by R. J. Blacks
We stare at each other, at a standstill, not knowing what to do or say next. And then she breaks the silence.
“You have to leave right now.”
“Can you tell me what’s going on?”
“I’m not to have any contact with you. Please leave, now.”
“I’ll be happy to leave as soon as I get answers. If you’re Dr. Parker... who was that other woman?”
“They probably already know you’re here... the security cameras... they’re everywhere.”
“No one knows I’m here. This is not how I usually look. It’s a disguise.”
“I could lose everything, my tenure, my job... everything.”
“And what about me. I’m already invested up to my neck. You know the story... don’t you?”
“You want to know the story, the whole story? Google the Gainesville Press, then search for Judy Swass.”
“Judy Swass? Is that her name?”
“If you don’t leave now, I’m calling security.”
“Okay, I’ll go. Thanks anyway,” I say, then open the door.
“Wait,” she says, then opens a closet. “I was about to throw these out; they have your name on them. I guess that makes them your property.” She hands me a plastic grocery bag filled with something heavy. “Now go!”
I grab the bag and make my way to the university library, find an unused computer tucked away in a remote corner where I can get some privacy, and then, open the bag. Inside are a dozen sample jars, the same ones I just dropped off a month ago. I wonder; has Dr. Parker even looked at them?
I’m tempted to return to her office to get more answers, but if she calls security, my cover would be blown and it might open a new can of worms. It’s clear, if I want answers, I’m going to have to get them off the computer.
I search on the name “Judy Swass” at the Gainesville Press website and find a half-dozen news stories that reference her name. One captures my interest and I click on it:
“Local Lawyer Found Dead in Parking Garage”
“Prominent Gainesville attorney, Judy Swass, was found lying on the ground inside a center city parking garage only a few feet from her BMW. She was declared dead at the scene from a fatal injury to the throat.”
I take a moment to gather my thoughts, and then, my mind starts racing. Can this be the same woman I had befriended, the woman that seemed so much like me, the woman that wanted to help me prevail? Why was she deceiving me? Why was she using Dr. Parker’s name?
I read on:
“Her handbag was missing when police arrived leading to robbery as the suspected motive. A suspect has not yet been identified.”
I reason this was probably only a case of someone being in the wrong place at the wrong time. But what if the investigation leads back to me? What if I somehow, unknowingly, set the events in motion which eventually lead to her murder?
I Google her name and stumble upon her personal website:
“Judy Swass and Associates”
Her clients resemble a page from the Fortune Five-Hundred, and then I see it, the words, “Global World Industries,” tucked in near the bottom of the extensive list. I click on her bio and there she is, the same picture I saw on the university website for Dr. Jessica Parker. Sadness overwhelms me and I think about the family she left behind... if she really had a family.
Then a chill runs up my spine. I knew her as a pleasant, sympathetic, associate who could relate to the stresses and issues I was going through, but now I see the other side of her, a cold emotionless attorney, a plant, a stooge, hired not to help me, but to track me, hinder me, thwart my efforts, until I get so frustrated I just give up. That secret network of professors and researchers she had so passionately talked about were the scientists and engineers at GWI, and they weren’t there to help me, rather, they would peer through my data and my reports searching for anything that could be used to discredit me or even implicate me in a lawsuit. Even worse, she had used her position of influence to trick me into lying to Will, my most trusted friend, to shield her from a threat she never had. It’s the most despicable case of deception I have ever come across. If GWI was willing to go to these extreme measures just for a vague threat of bad publicity... what would they do if the threat was real?
I need more information, but none of the other news reports add anything to what I already know so I search for an obituary, but there is none. Either the police gagged it until the investigation is over... or maybe no one cares.
I pack up my things and head for the front door. Outside I see the guy with the spiked red hair strolling towards the game room. I reverse course, duck into the ladies room, wait a couple of minutes, and then peek out the front door. The guy is nowhere in sight so I hurry back to my car. I feel bad about standing him up, but he’s not my type, I’m in a rush, and I have to draw the line somewhere. Hope he forgives me.
The trip back to Fargo’s place is long and tedious and I use the opportunity to reflect on my situation. If there is a silver lining to all this, at least GWI no longer has the inside track to what I’m up to. I can operate in secret without them looking over my shoulder and anticipating my every move. But Dr. Parker was my inspiration and the main reason I made the thousand-mile trip in the first place. She promised me guidance and the use of sophisticated instruments that can uncover microscopic tags in the water samples, unique markers that would reveal the source of any contamination. What will I do now? I’ve hit a brick wall!
Will once told me, “When you hit a brick wall, blast through it.” That’s great advice when you have high-powered weapons at your disposal. What do I have?
I arrive at the cabin an hour before dinner and scramble inside. Fargo is having a cup of tea and Will and Juanita are reclining on the couch. I can hardly contain myself as I relate the whole incident to the group.
“Dead? How?” Fargo asks.
“An injury to the throat. Didn’t specify.”
“Sounds suspicious.”
“I can’t believe this happened. I feel responsible.”
“There’s no way you could have known. It was just a random event.”
“She didn’t deserve this, even if she was deceiving me.”
“So what happens next?” he asks.
“I don’t know. She was my hope, my lifeline. I can’t do anything without the right equipment. I’m through!”
“Listen, I know this guy who helps agribusinesses meet pollution laws. He might have the equipment you need,” he says.
“Even if he does, they charge a ton of money for this kind of analysis. And how do I know if he’s just helping these agribusinesses cover their tracks? He might conflict with my research.”
“Don’t worry; this guy’s the real thing. He’s a member of tribal council and I’ve known him a long time. I’ll call him, see if he’s in.”
Fargo retreats to the kitchen so I head to the bathroom to wash off the tattoos, remove the black nail polish, and unfasten the nose ring. A few moments later, as I’m wiping off the eyeshadow, I hear a tap on the door.
“Come on, let’s go. He’ll wait for us.”
I follow him back to the living room still wearing the old worn-out dungarees and flannel shirt.
“What should I wear? I can’t go like this.”
Fargo and Will go blank for a moment, and then Juanita speaks up.
“Show me what you have. Maybe I can help.”
She gets up and I lead her back to my bedroom. She searches through the closet and then comes across the deerskin outfit I received for Christmas.
“This is beautiful.”
“Thank you. Fargo and Will gave it to me.”
“Then put it on. It’s perfect.”
“You think?”
“Of course. I know the man Fargo speaks of. He will relate to your interest in Indian culture.”
I pensively put on the outfit with a sense of reverence and dignity, unfasten my hair so it hangs straight down, and then tie in a feather, arranging it so i
t follows the contours of my hair which now reaches almost to my waist. To finish off, I put on the shell necklace Fargo gave me and the moccasins and then timidly stand in front of the mirror.
“What do you think?”
“I love it,” Juanita says. “Let’s show the boys.”
We both saunter to the front room and I model the outfit for the group. Will looks me over with a gleam in his eye.
“It’s nice. You gonna dye your hair blue again?” he asks.
“I don’t know. Maybe later.”
“I like you better with black hair.”
“Me too,” Fargo says.
Interesting, that’s the first time Fargo has ever commented on my looks. Never thought he even noticed or cared. But then he immediately changes the subject.
“We have to go right now,” he says, and holds open the front door. I follow right behind as he heads towards the jeep and then we get inside.
He races along a dirt road through endless pastureland until we come upon a white cinderblock building with a flat roof. It’s completely isolated from the outside world except for high-voltage power lines feeding the building. A sign on the door reads “Semi-Environmental” and it’s obvious there’s some serious work being done inside because I can hear the roar of many air conditioners running at full speed.
Inside, I’m immediately hit with the brightness of the rows of florescent lights, the white floor tiles, and the whitewashed walls which give it the look of a huge laboratory. Fargo leads me into the back area and we approach a man working on a machine. He’s Native American with shoulder-length black hair, appears to be about forty, and is dressed in blue jeans and a yellow tee-shirt with the company name imprinted across the front. He could pass for a quintessential postdoc research assistant like the ones I used to work with during my days back at the university.
“Hey Doug. How’s it going?”
“What’s up Fargo? Didn’t know you were interested in this kind of thing,” he says.
“Indigo here is doing some research on her own nickel. I wonder if you can help her.”
Doug strolls over to me and holds out his hand.
“I’m Doug Carpenter.”
We shake hands and I see his pupils flit from my hair to my moccasins and back to my eyes.
“A cousin?”
“Actually a friend of my brother.”
“Okay, let’s see what you’ve got.”
“I need a spectroscopic analysis of these water samples,” I say, and hand him the bag with the specimen jars. He takes out one of the jars, holds it up to the light, and then peers through the clear liquid.
“No problem, it’s exactly what we do.”
He takes out each of the jars, one by one, and then organizes them neatly on the table. Suddenly he stops.
“I believe you may need this,” he says, and hands me a flash drive he found inside the bag. I’ve actually never seen it before, but I need to know how it ended up in the bag so I casually take the drive and slip it into my pocket as if it was mine all along.
“Thanks.”
“Here, let me show you something,” he says, and takes us over to a huge machine nearby. I recognize it immediately.
“It’s a Perkin-Elmer Nexion 350 Series with a Flexar SQ 300 M.S. Detector on an Axion platform,” I say.
“You know this machine?”
“It’s the same machine I used back at the university. I could operate it blindfolded.”
“Tell you what; I could use a lab assistant. Give me four hours a day, three days a week, and this machine is yours to use as much as you want.”
I’m overjoyed and it shows, but then reality hits.
“I’d love to, but I’ve got these commitments at the restaurant.”
Fargo cuts in: “Don’t worry about the restaurant. We’ll hire more help. Do what you have to do right now.”
“Okay, it’s a deal. When do I start?”
“Tomorrow, if you want.”
“Super. See you at eight,” I say.
Fargo and I head back to the cabin and along the way I keep thinking about the flash drive. Was it originally the property of Judy Swass... or did it belong to Dr. Parker and she unknowingly dropped it into the bag at her office? I’m pretty confident the contents of the drive will reveal its true owner and how it ended up in the bag and I can’t wait to plug it in.
CHAPTER 24
We get back to Fargo’s place at 7:00 PM and there’s a note on the table telling us Will and Juanita have gone out to meet with friends. I go directly to my room dying to find out what’s on the flash drive, and then, a few minutes later there’s a tap at the door.
“You planning on eating dinner?” Fargo asks.
“In a few minutes. Start without me.”
I plug in the drive and search through the files. There are hundreds of them. Practically everything is legal mumbo-jumbo so it’s obvious this belonged to Judy. She probably used this as her backup drive... or maybe to transfer work between her office and home computer. I’m willing to guess it slipped out of her hand when she reached for the bag and she never realized it was missing.
But then, at the bottom of the list I see some files with the extension WAV, audio files, either music or voice. I click on the first one and immediately recognize her voice; she’s dictating a letter to one of her clients. A half-minute passes and I realize it’s nothing but routine legal work so I stop the recording and move the mouse curser to the last file. And then it jumps out at me; the date of the recording is the same day as her death. It was the last thing she ever recorded.
She starts out with a salutation:
“To Ellis Grimes. From Judy Swass.”
I press pause and think back to the day of my dissertation. Ellis Grimes introduced himself as special counsel to Eldridge Broadhampton, the founder and CEO of Global World Industries. It’s clear now, Grimes was the inside contact at GWI; she was reporting to him. I wonder who else was aware of this.
I restart the audio and she continues her report:
“I picked up the specimen jars from the target today and replaced the contents with bottled water as per your instructions.”
Bottled water? She was tampering with the samples? No wonder the analysis was inconclusive.
She continues:
“I’ll be swinging by the university this afternoon and leaving the samples with Dr. Parker.”
Was Dr. Parker in on this? Or was she just a pawn, blindly following orders? I hear the faint sound of a door closing in the background and then some sounds like papers rustling and a chair squeaking. Her voice gets fainter and there’s an echo like she was talking from another room.
“How did you get in? The door was locked.”
I turn up the loudness and can just make out a man’s voice, but the recording is poor and there’s a lot of traffic noise in the background.
“I’m sorry, I’m really not interested,” she responds.
The man says something in reply, but it’s unintelligible.
“That’s none of your business.”
“Unintelligible...”
“This is an official investigation and completely legal.”
“Unintelligible...”
“Are you trying to blackmail me?”
“Unintelligible...”
“Either you leave now, or I’m calling police.”
“Unintelligible...”
“You think that scares me? I have contacts that eat people like you for lunch.”
“Unintelligible...”
“Okay, you’ve had your chance.”
I hear the man say something and then the door slams.
“Idiot,” she says.
There are footsteps and they’re getting louder, as if someone is getting closer to the microphone, and then I hear the chair squeak and some papers shuffling.
“Moron, who does he think he is? Where was I?”
The rest of the recording is just a lot of boring legal talk that has nothing to do
with me. As a precaution, in case the flash drive gets damaged or lost, I copy all the files to my laptop and then join Fargo in the dining room.
“I think I know who killed her.”
“Who?” Fargo asks.
“I’m pretty sure it’s Damon.”
“How do you know?”
“She left the recorder running when a man came into her office. It sounds like Damon.”
“Sounds like Damon?”
“Well, the recording was bad. I could barely make him out.”
“The police need more than that.”
“She was killed the same day as the recording.”
“Circumstantial evidence,” Fargo says.
“He had the means, motive, and opportunity.”
“What was the motive?”
“Blackmail.”
“Blackmail? What in the world could he have on her?”
“Think about it; they meet at the Gainesville mall and she introduces herself as Dr. Parker. Then he goes to her office and sees that her real name is Judy Swass. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out she’s up to something. Probably thought he could get some easy cash.”
“How’d he find her?”
“After he left, I assumed he had driven away. But he could have come back, parked a couple of rows away, waited for her to leave, and then followed her back to the office.
“But why would he kill her? He was after money.”
“Because he’s a psycho and she was a threat. If she filed a police report, she could identify him. Why does a psycho do anything?”
“Detective Bolt needs to hear this,” Fargo says.
I finish up my dinner and he takes me to the State Police barracks. Detective Bolt meets us at the door and leads us to his office. I hand him the flash drive.
“You say it’s all on here?” he asks.
“Yes.”
