Omens (41 page)

“She still lives in Chicago,” I said. “Freelance these days, but there’s nothing here to suggest she’d like to put MKULTRA behind her. She spoke about it last year at Northwestern.”

“She’s still angry,” Gabriel said. “Certainly understandable, given the circumstances, though it does seem a little…”

“Pathetic?” I regretted the word as soon as I said it. Unfair to use against a woman who’d fought so hard and suffered so much. And yet I couldn’t help seeing an element of pathos. She’d fought the CIA and lost. By the time she rebounded, the “secret” was common knowledge and she couldn’t hurt those who’d wronged her. Yet she wouldn’t drop the matter, either, doggedly struggling to keep alive a scandal no one seemed to care about.

Still, it didn’t bother me enough to suggest we leave the poor woman alone. She’d chosen to make this her life’s work. We’d be foolish not to take advantage.

“She’ll see us,” Gabriel said when he hung up.

“Really?”

“Are you surprised?” he said. “I doubt anyone other than academics has asked for her expertise in a very long time. She’s quite eager to impart it. At a price, of course.”

“How much?”

“Five hundred for an hour of her time now, plus an hour of follow-up, if required. Given the usual rate for an expert, it’s a bargain.”

“It’d be more of a bargain if it was free.”

“True. But think of it as a charitable donation to the victim of a tragedy. That should make you feel better.”

“Only if I can get a tax write-off.”

He shook his head and we left.

W
e met Anita Mosley at a coffee shop. It was a neighborhood of office buildings, meaning the shop was closed on a Saturday. She was at a stone table outside, sitting with military stiffness, hands folded on the table, staring straight ahead as cars zipped past. She was in her early sixties, a trim figure in a stylish pant-suit and perfectly coiffed brown hair, artfully streaked with gray.

“Ms. Mosley?” I asked as we approached.

The shades swung my way.

“Do you want to stay here?” I said. “Or find a shop that’s open?”

“The fact that this one is closed is why I chose it. It is public yet not public.” Her tone was crisp. “May I ask whom I’m speaking to?”

“Olivia Taylor-Jones.”

“Ah. The girl.” She turned to Gabriel, as if sensing him there. “And you would be the infamous Gabriel Walsh, I presume.”

“I am,” he said as we sat.

“Excellent. Now, I have received confirmation that the payment has been wired to my account. Thank you for that, Mr. Walsh. I know it is an inconvenient way to do business, but until the American government sees fit to print bills I can read, I’m stuck with that. Unless I emulate Ray Charles and ask to be paid in singles.” A brief, humorless smile. “Which would hardly be more convenient for either of us. Now, I believe it is Ms. Taylor-Jones who wishes the information? You do still go by that name, I presume.”

I tensed a little. A reaction I doubted even a sighted person would notice, but she seemed to pick it up.

“I know who you are,” she said. “Let me assure you, serial killers hold no fascination for me, and their actions have no bearing on you. I have met monsters, and they all had quite normal parents. I will admit that I find it curious that your investigation would bring you to MKULTRA, but you are being thorough, and I cannot fault that. So Ms. Taylor-Jones, is it?”

“Olivia,” I said.

“Thank you. Now let us begin. I can confirm that Dr. William Evans worked for the CIA from 1960 to 1969. He began as a PhD candidate under his adviser, Edgar Chandler, who was also employed by the CIA. Chandler was in charge of several MKULTRA subprojects. His name can be found in the documents turned over to the Senate subcommittee.”

“So Dr. Evans was involved in the project?”

“MKULTRA as a whole was huge. Evans’s role in it was relatively minor. He started as a graduate student and was still a junior man when he quit shortly before his son was born. Or that’s the official line. The matter of secrecy surrounding Evans is twofold. Let’s start with part one, the main experiment he was involved in. Have you heard of Operation Midnight Climax?”

“I saw it mentioned in one of the articles, but only in passing.”

“The name is proof that the CIA can have a sense of humor. Operation Midnight Climax was a subproject of MKULTRA based in San Francisco, under the auspices of George White. They realized the best subjects are those unlikely to talk about their experience … such as johns who get dosed at a whorehouse.”

“Ah.”

“At the time, the CIA knew little about the world of hookers. Or about kink. They quickly learned how to exploit human proclivities to their advantage. They eventually opened other whorehouses in Marin County and New York. Yet there’s one that can’t be found in any of the surrendered documents. Right here, in Chicago. That’s where Evans worked. So why hide that one? Because it operated completely off the radar, even within the ranks. In the others, as bad as they were, limits were drawn.”

“And the ethics were a little looser at the Chicago house.”

“That’s the rumor. I can’t confirm it. Any evidence has long been shredded and anyone who worked there has kept his mouth shut. I tried to get Evans to talk once. It seemed as if he may have had moral qualms. He politely but firmly shut the door in my face. So my sources have been former subjects—the ones who don’t fear for their lives because they’re too crazy to know they should.”

“Crazy as in reckless or as in…?”

“Certifiably insane. Presumably as a result of what happened in that Chicago whorehouse. That’s the beauty of fucking with the human mind. If you break it, that’s fine, because the damage covers your tracks. Who’s going to believe the paranoid schizophrenic who claims the CIA made him crazy and now they’re out to get him?”

“So that’s what Evans was involved with before he left the agency.”

“
If
he left. That would be the second part. While the record clearly shows that William Evans quit his job with the CIA in 1969, there are suggestions that he did not leave entirely. By the late sixties, most of the MKULTRA experiments had officially been abandoned. The civil rights era meant people were taking a closer look at government powers. Information about the experiments was leaking. It was still years before Gerald Ford appointed a commission to investigate, but things were already coming to an end. Or, as some believe, the CIA was simply pulling the curtain tighter.”

“Ostensibly abandoning the projects, to continue them in secret with men like Evans who had apparently left the service.”

She nodded. “But that’s all speculation. I’ve pursued it to some degree but this”—she pointed at her glasses—“makes serious investigative journalism very difficult, as I’m sure my attacker knew. So while I can provide you with contacts, this marks the end of where I can take you.”

Gabriel wanted to start by interviewing Evans’s former boss. “A poor choice,” Anita said. “Edgar Chandler will never speak to you.” But Gabriel insisted and Anita gave him the information she had on Chandler.

As we were leaving, Anita called me back.

“You’re doing this in hopes of proving your parents are innocent,” she said. “They aren’t. I had friends who covered the case. None of them doubted the Larsens’ guilt.”

“So you think it’s a coincidence that Peter found out about his father shortly before his death.”

“I didn’t say that. But the likelihood of a connection between MKULTRA and all eight deaths is minimal to nonexistent. You seem like a bright girl. Don’t spend your life chasing answers that aren’t there.”

One could say the same about her. When I looked at her face, lined with bitterness, I realized she knew exactly what she was saying.

“I’ll remember that.”

“Do. And if you have questions about your parents later, you know where to find me. I may not be much of an investigative reporter these days, but my contact list is extensive.”

“Thank you.”

A
nita sat at the coffee shop table after the lawyer and the girl were gone. She didn’t like to hurry off—that seemed as if she was nervous out here, alone. The poor old blind lady. She’d never been that before, and she sure as hell wasn’t about to start now, no matter how hard her heart was pounding after that conversation.

They hadn’t seemed to notice. That was a blessing. She was getting better at hiding it. Yet even after forty years, it took only the mention of MKULTRA to start her heart racing. Most times these days, though, she was the one mentioning it. Masochism, Blake used to say. Facing her demons, she’d say.

She wished she could tell Blake about the girl and the lawyer. He’d know Walsh. Probably wouldn’t have had anything good to say about him, judging by the tidbits Anita picked up in a few quick calls made after Walsh contacted her. Blake had been a civil rights lawyer—he had little patience for young sharks like Walsh. But Blake was gone now, dead four years, and no one had replaced him. No one would.

A footstep crunched on broken concrete, so close that Anita’s head shot up. She listened, but no other noises came. Then, when she strained hard enough, the faintest sound of breathing.

“Yes?” she said, snapping with as much impatience—and as little anxiety—as she could manage.

The breathing continued, so close her heart slammed against her chest.

“If someone is there, I fear you’ll find this old lady a particularly poor target,” she said briskly. “I carry twenty dollars in cash, no credit cards, and no jewelry worth the hassle of hocking it.”

She didn’t expect that to scare away a would-be mugger, but the street was not completely empty—she’d heard a few people pass since the lawyer and the girl had left. She’d spent enough years with Blake to develop at least a little faith in the human race. They might not be quick to intervene in all cases, but there
were
some advantages to being a blind old lady.

Yet her voice only echoed into silence. Then another shoe-squeak, so loud it seemed deliberate. The breathing moved closer until it was right across the small table from her.

She snatched out her wallet, cursing her trembling fingers as she did. She plucked out the twenty and kept the wallet open.

“As you can see, I spoke the truth. This is all I have. If you insist, you’re welcome to it.”

Her voice rose as she spoke, taking on an air of desperation. A car whooshed past. Then a second, a loose tailpipe rumbling, and she wanted to leap to her feet, cry out for help, but she knew it would do no good. Drivers would pass oblivious, intent on their destination.

The breathing grew louder, as if he was leaning over the table to take the twenty. Good. Just take it. Please take—

A drop of rain fell on her arm. She swiped it. As she did, she felt something she hadn’t felt in forty years. A sensation she’d never forget. Her flesh burning.

Anita screamed. She scrambled up from the seat so fast it toppled over and she fell with it, legs tangling in the bench, taking her down, her hands still raised against her attacker.

Footsteps pounded across the pavement. Hands grabbed her. She fought, screaming.

“Lady!” The voice was young, female. “I gotcha, lady. You’re okay.”

A male voice, just as young. “Here.”

More hands, grabbing her arms to help her up. As she rose from the concrete, her glasses slid off. She tried to grab them, but it was too late.

She heard the boy suck in breath. “Jesus. What—?”

“Don’t,” the girl whispered to him. A clatter as she snatched up the glasses and pushed them into Anita’s hands.

Anita put them on quickly. The chair scraped the concrete. The girl’s soft hands helped her into it.

“You’re okay,” the girl whispered.

“S-someone was here,” Anita said. “Did you see him?”

Silence.

“Did you see
anyone
?” she said.

“There was a chick and a guy,” the girl said. “Blond chick. Big dude. We passed them.”

The lawyer and the girl. Anita’s mouth went dry.

“When? Where?”

“Few minutes ago. Down the road. Darnell nearly smacked into the guy coming around the corner. Scared the crap outta him.”

The boy grunted. “Dude wasn’t
that
big.”

The girl chuckled.

“Anyone else?” Anita said. “Anyone running away just now?”

“Nah.”

“No, sorry, ma’am.”

Anita cursed under her breath. Had she imagined the whole thing? Memories of the acid attack sending her brain into a tailspin?

She brushed her fingers over the spot on her arm and winced with the jolt of pain. No, someone had been here. Someone had warned her. But this time, she wasn’t going to be frightened off.

W
e decided to drive to Fort Wayne, Indiana, to see Edgar Chandler, Evans’s former thesis adviser, and his boss during his years with the CIA.

“Does it do any good to suggest I drop you in Cainsville?” Gabriel asked.

“No.”

“May I find a hotel for you in Fort Wayne?”

“No.” I glanced over at his profile, dim in the gathering darkness. “Chandler is eighty-six years old. I’m not too worried.”

“He’s a former CIA agent in possession of potentially damaging information. Someone killed Joshua Gray, and while I’m not convinced the same someone killed Peter Evans and Jan Gunderson, I do believe Gray’s death is connected to what Peter told him.”

“But you don’t think Chandler himself killed Gray. That’s why you insisted on getting his contact information. Because he’s an old man and you plan to surprise him at night before he has a chance to retreat or get backup.”

“That doesn’t mean I think the excursion is without risk.”

A few more minutes in silence. Then he said, “I’m going to stop by my condo. I should change my clothing.”

“Sure. I wouldn’t mind a few minutes in a bathroom, if that’s okay. Past time to run a brush through my hair.”

A pause. A long one.

“Or if you don’t want me using
your
bathroom…”

“No, no. I was just thinking, we’re close to the highway. My apartment is out of the way. I don’t really need to change.”