“Thanks, Helen.” Gordon Swan smiled at his wife, taking the glass of tea.
“You’re quite welcome, dear,” Helen replied. She sat down beside him, looking out the porch window as Emily, their youngest, swung on the swing set Gordon had built himself eighteen years ago, when their oldest had just turned three. Gordon liked to keep work at work and home at home, but he had a tough time watching Emily without thinking of Trisha Potemkin, the little red-headed girl that Greg Willet was busy trying to bring home alive. He hadn’t talked to the Potemkins but he had talked to plenty of parents whose kids turned up missing, kidnapped or killed. There was a reason the fence behind that old swing-set was so high, and there was a reason why there was a perimeter alarm. Why he never let his kids out of his sight when they were home, or if he was out at the mall or at a restaurant with them. It had been that way with each child. Gordon had kept a sharp eye and a short leash on them until they were well beyond old enough to take care of themselves—and well-schooled in martial arts and self-defense. Gordon Swan had seen too much of the dark side of human nature, and talked to too many parents who ended up burying their children, to take the safety of his family lightly.
Out front, Jacque started barking—the oldest and still one of the most effective form of perimeter alarms known to man.
“Mail’s here,” Helen said. “And I just sat down.” She stood back up. “Always something, always something.”
“Oh, hang on there, I’ll go get the mail, you sit down—” Gordon started.
“Too late, I’m up already, you just keep an eye on Emily and make sure she doesn’t hurt herself.” With that, Helen disappeared back into the house.
A minute later she reappeared. “Another package for Jamie,” Helen commented. “I wish you’d get your brother to stop sending him that garbage. He doesn’t need any more fake vomit or dog-doo or dribble glasses—”
“I’ll talk to him again. Ben can be a little mule-headed. Anything else?”
“You’re quite welcome, dear,” Helen replied. She sat down beside him, looking out the porch window as Emily, their youngest, swung on the swing set Gordon had built himself eighteen years ago, when their oldest had just turned three. Gordon liked to keep work at work and home at home, but he had a tough time watching Emily without thinking of Trisha Potemkin, the little red-headed girl that Greg Willet was busy trying to bring home alive. He hadn’t talked to the Potemkins but he had talked to plenty of parents whose kids turned up missing, kidnapped or killed. There was a reason the fence behind that old swing-set was so high, and there was a reason why there was a perimeter alarm. Why he never let his kids out of his sight when they were home, or if he was out at the mall or at a restaurant with them. It had been that way with each child. Gordon had kept a sharp eye and a short leash on them until they were well beyond old enough to take care of themselves—and well-schooled in martial arts and self-defense. Gordon Swan had seen too much of the dark side of human nature, and talked to too many parents who ended up burying their children, to take the safety of his family lightly.
Out front, Jacque started barking—the oldest and still one of the most effective form of perimeter alarms known to man.
“Mail’s here,” Helen said. “And I just sat down.” She stood back up. “Always something, always something.”
“Oh, hang on there, I’ll go get the mail, you sit down—” Gordon started.
“Too late, I’m up already, you just keep an eye on Emily and make sure she doesn’t hurt herself.” With that, Helen disappeared back into the house.
A minute later she reappeared. “Another package for Jamie,” Helen commented. “I wish you’d get your brother to stop sending him that garbage. He doesn’t need any more fake vomit or dog-doo or dribble glasses—”
“I’ll talk to him again. Ben can be a little mule-headed. Anything else?”
“Pig-headed, is more like it,” Helen retorted, sitting down. “Bills and junk mail, mostly. A letter from my cousin Sarah.” She thumbed through the mail. “And there’s this,” she continued, putting a plain white envelope on the table between them. She continued to studiously flip through the mail, but Gordon recognized the tone. Helen knew what he did for a living, and that no matter how careful they were, sometimes work overlapped with home. Most of the time, when Helen found something in the mail suspicious, it was nothing. But not always. Sometimes there were threats. Sometimes there were long, taunting letters. Sometimes there were pictures.
Gordon picked up the envelope, and saw what had gotten Helen’s hackles up straight away. No return address. Gordon’s name and address was written in neat blue block letters—the kind it was often very difficult to match to any one person. Gordon’s mouth didn’t go dry until, noting the lack of return address, he instinctively looked at the postmark.
It had been mailed from Los Angeles on Monday, May 24th. The day Dr. Donald Bernhard had ended up dead at the food court of the Four Points Mall.
“Did you get the letter opener, sweetheart?” he asked—Helen normally did grab the letter opener off the bureau, when she went to get the mail. Saying nothing, she handed it to him. He held the letter up to the light and could clearly see it contained nothing but one folded sheet of paper.
It couldn’t be, he thought. There’s no way. Gingerly, he worked the letter opener into the corner of the envelope and carefully slit the top. Using the tip of the letter opener, he pushed the envelope open. He didn’t think there was anything in there but the paper, but it paid to be cautious. He turned the envelope over, making sure there was nothing else to see—the only thing he noticed was Helen watching him out of the corner of her eye. Satisfied there was nothing immediately dangerous about the letter itself, he reached in and pulled the single sheet of paper out.
Pushing his glasses up his nose, he unfolded the letter, and read it.
Gordon picked up the envelope, and saw what had gotten Helen’s hackles up straight away. No return address. Gordon’s name and address was written in neat blue block letters—the kind it was often very difficult to match to any one person. Gordon’s mouth didn’t go dry until, noting the lack of return address, he instinctively looked at the postmark.
It had been mailed from Los Angeles on Monday, May 24th. The day Dr. Donald Bernhard had ended up dead at the food court of the Four Points Mall.
“Did you get the letter opener, sweetheart?” he asked—Helen normally did grab the letter opener off the bureau, when she went to get the mail. Saying nothing, she handed it to him. He held the letter up to the light and could clearly see it contained nothing but one folded sheet of paper.
It couldn’t be, he thought. There’s no way. Gingerly, he worked the letter opener into the corner of the envelope and carefully slit the top. Using the tip of the letter opener, he pushed the envelope open. He didn’t think there was anything in there but the paper, but it paid to be cautious. He turned the envelope over, making sure there was nothing else to see—the only thing he noticed was Helen watching him out of the corner of her eye. Satisfied there was nothing immediately dangerous about the letter itself, he reached in and pulled the single sheet of paper out.
Pushing his glasses up his nose, he unfolded the letter, and read it.
Mr. Swan,
I hope you are impressed. Statistical analysis. Simple predictive models allowed me to know that there was a 98% probability you’d be working on this case before you even knew there would be a case. Although there is a 99.5% chance I am no longer among the living, I think you’ll find I’ll be three steps ahead of you, no matter what you try.
You have a .02% chance of locating the artifact. I know that you will try anyway, but I thought you should know that your odds aren’t good.
I felt the artifact best belonged in the hands of those who would do the most good with it. I’m afraid, as I’ve grown older, I’ve come to understand that that was not the American military. I realized that responsiblity for the artifact could not be given to any part of the American government. I knew it belonged not in the hands of those who would use it to oppress the people, but in the hands of the people that would be oppressed. I knew something like the artifact didn’t belong to any one person or nation, but to everybody—and the importance of the good it could do outweighed any foolish military advantage it might temporarily grant an imperial aggressor such as America. The possibilities in health and medicine alone are staggering.
The American military industrial complex cannot be trusted with such potential.
I trust you understand.
Sincerely,
Dr. Donald Hermann Bernhard, PhD.
Gordon sat for a moment and then read the letter again, brow furrowed. You’re not at work, he thought to himself. Just put it in your briefcase and wait until Monday.
Easier said than done.
Helen, not looking up from an engrossing piece of junk mail, asked, “Work?”
“Yes, work,” Gordon answered, irritated. Not at Helen, but his job, and how hard it was to leave it at the office sometimes. Hard enough to do it in his head; harder still to make his job leave him alone when he was at home. The outside world did not cooperate.
So he sat, glancing over the letter again. While he himself had suggested to Voss and McNaney that there might be a political element—either ideologically or financially motivated—to Bernhard’s action, this was a red herring. Maybe really from Bernhard, or maybe not. Perhaps the sentiment was real, and perhaps not. But the letter was a red herring. Meant to misdirect him, and use up both time and resources. Swan knew it—the letter might as well have said so.
Real political manifestos were usually long and rambling. He had dealt with enough high-minded ideologues who had felt their political awareness elevated them above the law. When those people wrote letters or left messages, they were manifestos, rarely under ten pages and frequently topping fifty. Especially if they were going to send it to somebody in authority. Where it might find its way to the press.
So either Bernhard wasn’t dead and was trying to mislead him—he considered this an extremely remote possibility—or Bernhard was dead and had planned the letter aforethought to misdirect the investigation. Or this letter wasn’t from Bernhard.
In all three cases, the end result was the same: to misdirect, to throw a wrench in the gears. And it would throw a wrench in the gears. Though brief, the letter was essentially a confession of treason. The first stage of investigation would have to conform to the assumption that Bernhard had been politically motivated. Swan would get his ass handed to him otherwise. A fact of which the letter writer was no doubt well aware. The thing was, if Bernhard had not been politically motivated—if this had all been a big game to him, or if this wasn’t from Bernhard at all—pursuing the political connections could lead Swan and his agents seriously far afield. Yet, given the overall brevity of the letter and the generic quality of the political sentiments expressed, what other purpose could the author have intended it to serve? No other purpose, Swan thought. This is misdirection. A decoy. Maybe Bernhard letting the world know how much smarter than he is that then rest of us. Maybe Bernhard or somebody else.
Gordon folded the letter. The envelope was postmarked for Monday, and it was now Saturday. Slow delivery for a regular letter. If had been sent on the day it was postmarked, it should have gotten to him on Wednesday or Thursday at the latest, not Saturday. Could just be a coincidence, of course, but it could also be a good indication that the letter had been sent by somebody else after Bernhard’s death. The content of the letter seemed to almost excessively affirm—even using the same language—Voss and McNaney’s assertions about the “artifact of undetermined origins”. And would he put it past McNaney to set something like this up? While she hardly seemed that thoughtful and deliberate, it seemed entirely plausible to him that she would have no qualms about engaging in such manipulation.
The first paragraph implied that the author used either incredible intelligence, or perhaps mysterious alien technology, to know ahead of time that Swan would be getting the case, and maybe even to determine his home address. Swan wasn’t buying it. Perhaps Bernhard was a super-genius or a disturbed savant, orchestrating what amounted to an elaborate hoax as some sort of final tribute to himself, to how much smarter he was than everybody he had worked with and worked for. Or perhaps this letter wasn’t from Bernhard. Perhaps Bernhard hadn’t stolen anything. Perhaps Bernhard had not been responsible for his own death, and someone in a position to know ahead of time had composed this letter and signed Bernhard’s name. Or perhaps someone else had reason to misdirect any investigation, and had backdated a letter and mixed it in with Swan’s mail for the sole purpose of sewing confusion. Not exactly easy things to do, but there were a lot of people in the intelligence community who could forge postmarks and signatures and get the letter into the correct bin at the post office. And it was certainly more credible than the idea that the letter implied: that Bernhard, using some mysterious artifact, managed to make himself a crystal ball so he could see the future.
Gordon grunted and stood up. Twirling in her swing, Emily looked up, to see if the grunt had been meant for her—to be followed up with an admonition to be more careful or come in and wash up before dinner. Apparently satisfied it was not, she returned to twisting her swing up as far as she could, and then letting it twirl her rapidly around.
“Dear?” Helen asked, her tone neutral but familiar enough to Gordon. It said, you didn’t get home until four in the morning and you missed a good chicken dinner. You better not be about to tell me something just came up and you need to go the office. Not even a phone call.
And Gordon agreed. “It’s work. I’m just going to go put the letter in my briefcase. Then it’s probably about time for everybody to start getting cleaned up for dinner.”
Helen looked up from the mail, frowning. “I just sat down,” she said. “You can get the meatloaf out and start warming it up. You know how to open a can of green beans and make instant potatoes. You can get the kids cleaned up. I’ve been on my feet all afternoon. I’m sitting my big butt down for half-an-hour.”
“Fair enough,” Gordon said, and smiled. Some days, he thought, shaking the letter in his hand, heading to his briefcase. Some days, retirement just can’t come too soon.
He put the letter away. No matter what else was going on—and there was something more to this case than met the eye—it was going to wait until Monday at 7:00 AM.
At least, that was what he thought.
“Dear?” Helen asked, her tone neutral but familiar enough to Gordon. It said, you didn’t get home until four in the morning and you missed a good chicken dinner. You better not be about to tell me something just came up and you need to go the office. Not even a phone call.
And Gordon agreed. “It’s work. I’m just going to go put the letter in my briefcase. Then it’s probably about time for everybody to start getting cleaned up for dinner.”
Helen looked up from the mail, frowning. “I just sat down,” she said. “You can get the meatloaf out and start warming it up. You know how to open a can of green beans and make instant potatoes. You can get the kids cleaned up. I’ve been on my feet all afternoon. I’m sitting my big butt down for half-an-hour.”
“Fair enough,” Gordon said, and smiled. Some days, he thought, shaking the letter in his hand, heading to his briefcase. Some days, retirement just can’t come too soon.
He put the letter away. No matter what else was going on—and there was something more to this case than met the eye—it was going to wait until Monday at 7:00 AM.
At least, that was what he thought.
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