Joseph Gordowski and Theo Brecht were both scientists with not only physical access to the work areas but with the knowledge of which of DeMille’s computer programs would be the most innovative and therefore valuable. Brecht had moved on from PARI, but Gordowski was still there. He was the one who had supposedly left early the night DeMille disappeared. He had no alibi. Like Brecht, he had stayed with the high-tech complex after it was taken over by the Department of Defense and its highly classified eavesdropping operations run by the NSA. What a plum of a position for a spy.
And then Brecht’s career mirrored Gordowski’s, although he had stayed that night reprogramming the radio telescopes to slew to the eastern horizon for the next pass of the moon. Brecht’s current job sounded pretty mundane, and he seemed to use his occasional work at PARI as a break from the NCEI. Brecht had said the PARI secure data storage project was the final act for Gordowski and him. But that act was more than PARI. I remembered Brecht saying Gordowski had asked to help with the NCEI work as well. Was the desire to expand his volunteer role more than simply keeping busy?
McNulty cleared his throat, bringing me back to his den.
“Son, I don’t know where your thoughts might be leading you, but here’s a bit of advice from one wounded vet to another. It’s the Russians’ playbook for the twenty-first century. Disinformation creates doubt, chaos breeds confusion, and a doubting, confused adversary is a weakened adversary. Look what happened to our democratic election process. Doubt and confusion. Whether that applies to your situation, I don’t know.” He leaned forward and pointed his blunt forefinger toward me. “But if I were you, I’d tell myself that the first thing every morning. Disinformation creates doubt, chaos breeds confusion. It might keep you on track. It might keep you alive.”
Chapter 22
McNulty and I ate pimento cheese sandwiches and drank lemonade at his kitchen table. When we’d finished, he asked me to keep him informed regarding my progress.
“It’s about justice for Eddie,” he said. “I know we can’t touch that bastard Bao, but we can find out what happened and make a stink about it.”
We walked out into his rose garden, and he retrieved a pair of pruning shears from a small shed.
“Have you got a little missus at home or a sweetheart?” He laughed. “Or both?”
“Just one. My partner Nakayla.”
“Then let me send you back to Asheville with a bouquet.”
So I drove home immersed in a rose-perfumed environment more powerful than any air freshener.
On the way, I phoned Nakayla and asked if she could gather Hewitt and company for a Saturday afternoon conference. I had new information, and I preferred to share it sooner rather than later. Since Nakayla and I were technically working for Hewitt, I wanted to report to him before contacting the FBI or other law enforcement agencies including Newly and Efird at the Asheville Police Department.
At three o’clock, Nakayla, Hewitt, Cory, Shirley, and I took our customary places around the table in Hewitt’s conference room. Blue slept on his cushion. I relayed the story of my visit to Chuck McNulty and the murder of Eddie Gilmore, which changed the whole scope of our investigation.
Cory struggled to comprehend the implications. “You’re saying both my uncles were murdered by Russian spies?”
“I know it sounds preposterous, but your uncle Eddie’s letters clearly indicate your uncle Frank was concerned about something at the tracking station and Eddie tried to help him. Chief Warrant Officer Len Axelrod never got Eddie’s report other than a brief phone call. At this point, all we can do is speculate and share our findings with the FBI. Espionage is in their wheelhouse.”
Shirley shook her head. “And then we’d need our own spies if we ever want to learn what they discovered.”
Hewitt nodded in agreement. “That is a concern.” He turned to Cory. “If the military kept Eddie’s murder quiet in 1971, then I see no reason for them to open up now, even if the FBI comes knocking on their door. But at least your aunt will know what happened to her husband.”
Cory’s eyes teared. “And what comfort is that if she doesn’t know why? What comfort is that if she doesn’t know who killed her brother?”
The room was silent. Glances shot back and forth, but no one could answer her questions.
I took a deep breath and looked at Nakayla. “Then we delay sharing information. At least for a few more days. It’s Saturday afternoon. I seriously doubt that Lindsay Boyce is in the FBI office. And tomorrow’s Sunday. Nakayla and I can make a run at finding this Len Axelrod. If he’s still alive, he might be willing to fill in more of Chuck McNulty’s story. As for a killer at PARI, I figure we have three suspects. Joseph Gordowski and Theo Brecht, with Gordowski having no alibi, and Randall Johnson, who might have been paid to make computer code copies without really needing to know what the code meant.”
“But all the evidence points to his being murdered,” Shirley said.
“Yes,” I agreed, “but if the Case brothers thought Randall was the one who strangled Loretta, they might have killed him despite their unsolicited visit to us professing their innocence.”
“Or someone unknown,” Nakayla said. “Someone who needed to keep Randall quiet. Putin’s not shy about his agents eliminating potential problems in any country.”
“I think that’s a stretch,” I said. “I keep coming back to the fact that since the bones were uncovered, two people have been murdered. Someone’s trying to protect something here and now. And this person or persons acted very quickly once Frank DeMille’s remains were discovered. So what’s happening that merits extreme action? PARI is putting in a new, high-capacity, secure digitized data storage system. The encryption must be the cyber equivalent of Fort Knox. What better time to create a back door or work-around for later access.”
“Access to what?” Hewitt asked.
“Access to whatever is stored there.” I looked around the table, trying to sell my case to everyone. “Data that would go into such a secure site is obviously valuable to someone. We know that NOAA is creating a backup for its historic and ever-growing weather data. Who’s to say how extensive the impact would be if that data was corrupted?” I turned to Hewitt. “A weapon to be used by the naysayers of climate change. The industrialists and fossil fuel producers who will deny climate change to their last polluted breath.”
Hewitt nodded slowly. “The computer scientist who designs the lock—”
“Knows how to pick it. That brings us to Gordowski and Brecht. And Brecht said Gordowski had asked to help him with his work for NOAA.”
“And he was the first to be interviewed,” Nakayla added. “The first to know we were investigating. And then my house was firebombed.”
“So how do you call him out?” Hewitt asked.
“We don’t,” I said. “I don’t want to get tunnel vision on this thing and force Gordowski into the role of chief suspect when we’ve got other sources of information yet to mine. We need to get Len Axelrod’s Vietnam story, and I want to learn more about the potential value of this weather data, data that’s being migrated to PARI as backup for all these petabytes housed in NOAA’s facility.”
“Then aren’t you going to have to talk to Brecht again?” Nakayla asked.
“Maybe. If I can’t find another way to get the information.”
Hewitt pushed back his chair and got to his feet. “Maybe I have a way.” He walked around the table to Shirley.
She looked up at him. “What are we playing? Duck, Duck, Goose?”
“We’re playing Can You Remember Owen Sharp?”
“I can. Good idea.” She smiled. “Let me write down the day and time you had it.”
“Who’s Owen Sharp?” I asked.
Hewitt gestured to Shirley. “You tell him, almost former employee.”
“Owen Sharp is the executive officer for the NOAA headquarters h
ere in Asheville, including the NCEI. There have been times when we’ve needed certified weather information entered into evidence in court.”
“I get it,” I said. “How it might have affected a crime scene.”
“Or time of death based upon body temperature and air temperature,” Hewitt said. “I’ve had three acquittals thanks to Owen Sharp’s records.”
I repeated aloud the words ringing in my head. “Disinformation creates doubt, chaos breeds confusion.”
“What’s that?” Hewitt asked.
“Something Chuck McNulty said to me. What would happen if the security of the weather data was breached? If the records could have been tampered with?”
“Which ones?”
“Would it matter? If the data hurt your case rather than helped, what would you do?”
“Scream bloody hell that the data was tainted and inadmissible. Wouldn’t matter whether it had been altered or not, I’d claim the whole trove was suspect.”
“See,” I said. “Even your own realm of the courtroom would be affected. I want to talk to your Mr. Sharp. How soon do you think you could arrange it?”
“Are we done here?” Hewitt asked.
No one said anything.
“Then I’ll track him down now. Shirley, pull his number from the file. We must have his home and cell. We’ll find him even if we have to use Ol’ Blue to sniff him out.”
I looked at the coonhound lying stretched out on his cushion. He opened one eye, fixed it on Hewitt a few seconds, and then fell back asleep.
Nakayla and I walked down the hall to our office, and I immediately called Chief Warrant Officer DeShaun Clark.
“Sam, my man, if I knew you were going to be so chummy, I’d have invited you down for the weekend.” Clark spoke above the clinking of glasses and a multivoiced buzz of conversations.
“Sorry to bother you. I can tell that you’re on duty.”
Clark laughed. “Yeah, trying to solve the case of why the Carolina Panthers are losing what should be a cakewalk exhibition game.”
“You in At Ease?” I named one of the longtime off-base bars frequented by Fort Bragg soldiers.
“Sitting right next to your favorite stool. So is this a thank you call or another favor request?”
“Both. Your McNulty contact unearthed that the officer I was checking on had been murdered.”
Clark gave a soft, low whistle. “My, my, what have you stepped in this time?”
“We both know what it is. Now I need to know how far it spread, and that might be into my backyard.”
“Vietnam to Asheville. That’s no coincidence, my friend.”
“So I’m trying to stay one step ahead of the feds without facing an obstruction of justice charge. They and the military could clamp this thing down so tight, a Freedom of Information request would go into bureaucratic limbo until we’re all dead.”
“I hear you. What do you need that won’t have my fingerprints on it?”
“McNulty gave me the name of the chief warrant officer who looked into the murder in 1971. If he’s still alive, I want to talk to him.”
Clark let out a long sigh. “OK. Give me the name and the other particulars.”
“Chief Warrant Officer Len Axelrod. He was based in Saigon in the summer and probably early fall of 1971. The murdered man, Eddie Gilmore, set up a meeting to talk to him about his brother-in-law’s concerns regarding the Apollo tracking station’s security. I only know what McNulty told me. Axelrod interviewed him as he was headed to a hospital ship. McNulty lost the lower part of his left leg when the murderer booby-trapped the path to Gilmore’s body.”
“So you want to know if this Axelrod solved the case?”
“No. McNulty told me who did it, and the man’s now the defense minister of Vietnam and close to a guy named Vladimir Putin.”
For a few seconds, all I heard was the sound of a televised football game.
Then Clark laughed. “OK, Sam. I’ll admit you had me going there.”
“DeShaun, I’m not kidding. Unless McNulty’s lying to me, this case has gone from cold to white-hot. Two people have been murdered within the last week, and my partner’s house was firebombed. I really need to track down Axelrod.”
“Okay. You got it, pal. And if you need me up there, just say the word.”
“Thanks. I owe you big time.”
“You do. So be careful. You can’t repay me if you’re dead.”
Chapter 23
I’d just finished briefing Nakayla on my conversation with DeShaun Clark when Hewitt entered our office.
He gave a thumbs-up. “You’re meeting Owen Sharp at noon tomorrow.”
“Great,” I said. “What did you tell him?”
“That you were working on a case for me that involves weather data and that I’d appreciate if he spoke with you directly and as soon as possible. Once you’re talking, you can shift the conversation to how protected their data is and the potential consequences if security is breached.”
“So will I have any problem gaining access to his office on a Sunday?”
“No, because you’re not going to his office. I told him you were basically clueless and not to assume you knew anything about NOAA. That’s when he said it would be better to meet at the Grove Arcade.”
The Grove Arcade was a historical building that occupied an entire city block. E. W. Grove, the same millionaire visionary who created the Grove Park Inn, had wanted to construct a unique and impressive building that would elevate his beloved Asheville to the status of a city many times its size. Today, Grove Arcade was a favorite destination for locals and tourists alike who were drawn to its mixture of shops, restaurants, and apartments. It was right across the street from the Federal Building and housed the Battery Park Book Exchange where I’d met Theo Brecht.
“Did he say exactly where at the arcade he wanted to meet?” I asked Hewitt.
“At the corner of Battery Park and Page where the street vendors congregate. He said the covered booths will provide some shade for what’s going to be a particularly hot day. I guess these guys live and breathe the weather.”
“Maybe Mr. Sharp is in his office on a Sunday to get the jump on hurricane season,” I said.
“Another reason their work is so important,” Nakayla said. “Do you want me to come with you?”
“No. There might be other threads that need to be worked, especially if we can find Axelrod and learn more about his investigation into Eddie Gilmore’s murder.”
“Let me know if there’s anything more we can do,” Hewitt said. He turned to Nakayla. “Or if you need us to light a fire under your insurance company.”
“Thanks. So far, they’ve been very responsive. We’re meeting Monday morning to discuss whether I rebuild or sell the lot and relocate.”
Hewitt eyed me for a second, and I knew he was trying to discern whether Nakayla and I were thinking about setting up house together. That prospect also ran through my mind.
“Well,” Hewitt said, “don’t hesitate to ask for anything. And let me know if Sharp or this Axelrod have something to contribute.” He reached for the doorknob. “Oh, do you want me to take Blue? I’m just hanging out at home.”
“Sure,” I said. “You’ll be better company this weekend. Just don’t go sharing your scotch with him.”
Hewitt left all smiles.
Nakayla rose from the sofa and headed for her computer. “You know if Blue ever goes missing, Hewitt’s the prime suspect.”
“Yeah. I wish this case were as easy to solve.” My cell rang. “It’s DeShaun.”
Nakayla grabbed a legal pad and pencil from her desk. “Put him on speakerphone. I’ll take notes. At least I can read my own handwriting.”
We settled back on the sofa. I accepted the call and laid the phone on the coffee table. “Hey, DeShaun, a word of war
ning. My partner, Nakayla, is on the line.”
“No warning necessary. You know I’m always a perfect gentleman. Nakayla, I hope I don’t tarnish your opinion of Sam after you hear how a real detective operates.”
“I’d love to hear how a real detective operates. Do you know any?”
Clark’s deep laugh vibrated the phone against the table’s surface. “Serves me right,” he said. “But I do have some information. Chief Warrant Officer Len Axelrod is alive and retired in Raleigh. He left the army after putting in his twenty years and became a Raleigh police officer and then homicide detective. He’s one of us, and he’d love to talk to you.”
Nakayla and I looked at each other. Clark not only had found Axelrod but he’d also spoken with the man.
“What did you tell him?” I asked.
“A limited version of the truth. I said I’d been asked for help by a friend who claimed he had reason to believe a lieutenant named Eddie Gilmore had been murdered in Vietnam. I told my friend I wasn’t in a position to investigate, but I’d try to put him in touch with someone who might have been involved at the time.”
“What did he say?”
“One word. ‘Bullshit.’ He said he doubted I’d found any Gilmore file with his name attached. His words, ‘That file was sealed tighter than a deep-diving submarine. Tell me the truth or this call is over.’”
“Sounds like a chief warrant officer,” I said.
Murder in Rat Alley Page 20
