Paradigm Rift: Book One of the Back to Normal Series (24 page)

Thursday, February 8, 1951

I was actually out of town in Chicago with Michael and Doc Stonecroft looking at some equipment, and we all missed the fun. Yesterday, back in Normal, they said the morning sky got much brighter for a brief instant and the thunder rolled. This FLaT brought us one Terrance Gaines. (We have had a few jumpless-FLaTs recently.)

Shep and Leah found him wandering uptown. Terrance is an African-American in his mid-30s, and he arrived in 1951 from 1983. Normal is not very ethnically diverse, and when one combines that with his non-period clothing—he was easily identified.

I’ve only spent a short while with Terrance. He is pretty shaken, and he is not afraid to cry, which is odd at first blush. He’s athletically built and his emotional state doesn’t seem to fit your expectation when you see him. But he has a wife and 3 kids back in 1983, and he is suffering a horrible dose of “time trauma.” Terrance is a veteran, and has mechanical and machine repair experience from his time in the Navy.

I am particularly concerned about the status of race relations in the Midwest in 1951. The Civil Rights Movement hasn’t officially begun yet. I am trying to prepare Terrance for culture shock (as we had to do with Tamara), and I have continued to warn Shep about his offensive language and racial attitudes. Shep seems interested in updating our technology, but has no interest in updating his own outdated, racist mindset.

It seems that we will relive the Cold War, and the Race War—both born of fear and mistrust.

“His name is Gerald Williamson, thirty-nine years old,” Neal Schaeffer offered as Howard Ross stepped up to the viewing window bordering the interrogation room.

On the flip side of the one-way glass a balding bus driver waited in a tiny chair. He was perched in the most uncomfortable position and fidgeting excessively. Sweat poured from his wrinkled forehead, and his drenched handkerchief was already too soaked to provide any actual relief. The driver studied the reel-to-reel recorder at the end of the table and then looked down at his own trembling hands.

Ross gawked at him like a zoo exhibit. Neal had always sensed that his boss took a twisted interest in watching anxiety destroy a person. It was all part of the break-down process, Ross had said: a brief period of silent, foreboding isolation, strengthened by the mounting tension of waiting for that door to open.

Ross told Neal on more than one occasion that getting information out of a suspect was very much like digestion. “First,” he said, “before you can extract the information out of them, you have to chew them up, kinda break ‘em down a bit. Like using your teeth to crush food. That,” he declared with a smile, “that is what the solitary waiting period is for. Never skip that important step. If you rush it, it’s like not chewing your food enough: you won’t get out of it what you are looking for.”

Howard Ross glanced down and flipped open the folder Neal had shoved into his hands moments before. “Where’s he from?”

“Champaign,” Neal replied.

Ross looked up with a hard stare. Neal noticed and elaborated. “The
city
, not the beverage.”

The driver stood up for a moment and took a few nervous steps, passing right by the glass, inches from them. Neal could almost smell the man’s fear.

“I want a team on site to search his residence,” Ross announced. “He had the wallet, he might have more.”

“Uh, slight problem—we don’t have a warrant.”

His boss didn’t seem impressed. “Get one if you think we need it. I don’t.”

Neal squirmed. “Just a little thing called the Fourth Amendment?”

Ross shrugged. “The Constitution, Agent Schaeffer, is the supreme law of the land, is it not? Of the people, by the people, for the people?”

Neal nodded. “No argument here, Chief.”

“The Constitution protects the people, and
we
protect the Constitution.” Neal’s mind raced, but Ross didn’t give him time to comment. “What good is the law of the land, Neal, if there is no land?” Ross paused.

Neal knew the Chief had no intention of further defending the merits of his legal position. Schaeffer predicted that Ross would conveniently change the subject.

He did.

“Where is the bus right now?” Ross asked.

Neal looked at his watch. “Should be arriving at the lot in about three hours.”

“Make sure that no FBI agents touch it, just our people.”

“Already taken care of. I assigned Kincy.”

“TDS Film?”

“On site and ready.”

Ross started to say something but then stopped. He paused, gazing at his victim. “This won’t take long.”

Neal looked at Ross’ pitiful prey.

Nope, it won’t take long at all.

Ross threw open the door as they burst into the stuffy interrogation room. The driver nearly jumped out of his chair and coughed.

Always a grand entrance isn’t it Boss?
Neal shut the door behind them being careful to make as little as sound as possible. He knew he was breaking protocol, and that he would probably pay for it later.

Ross circled around his victim and towered silently above him—his arms folded. Mr. Williamson swallowed hard, and apparently avoided all direct eye contact.

Ross signaled Neal, who stepped over and activated the tape recorder. Ross flipped open the folder again and marched to the other side of the small table. “Good afternoon, Mr. Williamson.”

The driver nodded. “Uh, yes, good afternoon, Sir.”

Ross paused before he sat down, locking eyes with him. “How is, uh, your wife Samantha, and your sons Daniel and Thomas?”

Come on, Boss, really?
Ross had a one-size-fits-all interrogation style, which Neal knew consisted of fear, intimidation, repeat.

The poor man clasped his hands and struggled to answer. “Um, well, Sir, she is—I mean, they are fine. Just fine, Sir.”

Ross sat, keeping his unblinking eyes on the driver. He angled back and lit up a cigarette.

Neal intervened. “Mr. Williamson, I want to assure you, that you are not in trouble in any way, shape, or form.” Ross shot his assistant a cold stare, but Neal continued in spite of it. “We just have some questions for you, and we need the complete and honest truth. That's all. No more, no less.”

The driver nodded. “Oh, yes, sure. Sure.”

Ross took a long hit on the cigarette, flaring up a hellish glow on its tip. “What exactly happened on your bus the day you found the wallet in question?” Streams of white smoke snaked out of his nostrils.

The driver rubbed his hands together. “It, uh, was, uh, very strange, Sir. It was a Friday, Friday August the tenth. I was, we were, northbound on 66, about twenty minutes out of my first Chicago stop.”

Ross leaned forward, transfixed, and Neal wrote careful notes, occasionally looking up to offer Ross’ victim a friendly face. (With Neal and Ross, it wasn’t a “good cop/bad cop” routine. It was more “good cop/you better freakin’ tell me everything I want to know or I will destroy your life and the life of everyone you care about, cop.”)

“
What
strange thing happened?” Ross pressed, even though his lips seemed motionless.

“I was, we were, pulled over, Sir.”

Neal almost dropped his pencil, and Ross leaned forward, releasing a sideways blast of smoke. “
Who
pulled you over, Mr. Williamson?”

“Well, Sir, the police, of course. Um, two policemen.”

Neal and Ross traded taut glances. Both of Ross’ elbows rested on the table. “What kind of markings did you see on the police car? Did you get a good look at it? What city?”

The driver looked up and around, searching his memory. “It was a dark sedan, uh, no markings that I can remember, Sir. But there was a police light and a siren.”

Neal glanced up from his paperwork. “Did you get a good look at the license plate, Mr. Williamson?”

“No Sir. It's a large bus. You don't see much out back, Sir.”

If Ross was fascinated, his face was far too disciplined to reveal it. “What happened next?”

The driver relaxed, but only slightly. “As I said, two policemen, one on either side of the bus, came around and started yelling, yelling out a name. Some guy got up, I guess it was him, and walked off the bus—no struggle or anything. Strange.”

Neal’s heart began to race. He was perpetually amazed at how Ross remained stoic at such critical times. Howard smashed his cigarette into an ashtray. “Do you remember what they yelled? What name?” He paused. “It’s
important
.”

The driver leaned back, and mopped his brow a few times. Neal offered him a dry cloth.

“Thanks,” he said.

Ross pressed, “A
name
, Mr. Williamson.”

“Uh, it was, uh, Collins. Collins, Sir.”

Neal had to fake a cough to cover his excitement. Ross’ face appeared cooler than blue steel. “Are you sure?”

“Uh, yes, Sir. Absolutely.” The driver looked over at Neal. “When I found the wallet, later, I looked for identification. I saw the name again, a Denver Collins, Sir.”

Ross jumped up. “You searched through someone else’s private property, Mr. Williamson?”

The driver sunk down like an abused child, panicking. “Look, no, I, uh, didn’t steal anything or anything improper, Sir.”

Ross was unrelenting. “What did you see in the wallet?”

“Uh, nothing, nothing really, Sir, just a strange driver’s license—”

“
And
—”

“And, uh, some, some, cash, and, uh, that’s just about, about it—Sir.”

Ross hurried over to him. “What else?”

The man was on the verge of tears. “Nothing, Sir, nothing, just the license, and the, uh, the money, Sir.”

The CIA Chief glared down at him. Neal recalled Ross’ formula: fear, intimidation, repeat.
Here comes the repeat
, he thought.

Ross bent towards him, face to face. “Are you lying to me, son?”

The bus driver couldn’t sink any lower. “No, no, Sir.”

Ross froze, unflinching, no doubt to enhance the crushing effect. He lit a fresh cigarette in slow, deliberate motions. “Describe the two officers. Anything unusual—mannerisms, tattoos, anything?”

The driver relaxed visibly as Ross walked back to his chair. “Uh, it was hard to see much, Sir. They were wearing hats, and sunglasses. I don't recall seeing anything on their uniforms.”

Neal interjected, “Any idea on their ages, even just a ballpark?”

Williamson strained, “Uh, one was probably, I’m not sure, maybe late fifties? The other, maybe late twenties, early thirties?”

Neal didn’t look up. “Any accents, such as a foreigner might have?”

The driver shrugged. “Older one had a bit of a Southern drawl, I think, Sir. Nothing un-American.”

Neal jotted some things down. He looked over. “What about build? Height and weight?”

“Uh, that’s hard to say, uh, they were down on the ground, I’m, uh, a bus driver is up pretty high.”

“I understand,” Neal replied. “Was either one of them above average or below average height or weight?”

“Uh, well, older one was a bit heavy, a little overweight, maybe. Um, younger one about average, a little slender.”

Ross resumed control. “Their uniforms—city cops, or Illinois State Police? Blue or brown?”

“Uh, blue. Yeah, city cops.”

Ross released a veil of smoke. “What else did they say, the two policemen?”

Williamson paused. “Uh, not much. They, uh, thanked Mr. Collins for getting off the bus, and uh, then the older cop told me to get the bus out of there.”

“That’s all?”

“Uh, yes Sir. To the best of my memory. I was a little scared, kind of, like now. Sorry, Sir.”

Ross straightened up. “Did it seem like they knew each other?”

The driver was at a loss. “Uh, Sir,” he began, “I’m not sure I completely understand—”

“Did it seem like the policemen and Mr. Collins had any kind of prior relationship? Did they seem familiar with one another in any way?”

He shook his head. “Uh, they, uh, knew his name, that was it.”

Neal stood up halfway and slid three photos across the table to the driver—snapshots of two random men and one of Denver Collins. Neal sat back down and looked at the driver. “Are any of these the man that got off your bus that day?”

The Greyhound driver picked up each one and studied them, quickly dismissing the first two. He held on to Denver's for a while. His hands were shaking as he set it down and pointed. “It all happened so fast, but, uh, it, I mean, he looks like the guy.” He rubbed his chin. “I don't remember the beard though.”

Ross made a subtle signal. Neal opened a folder and pulled out the artist’s sketch of a clean-shaven Denver Collins. He spun it around and held it up for the driver.

Mr. Williamson began nodding. “Yes, yes, Sir. That looks like him.”

Neal stashed the drawing away, and Ross continued. “Did Mr. Collins—the
gentleman
—say or do anything else that you can remember?”

The driver paused. “No, not that I can recall. The cops, they, uh, they did all the talking.”

“Do you remember if Mr. Collins was alone on the bus?” Neal asked. “Was he sitting by anyone, did he talk to anyone? Any associates?”

“I'd, uh, be lying if I said I knew anything about that, Sir. Unless there's a fight or a medical emergency, I usually don't notice too much. Sorry.”

“How about clothing? Do you remember what Mr. Collins was wearing?”

“Uh, jeans? And a plaid button up, I think, Sir. Maybe blue?”

“How did the two policemen act?” Ross asked. “Did it seem serious, or tense?”

The driver wiped his forehead again. “Serious? Yessir, it was serious! They, uh, had their guns drawn and everything, Sir.” He stopped for a moment, recollecting. “When he got off the bus, they, uh, put him on his knees, guns to his head. Scared most of the passengers, that's for sure.”

For the first time in the interview Neal saw Ross react in surprise. No doubt that part of the story must have interested Ross greatly. He probed deeper. “Did you see anything in your rear view mirror after you pulled away? Did you see or hear any gunshots?”

He shook his head.

Ross was relieved. “Did they ever pass you? In the police car?”

“No, I, uh, never saw them again.”

“Do you have any recollection, even just an educated guess, just where Mr. Collins may have boarded your bus?”