Tunnel Vision

37

Roman entered La Dolce Vita restaurant feeling a little giddy. From what he surmised, Cola, Pomeroy, and company were conducting experiments that would have gotten them burned at the stake a few centuries back. Today, they hired Roman.

He ordered a seafood risotto and a glass of Chianti. His next assignment was a Roger Devereux, a research neuroscientist from Boston University School of Medicine. According to his scant information, the man was also a regular at this restaurant, coming in a couple of Monday evenings each month. He usually showed up for a seven o’clock reservation, window seat. It was six forty-five, and Roman had a table at the rear of the main room with a view of the empty reserved table by the window.

Through the windows, his eyes fell on a large Gothic church in red brick across the avenue. What a difference from the squat yellow brick structure of St. Luke’s on a side street off of Franklin Avenue in Hartford. He still remembered Father Infantino’s hellfire sermons about what would happen to sinners when they died—resurrected in body and mind and dumped into hell to suffer hideous punishment forever without the relief of death. The good father had claimed that there was a punishment tailor-made for every kind of sinner. Those who blasphemed God would be hanged by their tongues. Adulterers would have liquid iron poured on their genitals. Liars would be forced to chew their tongues while vultures pecked out their eyes. Women who had abortions would be made to wallow in excrement up to their chins. Murderers would be cast into pits of poisonous snakes. Those who turned their backs on God would be impaled on spits and roasted over blazing fires. And these torments would go on for eternity.

“And how long is eternity?” Father Infantino would howl. “Imagine a mountain thirty thousand feet high and that every ten thousand years a giant bird would fly to the top and rub its beak but once on the rocky peak. How long would it take before that wore the mountain to its base? Not a billionth of the time you’d burn in hell. And the awful magic of hell was that you wouldn’t die. You wouldn’t burn up—just suffer forever and ever, torment without end.”

Even as a boy, Roman didn’t understand how anyone could believe in a God who’d torture His disobedient children for all eternity. Wasn’t God supposed to be good and loving and all-forgiving? Or was He such a raging sadist? If so, it was hard not to question His moral integrity. Also, how did Father Infantino know that hell was like this? Was that stuff really in the Bible? And wasn’t the Bible written by a bunch of old guys thousands of years ago? Even if hell was really like that, why bother? Why not wipe out all of it? Blotto. Once you’re dead, you’re dead. No second chance, no hellfire. Hell was just not going to heaven where the good guys went.

Some years later, Roman would tell himself that Father Infantino’s rants were the product of a sexually frustrated middle-aged guy who couldn’t find a real job and who got off scaring the shit out of little kids. Probably diddled a few behind the altar.

But over the last few weeks, Roman began reexamining the possibilities beneath all the thunder. And what he had concluded was that there was a God after all. He wasn’t sure that heaven was a city of gold and precious stones, or if God sat in a throne of light, or that you got to hang out with your dead relatives, saints, and Jesus himself for eternity. But he had come to believe that life did go on. And for some reason, these doctors were in league with Satan. So what did he have to lose by knocking them off? Nothing. And maybe an eternity to gain.

A little before seven, in walked a guy who matched the cell phone photo of Roger Devereux. He looked less like a professor of neurology at BU and more like someone behind the counter at Ace Hardware. He was short, chubby, and bald and was stuffed into a too tight blue blazer and blue shirt. He entered alone and was led to a window table. After maybe ten minutes, a woman appeared in the entrance and joined him. Devereux’s wife, a former lab associate.

Roman had taken a table where he could not be seen by the Devereux, nor near the restrooms should either need one. He ate slowly and had a second cup of decaf while the couple finished their meal and left. Roman paid the check and followed the Devereux, who lived in a high-rise condo complex a few blocks from the restaurant. He kept his distance and waited for them to take the elevator to the fourteenth floor. Then fifteen minutes later, he rang the intercom for 1404. A male voice answered. “Dr. Devereux?”

“Yes.”

“My name is John Farley. I’m from the Boston office of the FBI, and I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“FBI? What’s this all about?”

“Well, I’d rather explain in person. If you’d like, we could talk down here or go someplace else, or I could come up.”

“I’ll be right down.”

“Fine.” The guy was smart. A minute later, he came down, still dressed in chinos and blue shirt. He opened the security door and stepped into the foyer. Roman smiled and flashed a phony photo badge fabricated a few years ago on another case. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but we’d like to talk to you about a former colleague of yours, LeAnn Cola.”

“LeAnn? What about her?”

Roman looked around the bleak entryway. “It’s a rather sensitive matter, and I’d rather not do it here. We could go find a coffee shop if you’d like.”

Devereux studied Roman’s sincere blue eyes. “No, come on up.”

“Really, there’s no need to disturb your family.”

“No, that’s fine.” And he unlocked the security door and led them to the elevator.

Hook, line, and sinker, thought Roman as they stepped into the elevator.

Nothing was said in the ride up, and at the floor Devereux unlocked his condo door. “Ruth, we have a guest,” he called out.

The wife appeared, and Devereux introduced Roman, who flashed his badge again and apologized for the intrusion. “Our office is investigating the death of Dr. LeAnn Cola,” Roman said, then expressed condolences for the death of their friend.

Mrs. Devereux asked if he’d like coffee or something else to drink, and Roman politely refused. Then she disappeared into the other rooms, leaving him and Devereux on facing armchairs. To Roman’s right was a wall of built-in dark-wood shelves with books and photographs, including a large one of a woman and two young children. Roman nodded at the photo. “Beautiful children.”

“Thanks. My daughter and her kids.”

“Again, I’m sorry about the death of your associate.” Devereux thanked him as Roman reached into his briefcase by his feet and extracted a clipboard pad. “Does the name Thomas Pomeroy mean anything to you?”

Devereux’s face clouded over. “Yes, Tom was a friend and colleague.”

“You know that he died recently also.”

“Yes.”

“How did you know them?”

Devereux hesitated for a moment. “I worked with them.”

“Well, we have reason to believe that your colleagues didn’t die by accident or natural causes as reported but were murdered.”

“Murdered?”

“Yes. That their deaths were staged to appear like a heart attack and gas leak.”

“That’s awful. Who would do such a thing? And why?”

“That’s what we’re hoping to learn.” Then, with a woeful expression, Roman added, “We think the deaths are connected to some research they were doing. I’m sorry to say that we picked up intelligence of a contract on your own life.”

“What?”

“Yes, someone wants you dead, and I’m hoping you’ll give me information that could help us prevent that.”

Devereux’s mouth went slack. “What?”

“Our sources tell us that the contracts may have come from somewhere in the Catholic Church, believe it or not.”

“The Catholic Church?”

Hearing the squeal in Devereux’s voice, the wife came out of a back room in her bathrobe. “Is everything okay?”

“Tom Pomeroy and LeAnn Cola were murdered,” Devereux announced.

“What?”

“Mrs. Devereux, I’m afraid that’s true and that your husband’s life is in danger, maybe your own. And we think it has to do with the research you all worked on.” Before either of them could catch their breath, Roman turned to Devereux. “I’m wondering if you could tell me about that project, because I think it’ll help prevent more killings.” Then he turned to the wife. “And Mrs. Devereux, please join us, since I understand you assisted.”

In shock, the woman lowered herself onto the sofa. “We were doing research on sleep, what happens in the brain at various states,” Devereux said.

“Sleep?”

“The project was confidential by contract, but we worked on imaging software.”

“Can you tell me a little more, like why someone would want to stop you?”

Devereux stared at him for a long moment. “I think it might be a good idea if I contacted my lawyer before we continue. We’re entering sensitive areas. I’d also like to notify the local police if my life is in danger.”

“You don’t need the police. You’ve got the FBI. We’re working to protect you.”

“You keep on saying we, but there’s only you.”

“I don’t like this,” Mrs. Devereux said. “I’m scared.” She shot to her feet and started to move away.

“Where you going?” Roman asked.

“To call the police.” She headed for the telephone on a corner desk.

“That’s not a good idea,” Roman said. But she didn’t stop. So Roman pulled a silenced pistol from his briefcase and shot her twice in the back. She crumpled in place. But before her husband could move, Roman lowered the gun to his face. “Move and you’re dead.”

A yelp rose from his throat as he stared at his wife’s body.

“Tell me what you were doing on that project.”

For a long moment Devereux struggled to control himself, looking from Roman to his wife to the gun aimed at his head. “Who—who are you? Why did you shoot her?” His voice warbled with horror and disbelief.

He started to get up, but Roman flicked the gun at him. “I’ll kill you.”

Devereux settled back in place.

“Tell me what you, Cola, and Pomeroy were working on, and no more sleep research bullshit, because I know where your daughter and her children live. And if you give me any double-talk, I will kill you and visit them, capice?”

Devereux nodded, his face a bloodless bag of loose flesh. His voice choked as he glanced at his wife’s lifeless body, blood spreading across her blouse. “Near-death experiences.”

“Near-death experiences?”

“They were bringing people to flatline to detect electrical activity.”

“Keep going.”

“To see if there was anything to the claim—dead relatives, heaven, whatever.”

Oh my, Roman thought.

Devereux continued, gasping for air. “Or just neurobiology.”

“What does this have to do with Satan?”

“Satan? I—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Why is the Church opposed to your research?”

“The Church? I didn’t know it was.”

“You were trying to prove if the afterlife was for real or just in the brain, right?”

Devereux nodded.

“And what did you conclude?”

“I don’t know. It’s still ongoing.”

“Where was your research done?”

“I don’t know. It was all freelance. I know nothing else about it, I swear on my life.”

“How much did they pay you for your work?”

“Five thousand.”

“Are they still doing the experiments?”

“I think so.”

Roman studied Devereux squirming in the chair. He looked as if he was telling the truth. “Why does the Catholic Church want you dead?”

By reflex, Devereux sucked in his breath. “I don’t know. Please let me go.”

“Think.”

“I don’t know. Maybe because we were trying to prove that religious experience was just brain chemistry.”

Roman felt a small jab to his solar plexus. “You think they’re on to something?”

“I don’t know. Please don’t kill me.”

“What else do you know? Who else worked with you?”

“All I know is they got a test subject with positive results.”

“Meaning what?”

“He’s neurosensitive. I don’t know. I just worked on the imaging software. His name was in the paper a while back. He woke from a coma and people thought Jesus was talking through him or something.”

“You got a name?”

“No. Some college kid. That’s all I know.”

“What happened to him?” Roman slipped to his knees and pushed the silencer near his mouth. “Tell me the truth. Tell me names of any others. Or where I can find them, and I’ll let you live.”

“I—I don’t know any others. I worked on the side and gave the results to Morris.”

“Morris who?”

“Morris Stern. That’s all I know. I swear I know nothing else. I swear.”

“Anything else about this kid?”

“No.”

Roman studied him for a moment as he sat shuddering in the armchair, his face colorless, his mouth panting, his eyes twitching. Roman then jammed the silencer into Devereux’s mouth and pulled the trigger. The bullet exited the back of his skull, splattering blood and brain matter onto the back cushion and far wall.

Roman had been careful not to touch anything. He put on a pair of surgical gloves, removed the silencer, and wiped the pistol clean of his prints. He then pressed the gun in Devereux’s hand and let it fall as if he had committed suicide after shooting his wife.

Before he left the apartment and took the exit stairs to the street, he looked back on the scene of the dead Devereux.

Nearer my God to Thee, he thought, and slipped away.