The Devil_s Workshop

Chapter 4

Stacy had been unable to sleep. Her mind was crowded with thoughts about the autopsy report and memories of Max. At six A. M. she finally gave up pounding her pillow and snuck quietly into the bathroom, so as not to awaken Joanne in the other bed. She showered, blow-dried her hair, and did a repair job on her sleep-deprived face. She was back in the bedroom sitting in the small, uncomfortable wooden chair next to the desk trying to plan her next move when the phone rang, partially waking her sister-in-law. Stacy got the call on the second ring.

"It's Wendell," her old friend said.

She told him just a minute and pulled the phone as far across the room as she could, then took the receiver the rest of the way into the bathroom and closed the door so as not to disturb Joanne.

"Some guy at Fort Detrick has been calling. They left a message at Max's University office and Ruth at the Chancellor's office picked it up."

"Colonel Chittick?"

"Bingo," Wendell said.

"That's the asshole who tried to tell me Max killed himself because he was using drugs. And, can you believe this? They cremated the body without my permission." She had decided not to tell Wendell what she'd found in the autopsy report. She wasn't sure yet what she wanted to do about it, and she didn't want Wendell, sweet as he was, to start laying down conditions.

"They want to see you," he went on. "According to Ruth, the Colonel was very apologetic about your meeting yesterday, said he thought you might have left angry."

"How perceptive."

"You want his number?" he asked.

Stacy was hurt that Wendell hadn't commented on the bullshit drug abuse accusation or the illegal burning of Max's body.

"Okay, lemme get a pencil." Stacy laid down the receiver, scooted out into the bedroom, picked up the motel pad and pen, then moved back, closing the bathroom door.

After Wendell gave her the number, he asked, "Are you guys okay? I'm worried about you."

"We're as okay as we can be." Then she told him she loved him and rang off. She dialed and sat on the bathroom floor as Colonel Chittick's office answered.

"Army Medical Battalion, Colonel Chittick's office," the voice said.

Stacy pictured the red-haired Army Captain from yesterday. "This is Mrs. Richardson. I understand Colonel Chittick is trying to get in touch with me…"

"Oh, thank God you called, ma'am," the fresh-faced Captain said. "The Colonel was wondering if he could arrange an appointment with you at your earliest convenience to better define his remarks of yesterday."

"It's okay. I understood him perfectly."

"I think it would really be worth your while to see him as soon as possible," the Captain persisted.

"How's an hour from now," she suggested, anger suddenly flaring, drawing her closer to this inevitable conflict.

"We can send a car if you like."

"That's okay. I can get there," Stacy said, and hung up without saying good-bye.

She shook Joanne awake, and her sister-in-law propped herself up on her elbow and looked at Stacy through tangled hair.

"We really shook 'em up, kid. They want to talk to me again, try and put a better face on it."

"Geeze, you aren't going back there?"

"You bet your ass," Stacy said. "If they have caller I. D. they could probably trace the call I just made and find this motel. Remember that Holiday Inn, right out of Frederick? We passed it coming in."

"I'll find it."

"Check in there, and if I don't call you or show up in four hours, call Wendell. Drop the whole package on him."

"You sure you should do this?"

"Yeah. I'm going to leave you the autopsy report. Hide it somewhere."

"Won't you need it?"

"Believe me, they know what it says."

Stacy took another cab to the Fort. When she got to the main gate on Military Road, the M. P. was already expecting her. "Mrs. Richardson?" he said, after she identified herself. "The Admiral was wondering if you would meet him over in Area B, Building 1425."

"Who?" she asked.

"The Base Commander, Rear Admiral James G. Zoll." His awe for the man was unmistakable. "Building 1425 is the Company A, First SATCOM Battalion Headquarters," he continued.

"Communications?" she asked, surprising him with that; her father had been career military and she had a good grasp of the lingo.

"Yes ma'am. He's working there this morning. It's not on the regular part of the base. You go through the gate, take a right on Potter Road." He had a map and was showing the cab driver. "Go along Frontage Road for about two miles. You'll see the satellite uplinks out by the duck pond. It's the big windowless building right next to B-14, the Antenna Farm." Then he politely touched the brim of his white helmet.

"Okay, let's go," she said to the driver.

He drove past the main gate, made the right, and headed along Frontage Road. They left the base area and low buildings behind and drove along a narrowing, rutted road, across hilly green farmland. There were miles of perimeter fencing where the road skirted the edge of the base. The fence was ten feet high with ugly razor wire on top. She noticed a few places where the rusty razor loops had been knocked down and were being replaced with shiny new wire. After going for about two miles, they could see the satellite uplinks by a pond, and beyond that, half a dozen hundred-foot-tall radio antennas beside a huge, windowless building, as described. They neared the building, and she could see two officers standing in front, smoking cigarettes, waiting for her. As the cab pulled up they flipped the butts away and opened the door. Both were Naval Captains.

"Mrs. Richardson, I'm Captain Wilcox," the older one said. "This is Captain Carpenter."

They both gave her touch-of-the-visor greetings as she climbed out of the cab.

"Why don't you wait for me," she said to the cab driver, beginning to feel slightly cut off. But Captain Carpenter had already pulled a wad of twenties out of his pocket and was paying the driver.

"We'll arrange to get you back," he said, waving the driver off. Before she could protest, the taxi was rolling and Captain Wilcox had his hand on her arm, leading her firmly away from the departing cab.

"Get your hands off me, please," she commanded.

He immediately released his grip and nodded. "Sorry ma'am, right this way."

They led her up a few stone steps and into a lobby that was surprisingly barren. Several wooden desks were pushed against the wall. The flag of First SATCOM Battalion was on a standard next to the American flag. End of decorating theme. Everything else was gray cement and white walls.

"I'd like to use the ladies' room," Stacy said. She had left in such a hurry she had not disposed of the three complimentary cups of motel coffee she'd consumed.

"Right this way, ma'am." They led her through a door and down an overlit corridor. One or two corridor doors she passed had small windows in them, and she could see telecommunications and satellite TV rooms that connected Fort Detrick with bases all over the world. Finally she was led through a door that was marked "SATELLITE UPLINK SITUATION ROOM" into a huge, high-ceilinged area the size of half a basketball court. In the center was a wooden table. Around the table were six wooden chairs. Otherwise, the room was completely empty.

"Where is the bathroom, please?" she repeated.

"If you'll wait, I'll tell the skipper you're here," Naval Captain Wilcox said, and then he and Captain Carpenter left her alone in the huge, windowless space.

Aside from a nervous and growing need to piss, she was beginning to feel vaguely frightened and alone. She fought a round of nausea and fear. "Don't leave me, Maxie," she said softly to the spirit of her dead husband.

She didn't know how long the bastards kept her waiting because the battery in her watch was running down and the drugstore timepiece was slowing badly. If the wait was supposed to intimidate her and make her pliable, it had just the opposite effect. She was spitting mad when the door finally opened and a large, lumbering man walked into the room wearing a Rear Admiral's two stars. He had gold wings pinned on his tan Class C uniform and under the wings were at least six rows of combat and campaign ribbons, along with four or five C. I. B. decorations, which Stacy knew from being an Army brat were Combat Infantryman Badges. The C. I. B. S indicated that he had been under fire in several ground combat zones, which she thought was unusual for a Naval officer. Wardrobe aside, Rear Admiral James G. Zoll was a huge John Wayne-sized man with grizzled forearms and a raptoresque jawline. He moved into the room, flanked by his two pet Captains and trailed by Army Colonel Laurence Chittick. He stopped a few strides from Stacy and looked down at her. She came to about his breastbone. Colonel Chittick moved forward and made the introductions.

"Admiral James G. Zoll, this is Max Richardson's widow, Stacy Richardson."

The Admiral put out his hand, and, after a second's hesitation, she shook it.

"Shall we sit?" Admiral Zoll said.

"You kept me waiting for almost forty minutes. I'd like to use the facilities," she said.

"I have a limited amount of time," the Admiral replied. "If you could wait, I would appreciate it." He sat, indicating the meeting had begun.

Stacy also sat at the table. She found herself flanked by the two Captains. Admiral Zoll and Colonel Chittick were directly across the rectangular wood table from her.

"To begin with, I've been briefed on your meeting with Colonel Chittick yesterday and I regret, very deeply, some of what was said." His voice was gravelly and deep, a commanding voice used to giving orders and getting its own way.

"That's nice of you," Stacy said, coolly.

"I know you are distraught, and I know you think something strange happened regarding the cremation, or even the death of your husband. However, it is an incontrovertible fact that your husband stated on his medical form that he desired cremation in the event of death. It is also a fact that he shot himself with a shotgun that he purchased in town, two weeks ago, at the Rod and Gun sporting goods store, and picked up after the waiting period last Tuesday. The Provost Marshal here on the base has all of the documentation dealing with his purchase of the weapon, along with two boxes of twelve-gauge, double-aught shotgun shells."

"So then, just what part of yesterday's meeting with Colonel Chittick is it that you're regretting so deeply?" Stacy said, holding his steady gaze.

Admiral Zoll was accustomed to being in charge. He didn't have much use for cheeky repartee, and she could see him bristle slightly at her remark. "I do not believe that your husband was using drugs," Admiral Zoll said in his sandpaper voice.

"Oh, that. Well, of course that was bullshit."

"I am also not accustomed to hearing women use truck-stop language."

"And I'm not accustomed to having people accuse my husband of being a junkie or being told he was depressed and moody. To remind you, Admiral, he was the Dean of the USC Microbiology Department. An honor not usually given to moody, unstable people. Colonel Chittick said that several of his colleagues had written complaints about Max's behavior. I'd like to see those complaints and talk to the people who wrote them."

"For what purpose?" Admiral Zoll asked, taking a deep breath and then letting it out slowly.

"Let's suppose, Admiral, that you had just blown your head off sitting in a kitchen chair in your backyard."

"That is not something I'll ever have to worry about."

"Neither did Max. But let us suppose it happened to you anyway, surprising your wife, who knows you'd never solve your problems that way. Then let's suppose that, despite all those fancy decorations you so proudly wear on your chest, and despite a career of military excellence, some unnamed people who claimed to have worked with you suggest that you were irrational, with wild mood swings. That you were depressed and, of all things, a drug user. Wouldn't you expect somebody who loved you, your wife for instance, to come forward and demand that your memory be correctly preserved? And if you say no, then you're a goddamn liar."

She watched a line of red climb Admiral Zoll's neck and spread across his face. He didn't look at Colonel Chittick, or the two Naval Captains. His eyes were locked on Stacy. "You might do well, young lady, to curtail your attitude. I do not appreciate it, and it gets you nowhere."

"Well, Admiral, since I'm not in the military and not under your command, I'll adjust my attitude to fit my feelings, not yours. And right now, I'm one very mad widow who couldn't give less of a shit how you feel about it."

"And just what do you want us to do?" he said, containing his rage at some cost to his military posture.

"I want you to admit that he didn't commit suicide, because he didn't."

"And you can prove it?"

"Beyond a shadow… no, make that beyond a scintilla of a doubt."

"I see. And just how would you do that?"

"You don't want to know, and I would very much like to use the bathroom," she said, starting to rise.

"You sit right where you are, Mrs. Richardson! I want to know what the hell you're talking about."

One of the Captains put a hand on her shoulder and pushed her gently back down into her chair. She glowered at him, then turned back to the Admiral.

"I'm saying that he didn't commit suicide and I can prove it!"

"How are you going to prove it?" the Admiral asked.

"I need to use the bathroom."

"You're not going anywhere until we get this sorted out."

"You mean you are refusing to let me go to the bathroom?" she asked, the disbelief and sarcasm heavy in her tone.

"How are you going to prove something that isn't true?" Admiral Zoll repeated.

"I read Max's autopsy report."

Admiral Zoll shot a questioning look at Colonel Chittick, who shrugged.

Zoll nodded at the two Captains and Colonel Chittick. They all got up ftom the table and moved out of the room, leaving the Admiral and Stacy alone.

"I must use the facilities."

"How did you get a copy of the autopsy report?"

"None of your business, but I've got it."

"So what? It says he shot himself in the head. End of story."

"It's not the end. It's the beginning. The end of the story makes no damn sense at all."

The door opened and Captain Wilcox had a cellphone in his hand; he motioned to Admiral Zoll, who got up and moved out of the huge room. Again, Stacy was alone. She was cursing herself that she hadn't used the bathroom before she left. She had been so angry she had flown out the door when the cab arrived. Now all she could think about was urinating. She needed to keep her mind off that and on her adversaries, so she got out of her chair and, while she was alone in the room, she removed her panties and quickly squatted by her chair. Hiding as best she could behind the table, she urinated on the floor, then moved the table over to cover it.

Ten or fifteen more minutes passed. She estimated that she had been at Fort Detrick for almost an hour, maybe an hour and a half. With no windows and a broken watch, it was impossible to judge.

Then the door opened and Admiral Zoll, the two Captains, and Colonel Chittick returned to the room and again sat down. All of them unwittingly placed their shiny shoes under the table in Stacy's urine, which had puddled there.

"Okay," the Admiral said, "we just verified that somebody probably snuck into our primate lab and stole a classified document. I'm sure you found it very interesting, but you'd need advanced medical training to understand the intricacies of an M. E.'s death report. You undoubtedly misunderstood what you were reading. It is military property and we demand it back."

"Your own autopsy says that the shotgun blast obliterated the palatoglossal arch and moved upward, destroying everything from the soft palate uvula to the sphenoid sinus. Those two membranes, by the way, are in the back of the mouth roughly at the veli palatine muscle."

Admiral Zoll now looked at the two Captains, who had their eyes on Stacy.

"I can read a medical report," she clarified. "I'm less than two weeks from my doctorate in microbiology at USC." Admiral Zoll and the other officers now traded surprised looks.

"If that's what it says, then okay, that's what it says," Admiral Zoll replied.

"What it also says is, the pattern of buckshot continued up, expanding and destroying everything in its path, including the brain stem. The exact word the report used was 'obliterated' the brain stem. Then the pattern passed into the cerebellum, exiting out the back of his head near the crown."

"Where is this going?" Admiral Zoll asked.

"The autopsy also stated that in the middle region of the left lung, in the anterior region, and in the basal quadrant of the right lung, he had substantial quantities of aspirated blood."

The Admiral looked over at Colonel Chittick. Zoll wasn't a doctor, Colonel Chittick was.

"He inhaled blood before he died, sir," Colonel Chittick clarified, but already he could see where she was going and was getting pale.

"So what?" Zoll snorted. "So he blew his head off and inhaled the blood from the wound before he died. What the hell does that prove?"

"Can't happen," she said. "It's a medical impossibility. What I think happened was somebody beat him up, for what reason I don't know yet, maybe to find out what he knew. During this beating, he inhaled the blood that was in his mouth. At this point, he was still alive. Then somebody shot him in the mouth to hide the extensive damage the beating caused. Because Max knew something he shouldn't have, they needed him dead to get him out of the way."

"Of course that's ridiculous, and I don't see why it couldn't happen my way," the Admiral said.

"Sir," Colonel Chittick said, but the Admiral held up his hand for silence, glaring at Stacy.

"The brain stem was gone, Admiral, obliterated." She continued, "The brain stem controls the breathing reflex. Without it, he couldn't inhale. It is impossible that blood was inhaled into his lungs after he was shot. It had to happen before… making your whole theory on Max's death a lie."

There was a long silence in the room.

Now there was something new in Admiral Zoll's eyes. The killer look that had once defined him as a pilot in Vietnam. He flew Intruders off the deck of the Kitty Hawk. One afternoon in '72, seven Chinese MiGs jumped him. Young Lieutenant James Zoll became an ace in less than three minutes, splashing five MiGs in the ocean before flying his mortally wounded Intruder at a sixth, ejecting scant moments before impact. He'd been fished out of the drink two hours later. His fellow pilots and shipmates had done something that almost never happened; they changed his call sign from "Hacksaw" to "Crazy Ace." It had followed him throughout his career, and after he reached Admiral, it had been his nickname, behind his back.

"Just what are you suggesting?" Admiral Zoll asked, after taking several moments to consider.

"I'm suggesting he was murdered," Stacy replied, holding his gaze across the wooden table. "And I think you know why."

Then his manner changed abruptly. "Just who the fuck do you think you're talking to?" he said, rising out of his chair and leaning across the table at her.

"I guess, under the right circumstances, even an Admiral will use a little truck-stop language," she said.

"You have the fucking audacity to sit there and say somebody on this base murdered your husband. Okay, so you can read an autopsy finding, big deal. But you can't say without a shadow of a doubt what happened. It's just your opinion. You can't say your husband was murdered!"

"Yes, Admiral, I can! And unless you're planning on doing the same thing to me that you did to him, which would really be tough for the police in this county to swallow, then you've got yourself a giant-sized problem, 'cause I'm gonna keep digging until I find out what got Max killed."

Admiral Zoll looked at her almost as if he couldn't believe what he was hearing. "You have a remarkable imagination, honey," he said.

"I'm not your honey." She had lost all sense of caution, and her anger over what had happened to Max was spilling over everything. But the anger was at least therapeutic. For the first time in two days, she felt the knot in her stomach unclench.

"You have no idea what kind of problems we can make for you," he hissed.

"You got it backwards, Admiral. It's me promising to make problems for you."

"We fund that fucking university where you were about to get your doctorate. This program at Fort Detrick gives millions a year in research grants. Why do you think we picked the head of the USC Microbiology Department to come here? If you. pursue this, you will never get your doctorate. I personally guarantee it!"

"I personally don't give a shit," she said, washing out four years of exhaustive study with one cathartic sentence.

Finally, Admiral Zoll pushed back from the table. Something splashed up on his sock. "What the fuck is under here?" he said, reaching down under the table and feeling the puddle of moisture.

"I wouldn't put my hands in that," Stacy said mildly.

Admiral Zoll pulled up his wet hand. Realization dawned, and his face went red with anger. He got out of his chair, shook the urine off his fingers and both of his wet shoes, then, holding his hand away from his side, walked across the floor, his rubber soles squishing as he went. Colonel Chittick and the two pet Captains followed.

They closed the door and again she was alone.

Stacy sat in the empty room. Nobody came back. She tried the door, but it was locked. She realized that anger had induced her to badly overplay her hand.

Roughly another two hours went by, and she sat there, looking at the blank, windowless walls in the huge concrete room. In her mind, she played out some ghastly fantasies. Would they just kill her anyway? The Provost Marshal could be in on it. What if they rigged it to look as if she were despondent over Max's death and had taken her own life? Would they use some bio-weapon on her and say she had wandered into a "hot" lab? Would they arrange a traffic accident? She had no way of knowing. There was nothing she could do but wait. Exhausted, she lay down on the table and finally got an hour of deep REM sleep.

She awoke with somebody shaking her shoulder. She sat up abruptly and found herself looking at a middle-aged woman in civilian clothes.

"There's a car waiting for you out front," the woman said. Then she led Stacy out of the room.

They walked down the hall and out into the darkening afternoon. It was after four. She estimated she had been there for over six hours.

The car was a brown military sedan with a uniformed woman driver. Stacy got in the back seat and the car took her out the same way she had come. It passed through the front gate and parked at the curb outside on Military Avenue. Then the female Corporal behind the wheel handed Stacy an envelope and, once Stacy was out of the sedan, drove back inside the Fort.

Stacy stood on the curb with the flapping flags of Fort Detrick behind her. She opened the sealed envelope.

The message was typed on plain paper. "Be very careful," it said. "The distance between courage and stupidity is exactly nine millimeters."

The note was unsigned.