Deceived (24 page)

Rorsch held Brandon’s eyes as he nodded. “And the company had to produce the boats quickly. They were scrambling to activate employees, acquire real estate, build warehouses, and get the assembly line production in place. The night before the exchange was to take place, an informant whose name was never obtained contacted local FBI headquarters and let them know that Brandon Morrissey would be arriving at the Bienville Street wharf in the morning, meeting a Nazi spy, and was planning on selling military secrets.”

Taylor said, “I’m still not sure I understand why it was important that you didn’t hear Benjamin testify at trial.”

Rorsch took a deep breath. “I’m getting to that. Benjamin testified that on the morning that he was arrested, he met with George Bartholomew and Andrew Hutchenson. They told him that they had acquired a lease for the Bienville Street wharf. They handed him what Benjamin thought were designs for the production buildout and asked that he deliver it to contractors who were at the wharf. In reality, the case that his partners gave him had design drawings for the landing craft. He went where they told him to go, handed the documents to the man who was waiting there, then was arrested.”

Brandon heard Taylor draw a deep breath. She asked, “Are you saying that my grandfather and the first Andrew Hutchinson set him up?”

Rorsch nodded to Taylor. “That is Benjamin Morrissey’s testimony.” He gave Brandon time to find his grandfather’s words in the trial transcript. “The jury didn’t believe it. After all, my testimony indicated that he was the person I met in Antoine’s and he showed up with the documents. After his conviction, Benjamin wrote to me. Simple, handwritten letters. He asked for a meeting. He told me that I’d understand once I met him.” Rorsch paused. “His letters were so insistent that I could not forget them, but I did not immediately act on them.”

Rorsch directed Brandon to a file cabinet and a folder that was labeled “Morrissey. Letters.” Brandon sat and opened the folder. His heart twisted as he saw the careful, print handwriting. “
Please meet with me. I have been wrongfully convicted. Please help me.”

“By the time your grandfather was writing to me,” Rorsch said, “I was in charge of the Southeast Division of the Office of Secret Services. A year or so after Benjamin was convicted, I happened to be where he was incarcerated. I asked to speak to him.” Rorsch paused, drew a deep breath, then clasped together hands that were knobby with arthritis, and shook his head, “Here’s the answer to your question, Ms. Bartholomew. When he spoke to me, I knew that I had never heard his voice before. He was not the man who made contact with me. I knew that he had testified correctly.”

Brandon’s heart skipped a beat. He asked, “Why were you so certain?”

“He had a thick, heavy accent, one that I recognized from my work in the Gulf Coast region. It was a Cajun-French accent. It wasn’t the educated, smooth voice that I heard in the bathroom stall at Antoine’s. I would have sworn to that. Actually, I did swear to that. I gave him an affidavit to that effect.” Rorsch’s voice was fading with each sentence that he spoke, and his pauses for breath were more frequent. “It is in these files, in a folder regarding his appeals.”

Taylor stood, went to the file cabinet, and found the affidavit. Brandon glanced at the document, which was dated almost three years after Benjamin’s trial. “His direct appeals were over by the time that you prepared this,” Brandon said.

Rorsch nodded. “His only hope was to present my affidavit as new evidence, in an application for post-conviction relief, via the writ of habeas corpus.”

Brandon frowned. “The odds of winning that type of case are slim.”

“In the 1940’s, an era of wartime hysteria, for a man convicted of treason, the odds were impossible. After he lost his post-conviction appeals, I drafted a letter to President Truman requesting a pardon. In the same folder with the affidavit, you’ll see my pardon letter.” Brandon stood, found the letter that was dated December 1946, then sat down, hard. “My request for a pardon would have had a negative impact on my career,” he said, “and I hesitated. Your grandfather died of a heart attack in 1946.”

“My father never believed that his father died of a heart attack,” Brandon said. “Benjamin was still a relatively young man. No autopsy was performed. The family learned of Benjamin’s death days after it occurred.”

Rorsch nodded. “I know. Your father told me that. But the death certificate lists heart attack as a cause, and that is what I was told then. I had no reasons to suspect otherwise. Because Benjamin died before I sent the letter, that was the end of it as far as I could tell. I never sent the letter.”

“If Benjamin Morrissey was not the man at Antoine’s,” Taylor said, “who was?”

“It is plausible to believe it was one of his partners. It also explains why the informant called the FBI office.”

“How so?” Taylor asked. Brandon glanced at her. Her arms were folded. Her cheeks were flushed. He could understand why she wasn’t liking Rorsch’s theory, which implicated her grandfather.

“Once the military was interested, really interested, the last thing Bartholomew, Hutchenson, or Westerfeld wanted was to let the plans get in the hands of the Nazis. They wanted the FBI to intercept the plans,” he said, “and, instead of following the option of simply not showing up, setting Morrissey up as the spy ultimately meant they didn’t have to share profits with him.”

“My grandfather had already designed the boat,” Brandon said. “He was expendable.”

Rorsch nodded, then continued, “They made him a partner because he was a genius in boat design. The speech pattern of the man in the bathroom was that of a well-educated man. Morrissey didn’t even get through grammar school. He was self-taught. He would not have arranged a meeting at Antoine’s, which was then one of the city’s most expensive restaurants.” Rorsch fell silent for a minute. “I believe my testimony led to the conviction of an innocent man.”

“Did you ever publicize this?” Brandon asked.

“No,” Rorsch said. “But I have not hid it, either. In the late 1970’s, I was contacted by Lloyd Landrum, a professor of history at Tulane University.” Taylor glanced at Brandon, whose heart was pounding. “Landrum was writing a book on the history of World War II, from the domestic perspective. He also told me of his dream of creating a World War II museum. I allowed him full access to my documents. I allowed him to make copies. I explained my thoughts about Benjamin Morrissey. I showed him my affidavit.” He shook his head. “There was no mention of my concerns in any of Landrum’s books. He told me the museum, which was in the planning stages at the time, would have more documentation. When the museum opened, I went to it. None of my doubts regarding the Morrissey case are evident from the museum’s collections.”

“Mentioning your concerns would require highlighting the fact that Hutchenson and Bartholomew told my grandfather to go to the meeting,” Brandon said, his gaze locked on Rorsch’s blue eyes. “This, coupled with your belief that my grandfather was not the man in the bathroom stall, indicates that they set him up. In a museum that was funded, in part, with money from the HBW families, such facts would not be trumpeted.”

Chapter Fourteen

Taylor stood. At first, the vault had seemed large. Now, the room, devoid of natural light, was stuffy. “There’s got to be an explanation. You’re not simply talking about events that took place in the 1930s and 40s.” She met Rorsch’s gaze. “You’re suggesting a cover-up in more recent times, aren’t you?”

“You’re correct, Ms. Bartholomew,” Rorsch said.

The walls seemed to move closer. Her heart beat faster, inspired by a sick feeling of dread. Taylor glanced at the memorabilia that adorned the windowless room. She glanced at Rorsch, who was so, so old. She decided that age had distorted Rorsch’s memories. “A more recent cover-up implies guilty knowledge among men who are living. Men I know. My father is included in that group.”

As a slight flush crawled up Rorsch’s neck, Taylor turned to Brandon. His jaw was set. Crystal-clear green eyes were studying her. Taylor turned back to Rorsch, and continued, “Couldn’t the most plausible explanation be that while this fact now seems so important, in the total history of World War II, when you think of all the facts that are there to be told, your doubts about Benjamin Morrissey’s conviction just aren’t, and I apologize Mr. Rorsch, aren’t so significant that they need to be mentioned?”

“I could agree, Ms. Bartholomew,” Rorsch said, “but Landrum billed himself as an expert on the amphibious invasion of Normandy. The museum was originally named the D-Day Museum, and the first exhibit is the Hutchenson Landing Craft. In telling the story of the Allied invasion of Normandy, the facts are not complete without discussing the Morrissey treason case. Once anyone talks to me,” Rorsch’s voice was getting louder, while his breathing was becoming labored, “the facts must include my belief that Benjamin Morrissey was wrongly convicted.”

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” she said. “I’m only looking for an explanation, one that doesn’t suggest sinister motive on the part of men who were not convicted of a crime.”

“There’s more that you should know before you are so dismissive.”

Taylor sat. More dread built. Rorsch conveyed a passion for his beliefs, and as much as she didn’t want to admit it, he was believable. “More?”

“The first Andrew Hutchenson wrote a confession letter that explains that Benjamin Morrissey told the truth at his trial. He wrote the letter shortly before he died, in 1979.”

Taylor’s heart stopped. She remembered the words that she had overheard from her father’s conference room the day before.
Hutchenson. Letter. Hoax.
The words had not been in a sentence, but had been spoken in the same conversation. Yesterday, the words had made no sense. Rorsch was weaving sense into two of the words, but there was no way that he was correct. Absolutely no way. Rorsch could be making all of this up. He could be senile.

“There’s no way,” Taylor said, “that my grandfather would have done such a thing.”

Brandon put a hand on Taylor’s hand, as Madeline said, “Ms. Bartholomew, if you insist on arguing with my father, I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

Taylor drew a couple of deep breaths.
Listen
, she told herself.
Listen. Don’t react
.

Rorsch’s eyes bounced from Taylor’s to Brandon’s. “I take it that neither of you have ever seen the Hutchenson letter?”

Brandon shook his head, as Taylor said, “No.”

“The first Andrew Hutchenson instructed his lawyers to deliver the letter to three recipients upon his death,” Rorsch said. Brandon and Taylor were both leaning forward to catch each of Rorsch’s words. When Rorsch had started speaking, she’d been worried about Brandon as he listened to the story of how his grandfather had committed treason. Now, the tables were turned. Brandon’s hand, gripping hers, was comforting.

“One recipient was Lloyd Landrum,” Rorsch said. “Another was the Board of HBW.” In 1979, Taylor’s father was in his second year as a member of the HBW Board.

Taylor shook her head, dismissing Rorsch’s commentary. “If my father had known of this fact, he would have made it public knowledge.”

Both Rorsch and Brandon gave her long, questioning glances. She shook off growing doubt, but stayed silent.

Rorsch continued, looking at Brandon. “Another recipient was your father, Brandon. He called and told me about it, first, when he received the letter, and later, when Landrum’s book came out.” Rorsch frowned. “Landrum’s book came out in 1981, with no mention of anything that I had told him, and no mention of the Hutchenson letter. The only reference in the book to the treason case arising out of the Hutchenson Landing Craft was that Benjamin Morrissey was convicted.”

“And after that my father killed himself.”

Rorsch took a breath. “When Lisa first came to see me, she indicated that Landrum was one of her faculty advisers. I mentioned my concerns to Lisa regarding Landrum. I told her not to trust him,” he said, “yet she seemed to. I did not tell Lisa of the letter. You see, I didn’t have it and had never seen it,” Rorsch said. “I only had your father’s word that it existed.”

“And you doubted him,” Brandon said.

Rorsch frowned. He gave Brandon a slight nod. Taylor didn’t like his pauses, because they were followed by more words, more sentences that shook her belief in bedrock facts. “When Lisa was last here, she came to show me the letter. She had an original. She wouldn’t tell me who gave it to her. She had already told Landrum about it. I advised her to make it public, before showing it to other individuals.”

“You didn’t copy it?” Taylor asked.

“No,” Rorsch said, “I did not copy it. It was Lisa’s discovery. I didn’t want to add it to my collection before she had an opportunity to publicize her research. Evidently, the person who gave it to her told her not to tell anyone of the source. She did not want to reveal her source, and I did not press her on it. However, going back to the three original recipients of the letter, I assume that no one on the current board would have given the letter to her, and Landrum wouldn’t have given it to her.” Rorsch shrugged, his gaze locked on Brandon. “So that would only leave someone with access to your father’s documents.”

Brandon shook his head. “My father’s documents were destroyed in a house fire, in 1980, before he killed himself.”

“Not all of your father’s documents were destroyed in the fire.”

Brandon asked, “Excuse me?”

Rorsch leveled blue eyes on Brandon. “Not all of your father’s documents were destroyed.”

Brandon pushed his chair away from the table and folded his arms. “How do you know that?”

“He told me that some of his documents were saved. He blamed himself for your sister’s death, because he managed to save the documents, but not her.”

Taylor glanced at Brandon. His jaw was clenched. A pulse throbbed at his temple. He looked at Taylor with a pained expression in his eyes, and explained, “My sister, Catherine, was ten years old. She died of smoke inhalation.”

Taylor’s heart pounded as she digested this part of Brandon’s history. She watched him turn to Rorsch and Madeline.

“Mr. Rorsch, I’m sorry if it sounds like I’m doubting you,” Brandon said, “but yesterday I asked my mother about my father’s documents. She confirmed that everything burned in the fire.”

Rorsch shook his head. “I’m only telling you what your father told me.”

“My father was angry, he was obsessive, he drank too much, and he was delusional.” Brandon paused. “So if I had to take the word of either my mother, or my father, I’d take the word of my mother.”

Brandon glanced at his watch, then at Taylor. “If we don’t leave soon, we’ll be late for our departure.”

Thank God, Taylor thought. She wanted to be out of this closed-in room of old memories and away from Rorsch’s words of supposition and innuendo. She needed to think, and she couldn’t do it there. She and Brandon both thanked Madeline and Rorsch as they peeled off the gloves.

Before they could leave, Rorsch said, “Wait.” Taylor paused, with her hand on the door. “Please don’t falter. If there is anything that I can do to help you two expose the truth, please let me know.”

Taylor’s stomach twisted as she stared at Phillip Rorsch.
The truth?
His theory couldn’t be the truth. She opened her mouth to tell him that, but Brandon gripped her elbow and led her from the vault. Outside, in bright sunlight, she breathed in deep, pulling fresh air past the knot that had formed in her throat.

Brandon asked, “Are you all right?”

She nodded as Brandon opened the door of the waiting car, then slid in next to her. She wasn’t all right, though. She had lost a good friend, and, if Rorsch’s words had any basis in reality, the world no longer made sense.

At least
her
world no longer made sense. The only thing that was tangible and real was Brandon. She lifted her face to his. Only inches separated them. Somewhere between last night’s aborted attempt at sex and her crying on his shoulder on the flight from New Orleans to Dallas, the typical amount of inches that separated non-intimate partners had become a thing of the past.

“There’s got to be an explanation,” she said, “like maybe the poor man’s thoughts are just, well, not really grounded in reality?”

“I can think of several explanations,” Brandon said, one arm draped around her shoulder, his other hand clasping one of hers. “And that might be one. The other explanations I’m thinking of aren’t anything that you’d like. Hell. I don’t like some of what he said, because he suggested that my mother lied to me.”

“What are you going to do about that?”

He shrugged. “Call and ask her.”

He took his phone out of his pocket and dialed. “Mom. Hey.” He paused, then said, “Michael’s fine. Look. I had a meeting this afternoon with someone who indicated that not all of dad’s documents burned in the fire.” Taylor could hear a female voice, but, because Brandon didn’t have the phone on the speaker setting, she couldn’t make out the words. “If you really do have dad’s documents, I need to see them. What they reveal could tell us what Lisa’s research indicated.”

Taylor heard more female words.

“I’m not mad.” Brandon softened his tone. “I don’t care if you hid the documents from me, but now I need the truth. Do you have dad’s documents? Mom?” He paused. “Yes. I’ll be home in two hours. Would you like me to come to you?” His words were gentle as he gazed at Taylor, but listened to his mother. “I’ll see you at my house around seven.”

He broke the connection. “She wants to talk face to face.” He frowned. “Maybe Rorsch isn’t crazy.”

Other than his words, Rorsch didn’t seem senile, but he had to be, Taylor thought. Otherwise, her grandfather was a criminal and her father had actively concealed her grandfather’s crimes.

“Does your mother have your father’s documents?”

“She wouldn’t say.”

She drew a deep breath and looked into Brandon’s eyes. “I can’t call my father and ask about the things that Rorsch said. Not like you just did with your mother. That kind of direct, out-of-the-blue approach would not work with him.”

Brandon’s gaze was serious. “From what I’ve seen, you’re pretty good at asking questions. Damn good, as a matter of fact. Figure out what you want the answer to, and ask it. Handle him however you can, directly or indirectly.”

“Handle? I don’t handle my father. No one does.”

“Then let’s focus on how we get information by going around your father. In 1979, when the Hutchenson letter would have been circulated,” Brandon asked, “who was on the HBW board?”

“After the first Andrew Hutchenson died in 1979, Andi’s father was on the board, and he still is. Alicia Westerfeld was on the board throughout that time, as was my father.” Taylor paused. “My grandfather died in 1977. Since then, my father has always been the most dominant personality on the board, even though Alicia was tough as nails. Andrew, Andi’s father, is gentle. He follows my father’s lead. So does Claude, Alicia’s son who took her place when she died.”

“I know that you’re ultimately going to talk to your father about what Rorsch said,” Brandon held her gaze, “but if you really want to figure out the facts, talk to Andrew as well. As a matter of fact, I’d start with Andrew, because if the Hutchenson letter exists, and if it was concealed in 1979, then the dying wish of Andrew’s father, that the truth be made known, wasn’t honored. I don’t think that could sit well with a man who has any integrity. Andrew’s guilt might make him more inclined to be truthful.”

Her heart skipped. “Are you suggesting that my father will lie to me?”

“I’ve never met your father in person. I do know how he directs his lawyers to fight on behalf of the company,” he paused, “and they fight dirty.”

“You said that you don’t follow rules,” she said, trying to defend her father.

“I don’t withhold evidence or tell my clients to lie. Your father’s lawyers do. When you start looking through the cases that your company has been involved in, look to see how many times I’ve won sanctions against your lawyers.”

“As of today,” she said, “I’m general counsel. I’ll fight hard, but not dirty.”

He chuckled. “Good to know, because this morning I did a search of my files. My firm has twenty pending cases against HBW. A few will result in sizable judgments.”