Diablo Mesa(17)

Corrie nodded. She knew that, on the job, a “brick agent” was someone who’d spent their entire career in the FBI until it almost became part of their DNA. Such agents didn’t care about politics, especially Washington politics; they saw their role as fighting crime and prosecuting criminals—sometimes to the exclusion of everything else in their lives.

Morwood raised a hand from the wheel, coughed behind it. “My first case involved the murder of a scientist from Los Alamos. It was a pretty strange business—kind of a closed-room mystery.”

“What was the outcome?”

“You mean, how did we resolve the case? We didn’t. It’s still open, in fact—to this day.”

There was a sour edge in his voice she had not heard before. Obviously the failure to close the case as a rookie agent still rankled him. That was something Corrie could understand.

“That happened around the time the Roswell conspiracies were firing up again, and everyone was talking about UFOs. So of course people assumed the scientist had been abducted or murdered by aliens, and we had a deluge of tips involving Roswell and UFOs, which we had to follow up one at a time. Or rather I had to follow up, since Agent Starr left the stepping and fetching to me. Believe me: I’ve had enough contact with Roswell nutjobs to last a lifetime.”

He fell silent, and then asked, “How many more miles to the turnoff?”

Corrie checked her phone. “Thirty, sir.”

“Son of a bitch.”





10



AFTER THE TURNOFF, the landscape began to change, breaking up into mesas, hills, canyons, and dry lake beds with occasional dust devils twisting across them. At a certain point, Corrie made out, on a long, low mesa, what soon resolved itself into the excavation’s temporary encampment, with RVs, Quonset huts, and various work vehicles. Even as they approached, she heard a throbbing sound and a helicopter settled down into a billowing cloud of dust.

“Quite a setup,” said Morwood as they slowed before a ranch gate set into a new barbed wire fence, staffed by a young man. They stopped and Morwood rolled down his window and held up his badge, dangling around his neck on a lanyard.

“We’re expecting you, sir,” the guard said, opening the gate to let both vehicles through.

As they drove into the compound, Morwood looked around and said, “Nice to be so rich you can devote a few million to looking for little green men.”

“I recall reading aliens were silvery, not green.”

Morwood laughed as he turned into a freshly bladed dirt parking area, where they pulled up next to a couple of Hummers. Just beyond the motor pool was a small group of people that, Corrie could see, included Nora Kelly.

As they stepped out into the cool air, Corrie caught a faint whiff of Morwood’s aftershave—unusual in scent, sparingly applied, its brand the source of much curiosity back in Albuquerque. She looked around. It was a pleasant April day, not too hot, the great dome of the sky above them like a gigantic blue egg, while a gentle breeze stirred the grasses.

Nora approached, accompanied by a tall fellow with curly black hair wearing a lambskin cowboy shirt with mother-of-pearl buttons, jeans, and sneakers.

“Lucas Tappan,” the man said, extending his hand with a brilliant smile. Corrie took it, a bit dazzled. So this was the famous billionaire funding the whole thing. Surprisingly young—and good-looking, too. Of course. She remembered Morwood’s advice: display confidence and take charge.

“Special Agent Corrie Swanson,” she said. “I’m in charge of the case. This is my, ah, partner, Supervisory Special Agent Morwood.”

This announcement raised a few eyebrows. Tappan said: “Nice to meet you, Agent Swanson. And you, too, Agent Morwood.”

Nora then introduced them to everyone else. Corrie noticed there weren’t any uniforms or other insignia distinguishing scientists from support staff.

“Well, shall we have a look at the, ah, corpse?” Tappan asked. Corrie already sensed he was someone who hated to waste time.

“Lead the way,” Corrie said.

A brief walk along the mesa top brought them to an area that had been gridded off with stakes and Day-Glo string. One square of it had been excavated, exposing the face of a buried corpse—or rather, Corrie realized as she stared in horror, a quasi-face.

“As soon as I realized the deceased was of relatively recent vintage,” Nora said, “I stopped working. I’ve never seen a skull like that.”

Corrie had never seen anything like it, either. “For now, we’ll be treating this area as a crime scene,” she said. “You can see what looks like the entry and exit wound of a projectile. I would guess that we’re looking at an execution-style homicide.”

“We recovered a casing,” said Nora. “Bagged it as evidence. You’ll find my brother’s prints on it.” She paused. “The ground-penetrating radar indicates there might be a second body beside this one.”

“Thank you.” Corrie looked around. Tappan, Morwood, Nora, and Nora’s brother—Skip was his name, she remembered—had accompanied them to the site, but now they were all looking to her for direction. “I’m afraid we’ll have to borrow Dr. Kelly for a few days to excavate the site.”

Tappan frowned. “We’ve just engaged her to work on our project. Can we perhaps divide her time between the two duties?”