The next email definitely caught my eye. It was from Frank Katz and it had a .pdf attachment.
The message read, “Walt, after our conversation the other day, I decided to send you a copy of my manuscript. Please take a look at it and if you have any suggestions, please let me know before I submit it for publication.” The time stamp was the evening before he was found dead the next morning.
I opened the file and read the document. As promised, it was a scathing expose of everything Katz had collected about the chemtrail conspiracy. While lacking in actual physical evidence, there was certainly enough circumstantial evidence to raise some eyebrows. Apparently enough evidence someone had taken extraordinary measures to see it never saw the light of day.
Then the reality hit me like a thunderbolt. The original manuscript was long gone and I most likely had the only other copy.
If my theory was correct, Frank Katz had died because of the very thing which was staring at me from my computer screen.
I had promised Maggie I would steer clear of this thing so as not to endanger ourselves, our family and our friends, but no matter how hard I tried to distance myself, I kept getting sucked back in.
What was I to do with it? There was no way in hell I was going to try to get it published myself and bring the wrath of some assassin to our door. I thought about giving it to Jack Carson. He was, after all, a journalist and had the perfect venue to share the information with the world. Then I remembered the incident with the SUV when he was returning from Arizona. Undoubtedly, Carson was already on these people’s radar. Sending him the document might just sign his death warrant. I wanted no part of that.
What I needed was a way to get the information out to the public in a non-threatening way which wouldn’t put the writer at risk.
Then it hit me. If the information in Katz’ thesis was published as a work of fiction, it would be out there for the world to see and people would be made aware of the possibility of a government conspiracy and it just might open some eyes.
What I needed was a successful novelist and I knew just the right guy, Robert Thornhill.
I had met him a few months ago at a craft fair. We had received information that terrorists had planted explosives at the event that put the lives of nearly a thousand people in danger. Using drug dogs from the K-9 Corps, we found the bombs. We subdued one of the bad guys immediately, but the second one broke for the door. His escape route took him right past the table where Thornhill was displaying his books. With perfect timing, Thornhill flipped the table on its side spewing a hundred slick paperback books in the terrorist’s path. The perp was down just long enough for the cops to pounce and put him in cuffs.
After the incident we talked. Thornhill had published twenty mystery novels, a few of them based on cases which Ox and I had been involved in. Evidently he had a large fan base as eight of his works had hit #1 on Amazon during the previous year.
We found another common bond. We had both experienced open heart surgery and were actually on the cardiac floor of St. Luke’s Hospital at the same time.
He autographed several of his books for me. I offered to pay him, but he declined and said I could pay him by sharing more stories to fuel his imagination.
I figured this might be the perfect time to repay my debt.
We had exchanged contact information and I had his number in my phone.
He picked up on the second ring.
“Mr. Thornhill, this is Walt Williams. Would you have a few minutes to talk?”
“Walt! Good to hear from you. Of course I’d love to chat with you, but let’s not be formal. Please call me Bob.”
“Well, Bob, I just might have a story that would pique your interest.”
“You have my attention. What have you got?”
“Not on the phone. Could we meet somewhere?”
“Sure, how about lunch at Mel’s Diner, say eleven-thirty?”
I was pleasantly surprised by his choice of eating establishments. “Sounds good to me. I’ll see you there.”
Bob was right on time. We met in the parking lot and entered together. Mel glanced up from his grill when we entered.
“Hi Bob. Hi Walt.”
I was surprised again. “You two know each other?”
“Of course,” Mel replied. “Bob’s a regular. Hamburger patty, grilled onions and fries, and I suppose you’ll want the chicken fried steak?”
We both nodded. Mel was amazing.
“I’ve been coming here for years,” I said. “It’s a wonder we’ve never bumped into each other before.”
“Well, we’re here now, and I can’t wait to hear what you have for me.”
I started at the beginning and told Bob everything I knew about the conspiracy and had just finished when Mel brought huge pieces of his chocolate cream pie. Bob had listened intently and taken notes, only interrupting sporadically to ask for clarification on some point.
When I finished, Bob just shook his head. “Holy crap, Walt! This is one ugly can of worms you’ve opened. Why, exactly, are you telling me all of this?”
“I’m telling you because I want this to be the subject of your next novel.”
“Really! You’ve just told me two men are dead trying to expose this conspiracy and now you’re dumping it in my lap?”
“But this is different. You write fiction. I’ve read all kinds of books about corrupt politicians, government conspiracies and secret spy missions, and to my knowledge, none of the authors have been whacked yet.”
“Yet, being the operative word here.”
Bob thought for a moment. “So far, I’ve written about vigilantism, euthanasia, and the collusion between the FDA and the pharmaceutical giants without reprisal. Maybe I could get by with one more. Although I often wonder if I’m on some CIA watch list. When I wrote about the Avenging Angels, I had to learn how to make a bomb just like the one Timothy McVeigh used to blow up the Federal Building in Oklahoma City. It’s all right there on the Internet, every detail. I could only imagine some government program set up to monitor the computers of people looking up that stuff.”
“So are you in?” I asked expectantly.
He smiled. “Sure, why not? I’m just a retired seventy-two year old guy who writes mystery novels for the fun of it. What could possibly be the danger in that?”
That’s probably what Frank Katz believed too, I thought, but I didn’t say it out loud.
I handed Bob the manuscript which I had downloaded on a thumb drive. “Here it is. Good luck. I’ll be anxious to read the finished product.”
I headed back home, determined to finish my bill paying which was interrupted by Frank Katz’ email.
I booted up the computer, but instead of my usual screensaver, there was nothing but squiggly lines. I turned the thing off and restarted it. That often cured the anomalies which sometimes popped up, but this time, it didn’t work. No matter what I tried, all I could get was the same squiggly lines.
I was totally frustrated and had slumped back in my chair trying to figure out what to do when I noticed something strange. The stack of bills I was going to tackle was not where I had left them. They weren’t moved much, but just enough so it got my attention.
I picked up the phone and dialed Maggie.
“Hi, Sweetie.”
“Maggie, by any chance did you come home for lunch?”
“No, Anita and I had a salad at the Panera Bread Company. I haven’t been home since I left this morning. Why do you ask?”
I didn’t want to alarm her. “No reason, really. I was out myself and just wondered if I’d missed you. See you later.”
I hung up before she could quiz me further.
I headed out the door and met Dad in the hall.
“Dad, have you seen any strangers in the halls today?”
He thought for a moment. “Strangers? No, not really. Just the guy from the gas company. He said they were checking all the buildings on the block for leaks. I sent him down to Willie. That’s the
last I saw of him.”
I thanked him and headed to the basement.
“Willie, did you talk to a gas man today?”
“Sho did. De man said he was lookin’ for de gas line an’ I showed him where it was. He had one of those sniffer things with him. He poked around for a few minutes, den said everything was fine an’ left.”
I headed back to my apartment.
Gas man, my ass!
I unplugged my computer and headed to Arnie and Nick’s place on Warwick.
Nick was the computer nerd and I knew if anyone could fix it, it would be him.
I brought the two of them up to date and handed Nick my laptop.
He booted it up, punched some keys and frowned. “Sorry, Walt. Your hard drive is corrupted, totally fried, probably a virus of some kind.”
“But how? I’ve got virus protection software installed.”
“It doesn’t matter these days. The software companies can’t begin to keep up with the hackers, especially if the hacker is some government spook.”
I knew he was probably right. I had just finished watching the season finale of CSI Cyber, a new TV show about computer and electronic crime. If even half of the stuff depicted on the show was true, the average citizen was a sitting duck for hackers to steal their identity and their passwords. Computers, phones, pretty much anything electronic was vulnerable. After watching the show, I was almost afraid to plug in my toaster.
I thanked them and headed home.
As I drove, I played over in my mind the day’s events.
I couldn’t figure how someone knew I had the manuscript on my computer, then it hit me. Frank Katz’ computer was missing. Whoever injected him with the potassium chloride had undoubtedly taken it. All the perp had to do was look in Katz’ ‘sent’ folder to discover he’d sent me a copy, and now, even that was gone. I had no way of knowing whether they could figure out I had downloaded it on a thumb drive before they infected my computer with the virus.
For Bob’s sake, I hoped not.
I felt violated. Some asshole had been in my apartment and in my computer.
I was suddenly in a panic. I stopped by a branch of my bank, identified myself, and asked a matronly lady behind a desk to take a look at my checking account. I had no doubt the guy was probably sophisticated enough to totally wipe me out. Thankfully, our funds were intact and I breathed a sigh of relief. I told the lady I had been hacked and she told me how to contact tech support to change my password.
Back in the car, I thought about the intruder and wondered what else he might have done. I picked up the phone and called Kevin, my brother-in-law and partner in Walt Williams Investigations. He had been a P.I in Phoenix for thirty years and had all kinds of spy crap.
“Kevin, do you have one of those gizmos that can find electronic bugs which are hidden?”
“Does, Donald Trump have goofy hair?”
I took that as a ‘yes’ and had him meet me at the apartment.
I filled him in on what had transpired. He swept the entire apartment but found nothing.
“Any chance the thing can tell if my phone’s been bugged?”
“Nope, that’s something entirely different. There’s no way to know exactly, but if I were you, I’d behave as though it was.”
I thanked him, and as he was walking out the door, he turned, “Be careful, Bro. These guys play for keeps.”
At that moment, I was frustrated and angry and I was really pissed that now I would have to pay all those bills by hand.
And to tell the truth, I was more than a little bit scared.
CHAPTER 11
True to his word, Ox had Judy call Maggie and the two of them cooked up an evening out for the four of us.
They had made reservations at Zio’s Italian Kitchen which didn’t exactly thrill me.
I’m not a big fan of ethnic foods except Mexican. I love tacos, burritos and margaritas, although food purists tell me the fare at Taco Bell has nothing in common with real Mexican food.
I’m more of a meat and potatoes kind of guy, nothing fancy, just the basics, as long as it contains one of the major food groups, gravy.
I see no reason to Kung Pao a poor chicken when you can fry it and have the resulting squeezings for a rich gravy.
Nevertheless, if Zio’s Italian Kitchen made the girls happy, then I was willing to go along, because, as the old saying goes, ‘if the girls aren’t happy, nobody’s happy.’
After we were seated, a server brought a loaf of warm bread, which I thought was a good start, but then he proceeded to pour some viscous liquid which looked like thirty weight motor oil into a dish of grass clippings.
After he had finished and proudly presented his concoction, I tapped him on the sleeve and asked if he might have a pat or two of butter in the kitchen.
That was definitely a faux pas. The poor fellow looked like I had beaten him with a stick.
“Just try it, Walt,” Maggie urged.
Reluctantly, I tore off a hunk of bread, dipped it in the goo and took a bite. I was surprised. It was actually quite good. I said as much and the server brightened immediately. I had made his day.
While he was fetching our drinks, I checked out the menu. It was four pages double sided and there was not a single mention of gravy. I settled for a spicy chicken alfredo which turned out to be pretty good as well.
During the meal, I told my story from the beginning. Ox was my partner and for five years, we had shared everything. His wife, Judy, was also a cop and a very good one at that. I already mentioned hiding things from Maggie was not a good idea, so I figured good company over a good meal was as good a place as any to come clean.
To say Maggie was upset would be an understatement.
“Someone’s been inside our apartment going through our things?”
“I’m afraid so. As far as I can tell he was just there to sabotage my computer.”
“Walt, you promised you’d stay out of this. Now look what’s happened.”
“I’m trying my best to stay out --- really! That’s why I handed the manuscript off to Thornhill.”
Ox was still dubious. “Let me get this straight. You’re saying there’s this big government cover up going on and the conspirators have murdered two people to keep them from talking.”
I nodded.
“And yet, you don’t actually have proof either of them was murdered.”
I nodded again.
“Walt, if what you’re saying is true, that means our government, the people sworn to protect us, are murdering citizens to cover up their crimes. Do you know how crazy that sounds?”
“I know how it sounds, but what about B-613? I know you and Judy watched Scandal.”
In the TV show about life in Washington, the writers depicted a black ops group of professional assassins whose job was to eliminate any and all threats to the United States by any means necessary. The organization was so covert, it was even beyond the control of the president.
“B-613! Come on, Walt! That was a TV show for chrissakes! Surely you don’t think ---?”
“Think what? That if these chemtrails were really part of our national defense system against nuclear warheads the government would think twice about eliminating any threats to that system? Remember Spock’s words in The Wrath of Khan, ‘Logic clearly dictates that the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few.’ How does the life of an eighty-two year old man and one pilot stack up against the possibility of a nuke landing in Times Square?”
He thought for a moment. “I see your point, but I’m still not seeing any evidence.”
“What about the bogus people who stole Frank Katz’ papers? What about my computer? That’s evidence enough for me that there’s something very sinister going on.”
At that moment, the server arrived with our checks and our discussion was put on hold.
The ride home was quiet. We all seemed to be lost in our thoughts, at least I was.
Ox was driving and I noticed he was chec
king his rear view mirror more than usual.
Finally, he said, “I think you might be right.”
“About what?”
“Everything. On the way to the restaurant, I noticed a black SUV with government plates behind us. I didn’t think much about it, but here we are, two hours later and it’s back again.”
“You sure it’s the same vehicle?”
“The plates are the same, so yes, we’re being followed.”
I thought for a moment “Keystone Kops?”
“Sure, why not,” Judy replied.
At the next stoplight, Ox came to a screeching halt and Judy and I bailed out on opposite sides of the car and headed straight for the SUV. If there had been traffic behind them, we would have had them cold, but there wasn’t. The moment our feet hit the pavement, the SUV’s tires squealed as the driver shifted into reverse. After a quick u-turn, they sped off in the opposite direction.
When we were back in the car, I turned to Ox. “How’s that for proof?”
The next morning I got a call from Jack Carson.
I hadn’t heard from him since he went on his pilgrimage to interview Kristen Meghan, the Air Force bioengineer who had turned whistleblower.
“Walt, Jack here. I thought we should touch base. Anything new on your end?”
“Unfortunately, yes. Same place? Eleven-thirty?”
“I’ll be there.”
After being seated at Mel’s, he asked, expectantly, “Well, what have you got?”
Lots of things had happened since our last visit, but I didn’t share everything I knew. I told him that Frank Katz had died before he could get his manuscript published, but I left out the part about him sending me a copy. I knew if I told him the whole story, he would pressure Thornhill for a copy of the manuscript and that’s what I was trying to avoid.
I told him about the four of us being followed, but I omitted the part about someone being in our apartment.
When I finished, he was deep in thought. Finally he spoke. “So Dale Fox dies in a car wreck on his way to meet me with evidence and we can’t prove the car was tampered with, and Frank Katz dies of a heart attack just before publishing his manuscript and we can’t prove it was anything but natural causes. Quite a coincidence, don’t you think?”
[Lady Justice 21] - Lady Justice and the Conspiracy Page 7
