After checking the recording I went to the men’s restroom. As I passed the mirrors over the sinks I glanced at my reflection and was horrified to see that a fine spray of blood had indeed been captured by my right sleeve and the front of my shirt.
Rushing back to the security desk, trying to not appear desperate as I passed the cameras in the hallway, I dug out the first aid kit from which I extracted a small bottle of hydrogen peroxide. Pocketing it, again because of the cameras, I went back to the bathroom where I removed my shirt. Using paper towels and the peroxide I spot cleaned the blood. There was so much of it my entire sleeve was wet as well as a large portion of the front of the shirt. Before putting the uniform back on I saw that the blood had also spattered my right ear, cheek and neck. So I washed up then got dressed, and hoped no one would come into the building until my shirt had time to dry. Fortunately the night stayed dead and by the time I was relieved all evidence of blood on my uniform or person was gone.
When my relief came in that Saturday morning I briefed him on the quietness of an uneventful night. As he studied the sign in/out log he observed that Thurston Treen was signed in since last night and I assured him that I had checked the cameras and there was no activity, so Mr. Treen must be sleeping on his office sofa or something. Must be working on a project with a deadline or something. Who knows, huh?
My relief agreed and took the post and I grabbed my lunch box and went home to get some well-deserved sleep.
The phone rang in my apartment shortly after 2pm on that Saturday. Having only been asleep for three and a half hours I answered the call with a short-tempered grunt, but sweetened up when I heard the security Captain on the line.
“Cole, sorry to wake you.”
“Oh. That’s ok sir. Is there a problem?” I asked sleepily
“Sorry to do this to you Cole, but I need you to come back to work immediately.” He said
“Now sir?” I whined “I’ve hardly gotten to sleep.”
“There’s been a problem here.” He said. “An accident. The police are here and they want to talk to you because it must have happened during your shift. Sorry but you need to come back in.”
I said ok and washed my face and got dressed and went back to the building, looking very confused and sleepy and concerned.
The place was absolutely crawling with uniforms and suits. I didn’t know who all of these people were or why there needed to be so many of them. There were black unmarked vehicles all over the lower level of the garage and the drive thru near the front door. Marked patrol cars were all around the building as well as ambulance and Coroner’s vehicle, and the place was a zoo.
When I entered the lobby I walked directly to the security desk where the guy who had relieved me earlier was standing, dutifully staying out of the way. I asked him what happened and he said, “Cole, remember when you said Mr. T. pulled an all-nighter and must be sleeping on his sofa?” I said I remembered, sure, and he said, “Well, he wasn’t. He was in the shredder.”
I stared at him for a moment as though trying to let it sink in, then I shook my head and said, “In the shredding room?” and he said, “No! Cole. In. The. Shredder.” I slowly let my eyes go wide and dropped my mouth open and in my peripheral vision I saw a black suit approaching, so instead of saying anything else I turned my shocked face toward the suit and let him study me for a moment before recovering my facial muscles and asking “What happened?”
The guy introduced himself as Detective somebody and asked me if I was Cole Everman. I said I was. Then the grilling started. But you don’t need or want it all. Long and short of it; I was interrogated by three or four different investigators. I don’t know why they couldn’t all listen at the same time so I wouldn’t have to keep repeating myself, but in the end they seemed satisfied that I didn’t know anything.
I had followed procedure, I had checked the tapes and had not seen any movement there, and as security I was not required to know why a department head was spending all night in his office. So I finally got to go home and get some sleep, and I was off until Monday night so I got to miss the hullaballoo that went on all over the building that day.
I didn’t want to raise suspicion by asking too many gruesome questions so I had to just listen to the gossip between security staff. The scuttlebutt was, Mrs. Treen had come to the building looking for her husband around noon because he hadn’t come home and wasn’t answering his office phone. So the officer on duty, the one who had relieved me, took her to Mr. T’s office and there was no one there. So while she waited in the lobby he went walking around the building, checking bathrooms and so forth, and finally got around to Jaws, where all he found was a lot of gore and a man’s body from belly button down, sticking straight up out of the monster’s mouth. The machine, overloaded, had jammed causing an emergency shutoff switch to kick, which was designed to prevent fire as a result of overheating.
Poor Mr. Treen must’ve leaned to retrieve something he didn’t want to go into the shredder, like his name tag or something. Or maybe he fainted. Or maybe he had a heart attack. One thing all the medical experts on the security staff were certain of though…the autopsy wasn’t going to provide much information.
That was 1985. I stayed at that job another six months just to avoid anyone ever thinking I left too soon after the terrible death of Thurston Treen. But I was thirty-one years old and the whopping $7.65 per hour I was getting for rattling door knobs and walking parking garages wasn’t cutting it for me. So I moved on.
CHAPTER 7
During the flight to Colorado Springs, Agents Runyan and Sterling compared notes. They agreed that their suspicions had been confirmed by this last entry of Everman’s, that he thought he was the self-appointed avenger of those oppressed by bullies.
“Something else that’s standing out for me” added Monica, “is that in every case so far his actions have been related to the mistreatment of some female he has taken an interest in.”
Sam agreed with that also, and added “And so far, it appears he is imagining that the female who has caught his interest is also interested in him. But think back. In Trinidad he liked Yolanda Lagorio, but she wasn’t interested in him. He also seemed to spend a lot of time thinking about that other girl who was raped and eventually died…Painter was the name…but there is no indication that she even knew who he was! Then, of course, we now know the rest of Eileen Dornan’s story and in this account from Colorado Springs Everman can’t even recall the name of the woman whose cause he was supposedly championing.”
“Yeah.” Monica looked down at the Everman file for a minute and looking back up at Sam she said, “Y’know, it seems like as time went by it became less and less about defending someone else, and more and more about him wanting to kill someone.”
Their plane landed at Colorado Springs Airport. As the plane taxied to the terminal, Sam turned his cell on preparing to check in with Kim. He had asked her to find out what she could about the Treen murder, and if possible, names and addresses of surviving relatives.
Before he could tap his contacts list the cell indicated he had voicemail, so he went there first. It was a message from Kim asking him to call A.S.A.P.
“Agent Runyan!” Kim answered, stifling a giggle.
“What are you laughing about?” Sam asked as he heard a male voice in the background.
“Oh, sorry,” she said, “Deputy Springer is here and he just said something funny as my phone rang. Do you remember Deputy Springer?”
Sam looked at Monica and rolled his eyes. She gave him a confused look in response. “Yes, Kim, I remember Deputy Springer. Why is he there?”
“Um, he’s just interested in following the Everman case to see where it all leads, so he’s checked in a couple of times in the last week or so. He’s also been going out to that crime scene in Trinidad while they search for remains.”
“Find anything interesting out there?”
There was a brief exchange at the other end while Kim passed Sam’s quest
ion to John and he responded.
“So far just some buttons and buckles and a neck chain and a few pieces of bone scattered around. They’re having to move some of the iron so it’s going slowly.”
Sam had a feeling Deputy Springer’s interest had more to do with Kim India than Cole Everman but he let it go by. “I see. Tell him we said hello and we’d be interested in any news from out at that scene. Kim…”
Before he could go on she interrupted. “Sorry to cut you off, Agent Sam. I have information you’ll want right away. I was doing a search for reports on the Treen incident, and as you know it was considered an accident at the time so there didn’t seem to be much to find. I was trying to access county morgue files thinking through them I might be able to trace family, and I got a call from the U.S. Marshal’s District Office in Colorado Springs.”
“Just a second, Kim” said Sam, “Let me put you on speaker so Agent Sterling can listen in.” As he hit the speaker icon he briefly updated Monica. “Ok Kim, continue please” he said.
“Ok. I was called by Deputy Marshal Fred Daniels. It seems my inquiries activated some kind of red flag in their system. He wouldn’t give me any detailed information, but asked me why I was looking for reports concerning Thurston Treen. When I told him, he asked me to have you contact him in person at his office. I’m sending the address to your cell; he said he’d wait there for your arrival.”
His brow furrowed with curiosity, Sam said, “Ok, Kim. Thank you” and broke off the call.
Monica’s eyebrows went up. “Interesting development. More to Thurston Treen than meets the eye.”
“It would seem so” Sam agreed. “Well, let’s rent a car and find the Marshal’s office. We can get rooms later. I’m curious to know what we’ve stirred up here.”
At the reception desk in the lobby of the District Office of the U.S. Marshal Service, a matronly woman with black-rimmed glasses and wearing a white blouse that buttoned snuggly around her neck, smiled politely as she hung up her phone and told the Agents that Deputy Marshal Daniels was on his way to escort them into the building.
Thanking her, Sam stepped over to a wall that displayed the pride of the USMS. The Marshal Service has quite a distinguished history and reputation for courage and integrity. A modern applicant to the service must have a Bachelor’s Degree or several years in local or state law enforcement in order to be considered. Once accepted a recruit undergoes intense training in a seventeen week course at the Federal Law Enforcement Training Center in Glynco, Georgia, known among law enforcement professionals to be one of the toughest training programs in the United States.
Sam was scanning the list of Marshals from past history and recognizing some of the more famous names, such as Wyatt Earp and his brothers, Virgil and Morgan, and a few others. The name of Bat Masterson, appointed Deputy Marshal for the southern New York District by none other than President Theodore Roosevelt, had just caught Sam’s eye when his reading was interrupted by Deputy Daniels’ greeting. Having seen Daniels coming into the lobby from an adjoining hallway, Monica was already approaching to shake his hand.
Fred Daniels was tall and slim. Sam fought to keep a straight face as he instantly pictured the Deputy dressed more like Wyatt Earp and in his mind gave him a bushy, drooping moustache, wide-brimmed hat and low-slung Buntline Special revolver. In the real world, Daniels wore a dark blue suit, white shirt and a red and blue striped tie. He didn’t wear cowboy boots, but black leather shoes that appeared to have been freshly shined and buffed, and his salt and pepper hair was cropped to approximately two inches long and laid flat with the assistance of some kind of hair wax.
Following introductions, Deputy Daniels invited them to follow him to his office. They entered the hallway from which he had appeared and stopped at an elevator bank halfway down the corridor. After pushing the up button, Deputy Daniels explained that his office was on the third floor. He said, “I’ll be introducing you to a man waiting there for us. He is with the NSA and asked to be in on our conversation.”
Monica said, “Wait; the National Security Agency? That NSA?”
At the Deputy’s nod, Sam asked, “Did his office get flagged also when our tech did her search?” Daniels nodded again. As they rode up to the third floor he said, “Both of our agencies have an interest in knowing why the FBI would be investigating Thurston Treen after twenty-nine years. And of course, in order to get our questions answered by you, we realize you’re going to have a few of your own in return. That’s why, instead of having a phone conference with you we thought we may as well all get in the same room and compare notes.”
The elevator door opened and Daniels led them down another carpeted hall to his office. Opening the door, he stepped back to let the agents walk in. Monica entered first with Sam behind. As they viewed the tidy and conservatively decorated office a man stood from a couch that backed up to a shelf containing law books, binders and various stacks of report folders.
He was shorter than Sam and appeared to be in his mid-forties. He was slightly heavy set and his suit appeared somewhat rumpled as though he had worn it for a few days on a long trip, although presumably his office was here in the Springs and probably only a few minutes’ drive from their present location.
Daniels did the introductions. “Special Agents Runyon and Sterling,” he said and indicated each of them in turn with an open palm, this is Investigator Duane Gilson with Homeland Security.” Turning to face Gilson, Daniels said, “On the elevator ride up here, I very briefly explained to Agents Runyon and Sterling that someone from the NSA was here to join in our discussion.”
Gilson nodded and headed back to his seat. Sam had noticed that Gilson’s index and middle finger were yellowed with years of nicotine stain. As they greeted during introductions he had also noticed that the man smelled like a cold ashtray. He was thinking that as soon as was convenient and polite, he would excuse himself to the men’s room and scrub his own hands with soap and hot water. A quick glance Monica’s way told him that her assessment of Gilson was much the same as his own.
They took chairs that sat in front of Daniels’ desk but had been angled so they could face the man on the couch as well as the one behind the desk. As Daniels took to his chair he said, “Ok, I guess I should begin with the explanations, since I was the one who called the meeting. Speaking as a representative of the U.S. Marshal’s Service, I can tell you that Thurston Treen died while performing an undercover function for the government. After his death, and because what he had been involved with was an on-going operation, his family was taken into the witness protection program. What caused the red flags to go up in Investigator Gilson’s office was the search of Treen’s name. What made ours go up here at the USMS was your tech’s search for his family. As you are aware, as soon as someone enters the witness protection program, their names are changed, they are given a new history, medical records, social security number and so forth, and are relocated. Unfortunately, we cannot share any of that information with your agency unless there is a need for the FBI to contact them that overrides their need for security. As you can imagine it would have to be quite a drastic need.”
From the couch, Gilson tossed out his first inquiry with a thin tone of sarcasm. “You folks care to share how the name Thurston Treen came to the attention of the FBI?”
Sam was deciding that although he’d only known this guy for five minutes he already didn’t like him for five years. Taking a deep breath and beginning slowly so his irritation wouldn’t show, he answered the question. “We have been following the steps of a man who is now dead, but left behind a diary of sorts, which traces his life from fourteen years of age until his recent death at age sixty-two, murdering people along the way for twisted reasons of his own. In one chapter of this diary he gives the account of his years living in Colorado Springs, during which he worked as a security officer in the same building as Thurston Treen.”
“At the Military Professional Personnel & Resource Supply” Gilson shot in.
<
br /> “That is correct” said Sam. Only Monica picked up on the slight strain in his voice as he responded to the interruption. Then he continued. “This man in question is Cole Everman. He claims in this confession he left behind, to have murdered Treen one night while Treen was using an industrial sized shredder in the basement of that building. What Agent Sterling and I are doing, is attempting to confirm the veracity of things that Everman wrote, and where possible, contact family left behind to give them some closure since…”
Gilson interrupted again. “That all happened three decades ago. Why stir it all back up now?”
Monica could almost feel the electricity coming off Sam so she jumped in with her own response. “Investigator Gilson,” he interrupted her now, to say, “You can call me Duane”. The smile on his face was a leer. “Investigator Gilson,” she continued, “A murder was committed, according to the confession left behind by Cole Everman. This is the third town we have visited as we have followed the guide he provided, and up to this point we have been able to confirm his account as true in each case. As these missing persons cases and presumed accidents are being established as homicides, we are simply wanting to close the cases and make the truth known to whomever may be interested and/or affected by the loss of their loved ones.”
Sam sat forward in his chair, elbows on the arms and his hands clasped in front of him. “Investigator Gilson, can you tell us what it was Treen was doing that was secret at the time? You mentioned that the operation was still in progress after his death, but surely after 30 years that file has been declassified; am I correct?”
The Everman Journal Page 16
