Forgotten Witness (3 page)

In the other pseudo-office a man unleashed his rage on a kid in a cheap green shirt and dark pants who eventually slunk off clutching a stack of papers. Eugene would hate to work in such an environment but he presumed anger and frustration were the nature of the security beast.

On he went, considering that it was much more productive to let people know what you expected and then take nothing less. In the tangle of government people looked for surety, consistency, and assurances that their decisions were correct and valued. That’s how his senator conducted business. Eugene almost laughed at that familiarity. His senator, indeed.

“Hey, Genie! Didn’t take you long to poke your nose in!”

Eugene stopped abruptly and turned stiffly, knowing who hailed him even before he saw the man’s lumbering mass coming down the hall. Eugene disliked Officer Morgan because he was disrespectful, out-of-shape, and generally base. Sadly, Morgan was of sufficient rank that Eugene could not complain about his slovenliness and his reasonable requests that he should be addressed as Mr. Weller by all security personnel had only resulted in the Genie moniker being picked up by others in the department. Most had the courtesy to call him that vile nickname behind his back. Morgan was the exception. Eugene originally thought this rudeness was a form of social Tourette’s and the man did not understand how unseemly it was. He was wrong. Morgan knew exactly what he was doing. Eugene, though, knew when to pick a fight. The right time was when you knew you would win.

Morgan pulled to a stop and put his hand on the wall as if to keep from tipping over once he came to a standstill. He was an oddly shaped person who carried his weight in his barrel chest. His head was comparatively small and his legs bowed. He was an inverted triangle of a man whom Eugene knew to be unattractive and yet there was a Mrs. Morgan out there somewhere who thought him decent looking enough to marry.

“Figured you’d be down here,” Morgan chuckled. “Hate to tell you, you wasted a trip. Poor guy’s just a loon off the street.”

“If he came in off the street how did he get into chambers, Morgan? Everyone is supposed to have a pass. Could it be your officers can’t even handle something as simple as a vagrant?” Eugene cut his eyes to the man’s hand still splayed against the wall. That hand bothered him immensely. He didn’t like the way Morgan’s cheap wedding ring cut into his fleshy finger, or his ragged nails, or the dark hair tufting at his knuckles.

“I didn’t say he was a vagrant.” Morgan found his center, let loose of the wall, splayed his legs to balance himself, and passed over a slim file. “And my officers handled everything just fine. The guy had a pass. Officer Craven tagged him when he walked in ’cause he looked like he hadn’t slept in days. Hell, we all look like that half the time,” Morgan laughed. “Anyway, since he was quiet while he was watching, there wasn’t anything to worry about.”

Eugene flipped the folder open. Inside was a picture of the man in custody. There was also a computer run on his name. The capitol pass was clipped at the top.

“This information is ancient. And the pass!” Eugene was annoyed. “1990? How did he get by with this?”

Morgan shrugged. “It’s still valid. The computer says so. It’s a pass issued to personnel.”

“Personnel? That man works here? In what capacity? I want to talk to his supervisor,” Eugene snapped.

Morgan pointed to the read-out. “He was an adjunct to the Department of Defense out of Texas A & M. We’re running it down. He says he’s a scientist. I don’t have a lock on it, but ’90 is the last year he was on the payroll.”

“Then why was he here today? Why does he still have a pass?” Eugene closed the file, terribly annoyed by what he considered systemic ineptitude.

“It’s the government, Genie.” Morgan stuffed his hands into his pockets. One had a small tear at the corner. “When are you going to learn we are only 4.8% efficient? I read that in that magazine they send around here. Weird they even wrote about it. Usually, they spin all the news so it sounds like we’re goddamn geniuses. Guess it was hard to put a good spin on that little statistic.”

One hand came out of his pocket and he flicked the pass clipped to the file.

“There’s a zillion of these floating around. Maybe he kept it as a souvenir. You should bring it up with Patriota. Somebody should invalidate these things, especially these days. Anyway, he’s in there. You can see him, but I don’t know what good that’s going to do. He’s just some wonk off his rocker. Still, if you want to see how harmless he is be my guest.”

Morgan went around Eugene, opened the door to room six, and gave Eugene a little nudge.

“Always nice to have a second opinion from the guys who make the laws, Genie. Down here, we just try to enforce ’em.”

“I wouldn’t make light of this, Morgan,” Eugene warned. “That man disrupted a senate hearing. He accosted a witness. I’m sure someone got a picture. This is no small matter, and if you think it is you’re in the wrong job.”

Eugene walked into the interview room and closed the door knowing that Morgan probably found all this fuss delightful. At least he had been truthful. Ian Francis appeared harmless lying on the couch, one leg on the floor, one arm mashed between him and the back cushion as he slept. Eugene walked over to the sofa, stood above him, and when the man didn’t open his eyes Eugene pulled up a chair and sat down.

“Wake up, sir. Mr. Francis,” he ordered. “I’d like to talk to you.”

Ian Francis’ eyes opened on command, but Eugene was not prepared for what happened next. With startling speed, the man grabbed Eugene’s lapels and wrapped them in his fists.

“Don’t touch me! What are you doing?” Eugene stood up abruptly, knocking the chair to the floor as he tried to extricate himself, but Ian Francis’ grip was tight and he was pulled up like a fish on a hook as Eugene  threw himself backward.

“Chatter,” Ian whispered frantically.

“Morgan!” Eugene screamed even as he grappled with the man’s hands. Still Ian held tight.

“Chatter. Artichoke. Marigolds.” Ian hissed and spittle sprayed over an ever more terrified Eugene Weller. “Chatter. Marigolds in the house. In the house!”

“Morgan!”

Eugene screamed again just as Morgan hurdled through the door. The cop took hold of Ian’s shoulders but the man clung like a barnacle, pulling himself closer and closer to Patriota’s aide.

“My girl,” Ian sobbed. “Marigold.”

“Get him off me, Morgan!” Eugene cried out, knowing there were mere seconds before he peed in his pants. “Help anyone!”

Eugene’s head whipped around to look for reinforcements since Morgan was proving useless. Then everything changed. When he looked back again Eugene saw a different man. Ian’s fingers loosened, his knees gave way, and he slumped. Eugene threw away his hands as Morgan scooped the man up before he hit the floor. With surprising gentleness, the cop settled him back on the rock-hard sofa.

“Told you, Genie,” Morgan said quietly. For Ian he had an even kinder voice. “Poor guy. You’re just not all there, are you?”

“Harmless. That man is not harmless.” Eugene huffed, embarrassed that he had needed rescuing and that he had panicked like a woman. “He could have killed me.”

“Well, he didn’t,” Morgan pointed out. “I’ll stay with him for a while and see if I can find out where his home is.”

“I doubt he has one,” Eugene muttered as he tugged at his jacket and then swiped at his lapels. He would have to have this suit cleaned. It felt like the man had left crazy all over him.

“Everybody lives somewhere.” Morgan stuck his hands into Ian’s pockets and came up with a key attached to a piece of white plastic. Morgan smiled and Ian Francis mimicked him. “Is this yours, buddy? Where are you staying? You want to go home, dontcha?”

“Yes. Please. I need to get back to my girl. It’s cold here,” Ian muttered.

“Yeah, you should have a coat. Is she there? Your girl? Will she take care of you?” Morgan glanced at Eugene. “The guys who brought him in said some girl was asking about him. Maybe she’ll be back.”

“Good grief, your
guys
are inept. This man just spooked a hundred people in a hearing, assaulted a witness, assaulted me, and you let the one person who showed interest in him leave? The inmates are running the asylum, Morgan.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Morgan deadpanned.

On the couch, Ian Francis shook his head, nudged his glasses up his nose, and beetled his brow as if trying to hold on to one cogent thought. He looked up at the two bickering men. If they had bothered to look, they would have seen tears in the crazy man’s eyes. Instead, as Ian sat up Morgan clapped him on the back and rubbed it hard, rattling his brain.

“My brother’s kid has some problems. He gets agitated and such. You give ’em a rub and everything’s good,” Morgan said to Eugene.

“Artichoke? You know? A few marigolds still…” Ian spoke to his clasped hands.

“Guess he’s hungry.”

Morgan laughed but Eugene wasn’t listening. He was staring at Ian Francis. Slowly, he put his hands on his knees and brought his face close to that of the befuddled man.

“Artichoke. Chatter. Marigolds,” Eugene said.

Ian’s eyes snapped up and brightened with gratitude, “Yes. Marigolds. You remember?”

Eugene shot up, scowling at the man on the couch.

“Fingerprint him. Run him through the entire system. Everything. If he had that pass, he was vetted at some point. It shouldn’t be a great chore to pull his records.”

“Jesus, Genie, really?” Morgan moaned. “I have no reason to hold him.”

“Figure one out, Morgan. I’ll expect to hear from you today. No more than a couple of hours.”

Eugene headed for the door with his brain on overdrive. Ian Francis’ words triggered an elusive memory that made Eugene nervous. Of course, this could all be in his imagination – though most would agree Eugene had little of that – but he had a feeling that something important had transpired.

Morgan called after him. “The woman he ran into isn’t pressing charges is she?”

“No.” Eugene paused in the doorway. “But you never know. People want to hold someone accountable for the smallest things.”

Eugene glanced back at the pathetic man in the old blue suit, but when he inadvertently met Morgan’s eyes, he couldn’t hold the man’s gaze. Eugene Weller did not want his compassion questioned by the likes of Morgan. As he left the room, he muttered: “Get me the information.”

Outside the door, Eugene took a moment. He rotated his neck aware now that his muscles had tightened to the point of pain. He pulled at his jacket as he concentrated on loosening the ones that locked his jaw. Retracing his steps, he passed the glass offices where the man was no longer yelling at anyone and the angry woman was staring at her desk, exhausted by whatever had upset her. He went past the receptionist who was fielding phone calls with a voice so expertly modulated that Eugene wondered if she was able to shake it when she got home. He went down the short hall, opened the door to the longer hall and walked out of camera view. It was only after he was back in the main building, stepping briskly through the crowds of people doing business there, that he realized his shirt was wet under his arms and he stank like a common man.

…the defendant named judges and United States covert government agents including Attorney General Eric Holder claiming he was a victim of voice-to-skull mind control technology at the hands of the U.S. government. The judge dismissed the case promptly, stating Banks was “wholly incredible and delusional”.
–
TruthStream Media

CHAPTER 3

“Tea, or something stronger?”

Ambrose Patriota sat easily in a regency style chair upholstered in gold satin and exquisitely embroidered with brown unicorns. Josie sat opposite him on a couch with rolled arms, covered in burgundy fabric shot with golden threads. The upholstery was pulled so tight it looked like a bad facelift – all sheen and no shadow. There was a low mahogany table resting on claw and ball feet in front of her. Inlaid occasional tables were scattered around the office. The focal point of this political man cave was an impressive desk whose ancient origins Josie couldn’t begin to imagine.

The walls of Senator Patriota’s private chambers were covered with black-framed citations and photos of a career that spanned four presidents, one English queen, ten prime ministers in various countries, and an untold number of dictators. There were a few well-chosen pieces of art: one Chagall and two Picassos. This opulence would have been suspect had Josie not checked him out after being invited to testify.

Ambrose Patriota was to Greek-Americans what John Kennedy was to the Irish. Money, ambition, and PR fairy dust were all it took to turn a young, Greek, son-of-an-immigrant into a powerful senator. As a young man he had spent a number of years turning a once modest family shoe company into money with a capital M before stunning the business world by joining the military. Ten years, one honorable discharge, and one perfectly orchestrated campaign later he was the governor of Texas. In the next blink he was the go-to-guy in the senate. Soon he would be president. Josie couldn’t help but be intrigued by him; charmed was another matter. Men with this much power made her nervous, but her wariness was a precaution not a prejudice.

“I’m good, thanks.”

Ambrose Patriota raised his index finger and the young woman awaiting Josie’s pleasure faded away. The senator sat back, unbuttoned the jacket of his dark suit, and lamented: “Always a drama around here, I fear. If it’s not someone trying to kill us, it’s someone trying to touch us, talk to us, sway us, or degrade us. I apologize for what happened.”

“I’m not sure what you have to be sorry about,” Josie suggested.

“Our lack of security for one. Our people are better trained than that. I’m sorry you were the one in the way.”

“Senator, I wasn’t in the way. That man came at me for a reason.” Josie moved, itching to be out of the office, eager to talk to the man in custody. Sadly, the rules of this place were as unforgiving as the couch she sat on and Ambrose Patriota was kindly dismissive of her desires.