Evil Like Me

by Steve Bradshaw

  “Our actions will be part of the historical record,” Baldwin said.

  “You decide if you are forever honored, or forever despised,” Petty said.

  Baldwin smiled. “The Rejdak Project is a good example. The best way to keep a secret is to put it out there. We leak information to unreliable sources. Do it all the time. The topic is discredited and not taken seriously by the main stream. Promoters are viewed as crackpots.”

  “I’m sure you’re very proud of that. Have you ever considered the honesty route?”

  “All governments have secrets, Dr. Petty. It is impossible to keep them when so many people are involved. Well managed leaks put things into the black hole of crazy speculation.”

  “Like UFOs, Bigfoot, time travel, and antigravity?”

  “No comment on fringe science and cryptozoology. I can tell you this, levitation is our newest leak. Take that for what it’s worth.”

  You were dying to tell me something, to show off. But why levitation? Does it have some relevance here? How would the revelation further his veiled agenda? Petty pondered.

  “Psychic-weaponry research was not a secret in the ’70s. However, it did go underground fast. The CIA declassified it in ’95. I’m afraid many people are not buying the current charade. Remote viewing and telekinesis are not going away soon, Mr. Baldwin.”

  “You think the search for this truth can outlast the determination of a government?”

  “I’d like to believe truth prevails and time is but one variable.”

  “The concept of remote viewing resides in the diatribe of the parapsychology cults. There it will die under the weight of the skeptics and scientific community.”

  “If amygdala lesions are telepathically induced, it will get out there one day.”

  “You think so?” Baldwin sighed.

  “Medical examiners around the country will not sit on it,” Petty said. It was time to throw a curve ball. “Tell me why were Green and Blanchard killed, and where is Dr. Swenson?”

  “Dr. Swenson is in a safe place. Dr. Green and Dr. Blanchard were Russian spies. We’ve been following them for years. They obtained sensitive information.”

  “Were they terminated by our government?”

  “No comment.”

  “Do the Russians possess psychic-weaponry?” She asked. “Are we playing catch up?”

  “Again, I have no comment,” Baldwin said without hesitation as he brushed his sleeve.

  “Do you know a man by the name of Randle Johnson?” Petty asked.

  After a few seconds of thought he said, “I know Bradley Johnson. I assume Randle would be a son.”

  “We found Bradley’s son with a knife in his back on Main Street in Memphis. He had amygdala lesions. Someone wanted us to think he was Donald Deckle. I just did an autopsy on Roger Tinsley. He too had massive, amygdala lesions.”

  Baldwin winced. “Tinsley is dead?”

  “He’s there with William Hayes. They were found dead together. Amygdala lesions.”

  “I don’t know Hayes. We have been looking for Tinsley for years.”

  “Who are these people, and why are they being killed?”

  “I cannot answer those questions,” Baldwin said looking down at his hands.

  “Do you believe Hunter Keller is the one doing all this?” Petty asked.

  “I will tell you this. Hunter Keller is extremely dangerous. He is a person of interest to the United States Government. If you know of his whereabouts, I urge you to tell me.”

  “And if you’re wrong about Hunter Keller?” she pushed.

  “I’m not wrong about this man. If you’re not careful, Dr. Petty, an encounter with Hunter Keller could very well be the last thing you do in this world.”

  Twenty-Two

  “A hero is a man who is afraid to run away.”

  Proverb

  *

  Memphis, Tennessee

  *

  The nails started at his neck and moved down his spine digging into his skin. His face was pressed into his pillow—he was having the perfect dream. They spread at his waist and slid under his boxers. He opened his eyes, the perfume familiar. And he knew when the cutting tips would turn into soft, exploring fingers. “I died and am in Abby heaven,” he said.

  “You’re sweet, Tee.” She kissed the back of his neck and reached deeper into his boxers. He slid his hand up her thigh. He felt her smile move to his ear. A rush of air escaped her soft lips. “You must be drunk.”

  Tony rolled over and pulled her close. They kissed hard. “I was sleeping.” They kissed again. “I’ve missed you. Take off your clothes and get in here with me.”

  “I would, but I see an empty scotch bottle. You’re impotent, love. Are you medicated?”

  Abby reached over and turned on the lamp. She examined him. “I don’t see bruises or cuts or bandages. Wait a damn minute.” She got to his arms. “I see you’ve been taking drugs or had an IV. Talk to me, Tee.”

  “It can wait. The important thing is I’m not taking drugs.” He laughed until she held his head and leaned into his face. He looked back and fell in love again with her big eyes, soft smile and inquisitive stare. He loved the way she looked when she was thinking.

  “You’ve had a head injury, damn it.” Abby was the only person on the planet who cussed more than Wilcox—one of her most endearing qualities. “But no bumps or scrapes. I got it; you passed out and they don’t know why. I’m right. It would explain the hospital and IV. You’re on something, honey. Talk to me. What happened?”

  “You’re the best PI in the world. Look, I’m not sick. None of it is as important as you being here right now. I swear that I will tell you everything—later. First, take care of your patient.”

  He watched her long legs slip out of her dress and kick off her panties. She fell out of her bra and sent it spinning to the top of the lamp. She slid under the sheets. Their legs tangled, locked, and bodies melded, tongues touched as they pulled closer, hands moved everywhere with a familiar, tender rage. Then Abby stopped. She rolled Tony onto his back and straddled him, her firm thighs outside his, her breasts resting on his chest, and her lips inches away.

  “I have things to tell you that cannot wait. Things so important I drove my pretty little ass all the way from Kentucky to Memphis.” She fluttered her eyelashes and pecked the tip of his nose. “I mean it, Tee.”

  He knew the look, but tried to keep it light. “Wait a minute. You mean to tell me Abby Patterson left a case to bring me information? I like you, but who are you and what have you done with the hot blond private investigator extraordinaire?”

  She squeezed his cheeks and kissed his puckered lips. “I just put another cheatin’ wife on hold. She’ll be there when I get back. I already got her and the boyfriend on HD. My client can wait another day.”

  Wilcox sat up. “Seriously, it’s not you.” He opened the drawer and passed a pint of scotch and searched for his Marlboros. “You got some bad information or you wouldn’t be here.”

  She broke the seal, took a shot and passed it back. “Some very bad shit, Tee. I’m worried for you. I know you’re good, baby, but this could get out of control fast.” He passed her a lit cigarette. “I thought you were in over your head with the last serial killer, but this is convoluted, creepy bad, government stuff.”

  Damn it, he fumed. I knew those Bethesda boys were up to their eyeballs getting people killed. They were gutted for a reason. He smiled at Abby. “Shine your light.”

  “I need my laptop.” She pulled it from her purse. “You gave me names of four dead guys. I did not expect to go far, but I ran into some odd shit and got blocked. You know how I hate people messing with me.”

  “Those bastards,” Tony joked. He looked around for his watch. “What time is it?”

  “A little after midnight,” she said as she swiped her finger sliding screens and pounded PI access codes. “You also know I hate cyber-dicks. They try to spoil my investigative process by throwing up walls. It just motiva
tes me more.”

  “I know darling.”

  “I decided to take a deep dive for you. I got interested. Wanted to find out what was really going on with these dead guys you were so damn sure were linked. You’re lucky it was a challenge.”

  “Thank you, baby.” They kissed and she returned to her computer.

  “It took a while. And I used some of my government sources—they owed me.” She swiped a few more screens dragging her finger and clicking her nail with each command. “Thomas Derby, William Hudson, Mark Pemberton, and Donald Deckle had parents who worked for the federal government in the ‘70s. It is the only thing connecting them. Paths did not cross in the usual ways: schools, sports, military, jobs, residences, or friends.”

  “Parents of my homicides worked for the government?” Could they all be connected to the Stargate Project? He thought.

  “I knew I was onto something because they tried to bury the info. I found a backdoor. There’s always a way in if your smart and patient. It’s significant the four killed are connected to something forty years ago.”

  Wilcox lit his cigarette. “What about the government connection?”

  “I got really pissed. I was doing my basic search, going in protected files where I always checkout my clients and subjects. When I entered Deckle’s name on a government site, someone started watchin’ me—cyber peek-a-boo. But I’ve got a program filter. It tells me when that shit’s happening.”

  “So they let you look but wanted to know who you were and what you were looking at?”

  “A bit more complicated, but close enough. I let them shadow me for a while. In minutes there was a car parked outside my condo; two sitting inside, lights out, smoke drifting from the tailpipe. The least they could have done is turn off the car—damn rookies.”

  “Your computer search got you a visit—from who?”

  She nodded. “I went out there. Good guys. I knew one. He’s not a very good PI—a retired cop.” Tony pushed her. “Not like you, Tee. We talked a while. I told them I was working on long shots, some cheaters. I said my search kept taking me to government lah-lah land, so I aborted. I played the dumb blonde. You guys eat it up every time.”

  “They left.”

  “Probably reported back—the dumb blonde got lost. I’ve been solo ever since. Never revisited the sites on my computer. Moved my searches to internet cafés. I got a new gadget—it scrambles my presence on websites. I can live on a website looking like cyber noise.”

  Wilcox got out of bed and went to the window. “You sure you weren’t followed here?” He checked his gun and turned off the lamp. “I don’t like surprises.”

  “You kidding me. Nobody follows me without me knowing it.”

  “Okay Cat Woman. Tell me what you found. I hate pregame.”

  “The parents of your four dead guys were part of a government research program funded by the CIA called Scanate, an acronym for scan by coordinate. Later it was called Stargate.”

  “A psychic intelligence gathering program?”

  “You have some info on this, too?”

  “Some, but keep going. We can compare notes later.”

  “In the ‘70s the feds got involved in psychotronic research—Stanford Research Institute, Menlo Park shit. A lot of money was spent. The program went underground.”

  “And what did they do in this secret program?” Wilcox asked with some knowledge but wanted to hear it from Patterson. She was the one source he believed without reservation.

  “They were called remote viewers. It was all about developing psychic-weapons. They were working with people with psychic skills. Their goal was to mentally infiltrate enemy meetings from great distances. Remember, it was the ’70s, the height of the Cold War. Everyone was paranoid. They built bomb shelters for God’s sake.”

  “I remember the stories. People were scared of Russian nukes.”

  “All governments were exploring the feasibility of psychic-weapons,” Abby said. “CIA killed the program in ’95. It was declassified.”

  “Parents of my homicides in a program forty years ago are dead. What am I missing?”

  “Shut up and listen.” Abby took Tony’s cigarette. “There were hundreds of so-called psychics responding to the government ads. Five years later there were only twenty-three remote viewers under contract. When it was shut down in ’95, remote viewers vanished.”

  “Did you get names?” Wilcox asked.

  “I have nineteen.”

  “I love you, Patterson.”

  “I know you do.” They downed a shot and kissed.

  “Something knocked me off my high heels, Tee.”

  “You cross-checked the names with the national data bases,” he said.

  “I connected the dots,” she said. “There’s a definite cover up. Their files are gone. The remote viewers I know about are dead.”

  “That can’t be a surprise. They’d be in their eighties today,” Wilcox said.

  “It was the way they died, Tee. And their direct descendants are dead too. All the deaths are traumatic and unwitnessed. In some cases, the bodies have never been found. Look here.” She turned the screen. “Thomas Derby’s father was a remote viewer in 1975. He died in 2010 in Boston, an unsolved homicide, stabbed in the back like two of your cases.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Don’t ask.” She pointed. “William Hudson’s mother was a remote viewer. She signed up in 1977 and died 2010 in New York City. She was an unwitnessed suicide with no history of depression and no note.

  “Mark Pemberton’s father was a remote viewer. He signed up in 1974 and died 2011 in a single car accident in the country. His car was a cinder in a field. They found him inside …

  “And Donald Deckle’s mother was a remote viewer. They say she committed suicide in 2012, but no one saw her jump off the Brooklyn Bridge.”

  Wilcox touched the screen and leaned in and read, “Bradley Johnson, his wife and daughter, died in a one car accident followed by a fire.”

  “Why’d you pick out Bradley Johnson?” Abby asked.

  “I know the Johnson family’s story. What I know ties in with everything you’re telling me now,” Wilcox said.

  “Tee, all these people are remote viewers or direct descendants. They are listed as accidents, suicides, homicides, or missing.”

  “Did you find autopsy records?” Wilcox asked.

  “I found a few. I thought it odd because they each commented on the eyes—they were bulging out of the sockets. The faces were grossly disfigured. I saw Wilber Willingham’s name on the list. That man was a U.S. Senator. He died in the basement of the Capital Building. He was one of the remote viewers. They said he had a heart attack. I don’t believe it.”

  “You’re good Patterson. Are Alma and Arnold Keller on your list?” Wilcox asked expecting an affirmative answer.

  “Yes.” She scrolled her notes—double homicide. They were killed in Stringtown, Oklahoma in 2009. This says they adopted Hunter.”

  “What if he was not adopted? What if Hunter Keller was their biological son?”

  “You mean maybe the Kellers knew one day someone would kill their child? Maybe they staged the adoption so he would be left alone.”

  “Or maybe they are protecting a psychic-monster from the world,” Wilcox muttered. “I think Hunter Keller could be the serial killer I’m hunting. Maybe he is killing remote viewers and their families for some twisted reasons.”

  “That would be a possibility,” Abby said.

  “I remember the other night,” Wilcox said under his breath. “My car was burning.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I remember the Sterick Building. I found Deckle. He was dying with a knife in his back. I saw Hunter Keller, Abby. He was there, leaning over Deckle when I came in the room. I caught him in the act.”

  “Are you positive he killed Deckle?”

  “I didn’t see him put in the knife. He ran. I went after him. It was dark. The skinny guy got throu
gh holes in the walls faster than a jackrabbit. He got away.”

  Abby rubbed his arm to bring him back. “Running says something, I guess.”

  “It was the second time I saw him. The first was at the bank on South Main. He was my eyewitness. Then I found him in pictures at all four homicides, just standing in the crowd.”

  “Now that is very weird,” Abby said.

  “But after the incident at the Sterick building …”

  “What happened, Tony?”

  “I remember my car on fire. I was blacking out.” Wilcox pushed his fingers into his temples. “I was pulled out of my car and dragged across a field. Cottam said my car exploded.”

  Headlights washed across the bedroom ceiling and down the wall. Abby slid her laptop onto the nightstand and wrapped her arms around Wilcox.

  “Hunter Keller was there, Abby. He was in the field.” Tony reached for his gun. His unlit cigarette hung from his lips as he looked at the window and the lights outside.

  “He tried to kill you, Tee?” Abby asked.

  “No. Hunter Keller pulled me out. He saved my life.”

  Twenty-Three

  “Fate is not an eagle, it creeps like a rat.”

  Elizabeth Bowen

  *

  Washington DC

  *

  It is time to do something about Dr. Petty and that Memphis homicide detective …

  The rain pounded Pennsylvania Avenue on a Friday night. Baldwin left the DOJ building through a back service entrance. Normally he was escorted from the building by secret service and driven to his condo in Alexandria. This night was different. The Attorney General could not to be disturbed. He would be working late—he sent his staff home. Baldwin would spend the night in the private quarters adjacent to his office. The rooms were converted into an efficiency apartment for just such occasions. But this night Alfred Baldwin had no intention of using the private quarters.

  He considered “stealth” one of his strengths. When he wanted to leave the DOJ building unseen, he used a certain stairwell at a certain time. He descended three flights, crossed an empty hallway, and departed through a certain service entrance into the garage. Only two pillars left enough room to squeeze his pudgy body through behind a line of hedges. On the other side an alley connected to a bustling sidewalk. A collar up, hat on, and one step into the crowd, he disappeared. Baldwin’s stealth route took shape after weeks of study years earlier. As the sitting attorney general, nobody questioned his odd request for total access to all DOJ surveillance cameras. If asked, he would cite personal security reasons—he never left anything to chance.