MIND FIELDS Page 25

  “Not so strange. Most guys are right handed. If they came up behind him with a bat and swung high, they’d hit the right side of the victim’s head. One blow like that is about all it would take. Even a bull like Stankowski would go right down. They wouldn’t need a second swing.”

  “Spoken like a true detective, Doc. But still... And what about Bradley? A focal right frontal lobe injury again. No other brain damage.”

  “How could anyone have controlled that? It happened in a car accident.”

  “There are ways, believe me. Hell, he could have even been bopped over the head before the accident. Maybe Stankowski was taking him to a hospital for help.”

  “Without calling ahead to report it? Why wouldn’t he have called for the paramedics to come and help?”

  “Yeah, you’re right. A guy like Stankowski would play it by the book. But someone could have rigged the car and staged the accident, set it up so that when the car swerved, Bradley’s head would smack into the door at just the right angle. It wouldn’t be easy, but it could be done.”

  “Do you realize what you’re saying?”

  Kincade nodded. “Afraid so. The NSA could be trying to infiltrate our own government.”

  “But to what end? They are the government.”

  The CBS evening news was coming back on the TV, which Richie had kept muted through the commercials. “Shh,” Richie said, as video of the afternoon press conference from the steps of Walter Reed Hospital came up on the screen. “I want to hear this.” He turned up the volume.

  ___

  “I sure do,” the president responded to a question from the crowd of reporters. “In fact, I’m so convinced he’ll be fit for duty that I’ve challenged him to a round of golf a week from this Saturday.”

  “Do you think you can take him, sir?” joked the reporter from NBC. President Forsyth’s mediocre golf skills were a matter of public knowledge.

  “I’m hoping he’s still rusty,” the president chuckled. “I know he hasn’t swung a club for at least a couple of weeks, anyway. I think I might be able to take him on the front nine if I don’t let him warm up too long.” Forsyth smiled his election-winning smile. The reporters laughed.

  “Where is the match going to be held, Mr. President?”

  “You’ll have to try and convince one of the Secret Service boys to reveal that, ladies and gentlemen.”

  Press Secretary Gracie MacNeil tapped President Forsyth on the shoulder.

  “Well, folks. My boss here,” he nodded toward Ms. MacNeil, who rolled her eyes, “says it’s time for me to go, and I know better than to argue with the boss. Thanks for enduring me.” He waved to the crowd, and then winked at MacNeil as he handed her the microphone.

  “I’ll be glad to answer a few more questions,” MacNeil said as the president was escorted to a waiting car.

  ___

  Kincade hit the mute button. “Golf, huh?”

  “Yeah,” Sandi said. “It’d be nice to have time to play golf once in a while, wouldn’t it? Busiest man in the world, my ass.”

  “What’s that about your ass, dear?” Lara Kincade had just walked in the room with a cup of tea for Sandi.

  “Oh,” Sandi said, blushing, “I am so sorry, Mrs. Kincade. I didn’t mean to...”

  “Relax,” Lara laughed. “You’re at home here. You’ve got enough things to worry about without having to worry about your ass. I’m sure Richie will be glad to worry about it for you. Isn’t that right, dear?” she asked Richie.

  “Uh… yeah. Right,” Richie mumbled. His mind was obviously elsewhere.

  The two women laughed. Sandi appreciated Lara’s ability to put her at ease.

  “Huh?” Richie chirped. “What? What’d I miss?”

  “I believe Sandi was talking to you about her derriere.”

  “Lara!” he said. “Really, now. You don’t think that me and the doc here are...”

  “Oh, Richard. Don’t be so up tight. I’m just having a little fun.” She turned to Sandi. “It is comforting to know that he’s so harmless.”

  “Hey,” Richie protested as Lara left the room, “you don’t have to insult me.”

  Sandi took a sip of tea. “I hope I can have that someday.”

  “What? A nagging spouse.”

  “Unconditional love.”

  “Yeah,” Richie said, glancing back toward the door that Lara had just walked out of. “I am pretty lucky.”

  “So is she,” Sandi smiled.

  Richie’s blush was barely perceptible, but Sandi noticed. He looked away without a word.

  The ring of the telephone was a welcome break from an awkward moment. “I’ve got it,” Richie called out as he picked up the receiver.

  “Kincade? Is that you?”

  Richie recognized Paul Hingston’s voice. “Yeah. What’s up, Doc? It’s late.”

  Sandi burst out laughing.

  “Hang on a sec,” Kincade said into the receiver. He looked over at Sandi. “What?”

  “What’s up, Doc?” she burst out laughing again. “Who’re you talking to, Elmer Fudd?”

  Richie shook his head, and brought the receiver back up to his mouth. “Uh, sorry. I think your girlfriend needs a little sleep. So, what’s up, D…uh, Doctor Hingston?”

  “Just call me Paul.”

  “Right.”

  “Listen, …can we talk?”

  “Yeah. Some of my boys swept the phone lines for me just this afternoon; they’re clean.”

  “Good. Well, I was thinking about our conversation at lunch. If R.S. is Rocky Stankowski and H.B. is Harold Bradley, then this thing is even scarier than I thought.”

  “Yeah, Sandi and I have just been talking about that.”

  “Well, I thought of something else that might just rattle your nerves a little more. On my way home tonight I was listening to NPR. They were running a story on the campaign. It seems that Russell Stetson is the only Republican of any consequence with the balls to try and take on President Forsyth next year.”

  “Balls? They can say that on NPR?”

  “I think so, but they probably used another word…guts, or something.”

  “Probably.”

  “Anyhow, the analyst said it’s tantamount to political suicide to take on a guy as popular as Forsyth, and he can’t understand why an up-and-comer like Stetson would do it.”

  “Yeah, well, I try not to think about politics too much. So just why is it that you thought I’d be so anxious to get a campaign update at ten-thirty at night? It’s past my bed time, you know.”

  “Oh, sorry. I’ll get to the point.”

  “Fine idea.”

  “Well, that story got me thinking. You see, last October at Anderson’s big Halloween bash, I stumbled across Sean and Senator Stetson talking out on the patio. It was a cold night and they were off by themselves, which I thought was kind of odd. Sean… or Trace, if that’s his real name… never impressed me as the kind of guy who’s real interested in politics. If he’s really NSA, I’m sure he’s just in it for the action. Hell, I was surprised he even knew who Stetson was. Anyway, I popped out to say hi. I was obviously interrupting a pretty heated conversation, but they both brushed it off as idle party chat. It struck me as being pretty strange, but I just shrugged it off. I didn’t really make anything of it…at least, not until today when I heard that broadcast.”

  “So what about it? What does Stetson have to do with all of this?”

  Sandi perked up. She remembered having to face Russell Stetson at the Senate Nanotech Committee meeting when she was lobbying for authorization to begin the human trials for the Phase Two nanobots.

  “I’m not exactly sure,” Hingston said, “but he’s knee deep in the political end of nanobot research. He’s the vice-chairman of
the Senate Subcommittee on Nanotechnology. He knows more about it than just about anybody in Washington, and he’s a strong advocate for biotech research. Maybe he’s working with Sean to help the NSA develop this mind-control thing as a weapon in exchange for their support for his campaign. The NSA would be pretty darned good guys to have backing you.”

  Kincade nodded silently.

  “But I still don’t see why he’d take a chance on messing with a guy like Harold Bradley. I mean, he’s a pretty high profile kind of guy, and if Stetson gets caught, he’s toast. Not just his career either.”

  “Maybe it’s not just about political support.”

  “What then?” Sandi had picked up the line in the kitchen.

  Richie looked over his shoulder. “I didn’t even notice that you walked out of the room,” he said to her through the phone.

  “You seemed pretty engrossed. I had to know what you guys were talking about,” she said.

  “Sandi?” Paul said.

  “Hi there,” she answered. “So what, then, Detective? If not for political backing, what would the motive be?”

  “How about a guaranteed victory in the next presidential election?”

  “Against Forsyth? How?”

  “Take him out,” Kincade said.

  “Murder! Even JT Anderson wouldn’t be so bold as to try and murder the President of the United States.”

  “Not by himself, no. But for an NSA agent, it would just be another target as long as he was convinced that it was in the interest of national security. President Forsyth is not an ally to those who promote the use of biotech weapons, and right now he’s a lock to win re-election. On the other hand, if something were to happen to Forsyth, the Democratic Party would be thrown into turmoil. Vice President Addison is a political lightweight; he’d never be able to carry the party. The next election would be easy pickings for the Republicans, and Forsyth would be the clear favorite to get the nomination.”

  “If the NSA could get a man like Stetson elected, they would have carte blanche to develop all the biotech weapons they could get their hands on. Not only is he on their side now, but with the NSA possessing evidence tying Stetson in to the murder of President Forsyth, they’d own his soul. It would be a bonanza for men like James O’Grady and Trace McKnight. For Anderson and BNI, it would be a windfall; they would have a long term customer with the deepest pockets in the world.”

  “Jesus, Kincade. Do you realize what you’re saying?” Paul couldn’t believe how this had snowballed. How he had ever gotten himself into the middle of a plot to kill the President of the United States?

  “Think about it. Why go to all the trouble of getting the Phase Three bots into the brain of the White House Chief of Staff? Who else has better access to the president?”

  “Why not just put the bots into the president himself?” Sandi said.

  “Not so easy,” Paul answered. “Setting up the accident would have been tough enough with a guy like Bradley, but with the president...forget it. The odds of pulling it off without getting caught would be astronomical.” He sighed. “I hate to admit it, Kincade, but you’re making a lot of sense.”

  “So how do we stop this thing from happening?” Sandi said. “With no evidence, who in the hell is going to believe us...a plot by America’s most prominent entrepreneur and a presidential candidate, conspiring to carry out a mind control experiment where they use the White House Chief of Staff to kill the president.”

  “They’ll lock us all up in a loony bin,” Paul said.

  “Look,” Kincade said, “you two sit tight. I’m going to take this to my boss. Hopefully I still have some credibility with him, because this is really going to test it. I want you staying out of sight, Sandi. The longer they believe you’re dead, the better. And you, Hingston, you’ve got to just go on about your business. If you can’t face your buddies at work without giving yourself away, then take a few days off and go on vacation. Just make sure you actually go where you tell them you are going, because these kind of guys check things out when they get suspicious, and believe me, you don’t want them getting suspicious about you.”

  ___

  “Hey, Maggie. It’s Richie Kincade. Patch me through to the chief, would you?”

  “Is he expecting you?”

  “Don’t start with me, Maggie. I’m not in the mood.” Richie had slept poorly wondering how he was going to convince the chief that the NSA was plotting to kill the president.

  “He doesn’t talk to anyone without an appointment.”

  “Put me through now, Maggie, or I’ll make sure his wife finds out who sent him those Godiva chocolates last Christmas.”

  “Detective Kincade! You wouldn’t dare.”

  “And I’ll make sure he knows, too.” Everyone in the office knew about Maggie’s crush on the chief and her anonymous Christmas gift. Everyone except the chief, that is.

  “You rat. Hang on, I’ll see if he’ll talk to you.”

  “Thanks, doll.”

  There was a click, and the line went dead for a few seconds. Just as Richie was about to hang up and call Maggie back to give her hell, Chief Hartner came on the line.

  “Kincade?”

  “Yeah, Chief. It’s me. Listen, I’ve got to talk to you ASAP. I’m on my way in now. If you’ve got any meetings out of the station, cancel them. This can’t wait.”

  “What’s this about, Richie?”

  “I’ll tell you when I get there.” Richie knew that if he started to spout out a theory about the NSA using mind controlling miniature robots to force the chief of staff to kill the President of the United States, he wouldn’t make it to the end of his first sentence before the chief hung up on him.

  “Listen, I…”

  “This can’t wait, Chief. It’s a matter of national security.”

  “Just be here by ten, Richie. I’ve got to be downtown for a meeting with the mayor at eleven.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “And Richie…this had better be good.”

  “Right.” If he only knew…

  ___

  Kincade rushed into the police station with a box of Godiva chocolates under his arm. “Here, sugar,” he said as he thrust them in front of Chief Hartner’s secretary, Maggie. She gave him a dirty look as he brushed past her to Hartner’s office.

  “Godiva, eh Maggie?” Larry Welch winked at her, and a few of the other guys snickered as they looked over at the box on her desk.

  “What?” she sniped, glaring around the room. “So Richie’s a nice guy. Wanna make a federal case out of it?” She shoved the chocolates in her desk drawer, seething at the opportunity to get Richie back someday.

  “Come on in,” Hartner said, as Richie knocked on the glass door.

  “Thanks for seeing me, Chief.”

  Hartner motioned to a chair, and Kincade sat. “I’m not quite sure where to start,” he said.

  “Well, you’d better start somewhere, ’cause the clock’s ticking. I don’t intend to make the mayor wait.”

  “No, of course not. Well,” Richie took a deep breath, “you remember that BNI thing?”

  “Aw Christ, Richie,” Hartner lifted the file that he was holding and slapped it down onto the desk. “I told you to let that go.”

  “I know, but…”

  “But you didn’t.”

  Richie shook his head no.

  “I am not going to butt heads with a guy like Anderson. Not again.”

  “I don’t blame you, Chief, but at least listen to what I’ve got to say, then if the answer is no, I’ll understand.”

  “The answer is no.”

  Richie glared at Chief Hartner with one eyebrow raised.

  “You aren’t gonna let this go, are you?”

  Richie shook his head e
ver so slightly. “No, sir.”

  “Shit.” The chief let out a deep sigh of resignation. “I know I’m going to hate myself for letting you do this,” he said, “but go on, I’m listening.”

  “Well, a researcher from BNI named Paul Hingston has been helping Dr. Fletcher and me…”

  “Dr. Sandra Fletcher?” the chief interrupted. “The late Dr. Sandra Fletcher?”

  “Not so late, I’m pleased to say.”

  The chief sat back down behind his desk and folded his arms over his chest. “Well, now you’ve got my attention, Richie.”

  Kincade proceeded to explain the sequence of events of the past week that had led to his conclusion that JT Anderson was working with the NSA on a plot to kill the President of the United States and help propel Senator Russell Stetson into the presidency. The chief became increasingly restless as the implausible story unfolded.

  “A couple of weeks ago,” Richie said, “I wouldn’t have believed it any more than I imagine you do now. It still seems pretty far-fetched, I’ve got to admit. But every fiber of my gut tells me I’m right, Chief.”

  Hartner sat in silence for a moment, digesting the information, then stood up slowly. “If you were anybody else telling me a story like this…Hell, even if I do believe you, what in the heck can I do about it? You don’t have one lousy shred of evidence, Richie, nothing but a trace sample of Allohypnol from an insulin vial. You’ve got cremated corpses with no trace of these so-called mind-control nanobots, two living victims who have been scanned to the hilt with no sign of these nanobots showing up on any of the tests, and secure files from the BNI Intranet system that you never could have seen, at least not legally speaking...nothing we can use as evidence. But,” he paused for effect, wagging his index finger in the air, “you do have a gut instinct about all this. Am I right?”

  “Yes, sir. That about sums it up.”

  “All right then.” Chief Hartner grabbed his jacket and walked toward the door. Richie was about to say something when the chief turned to him. “So I’m going to go the Secret Service, tell them to beef up security around the president and to be particularly suspicious of the president’s chief of staff, who just happens to also be his best friend. Is that about right?”