Last Witness

by Glen Carter

  Malloy stared at him stone-like for an uncomfortable minute. Then he smiled. “About that fifty-four dollars.”

  “Fuck that. Why don’t I just double your pension. You guys always want bigger boats.”

  They all laughed and then Jack dropped his gaze to the briefcase Malloy was carrying. His signal that it was time to get to work.

  Dwayne caught it. “So what can I do for you boys?”

  Malloy told him he had a roll of film he wanted developed. Something important they needed was on it. He didn’t tell him anything else. A minute later he opened his briefcase and carefully removed it from a plastic evidence bag.

  Dwayne leaned forward. “Holy shit. Is that what I think it is?”

  “You know this?”

  “Yeah, I know it. Kodak Verichrome 620 by the looks of it. This stuff’s ancient. Real history.” Dwayne reached out to touch it. “Lemme see.”

  Malloy pulled back. “You need to understand something… Dwayne.” Two measured breaths before he continued. “This roll of film has to be handled with the utmost care. I need to know two things.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Good,”Malloy said. “Number one. Can you guarantee me that you won’t damage this film? Two. Are we going to have something to look at when you’re done? Can you guarantee both of these things?”

  Dwayne folded his arms.Head cocked to one side.“Who the fuck does he think he is, Jack?”

  “Hear him out.”

  “He wants guarantees, he can take it to Wal-Mart.Double prints for free.”

  No one spoke until a full minute passed.

  “Stuff’s gotta be what? Forty years old, G-man.What? You and the wife on vacation in the Pocono’s.The Grand Canyon.”

  “Shut-up.”

  “No. Vegas. Backstage with Wayne Newton.That it?”

  “I said shut-up.” Malloy’s face reddened. He flipped to Jack. “Your boy’s got a big mouth, Doyle. Maybe it’s time we gave city hall the head’s up on his little hideaway here. I still got contacts at Langley. Maybe they’d like to know the the reason for their cost overruns in Pakistan.”

  Dwayne folded his arms and grinned.“Maybe it’s time we talked about Salisbury Green, Agent Malloy.”

  Malloy’s eyes widened. A moment passed before he was able to gain control of himself. “Bastard,” he whispered.

  Jack decided to escape to the kitchen where he poured himself a glass of juice from Dwayne’s refrigerator. He watched them closely, waiting for the moment to flame out. Eventually, Malloy handed Dwayne the roll of film, like he was surrendering one of his fingers. Malloymuttered something about “continuity of evidence” and then followed Dwayne into something that looked like a makeshift darkroom.They disappeared inside, the door slammed shut, and a red light blinked on.

  Jack gulped his juice,walked back toDwayne’sworkstation, and sat. Salisbury Green?What the hell had Dwayne meant? Why did it sound so familiar? Jack thought amoment before placing his fingers on the computer keyboard. It took a few moments before the screen flickered with what he was looking for.

  Jack leaned towards the computer screen and began to read.

  Sometimes,when life throws something disastrous yourway, it comes really fast. In Agent EdMalloy’s case, it came at the speed of a bullet.

  Her name was Jenna. She was three years old and her parents were very rich. The kidnapping didn’t attract as much press as the Lindberg case, but considering the similarities, it should have. Jack scrolled down the computer screen. The toddler had been stolen from her bed—bundled down a ladder and carried off into the night. “Swallowed up into nothingness” a local reporter had written—badly.The rag in Salisbury Green wasn’t inclined to generate any Pulitzers.

  The ransomwas fivemillion dollars.Hard cash to come by, even when you owned the largest sporting-goods business on the east coast. But Steve Barrett found the money and twenty-three hours after their child was stolen, he and his heavily sedated wife waited while the ransom was being delivered—by Agent Ed Malloy. Jack didn’t have to finish the story. He remembered everything, now.

  The FBI investigation into the tragic death of Jenna Barrett assigned blame where blame was due.No one made mistakes. Except for Agent Ed Malloy—and it was the mistake of a career.

  The little cabin was a stone’s throw from the Appalachian Trail and about four miles from where Malloy had tossed the money into a dumpster outside some hiker’s granola and wheat germ snack bar. Just like he was ordered to do, he later told the bureau’s incident investigators. The kidnapper was too good and too fast. Knowing every stick and branch of the forgotten trail helped. So the chopper lost the bad guy. Malloy didn’t. When he got to the kidnapper’s hideaway cabin, sweating and out of breath, the lights were off. Shadows upon shadows beneath towering pines and low wide spruce. Malloy had crawled on his belly until he reached a window.That’s when he heard the sound behind him.The kidnapper’s bullet was wide—struck wood somewhere next to Malloy’s cheek.However, the agent’s nine millimeter found its target. Found two of them.

  The FBI report later ruled the tragedy unavoidable. Malloy was right to return fire, though it also declared Jenna Barrett wouldmost probably still be alive hadMalloy waited for further orders—instead of pursuing the suspect. It was a hell of a career-limitingmove.

  Jack blew breath between his lips and wondered how in hell you dealt with something like that. Fiveminutes later the darkroom door opened.

  Dwayne andMalloy came out smiling.

  Jack stood. Hands on hips, searching Malloy’s face for a sign. “We have anything?”

  Malloy puffed his cheeks, allowed a long slow breath to escape his lips. “Yeah, we have something.” Malloy held up a thin plastic sleeve containing a small square negative. “Your man did all right.”

  “Hey, first time I’ve ever heard that from a cop,” Mesner said with a goofy grin.

  “Great,” Jack said.

  Mesner turned serious.“There’s virtually no oxidization on that stock which makes me wonder where this film has been hiding all these years, some where with ideal conditions, obviously.An FBI vault, maybe, with perfect humidity.”

  Jack and Malloy looked at him, poker faced.

  “Never mind. Hand me the negative. I’m guessing we’ll need extra high resolution, extreme megs,” Dwayne said.

  Malloy gently removed it from the plastic sleeve. “Can you get something from it?”

  Dwayne looked at him earnestly. “Contrast was a bugger. Had to boost it big time, but, yes, I believe I can.” Mesner took the negative and placed it on a contraption near his desk. “Flextight 848,” he beamed. “Drum scanning is the only way we’re going to get a perfect focus. A glass-free optical path gives us a straight scan-line, meaning no inaccuracies to bugger up the registration and colours.”

  More blank stares.

  “Relax.This will only take a minute.” Dwayne tapped commands into a computer as the scanner did its work.

  Malloy’s brow furrowed. “What happens to the original?”

  “Don’t worry,” Dwayne said. “The light’s not that hot. Besides, once it’s digitized, the negative becomes irrelevant in the big picture. No pun intended.”

  “Justmake sure it survives,” Malloy said sternly.

  “No worries, G-Man.”

  Malloy had no intention of tellingMesner that the negative was an historic piece of evidence in one of the greatest criminalmysteries of all time.Therewas nothing irrelevant about the implications if they got a clear image, something thatmight debunk or substantiate what conspiracy theorists have been saying for decades about Kennedy’s killing.

  Dwayne enlarged the image as it began to appear. He turned to Jack. “What are we looking for?”

  “We don’t really know, yet,” Jack said.

  Malloy leaned closer to the computer monitor. “Quiet please.”

  “Sorry.”

  The three of them were transfixed on the monitor as slowly an image began to form. A sliver of blue appea
red. The Dallas sky was clear that day after a morning of rain. Shadows and shapes were gradually coming into focus.Things needing more pixels before they were completely revealed.

  Malloy rubbed his face.

  Jack couldn’t take his eyes off the screen.

  Dwayne stared at the two of them. “You look like a couple of expectant fathers.”

  The file came in at more than a gig. Dwayne tweaked the image for colour and sharpness. A few keystrokes later he scrutinized his handiwork. “Jesus. Is this what…?”

  Jack leaned forward.

  Malloy squinted hard.

  “Hey,” said Dwayne. “I know this.”

  13

  NEW YORK CITY

  The head of network news pulled his plump frame closer to the table and tapped a peg-like finger on polished wood. With his other hand he spread a sheaf of papers and searched till he found the dollar figure he was looking for. The last page. The last line. He pushed forward on thick elbows to get a better look and, after a moment, he lifted his head to face the three others with him, including his high-priced senior anchor.

  “The Bay of Pigs was an easier operation,” Walter Carmichael said. “And by the looks of it, cheaper.”

  Frank Simmons smiled faintly, full lips parted to reveal perfect teeth.Deep-set blue eyes refused to blink, though lazily he reached to his forehead to corral a tendril of silver hair that had broken loose of his hundred-dollar haircut. “Money, money, money,” he said, his voice deeply resonant.

  Carmichael stiffened noticeably. “Revenues are down, Frank, across the board. All the prime-time properties.”

  The smile vanished immediately from Simmons’s face. Lips pressed tightly against whatever it was he was about to say.

  Kaitlin O’Rourke watched silently from the other side of the boardroom table, thinking the words Carmichael hadn’t spoken. News

  revenues, too, because the news numbers are tanking.That little truth wouldn’t be brought up here. Kaitlin admired her boss’s restraint.

  Simmons pressed on. “I...we understand that, Walter. Shareholders, bean counters, all of that. But…” Simmons straightened in his chair, pulling himself higher than his frame should have allowed, “our only responsibility is credible, focused news coverage, plain and simple.”

  Carmichael rubbed eyes that matched one of the colours in his gaudy tie. He wore a short-sleeved white shirt, damp at the armpits, with an open collar that had surrendered long ago to his thick neck.

  Frank Simmons on the other hand was exquisitely dressed. His pale blue shirt tucked perfectly into dark pants. A blue silk tie that hung exactly to his black leather belt. An expensive gold watch shimmered at his wrist.

  Kaitlin knew it was an argument these two men had had many times before.Well worn and philosophically as clichéd as bad guys in black, good guys in white. Serious, hard working journalists didn’t care much for accountants. Ignored their phone calls and inter-office memos. Kind of like the way a pumped athlete sweats the guy standing there with a urine cup. Reporters bent the rules where and when they could because they were custodians of the calling and righteously so. Mostly.There was that legendary CNS Hong Kong correspondent Kaitlin had heard about. Sub mitted moving expenses for his return stateside. Household furniture and junk, which happened to be his thirty-two-foot, double-masted Chinese sailboat. Kaitlin smiled inwardly at the man’s gall, but understood it was that same audacity which made him a fine reporter. Frank Simmons had always been a broadcaster, but never a journalist. He spoke his lines, Kaitlin knew, without perspective or real understanding, like an actor enjoyed playing doctor to a dying patient because of the role’s handsome, white coat.

  Kaitlin smiled wryly at Maria Gonzales, her producer.

  Simmons looked sourly in their direction, then continued. “For Chrissakes,Walter. I’m the senior anchor. I’m good to go. It’s what the audience expects.”

  Carmichael shook his head, gathering the papers spread out on the table. “Cutbacks,” he declared. “No money for the Frank Simmons road show. The producers, assistants, support staff. We needed a second jet last time just for your entourage.” Carmichael’s eyes scanned the room, found Kaitlin’s. “We’re going in light.That’s the end of it.”

  “Indeed,” Simmons said.

  A small army of people would still be needed inHavana.Mostly techies and production assistants.Though, today’smeetingwas about editorial. Carmichael wanted decisions on the story angles that deserved their limited resources.

  “OK, O’Rourke,” Carmichael continued. “Update please.The broad strokes.”

  Kaitlin tapped her iPad. She looked to Gonzales, who simply nodded.“The exiles and ex-pats inMiami are gettingway out of hand, with the rhetoric and the anger,” Kaitlin said. “No surprise.They’ve never boughtwhatOrtega is selling.They see the newCuba as the old Cuba, just all dressed up to pleaseWashington.”

  “What about free-market reforms,” Carmichael said. “And the speculation concerning elections?They not seeing those as proof that Ortega’s the genuine article?”

  “Window dressing,” Kaitlin responded. “Or the regime does move ahead with sham elections.” Kaitlin allowed the point to find its place. Carmichael nodded his head. Simmons stared blankly at manicured fingertips. Kaitlin continued. “The Miami Herald has received anothermanifesto.This one froma group calling itself Cuba Liberation Front. Standard clap trap and threats.”

  “Anything specific.”

  “More protests. Which translates into more looting and fires,” Kaitlin said grimly. “Just more violence overall unless the American government retreats from rapprochement and its intentions to end the embargo.” Kaitlin nodded imperceptibly at her producer.

  Gonzales took it as her cue. “This morning there was another bombing. A newspaper delivery van was hit in Little Havana. The newspaper ran an op-ed piece yesterday supporting rapprochement. The driver was killed. A single father with two kids.”

  Kaitlin picked up the thread. “Miami’s police chief is demanding the feds bring out the National Guard. Washington says it doesn’t want to enflame the situation.”

  Carmichael nodded and, after thinking a moment, said, “Alpha 66.”

  “Excuse me.”

  “This CLF group sounds like the same MO as Alpha 66 Brigade.”

  Kaitlin cocked an eyebrow.

  Simmons chuckled. “You were still in diapers. You and Gonzales both.” Smirking now, in Carmichael’s direction.

  Carmichael ignored him. “Mercenaries,” he said. “They were into hit and run attacks in Cuba, funded by the CIA after the Bay of Pigs.Their base of operations was south Florida, with training camps in the Dominican Republic. They were also fond of sending letter bombs to Cuban embassies. Canada, Mexico, and Venezuela. One of their leaders eventually admitted he was a spy for the Castro regime during their little bombing blitz, said Castro actually funded their activities to justify his repressive policies. A strong hand to defend the motherland against terrorists sponsored by the US.”

  Simmons nodded, sombrely. Puckered his lips. “It looks like the Brigade is back. Different name. Same agenda. A new generation of thugs.”

  Kaitlin took it all in. “One man’s terrorist is another man’s freedom fighter,” she added.

  Simmons faced her with faint admiration. “Good line.Mind if I use it?”

  Kaitlin suppressed a smile. “Be my guest.”

  Carmichael shifted in his chair, a sign that the meeting was nearing an end. He pointed a stubby finger in Kaitlin’s direction. “You’ll be filing from Washington first, then Miami. It’s going to get a lot worse down there.Then it’s the big show in Havana. You get to shine.”

  Simmons glared from across the table. A few words dropped unheard from his lips.

  Carmichael continued. “That skinny Brit.What’s his name?”

  “Seth Pollard,” Kaitlin replied.

  “The guy from your little sojourn to Colombia, right?”

  Imperceptibly, Kaitlin flinched. “Y
es.”

  “Good shooter and he’s got history in the region. Bring ’em. McCoy will be joining you in Miami once he’s done with that other thing in California.”

  “Good idea,Walter,” Simmons said. “We’ll need him to watch over things.”

  For a millisecond Kaitlin locked eyes with Maria,who was likely, at that moment, biting hard into her sharp tongue.That ‘other thing’ in California involved hounding an eighteen-year-old pop star whose very public addiction to drugs was destroying her life. McCoy was filing twice a day, since there was no shortage of old boyfriends and distant relatives who were talking.

  “We done here?” Carmichael said.

  No one spoke.

  “Fine,” Carmichael added. “Havana’s going to be a cluster fuck and we’re doing it on the cheap. So let’s get our shit together before Air Force One goes wheels up.” He stopped at the door and turned. “And remember, folks. It’s not rocket science. But it is history.”

  Frank Simmons furiously wrote that down as Carmichael left the room.

  14

  The stockade fence wasn’t in the shot. People, yes.The fence, no. It was another view of the grassy knoll that day in November. The mayhem that followed the murder of the century. It might have been that Helena flinched or something. Photographing the reaction instead of the show, like she’d turned around in a monster movie to catch the screaming faces. In the photograph, Zapruder is already down from the concrete pedestal where he’d filmed the assassination in its entirety. “They killed him.They killed him,” he had yelled at the time. Malloy knew that because Zapruder’s secretary, Marilyn Sitzman, had told him.

  The Bell and Howell Zoomatic is dangling at Zapruder’s side, hardly ever used except for themost famous homemovie ever shot.

  Malloy pushed forward. Playing tour guide, he pointed out the Hesters. Charles and Beatrice in the shot with Zapruder. Also, that Associated Press guy, JamesAltgens,whowas snapping off shots near the pergola.Art Rickerby, too.Walking away. But no view of the fence. Too bad.That’s where the second gunman might have been. Malloy groaned.The photograph taken by Helena Storozhenko on the day John Fitzgerald Kennedywas assassinated inDallas revealed nothing that Ed Malloy and the entire world hadn’t already seen. No fence, no shadowy face, or wisp of smoke from some unseen weapon at the millisecond Kennedy’s head broke apart. Nothing that would tell them anything beyond what was already known.