Halliday skimmed over the paragraph of technical gibberish that followed. The process converted electrical energy into ATP or Adenosine-5’-triphosphate. ATP transported chemical energy within cells. ATP reacted with an amino acid called leucine, the same agent that made fireflies glow during the chemiluminescent process.
Fireflies? “Spider” robots? Halliday formed a mental picture of an army of green glowing spiders crawling under his skin in the direction of his private parts.
An accompanying article listed Genevive’s achievements over the past three years. It pointed out that much of the company’s success belonged to the management team led by CEO Robert Gartner and his capable staff. The final paragraph explained how the Labs had helped grow Santa Reina’s economy while at the same time not drawing the negative civic elements associated with rapid growth. It offered a statistical graph illustrating that crime had decreased during Genevive’s presence. However, Halliday didn’t need a graph to tell him that domestic violence had snowballed.
Halliday tossed the newspaper back on the other table.
His phone rang again. He answered, “Halliday.”
“John, this is Benita Merced.”
“Hi, Benita, any luck with the research?”
“I’ve forwarded loads of background information on Palmier to your folder. But, can I ask why you requested a recent background check on a woman who expired six months ago?”
The research specialist had asked a fair question. “It’s complicated, Benita. I’m looking for sisters, girlfriends, coworkers, who may have been close to Laurel before her death.”
“After Laurel McKittrick’s divorce from Brad Palmier in February of this year, and her subsequent disappearance and death in that New Mexico cave, there’s not much current information on her.”
“I understand. Listen, Benita, did you find anything in your research that confirmed that Miss McKittrick died in that New Mexico cave?”
“They never found her body. From what I read, it didn’t surprise the authorities. They mentioned miles of tunnels down there. Even the professional searchers had a difficult time navigating the tunnels. The experts are sure that she’s still down there… somewhere. I called the lead member of the search team named Travers. I forwarded our phone conversation to you. Travers has no doubts that she didn’t survive for the simple reason that Laurel McKittrick has not been heard from since.”
Until today.
“You may find something in my research prior to the cave incident. Laurel McKittrick had few friends, mostly coworkers. No living relatives in the area. Her deceased mother was part Miwok. I doubt that is relevant. I couldn’t find any link on her mother’s side.”
Benita believed he was chasing a ghost as no doubt would the entire staff at the Santa Reina PD by close of business today. “Thanks Benita, I’ll phone you if I have any further questions.”
After he finished his sandwich Halliday glanced more than once at the parking lot beyond the restaurant entrance. He pulled the Bluetooth off his ear and stuffed it in his shirt pocket.
Is that what I’m doing? Chasing a ghost?
Chapter Thirteen
Halliday returned to the PD in late afternoon, where he slipped into the closet sized copy room. He made color copies of Laurel’s photograph that he had downloaded from her website. Although odd, it didn’t surprise him that her website had still been up.
Palmier hadn’t overhyped her looks. A tall green-eyed brunette, Laurel’s wholesome face seemed to comfort the viewer. Standing next to the entrance to a forbidding cave, the camera had captured her adventurous spirit. Laurel’s bronze skin was accented by blue shorts, an orange T-shirt and a backpack of the same color mix. Her face, too, was a work of art. Her beauty lay in its simplicity. Halliday saw no high cheek bones or distinctive jaw common to Indian tribes.
Why had she married a louse like Palmier in the first place?
He began to crop the photos when he noticed an anomaly with the date. Beneath a magnifying glass, the numbers appeared to have their tops whacked off.
Were his eyes playing tricks again?
The date stamp appeared to have been the 14th of June. That couldn’t be, as Laurel had been reported lost in the New Mexico cave in May. The camera’s date settings could have been set wrong.
Halliday returned to his desk. He was studying the photograph when Leo Bergman surprised him.
“Leo, you’re still here?” He covered Laurel’s photograph with an old wanted poster.
“Dedication, John. What’s the status of the ghostly divorcee?”
“The ex, Brad Palmier, is on the surface more concerned about Genevive Labs and his reputation than her threat,” he said. “My feeling is that Mr. Palmier is looking out for numero uno.
Leo leaned in further. He whispered, “Many are afraid of disturbing the sleeping giant in the woods.” He added in a normal voice, “Keep me posted, pal, I love ghost stories. By the way, Tommy Hartnett, Santa Reina Tribune’s finest was looking for you earlier. He claims extraterrestrials have been infiltrating Genevive Labs.”
Although Leo was joking, Halliday knew that the reporter’s conspiracy theories could fill a tabloid’s pages. “Thanks for the heads up, Leo.” The forty year veteran chuckled down the hallway, headed home to his wife of thirty-nine years.
# # #
Halliday nodded to the table of blue uniforms, then settled into a quiet nook at the far end of Cindy’s. He ordered his usual ice tea.
Benita’s research on Brad Palmier had uncovered a checkered past of a rich kid from upscale Alamo, California, up in the Bay area. Palmier’s father, a computer company executive, died at a young age. His father’s death left them penniless. His mother had to move them into a low income lifestyle that he wasn’t accustomed to. The anger may have never left him.
“Here you go, John.” Carmen placed a large glass of ice tea in front of him.
Halliday nodded and continued to examine the man’s bio. At the age of eighteen, Palmier had been arrested for grand theft auto at Union City in the Bay Area. Later that year the Fremont PD had taken him in for questioning regarding a credit card scam. The charges were dropped due to insufficient evidence.
Palmier had some smarts. After obtaining an MBA at Pepperdine University in Southern California, he landed a job at a pharmaceutical company in Los Angeles. In two years he jumped from staff to communications director. Palmier jumped ship to Genevive. Soon afterwards his previous company cited “internal problems” when their stocks plunged.
Halliday shook his head at the words, “internal problems,” which often linked to wrongdoings.
Nothing else stuck out so he replaced Brad’s bio in the folder.
Laurel Beth McKittrick had been born in Paso Robles, California to Adrian and Kiaweah McKittrick. Her father was a longtime history professor at Cal Poly San Luis Obispo. Her mother, part Miwok Indian was a Central Coast artist. This concurred with Palmier’s story. Laurel graduated second in her high school class. She attended Berkeley for five years, majored in physical education, and was the number two sprinter on the swim team.
Laurel’s proclivity for second place reminded him of his own failed attempts in life. At Syracuse University he had been a member of the rowing team that always came in second to Cornell or Colgate. A cramp in his leg had cost the team an upset win over Cornell on the home team’s Onondaga Lake. Laurel, too, must have learned that second place finishes were great motivators for excelling in other areas.
A beep signaled Halliday he had voicemail.
“Hello, Detective Halliday. Please go to my website. Leave a comment under the article, ‘Cavers and Canoes.’ Please do it before 3:00 a.m. as I will erase the comments by tomorrow morning.”
He made a note.
“I’m committed to incapacitate Brad Palmier on Friday, the 31st of October. Yes, it’s Halloween, a few days away. It’s also my birthday.”
“Please provide a secure account on the internet. Include the link in the comm
ent. Create the account using the password, 88LM19. I’m sure you can set it up through your police network. I will drop important information into the account.”
Halliday waited through the long pause.
“Detective… Oh my god, the knowledge I possess goes beyond matters of life and death. This involves national security.”
National security? Halliday nodded absently as the waitress topped off his ice tea.
“There are illegal activities going on at Genevive Laboratories that would horrify people. I want to reveal this to you. First, I need your trust. I know this sounds crazy. I assure you it will all make sense once you see the whole picture.”
Her words harbored fear. Could computer nerds duplicate that with software?
“I can’t explain now. I possess an unusual set of circumstances that I will reveal to you as our trust grows. I’m sorry, I have to go now. I look forward to your comments on my blog.”
Halliday mulled over the message while he sipped ice tea.
When the light shifted, he looked up.
A familiar figure stood in front of him.
“John, mind if I sit down?”
He gathered his research into a pile on the seat next to him. “Tommy, have a seat.”
Tommy Hartnett, a senior staff writer for the Tribune, was once addressed as Mr. Hartnett at a bar outside of town. A brawl ensued. He didn’t appreciate Tom or Thomas either. The sixty-some year old Santa Reina newshound wore an unkempt beard that fit his prospector-like attire. His signature cowboy boots, needing a polish, rattled the chair legs as he sat down. Halliday took a sip of tea. He prepared for the latest buzz.
“I hear we have a bio-extremist group coming to town soon,” Tommy said.
“They promised a peaceful demonstration.”
Tommy leaned forward while gazing around to see who was present. “I wouldn’t mind it if they rioted, even stormed Genevive Labs. Run those bastards out of Santa Reina.”
Everyone in town knew Tommy’s position on Genevive. “Now Tommy, that wouldn’t bode well for our fair city.”
“Did you know Genevive tried to buy out the Tribune? Those bastards tried to hide us on the internet. Hell, we’re the only voice this town has. Besides, nobody with any sense in their head resorts to local news on the internet. International news, sure, the internet is a good venue for it.”
“I hope it never happens that we lose the Tribune, Tommy. You ever come across the Executive VP over at Genevive by the name of Brad Palmier?”
“Oh yeah,” Tommy said, his eyes afire. “Palmier’s the slick bastard who tried to sink us under. He paid us a visit six months ago. I don’t know what Palmier said. My editor hasn’t been the same since. I think the bastard threatened her. We haven’t printed anything remotely critical of Genevive Labs since that day. You could say that today my big mouth is our only voice against those sons of bitches.”
Halliday was accustomed to Tommy’s forthrightness. Something had ticked the veteran reporter off more than usual. “What’s on your mind, Tommy?”
The longtime reporter confirmed that no one was within earshot. He leaned in even closer and said, “Pal, you’re one of the few I can trust at the PD. I’ve heard rumors from workers at Genevive Labs. There’s this top secret building, you see. I’m told scientists there are performing weird genetic experiments on animals rustled from our neighbors in Santa Reina and Red Bluff. John, don’t just listen to me, please go talk to the property owners out east of the city. They’ll tell you the wildlife are disappearing.”
Halliday scratched his head. Chuck Bibby had said the same thing. This time Halliday asked the question: “With all their money why wouldn’t Genevive purchase their own livestock to experiment on? They could do it on the sly. Buy it out of state.”
Tommy almost fell off his seat. “That’s what I said. You know why they need the local animals?”
“Why?”
“One of the technicians told me it has to do with what type of vegetation the animals here eat. He didn’t get specific other than the vegetation gives the animals ‘special properties.’”
Special properties? Tommy scrutinized him as Halliday considered a comment before he blurted out, “You sure about all this, Tommy?”
The newsman leaned back. “No shit, John. Check it out yourself.”
Chapter Fourteen
“Yes sir, that’s one fine looking ghost,” Gladstone said, lifting his cup of coffee in a toast. At 6:30 a.m. there wasn’t a soul around, except for Betsy.
Halliday glanced at Laurel McKittrick’s photo on his desk. Gladstone leaned against the doorpost wearing a shit eating grin.
“Ghost? More like a savvy woman staying under the radar here.”
“Come on Halliday, this county’s not an easy place to hide in. People don’t have a whole lot to do here. Anybody’s business is everybody’s business. A single woman in Santa Reina questioning the motives of Genevive Labs would stir up interest.”
“Who do you think the voice on the tape belongs to then?”
“No one’s ever seen her. I think she’s a product manufactured by a savvy group of computer nerds out to screw Genevive Labs.”
The obvious wasn’t always the truth. “What are their motives?”
The young detective shook his head while glancing around. Something was on his mind. “Who knows why computer hackers do what they do? Money? To bring down the mad scientists bent on creating viruses to end our way of life?”
Coming from Gladstone, that sounded extreme. Bio-extremists had the ways and the means to pull it off. “What else you got?”
“I went over to Merced. I talked to the missing person who turned up there. His name is Louis Tomko.”
Gladstone pulled out his notepad, a gift from Halliday.
“Tomko’s a drifter, originally from the Bay Area. No criminal record. DMV says his license expired ten years ago. He’s sixty-two years old. At one time he worked as an architect with a firm in downtown San Fran. I checked it out. Tomko’s name was on the list of the architects of the Moscone Center.”
Gladstone shook his head again. “What happens to them, Halliday?”
Although he didn’t have the answer, he gave it his best shot. “I think they’re getting caught up in a perfect storm. California is broke, our federal government is dysfunctional, hope is at an all-time low, half the population is addicted to food stamps, crime is up, and immigration is a joke. The weather has been wreaking havoc in all parts of the country. Did I miss anything? The drought?”
Gladstone flinched at his forthrightness. “Louis Tomko likes to talk.”
“Before you continue, tell me something. Based on your observations, do you believe Louis Tomko is mentally unbalanced?”
Gladstone’s face flooded with indecision. “It’s hard to tell. The way he told his story made sense. The story is a chapter right out of ‘Absence of Reality.’ You know what I mean?”
“Yeah, go ahead.”
“Tomko said he got abducted off the street in Merced. Said he saw a flash of light, felt a needle in his back, and lost consciousness. Never saw the face of the perp. I followed up his allegation with the social worker at the Merced shelter. She said Tomko had checked in at the shelter earlier that night. Vagrants never leave the shelter after they’re assigned a bed and receive a voucher for a hot meal. She insists Tomko was a victim of foul play.”
“What evidence does she have?”
“She pointed out a witness, another vagrant, but nobody can find him. The witness alleges he saw a white pickup truck drive off after picking up Tomko.”
Genevive security used white pickups. “Go on.”
“Tomko told me he woke up in an operating room right out of a sci-fi movie. Said he believed he was on an alien space ship. A robot took samples of his blood. Halliday, I’ve read accounts of people who have been abducted by aliens. This was a page out of the same book.”
Again, Gladstone surprised him.
“Tomko swore that the r
obot prepared him for surgery. Tomko believes the aliens halted the operation because of his rare blood. Next thing he knew he woke up in a corn field outside Merced.”
Halliday had to say it. “Alien’s don’t drive pickup trucks.”
Gladstone gave a sheepish grin. “I don’t know why Tomko would lie. He didn’t have much to gain. Seemed like an Honest Abe to me.”
“Anything else?”
Gladstone squinted. “It’s odd. These vagrants must have come out of nowhere or dropped out of society decades ago.”
Halliday typed several commands on the laptop keyboard. After a few seconds he logged into the National Crime Index Computer. “How do you spell his name?”
“Last name: T-O-M-K-O, First name: L-O-U-I-S.”
Halliday typed in the name. The NCIC came up empty.
“There’s no record on Tomko or any of the others,” Gladstone said, wearing a frustrated look. “No marriages. No current DMV licenses. It’s as if they are anonymous.”
Gladstone’s investigative techniques were starting to come around.
The kid shook his head and said, “You know what? This whole thing keeps pointing back to ‘serial killer.’”
“The fact that persons are missing doesn’t tell us anything. It’s not until we find two or more vagrants that show up in the morgue who connect with common threads. Then we start thinking serial killer. Let’s stick to missing persons, not alien abductions or serial killers.”
Experience told Gladstone to listen hard when the coach spoke. He thumbed through his note pad. “The MPs are all male Caucasians except for one black. They are homeless. They all have O-positive blood type, except Tomko. Ages range fifty-five to sixty-eight.”
Bibby said Festus’s dog may have been killed by coyotes. The vagrant in Fresno had been mutilated. Maybe that was going to be Tomko’s fate until something happened. Wrong blood type? He couldn’t imagine a legit outfit like Genevive Labs involved in such horror.
“Well, Halliday?”
On the other hand, transients were perfect targets. “At this point I’m not ruling out anyone or anything. Let’s keep our investigation between us for now.”
Transparency: Bio-Tech Cavern Secrets Untold Page 8
