The Murderer

by Paul Smith

  Calm down, Jimmy, boy. Calm down. Water. Flush it out of your system.

  He didn't want to drink the water at his desk. He got up, made his way to the back of the room where there were many dozens of sealed bottles on an open table. He picked one up, squeezed it to ensure there were no holes. Then he opened and gulped down half of it. Slowly, he sipped the rest and retrieved another bottle to take back to his seat.

  The afternoon break was about to begin, so he put the bottle back and headed for the men's room to help flush out some of what he had consumed.

  When he returned to the conference hall, he vowed to continue. But careful, Jimmy boy. Stay on your toes. This is deadly serious stuff.

  The delegate from Argentina was less than receptive and she quickly excused herself. A few minutes later, though, James found the delegate from Myanmar more than willing to discuss the pros and cons of climate management and carbon taxes. Before the end of break, a third delegate—one from Andorra—joined the two of them.

  When James returned to his desk, he noticed that the two-thirds full bottle of juice was missing from his desk. Plausible deniability? James asked himself. Cleaning up the evidence?

  When the day's session was over, the gentleman from Myanmar approached James and continued their earlier conversation. The Andorran and two others also stayed behind and for almost an hour they talked.

  On the ride back to his hotel, James felt cautiously hopeful that he might be able to make a difference. Something the Andorran had said provided him with another, much needed piece of ammunition against the wholesale acceptance of the United Nations' climate agenda. They had told him that the provisions of the current agenda would effectively give up some of each nation's sovereignty to an unelected, unaccountable body. Small countries like Caledonia, Andorra and Sonora have very little except their sovereignty. Giving that up would erase them from the world just as surely as rising oceans would erase his own Caledonia and so many other low-lying countries.

  Regaining his mental clarity had been difficult, but drinking plenty of water had helped. He knew with a certainty that they were onto him. They had attacked him. Paranoia? he asked himself. No, it's not paranoia if it's based on facts. Paranoia is only an unreasonable fear. I have every right—no, I have a duty to remain fearful. They've attacked you, Jimmy boy.

  For a moment he closed his eyes and tried to shake loose the noise in his head. The remainder of the taxi ride to his hotel, he gazed at the growing dimness of the sunset, longing to hold Moira in his arms.

  Chapter 4—Burden of Sacrifice

  As he approached his hotel room on the second floor, he felt his own senses become heightened. Did he see something to cause this? Or was he merely being overly cautious?

  The door was open, only slightly. But still that gave him a deadly, sinking feeling in his stomach.

  Anger forced his voice up several notches. "Moira!" He fully expected her to come around the opening door, chastising him for yelling.

  He would gladly have apologized to her. Now, seeing her laying there, he desperately needed to have her yell at him, criticize him—anything.

  There was so much blood, it seemed the sheets were red instead of white. The look on her sweet face seemed twisted and surreal. Her eyes were round orbs empty of life.

  James dropped to his knees and immediately wept. In front of him, a bloodied knife lay on floor, begging him to pick it up. He would not give them the pleasure of his easy self-incrimination.

  "Moira, Moira, Moira. Oh my darling. What have I done to you?"

  The next moment, he seemed to levitate off the floor, hurtled toward the room's one chair and launched it out the window. He stood at the window and screamed for what seemed an eternity.

  After his voice gave out, he merely sat in the corner, on the floor, hoping to turn time backwards—to undo the things he had done—to save his dear Moira.

  He barely saw the hotel manager when he came to investigate the chair which had crashed into the street. He only dimly recognized the police as they shuffled in and escorted him out.

  For hours, he answered questions. Even when the repetition of questions began to annoy him, he let the annoyance roll over him and do its worst. He had no strength to resist.

  Slowly though, he began to hate the invisible faces who had done this. His apparent powerlessness only added to his growing rage.

  He told the police about his dangerous mission. He mentioned the spiked drink at the conference and the long talk he'd had with three other delegates after the day's session.

  "You're not going to investigate the Rothschilds, Rockefellers and the United Nations, are you? Every one of you insignificant scum bow down to their power. They're untouchable. The real murderers are getting away, and you're stuck with me—me—more insignificant scum."

  "Did she break off her engagement to you?" asked Jean Pierre, the officer currently interrogating him.

  "Why would she? We were in love. She was even concerned that the bad guys who are pushing this climate change scam would kill me—not her. Now, I see that they want to destroy my spirit." James slammed his fists into the table. "Well, it's working. They knew right where to hurt me the most."

  "How many times have you struck her?"

  "You idiot. Why would I ever hit her? You're insulting me and her with that stupid question."

  "Did you catch her sleeping with another man?"

  "That's stupid. If I caught her with another man, wouldn't you think I would have killed them both? No! I didn't catch her cheating. I didn't stab and kill the two of them, and make his body magically disappear. Idiot!"

  "Thank you for your candid answer," Jean Pierre said, "But we have to ask these questions. It is our job."

  "And don't think for a minute that if you find my prints on the knife, that I actually touched it. You won't find any of her blood on me. I knew not to touch the knife. But I want to kill the bastards who did this.

  "Wait," said James. "Oh, my God! I remember three men leaving the hotel as I arrived. Of course, if time of death was when I arrived, the actual murderers would have to leave about the same time. I remember now, not one of them looked at me. It was almost as if they were forcing themselves not to look at me."

  Another man entered the room and whispered in Jean Pierre's ear and handed him a short stack of papers.

  "Do you remember what any of them looked like?"

  "God, no. Damn! I wish I did. I barely remember that I had seen them. Maybe they were the reason I felt apprehensive as I approached my room. I think one of them was carrying a bag. I guess I thought they were checking out—but early evening? Who checks out of a hotel in early evening?"

  "I see here that there were no prints on the knife. Of course, that proves nothing. But there was blood on the handle and we found no trace of blood on your hands or clothes."

  "So, I'm free to go?"

  "Yes, but we will hold your passport. Do not attempt to leave Paris."

  "No problem, there."

  Chapter 5—Comrade-in-Arms

  The police had offered to call a taxi for him, but he wanted to walk. Outside, at the bottom of the steps, stood a slender balding man in his early thirties—about his own age. The man looked up as James descended the steps.

  "Monsieur Findlay?"

  "Yes," said James. "Who are you?"

  "I'm very sorry for your loss. My name is Philibert Viardot. I am certain you have not heard of me, but I know you are a delegate to the climate conference."

  "Viardot?" James shook his head and coughed a dry, humorless laugh. "Of course I've heard of you. The French meteorologist who disagrees with the United Nations, wrote a book criticizing the climate scam and lost his job."

  Philibert gave a few humble nods at being recognized. "Well, I am interested in helping you, if I can. What you are doing is too important. Can we go someplace? A quiet café, perhaps?"

  James was feeling dangerously tired and almost said no to the offer. Then, he thought of the empty hot
el room without Moira. Though the hotel would transfer him to a different room, because of the ongoing investigation, the thought of returning to the scene of his beloved's death made him a little crazy.

  "Yeah, no, sure," James nodded and intermittently shook his head. "Yes. Do you have a place in mind?"

  "Okay. Yes, I know of a place." Philibert motioned across the street. "I am parked here."

  The former television meteorologist drove them a few kilometers nearer to downtown Paris and parked close to an all-night café, which was surprisingly busy for 1 AM. Inside, it looked a lot like a 50s American diner, complete with jukebox music menus at each table. The three waitresses each wore long skirts, white, short sleeve blouses, ponytails, bobby socks and saddle oxfords. The place was filled with a murmur of voices and moderately soft 50s rock and roll.

  James ordered a double hamburger and large fries. The police had not fed him the dinner he had missed. He was hungry. Philibert ordered some snack James did not recognize and he was not interested in asking its name.

  "A contact at the police department told me about you," said Philibert. "I had asked to be notified of anything out of the ordinary concerning the climate conference. Climate and weather have been my career."

  James told him about his first day at the conference. "Some people—like the police—are quick to assume a non-controversial reason to explain such events. But then they leave it at that. They think they have debunked the more scandalous idea and this makes them feel comfortable with all they've heard. They've debunked nothing, but they feel they have. This was one of the police officers who had questioned me. He had it all figured out, but no proof. He provided an alternative hypothesis, but no evidence to back it up."

  "You will continue at the conference, or will you return home?"

  "I can't go home. The police have my passport. They won't release her body until the investigation is complete. After what the murderers have done, I have to continue. Even if it means my own death. These bastards are not going to have it easy."

  "I understand only some of your passion. The lies about climate," Philibert stared at his drink. "But I could not fathom how you feel for your loss. I am truly sorry."

  "Sometimes," said James, and paused long enough to shake his head and to blink away the tears which tried to escape, "I feel like David going up against Goliath. Only I'm not David. No, nothing but a last minute substitute who doesn't know what he's doing. I got Moira killed. Those bastards! Now, I feel like Sisyphus, condemned to roll a boulder up a hill that will never support it—burdened with this futile enterprise. Moira worried that her name might condemn her. I tried to talk her out of such pessimism. Bitterness of God—sacrifice. It all fits, but I'm the one that made it so. I'm the selfish bastard who got her killed. If I had been thinking straight, I would've left her back home and broken off the engagement. I would've told her that I didn't love her in order to protect her."

  "And tomorrow?" asked Philibert.

  "All I can think to do is to approach other delegates. See if I can get them to vote against the UN's proposals. Perhaps I can stir enough interest in an alternative solution—one that embraces warmth in order to end the current Ice Age, or at least prepare for the end of the Holocene. That could save billions of lives."

  "Current Ice Age?"

  "Yes, we're in an Ice Age. The persistence of the polar ice makes that a reality. The problem is the Holocene is overdue to end. I know you didn't cover that in your book, but I thought you knew that."

  "I did not. I continue to learn even today."

  "You already know that humans are not controlling the climate and that warming ended seventeen years ago. But the cycle may pick up again with more warming in a decade or two. Or the Holocene may end and we'll all suffer nearly a thousand centuries of frozen climate."

  "But civilization would not last that long with another glacial period."

  "That's my point. The United Nations is promoting global cooling in an Ice Age. Someone must know this, but they're doing it anyway. That's psychopathic madness."

  "Yet," said Philibert and took a slow sip of his drink to collect his thoughts, "if you promote ending the Ice Age, you condemn your own country, do you not? What is the highest elevation in Caledonia?"

  "Sixty-one meters. We would have twenty square meters of barely dry land. A little more in low tide."

  "Basically, your Caledonia would no longer exist."

  "Yes, that's right. But then billions of people might survive." James chewed on his lower lip. "Am I crazy to want people to live?"

  "Monsieur Findlay, it is the only sane viewpoint to have."

  "So, what did you have in mind?" asked James.

  "A news conference, just in time for the delegates to see on their hotel room televisions. Would you be available to join me outside the conference hall? Say, three PM?"

  "Sure. Of course."

  That night, James slept on Philibert's couch. The next day, while James returned to the convention, Philibert Viardot made several phone calls to contacts in the television media, arranging for a news conference at 3 PM.

  Despite a lack of sufficient sleep and the emotional trauma he had suffered, James felt driven to change the conference and its outcome.

  He sat next to the Australian delegation and attempted to talk to them about Ice Age concerns, but everything he had heard about their intransigence proved correct. They were glibly "warming alarmists" to the core. To them, the Ice Age was a myth or something in the distant past that would never concern them in the future.

  On the other side of his seat, the Indonesians were more receptive. They, however, were more concerned with international appearances than with facts and outcomes. He knew that each delegation did not necessarily represent all of the citizens of their respective countries, but many of them had the voting clout for their nations.

  Today, he was ever more cautious about what he ate or drank. He did not want to be predictable or gullible. He took every conceivable precaution. If someone looked as though they might bump into him, he would back off a meter or two to prevent some heart-stopping drug from being administered. Do such things really happen? he wondered.

  Twice, he caught himself condemning Mr. James Findlay for paranoia. But then he chastised himself for giving in to such dark, inaccurate thoughts. Not paranoia, he cautioned. Healthy suspicion. After all, they murdered Moira. They tried to drug me—no, did drug me, yesterday. Several times, he caught himself being angry with his fellow delegates, then backed off of the emotion. No, Jimmy. Most, if not all of the delegates, know nothing about the real conspiracy, here.

  During the afternoon break at 2:30 PM, a group of delegates approached him, asking if he would be willing to speak to a group of delegates that evening. They wanted to know more about his concerns. Amongst the group, James recognized Zola and one of the Sonorans. A text message from Philibert told him the news conference was on for 3 PM. James invited those in this group of delegates to join him at the news conference. Most declined, but two said they would be interested.

  Before the conference break ended, James led the two delegates outside—one from Bolivia and the other from Papua New Guinea. When he got to the sidewalk, he met Philibert Viardot, but no one else was there.

  "What happened?" asked James. "Where is the news conference?"

  Philibert wiped his mouth, glanced at James and the two delegates with him, then scanned the boulevard in both directions. "Merde!"

  "So?"

  "All of my contacts," said Philibert, eyes narrowing as he looked back at James, almost pleading, "every one of them promised." He reached in one pants pocket and then the other, pulled out his cell phone and dialed a number. A moment later, he looked at the display. "Damn. He won't answer."

  "Perhaps we should go back in," said James said to the delegates, then to Philibert, "If anything changes, please send me a text."

  "Yeah, sure," said Philibert and pursed his lips to keep them from quivering. He gave several, short,
quick nods while looking into the distance.

  After returning to his seat in the conference, he sent Philibert a text message telling him about the impromptu conference, scheduled for 7 PM at Le Monde Hotel in Saint-Denis, not far from the main climate conference.

  Did the psychopathic elite stop each of the news outlets from showing up? Possible, he thought to himself, but this could merely be a matter of small people playing at being politically correct. Not everything is a conspiracy, though conspiracies are so easy. And being politically correct really is an implicit conspiracy. Someone casts a look of disdain at the mention of something controversial, while others respond with self-censorship. No, that's not implicit anything. That's a direct conspiracy, even though sometimes the communication is a gesture, instead of explicit words.

  The remainder of the day's session proved uneventful. Afterward, James attempted to expand the number of attendees at the evening's meeting. He made the invitations short so he could catch as many delegates as possible before they disappeared into the evening.

  When he arrived at the hotel, Philibert was already there, looking more relaxed with a guarded, but very real smile.

  "How many will be here?" asked Philibert.

  "I really don't know. At least six. Perhaps a dozen."

  James spotted several of the delegates from the discussion earlier in the day about tonight's spontaneous event.

  Gregore Vasilache of Moldova stepped up to James and said, "There you are. I was arrange for use of small meeting room. How long you need? I tell hotel no more than hour."

  "Yeah," said James, nodding hesitantly. "I suppose that should be enough. I don't know how many questions there will be."

  "Great," said Gregore, "Us go in, now."

  Gregore stayed behind for a moment to post some hand drawn posters for any delegates who may show up late.

  Inside the room, a microphone was set up and there were chairs for about three dozen. Minutes later, James was surprised to see nearly all of them filled.