Rep. Frost: What are you using on the second shot, a five?
Diaz: Six-iron.
Rep. Frost: Smart thinking.
Diaz: Thanks. But I knew if I wanted to nail this baby, I needed to keep my inner gyroscope level, so I’d stopped for some refreshment and a strategy session with my caddie. Nice local girl. When all of a sudden this state trooper came humping across the sandpit in his aviators.
I was still with TTIC, doing lab work. Nothing so sensitive I needed to be on call 24-7, so I never carried a pager. But in my line of work you prepare for the worst – there’s always the danger you’ll get interrupted in the middle of a hole. So I thought, Heck, I guess it’s back to work.
Well, this wasn’t official business.
Me and the caddie, we were comparing tans when the cop walked up. Cop said: “You Agent Diaz?” I set down my Cuba Libre on the rear of the cart and showed him my badge. The caddie perked up like she’d never seen a federal badge before.
“I got some troubling news,” he said. Big redneck.
“Look, Officer – I get two weeks a year – ”
Says: “Your wife’s name Janet Diaz, sir?”
It was like time stopped. I didn’t nod. I didn’t have to.
Janet was an Ohio girl with limited experience of the ocean. She didn’t know the first thing about undertow. Apparently she went out for her morning swim and got out too far, and well – when the riptide comes, you can’t fight it. Marines down at Parris Island get sucked out to sea all the time. Big strapping boys all pumped up for Basra, but in that riptide they go down like marshmallow Peeps in a FryDaddy.
Speaking of golf courses, there’s another serious gap in our defenses. You could put anthrax in the sandpits. You could spike the sprinkler system with DDT, inflict a heck of a lot of havoc. Somebody should look into that.
But Janet, she was my whole life. My everything. My princess. Her loss was a hurtle, Congressman, I’m telling you. I’m still not completely healed, and we’re coming up on two years now.
Rep. Frost: I’m truly sorry for your loss, son. But I bring this up because in your HR file at the Department it states that after the death of Janet Diaz, that’s when you put in for the transfer to WATERT. Am I correct? Did you not also seek psychiatric treatment at that time?
Diaz: It was recommended that I see a grief counselor for at least a month and a half. That’s Department protocol. I don’t place much stock in headshrinking, but I played ball, did my six weeks on the couch. Took some R & R. And when I was all better, they rubber-stamped my transfer to WATERT. Best thing that ever happened to me. Going out to eyeball some actual hard targets, getting your boots dirty – for an agent that’s what you call therapy. The open road helped me clear my head and get beyond Janet’s, you know, passing. But to answer your question, her death did turn me against the forces that are out to jeopardize our water. No question I was on a mission.
Rep. Frost: But your wife’s death was ruled accidental. Are you saying this was a criminal act? Are you linking the drowning to some kind of terrorism?
Diaz: I’m not linking anything to anything. All I’m saying is, What is it going to take? Would you prefer to wait until – all due respect, Congressman – but would you want to wait until somebody plants a pipe bomb on a waterslide? All those kids blown up during their funnest hour. Then will you wake up and do something to protect the inalienable right of every American to recreate in our public waters without the imminent threat of attack?
Rep. Frost: I think I speak for the whole subcommittee when I say nobody desires a pipe bomb or any explosive on or near a waterslide. But I can see this is a convenient time for us to address another sensitive topic: the Psychological Fitness Report authored by the DHS forensic psychologist, Dr. Ronald Schacht, in September 2005, not long before your transfer to WATERT and not long after your wife’s passing.
I’m reading aloud here, and I hope you’ll bear with me because I’m sure you’ve read this a dozen times before.
“In the opinion of the psych board all Agent Diaz’s pending assignments or transfers should be closely vetted. On mental status examination including cognitive assessment he performs less than optimally. From our first session (09⁄09⁄05) subject displayed heightened anxiety and spoke of periods of depression. In subsequent interviews (09⁄15⁄05; 09⁄19⁄05) the object of these anxieties had grown more particular. Unprompted, subject stated ambivalent feelings toward large bodies of water. He spoke of enjoying water sports but had compulsive worries about water safety (relating no doubt to the manner of his wife’s death). On one occasion, when presented with a glass of ordinary tap water, subject became irritable, addressing the water with abusive language as if it were an adversary. Subject complained of ‘foreign elements’ in the water and began to make nonsense sounds until the glass was removed.”
I could keep reading if you want, but the gist of it is that after this assessment was filed, your transfer to WATERT was downgraded from a management spot to what Dick Dodd refers to in his testimony as ‘pool patrol’.
Diaz: I don’t know what you want me to say. I’ve read that report. Who hasn’t? Everyone inside the Department knows they were doing a mental on me. All I can tell you is, What is it going to take? Do you want a dose of polonium – do you want a teaspoon of polonium 210 in your Jacuzzi, Congressman? You do have a Jacuzzi bath, don’t you, Congressman? I mean, is that what it’s going to take? Huh? Would that be a loud enough wake-up call for you?
Rep. Frost: [coughs] After Denver your next destination was the town of Piston Ridge, Colorado, where the second incident took place. My understanding is this isn’t much more than a little ghost town way up in the Rockies. Kind of an out-of-the-way place for Homeland, didn’t you think?
Diaz: Congressman, I never question the asset list. You have to understand I’m just ticking off the sites, doing my job. Piston Ridge might be just a wide spot in a narrow road, but right up the mountain is the oldest water park in the Rockies, which as you know is called [Censored]. I suppose DHS deemed this a valuable enough asset to warrant our scrutiny. You want to talk symbolism, this place is one fat juicy slice of Americana. Those Muslim fascists would cream in their dishdashas if they could explode an antitank mine inside their dining facility. Can’t you just see it on Al Jazeera now: girls in bikinis all covered in blood and soot, and then cut to kids dancing in the streets of Kabul. To me that’s a disturbing image.
Rep. Frost: We’ve all seen this water park on the news. But I’m wondering if you could paint us a picture of your impressions, in your own words.
Diaz: Okay. Piston Ridge is up past Breckenridge, with all the ski resorts. You get off the interstate and take this two-lane that winds all over the mountains. It’s like Tora Bora out there. Caves and hollows and arroyos and such. I mean, they could be hiding anywhere.
You get off the paved road and finally there’s this little green sign, THIS WAY TO [Censored]. Then you follow this logging road maybe four miles up until you come to a hairpin turn. On the left is a video store and an auto parts shop; on the right it’s like the whole Rocky Mountains spread out below you. It’s majestic, but scary too. All those hidey-holes.
At the auto parts shop I hung a left, which is to say uphill. And just when I thought I’d run out of mountain I saw the Prospector, who is this old statue guy about twenty-five feet tall holding a pan filled with gold nuggets that spell out [Censored].
There’s a little two-story motel. They set me up in a corner suite on the top floor with a California king and no TV. I get up to my room, and let me tell you I am beat. But I can’t sleep. It’s Rath. I close my eyes and all I see is that creepy forehead in the dome light. So I get out of bed and open the curtains.
Ifs early in the morning, I judge it to be about 6:30 or something. The sun must be coming up, but that’s all happening behind the mountain. Only a little bit of orange is creeping in through the tree line, just enough light for me to survey the grounds. [Censored] isn’t much
to look at relative to today’s water parks, but it’s got the basics.
There’s one big creek that cuts right down the middle. And off of that shoot all these – what’s the opposite of a tributary? – well, little streams that fill up the different rides. One feeds into this pond that’s got wooden ducks for kids to cruise around in. It’s called the Duck Pond or something. At that hour all the ducks are corralled together in one corner under a tarp. But there’s one and his head is sticking out. I can see that big blue duck eye staring at me through the window. I know rationally that it’s just paint and plywood, but it seems to me at that moment like a harbinger. I believe in that sort of thing, Congressman. I think that duck was giving me a warning.
Next to the Duck Pond is what they call the Water Wheel. Which is exactly what it sounds like, except it’s more like a Ferris wheel that dips into the water at the bottom. Just above the Water Wheel you get to Flatiron Falls. There’s a big sign that says: DANGER! FLATIRON FALLS! 200 FEET! or some nonsense. But in reality it’s more like fifteen feet, max. Maybe twenty yards above that you get to the Oaken Bucket, but I guess I don’t have to describe that to you.
Rep. Frost: Yes. I’d say everyone with CNN is familiar with the Oaken Bucket by now. But just for the record, I wish you’d describe it for the subcommittee.
Diaz: Basically it’s a big bucket with an oak veneer, maybe eight foot in diameter, five foot high, with seating inside for four. Not really roomy enough, in my opinion. It’s mounted on these rails but they’re under the water so the illusion is you’re hurtling down a white-water creek in a crazy, out-of-control bucket. The good part comes when you get to the edge of Flatiron Falls. The bucket leans out maybe fifteen, twenty degrees, and then rights itself just in the nick of time.
After that you go through this mine shaft and when you come out it’s like wham, you land in this big pool.
But of course none of this is happening when I get there. The place is dead quiet. I look all around and there’s just one Indian guy with a push broom out on the patio. Or maybe he was Pakistani.
Rep. Frost: Again, we’re told that you made the acquaintance of the victims shortly prior to the incident. Tell me, Agent Diaz, exactly how well did you come to know Brenda Mills, Jenny Mills, and Keesha Stephens, and what were the circumstances?
Diaz: Well, Congressman, it sounds like you knew those girls better than I did. We were strictly on a first-name basis. I feel like it’s part of my cover to blend in with the guests. We’re directed to do so, in fact. You see, I was utilizing tradecraft, or clandestine methodologies, to gather a lot of this vulnerability data, while still trying to, in a sense, fade into the fabric of pedestrian life. The lay public, and even our elected officials for that matter, are often stymied by this, but it’s the nature of clandestine work that it’s not going to be transparent, unless by transparent you mean invisible.
In other words, yes, we interacted on a social basis the night before the incident. Brenda and Keesha were roommates from, I think, Colorado State, and Jenny was Brenda’s little sister. They were just out there to blow off a little steam before classes started. So I helped them in that regard, in the steam part.
But let’s be clear. I mourn these girls’ deaths along with the rest of America, but the bottom line is, if that incident hadn’t transpired on the Oaken Bucket, you and I wouldn’t be sitting here today having this conversation. Loss of American life is always an unfortunate outcome, but we’ve also got to acknowledge the positives. We’ve finally got a public dialogue going about water terrorism. And any way you julienne it, that’s constructive.
Rep. Frost: Of course you know those girls didn’t actually die. Nobody died.
Diaz: Yes. I know that.
ELEVEN
I have word from Jean. Not direct word. Indirect word. Which might as well be no word at all.
Two days ago Uncle Keith was nice enough to send over a cell phone for my personal use. So what if my conversations are being monitored? The Fat Man, my attorney, told me as much. But I don’t care. It’s mid-March; I’ve been floating here in this leisure gulag for a month and a half with no line to the outside world. I haven’t spoken to or heard from my wife for nearly seven months, and I have grave concerns for her emotional safety. And her personal well-being. Surely there must be death threats, or worse. So I’ve been placing calls – probably too many calls – to Jean’s co-workers.
Last night I was scrolling through the telephonic directory of extensions at my wife’s work when someone actually picked up.
Josh has always been frank with me, maybe more than I deserved, so when he answered the phone I was filled with as much dread as excitement.
“She doesn’t like you anymore,” he said, probing to the core of the issue before I could even pose the question properly. “Mainly because you won’t shut up about the Little Mermaid. And also because you’re a terrorist.”
“Where is she, Josh? I’m worried.”
“Jesus, man, I shouldn’t even be having this conversation. Probably being taped.”
“I’m worried about her, Josh.”
“Look, if you’re going to worry, dude, worry about yourself. Worry about what you’re doing for the rest of your life, what-ever’s left of it. That’s what Jean’s worrying about.”
“She’s worried about me?”
“No. Her life. Her life.”
“Sure, Josh – but where is she? With that cabinetmaker?”
“Who? Look, she’s staying with friends. Somebody who’ll take care of her. That’s all I’m allowed to say. But she wants you to stop calling the office, and if she has to get a restraining order – Hey, Curtis – Yeah, I’ll be off soon as I wrap it up with Unabomber Junior.”
The pressure to hang up was intense. It made the receiver feel heavy against my cheek, like some superdense galactic matter. But I wouldn’t give up that easy. I needed more. After a few seconds Josh said:
“So, Jim. What are you going to do, call here fifteen times a day, or let Jean move on? Haven’t you done enough damage?”
“It hasn’t been fifteen times. I keep phone records, you know!”
“Sure you do. Look, man, I gotta run. Just grab the elevator, Curt – I’ll meet you there in a sec. Do yourself a favor, Jim, and take my advice.”
I was ready for it, open to it: the advice. I wanted to hear it. Then, mysteriously, the line went dead. When I speed-dialed Josh again seconds later, I got the voice mail.
Then the call-waiting beeped. The noise went straight through my bloodstream like a charged wire. I clicked over too quickly, without looking at the caller ID. For the first four syllables I thought it was Jean herself. It wasn’t; not even close.
My mother was saying this wasn’t her baby. Her Jim would never do this. But if I did do something I regretted, if I was angry about something, I should tell her. She knew things hadn’t been easy with Jean. She blamed herself for neglecting my emotional growth. Tell her the truth, she said: Were they torturing me?
Something was off with her timbre. Her voice was tinny, like a microprocessor pretending to care. Like the wake-up service in the hotel. She was asking suspicious questions. Every awkward pause was filled with an electronic hum. Was this my real mother, or some advanced government simulacrum? Either way she didn’t even say hi.
I refused to respond, except to grunt as a way of marking the desired end point of each of her trailing reluctant momlike sentences. When she’d run out of questions to ask, she said she loved me. And that’s when I knew it was her. Those are words no synthetic voice clone can ever mimic. I love you, baby.
“All mammals have tear glands, whether they weep or not.”
This piece of zoological wisdom we learn from Elaine Morgan, author of The Aquatic Ape among other titles. But out of all the land mammals only elephants and humans cry actual tears motivated by anguish. I guess we’ve both got our reasons to cry, elephants and us. My mother, for her part, was an exemplary bawler. She wept when she drank rosé, she
wept on holidays, and she cried her eyes out watching TV ads for suicide hotlines.
After my talk with Josh, I sat on the deck trying to weep. But nothing came out, even though I worked at it for close to an hour, exerting so much internal force on my tear ducts that I gave myself a headache. I’ve been assured by my lawyer that a serious cry would expel Jean from my system; without the purgative sob I’m doomed to retain the impression of her memory under the surface of my face forever. But nothing came out, so I closed my eyes on the bay and returned to the Colorado interstate of memory, where I was still tailing the Nautikon into the Rocky Mountains.
I drove through the early-morning darkness, uncertain but resolute. Interstate 70 climbed steadily into the mountains. I was light-headed, whacked-out, and still a little buzzed from the three beers in Denver, but turning back now was not an option. There was nothing to go back to. My life was onward and upward, his taillights three car lengths ahead, luring me to some soft destiny.
Just west of Denver I saw the Mother Cabrini Shrine in the distance, its big white Christ glowing like a night-light on top of one of the hills. If you married a Roman Catholic like I did, you’d know that Saint Frances Xavier Cabrini is the patron saint of immigrants. I felt her guiding presence. She blessed the Nautikon with safe passage. So much for blessings.
Next came the brown historical marker for Buffalo Bill’s Grave. I cracked my driver’s-side window and took a deep breath.
You could actually smell the herd of buffalo, all warm and loafy in the distance. It wasn’t long before I could see the white frosted hackles of the Front Range directly ahead. The moonlight collapsed the distance to make it seem like the mountains were sitting right there on the end of my hood.
2009 - The Unknown Knowns Page 13
