by Joe Nobody
Wendy wasn’t what the reporter had expected – not at all. Stereotyping, he admitted. It never pays. Rather than a mousey journalism major with thick glasses and stringy hair, Tim was greeted by a very attractive co-ed with blonde curls, green eyes, and an extremely robust figure – at least the top half was robust.
Forcing his eyes to remain above the girl’s shoulders, he accepted her invitation to return to her cubicle. Proper social amenities exchanged, he settled into the guest chair. That was when Crawford received his second surprise of the visit.
“That bomb scare was pure bullshit,” the young co-ed began. “I know it was because they didn’t even bother with the hazardous materials unit. If there really had been any threat of a bomb, they would have called in the guys with the padded suits and oxygen masks, but they never did.”
Brains and beauty, Tim mused. Trying to play the role of the sage, old newshound, he prodded, “Did you ask any of the authorities about your suspicions?”
“I tried. The local dudes were all tightlipped. I couldn’t even get close to the federal guys. I did, however, manage to gather a little information.” She cleared her throat before continuing, “Just not in any academically endorsed manner, if you catch my drift,” she finished.
“Oh?”
After looking over her shoulder to make sure no one was watching, Wendy punched a few keys and then pointed to the screen. “I know one of the campus cops. I went to see him, really to dig around, and saw this image on one of the computer screens. I snapped this with my cell phone while my friend was checking out my assets. It’s amazing what a low cut top can do sometimes to champion truth, justice, and the American way,” she smiled.
“They let you in the station while a bomb threat was going on? That’s some pretty good access.”
Grinning, Wendy leaned back in her chair, providing better vantage to admire her impressive figure. “Yeah, well, this cop has made no secret that he wants in my pants pretty badly. Besides, a girl has got to use her God-given assets in a cutthroat business like this. I have noticed that when you’re equipped with a pair of these,” she declared, gesturing toward her amble chest, “men seem to become distracted. They’re a great tool to prompt conversation,” the young girl teased.
Crawford had to laugh at the girl’s honesty. He also acknowledged that she was wise beyond her years, making a note to invite her down to Houston to interview when she graduated.
Turning to study the photograph, he couldn’t make out exactly what the image was. Wendy, evidently noting the puzzled look on his face, offered to help. Pointing at the screen, she said, “It’s a rifle or some sort of gun. You can see the outline of the barrel here, the stock back on this side.”
With her help, Crawford could indeed make out the shape of a rifle. “Have you asked anyone to clean up this image?”
“No. Until you called, I wasn’t sure what I would do with it, and while I know some serious computer nerds here on campus, I didn’t want the word spreading around that I took this pic. Besides, those guys creep me out.”
“No problem,” Crawford offered, “we’ve got some techs down at the Post who might be able to enhance this image.”
Tim began to explain his suspicions, but Wendy stopped him with a finger to her lips. Leaning forward, she whispered, “This is a very competitive environment around here. Why don’t we go get some coffee and talk in private?”
Before long, the duo of reporters was strolling across the campus, heading for a place Wendy called “the Barn.” As they walked, Tim started at the beginning of what he knew and proceeded through the timeline, Wendy listening intently to every word.
“That all makes sense,” she commented as they entered the Java Barn.
After ordering the beverages, they found an empty corner table that afforded some privacy. “You know they arrested Dr. Mitchell right here at the Barn, don’t you?”
“No, I didn’t know that. He was drinking coffee?”
“Yup. One of the guys that works here told me that two policeman came in with a picture of the professor, asking if anyone had seen him. Dr. Weathers was sitting right here at this very table, according to my source.”
Crawford chuckled at her use of the term. “We need more facts to back up this wild and wooly tale. Do you know where Professor Weathers might be? I’d like to interview him.”
“I know he’s out of jail. Sandy, the girl at the reception desk, saw him yesterday. From what I hear, he’s keeping a low profile. We might find him at his office.”
“Do you know where that is?”
“Yup. I can take you there.”
Sipping his brew, Tim made up his mind. “Wendy, let’s do this story together – equally shared byline. We’ll release it in both papers at the same time.”
“Really? That would sure help my grade,” the girl replied with a smile.
After finishing the outline, the two reporters left the Java Barn, the College of Science administration building their destination. The lobby directory pointed them to the second floor where they soon found Professor Weathers’ office.
Mitch was sitting at his desk, rearranging his schedule. It was the summer semester, and his class load was light. Finding replacements wasn’t proving difficult. A light knock at the door drew his attention, a middle-aged man and student-aged girl standing in his threshold. A student in grade trouble and her father, immediately came to mind.
“Hello, may I help you?” the professor asked.
The man produced a business card, handing it to Mitch across the desk. “Professor Weathers, I’m Tim Crawford from the Houston Post, this is my associate, Wendy Hardin from the Battalion. We’d like to ask you a few questions, sir.”
Mitch’s facial expression flashed surprise, mostly at his misread of the visitor’s intent. That reaction was immediately replaced by fear. Agent Monroe would shanghai his ass back into a cell over this.
“I’m… I’m sorry, but I’m incredibly busy at the moment. I’d be happy to conduct an interview later, if we could schedule a time… say next week?”
He’s scared, Crawford realized. He’s almost terrified. I wonder why.
Clearing his throat, the Post reporter decided to go for the kill with the first question and avoid giving the man across from him time to recover from his anxiety. “I apologize for dropping in unannounced, sir, but this story is moving very quickly. I’d like to ask about your brother, Durham, and this device that’s causing all the headlines.”
Crawford studied his victim’s reaction carefully. He’d interviewed thousands of different people during his tenure as a newsman and felt like his ability to interpret someone’s body language was as close to scientific as you could get. What he saw on the professor’s face was fear being replaced with horror. Pure, unmasked, soul-deep horror.
Stuttering, Mitch replied, “I, I don’t know what you’re referring to, Mr. Crawford.”
Shaking his head, Crawford bluffed. “Oh, come on, Doctor. We know about Durham’s flight from College Station. We know about the military jets. We know he was in Houston when….”
Mitch interrupted, his words confirming Tim’s suspicions. “How do you know….” The professor caught himself – too late. Tim had his confirmation.
“We have our sources, Dr. Weathers. We know all the facts from the government’s angle. I’d like to know the other side of the story before we go to press.”
Professor Weathers clammed up, but Crawford didn’t care. Those four little words, “How do you know,” told him everything he needed. It all fell into place as Mitch was asking them to leave.
On the way out of the building, Wendy commented, “Well, we didn’t get much there. Sorry.”
“But we did, Wendy. We got everything we needed. When I mentioned his brother’s escapades, he didn’t reply with ‘What are you talking about,’ or ‘That’s not what happened.’ No, he was terrified we already knew. We did good.”
“So you’re going to count that as a confirmation? That
’s a stretch if you ask me.”
Crawford held the door open for his associate and replied, “Your name is going to be on the byline, Wendy. If you don’t believe the article is accurate, then we won’t publish it.”
Stopping, the girl peered at Crawford before responding, “I never said that. Let’s go get it written up, and then we’ll see if we agree.”
Fifteen minutes later, they were back at the Java Barn, fingers flying over Tim’s keyboard.
Mitch sat at his desk, stunned. He held the business card from the obnoxious reporter in his hand, the sweat from his palm already discoloring one edge. He played the upcoming conversation with Monroe over and over in his head, almost as many times as he debated whether to even call. That decision was made when he realized the FBI probably had his office bugged.
Finally, he pulled his cell phone out and tapped the Houston number.
“Monroe.”
“Agent Monroe, this is Mitch Weathers. I’m honoring my word by notifying you I had two visitors this morning. Both were reporters, both know a shocking amount of facts concerning recent events.”
“Go on.”
“I didn’t tell them anything, but one Mr. Timothy Crawford from the Houston Post sat here in my office and recited quite a bit of yesterday’s activities. Claimed he had government sources and wanted my side of the story. He knows about Dusty, the military jets, and the rail gun.”
“What? How could he…. Are you sure you didn’t spill the beans, Doctor?”
Mitch lied, a little. “I swear it, sir. I said nothing.”
“This is disturbing. It looks as if your idea to promote a bomb threat didn’t work.”
Mitch pulled the phone away from his ear, looking at the device as if it had generated the insult. He said, “Or you didn’t implement it very well. Besides, the reporter claimed to have a government source.”
The man on the other end of the conversation didn’t respond for a minute. Finally, “What paper was the other reporter from?”
“I can’t remember. I think he said where she worked, but I was a little taken aback and can’t recall.”
“This is unfortunate. One paper, we might be able to influence the leak. Two papers present a more complex issue.”
I bet it does, pondered Mitch. “I’ve honored our agreement, Agent Monroe. Is there anything else you need to know?”
“No. I hope you receive a call back from Secretary Witherspoon today. We’re getting close to your brother, and I doubt he’ll surrender peacefully.”
“What is the cutoff for your deadline?” Wendy asked.
Crawford smirked at the junior reporter over his cup of coffee, “For this story, they’ll hold the edition. What do you think?”
“I think we’re done. My editor is going to throw a fit over the amount of speculation. He’s an old fuddy-duddy when it comes to hard, verified facts, but if the Post is running it, he’ll bend the rules.”
Tim held a single finger high above the keyboard and mumbled, “Fire away.” He pressed the command to send the email, and then grinned at Wendy. “This calls for a celebration. How about I buy dinner?”
The younger girl was skeptical, “Your boss hasn’t agreed to publish the article yet. Isn’t it a bit pre-mature to celebrate?”
“He will. Trust me. He will.”
The two newshounds were just finishing their coffee when Crawford’s cell phone rang. Glancing at the caller ID and then his partner, he mouthed, “My editor – right on time,” and answered the call.
“What’s up, boss?”
“Crawford,” boomed the gruff voice through the tiny speaker, “What is this pile of shit you’ve dumped in my inbox?”
“I think it’s the best piece I’ve ever written. Is there a problem?”
“I’m not sure you understand, son. We are running a newspaper here, not some supermarket tabloid. You might as well claim this gun you’re talking about was left on this planet by aliens.”
Tim looked at a concerned Wendy and winked. Covering the phone’s mic, he whispered, “He always does this. He likes the article, I can tell.”
Wendy was skeptical.
“Look, boss, most everything in that piece I can back up, and the part that is conjecture is clearly identified. Most of it is already public knowledge anyway.”
A loud grunt came from Houston, followed by, “How you’ve cleverly packaged this supposedly clear conjecture is what I’m the most worried about, Tim. You should have been a lawyer. Nine out of ten people will read this, and believe it’s all the gospel truth.”
“Actually, I’m very sure it is all true. Besides, the main point of the piece is for the government to come clean and tell us what they know. After all, if there is a madman running around with a weapon that powerful, the public has a right to know.”
Again, a long period passed before any response, Crawford visualizing the editor rubbing his temple from the headache the reporter just delivered. “Okay, we’ll splash it on page one tomorrow. Heaven help us all.”
“Thanks, boss.”
Tim ended the call and then high-fived Wendy, both reporters beaming with excitement. “Now, he said, let’s call your editor and then grab a bite.”
Mitch was so lost in thought, the ring of his cell caused him to flinch. An unknown caller ID flashed on the screen.
“Mitch, it’s Henry Witherspoon. I received your message. What the hell is going on down at A&M?”
“Dr. Witherspoon, thank you so much for calling, sir. I was beginning to think I was poison.”
“That’s ridiculous, Mitch. You know I have the highest regard for you and your team.”
The Secretary of Energy remained silent while Mitch explained the situation. During the conversation, he emailed some of the video proof of his claims to a private account of his former professor.
“In summary, sir, you can understand the reason why I’ve pulled you into this conundrum.”
Witherspoon was quiet for a moment, obviously digesting Mitch’s core dump. “This is extraordinary – almost unbelievable. If this information was coming from anyone but you and Floss, I’d never believe it.”
“I was there, sir, and I still find myself questioning a million things about the entire episode.”
“If this data is accurate, we have the opportunity to channel infinite energy. It’s a fork in the road. We can go the right direction and utilize this for the benefit of humankind – or the wrong path that results in ultimate destruction. I get it. You were wise to try and keep this under wraps, Mitch. The whole thing reminds me of Einstein’s quote about the atom.”
Mitch chuckled at the analogy. Well acquainted with the agony of his hero, the professor’s mind extracted the famous quote from its archived recesses. ‘The release of atom power has changed everything except our way of thinking...the solution to this problem lies in the heart of mankind. If only I had known, I should have become a watchmaker,’ Einstein had ruminated. The agony suffered by the genius over his theories leading to the development of the atom bomb was well documented in the scientific community. “I think my brother would say being a gunsmith is just as noble as a watchmaker, sir.”
“I think I would like your brother. Let’s hope I get to meet him one day soon. In the meantime, I’ll get a meeting scheduled with the president to discuss this discovery. My office doesn’t carry a lot of political weight in Washington, so it might be a bit before I can gain access to the castle, but I promise you I will. The Commander in Chief has a lot on his plate at the moment. I’ll do my best.”
Day 7
The folded copy of the Post hit the table with about as much force as a newspaper could. More noise than kinetic energy, only two of the FBI personnel seated around the conference table flinched. The paper scooted across the table, the bold headline reading, “God’s Gun Loose in Houston,” clearly visible.
“God’s gun,” hissed Monroe. “How do they dream this stuff up?”
No one answered, a signal for the lead ag
ent to continue his rant. “If I find out who the leak is, he or she will be spending quality time with many of the criminals we’ve put behind bars. I hope he gets a cellmate named Bubba, and I hope the resident jailbird finds our snitch attractive.”
The crude threat hung in the air for a moment, Monroe venting frustration that went beyond the article. He continued, “Our fugitive has gone down a rabbit hole. We’ve not had any contact since the police witnessed him knock down the towers. He’s obviously getting help from someone in this town.”
“It’s not his ex-wife,” offered a younger agent at the end of the table. “She’s a difficult surveillance, for sure, but I’m convinced there’s been no contact. We’ve got her office, home, and car covered. Her cell, office, and home phones are all wired. She moves around a lot, showing houses and meeting clients, but we’ve seen zero evidence of Mr. Weathers.”
Monroe processed the report, finally offering, “What about turning on the microphone on her smart phone?”
The man in charge of Maria’s detail looked down. “DOJ messed up on the warrant. They didn’t get that included in the paperwork.”
“Well do it anyway!” shouted Monroe. “If a case is eventually brought against either of them, we can always implement parallel construction afterwards.”
Broaching the subject of parallel construction added a layer of stress to the members of Monroe’s team. While commonly used against drug dealers, international syndicates, and organized crime, the order to use the questionable method against a United States citizen wasn’t very common. While the concept was simple, the ramifications were not. If evidence was gathered via an illegal act, it wasn’t admissible in a court of law. What Monroe was suggesting involved creating a false, but seemingly legal trail, so prosecutors could use the ill-gotten gains against a defendant. It was lying. Perjury.
“Is there a problem here, people?” Monroe asked, scanning from face to face around the table. “Just in case some of you missed it, let me catch you up on current events. Our suspect has engaged and destroyed two, fully armed, military interceptors. He is responsible for untold financial damage to the citizens of north Houston. We have businesses without power, homes without water, and roads that are impassable. Millions and millions of dollars lost. Can anyone here support an argument that extreme measures aren’t warranted?”
