Gone(36)

No. And certainly not all FBI were corrupt, either. Christ, throwing an entire federal agency into one category because of an isolated incident — that was what paranoiacs did.

He looked across the table at Millard, still chasing after the crumbs on his plate, oblivious to anything else for the moment.

Rondeau pulled up the contact number for the department. He would speak directly to Sheriff Oesch. He’d put it to him. He’d explain what had happened, the threat, and why he’d hesitated . . .

But what was he going to say? That he’d kept something as important as this to himself because of what had happened years ago? He had the bullet wounds to prove his experiences were true, but what had ever come of it? Had there been any indictments? No. Business had gone on as usual at Ninth Street. They’d closed the case after ruling it was friendly fire.

“Hit me with it, Millard,” Rondeau suddenly said. He put away his phone and watched his brother-in-law. Millard was drinking a small carton of milk. He set it down, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Do what?”

“Give me all you got. Go ahead. You’ve got an open forum here. Tell me everything. Start with what you know about CIA drug testing.”

Millard just blinked, as if this was a put-on. Rondeau nodded encouragement. “Okay,” Millard said. “You got it.” He looked around the cafeteria for a moment. Then his eyes landed back on Rondeau. “MK-ULTRA. In the 1970s the CIA gave American citizens LSD, mescaline, and other drugs. The idea was to develop enhanced interrogation tactics. Mind-control the enemy. And this has been admitted; proven.”

“How would the FBI get involved?”

“Easy. The CIA is not a domestic organization. You want to keep something secret — and they did, keep this secret, for decades — you bring in the FBI to create cover.”

Rondeau gazed off, rubbing his jaw. “Yeah . . . I don’t know.”

“You don’t know? Look, I’m crazy, right? That’s what people need to believe in order to sleep at night. Fine. But if you had claimed in 1972 that a burglary at the Watergate Hotel was part of a secret plot for White House officials to illegally spy on Nixon’s political opponents during reelection, you’d be part of the tinfoil hat crowd, right?”

“I guess.” Millard could definitely be eloquent when he wanted to be.

“Let’s start with the FBI and Whitey Bulger.”

Rondeau made a buzzer sound and swiped a hand through the air, ushering the idea along.

“What?” Millard pouted.

“Been there, done that. Whether or not Bulger was an informant, we’ll never know.”

“He wasn’t. No way. He was—”

“What else you got? Come on, Mill. This is it. Give me a solid, credible reason not to trust the feds.”

They were drawing some looks from the other people in the cafeteria, but Rondeau didn’t care.

“J. Edgar Hoover,” Millard started again. He hesitated, watching Rondeau.

“Yeah, yeah, and Hoover blackmailed people in government to stay head of the FBI, and at the same time he was blackmailed by the mafia to stay off their backs. Try again.”

“Well, if you’re gonna . . .”

“Don’t be so sensitive. Come on.”

Millard frowned, but continued anyway. He couldn’t resist a willing audience.

“The FBI kept data for years on any and all federal employees thought to be homosexual.”

“That’s true. Not a conspiracy. I want something darker. Deeper.”

“For decades, the CIA and the FBI employed and protected at least a thousand Nazis, using them as spies and later shielding them from prosecution.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere. More.”

Millard searched the table with his eyes. Rondeau knew he was putting his brother-in-law on the spot, which was a shitty thing to do. He felt that adrenaline still bubbling through him, like a pot on the stove, and he couldn’t dial down the heat.

Millard landed on something. “If you’re an environmental activist, or an animal rights activist, you’re on top of the FBI domestic terrorist watch list.”

Rondeau snapped his fingers in the air and then pointed at Millard. “I like that. I like that one. I’ve heard it before. Why is that the case, you think?”

“Because if you disrupt the economy, you’re jeopardizing national security.”

It was almost note for note what the narrator in the movie clip had said. “But, why?”

Millard shifted in his chair, his eyes roving. “Because our economy is our power.”

“Why would environmental activists or animal rights activists disrupt the economy?”

“You get people thinking global warming comes from burning fossil fuels, maybe people slack off the fossil fuels. Or, they think global warming comes from industrial farming, they stop buying the meat.”

“I doubt it.”

“Even a little bit, and the industry takes a hit. Billions of dollars lost.”

“Fair enough.” But, what? Kemp’s documentaries had environmentalist leanings and the FBI didn’t like it? So they’d — what? Swooped in and abducted his family? It was too much of a stretch, and Rondeau knew it.

Millard raised his thick eyebrows. “I mean, then there’s what happened to you, Jason. If you want a reason not to trust the feds, I think it’s right in your past, staring you in the face: The Valentine Killer.”