching names that corresponded to those dates and locations from air transportation involving any commercial airlines.
