Indisputable Proof

by Gary Williams

  “It’s difficult to ask the President of the United States to change her stance without a valid and urgent reason.”

  “I can’t wrap my mind around it yet, but we’re missing something. Ask her to do it for me. I will take full responsibility.”

  For a moment, the line went quiet. “I’ll see what I can do,” Vakind finally replied.

  “Thanks, I’ll be in touch.”

  As Tolen hung up, he turned to Reba Zee. “Reba, after we’re asleep tonight, sweep the interior of the plane, please. I want to know if we have any electronic passengers.”

  “Aye aye, captain.”

  CHAPTER 27

  September 12. Wednesday – 10:20 a.m. Roanoke, Virginia

  Tiffany Bar arrived at Herking Medical Laboratory by taxi after landing at Roanoke Regional Airport. The morning air was cool; the temperature threatening to usher in autumn ahead of schedule. The scent of a nearby sugar maple tree drifted to her. Traffic was steady, but pedestrians were few.

  The free-standing building on Rorer Avenue was considerably smaller than she anticipated. The light-colored brick facade was set off by dark-blue awnings over two windows in the front. She approached the flat structure, attempting to peer through the heavily tinted front glass doors with no luck.

  Bar proceeded inside carrying a folder and her purse. She was met by a young, attractive blond male receptionist. Actually, he was too perfect: perfect clothes, teeth, fingernails, and eyebrows. He offered a contrived smile as she approached the front desk. No one else was in sight.

  “Ah, yes, you must be Emily Carson here for the paternity test. Please be seated. A technician will be with you shortly.”

  Bar reached into her purse. She stared hard at the man, flipping a long blonde strand of bang behind one ear, as she held out her credentials for him to read. “Analyst Tiffany Bar, Central Intelligence Agency, here to see Dr. Felix Willside.”

  “Oh…oh,” he stammered. “I’m so sorry, Ms. Bar. Please, come with me. I’m Kyle Jenkins. Dr. Willside is expecting you.”

  He led her through a door and into a stark, white hallway where their shoes clicked across the linoleum. She was greeted by a septic smell mixed with the aroma of floor wax. They passed a closed door, then a second, before arriving at an open office. The nameplate on the outer wall read, Dr. Felix D. Willside.

  “Ms. Bar is here to see you,” Jenkins announced.

  A large man with short gray hair and wire-rimmed glasses looked up from a PC screen where he sat at a small desk in a tight office. He had a broad face with eyes set too close together. He also had the biggest ears Bar had ever seen; bent over and aimed at her like two satellite dishes.

  He stood, towering above her. She took his proffered, meaty hand and shook it. “I’m Dr. Willside. I’m the head of the laboratory,” he said in a meek voice which seemed incongruent with his hulking frame.

  “Pleasure,” Bar replied, craning up at the man.

  “Shall we?” he motioned with his hand. “I’ll show you Aaron Conin’s workspace. It’s really a shame to lose a man so young, and in such a vile fashion.” His voice was so soft, Bar strained to hear him over the white noise being piped into the building.

  He lumbered forward, and Bar fell in step behind him as he turned right down the hallway. His lengthy gait propelled him quickly to the end of the corridor where a doorway led to a large room. Bar had to double-step to keep up. They entered the laboratory where a woman was huddled over a microscope. There were work counters running the entire perimeter of the room and another vast island counter with an assortment of data screens, CBC tube rockers, culture stations, and other instruments gobbling up the counter space.

  “This is Mira Nichols. She worked with Mr. Conin on blood and genetic testing.”

  Mira looked up from the microscope with a faint scowl as if bothered by the intrusion. Seeing her boss, she quickly feigned a smile. The African-American woman was in her mid-thirties, pudgy, with long, wiry hair tied in a dark bun. She lacked any makeup.

  Mira walked over to them and extended her hand to Bar.

  “I’m Tiffany Bar,” she said, shaking the woman’s hand.

  “Mira, Ms. Bar is an analyst with the CIA,” Willside said. “They’re looking into Aaron’s death.”

  Mira’s eyes turned inquisitive. “I thought it was a mugging? Why would the CIA be involved?”

  “Yes, it was a mugging,” Bar responded, “but Mr. Conin may have been in contact with someone else we’re looking for, which gives the case international implications.”

  “Mira, please show Ms. Bar where Aaron worked and the PC he used. I’ll be in my office if you have any questions for me.” Willside turned back to Bar with a courteous nod. He pivoted smartly and headed toward the hallway.

  “Dr. Willside, before you go…” Bar withdrew a sheet of paper from the folder in her hand, examined it, and handed it to Dr. Willside. “Please check the names on this list. I need to know if any of these people have ever conducted business here, either as a vendor or client.”

  “Certainly,” the large man said mildly. “I won’t have this information by the time you leave, though. It may take a few hours.”

  Bar handed the man her card. “Please call me as soon as you’ve had a chance to vet the list.”

  Dr. Willside nodded his understanding, turned, and disappeared up the hallway carrying the paper and Bar’s card.

  Bar spun back to Mira Nichols. “If I may ask you just a few general questions,” she began. “How long did you know Aaron Conin?”

  Mira rubbed the side of her neck as if working out some stiffness. “Years. Almost four, I think. Conin was a loner and wasn’t close to me or anyone else here at Herking. I suspect he’d gotten bored with his job. Not to talk bad about the man, but he had a very lax attitude in the months leading up to his death.”

  Bar tilted her head slightly. She sensed some form of animosity. “So in your opinion, Mr. Conin wasn’t a good employee?”

  “I’m not his boss. It’s not my place to comment about his job performance.”

  Strange, I thought you just did, Bar thought.

  Mira continued slowly, as if she wanted to give an appearance of reluctance. “I do believe he may not have always had the company’s best interest at heart.”

  “How so?”

  “Let’s just say the man’s morals might have been skewed. I can’t prove it, but to me, it seemed there were times he was performing work which had nothing to do with samples coming in through the official process,” Mira’s tone had turned conspiratorial.

  “You’re suggesting that he ran unauthorized lab tests on the side?”

  “I think Aaron knew people who paid well for test results. That’s all I’m saying. Again, I have no proof, but he was very protective of certain test data. What I can say for sure is that there are more saved documents on his PC than are entered in the LIS.”

  Bar was familiar with LIS, or Lab Information System. It was a type of software which tracked and stored information generated by medical laboratory processes by interfacing with instruments and equipment associated with workflows. “I thought LIS prevented unauthorized tests by auditing the equipment to ensure records matched the number of processes run?”

  Mira chuckled with a smirk. “In theory, that’s the intent. It’s a highly configurable program. As technicians, we learn ways around it.”

  Tiffany noticed a tray of bar-coded plastic bags to the side, each containing a form and one or more Vacutainer tubes of blood. “You primarily analyze blood samples in this lab, correct?”

  “That’s right, but we also extract DNA from hair, fingernails, saliva, and bone; just about anything organic from the human body.”

  “Where is his PC?”

  “It’s in the corner. We don’t have dedi
cated workstations and PCs, but Aaron tended to gravitate to that one, so it was informally known as his.” She led Bar toward the corner. To the side, Bar saw a centrifuge, a faucet perched over a deep sink, and an automated analyzer. Mira stopped at an isolated workstation with a PC. There was a thin lap drawer beneath it, partially open.

  “I’ll have to confiscate this PC.”

  Mira shrugged. “You’ll have to discuss that with Dr. Willside.”

  Bar looked at the PC and the rest of the scant surface of the desktop. None of the usual types of personalization could be found in the work area: pictures, written quotes, mementos. “Has this area been…cleaned…since Conin’s death?”

  “No one’s touched it.” Mira paused. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I have a boatload of work. We have yet to replace Conin, and I’ve been pulling twelve-hour days. Can I escort you back to Dr. Willside’s office?”

  “No bother. Please, resume what you were doing. I want to look through the lap drawer.”

  Mira’s expression was a cross between confusion and downright ridicule. “I looked in that drawer the other day searching for a report. You’re not going to find anything of interest there.” Mira turned and walked back to the inbox tray.

  Bar swallowed, quelling her annoyance with the woman. She took a seat on the desk chair and slowly opened the lap drawer. She found a few objects inside: two pens, one pencil, a ruler, a bottle of hand sanitizer, a small tissue packet, and a notebook pad that appeared unused.

  Bar picked up the pad of paper and thumbed through the pages. Her first assumption had been accurate. It was unused. She withdrew the small packet of tissues, examined it, and returned it to the drawer. She looked at the clear liquid inside the small bottle of hand sanitizer. There was nothing unusual here, but then again, she had no idea what she was looking for. The mere fact Tolen had asked her to come here implied he thought it might be beneficial, and Tolen was seldom wrong.

  Reaching her hand inside the drawer, Bar felt around the underside of the desk. She retracted her hand, closed the drawer, and stood from the chair. Out of the corner of her eye, she was aware of Mira Nichols watching her.

  Bar slid the chair aside and squatted before the desk. She examined the underside of the drawer and saw nothing out of the ordinary. Then she slid her hand to the back where the metal curved upward and out of sight. She started on the left side and felt her way blindly along the cold surface to the right.

  Suddenly, she touched a small, cool cylindrical object. It was restrained by some sort of tape. Bar quickly rolled to the ground, crooking her neck to see what it was. In the dark underside of the drawer, she saw a piece of duct tape holding a vial. She gently pried the duct tape loose and pulled the vial away. It appeared empty.

  When she rose, Mira was standing over her.

  “Did you...find something?”

  Bar startled, but she did not respond. She scrutinized the vial closely now in the light. It still appeared empty.

  Then she saw it—saw them— resting at the bottom of the tube.

  CHAPTER 28

  September 12. Wednesday – 6:42 p.m. Keene, California

  Forty-two-year-old Nelson Whitacre arrived at the condemned church and drove around to the rear, parking on the dilapidated, cracked pavement in a line of cars, trucks, and SUVs. He stepped from his SUV, turned to face the cross at the apex of the building and said a quick prayer.

  The air outside was comfortable. As usual for this time of year in the valley, there was almost no humidity, but the mosquitoes from the nearby woods were out in force. He slapped at his face, squashing one of the pesky insects into his cheek, then wiped the blood away.

  Whitacre turned and headed toward the fellowship hall: a large, white standalone building behind the parking lot. Paint was peeling off the clapboard structure, and the rain gutter on the side had broken free and fallen to the ground. Behind, the Tehachapi Mountain range loomed in the distance.

  He knew the others were waiting for him inside. His time for salvation had come. His wife’s recent death had been the final straw.

  It had only been a year ago when he and Shelly had joined the Flagellants. Members of the group had approached them where they attended church at Mount Sinai Baptist in Los Angeles. Somehow, they knew of the couple’s frustration and disillusionment with organized religion, and, ultimately, he and Shelly had converted. America had become a godless country, and they welcomed the opportunity to support a Christian group that was willing to take action in order to keep humanity in God’s good graces. With the changing times and advancing technological forms of communication such as the Internet, smart phones, and social networks, humans had lost touch with God. This was true everywhere, but it was especially so in the United States of America where the country had fallen into an irreparable state of disrespect to the Power to which they owed everything. Prayer had been banned from schools long ago, and atheism was running rampant. The separation of church and state was not only atrocious, it was heretical. Their former church had preached passive tolerance, and it had outraged the Whitacres. Those people sought to forgive the sins of others, but the Whitacres knew the truth. There are times when godly vengeance is not an option, but a heavenly obligation. No change comes about without sacrificial action.

  After Shelly’s death from pneumonia, Whitacre had questioned God’s decision to take his wife, but the Flagellants were there to explain. Now he realized his path had been set in stone. He understood the natural order of things with renewed clarity. God had imposed His will. As a righteous man, he would never question the Higher Power again.

  Whitacre rapped on the locked door, and it opened moments later. The Italian, whose name he still did not know, wordlessly escorted him in. The man was tall and lanky, standing easily at 6’9” with a high forehead and pale skin. He was clad in a dark suit and tie. Whitacre thought of him as a pensive undertaker who was leading them to the Promised Land.

  A circle of chairs had been arranged in the middle of the large room. There were exactly twenty-one. He was the last to arrive and took the only empty seat beside Leon Smith, the 58-year-old retired fireman. Smith had also lost his wife six years ago to leukemia. He was suffering from arthritis, which caused the ex-fireman to hunch over, even as he sat in his seat.

  Whitacre briefly looked at the others seated in the room. They came from different backgrounds and nationalities, yet they had been brought together by one common purpose: they were 21 who would change America.

  The dark-haired Italian moved into the center of the circle. The room remained absolutely quiet as he slowly spun, eyeing each of them with a thoughtful nod. Then he spoke with a commanding voice. “For too long, mankind has been perverted by scientists, philosophers, physicists, and the like. One does not need to undertake a quest to know the truth. The Bible is the key. The misguided people of today have forgotten that every question is answered within its hallowed pages.”

  He paused and the room remained quiet. Forty-two eyes continued to be fixed on the Italian.

  “Governments kowtow to the atheists and agnostics, so quick to appease these dissenters. Why must they be allowed a voice? Why must governments entertain their rhetoric when they dismiss the Almighty’s word?

  “I’ll tell you why. Men of the devil have gained power. The American CIA is leading the charge. The venerable Sudarium, specifically mentioned in the Good Book, has been taken by this infernal organization.” The Italian’s eyes glazed, his forehead reddened, his voice rose in a crescendo. “The heathens must be taught a lesson! God’s gift to man, the physical shroud which touched our Holy Savior’s face, is in the hands of godless people! By His word, there will be punishment for this action!”

  His voice suddenly honeyed and his words came slower. “We are of one people. We are His people. We have been tasked with serving the Lord when all others would st
and by and do nothing against the tyranny of the devil’s apostles. The CIA has launched an attack on the truth: the one truth that is not to be questioned. We will not let this transgression against humanity go without retribution. As God smites the sinners, we too shall use His hand to bring about the change which is necessary!”

  The Italian looked around the circle studying each man’s and woman’s face. “You have come here voluntarily, each of your own accord. The Kingdom of Heaven awaits your arrival where you will pay eternal homage to the Lord, and by His grace, you will fulfill your duties here on earth. Remember, you are the 21 destined, the 21 blessed. The wrath of God will be felt to the far corners of the planet when you are done.”

  The Italian motioned for them to rise. In unison, the 21 people stood and bowed their heads. He spoke in a hallowed whisper. “Father, into your hands I commit my spirit.”

  “It is finished,” the 21 replied as one. Leon Smith’s voice boomed the loudest from Nelson Whitacre’s side.

  They raised their heads, opened their eyes.

  “We will reconvene back here at 6 p.m. tomorrow evening. Take care of your affairs, and celebrate your last hours on God’s earth. Know that your soul will soon be in heaven and your deeds in His name will live on for eternity. We will wait for confirmation, then strike with vengeance when the time comes. God bless you all.”

  Whitacre looked up and smiled. He could feel God’s power. It penetrated his very being. He felt more alive than he had in his entire life. The truth would be known.

  In the corner of the fellowship hall there was a closed door. Whitacre knew the contents within that room held his destiny. As the result of the Sudarium’s theft, death was about to reign down on American sinners. The spilled blood would be squarely on the hands of the CIA. Afterward, the American people would revolt. They would have no choice. Change was coming, and the government, which had become so politically correct, would once again embrace God. It was all there before them. Those who chose to side with the devil would no longer be in control. It would be a most glorious time.