by Dave Stanton
The McDermotts said the doctors claimed Melanie had recovered, but the fractures in her personality suggested otherwise. If she simply had rapid emotional swings, from sadness to dispassionate to bitter, that might be explainable given the dramatic upheaval of her life. But I kept on remembering her walking out of the Nevada restaurant ladies room, strutting on high heels, swinging her hips, her makeup overdone, touching her bare breast with her fingertip. She claimed her name was Sasha, and that obviously indicated some of her screws were loose.
But Melanie’s mental stability, or lack thereof, was not my concern, I reminded myself. I’d been hired to find her daughter, if she was in fact still alive, and also to bring Jeff Jordan’s killers to justice. To those ends, I was just getting started.
I assumed I’d be spending the night here, rather than driving into town for a hotel. I’d have been surprised if Melanie asked me to leave; I didn’t sense she was ready to be alone in her big house. I’d need some private time to map out a strategy. This was my typical approach to any investigation. The early stage always felt like a confused jumble of indefinites. To get past this, I’d first outline primary lines of inquiry, then drill down to secondary questions. In this case, I was beginning to think it might result in a fairly lengthy document. Almost everything Melanie had told me so far raised more questions, more possibilities. Hopefully the variables would quickly condense once I had some answers.
I knew I had to thoroughly interrogate Melanie, but I wanted to wait until I felt she was in a stable mood, or at least well rested. I also needed to talk with the Cedar City police. They’d be able to fill in some blanks. As long as they were cooperative.
“Come on downstairs with me, let’s pick something for dinner,” Melanie said.
“All right.” I followed her down the hallway toward the bedrooms. We went through a door opposite Mia’s room, into a small office. She opened a desk drawer and reached deep inside. There was a metallic click, then she went to a large oak bookshelf against the far wall and pulled on a screw head protruding from the wood. The entire unit swung into the room, revealing a lit staircase heading downward. A rush of cool air came from below.
“Jeff built this himself,” she said. “He said it’d be pointless if anyone except us knew about it.”
I shrugged. “I promise to never tell.”
“As if it matters anymore.”
We went down the wooden stairs and into a concrete room lined with shelving. Florescent tube lights hung from the ceiling and illuminated rows of cans with handwritten labels. Cases of soft drinks and water bottles were stacked on the floor beneath the shelves. Tucked in a corner was what I immediately recognized as a gun safe. It was about five feet tall and two feet deep. Fireproof, and probably weighed well over five hundred pounds.
“Jeff owned rifles?” I asked.
“Yes, plenty. Assault rifles, pistols, ammo.”
“For what? He expecting a war?”
“He kept them to protect us.”
“You mean from the economic collapse, the anarchy?”
“That’s right,” she said. “Ironic, isn’t it?”
“I guess so. Do you have the combination for the safe?”
“I’ll have to look for it. How about chicken with sundried tomatoes and asparagus?”
“Sounds good.”
She handed me the can and we went back up the stairs and into the kitchen. After opening the container she prepared two plates and put one in the microwave. Then she poured herself a second glass of wine.
“Tell me more about this doomsday stuff,” I said.
“I bet you think it’s totally crazy, right?”
We went into the dining room and sat at the table. “I don’t know enough to say,” I said.
“When most people first hear about it, they think it’s just a bunch of silly conspiracy theories.”
“Is it?”
“I’ll try to explain it to you,” she said. “Then you can decide.”
“Okay.”
“It starts with the Illuminati. They were a group of intellectuals that formed a secret society back in the seventeen hundreds. Their main goal was to create a new world order, which they were in charge of. This would mean the elimination of countries and their governments, and the establishment of a global ruling elite.”
“But that never happened.”
“No, but that doesn’t mean they’re not still trying, and making progress. From the Illuminati came more secret societies. You’ve heard of the Freemasons, right? Their aim is the same thing, to create a world where they rule everyone. They would eliminate today’s religions and make everyone practice their version, which is more like Satanism than anything else. To do this, they have to brainwash the masses, to get us to behave and cooperate.”
“How would they do that?”
“You have to understand who they are. We’re talking about the most powerful politicians, businesspeople, intellectuals. You’d be surprised who belongs to the Freemasons. These people truly believe they are genetically superior to the rest of us, and that we only exist to serve their ultimate vision.”
“Okay, but how can they succeed?”
“Let me give you the most obvious example: nine-eleven. There is overwhelming evidence that the mainstream media version is a total lie. There is no way a group of Arab terrorists could have pulled it off, for one. But then you look at all the other disconnects. For instance, Building Seven. This was a smaller building, forty-three stories, about two football fields away from the main towers. Hours after the main towers were hit, Building Seven mysteriously collapses. But it’s not really much of a mystery; the collapse was caused by preset bombs, which were also what caused the main towers to collapse. All sorts of well-known structural engineers have testified to this fact, that there’s no way the planes could have caused the buildings to fall like they did.”
“And how do the Freemasons play into this? What do they have to gain?”
“Here’s how they work: they use their powerful positions to secretly arrange events that lead the unsuspecting population to false conclusions that in turn justify certain government reactions. In the case of nine-eleven, the government reaction was to invade Iraq. But if you look at the result of the Iraq war, what do you see?”
“The rise of ISIS. The world is now more dangerous than before.”
She looked at me with a sly smile. “So, you do pay attention to world politics.”
“I read the newspaper.”
“So,” she said, “that’s exactly what the Illuminati and Freemasons want; to make the world a more dangerous place. Because in order for them to get control, to establish their one world order, they need to tear down much of our current civilization. That means they work behind the scenes to create wars, and also environmental disasters and health plagues like AIDS and Ebola. And of course, one more critical thing they’ll orchestrate—the failure of the world economy.”
“And then what happens?”
“Once they unleash enough disasters, the oblivious citizens will lose faith in their governments and demand change. This is when we’ll see new political figures emerge, claiming a globalist approach is the only way to save the planet. They plan to take control and make the world population slaves in their new social order.”
“A massive dictatorship,” I said.
“Yes, but that’s just the beginning. To maintain power, they’ll need to dramatically reduce the earth’s population. That means killing off literally billions of people. Their goal is to go from six billion down to less than one billion. After they achieve that, they’ll then implement a mandatory eugenics program. You’ve heard of it?”
I nodded. “Selective breeding.”
“That’s right. They’ll pick who gets to reproduce. Inferior offspring will be killed, inferior parents killed, only those who fit the purpose of the elite will be allowed to live.”
The microwave pinged, and I went into the kitchen, replaced the first plate with the
second, and hit the start button. I found silverware in a drawer and brought Melanie her dinner.
“Go ahead and eat,” I said.
“I’m really starving all of the sudden. Would you mind bringing the wine?”
“You shouldn’t drink on an empty stomach. Eat something.”
She shot me a disparaging glance, but began eating. The food looked and smelled better than I expected. She ate voraciously, and half her plate was gone before she looked up and said, “I won’t be offended if you don’t buy into any of what I just said.”
“I try not to draw conclusions too quickly,” I said.
“But you’re skeptical.”
“I’m skeptical about most things. I also like to know what I’m talking about before spouting off an opinion.”
“You’re a deep thinker, are you?”
“Not really. But I think a lot of people go through life pretending they know things they don’t. They talk without thinking and usually sound pretty stupid.”
“Do you think I know what I’m talking about?”
I heard the microwave and went to get my plate. She asked that I bring the wine and this time I complied. I sat across from her and said, “You seem informed on your subject.”
“I should be. Jeff spoke on and on about it. He called it his ‘awakening’ and he believed every word of it.”
“And you? How much of it do you believe?”
She filled her glass and stared at me frankly. “Less than I used to. Without Jeff here…” she shrugged, palms up.
“Do you think Jeff was off-base?”
“He had me convinced, somewhat. But when I was in the hospital, I talked to a psychiatrist who said something that helped me figure it out.”
“What was that?”
“He said that people who feel powerless or alone, or who have low self-esteem, often embrace conspiracy theories. It makes them feel more knowledgeable, more powerful, more important and worthy. He also said the Internet has given these people easy access to all sorts of extreme and wild information that’s presented as if it’s factual and scientific. Previous to the Internet, this kind of information was only found in publications like the National Enquirer, which everyone knows is a crock. But now, anyone interested in conspiracies can read endlessly about them online.”
“Did Jeff have low self-esteem? I thought he was doing pretty well.”
“He was, but he grew up basically fatherless and his mother suffered from depression. I don’t think he got much in the way of positive reinforcement when he was a kid.”
“You don’t think he overcame that as an adult?”
“Some things you never fully overcome.”
******
After we finished eating Melanie showed me to the guest room, which was next to Mia’s bedroom. The interior was Spartan; a twin bed in one corner, and a small desk against the opposite wall. There were no drapes over the single window, and the sky outside was black and starless.
I set up my computer and placed Melanie’s two pages of notes to the left. Then I began typing thoughts, first in a random mode, and then with increasing structure. Soon I had the beginnings of an outline. More ideas and questions resulted, and I rearranged the elements until they were somewhat organized.
While working, I kept looking back to Melanie’s handwritten jottings. Most of it we’d already covered in conversation. A white man and a black man looking for gold that Melanie had no knowledge of. Jeff resisting, Jeff being cut. The remainder chronicled the hours previous to the invasion. Jeff had run errands earlier in the day, a trip to the Cedar City Home Depot, and a possible stop at a local bar for a single beer.
An hour later I’d completed a plan for a detailed interrogation of Melanie. I hoped to sit with her the next morning at the dining room table, and ask questions until I was confident she’d revealed every scrap of information, every idea, and every conjecture she could offer. At this stage of the investigation, Melanie was my sole resource, available and willing, and I needed to extract as much from her as possible.
I stood and looked out into the dark night. There was no moon, and I could barely make out the curve of a distant hill. If you wanted to live away from people, with plenty of space and privacy, this location fit the bill. But being isolated comes with risk; in any emergency, help is not nearby. That’s why criminals view remote residences as good potential targets. No close neighbors to see or hear, the nearest police miles away.
It was 9:30. I spent the next hour and a half on the Internet, reading various perspectives on conspiracy theories. I didn’t know how or if Jeff’s belief system might be involved in his murder, but I thought it’d be a good idea to get more familiar with the subject.
As Melanie said, there seemed to be an endless number of sites warning the unsuspecting masses that secret, nefarious groups were plotting to take over the planet. To facilitate their evil schemes, they needed to make the population docile and submissive. Their means included fluoridating water supplies to reduce intelligence, preventing pharmaceutical companies from providing cures for major illnesses, and rigging airplane engines to leave poisonous contrails (referred to as chemtrails) in the sky.
Other popular theories involved JFK’s assassination (arranged by CIA leaders controlled by the Illuminati), AIDS (a CIA-Illuminati plot to kill off the black race), Pearl Harbor (Illuminati members with high ranking positions in the U.S. military knew in advance of the attack, but kept it quiet), and of course 9-11, which the Illuminati hoped might prompt a nuclear holocaust in the Mideast.
I also found a number of sites dedicated to debunking these theories. The tone of these sites was often derisive, and the “facts” they offered seemed no more credible than the claims by the conspiracy theorists.
By eleven p.m. I’d read enough. My conclusion? Whoever said “Don’t believe most of what you read on the Internet,” was right. With that thought, I shut down my computer.
When I went to the guest bathroom to brush my teeth, I heard a faint patter from the television. I walked to the kitchen and through the archway leading to the family room. The television was tuned to what looked like a local news station. From my angle I could see the back of Melanie’s head. I walked around to where she could see me.
“I’m gonna go to sleep,” I said. “Just wanted to say goodnight.”
She didn’t respond, and I stepped directly in her line of sight.
“Hey,” I said, thinking she could have been dozing. But she wasn’t. Her eyes were open and staring straight ahead as if she was captivated by the screen.
“Melanie?” I bent low, so she was looking right at my face. But she didn’t react.
I took the clicker from the coffee table and turned the television off. Then I waved my hand in front of her. She continued staring, trancelike. I paused for a second, then knelt and put my hand on her shoulder. I shook her gently. “Can you hear me?” When she didn’t respond I jostled her, first with one hand, and then with my hands on both of her shoulders.
“What the hell?” I muttered. Then I clapped loudly.
She blinked hard and a small cry escaped her lips. She looked around the room and then at me, panic in her eyes. “Hey, it’s just me,” I said. “Are you all right?”
Her face looked terror-stricken for a moment, then her features slowly relaxed.
“I’m… I’m fine. I must have fallen asleep.”
“Were you dreaming?”
She leaned back as if exhausted. “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
“Maybe you should go to bed. You look pale.”
“I’m very thirsty. It must have been the wine.”
“Maybe so. I’ll get you some water.”
“I’m not used to the alcohol.”
I went to the kitchen and returned with a glass of water. She drank half of it and her color returned.
“I think I will go to bed. I’m a little dizzy.”
“Take my arm,” I said as she stood. She stumbled for a second and g
rasped my forearm tightly. “You’re still recovering from a head trauma. You need to take it easy.”
“No more wine,” she murmured.
I walked her to her room, and she let go of me and said, “See you in the morning.”
“Good night.”
Back in the guestroom, I lay on the bed and decided I definitely needed to call Melanie’s doctor in Vegas. Her condition was clearly not right. The stress of returning home might be too much for her. In a worst case scenario, could she slip into a coma again?
“Wonderful,” I muttered. I undressed, got under the sheets, and tried to sleep.
******
It was three a.m. when I woke. My door was open and light from the hall shined in my eyes. A figure stood in the doorway.
“Melanie?” I croaked.
She turned on the light, and I sat up in alarm. She was naked. Not only that, she stood tall on high heels, and her makeup was fully done, heavy around the eyes, her lips bright red. She stepped toward me.
“Hi, there,” she said. Her heavy breasts swayed when she moved, the light brown nipples flat and large. She took another step, her hips full and curvaceous, and the patch of hair between her legs was trimmed and at my eye level. I held my hand out to stop her. But she turned her back to me and posed. “You like?” she said.
Her behind was round, each cheek like a ball. I winced as I felt an electric charge in my groin. When she turned to face me I clapped my hands and yelled “Melanie!” as loud as I could.
“No, Sasha, ding-a-ling,” she said. She was now within arm’s reach.
“Stay back,” I said, but she leaned down on me, and I pushed her away by her shoulders. She retreated, her face pouty, then she pounced, her knees on the mattress. One of her breasts bumped against my cheek, and I jumped off the end of the bed and stood facing her. She was kneeling on the sheets, her right hand at her crotch, the middle finger caressing a spot above her vagina. I wore only my undershorts and was half-erect.
