“So Dr. Evans was involved in the project?”
“MKULTRA as a whole was huge. Evans’s role in it was relatively minor. He started as a graduate student and was still a junior man when he quit shortly before his son was born. Or that’s the official line. The matter of secrecy surrounding Evans is twofold. Let’s start with part one, the main experiment he was involved in. Have you heard of Operation Midnight Climax?”
“I saw it mentioned in one of the articles, but only in passing.”
“The name is proof that the CIA can have a sense of humor. Operation Midnight Climax was a subproject of MKULTRA based in San Francisco, under the auspices of George White. They realized the best subjects are those unlikely to talk about their experience … such as johns who get dosed at a whorehouse.”
“Ah.”
“At the time, the CIA knew little about the world of hookers. Or about kink. They quickly learned how to exploit human proclivities to their advantage. They eventually opened other whorehouses in Marin County and New York. Yet there’s one that can’t be found in any of the surrendered documents. Right here, in Chicago. That’s where Evans worked. So why hide that one? Because it operated completely off the radar, even within the ranks. In the others, as bad as they were, limits were drawn.”
“And the ethics were a little looser at the Chicago house.”
“That’s the rumor. I can’t confirm it. Any evidence has long been shredded and anyone who worked there has kept his mouth shut. I tried to get Evans to talk once. It seemed as if he may have had moral qualms. He politely but firmly shut the door in my face. So my sources have been former subjects—the ones who don’t fear for their lives because they’re too crazy to know they should.”
“Crazy as in reckless or as in…?”
“Certifiably insane. Presumably as a result of what happened in that Chicago whorehouse. That’s the beauty of fucking with the human mind. If you break it, that’s fine, because the damage covers your tracks. Who’s going to believe the paranoid schizophrenic who claims the CIA made him crazy and now they’re out to get him?”
“So that’s what Evans was involved with before he left the agency.”
“If he left. That would be the second part. While the record clearly shows that William Evans quit his job with the CIA in 1969, there are suggestions that he did not leave entirely. By the late sixties, most of the MKULTRA experiments had officially been abandoned. The civil rights era meant people were taking a closer look at government powers. Information about the experiments was leaking. It was still years before Gerald Ford appointed a commission to investigate, but things were already coming to an end. Or, as some believe, the CIA was simply pulling the curtain tighter.”
“Ostensibly abandoning the projects, to continue them in secret with men like Evans who had apparently left the service.”
She nodded. “But that’s all speculation. I’ve pursued it to some degree but this”—she pointed at her glasses—“makes serious investigative journalism very difficult, as I’m sure my attacker knew. So while I can provide you with contacts, this marks the end of where I can take you.”
Gabriel wanted to start by interviewing Evans’s former boss. “A poor choice,” Anita said. “Edgar Chandler will never speak to you.” But Gabriel insisted and Anita gave him the information she had on Chandler.
As we were leaving, Anita called me back.
“You’re doing this in hopes of proving your parents are innocent,” she said. “They aren’t. I had friends who covered the case. None of them doubted the Larsens’ guilt.”
“So you think it’s a coincidence that Peter found out about his father shortly before his death.”
“I didn’t say that. But the likelihood of a connection between MKULTRA and all eight deaths is minimal to nonexistent. You seem like a bright girl. Don’t spend your life chasing answers that aren’t there.”
One could say the same about her. When I looked at her face, lined with bitterness, I realized she knew exactly what she was saying.
“I’ll remember that.”
“Do. And if you have questions about your parents later, you know where to find me. I may not be much of an investigative reporter these days, but my contact list is extensive.”
“Thank you.”
A Drop of Rain
Anita sat at the coffee shop table after the lawyer and the girl were gone. She didn’t like to hurry off—that seemed as if she was nervous out here, alone. The poor old blind lady. She’d never been that before, and she sure as hell wasn’t about to start now, no matter how hard her heart was pounding after that conversation.
They hadn’t seemed to notice. That was a blessing. She was getting better at hiding it. Yet even after forty years, it took only the mention of MKULTRA to start her heart racing. Most times these days, though, she was the one mentioning it. Masochism, Blake used to say. Facing her demons, she’d say.
She wished she could tell Blake about the girl and the lawyer. He’d know Walsh. Probably wouldn’t have had anything good to say about him, judging by the tidbits Anita picked up in a few quick calls made after Walsh contacted her. Blake had been a civil rights lawyer—he had little patience for young sharks like Walsh. But Blake was gone now, dead four years, and no one had replaced him. No one would.
A footstep crunched on broken concrete, so close that Anita’s head shot up. She listened, but no other noises came. Then, when she strained hard enough, the faintest sound of breathing.
“Yes?” she said, snapping with as much impatience—and as little anxiety—as she could manage.
The breathing continued, so close her heart slammed against her chest.
“If someone is there, I fear you’ll find this old lady a particularly poor target,” she said briskly. “I carry twenty dollars in cash, no credit cards, and no jewelry worth the hassle of hocking it.”
She didn’t expect that to scare away a would-be mugger, but the street was not completely empty—she’d heard a few people pass since the lawyer and the girl had left. She’d spent enough years with Blake to develop at least a little faith in the human race. They might not be quick to intervene in all cases, but there were some advantages to being a blind old lady.
Yet her voice only echoed into silence. Then another shoe-squeak, so loud it seemed deliberate. The breathing moved closer until it was right across the small table from her.
She snatched out her wallet, cursing her trembling fingers as she did. She plucked out the twenty and kept the wallet open.
“As you can see, I spoke the truth. This is all I have. If you insist, you’re welcome to it.”
Her voice rose as she spoke, taking on an air of desperation. A car whooshed past. Then a second, a loose tailpipe rumbling, and she wanted to leap to her feet, cry out for help, but she knew it would do no good. Drivers would pass oblivious, intent on their destination.
The breathing grew louder, as if he was leaning over the table to take the twenty. Good. Just take it. Please take—
A drop of rain fell on her arm. She swiped it. As she did, she felt something she hadn’t felt in forty years. A sensation she’d never forget. Her flesh burning.
Anita screamed. She scrambled up from the seat so fast it toppled over and she fell with it, legs tangling in the bench, taking her down, her hands still raised against her attacker.
Footsteps pounded across the pavement. Hands grabbed her. She fought, screaming.
“Lady!” The voice was young, female. “I gotcha, lady. You’re okay.”
A male voice, just as young. “Here.”
More hands, grabbing her arms to help her up. As she rose from the concrete, her glasses slid off. She tried to grab them, but it was too late.
She heard the boy suck in breath. “Jesus. What—?”
“Don’t,” the girl whispered to him. A clatter as she snatched up the glasses and pushed them into Anita’s hands.
Anita put them on quickly. The chair scraped the concrete. The girl’s soft hands h
elped her into it.
“You’re okay,” the girl whispered.
“S-someone was here,” Anita said. “Did you see him?”
Silence.
“Did you see anyone?” she said.
“There was a chick and a guy,” the girl said. “Blond chick. Big dude. We passed them.”
The lawyer and the girl. Anita’s mouth went dry.
“When? Where?”
“Few minutes ago. Down the road. Darnell nearly smacked into the guy coming around the corner. Scared the crap outta him.”
The boy grunted. “Dude wasn’t that big.”
The girl chuckled.
“Anyone else?” Anita said. “Anyone running away just now?”
“Nah.”
“No, sorry, ma’am.”
Anita cursed under her breath. Had she imagined the whole thing? Memories of the acid attack sending her brain into a tailspin?
She brushed her fingers over the spot on her arm and winced with the jolt of pain. No, someone had been here. Someone had warned her. But this time, she wasn’t going to be frightened off.
Chapter Fifty-seven
We decided to drive to Fort Wayne, Indiana, to see Edgar Chandler, Evans’s former thesis adviser, and his boss during his years with the CIA.
“Does it do any good to suggest I drop you in Cainsville?” Gabriel asked.
“No.”
“May I find a hotel for you in Fort Wayne?”
“No.” I glanced over at his profile, dim in the gathering darkness. “Chandler is eighty-six years old. I’m not too worried.”
“He’s a former CIA agent in possession of potentially damaging information. Someone killed Joshua Gray, and while I’m not convinced the same someone killed Peter Evans and Jan Gunderson, I do believe Gray’s death is connected to what Peter told him.”
“But you don’t think Chandler himself killed Gray. That’s why you insisted on getting his contact information. Because he’s an old man and you plan to surprise him at night before he has a chance to retreat or get backup.”
“That doesn’t mean I think the excursion is without risk.”
A few more minutes in silence. Then he said, “I’m going to stop by my condo. I should change my clothing.”
“Sure. I wouldn’t mind a few minutes in a bathroom, if that’s okay. Past time to run a brush through my hair.”
A pause. A long one.
“Or if you don’t want me using your bathroom…”
“No, no. I was just thinking, we’re close to the highway. My apartment is out of the way. I don’t really need to change.”
“Go. I’ll stay in the car.”
He shook his head. “I’m fine. If we leave now, we’ll be there before midnight, which is preferable.”
So Gabriel didn’t want me seeing his apartment. Not the inside, at least, since he’d seemed willing to take me as far as the building, meaning he wasn’t secretly bankrupt and living in his Jag. Maybe the place was a mess. Hell, given how little I knew of Gabriel’s personal life, he could have a wife and kids there. I doubted it, but you never knew. None of my business, though I would have liked to clean up.
Edgar Chandler’s house was just outside the Fort Wayne city limits. It wasn’t easy to find, and it was past eleven before Gabriel located the long, dark drive with a dimly lit house at the distant end.
There was no way to “sneak” up that lane with the car, so he parked it a quarter mile away. I had my door open and feet on the ground before I realized he hadn’t turned off the ignition.
“I should have left you in Cainsville,” he said.
I sighed.
“If you were any other client, I would have come alone.”
“If I was any other client, I wouldn’t be investigating with you in the first place.”
“True. However…” He stared out into the night. “When I agreed to let you join me, I thought your enthusiasm would end with the first pointless interview. It didn’t. That impressed me and might have led me to allow and even encourage your participation when I should not have.” He nodded toward the distant house. “Case in point.”
“Because I’m the client, so you feel responsible for my safety.”
“If something were to happen to you on this investigation, I would feel … guilty.”
“I know the risks.”
“Do you?”
I met his gaze. “Yes. Maybe you should have left me in Cainsville, for your own peace of mind. But I’m here now and you know there’s no sense leaving me in the car because I won’t stay.”
More staring into the night, then without glancing over, he said, “Do you have your gun?”
“Of course. It’s in my purse.”
“Put it in your pocket.”
He opened the door and climbed out.
As we neared the lane, Gabriel caught my shoulder and pointed to the lampposts flanking the drive. The lights were turned off and I couldn’t see what was worrying him until he whispered “security cameras.” When I squinted, I made out pinpoints of red light just under the lanterns. I followed him across the lawn instead.
Edgar Chandler lived alone. He’d been married, but divorced his wife a half century ago. Two of his three children had predeceased him. The youngest lived in Tucson. Our research suggested Chandler employed a housekeeper/cook, but she lived in the city. He was a man who valued his privacy, even past the age when it was wise to live alone.
The porch lights had been left on, along with one interior light, which illuminated the drawn curtains on a huge bay window. The rest of the house was dark.
Before we reached the porch, Gabriel took out his cell. He would phone Chandler, tell him why we were here, and ask for ten minutes of his time. Yes, Chandler could call for backup, but it would take more than ten minutes for anyone to arrive.
Gabriel began to dial. Then his chin shot up, eyes narrowing.
“What—?”
I barely got the word out before a shadow lunged from the bushes behind Gabriel. I pulled out my gun and started to shout a warning, but Gabriel had the guy on the ground before I could.
I swung my gun behind me. I don’t know why. It was as if I’d heard something and reacted before I could process the sound. And on the other end of the barrel? An old man in a housecoat, with a gun aimed at Gabriel.
“Drop the gun now!” I barked.
When he didn’t move, I fired into the roses beside him.
“I said, drop it!”
“Oh my,” he said. There was no panic in his voice. No fear. “I do believe you mean it. I’m putting my weapon on the ground.”
He laid the gun on the porch slowly, as if the movement took effort. I readjusted my grip on the weapon, but my hands were dry and steady. Shock, I think, more than nerves of steel. I probably looked a little ridiculous, poised there like a badass movie cop. No one was laughing, though. Not the old man, straightening now. Not the big guy lying facedown in the grass, his own weapon pointed at the back of his head, a foot on his back. And not the bigger guy pointing that weapon at him.
“Now kick the gun over to me,” I said to the old man.
“My dear, I’m eighty-six years old. I cannot ‘kick’ anything without landing on my posterior and breaking a hip.”
“Back away then.”
He did. I retrieved the gun. It was a monster—at least .45 caliber. Even I’d fall on my ass if I fired it. I handed the gun to Gabriel and got a curt nod.
“You can consider yourself fired, Anderson,” Chandler said to the man on the ground. “I can’t have a bodyguard who gets himself thrown ambushing a trespasser.”
“I told ya I wanted to get a better look at them first,” the man whined. “I couldn’t see nothing in the dark.”
Chandler turned to me. “As we are now disarmed, I’ll ask that your bodyguard releases mine, and allows him to regain some semblance of dignity before I send him slinking into the night.”
“He’s not my bodyguard. He’s my lawyer.”
Gabriel took his foot off Anderson, gun still pointed at the man. “Go sit on the porch while we speak to your boss.” He looked at Chandler. “I haven’t met many retired psychiatrists who feel the need for a live-in bodyguard.”
Chandler shrugged. “Old age does not accommodate vanity well. With Anderson, I have someone here at all times without the humiliation of requiring a permanent nursemaid.”
“Which explains why you met us with guns,” I said.
“I’m an elderly man of some means, despite my modest living arrangements. It would not be the first time someone has sought to take advantage of that. I’m presuming, though, that breaking and entering isn’t your intent, unless you bring a lawyer in tow, should you be caught.” He pursed his lips. “That could be convenient.”
“We want to talk about Will Evans.”
He blinked, as if caught off guard.
“Dr. William Evans,” I said. “He was your—”
“Yes, yes, I know who you mean. I’m simply surprised because I haven’t heard that name in a very long time.”
“We know you worked for the CIA with Evans—on a classified Chicago-based branch of Operation Midnight Climax.”
“Ah. Let me guess your occupation then, my dear. Reporter. Or journalist, as I believe they prefer to be called these days. A young investigative reporter hoping to launch her career by unveiling a secret, sordid part of Chicago’s past. May I give you some advice? It’s been almost fifty years. No one cares. At best, you’d have a historical interest piece on the city pages. And, in return, you would make enemies you might prefer to avoid.”
I turned to Gabriel. “That sounded like a threat.”
“Noted.” His face was impassive, but a growl escaped in his voice.
Omens ct-1 Page 33
