Blinding Fear (10 page)

Frank dazedly watched as the man walked quickly toward him, pull his leg back and direct what Frank knew would be a fatal blow toward his head.

Chapter 15

Lieutenant Austen Beckett of the Massachusetts State Police Fire and Explosion Investigation Section surveyed the three day-old scene of the massive explosion and fire on the campus of Harvard University. He knew something was wrong. In spite of what the FBI was saying, the emerging causal factors just didn’t add up and he didn’t like it.

Ignoring a light drizzle, he stood at the edge of the parking lot of what used to be the Center for Astrophysics complex. He visually surveyed the shattered and charred remains of what had once been the bucolic home for astronomy on campus. Hundreds of small, differently colored cones dotted the devastation, signifying where various pieces of crucial evidence had fallen. Large plumes of steam drifted out of the still-smoldering, gigantic trash heap that had once been a proud building. The hundred year-old copper observation domes were now virtually unrecognizable piles of partially melted slag.

Something caught his attention at his feet. It was a red cone. He bent down, picked it up and saw underneath what appeared to be part of a human molar. He straightened up, took a deep breath and whispered to himself, “Good Lord, what happened here?”

He took a few moments trying to better understand the apparent chain of events that led to the landscape of utter destruction in front of him. They’d been very fortunate in one respect. A high-definition surveillance camera at a local convenience store had caught the delivery van as it slowly drove toward the campus—the name, address and phone number of the business clearly visible on its side. Without the video they’d have sifted through the dime-sized pieces of human anatomy and vehicle for months trying as best they could to literally and figuratively put the pieces together. The truth was it could have taken them more than a year to solve the mystery.

Somehow, an apparently drunk Guatemalan emigrant accidentally drives what amounts to a 2,000 pound bomb on wheels into a seemingly random building reducing it to smoking rubble in seconds. He is out that night as the result of an apparently phony order for explosive gases at an industrial lab on campus. From what is an apparent—there was that damn word again!—standing start, the 21 year-old van is going at least a nearly impossible 60 to 65 MPH when it hits the building. The owner of the delivery business says he recently had all of the engine hoses and belts replaced, yet there is a leak in a gas line that leads to the first small explosion moments after the impact. At least two to three of the very robustly engineered and constructed gas canisters fail in the crash, multiplying a relatively simple engine fire by a thousand times, creating a full-on, fuel-air explosion that would make the U.S. Air Force proud.

But what is the most puzzling piece of the entire jigsaw puzzle is the destruction of the $500,000 Cray XC-30AC computer in the basement of the building directly below the site of the impact. Belonging to the International Astronomical Union (IAU), the Central Bureau for Astronomical Telegrams computer (what kind of name was that!) was the sole repository for all new comet discoveries worldwide for the last hundred years or so. Now they were all gone. The IAU calls the loss “mind numbing.”

Was it possible the entire event was not an accident at all? Was all this a masterfully orchestrated “hit” on the computer? But why? What kind of astronomical data or information could it possibly contain that would make all this necessary? He had no answers nor did the nearly inconsolable IAU director he interviewed the day before.

His introspection was interrupted by an attractive (weren’t they always), on-air female reporter from WFXT, the Fox News Channel affiliate in Boston, rushing toward him. Immediately in tow was the required cameraman and video camera, along with the blinding field video light, ready for an on-the-the-spot interview. Behind her he could see many other TV, radio and print reporters moving as one in his direction. All undoubtably hoping for some tidbit of new information they could breathlessly pass on to their viewers, listeners or readers.

“Lt. Beckett!” she called out as she approached. “I’m Stacy Eggers with Fox 25 Boston. Would you care to comment about the stories circulating that the driver of the van, Adelmo Garza, was in this country illegally and he was drunk?”

A Boston Globe reporter he’d dealt with on several other occasions, unencumbered by a cameraman, ran past her and skidded to a stop, nearly falling on the wet asphalt. Almost before he could straighten up he tried to fire off a question. “Given that Mr. Garza was apparently being paid under-the-table by his employer, do you think.......”

“I don’t deal in ‘apparentlys.’ Beckett said curtly, cutting him off. “I deal in hard, cold, fact and truth. And I would hope and expect that you would do the same. Beyond that I have no additional comments.”

The four sentences were the most he’d said to the press in the roughly 48 hours since the initial press conference he’d convened and lead. There was no point in talking to them anymore when there were very few answers to an ever-growing list of questions.

He ducked under the yellow crime scene tape that surrounded the complex, tried to straighten up and immediately felt every day of his 49 years. The bad back he’d acquired while fighting with a robbery suspect many years before immediately made itself known again. When he stopped to massage the throbbing back, his knee decided to join the pain parade, reminding him yet again he would soon have to replace it.

Trying as best he could to ignore the pain, he limped toward a cluster of a dozen police investigators from the State of Massachusetts, City of Cambridge and Harvard University, as well as other agencies directly involved in the investigation. He could see they were having a fairly heated discussion and decided it would be best to take control before the numerous cameras aimed in their direction got a “juicy” story for the evening news: “Breaking news! Cambridge explosion investigators arguing!”

He broke into the circle, raising his hands, hoping to calm the storm. “Whoa! Whoa! Enough already! In case all you geniuses hadn’t noticed, we’re surrounded by about 10,000 media types just itching for something to take back to their editors. I’d prefer the story not be that city, state and campus investigators were having a fist fight! What in hell is going on?!”

The huddle of men and women quieted, looking at each other, wondering who would speak for the group in response to Beckett, who was the lead investigator for the state and local team.

The chief of the Campus Police, himself a retired former state police captain, spoke first. “We don’t like this thing turning into a media circus. We can hardly breathe without some self-appointed spokesperson for the ‘public trust’ chasing us down, demanding answers we don’t have. Some of us think you should have another press conference to pacify them.”

A tall, young woman cut in next. Beckett recognized her as the PR spokesperson for the City of Cambridge and recent grad from the Harvard Journalism School. “Not a good idea. Essentially we’ve got more questions that answers. We don’t want to look like a pack of fools. We should wait until we’ve got solid answers based on good forensics, which from all you’ve been telling me, is so far inconclusive.”

“Not according to the FBI,” the Cambridge fire chief said. “That big special agent that’s been pushing everybody around says as far as he’s concerned it’s an open-and-shut case: a drunk driver loses control and crashes, plain and simple. Yeah, it takes out a historic building and valuable computer, but that’s it in a nutshell. And since he’s really in charge—no offense Austen—we should defer to him and wrap this thing up.”

The city’s CSI chief cut in next. “For me, I think the thing that’s most frustrating is how the FBI and Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms investigative teams have disappeared into the woodwork. And what about the federal OSHA guys? Normally those three agencies are front and center with every part of an unprecedented investigation like this one. This time they’re conspicuous in their absence. Why? We’ve been the only ones getting our hands dirty. Maybe you should talk to that agent some more and get them back on the job.”

A couple agreed, while the majority didn’t. They began to argue again.

“Come on people! Give me a break!” Beckett hissed, trying not to be heard by the crush of media who were beginning to watch with greater interest from afar. When the team calmed down he continued. “Yeah, the FBI’s ultimately in charge, and yeah I don’t understand why the Feds aren’t as involved as they should be. But we’ve got an obligation to the citizens of this city and state to get it right. For now let’s break up this little conclave and all head back to our hotels for the night. What I’d like all of you to do is get a good nights rest. I think we’re getting a little bit punch drunk from the overtime and constant pressure. As best you can, try to forget about this mess, at least for one night. We’ll take a fresh look at it tomorrow. In the meantime I’ll see if I can get with whoever I can in the Bureau to get them more involved. I’ll also......”

Just then the PR spokesperson interrupted. “Speak of the devil.” She gently nodded her head toward an approaching figure. A tall, very athletic-looking man, wearing the ubiquitous, dark-navy FBI jacket, slid under the yellow tape and with long, confident strides approached the group.

“Head for the hills folks,” Beckett quietly said. “I’ll send you a text as to when and where we’ll meet again.” He sighed with resignation. “I’ll deal with our friend from the feds.”

The group scattered in different directions trying as best they could to fend off the vultures from the Fourth Estate as they tried to pick off individual team members.

The FBI agent ignored the rest of the group, heading straight toward Beckett, who, in spite of his bad back, tried to straighten himself up to his full 5’ 10” height; this in a hopeless attempt to counter the other man’s at least six inch advantage.

“Agent Ludlow. What can I do for you?” Beckett said impassively as the agent, ostensibly in charge of the entire investigation, came to halt a few feet away. He knew from the fortunately few times they’d met over the last 72 hours that the man cared little for professional courtesy and protocols, so he wasn’t surprised or insulted when the man got right to whatever point he had.

“I see you’ve been meeting with your team again. I trust that as far as the state- and local-level investigations are concerned you’re ready to wrap things up.”

“No, not really.” Beckett said as casually as he could. “There are a few loose ends that I need to.....”

“Let me make myself perfectly clear, Lt. Beckett,” Ludlow rudely interrupted. “Your investigation is now over. We’ve seen all the forensic and other physical evidence your team has sent over. We have also compiled our own data and are ready to close everything down. The evidence is overwhelming. The illegal alien was drunk. He lost control of the van. He crashed into the astrophysics building resulting in an explosion and fire. End of story.” He paused, almost triumphantly, smiling slightly, seemingly daring Beckett to contradict him in any way.

Beckett stared at Ludlow for a few seconds, trying to compose himself, as his blood pressure and heart rate soared in anger and frustration. He knew he could end up in hot water if he pushed the arrogant SOB too far. The governor and mayor had both already told him to cooperate in every way with Ludlow. The agent had apparently been on the phone with both within hours of the explosion; which was a big red flag by itself. As Beckett looked at things now, he knew with growing certainty there was something more—perhaps even sinister—to this “accident” and he was going to find out exactly what it was.

“What I’m going to do Agent Ludlow is.....”

“What you’re going to do, Lt. Beckett, is send me every last piece of evidence—no matter how small—including anything you may have ‘forgotten’ about,” Ludlow said, making quotations marks with his fingers, “so that we can complete our final report to the Director of the FBI and Attorneys’ General.” He menacingly took one step closer to Beckett. “And you will do it within 24 hours. Do I make myself clear?”

Beckett didn’t budge as Ludlow towered over him. He ironically realized he was in way over his head with this man. “As per instructions from my superiors, I will do everything I can to provide you with whatever you wish.”

Ludlow stepped back but continued to scrutinize Beckett carefully. For a moment he seemed to be reconsidering, then said, “I have a better idea. I’m going to send a special courier to your hotel. I believe you’re staying at the Cambridge Inn. Since I know you’ve been poring over all the evidence at night, you’ve got everything I require there. I fully expect it all to be packaged and ready for pickup at......1900 hours.” He pulled up his jacket sleeve to look at his wrist watch. “You’ve got four hours. That should give you more than enough time.”

As he revealed the watch Beckett immediately recognized it as a Rolex Steel Submariner-Date—“modestly” priced for the genuine article at around $9,000. Years earlier he’d been a member of a state police task force commissioned to eliminate counterfeit high-end watch and electronics trafficking. He’d learned to ID the good watch from the bad on sight. This one was the real deal. His gaze instantly jumped from the watch to Ludlow’s steely eyes where he could see an emotion quickly closing in on discomfort mixed with annoyance.