Dead Air

by David A. Poulsen

  He took the number and we disconnected. I sat back and stared at my computer for a few minutes, then read Martin Gathers’s article a second time. Same result. Nothing there that could help me find out what the hell had been going on in Buffalo, Wyoming.

  My phone rang. I picked up.

  “Yeah, Adam, there is something I forgot.” It was Martin Gathers calling back. “I should have thought of it when you mentioned the photo that wasn’t. The morning after I talked to Larmer, I was in town heading to a restaurant for breakfast. I got just inside the door and I saw your guy, Larmer, sitting at a table with another guy. Working for a small-town paper, I never stepped out of my house without my camera so I just kind of got myself into a good spot where they weren’t likely to see me and banged off a roll of film. I never used any of them in the paper, I’m not sure why; I’m not even sure why I took them other than the guy pissed me off with all the cloak-and-dagger stuff.”

  “And you don’t know who the guy with Larmer was?”

  “No, but I can tell you he wasn’t from Buffalo or anywhere close by, so I’m guessing he was attending the conference.”

  “I don’t suppose you have any of those photos in some packing carton in your basement or somewhere?”

  “Yeah, that’s the good news; I’m pretty sure I do. Might take a little doing to actually find them, but I’m happy to do what I can. Not sure how it’ll fit into your murder investigation, though.”

  “Neither am I, Martin. We’re just looking for information right now and probably grasping at straws a little, too.”

  “Been there a few times myself. Why don’t you leave it with me? Give me your email address and if I can track them down I’ll scan them and send you what I’ve got.”

  “I’d appreciate that a lot.”

  “There’s something you can do for me, too,” Gathers added.

  I hesitated. “What’s that, Martin?”

  “I want the story before it hits the wire. People down here, a lot of them have heard of Larmer.”

  “That can only happen if we get it figured out before the cops do.”

  “Fair enough. I just don’t want to find out every paper west of the Mississippi has the story before I do.”

  “I’ll do my best, Martin, that’s all I can promise.”

  We exchanged email addresses and rang off for the second time.

  I checked my email and found that another of the conferences I’d contacted earlier had sent its list of conference attendees for the past six years. This one was called “Make a Right Turn.” Catchy. The conference was an annual event in Philadelphia except for 2009 when for some reason it moved to Newark, New Jersey. It took me an hour and a half to cross-reference my victim list against the delegates and found that only two had ever made the right turn. Dennis Monday had attended the 2005 edition of the conference and Jasmine Swales had been to the Newark event.

  Larmer had been twice, once as a delegate and once as a speaker. His topic was noted in parentheses next to his name: Buckley-Rand Larmer (Why Political Correctness Is So Hopelessly — and Dangerously — Incorrect).

  I set my notes to one side just as a beep from my computer told me I’d received another email. This one was from Martin Gathers. Attached were two photos, the same two guys in each, taken from slightly different angles. I stared at the images for a long time. The second man, the one sitting opposite Larmer, was dark, tall, and unsmiling — serious-looking.

  And I’d seen him before.

  It took a minute but I was able to recall where that was. It had been in another photo — he was the fourth man in the picture I’d seen on the wall of Jasper Hugg’s office.

  I picked up the phone.

  “I want to talk face to face with Larmer,” I told Cobb.

  “Change of heart? I thought you didn’t enjoy up close encounters with our client.”

  “There’s a few things I want to ask him about and I’d like it to be face to face.”

  “What’ve you got?”

  “You’ve been in Hugg’s office?”

  “Several times — a few times when he was alive, a few more since his death.”

  “Right. Do you remember the large framed photograph near the door of his office — looks like some guys at a hunting or fishing lodge in the mountains?”

  “I’ve seen it. Can’t say I paid a lot of attention.”

  “There are four people in the photo: Larmer, Hugg, Preston Manning, and a fourth man. I asked Hugg who it was when I met with him and all he’d tell me was that the guy was dead. Wouldn’t give me his name. Played a little cat-and-mouse with me.”

  “And?”

  “And I’ve come across another photo of the same guy and Larmer sitting in a restaurant in a place called Buffalo, Wyoming. The photo was taken at the time of one of the conferences Larmer had on his list. Maybe ‘conference’ is the wrong word for whatever this was. But the event was also listed in Hugg’s day planner. It could be that both Hugg and Larmer were at that conference.”

  “And the mystery man in the photograph?”

  “Maybe. Can’t say for sure. But the guy must have been a big deal to be fishing or whatever with the likes of Preston Manning. And he just happens to be in the area at the time of a very shadowy gathering of right-wing hotshots in the Bighorn Mountains in Wyoming.”

  I told Cobb about my chat with Martin Gathers and his unsuccessful attempts to find out anything about the event or even exactly where it was held.

  “I’m going to be tied up for a couple of hours,” Cobb said. “Why don’t you meet me in the parking lot of the Jubilee Auditorium at three o’clock. We can leave your car and run up to the remand centre. I’ll call Shulsky and make sure everything’s cleared for us to talk to Larmer when we get there.”

  “Will do,” I said, and we rang off.

  There was something gnawing away at my memory — something I was missing. I decided to get into gym clothes and go for a run in the hope that maybe the air and the exercise would lift the veil from whatever it was that was swirling around the edges of my memory.

  It worked. Three miles into my four-mile run, I realized that I had seen the man in the two photos somewhere else. In yet another photo. And by the time I got back to my apartment I was fairly sure where.

  Delaying my shower for the moment, I raced to my computer and pulled up the stories of the other right-wing murder victims.

  And there it was. Among the images of the victims of the Fresno, California, explosion that all but destroyed radio station KKMR was station manager Michael Morrisey. Morrisey was also the man in the photo on Hugg’s wall and in the two pictures Martin Gathers had sent me.

  I wasn’t ready to start high-fiving people just yet. I told myself it could be important or it could be insignificant. A lot would depend on what Larmer told us when Cobb and I sat down with him. With that thought in mind, I headed for the shower.

  The same thought was there as I looked across the table at the half-smirk half-scowl that occupied the face of Buckley-Rand Larmer whenever I was in the room.

  I laid the photo of him and Morrissey from the restaurant in Buffalo, Wyoming, on the table in front of him.

  “Who is he?” I asked.

  Cobb had suggested during the drive to the remand centre that I lead the questioning of Larmer, at least initially. I was happy to oblige.

  Larmer shrugged. “Probably a fan. I have lots of them. Sometimes I take the time to visit with them. I’m very generous that way.”

  “Yeah, you’re a real peach,” I said. “The guy is Michael Morrissey — make that was Michael Morrissey.”

  “If you already knew who he was, why’d you ask me? I hate it when people waste my time.”

  I made a show of looking around the room. “Yeah, I can see you have a lot on the go.”

  “Fuck you.”

  I glan
ced at Cobb. The look on his face said, Not the right place, not the right time.

  I looked back at Larmer. “We know that Morrissey was the station manager at KKMR in Fresno, California, at the time somebody blew the place up — killed him and injured several others. The picture you’re looking at was taken at one of the events you listed in your note for Cobb. This is the one at Buffalo, Wyoming, 2003. What I’d like to know is what role Morrissey had in the camp … boot camp … conference, whatever name they give those things. You were one of the speakers. Was he?”

  “Well, aren’t you Mr. Research. Who would have guessed?”

  “What part did Morrissey play at the Buffalo event?” I repeated.

  Larmer shrugged.

  “Maybe I could intervene here just a little.” Cobb leaned forward, his grill almost nose to nose with Larmer. “We’ve been working very hard —” he gestured at me — “both of us, to try to find evidence that might just get you out of here and maybe even result in having the charges against you dropped — charges that the police feel strongly will hold up very well in court. So what we need to know, and we need to know it now, is whether you feel like helping us do our work or if you’d rather play your little games. Which is it going to be?”

  Larmer matched Cobb glare for glare. But finally he sat up a little straighter in his chair and looked at me.

  “I don’t know what Morrissey did, only that he was a part of it. To be honest, that was one of the strangest three days of my life. I gave one presentation and led one workshop, was there for three days. Don’t misunderstand me, there was a lot about the event that was excellent, an energy to the thing that was exciting. But without a doubt it was the most secretive conference I’d ever been a part of.”

  “How did you get paid?”

  “Cash. Delivered by courier in advance. First time that ever happened to me, as well.”

  Now that Larmer was rolling, I could tell he was enjoying relating the story.

  “Something else,” he said. “People didn’t use their names. The organizing committee were colours.”

  “Colours,” Cobb repeated.

  Larmer nodded. “Morrissey was Mr. Black. There were four or five of them, I think. Hugg was Mr. Pink, I remember that, but I don’t remember the other colours.”

  “Quentin Tarantino would have been so proud.”

  Larmer ignored me. “Everyone else was a number.”

  “Even the guest presenters?”

  Larmer nodded.

  “What number were you?” Cobb asked.

  “You seriously expect me to remember that? It was 2003.”

  “So you don’t know what number you were assigned?” I went at him again.

  “I told you I don’t remember. The whole thing was a little too Batman and Robin. They gave us poker chips with our numbers on them. Childish, if you ask me. I threw the damn thing away right after it was over.”

  “How many delegates were there?”

  “Not sure. It was well attended, I remember that.”

  “By well attended, do you mean twenty, several hundred, several thousand?”

  “This is only a guess, but I’d say a hundred or more.”

  “What kind of people were there — the delegates, I mean. Were they media, political types, academics … what?”

  “All of the above,” Larmer answered, his voice conveying the contempt he felt for me and my questions. “I remember there were supposed to be some big names there. It was a big selling point for the conference. But I can’t say I saw any what I would call superstars. In fairness, I wasn’t there for the whole event. As I said, three days and then I was off to another gig.”

  “So Hugg and Morrissey were on the organizing committee. Who else?”

  “I can’t remember. To tell you the truth I’m not sure I ever knew. Like I said, very hush-hush.”

  I glanced at Cobb. He nodded at me to keep going. “Why was that? Was there stuff talked about at this camp that was somehow subversive? More subversive than usual?”

  “Subversive. Ah, the word choice of the pathetic left.”

  “Was it?”

  “Subversive? No, I would say it was a unique experience designed to prepare all of us for important tasks ahead.”

  “What sort of tasks?”

  “I’ll bet if you spent a little time thinking about it, you might be able to answer that all by yourself. Being a crackerjack researcher and all.”

  “The poker chip. Any identifying marks — casino name?”

  “Something else that falls in the category of ‘I don’t remember.’ Are we finished here?” He stifled a yawn.

  I looked at Cobb. He raised his eyebrows about a milli­metre. My call.

  “Not quite.” I ran through the names of the victims of the various attacks. “You see any of those people at the event?”

  Apparently Larmer thought that question was worthy of some effort. He thought for a long moment, then shook his head. “I honestly don’t remember. It was a long time ago and I attend several conferences a year. I seem to recall Dennis Monday was there, but I can’t swear to it.”

  I looked at Cobb again. I wondered if he was thinking what I was thinking. Hugg, Morrissey and maybe Monday. All dead and all perhaps at the event in Wyoming.

  Cobb was looking at Larmer. “Think hard. It might be important. Did you see Dennis Monday there?”

  Apparently Cobb was thinking exactly as I was. Larmer furrowed his brow, either trying hard to remember or looking like he was trying hard to remember.

  “Listen, I wish I could help on this,” he said at last, “but I just can’t be sure. I may have seen Monday there, but that’s all I can give you.”

  Cobb nodded and stood up. I followed his lead.

  “Thanks,” he told Larmer. “You think of anything else that might help us, get in touch.”

  I nodded grudgingly in Larmer’s direction. The guard who’d been in the room with us opened the door and I followed Cobb into the hallway.

  Neither of us spoke until we were outside, and even then not until we had both taken several deep breaths. There was an atmosphere in the remand centre. It wasn’t a prison, but the air, the walls, the people — all of it was stifling. And for just a few seconds I was able to muster a little sympathy for Larmer at having to be in there.

  “I need a coffee and I need it to be somewhere a long way from here,” Cobb said as we climbed into his Jeep. Neither of us spoke during the drive and not even until we were sitting at an outdoor table at Weeds, a café/cappuccino bar on 20th Avenue.

  “So what’s next?’ I asked as I lifted my cup for a first swallow.

  “Hard to say,” Cobb admitted. “What luck have you had with the other conferences? Any others that had more than one or two of the victims in attendance?”

  I shook my head. “Not so far, but I haven’t heard back from all of them yet.”

  “I guess that leaves us with two choices. Do we narrow our focus, at least for a while, and concentrate on this one?”

  “‘This one’ being the gathering in Wyoming?”

  Cobb nodded. “Yeah. The danger is we could waste a lot of time on it and have it amount to nothing.”

  “I wish Larmer had been more certain about whether Monday was there. That would be three out of four of the victims confirmed at this event. That becomes pretty significant.”

  “Okay, so we’ve got two for sures and one maybe. Is that enough to go after Wyoming full out for a while?”

  I shrugged. “Your call. I mean, I get that it’s tough for him to remember that far back.”

  “Maybe.” Cobb studied his coffee. “Or maybe not.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Larmer’s a pretty good actor. Great smile, smooth talker, but honesty isn’t his best policy.”

  “You think he knows more t
han he’s saying about the thing in Wyoming? Hell, I don’t even know what to call it. Was it a camp, a conference? What?”

  Cobb smiled. “The ‘Wyoming thing’ works as well as anything. Here’s what bothers me. Larmer and Hugg were joined at the hip. Does it make sense to you that Larmer is as much in the dark as he says he is about an event that his bosom pal helped organize?”

  I thought about that. “Good point. So you’re thinking that Larmer isn’t being totally honest. For what reason? What’s he got to gain by being secretive with his own people?” I hated thinking of myself as one of Larmer’s people.

  “Hard to say. All I know is that as much as he wants us to clear his ass, he can’t bring himself to co-operate with us.”

  “I think it’s me he really can’t stand. I wonder if I’m something of a stumbling block in the investigation.”

  “Okay, first of all, get that thought out of your head. Whether Larmer realizes it or not, you’re critical to this thing. And that’s not going to change.”

  I thought about that, then nodded. “All right, so what’s next?”

  Cobb studied the ceiling for several seconds. “I say we take a run at this. I might be wrong, and if I am we waste a bunch of time. But this thing doesn’t pass the smell test. Besides, it’s not like we’ve got a lot of other hot leads to follow up on.”

  “Can’t argue that,” I agreed.

  “Okay, then let’s do this. I’d like to know more about what went on in Wyoming. You think you can do a little more digging?”

  I shrugged. “I can dig. I just can’t promise I’ll turn up anything. Like Larmer said, it was awfully damn hush-hush. But let me see what I can do. Let me go back at my friend Martin Gathers.”

  “Good. I’ll give Larmer a day to think about it, then I’ll have another chat with him. He might want to be more forthcoming once the results of the examination of his car are released, and that’s supposed to be later today. That came, by the way, from Shulsky, who suddenly has become very co-operative.”

  “Maybe he sees you as the lesser of two evils.” I set my hands as if I was weighing two things. “Larmer … Cobb … Larmer … Cobb.”