by Roger Johns
“Dr. Bell, two individuals showed up at the front gate, demanding to be admitted to the lab.”
“Why are you telling me this?” he asked. “Surely you remember we’re not a tourist attraction. And last time I checked, gate security was capable of informing uninvited guests that they’re on federal property and subject to arrest and detention if they fail to vacate the premises immediately.”
“Well, one’s from the DEA and the other one’s a detective from Baton Rouge. The DEA guy was waving around an order from somebody important, saying it’s okay for them to be here.”
“Have their credentials and this so-called order been authenticated?”
“Yes sir.”
“Really?” Kevin said. “Have they been allowed inside the gate?”
“They have.”
“And where are they now?”
“Right out here with me.”
“Why didn’t you tell me about this as soon as you knew about it?” he fumed.
“I’m doing that right now, Dr. Bell.”
“Have them wait,” he said icily, struggling to maintain his composure.
3:30 P.M.
“Detective Hartman, Mr. Cunningham, please come in,” Bell said, after forcing Wallace and Mason to wait nearly fifteen minutes.
Wallace took an instant dislike to Bell. His tone reeked of the artificial charm people used when hospitality was the furthest thing from their minds.
“Detective Hartman and I are pursuing different but possibly related cases,” Mason began, after everyone was introduced. “Our investigation has led us to your doorstep.”
“Given what you do for a living, Mr. Cunningham, would I be off base if I inferred that there’s a drug angle to your being here?” Kevin leaned against the front edge of his desk but didn’t offer Wallace or Mason a seat.
“You’re not off base,” Mason replied.
Wallace explained how the osmosis bags had focused their attention on Tunica.
“So, your theory of the case is that our agricultural research mission is just a thinly veiled cover for a federally funded cocaine plantation,” Kevin said, looking skeptical and annoyed.
“No,” Mason replied calmly. “Our theory is that a little friendly cooperation from you will keep an army of DEA agents from crawling over every square inch of this place while you sit on your hands and watch.” He sat in one of Bell’s side chairs, then set his bag on the front of the desk.
“Mr. Cunningham, I assure you I was joking.”
“Dr. Bell, there’s nothing funny about this case,” Wallace said, wandering behind his desk to peer out of the window. “This is a large facility. It’s possible that some out-of-the-way corner is being misused.”
“You’re absolutely correct, Detective.” He turned, giving her a nervous look. “Let’s begin again, shall we? How is it that the two of you believe I can be of help?”
“We’d like to know if any of the osmosis bags from your inventory have been used, and if so, who has access to them or has been using them,” she said.
“It will take some time to determine that. If the bags were part of the general inventory, we will have a record of which section requisitioned them, and from there, we would move on to who used them. If, on the other hand, they were acquired specifically for a certain section, we’ll have to query the section-level inventory custodians.”
“We’ll wait while you make the calls,” Mason said.
Kevin spent the next several minutes calling the supply custodians.
“I see. Thank you.” He had a stricken look on his face as he hung up. “The bags were purchased specifically by Section Seven.”
“Can you make the relevant persons in Section Seven available to us?” Wallace asked.
“Dr. Sarah Bleeker is the head of the section. Unfortunately, it seems the entire allotment of bags has disappeared, and the custodian has no record or recollection of anyone getting them from inventory.”
“How is that possible?” Wallace asked. “Don’t you have internal controls?”
“No system is perfect, Detective,” Kevin said, drumming the fingers of both hands on his desk.
“Perhaps we should speak with Dr. Bleeker, and decide from there what our next move will be,” Mason said.
“Of course,” Bell said. “I’ll arrange it immediately.”
Forty-five minutes and several conversations later, Wallace and Mason realized they had hit a wall, when they finally discovered that the bags had been purchased for a scientist who no longer worked at Tunica. It was possible that the departed scientist had used them before he left. Or maybe he had inadvertently packed them and taken them when he went to his new position and the requisition had been lost. Such things happened from time to time, they were told. They got the scientist’s contact information from Bleeker, then headed toward the parking lot.
4:45 P.M.
As she and Mason walked toward her car in the Tunica lot, Wallace called Mike Harrison, but he still wasn’t answering his phone. She and Mason stopped in the shade of a huge oak while she wrote Mike a detailed email about how to contact the former Tunica scientist who might have used or taken the bags and what she wanted Mike to ask him. Her flare of frustration over Mike’s persistent absence subsided after she reminded herself she could give him work without them having to be in each other’s presence. Since the partnership was only temporary, perhaps a long-distance relationship was the best posture for things.
“We’ve been focused on who the bags were sold to in Louisiana, but it’s possible they came from out of state,” Mason said, as they strolled through the lot toward Wallace’s car. “Part of my analyst’s theory is that the new cocaine showing up around here came from out of state. If the scientist you’ve got your partner calling doesn’t pan out, we’ll need to broaden our inquiry.”
“While we’re waiting on that, what’s your next move?” she asked.
“A few things. I still have meetings with the other law enforcement agencies in Baton Rouge. And my folks in DC are trying to pin down Echeverría’s movements over the last few weeks. If anything puts him inside the U.S., I’ll go to wherever he was to see if he can be traced from there to here.”
“Detective? Could I have a word with you?”
Wallace and Mason turned at the sound of the voice. A thin woman who looked to be in her midthirties, with a lab coat slung through the strap of her shoulder bag, was hurrying toward them. Her long brown hair was in a loose braid at the back of her neck. A pair of expensive-looking glasses compensated for her slightly owlish eyes.
“You’re not getting the whole story,” the woman said.
“Am I looking for a story?” Wallace asked.
“I know you’re investigating something at Tunica. I was just coming into the research building when you were walking out with Dr. Bell. I heard him call you ‘Detective’.”
“Who are you?” Wallace demanded.
“Carla Chapman. I work at Tunica for Matt Gable. I’m one of the scientists in his section.”
“And…” Wallace said.
“And I happen to know that whatever Dr. Bell told you, it’s not the whole story.”
“If you have something to say, Ms. Chapman, you have our full attention,” Mason said.
“Not here. It’s too risky. There’s a park a mile or so down the road, if you take a left out of the front gate. It has covered tables and benches, where we can sit and talk. I’ll meet you there,” she said, pulling her keys from her purse and striking off toward the other end of the lot.
NINE
5:05 P.M.
The park was deserted. Concrete tables and benches situated on gum-speckled slabs were scattered around a treeless expanse of unruly grass punctuated with patches of red clay hardpan. Poles set into the corners of the slabs supported corrugated aluminum canopies that provided the only shade. The tables had seen a lot of meals but not a lot of cleaning. A few of the canopies were tilted at odd angles because someone had backed a vehicle to
o close and bent the support poles. Garbage was foaming out of trash barrels that looked like they hadn’t been emptied since Reconstruction. The sun was baking the stink of stale beer and rotting food out of the garbage.
“Since you don’t know what Dr. Bell told us, you must believe you know something you’re sure he doesn’t,” Wallace said, after they settled at one of the tables.
“Most three-year-olds know stuff he doesn’t,” Carla replied, “but that’s not what I meant. Do you mind if I know who you two are? I’m taking a big risk talking to you, so I’d like to know who I’m dealing with.”
“I’m Wallace Hartman, a detective with the Baton Rouge Police Department. And this is Mason Cunningham, with the DEA.” They both offered their credentials, but Carla seemed satisfied with the introductions and didn’t bother to look at the proffered identification.
“I know that whatever Bell told you isn’t everything, because he ordered me to help him cover something up.”
“That’s very interesting,” Mason said. “Exactly what would that be?”
“Matt Gable, one of the main researchers at Tunica, the one I work for, is missing. Since at least Sunday night.” Carla paused, shifting her gaze from Wallace to Mason.
“Please go on,” Wallace urged.
Carla told them about how her inability to contact Matt had eventually led her to his burned house on Monday morning, her dealings with the police in Bayou Sara, the little town near the lab, and about her and Kevin Bell finding the hidden apparatus in the storeroom.
“What was the hidden lab stuff for?” Wallace asked.
“We don’t know.”
“Bell never mentioned anything like that to us and he didn’t show us anything inside any storerooms,” Mason said.
“That’s because he ordered me to take everything down and destroy it.”
“You’re kidding me,” Mason snapped.
“I’m not. But I didn’t destroy anything either. I took it all apart and packed it in storage crates and hid it behind some other things in the storage room.”
“Could you reassemble it?” Wallace asked, waving away a squadron of flies.
“I think so. I made sketches and notes as I took everything apart.”
“You obviously think it’s connected to Matt’s disappearance?” Wallace said.
“It’s the only clue I have. That’s why I saved it.” Her gaze drifted and her demeanor shifted into a lower gear. “That’s why I followed you just now.”
“The two of you were involved,” Wallace probed, keying on Carla’s sudden change in mood.
“We were, but we never registered the relationship with HR,” Carla admitted. “We didn’t think it was anybody’s business. It didn’t interfere with our jobs, and we kept it out of the workplace, so we felt like we were entitled to our privacy.” Her shoulders sagged and she stared at the ground.
“Tell us what’s known about the circumstances of the fire,” Mason said.
“So far, nothing,” Carla replied. “The local police say an investigation is underway, but I don’t get the impression there’s any urgency to it. They did say that no one was in the house when it burned.”
“Is it possible that Matt set the fire himself?” Wallace asked.
“I can’t think of a reason he would, and I can’t imagine why anyone else would either. He was renting, so it’s not like he would get insurance money for it.”
Mason stood and paced in front of the table, his shoulders hunched and his hands stuffed in his pockets. “Could the fire be connected to the stuff you found hidden in the storeroom?”
“I don’t know. This wasn’t some kitchen-counter lab fire, if that’s what you’re getting at. He wasn’t cooking meth or anything.”
“Is it possible he’s seeing someone else?” Wallace asked.
“I don’t think he would trash his career for something like that. Besides, I know he loved me. We had only been seeing each other a few months, but things got serious really fast. Don’t ask me to explain it, but I don’t think this has anything to do with another woman. Matt’s in some kind of trouble.”
“What about family somewhere?” Mason asked.
“He’s an only child and his parents are both dead. He has distant relatives somewhere in South Dakota, but they’re not close. They haven’t spoken in years. And anyway, if that were the case, he would have gotten in touch. He hasn’t, so my assumption is that he can’t.” Carla’s face crumpled and her eyes brimmed.
“Mason and I may meet with the local police to see if they have any leads on Matt’s whereabouts.”
“The local police aren’t taking this seriously.”
“What makes you say that?” Wallace asked.
“Because they’re moving too slow,” Carla blurted, her emotions escalating. “When I went to file a missing person report, I explained about how devoted Matt is to his work—that he would never just disappear without telling anyone. And all I got was a bunch of slow-walking we have to follow procedure bullshit.”
Wallace was about to speak when Carla cut her off.
“And I could see in their eyes, what they’re thinking. That I’m just some starry-eyed girl who won’t face the fact that he’s off with someone else. I mean, for Pete’s sake, his damn house burned down, he won’t answer his phone, his lab was full of a bunch of shit nobody even knows what it is. Does that sound like somebody tomcatting around to you? Police can be such bastards. Present company excluded, I’m sure,” she added.
“Do the police know everything you just told us?” Mason asked, mopping his brow with a handkerchief. “Do they know about the funny business you found in Matt’s lab?”
“I didn’t find out about that until after I talked to them on Monday so, no, they don’t know about the lab.”
“Why haven’t you told them?”
“We all had to sign nondisclosure agreements at the lab. If I talk about internal matters to outsiders and Bell found out, he’d fire me and maybe Matt too.”
“But you’re telling us,” Mason pointed out.
“If I tell the local police and they blab it to Bell, but they don’t do any kind of real investigation, then I get fired for nothing. Somehow the fact that you came all the way out to the lab to look made me think you were serious about looking into this. That makes it a risk worth taking because you might actually help me find Matt.”
“Surely the locals are doing the standard things—a motor vehicle alert, phone and bank activity. What are you holding back?” Wallace asked, in case Carla was being cagey.
“I’m not holding back. Look, they haven’t even bothered to do a decent search in the woods around his house. If somebody who lived near the forest disappeared, wouldn’t you make that some kind of a priority?”
“What would make the woods near his home more likely than any other place to look?” Mason asked. He sat back down and began rolling his sleeves up to his elbows.
“Sometimes Matt ran to and from work along a trail through the woods between his house and the Tunica access road. I don’t know the actual route, because I never went with him. I’m not a runner and I don’t like being in rough country.”
“Can you show me where Matt started his runs?” Wallace asked.
“Sure. When?”
“Now, if you like,” Wallace said. “One more question, though, before we leave. Do you know what an osmosis bag is?”
“I’m a professional chemist. Of course I do.”
“Did the secret apparatus from Matt’s storeroom lab involve any osmosis bags?” Mason asked.
“No. There was nothing like that in the stuff I took down,” Carla said.
“Could the apparatus be modified so that the bags would need to be part of it?”
“Sure. Any lab setup can be modified any way the chemist needs it to be. But you would have to know what the setup is intended to do, before you could guess about someone else’s work.”
5:30 P.M.
Wallace and Mason followed Carla
to the burned ruins of Matt’s house. It had been an older frame house built in the pier and beam style. The firefighters had arrived too late to save anything. The tops of the brick piers and a bathroom sink still attached to its drainpipe like a huge white flower were the only things visible above the drift of ashes.
Pine woods surrounded the lot on three sides. Every house in the neighborhood was on a large wooded tract. Carla led them through the backyard, then through a break in the foliage. Shade from the trees gave them a little relief from the heat. The air was sharp with the turpentine scent of pine sap and the forest floor was slippery with leaf litter and pine needles. A few yards in, they came to an area where the bare earth was exposed.
“This is where he would start,” Carla said. “It’s maybe two miles, I think, from here to the access road that takes you to the guard gate at the lab. In that direction,” she said, pointing off into the trees. “Matt said the terrain was pretty difficult, but he’s very athletic.”
No one spoke for nearly a full minute as Wallace did a slow turn, studying the forest in the direction Carla indicated. Because of the deep layer of pine needles there was very little scrub vegetation and the ground had a springy feel. Shafts of sunlight stabbed through the canopy of the treetops.
“I have to get back to the lab,” Carla said, breaking the silence. “I’ve got some time-sensitive tests running and I’ll need to look in on them, pretty soon.”
“That’s fine,” Mason said. “Just make sure to leave those crates you hid exactly where they are, for the moment. Don’t do anything that might indicate they even exist.”
“Here’s my number,” Wallace said, handing Carla one of her cards. “Call me if anything turns up. And let me have your number in case we have more questions.”
“Sure,” Carla said, pulling out her phone and calling Wallace’s number. “Is that good enough?”
“Perfect, thanks.”
“Will you let me know if you find anything out there?”
“I will,” Wallace assured her.
“I wonder where the trail is?” Mason asked, as they watched Carla walk away.
“See those streaks of paler brown going off in that direction?” Wallace said. “Where the color of the pine needles is vaguely lighter than the rest and it looks less cushiony?”
