Perimeter

by M. A. Rothman

  Leaning forward in his chair, Juan held his breath as the man frowned and pushed his wire-rimmed glasses high onto the bridge of his nose.

  “Your research has been flagged as important enough to not allow it to be affected by this round of employment actions.”

  Juan practically collapsed back into his chair, a wave of relief flooding through him. “Thank you.”

  “Well, I told you I’d just rip the Band-Aid off quick and tell you straight. But keep in mind, if there’s another round of layoffs—and I’m not aware of one, to be clear, but I’m just saying, nothing is set in stone. Just keep up the good work and all will be fine. And be sure to give me a status report on time this Friday; I’ve got to roll up my monthly and send it to headquarters.”

  “Of course.” Juan was more than happy to go back to work. And grateful to be allowed to continue it.

  ###

  It was nearly seven in the evening, and as usual, Juan was still in the office. The DNA sequencing machine had just spit out its report on the latest tissue sample, and he was studying the columns of data. The goal was to glean meaning from any differences between the latest samples, trace the pattern of changes, and map the mutations to specific genes. It was at times mind-numbing work, but Juan lost himself in it.

  A metallic sound caught Juan’s attention. The knob to his office door turned and the door opened slowly. Steve Chalmers poked his head in and his surprised expression was quickly replaced with a broad smile as he asked, “Doing anything fun?”

  Juan pushed back from the computer monitor and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms. “Not particularly. I’ve actually reverted back to automated Sanger sequencing because this data just isn’t adding up.”

  Steve walked over and plopped himself onto the overstuffed beige armchair on the opposite side of Juan’s cluttered desk. He was in his forties but didn’t look it as he raked his hand through his blond hair. Although Steve was now leading a large team of researchers, he always exuded a carefree attitude.

  It sometimes made Juan wonder if he himself was overly fussy. Perhaps he needed a hobby. Or a new girlfriend. An older one. Maybe.

  “I don’t get you oncology types,” Steve said. “The whole topic of cancer seems so… morbid.” He laughed and jabbed his index finger in Juan’s direction. “I have a spot open on my team, if you’re thinking about a change of pace. Besides, the FDA is such a bitch when it comes to clinical trials for cancer treatments. Between the government hassling us over regulations, the few folks who have the stomach for oncology research, and the cost of bringing any treatments to market, it’s sometimes a wonder why pharmaceutical companies even bother.”

  Juan shrugged and leaned back in his chair. “I doubt anyone goes into oncology without it being a calling of sorts. For me, it’s personal.”

  Steve gave an understanding nod. “I’m sorry. I remember you telling me that—”

  “Don’t be sorry.” Juan waved dismissively. “Besides, you never visit unless you’ve got something on your mind. What’s up?”

  Steve smiled. “Have you eaten dinner yet? Felicia’s made her infamous pot roast and you can’t let me suffer through that alone.”

  Juan opened a desk drawer and held up a sack lunch that he’d neglected to eat earlier. “Sorry, I’ve got food that if I don’t eat, it will end up smelling worse than my gym socks. And besides, I’ve got a date with a forty-thousand-year-old sample who’s screaming to tell me all about her genome.”

  Steve levered up from his seat and rapped his knuckles on Juan’s desk. “You sure? What if I got Felicia to have one of her friends come over? She’s almost certainly going to be younger than that specimen of yours, and if you’re lucky, she might be a bit livelier.”

  Juan laughed but shook his head. “Another time. Say hi to Felicia for me.”

  “All right, my friend. Stay well.”

  Juan barely noticed the sound of the door closing behind Steve. He was already lost once more in the latest sequencing data.

  ###

  It was just before dawn as Nate Carrington hit the midpoint of his five-mile morning run. As he did every morning, he veered away from the jogging path toward the small unobtrusive cemetery. The manicured path was lit by the waning glow of the nearby street lights. Early-morning dew glistened on the blades of grass as he made a beeline for a gravesite he’d visited thousands of times.

  Nate breathed in the scent of the freshly cut grass as a light breeze cooled the sweat from his brow. He knelt in front of a modest tombstone and recited the words his wife had said to him almost every morning they’d woken next to each other. “Don’t kiss me, I’ve got morning breath.”

  Nate dragged his fingers gently over the dew-covered tombstone and lovingly touched his wife’s name: Madison Carrington. It had been almost twenty years since she’d passed, and not a day had gone by that he didn’t think of her.

  Sitting on his heels at her gravesite, Nate closed his eyes and thirty years seemed to vanish. It felt like only yesterday that he’d first met the shy blonde girl with the brilliant smile. He was only eighteen and wasn’t even thinking about love or soul mates—but from the moment he laid eyes on her, he knew she was the one.

  They married six months later.

  And though he spent the next ten years coming and going from Godforsaken places all over the world as a medic for the Army’s Special Forces, every time he came home, Madison was there to greet him with that beautiful smile.

  Even when he rushed home from Afghanistan on emergency leave after getting the call that she had terminal cancer, she greeted him with that same smile. Just as beautiful, despite her pain.

  She was the strongest person he’d ever known. The cancer ate up her insides, yet still she refused the drugs that would give her peace. Ease her pain. “I won’t be me with those drugs,” she explained. “And I want to be with you until the very end.”

  She was lying in his arms, at home, when she took her last breath.

  Now he leaned forward, kissed her name on the stone, and whispered, “I miss your morning breath.”

  ###

  Over his twenty-year career at the FBI, Nate had become an expert in forensic analysis. He could take all manner of disparate crime scene evidence and piece it together to understand what had really happened. In fact, in the last two decades, Nate had practically reinvented some of the techniques used in crime scene analysis; unlike many of his colleagues, he preferred to do his own fieldwork. And six months ago, he’d been assigned to the FBI Academy in Quantico, Virginia.

  He didn’t feel convinced that being a forensic science instructor was what he was best suited for, but he remembered well what the head of the FBI Academy said to him on the day he reported for his teaching assignment. “With your accomplishments, you’ve set the mark for what it means to be an FBI forensic analyst. The FBI would love to have another couple hundred of you, but since there’s only one, we need you to work with the other agents and help them learn how to do what you do.”

  It was still pre-dawn as Nate entered the secure wing that qualified as a Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility. It didn’t look as impressive as it sounded. Cheap warehouse metal furniture, white painted cinder-block walls, commercial-grade brown carpeting. Nate could still detect the stink of decades-old tobacco that had seeped into the pores of this old building. But the computers were high-tech.

  Nate sat down in front of the monitor labeled “Joint Worldwide Intelligence Communications System”—or what everyone in the intelligence community knew as “JayWicks,” the dedicated network by which Top Secret content was securely transmitted. Next to the label was a sticker of a cartoon blue jay with a feathery finger placed in front of its beak, motioning for silence.

  Nate logged into the secure system, pulled up his inbox, and opened the message that awaited him.

  TO: Nathaniel Carrington, Special Agent - FBI

  SUBJECT: Forensic analysis on military incide
nt.

  There are reasonable grounds to believe that there have been attempted cover-ups associated with activities at Homey Airport, a military base located near Groom Lake, Nevada.

  Satellite data, attached, confirms that as of eight days ago, there was a 150-acre brushfire within the borders of Homey Airport. On-site security personnel have not logged the brushfire in any incident reports.

  In addition, the soot-covered remains of a Marine corporal, were found over one hundred miles away, near the Las Vegas city limits. However, the corporal’s abandoned vehicle was found yesterday by a civilian, just outside the marked perimeter of the aforementioned military base.

  You have been assigned to investigate this situation. Report to HQ for further assignment details.

  Assistant Director Miriam W. Walker

  Operational Technology Division

  Federal Bureau of Investigation

  Drumming his fingers impatiently on his metal desk, Nate stared at the monitor and reread the message.

  He growled at nobody in particular, “What the hell does a dead Marine have to do with some fire at an Air Force base?”

  He clicked on the satellite image attachments. They were a series of overhead images detailing the Nevada landscape, both before and after the fire. But even at maximum zoom, there wasn’t enough detail to see anything worthwhile.

  He glanced at the clock hanging on the wall just as it clicked over to seven a.m. and sighed.

  I guess I better head back to the Hoover Building and see what they haven’t told me.

  ###

  It was a little before eight a.m. when Nate arrived at the Clark County coroner’s office. A dark-haired woman sat behind the receptionist’s desk.

  She peered up at him with a somber expression. “May I help you?”

  Nate held out his credentials. “I’m Special Agent Carrington from the FBI. I called earlier. I need to talk to the coroner about one of the cases that passed through this office recently.”

  “Oh, yes sir. Mr. Crawford isn’t in the office yet—he’s stuck in traffic—but he called to tell me you were coming.” She opened a desk drawer and pulled out a legal pad covered in handwritten Post-it notes. She tapped on one of them. “He said you should talk to Dr. Kim, the chief medical examiner. He worked on the deceased you’re interested in.”

  She picked up the phone and tapped an extension. “Dr. Kim… yes, it’s Monica at the front. The FBI is here and they’d like to talk to you.”

  Moments later, she was escorting Nate through the silent hallways. A short, older Asian gentleman appeared in an office doorway as they approached. The receptionist introduced Nate to Dr. Kim, then returned to the front.

  Nate shook hands with the medical examiner. “I’m Special Agent Carrington with the FBI.”

  Dr. Kim, who was barely five and a half feet tall and looked to be in his early sixties, ambled back into his office and beckoned Nate to follow him. “Please, have a seat.” The medical examiner settled behind his desk, which was covered with paperwork.

  Nate sat on the proffered chair. “Dr. Kim, I’m here as a part of an active investigation. I need to follow up on someone who’d have been processed through this office a little over a week ago. I hope you can help answer some questions.”

  The medical examiner held a neutral expression as he stated, “Well, if it’s not already in the records, I’m not sure how much help I can be. After all, Agent Carrington, we process thousands of cases through the coroner’s office. I’ll do what I can. What’s the name of the deceased?”

  “Jonathan LaForce. All I was given was a summary incident report from the Las Vegas PD. Evidently he was burned and had some injuries to his neck.”

  “Oh, yes! I remember that case. I did the autopsy. Let me pull up my report.” He began typing at his computer. “What did you need to know?”

  “I’d like to get a full copy of your findings. When I called earlier, I seemed to run into some issues getting those copies.”

  “LaForce, you say?” The medical examiner typed the name and frowned. “L-a-f-o-r-c-e?”

  Nate pulled out his notepad to check his notes. “Yes, that’s right. Is there a problem?”

  “One second.” The medical examiner picked up one of the folders on his desk, flipped it open, and began typing. A moment later he shook his head. “His record is not coming up in the database.” He typed a bit more, then shrugged. “Maybe a computer issue. But I remember the case well, it’s not often we get a partially desiccated body, attacked by what I believe was some kind of dog, and covered from head to toe in soot.” He tapped his chin. “I hate to be too specific without my notes, but I can recall the basics. Cause of death was a laceration of the carotid artery. There were bite marks on the man’s wrist—I’d say a wolf bite, but we don’t have wolves in this area, hence my guess it was a large dog with a powerful biting force. The lungs were perfectly clean—no soot, no smoke inhalation. The toxicology screen… I’m sorry, I can’t recall. A lot of cases come through here and they do become somewhat of a blur. I wouldn’t want to misspeak.”

  Nate jotted all this down. “Thanks for the summary. I’m still going to need a copy of the full report, any other notes or transcription records of the autopsy, and any and all photos. Since the computer’s giving you trouble, perhaps I could Xerox a hard copy?”

  Dr. Kim shook his head. “My case files from last week have already been taken for digitization. There’s not usually a need to hang on to them. This is the first time I’ve had an issue with finding anything in the system; probably a clerical error. If you leave me a card, I’ll get the official reports to you as soon as the mix-up is fixed.”

  Nate stood and handed the medical examiner his card. “Thanks again, doctor. Please give me a call as soon as you find the reports. I’ll arrange for them to get picked up by folks in the local FBI office.”

  “Of course.” The medical examiner studied the card and his brow furrowed. “Is there a reason why an FBI agent out of DC is looking for the autopsy records of this particular man?”

  Nate gave him a rueful smile. “I’m afraid that’s something I can’t talk about. Oh, one more thing. Is there any chance I can get a swab of the soot from the body?”

  Dr. Kim shrugged. “I’ve already done that, but I suppose I don’t see an issue with you taking another one since you currently can’t see my findings. The body should still be at the morgue.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate your help.”

  ###

  The land Nate drove through was rough, and other than a few radar towers on the top of the rocky hills, the base was unmarked. He’d yet to see a sign of life, and the repeated “No Trespassing” and “No Drone Zone” signs made it clear that the Air Force preferred it that way.

  He stopped in front of a large sign that warned him that he was on a US Air Force installation and it was unlawful to enter the area without the permission of the installation commander. Before he’d even put the car in park, a cloud of dust came racing down the road toward him. Two unmarked SUVs skidded to a stop right in front of his car, and two men in fatigues jumped out.

  One trained his assault rifle on Nate’s car and yelled, “Turn off the engine!”

  Nate turned off his car and rolled down his window.

  A second soldier approached the driver’s side of the car. Nate noticed that his fatigues were non-military issue. A badge on his shoulder read SRU Federal Services. These men were military contractors.

  Nate displayed his FBI credentials, and the soldier examined them before looking up at him with narrowed eyes.

  “Sir, you are aware that being with the FBI doesn’t authorize us to allow you entry onto this installation?”

  Nate sat up a little straighter. “Colonel Armington knows I’m coming.”

  The contractor squeezed a button on the transceiver hooked to his shoulder. “I’ve got an agent from the FBI at the perimeter. It’s a Nathaniel Carrington, he sa
ys that—” The man stopped, and Nate heard the crackle of a voice coming from his earpiece. “Yes, sir.” He motioned to the other contractor, who immediately lowered his weapon and walked back to his vehicle.

  The man turned back to Nate, his demeanor instantly transformed to one of professional courtesy as he handed back his ID. “I’m sorry for delaying you, sir. Please follow us. We’ll lead you to the duty officer and he’ll take you from there.”

  ###

  Nate walked alongside an Air Force major as they surveyed the burnt hills.

  “Agent Carrington, I’m sorry about how the goon squad may have greeted you. You have to understand, we have lots of random looky-loos coming around, searching for all sorts of crazy crap.”

  “Aliens, eh?” Nate smiled, knowing well the reputation that this installation had among the conspiracy theorists.

  “That and all sorts of other ridiculous stuff. If they knew the truth, they’d really be a lot less interested. But the more we protest there’s nothing unusual going on around here, the less they believe us. So, we just work hard at keeping them at a distance.”

  Nate knelt at the edge of the burnt field, pulled up a singed piece of dead grass, and sniffed it. It smelled of char, yet there was something faintly artificial about the scent. “So,” he said. “What caused the fire?”

  “To be honest, I wasn’t here when it happened.” The major shifted his weight from one leg to another. “I literally just got back from the Air Command Staff College. But the contractors say it was lightning. Dry grass just caught, and it spread from there.”

  Nate grabbed a plastic baggie from his evidence kit and scooped some soil in it, along with a sample of some burnt vegetation. “I can see it was strictly along your perimeter, but still, this looks like a pretty major fire. Why wasn’t it marked in an incident report?”

  The major sighed. “It should have been. The contractors here have gone to shit, and you can believe that’s something I’ll be talking to the colonel about.” He frowned. “Is that why they sent you out here? Over the lack of an incident report?”