Freeze Frame (11 page)

I drilled deeper, entering MKULTRA into the
search box. Entries spoke of MKULTRA as a CIA run project
authorized by CIA Director Allen Dulles who had been concerned
about rumors of communists brainwashing POWs during the Korean War.
MKULTRA used private and public institutions to conduct experiments
on unwitting subjects. The experiments ran the gamut from ingesting
them with illegal drugs to exposing the subjects to, you guessed
it, subliminal messages.

It took the Freedom of Information Act to
make these details public.

I found more entries, including the testimony
of Stansfield Turner, CIA Director in the late seventies, before a
Congressional Committee. Turner acknowledged the project, denounced
it and said it would never happen again.

But an intriguing question remained: Why were
the CIA, the FBI and the Russians so fascinated with a phenomenon
that supposedly didn’t exist?

39

Saturday, Oct. 16 -- Early Morning

Manny’s condition affected me deeply. I
crawled into bed around four a.m. and couldn’t sleep, despite the
fact our presentation to Cunningham, Higgins et al loomed just
hours away at eleven forty-five. I kept thinking about Manny. I
needed to know what the police were doing to track down the animals
who assaulted him.

Around seven a.m. I started dialing the
Precinct, but got the runaround so many times I felt like a
carousel. As a last resort, I tried my ex-husband.

Ordinarily Garry Kaminski’s name would come
up right after Charles Manson’s on a list of people I’d ask for a
favor. But I was desperate. This time, I asked for him and found
Garry to be his usual, open-minded self.

"What do you expect me to do?"

"There has to be something you can do, Garry.
Manny Rodriguez was nearly beaten to death. And, you're handling
the Vince Caponi and Darren Cato murders."

“That’s different. Caponi got two nine
millimeter hollow points through his skull. The ME Report says
someone rigged Cato’s suicide. The D.A. calls both of those
situations murder. You're telling me this Rodriguez guy was beaten
during a robbery. I work Homicide. Best I can do is talk to the
cops assigned to the case. Find out where they're at."

"That's just it, damn it," I said. "They
haven't done a thing. I gave some cop my name and address at the
hospital. One of your guys is supposed to call this morning. Some
investigation, Sherlock.”

"Look, Darcy, I know you’re frustrated. How
do you think I feel? Caponi's widow isn't telling us anything,
either."

Caponi's widow? Why would he mention her?

"What do you mean, she’s not telling you
anything? What do you expect her to tell you, Garry?”

Silence. Garry realized he’d said something
he shouldn’t, and no way would I let the subject drop.

"It’s been days since the murder, Garry. Why
are you still talking to Caponi's widow? You said it, damn it. Now
tell me."

Garry lowered his voice. "I need you to
promise you didn't hear it from me."

"You've got it."

"The night Caponi was killed, he sent out two
packages."

"Two? How do you know?"

"The Federal Express guy. We checked his
records. One package went to Darren Cato at Adams & Benson, the
other to Caponi's house. His wife signed for it."

"So?"

"She denies having received it. Says her
signature was forged."

"Was it?"

"No way. The lab verified her signature, all
right. But what the hell can we do? Throw a helpless widow in jail
because she denies receiving a package? The media would be all over
us."

"Maybe I can help."

"How?"

"We have common ground. First, her husband
edited commercials our agency produced. Second, I'm a woman. She
might talk to me."

"It's worth a try."

By now the clock read eight-thirty. Just
enough time to grab a shower before heading for the office.

40

9:24 a.m.

What in the world was that piece of paper
doing on my office desk? The square bar napkin had been folded
neatly in half, then in half again.

The message on the sheet of yellow paper
underneath it read, "Hope you like the line." It was signed,
"Manny." I recalled a story Manny Rodriguez had told me about the
writer who dreamed up the famous “No Car Rides Like a Rembly” line.
He was in a bar at the time and wrote it on a napkin.

Manny must have left the napkin before he
went home last night, figuring he’d found the right theme line for
the campaign. We had settled for "The little car that could," but I
still hoped for something better.

I unfolded the napkin. The words were printed
in black magic marker.

A little Ampere goes a long way.

Perfect. It emphasized the Ampere’s strong
points while giving the car a definite personality. We’d insert the
line into the layouts for presentation this morning. It fit so
well, I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Rereading the line, I
laughed out loud.

Then, picturing Manny in Intensive Care, I
cried.

41

11:34 a.m.

My group and I filed into the eighth floor
conference room to find Sean Higgins and Lyle Windemere
waiting.

The aroma of coffee filled the air, emanating
from a shiny metal urn on a table against the far wall. Beside it
sat two trays of bagels and sandwiches, which Bob Roy and Matt
Carter dove for.

Higgins didn't waste time. "Cunningham, Adams
and Rathmore will be here at eleven-forty-five." He motioned to the
far side of the conference table. "You can set up over there.”

"How long do we have?" I asked.

"You'll only have Ken for about twenty
minutes. He flew in this morning, and has a two o'clock to
Dallas."

My heart sank. I counted on pulling
Cunningham aside after the meeting to fill him in on the past two
days. Now I’d have to wait until Monday.

As we finished our preparation at
eleven-forty, I noticed moisture on my palms for the first time, a
reminder of the hundreds of jobs at stake. I rubbed my hands
together to dry them.

Cunningham, Adams and Rathmore entered at
precisely eleven-forty-five. The three couldn't have been more
different. Even on Saturday Ken Cunningham wore the uniform: dark
blue pinstriped suit and a red and blue striped tie. Joe Adams
dressed casually in golf shirt and chino slacks that hung on him
like a potato sack. C. J. Rathmore wore a gray herringbone jacket,
the collar of his white dress shirt open.

As the former head of the AVC account, it was
Cunningham’s show. Ebullient as usual, he greeted each person by
name. Stunned to hear about Manny Rodriguez, he asked to be kept
updated.

Adams tried to emulate Cunningham's easy
manner, but failed miserably. Apparently he couldn’t let his hair
down without downing alcohol first. Rathmore remained aloof,
content to let the other two mingle with the troops.

"Let's get to it,” Cunningham said finally.
He smiled at Higgins. "I know Sean wants to be in front of the TV
by the one o'clock kickoff. Who's Michigan playing today?"

"Wisconsin." Sean smiled sheepishly. "In
Madison."

Ken turned to me. "Got something good to show
us, Darcy?"

"I think you'll be pleased." Hopefully
sounding more confident than I felt, I started in.

“For the theme line, we searched for a choice
of words that suggested a cute, fun-to-drive personality, while
emphasizing Ampere's range,"

I held up a board with the line printed in
large block letters and noticed a slight nod from Cunningham as I
read aloud: "A little Ampere goes a long way."

I lifted a layout board from the ledge and
turned it to face my audience. The graphic depicted an early
"horseless carriage" and the new Ampere side-by-side. Beneath the
vintage vehicle the headline read,
The Twentieth Century came in
with a roar.
Under the Ampere:
The Twenty-first Century
comes in with a hummm.

"The copy focuses on silent operation,
acceleration, and range."

I searched for an expression: a smile, a nod,
anything that would tip their reaction.

Nothing.

I reached for the next layout. The graphic: a
photograph of the Ampere. I read the headline. "With a zero to
sixty time under nine seconds, the new Ampere passes a lot of
things, including gas stations. The copy features Ampere's
acceleration and range."

Cunningham smiled.

I breathed a sigh of relief.

"When it comes to recharging the Ampere," I
said, "we have two ideas. Both emphasize the Ampere can be
recharged overnight, right in the garage. Both show the car
attached to the recharging unit.

"One of the headlines reads Watts up. The
other, What a re-volting development."

Higgins smiled. "Your humor’s right on
target, Darcy. I like the way your ads convey the fun of driving
the Ampere."

"I agree," said Cunningham. He turned to
Rathmore. "I like what we're seeing, don't you, C. J.?"

"Of course." Rathmore, a bean counter more at
home with bottom lines than headlines, seemed to welcome the
opportunity of simply seconding Cunningham's remark.

Adams had also been waiting for Cunningham's
reaction. He nodded and leaned back in his chair.

“How about ecology?” Cunningham asked. “The
Ampere doesn't burn fossil fuel."

"Got it covered, Ken." I held up the ad M. J.
Curtis and Will Parkins created with the picture of earth from
space and read the headline aloud: "Here’s the biggest reason of
all to drive our new Ampere."

Cunningham leaned forward. "How far have you
taken that TV idea you described the other day?"

I pushed a button on the TV monitor. The
screen sprang to life with computer animation and music we’d
patched together in the past forty-eight hours. In the end, Ken
Cunningham's expression said it all.

"I think you've done one hell of a job. Now
let’s present it to AVC’s Board of Directors and bring home the
whole damn account.”

Cunningham spent a few minutes on
instructions. He asked for a write up covering our marketing
background so he and Higgins could present it to the AVC Board.

"You'll be at the presentation, too," he told
me. "But I know these guys; worked with them for fifteen years.
I'll do most of the talking.

“Besides," he smiled, "It’s going to be fun
presenting this campaign."

42

Despite the euphoria from management's
reaction, our celebration proved short-lived. After a short respite
that included devouring the remainder of the bagels, donuts and
coffee, we went back to our offices and began fine-tuning for the
Big One: Monday morning’s presentation to AVC's Board of
Directors.

I left the building well after seven and
settled for a movable feast: a tour of the drive-through lane at a
McDonald's on Jefferson Avenue.

It was dark as I approached my neighborhood,
and despite my personal pep talks, a queasy feeling gripped my
stomach that had nothing to do with fast food. Whoever attacked
Manny Rodriguez tried to kill him, and the questions kept coming.
The biggest one of all: Was I next?

It seemed foolish to take chances. I parked
next to a schoolyard two blocks away and began walking.

Light from houses blended with the yellow
street lamps to brighten the scene and lessen my fears. Still,
ominous patches of darkness between houses could easily conceal an
attacker. I found myself walking faster.

It felt warm for October, pleasant really. I
pictured families inside those homes eating dinner or watching
television, and childhood memories came flooding back. I wished I
could take my father aside as I’d done in high school and unload my
fears. But this time it was up to me.

Entering my house, I left the lights out and
double-checked the locks on front, back and side doors.

I phoned the hospital for word on Manny
Rodriguez. His condition remained "critical."

I sat on the floor in my living room,
reclining against the couch, my back to the window. Light from
outside spilled in from behind me, illuminating the opposite wall.
I decided it would be a great place for my prized oil by Quang
Ho.

The worries of the past few days had my head
spinning. I grabbed my trusty Martin guitar from its stand by the
couch and began strumming quietly through the opening bars of the
Eagles’
Desperado.

That’s when I heard the car door close.

43

I put the Martin back on its stand and turned
to the window.

A car stood in front of the house next door.
I scrunched down, keeping my eyes just above the window ledge, and
inched closer, my nose nearly touching the glass. A figure rounded
the front of the car and walked toward my house, a large man
wearing a jacket and carrying something, a flashlight maybe.

He walked up the driveway. Ducking below the
window, I pressed myself against the wall, not daring to raise high
enough to look outside. I heard footsteps getting louder, then
halting. The intruder had stopped directly on the other side of a
thin, fragile pane of glass.

A beam of light swept through the room. I
held my breath, afraid he might hear. Heart pounding, I watched the
light dance around the room. Then it went away, and footsteps
sounded again along the drive, moving away, toward the rear of the
house.

I lifted my head and peeked over the window
ledge. The man stood in front of the garage, flashlight on. The
light went out and his dark silhouette disappeared from my line of
sight as he walked to the back of the house. I heard him try the
knob at the rear door. Locked. My eyes barely above the windowsill,
I watched him reappear again and come toward me, along the
drive.

Roland.

He stopped fifteen feet from me and bent
down, out of my sight line. I heard a scraping sound, then a thud
from the basement. A chill ran through my body. Roland had pried
open a window and was inside my home.