by Alan Gold
“Why?” asked Chalmers.
“The subject of my doctorate in psychology was criminal psychopathy. And you’ve just blown it, my friend.”
Chalmers continued to smile and said, “Oh do go on. I can’t wait.”
“It was the kids that proved it. If I’d mentioned murdered kids to almost anybody, there’d be a flicker of horror or a sign of remorse. Almost any normal person. But not you, buddy. Not from you. You were totally untouched by it. You’re a psychopath. You have no feelings for humanity. You have a Grade A personality disorder; you’re unable to form any human attachment; you have zero empathy toward others, but masked by an ability to appear outwardly normal and even warm and friendly and jovial. But you’d just as soon kill an old lady to take her seat on a bus as you’d have a drink of water. So you ordered the killing of Secretary Harper and her family as though you were just doing a laundry list.”
Chalmers smiled. “I think you’re forgetting just one tiny little fact here, fella . . . I’m the president of WEL, the Whole Earth League. Before I was forced to close it down, we were dedicated to the salvation of every living creature and organism . . . plants and animals . . . and that, you moron, includes humans. I could no more kill Secretary Harper and her family than I could tread on an ant. What kind of a bozo are you, for crying out loud. Psychopath!” And he burst out laughing.
But Harry Clarfield just continued to look at him and smile.
“Oh,” Chalmers continued, “and where’s your evidence? What evidence have you got to bring into a court of law and prove my so-called guilt? Not a scrap. When my lawyers get hold of you, they’ll . . .”
“Court of law?” whispered Clarfield. “What court of law?”
“What do you mean?”
“You said I’ll need evidence for a court of law. Why?”
“Because our justice system depends . . .”
Harry Clarfield burst out laughing. “You just don’t get it, do you? You’re a fucking professor and you’re too dumb to get it.”
Now Stuart was worried, and it showed in his face. “Get what?”
“You’re a terrorist. You’re outside the reach of American justice. The president of the United States declared you to be a terrorist under Executive Order 13224 which President George W. Bush signed into law in September 2001. That means, my friend, you’re in my jurisdiction right now and not the FBI’s. They were just a bus service, a means of transporting you to Washington.
“Which means that as soon as I can arrange your journey, a little thing called extraordinary rendition, we’re shipping you outta here in the dead of night, taking you to Andrews Air Force Base where you’ll be put on board a plane and transported to . . . oh, I don’t know . . . let me think. Afghanistan, Syria, Egypt, Sudan, Algeria, or Turkey maybe. One of those happy little Muslim countries where they still use extreme methods to extract confessions. You probably know it better as torture. And then, my friend, when we’ve got all the information that you can give us, we’ll bring back what’s left of you to a nice Arab country, tell them that you’ve committed a crime against Allah that carries a lifetime in prison, and pay them a couple of thousand bucks. That’s all it costs for them to keep you in bread and water until you die of starvation, or you’re fucked to death with baseball bats by a gang of Muslim fundamentalist thugs. That’s what we do to terrorists.”
Harry Clarfield picked up his folder, nodded, and walked toward the door. He didn’t even look back at Stuart Chalmers, who was white-faced with shock, incapable of speech.
Outside the interview room, Inspector Marcus Stone, his face contorted in fury, confronted Harry Clarfield. “I don’t give a good goddamn if you are White House, how dare you treat my prisoner in that manner? Do you realize . . .”
“Listen to me, and listen to me very carefully unless you want the president of the United States to order that you spend the rest of your career sitting at a desk in Chuathbaluk, Alaska. You get somebody Chalmers has never spoken to before in this building to take him to a cell in complete silence, and you leave that man alone tonight. And tomorrow. Totally and completely fucking alone. Just give him food and drink.
“You don’t talk to him, offer him comfort. Do nothing. Understand me? Alone in a cell, he’ll be panicking. Come Tuesday morning, he’ll do a deal. He’ll offer up Jim Towney and everybody else in WEL, as well as his mother and sister and beg you to let him kill a herd of buffalo by hand in order to avoid what he’s now thinking is going to happen to him.
“But you refuse to do any deal. You concede nothing. You just tell him that a full confession will enable you to get him back from animals like me and into your jurisdiction for prosecution of criminal offenses conducted in the United States. Then you’ll have your case and a confession, and you’ll put him away forever.”
Marcus Stone was ready to explode. “Are you stupid? Do you know what your little charade in there has done? There’s no way we can get him into court now. Once he’s armed with a lawyer, he’ll . . .” Stone was lost for words. “Not after you just did that to him.”
Harry Clarfield looked at Stone in shock. “Do what to him? I haven’t been here. No interview took place. There’s no recording. I’m not on anybody’s radar. I have no name and no title. And don’t think of involving Ted Marmoullian in this, because he’s been holding a meeting in his office in the White House, attended by a dozen people, all of whom will confirm his presence; he has no idea I’m here and will sign a statement to that effect. When Chalmers’s lawyer asks about me, you’ve never seen or heard of me and Chalmers is making the whole thing up. If he wants to proceed with a case against me, tell him to prove it. It’s poetic justice, Inspector Stone; it’s what he’s been doing to the United States for the past twenty years.”
Smiling, Clarfield walked past Marcus Stone and left the building, a building where he hadn’t been for the past three hours, and where there was no record of his entry or exit.
OFFICE OF THE ARMY CHIEF OF STAFF THE PENTAGON ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA
Four Star General Douglas Coles sat at the end of a massive oak table, flanked on either side by majors, who were flanked by lieutenants, behind whom sat advisors and aides, aside of whom stood men and women in uniform ready at a moment’s notice to fill water glasses, coffee mugs, and plates of biscuits. He looked carefully at Debra Hart and Daniel Todd before turning to the man who sat beside him. With the slightest nod of his head, the major flicked a button on his desktop control panel, and suddenly a huge map of the United States appeared on a screen.
“Since our briefing by the commander in chief,” General Coles said, “we’ve drawn up this contingency map overlaid with information about bat congregation areas from the Department of Agriculture.”
Another flick of another switch, and the continent of North America was suddenly filled with a mass of red dots, red lines to indicate flight paths and urban locations beneath the pathways; blue dots for hospitals; and black dots, which Debra was disturbed to read in the legend, for mortuaries. There were also larger circles around outer urban areas that she understood to be displacement camps.
General Coles continued, “Preliminary estimates of numbers and resources will be with us from our logistics teams within the hour. We’ll also have good estimates of the quantity of people in urban areas beneath the flight path that may have to be evacuated until the infected colony can be eliminated. Meantime, the commander in chief has ordered me to liaise with you about which bats are most likely to be infected and what measures we have to take for eradication. Chemical, radiological, biological agents, personnel biohazard precautions . . . that sort of thing.”
Debra knew she had to head Daniel off at the pass because on the way from her apartment, in preparation for this meeting, he’d expressed serious misgivings about the army being involved in the first place. Earlier that morning, he’d begged her to remember that no matter what the president or this general might be thinking, “this isn’t a war, this is a necessary cull of a small number of infected anim
als in a confined space. You send in the army with their drones and weapons of mass destruction, and we’re not going to have any bats left. Deb, this is a truly terrible idea; we need scientists to do this, not soldiers.”
She’d reassured him, but he’d still entered the Pentagon as a skeptic, a frightened academic too terrified of the certain destruction of his beloved creatures to allow reason to distract him.
Concentrating on keeping control of the meeting despite the formidable array of army firepower on the opposite side of the table, Debra said softly, “General, we’d love to tell you what bat roosts are infected so you could eliminate them, but so far there has only been one colony that we’ve positively found to be carrying viruses deadly to humanity and that was eliminated by your Chemical and Biological Warfare Division in the Pompton Lakes district of the Ramapo Mountain State Forest in upstate New Jersey. The reason for their infection was because their roost was for nursing mothers, and it was disturbed by a massive building construction in the immediate vicinity. Also, their food source had recently disappeared.
“As you know, sir, the other bat colonies were destroyed by terrified vigilantes. And it’s these that we have to stop, because we can’t have all healthy bats destroyed because of a completely unwarranted fear.”
Daniel glanced at her and nodded.
“That’s not a matter for the army, Doctor Hart; that’s a local police issue,” he said softly.
“And that’s why,” said Debra, “I’m going to present a proposition to the president that he declare all bats in the United States a protected species, save only for those bats in colonies found to be infected with a deadly virus capable of killing human beings. And I’m not talking about the ten thousand dollars or so fine for killing a member of an endangered species like a swan or a wolf. I’m talking about ten years in prison for the unlawful killing of a colony of bats, or at least a significant number of the mammals, as a deliberate act; naturally, the army would be exempt from such a charge.”
Daniel turned and stared at Debra. In one simple, elegant maneuver, she’d come up with a scheme that would likely put an end to most vigilantism, allay the fears of the public by demonstrating that only a miniscule number of bat colonies might become infectious compared with the millions of healthy creatures in the nation, allow the army to do its job properly, and leave him and his precious bats with a lifetime of continued existence. He knew he shouldn’t say anything, so he remained silent, as though he was in on the scheme. Truth to tell, Debra had only just thought of it when the map had appeared on the screen, and she looked in horror at the visualization of just how enormous was the cull being considered.
The lower ranks at their end of the table shuffled in their places, waiting for their general to speak. When he did so, he surprised the room by saying, “That’s a good idea, Debra. Makes excellent sense. That way we don’t have to harm the harmless. I like it. No collateral damage. Yes, I’ll support you in your recommendation. Why don’t we put it up jointly as a paper to the president? Your name and mine. He wouldn’t dare say no to brains and brawn.”
“Or beauty,” Daniel whispered under his breath.
***
When the meeting was over, with plans to regroup again at the Pentagon the following day when facts and figures had been assessed for analysis, Debra and Daniel walked out of the immense military complex into one of the many parking lots where they’d left their security vehicle an hour and a half earlier. Sitting in the foyer was Agent Brett Anderson, her personal security man, who smiled as they handed back their badges and he escorted them to the vehicle.
She and Brett had been together now every day for a number of weeks, and they had become more than friendly. It had begun two days after he was assigned to her protection, and although he was a perfect gentleman, the occasional hand in the small of her back to guide her into a room, or moving ahead quickly to open a door, or shaking hands just a little too long as they said good night, made her realize that there was a personal, as well as a professional, element to their time together. She saw him looking at her, glancing more often than was needed, smiling as she talked to others. And he was a warm, sensitive companion, knowing, knowledgeable, wise, and cautious. Always the professional, always concerned with her protection, he was becoming more mother hen than Secret Service agent.
As the days wore on, he became the relief she needed after the intensity of her days, the de facto husband to whom she returned after a tough day at the office. Not, of course, that he ever strayed into her personal territory or even hinted that he’d like to become more private, but her womanly antennae were humming to the tune of an interest she presumed . . . hoped . . . was growing.
As they drove from meeting to meeting or sat in rooms alone waiting for others to arrive, she’d allowed herself to indulge in banter with him, some of it coquettish, some girlish . . . it was lovely to bring out into the open the person she’d hidden from herself all these years, and Brett seemed to enjoy her femininity. She’d even pecked him on the cheek last night as he bid her good-bye and handed her over to the night security shift. He looked at her, smiled, held her hand much longer than necessary, and kissed her back—politely and like a true gentleman—on her cheek. He could have remained in her apartment, taking the moment further, but said good night and disappeared, leaving her heart thumping and her face flushed.
Whether he sensed that a romance was budding between his boss and her security guard or whether he genuinely wanted to go somewhere, as they left the building, Daniel said, “You’re going to the White House. I need to be at a meeting at Health. I’ll just take a taxi.”
“Daniel,” said Debra, “we’ll drop you off, it’s on our way.”
“Don’t worry, I need to be alone to think,” and he walked off toward the taxi rank.
“Where now, ma’am?” said Brett, his manner deliberately obsequious. He was the very opposite of a chauffeur but accommodated her every need. He stayed with her, morning and afternoon, and delivered her from her apartment to wherever she had to be and then back to her apartment at night. A separate detachment of security people were stationed outside her building overnight, and two people sat shotgun on her door until morning. At first, she’d objected to the people outside her front door and had taken them food and drink, but it soon became obvious that they were doing their job, and she was interfering.
But she missed Brett when he said good night to her and handed her over to the evening shift. During the day, she really enjoyed his presence, the closeness of a hunky man in the car driving her around, his masculinity, his intelligence and knowledge, and especially his sense of humor.
They got into the bulletproof car, and she asked him to drive her to the White House where she had a ton of paperwork to do. As they drove out of Arlington toward central DC, Brett cleared his throat and said, “I have some news to tell you, Debra. We’re stepping down the security level. It seems that the head of WEL, Stuart Chalmers, has made a full confession of arranging to kill Secretary Harper and has confessed to numerous other crimes. He’s confessing so much that it seems they can’t shut him up. And we’ve tested many of his statements that appear to be true, so we’re inclined to believe him.” He cleared his throat and said softly, “He’s being arraigned this morning, and they’re assembling a grand jury, so it looks as though the danger has passed.”
She turned to him in surprise. “But I thought that this Chalmers guy was a hard nut to crack. What happened?”
“Well, somehow, the FBI managed to crack him and he’s confessing to decades of crimes. I have no idea how they broke him, but it seems as if everything he’s saying checks out, so . . .”
“So the alarm is over?”
Brett nodded silently.
Debra remained quiet in the car. Then she said, “I’m glad that DeAnne Harper’s parents will get the satisfaction of seeing her killer put away, even though they’ve lost their daughter and son-in-law and grandchildren. There are few worse things for relatives
than to see their loved ones’ murder go unpunished. But . . .”
“But?”
She didn’t know if she could say it. So she remained quiet.
“I’ve really enjoyed working with you, Debra,” he said softly, negotiating his way through the traffic. “It’s been one of my most pleasant assignments.”
“I’ve really enjoyed . . . I mean, it’s been a real pleasure, Brett. I’m just sorry that we won’t be seeing each other anymore. I mean, not seeing each other in a . . . not that I . . . I don’t mean . . .”
He smiled at her. Such a brilliant woman, yet so easily tongue-tied when it came to trying to say something personal.
“We don’t have to stop seeing each other, as friends, y’know Debra. I mean, you’re in town for a while; I’m married to the job and have no family . . . if you want, we could go to a movie, go out somewhere for dinner. Now that you’re not likely to get shot, I can take you somewhere public. If you’d like.”
“I’d love that. I really would.”
They continued to drive deeper and deeper into the heart of central DC, but as the administrative and government buildings grew more and more concentrated, Debra said, “Look, I’ve been working sixteen-hour days, every day for the past God knows how many days. I deserve some ‘me’ time. Take me somewhere lovely so I can relax. Let’s do what tourists do. Let’s go to Georgetown and go on a river cruise. Or let’s go to Dumbarton House . . . I’ve always wanted to see the inside. Or we can go back to Virginia and go see Great Falls Park and walk along the banks of the Potomac . . . oh God, I sound like some giddy student tourist from South Dakota seeing Washington for the first time. You must think me an idiot.”
“Not at all. I think it’s sweet. You’ve been here all this time, and you’ve probably never seen more of the city than the insides of buildings. Even spending all day beside the president of the United States can make a woman yearn for the great outdoors. Or we could go to a mall and just browse, or I’ll take you for the best burger and fries you’ve ever had in your life. Ever heard of Ray’s Hell Burger on Wilson Boulevard in Arlington? Just about the best burgers, sweet potato fries, and onion rings you’ll ever eat.”
