Transparency: Bio-Tech Cavern Secrets Untold (16 page)

Rich Gladstone drove. They headed out to Jillian Andrews’ house on the county road in an unmarked police car. The cloudless sky aided by the summer-like temperature served up a healthy tonic for Halliday’s physical ills. The flat west side of town lacked the picturesque greenery of east Santa Reina. It more represented the San Joaquin Valley that extended from Sacramento south to the Tehachapi Mountains, near Los Angeles.

They passed the public golf course that should be vacant this time of year. Avid golfers scattered over the faded green like the designs on one of his Korean blankets.

Gladstone, milking his birthday entitlement upped the music on the FM radio. It annoyed Halliday. He readjusted the volume to a whisper.

“That’s quite a coincidence. First a fire, then a suicide,” Gladstone said. “You suspect foul play out at the hot springs this morning?”

“I don’t know. There are several issues involving Genevive Labs. Not all of it adds up.”

The young detective squirmed, adjusting in the seat. “It must be difficult shooting yourself in the head with a hunting rifle, especially for a woman.”

The kid’s thoughts paralleled his own. “I’m leaving the perpetrator of Jillian Andrews’ death open until all the evidence is in. Based on her employees’ responses yesterday, I question whether Jillian stuck the barrel of a hunting rifle in her mouth and somehow pulled the trigger. They said she led a full life that began each day with a smile. Genevive Labs’ personnel were the last to see her alive.”

Gladstone muttered, “Numb nuts,” after swerving around a slow moving vehicle. He glanced at Halliday and said, “As you said, ‘looks are deceiving.’ You’re not the only one that believes Genevive is up to no good. I ran into Tommy Hartnett at lunch yesterday. The crazy
Tribune
reporter is convinced the biotech outfit is bent on taking over the world. He said their first order of business required flushing Santa Reina down the toilet.”

Gladstone had defined Genevive Labs’ intentions quite succinctly. “Tommy has a tendency to go overboard. You didn’t mention Laurel McKittrick to him, did you?”

“Hell, no. The old man should retire,” Gladstone said. “I heard you were out at the hot springs yesterday.”

“I questioned the deceased. Turns out Miss Andrews employed Laurel McKittrick before she married Brad Palmier.”

Gladstone gave no comment.

A few minutes later the young detective avoided potholes as he rambled down the narrow Hillside Lane.

Jillian’s house lay in a flat unincorporated area northwest of downtown Santa Reina. The few streetlamps were installed by homeowners. The ranch style houses were situated on large lots, up to five acres. Jillian Andrews had lived in an old, well kept home on a cul-de-sac. Eucalyptus trees dominated the one acre plot of land.

Two large weeping willows draped the front yard of Jillian’s house. Gladstone made a quick U-turn. He parked on the opposite side of the street, as if it would draw less attention.

An old golden retriever wagged his tail at the unlocked gate. With Gladstone and the dog following, Halliday trudged ahead. His first encounter with Laurel held more importance that investigating Jillian Andrews’s tragic death.

Jillian’s ranch style house had been built around the time the first astronauts had flown to the moon. Unlike the newer homes constructed on cement slabs, the old house rested on cinder blocks. The two or three bedroom single story house had a new roof. Halliday guessed the cracked stucco had replaced an original wood siding. A row of eucalyptus trees shielded a smaller guesthouse or bungalow in the rear. The long empty driveway ended at a closed garage.

“No one’s home,” Gladstone said, pointing out the obvious. “I feel like I’m in Kansas.”

Halliday’s intuition took over. “Let’s begin at the guesthouse.”

They walked to the rear of the property. Silence prevailed except for the familiar calm wind through the trees. More eucalyptus trees edged Jillian’s backyard. Halliday could barely make out a roof through the rear of the property.

Jillian had said she lived alone. Halliday had his doubts.

They stood under a lone walnut tree near the entrance to the guest house. He had seen no vehicles out front. The neighborhood reeked of quiet, in respect to Jillian.

“Gladstone, I’ll do the guesthouse.”

“Be my guest.” Gladstone stepped back under the tree. He lit up a smoke instead of chewing a slice of gum.

Halliday’s phone rang, clearing a covey of birds out of the walnut tree. A young sparrow fluttered above his head before it found its wings. He walked toward the rear of the property.

“Detective Halliday, where are you? Jillian’s been murdered.”

The sorrow in her voice sounded authentic. “Laurel, I tried to tell you earlier.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m at Jillian’s house. Where are you now?”

“I’m in a safe place. I feel terrible… Jillian...”

“They are calling it a suicide.”

“That’s ridiculous. Jillian was murdered.”

“Do you have any proof?”

“Not yet. Believe me, she was murdered.”

Halliday listened to her sobs until the sound compounded the ache in his head.

“I’m sure Brad played a role in her death. “Oh god, did you tell the rat that I threatened to incapacitate him October 31
st
?”

“Yes. I had to exercise my professional duty to recommend that he stay on the Genevive campus that day. I believe he’s worried, or at least considering the possibility that you’ll carry out your threat. The downside is that if Palmier feels threatened he’ll use every dirty trick in the book to save himself. Am I wrong?”

“No, I’m afraid you are spot on. I expect Brad to attempt to ‘take me down’ as you policemen say. I’m prepared for anything. It wouldn’t surprise me if Jillian’s murder got approval from the top. CEO Robert Gartner is every bit as evil as Brad.”

“Why would Genevive want to do away with Jillian?”

“Jillian waged a constant battle against Brad and Genevive Labs. You could describe me as her silent partner. She knew that they had been dumping refuse that polluted the underground water system. Her fight grew more personal because she had a much higher visibility.”

“Laurel, you shouldn’t blame yourself. What made her fight more personal?”

“Jillian is a direct descendant of the original owner of the property where Genevive Labs stand. Her full name is Jillian Foxworth Andrews.”

Now it made sense.

“Jillian discovered that the federal government, in cahoots with Genevive Labs, took advantage of her family. She said they formed a backroom partnership. They scammed the Foxworth family out of land that they never intended to sell.”

Halliday needed to learn more about the Foxworth family. For now he had to stay on course. “Did Jillian have much experience with hunting rifles?”

“No, not at all. A few months ago Jillian met an avid outdoorsman. She fell head over heels for him. He talked her into joining a hunting club. She hated guns. Jillian said she never touched the rifle after their sudden breakup. Jillian did not shoot herself. She believed anyone who took their own life would be committing the gravest of sins.”

“Do you know the man’s name?”

“I never met him. Jillian gave him a nickname, Jack as in ‘Lumber Jack.’”

“Forensics will determine the role the rifle played,” he said. “She purchased it. She joined a hunting club. It doesn’t help your cause that she had the rifle available with ammunition.”

“Wait, she wouldn’t keep live ammunition around. She never intended to fire the gun ever again. I know that.”

“I’ll look into it.”

It occurred to him that their conversation could be recorded by the cell phone operator. Thanks to Homeland Security’s paranoia Chief Brayden could authorize the wiretap and listen to it later. Officials at Genevive Labs didn’t have the authority. They didn’t need it with the chief in their pocket.

“What is it detective?”

“Listen, time is running out. We need to meet
now
.”

“I’ll call you back within two hours.”

She hung up. He dialed another number.

Voices chattered in the background. Brayden said, “Make it quick John, I’m in the middle of things.”

“Chief, have you determined what ammo the rifle required?”

“It’s .30-06 Springfield. We haven’t found any ammo besides the spent cartridges. No empty boxes; nothing. See what you can find there at her residence.”

Laurel was right. Jillian didn’t have any ammo.

“Genevive security said they have camera footage of you here at Santa Reina Hot Springs early this morning. What gives?”

He didn’t understand how he had missed one of the cameras. “I arrived near midnight after obtaining verbal permission from Jillian Andrews to go through her property to gain access to the rear of Genevive’s property. I left the property by 2:00
a.m.
, escorted out by Genevive security. From what I understand the fire didn’t begin until this morning. What have you found?”

“It looks like a suicide. Miss Andrews’s friends and coworkers swear she’d never do it. I have no evidence that points to homicide.”

“Chief, when I questioned Jillian yesterday she said Genevive attempted to cover up for poisoning the underground water system. She feared for her life.”

“I’ve interviewed the Genevive techs who were here this morning. They swear they came to notify Miss Andrews that the public spa would be reopening next week. They said the water from her spas tested negative for contamination. Now if you have concrete, plausible evidence to the contrary let me see it. Otherwise, we have nothing. By the way, I want your
full
cooperation with Brad Palmier. Understood?”

“Yessir.”

“Complete your investigation. Forward the report ASAP. Look for any evidence in regards to the hunting rifle.”

The chief hung up. Halliday wanted to hurl his phone against the block wall fence. The dog looked up at him, wagging its tail. He said, “Go get it pooch,” and slung a rock at the garage.

The dog looked up at him, tilting his head.

Palmier and Genevive Labs’ cheap shot attempt to link him to the fire at the hot springs showed their true colors.

Rich Gladstone, the quarterback, stood under the Walnut tree, tossing stones to imaginary receivers. “Everything okay Halliday?”

“I talked to the chief. Look for ammo for the rifle used in the shooting.”

Gladstone stood, awaiting instructions.

“You begin in the main house. I’ll join you in a few minutes.”

Gladstone stomped out the spent cigarette. He walked off in the direction of the car to gather tools for the investigation.

Halliday picked the guest house lock in seconds. The door creaked when he opened it.

The window drapes had been pulled to, shrouding the small living room in darkness. A distinct odor put Halliday on full alert. He slowly shut the front door behind him.

He flipped on the light switch.

A canoe stretched across one of the walls. He lifted one end. In the corner of the small living room were boxes of dehydrated food packs for Laurel’s treks inside the earth. Could the odor be food packs rotting out? He saw no evidence.

Ropes hung from wall hooks by claws. Rock climbing tools lay in a large pinewood box stretched along another wall.

Laurel must have spent hours reading on one end of an old corduroy upholstered couch. The end tables were stacked with books on caving, canoeing, physics, chemistry and wilderness survival. A mug holding a dry shriveled tea bag sat on the coffee table.

Halliday put on latex gloves. He sifted through some 5x7 photos on the coffee table. One photo stopped him cold. It could have been taken any morning at Noah’s Bagel across the street from his apartment. She had managed to capture a spiritual quality in his face. It looked like the work of a professional photographer, who after taking masses of photos discovered that one special shot. He put the photos in an evidence bag that he stored in his inside jacket pocket.

He lifted a large book off the end table.
Journey to the Center of the Earth
by Jules Verne. An odd choice for a young woman. However, the Verne classic was the ultimate spelunker story. He opened the cover to the note on the front page:

“Happy Birthday Laurel. I hope you enjoy this treasure that introduced me to life’s possibilities. My father gave it to me on my sixteenth birthday.

Love, Daddy.”

Is that your next project, Laurel, journeying to the earth’s core?

Her mystery continued to haunt him. The photo bothered him. He would have noticed a stunning brunette snapping photos from across the room at Noah’s Bagel. The technical expertise behind her photo of Palmier and his secretary in bed had been equally inexplicable. To accept Laurel’s anonymous activities required blind faith, contrary to a detective’s method.

The small, ordinary kitchen produced extraordinary evidence. A tiny plastic envelope containing SIM cards lay on a small dining table. His phone number had been scribbled on a yellow pad. He removed the first half dozen pages and stuffed them in his pocket.

He placed the SIM cards in a small evidence bag, which he stored in his jacket pocket.

Several boxes of Cheetos crackers lined a shelf on the wall. He opened the refrigerator. A half full casserole dish had been smothered with melted cheese. He closed the refrigerator door. The kitchen wasn’t the source of the foul odor.

The faint but unmistakable smell of rotting flesh caused him to wheeze as he stood at the door leading into the bedroom. He had no doubt now that a dead body resided inside. It had been there for some time. Because of the odor, the perpetrator must be long gone.

Halliday removed his gun while he scanned his surroundings.

His heart pounded. His finger rested on the trigger of his gun pointed at the floor. He listened.

Nothing unusual. With his left hand he grasped the door knob. He slowly rotated it until the latch freed. He gave the door a slight nudge and stepped back.

The foul odor flooded his senses. He instinctively raised the Glock, placing his weight on the balls of his feet.

He wiped his brow with his free hand, his breathing restrained. It couldn’t be Laurel’s body. Who else?

One swift kick caused the door to fly open.

A grotesque creature rushed straight at him!

Halliday gagged. He staggered backwards, stifling the impulse to fire several rounds. The shadowy object retreated just before it reached him.

A hideous dead animal swung in the doorway.

Halliday maneuvered around it as he rushed into bedroom, his Glock leading the way.

Curtains on an open window waved at him.

The adjoining bathroom was empty.

Halliday stuck his head out the window, gasping for fresh air.

He pushed his handkerchief to his nose and returned to the door. The eerie sight caused him to cringe as he struggled to regain his composure. The deformed animal hung from a hangman’s noose. The creature had six legs that drooped from a scrawny body. An ear had been replaced by a horn-like protrusion. One of its bug eyes hung an inch lower than it should have. It appeared as if the animal—a goat? A calf?—had been terrorized before its demise.

He had seen the results of strangulation before. The animal’s eyes held the same terror. It must be the result of biotech run amok, courtesy of Genevive Labs.

Halliday figured this horror show had been staged for Laurel, or her imposter.
He took some quick photos with his cell.