Death By Top Secret

Death by TOP SECRET

Smashwords Edition, 2020

by

Sean Patrick O’Mordha

Prepared by

Celtic Publications, Int.

Vail, Arizona 85641

celtic.publications.of.arizona@gmail.com

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This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Copyright Sean Patrick O’Mordha 2010

ISBN: 978-0-982-98422-2

This is a work of fiction. With the exception of familiar geographical locations, all names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business, companies, or events is purely coincidental or used according to US trademark and copyright law.

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Dedicated to:

Christopher Moore

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Author’s Note

For several years I lived and traveled within the shadow of Area 51. While driving the Extraterrestrial Highway I have had fighter jets fly impressively close during their training maneuvers. My son made the mistake of traveling that road at night — once. You don’t do that, and he never did again. Strange lights beside the point, this is open range and not one trip went by that I didn’t see either a dead cow or telltale sign of a bad encounter with one. The road to Area 51 is well-maintained, but not marked until you reach a certain point. As those who ignored the warning signs discovered, the Rambo guards are quick to escort you to jail and there is a very hefty fine. If bitten by curiosity, do as I and search the Internet. Attempted espionage of any kind is not a game.

I have used a great deal of fact in this story, and took liberties to fabricate some details to fill in the holes. That’s what tellers of fiction do. I’ll let you sift the fact from fiction.

– Sean O’Mordha

Death by TOP SECRET

Chapter 1

Out of the Morgue

July 7, 1947

Roswell, New Mexico

The lightning strike was so close the sizzle, flash, boom were simultaneous. The Army Quonset shook and rattled violently, sending books tumbling from a shelf. Only the pillow over his head prevented from being deafened as the thunderous explosions ricocheted off the metal insides. Maj. Markel waited for the next strike, waited for a direct hit on his quarters. The storm had been relentless as it pounded the military base like a continuous mortar barrage for hours. Another strike was close but more distant than the last one. It sounded different. Had one of the bombers on the tarmac been hit? He’d hear soon enough.

By 5 a.m., the main assault finally began moving away. On the verge of going back to sleep, the telephone rang. In that disoriented state between sleep and wakefulness,Markel groped to silence the infernal noise. The call couldn’t be good news. What he heard was worse.

We just received a report of a plane down 30 miles north of here.

One of ours? No. Can’t be. All our planes were grounded by the storm. Civilian? He struggled to sound coherent. Who would be crazy enough to fly in this weather?

Not sure, Sir.

"Of all times for the base commander to be away, he thought. The responsibility for the entire base rested on his shoulders, something he wanted.

An hour and a half later, Markel’s ’46 Pontiac Streamliner pulled along side a rancher’s truck parked on a desolate country road. From there, he and two aids slogged up a muddy hill behind the rancher, listening to his description of the crash site. He hadn’t seen survivors. This was definitely not the way to start a Monday. Cresting the hill, he stopped short and stared down at the crash site. It was a nightmare come true, but the worst part was how to keep it secret.

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Day 1

August 11, 2010

1:30 a.m. PDT

Spokane, Washington

Jimmy Blakemore comfortably stretched out on a microfiber Lazy-boy, halfheartedly listening to the boring end of another inane, late-night talk show. The article on the laws of search and seizure in his lap was equally bad. When the cell phone rang, he looked at the caller ID. Quickly pushing his feet down to sit upright, he muted the TV before activating the phone.

Hey, Penny. What's up? He was excited to hear her voice again. It had been two long months since they had been together.

Life had changed drastically since formation of the Special Crimes Task Force headed by Milt Stone. Overnight Jimmy went from night patrol with the Spokane Police Department to an instructor for the Federal Police Academy, thanks to Stone's influence. Covering the northwestern states, the job provided the necessary flexibility to leave whenever the team was called on an assignment. However, that required taking classes on education techniques and upgrading his knowledge base. Meanwhile, Penny's boss, Judge Felix Abbott, became embroiled in a high profile, murder case. Neither had time except for short phone calls to one another.

Hi, James. Doing anything important? Hearing her voice caused him to get post-pubescent tingly like an overstimulated teenager.

No, he answered, trying to suppress churning excitement.

Good. There's a charter waiting for you at the airport. I just spoke to your coordinator. He'll cover any pending assignments. I have to go. See you in the morning. Bye.

Damn! he cursed to himself. She could've at least asked about the weather. When it came to work, that was Penny — like an arrow, all business straight to the point. Couldn't she have taken just a couple seconds to talk? He so liked listening to her voice. Why didn't she say where the heck I'm going? That he was leaving on such short notice meant whatever the case, it was serious."

Penny's phone call had come a little past one a.m. Taking a quick shower and grabbing his travel bag already packed for such spur-of-the-minute calls, Jimmy drove to Felts Field in west Spokane. True to her word, the white and powder blue, T-1A Jayhawk, was parked outside the general aviation building. This was a Beechjet 400 model built for the Air Force and transferred to Homeland Security a year ago. Stationed in the Western Region, the team had used it a lot.

The pilot was in a private lounge catching a quick nap while the co-pilot gathered the necessary flight data. By 3:30, the plane lift into the black sky and climbed quickly to cruise altitude. Tthe turbines settling into a steady purr helped lull Jimmy to sleep. He had been blessed with the ability to sleep anywhere, in any position, at any time.

Vaguely hearing the change in the engines' sound, he awoke. Feeling a bit groggy, he looked out the portal. It was still an inkwell below, but the lights of a city were ahead.

The intercom phone range. We're coming up on Las Vegas, Mr. Blakemore, the co-pilot announced.

Looking at his watch, it was 5:10 a.m. He'd been able to get a full sleep cycle. It must have been pretty deep as his body felt super heavy, but coming around. Off to the east, the horizon was just becoming tinged with light as the wheels touched down. Still feeling a bit lethargic, he staggered into the private terminal. One step inside, he became instantly alert as if splashed with iced rose water.

Hi, James, Penny Fulbright greeted. Get any sleep?

Long as he remembered, people called him Jimmy, which carried over into adulthood. That wasn't a big issue, but Penny referring to him as 'James' made him feel important.

A little.

Good. You'll need it. It's going to be a long day.

What, no, how have you been, just it's going to be a long day? he grumbled, sounding irritated, which he was.

I'm sorry, she replied, giving him a peck on the cheek. This case has me a little frazzled.

He startled as if having touched a live wire. What is it?

I'm not even going to try explaining. May be a serial killer. If it is, he's a real sick one. I'll leave the details to Mr. Stone and Dr. Hanson.

After all the team had been through the last fourteen months, Jimmy thought Penny would at least use first names, except for DR. Hanson, of course. Her upbringing instilled a stodgy formality — Mr. Stone, the team's leader, Dr. Hanson, the Pathologist, and Judge Abbott, the legal beagle. He loved that quaintness in her. At least he rated a first name basis, but then they had a different relationship, he hoped.

Penny wouldn't budge about the case, and there wasn't much she would say about the murder trial he hadn't already read. His teaching job was pretty routine. Not that he wasn't excited about teaching Search and Seizure's laws to police officers, but relating it to someone like Penny, who already knew the intricacies, was pointless. Not much was spoken. That didn't matter. He just liked being close to her, occasionally catching a whiff of Jasmine in her hair.

As Penny wheeled the rented Sebring convertible through traffic, the cool, morning desert air acted like a slap of aftershave. Taking an indirect approach, he casually asked about her life during the last couple of months. She deftly sidestepped any questions remotely relating to the court case or about her personal life. That left him to watch the architectural wonders of the Vegas Strip slip by as they headed north on I-15. When the multiple lanes slimmed to three in a construction zone, she just managed to ace out a driver crowding her and take the Lake Mead Boulevard exit.

A series of irritated honks were answered by Penny raising her hand into the air and waving. Jimmy wasn't concerned with Penny's driving. She had proved herself quite capable of handling a vehicle in all sorts of situations. The concern was the jerk laying on the horn behind them, a California wanna-be freeway driver — only few skills and fewer brains.

They tell me this construction's been going on for years. They call it, 'The Job Security Project.' At least for the construction companies. She tossed her head back and laughed. Jimmy couldn't think of a better sound this early in the morning. Better than a mega-cup of coffee.

A few blocks east from the interstate, she pointed to a tall, tan building. That's the police department. That ugly thing next to it is part of the hospital On the east side of that building she took a hard right into a parking lot, a winding confusion of asphalt and trees. Parking in a space across from the cupola entrance, they walked passed a large, red, and white plastic sign, Lake Mead Hospital, Emergency Entrance. Except for that four-story box out by the street, the facility appeared to be a rambling, one-story affair, plain compared to all the glitz making up the heart of Las Vegas. Passing a modern security station, they boarded an elevator off the operating wing with only two buttons — G and B. Penny pushed B. A whine filled the cubical, followed by an unsettling growling noise. Feeling no movement, he wondered if it had stalled. After what seemed an eternity, the whine-growl stopped with a teeth-grinding jolt. He'd never experienced a slow elevator like this one. The door slid open.

Follow the orange line, Penny said, pointing to the floor as they exited.

Aren't you coming? Jimmy asked.

No, thank you. That's your thing. I'm just the paper shuffler, she tossed over her shoulder. I'll be in the lounge. That's the yellow line, and headed off in that direction. Jimmy disagreed. Penny was more than that.

He looked at the directory mounted on the painted, concrete block wall above a tile wainscot. Yellow to the lounge, green to the cafeteria, blue to radiology, orange to the morgue. This part of Jimmy's 'thing' was not of his choosing, just part of the job. Observing the mutilation of a body after the fact felt disturbing, and seemed morally unconscionable but all-to frequently necessary.

An irritating squeak from his black tennis shoes echoed annoyingly off every surface of the sterile hall. It persisted as the orange line made an abrupt right and disappear under a set of double doors. Jimmy pushed a large button on the wall and waited for them to swing open. Stepping into a semi-dark, anteroom, a middle-aged woman helped him don a surgical gown, hat, and booties. 

Feeling like a walking, blue Stay Puft Marshmallow Man, she pushed him through the next set of double doors. Another blue marshmallow exited the far end of the large room, pushing a gurney bearing a sheeted cadaver, its bare feet visible on the leading end.

The first chamber had been reasonably lighted. He had to squint against the sudden glare of the main room. They were all the same, everywhere--autopsy rooms--the bright lights, the disgusting smells. The stainless steel counters were covered with every imaginable machine of human destruction, most available at the local hardware and garden center. Dominating the scene was the silver steel table in the center bearing a fully exposed body. 

Dr. Hanson leaning against the long wall counter with its collection of grizzly apparatus. One hand tucked under the opposite armpit, he casually eat a Subway while staring at the corpse.

How can you eat in such a place? Jimmy asked.

Natural response to hunger, Hanson fired back, seeming less caustic than usual.

What have ya got?

Italian, pepperoni with pepper jack, lettuce, tomato . . .

I mean on the table, Jimmy cut him off as his stomach began to tighten into a knot. He was glad for not having eaten anything yet.

Caucasian male, early 20's, 5-11, 185, Hanson said with a sly smile. He knew precisely what Jimmy meant. Besides medicine, his specialty was annoying people.

Is this why Milt hauled us down here?

Yes, a deep voice answered from the door Jimmy had just entered. It was Milt Stone. Apparently, he had been speaking on a cell phone as he was putting it away. Jimmy wondered why he didn't have to wear the baggy blues.

This is number three in ten days. The first was a Black male, 26, followed by an Asian male, 19, four days later, Stone said.

That's the one being rolled out as you came in, Hanson said, taking another bite of sandwich.

So, we have an equal opportunity serial killer? Jimmy quipped as a way to combat the nauseous rumblings welling up behind the naval.

To both men's astonishment, Dr. Hanson snorted, Good one, kid, managing to do so without losing a mouth full of sandwich. That worried Jimmy — that he might be developing Hanson's perverted sense of humor.

Walking to the table, Jimmy's eyes scanned the body from head to toe. It appeared to have been in good physical condition. There was an incision down the middle from breast bone to tan line. You do that? he asked.

Nope. Haven't filleted this one yet. That's the way these boys come. Laid-open real neat.

So how'd he die? Jimmy asked.

If he's like the others, that, my young friend, is the problem, Hanson said, shoving the wrapped sandwich into Jimmy's hands.

Slipping on two pairs of surgical gloves, he took up a scalpel to make a diagonal cut from each shoulder to the top of the original incision forming the letter 'Y.'

Despite a rankling behavior, Hanson was meticulous. Once cut, the assistant, who had returned, took tree pruning shears and severed the breastbone. Each taking one side, they pulled the ribs back. Jimmy winced at the cracking noise. The victim now lie open to the world.

In forensic pathology, every case must be complete, Hanson explained. All body cavities must be opened, and every organ examined. No place for partials autopsies. He reached in below the naval to sever something — the bottom of the intestines.

He began pulling it out, the assistant, or diener, directing the hose-like orgaan into a white bucket. A second cut below the throat and the last thirty-feet slithered into its new home away from home.

Ahh, there we go — some working room. Normally, the vital organs are removed for close examination. As you can see . . .. He gestured for the men to have a look.

Where' are they? Jimmy blurted.

As I said, therein lays the problem. Every internal organ except the lungs have been removed.

Missing? Jimmy repeated in disbelief.

Gutted like new-shot deer, Hanson replied, removing the surgical gloves and taking the sandwich from Jimmy before it was dropped on the floor. Blood's mostly gone, too, and it wasn't left at the scene, he concluded while returning to lean against the counter and resume eating.

Blood's gone, too? Jimmy repeated.

Milt, have you notice the damnedest echo in this room?

The double entry doors burst open with a sharp bang as two men in dark gray suits and dark glasses entered, followed by four, husky, Air Force MP's. They stopped short. With the sound, Jimmy had pulled his service revolver and had it leveled at them.

It's alright, Jimmy, Milt said calmly.

Lambert, Air Force OSI, the apparent leader in a suit said while waving his ID. A little quick on the draw there, Wyatt.

You come busting in like that, you'll think quick, Jimmy shot back, holstering his weapon.

It was hard to tell Lambert's reaction to facing a firearm's business end so unexpectedly, but the young MP's were shaken.

We'll take it from here, Lambert said.

Be my guest, Hanson replied, casually taking a healthy bite of sandwich.

And your notes.

On the counter, his voice garbled while chewing the wad of food.

And photos.

Hanson shoved the sandwich in his mouth to hold it while extracting the memory card from a camera and nonchalantly tossing it to the leader. Biting off more sandwich, he resumed eating.

And the tape recording.

Thorough bastard, aren't you?

Jimmy could see that mischievous twinkle in Hanson's dark brown eyes as he deliberately antagonized super cop.

Watch your mouth, Dr. Hanson, the officer said, obviously glowering behind the dark glasses.

Hanson leaned forward, practically going nose to nose with the man and said in a calm, uncharacteristically pleasant tone, In the anteroom. The nurse can show you, but you be polite. She's old enough to be your mother, sonny.

Wrinkles formed around Lambert's nose, anger obviously growing behind the dark glasses as the tips of his ears turned red, but something bothered him as he backed away from the Pathologist.

Oh, and don't forget the guts in that bucket. Might hold some National secret, Hanson continued to needle the man. At the same time, Milt had to turn away, his shoulders quaking slightly, fighting to squelch laughing out loud.

Within minutes they were gone, body, notes, tapes, bucket, and all.

Well, what was all that about? Jimmy asked.

Military intelligence, my boy, Hanson chuckled. Military . . . intelligence.

From their first case together, Jimmy had been secretly impressed with Hanson's no-nonsense demeanor. It didn't matter how important they came across, he didn't back down. Nor would a trained police officer, and he commented on it.

I've never seen an experienced officer back away from a person unless he sensed danger.

Or onions, Hanson snickered, wadding up the now empty sandwich wrapper and pitching it into another empty bucket. Then reaching inside his white lab coat, he extracted a small tape recorder., Oh, darn, they forgot this. And this, he continued, producing another camera chip. How careless. I must have given them my Vegas at Night pics. Humph! Military intelligence. Oxymorons!

Jimmy said nothing. Obviously, the Doctor had been expecting the visit.

Let's go to the lounge area, and I'll fill you in, Jimmy, Milt said, still chuckling.

Back into the obnoxiously noisy corridor, sans marshmallow costume, the trio retraced the orange line back to the elevator. Following the yellow line, it made a sharp right turn into an open door.

The lounge was covered by a dark, multi-colored carpet with a coral flower design. The high-pitched shoe squeaks immediately ceased as they entered. At the far end, a barely audible TV dangled over a small table with a coffee maker and basket of instants--coffee, hot chocolate, tea, cream, and sugar substitutes. Along the outer wall were two, overstuffed chairs divided by a large, square lamp table covered by the usual time-wasting magazines neatly laid in two columns. Across from the chairs was a sofa. Penny was seated at a small writing table next to the door.

Rising quickly, Penny went to the back table, poured two cups of coffee, and made a cup of hot chocolate. Milt closed the door. Hanson immediately grabbed the mug of coffee and slouched in a sofa chair. Stone took his usual hot chocolate and sat in the other sofa chair, crossing long legs. Penny sat on the couch. Jimmy wasn't sure what to do. The only place left was next to her. Sitting there, he cradled a much-needed cup of coffee with both hands, although on an empty stomach, he was going to regret it.

Pretty picture, Hanson remarked dreamily.

Jimmy gave him a quizzical look.

Ah, yes, get dragged all the way down here, slave over a cold corpse, then have some arrogant, knucklehead pick up the marbles and leave, he said quickly. So much fun, I can barely stand it.

A knee-jerk reaction, Dan, Milt answered.

Who were those guys? Jimmy asked.

The leader was Col. Chad Lambert, OSI, Air Force Office of Special Investigations. He's second in command for Region 7, Milt explained.

The black programs, Hanson whispered from behind a hand held