Authors: R. J. Blacks
I get in the vehicle and
begin the two-hour trek to Gainesville. To pass the time, I practice a southern
accent, thinking it would make my act more convincing. But it’s so bad I’m
certain any authentic southerner would see right through it and scoff.
I arrive at the university at
11:00 AM and park in one of the free student lots. Classes are in full swing
and the grounds teeming with students, and my disguise allows me to blend right
in. And then, from out of nowhere, this guy in a Gothic outfit starts walking
alongside me. He’s got spiked red hair, chains hanging off his shoulders, and a
diamond piercing through his lip.
“Mind if I walk with you?” he
asks.
“I’m kind of in a rush,” I
say.
“I can walk fast.”
“Look... you’re a nice guy,
but I’m sorta seeing someone right now.”
“I just want to be friends,”
he says.
Here I am, already nervous
for the meeting with Dr. Parker, and now some guy comes out of nowhere and
aggravates me even more. I have to get rid of him.
“What’s your favorite place?”
I ask.
“Campus game room.”
“Okay great. I’ll meet you
there at three.”
“Sweeet. Three it is.”
I see the building with Dr.
Parker’s office and sprint across the grass leaving the guy back at the
sidewalk. He seems to be confused because he just stands there gazing at me. As
I open the door, I peek back at him and see he’s gone. I don’t exactly condone
deceit, but this guy wouldn’t take a hint. Too bad. He was in the wrong place
at the wrong time.
I make my way through the
building and into the basement. I had gotten the office number from the
university website and, as expected, her name was on the door. Inside there’s a
casually dressed woman in jeans and a tee shirt, about my age, sitting at the
desk marking papers. She’s probably a research assistant.
“When does Dr. Parker have
hours?” I ask.
“I’m Dr. Parker.”
“I mean... Dr. Jessica
Parker.”
“I’m Jessica Parker.”
“Perhaps I have the wrong
department. I’m looking for Dr. Jessica Parker, Professor of Microbiology.”
“Yes, may I help you?”
Confusion comes over me and I
don’t know how to respond.
“Is there anyone else in the
university that goes by the name Dr. Parker? Maybe I have the first-name
wrong.”
“Not that I’m aware of. I’m
the only Dr. Parker.”
“The woman I’m seeking is
about forty, maybe forty five. She’s always elegantly dressed, carries a Gucci
handbag, and drives a black BMW. Does that sound like anyone you know?”
The woman freezes and stares
at me with her mouth open.
“There’s only one person in
the world that could say what you just said. You must be Indigo Wells.”
We stare at each other, at a
standstill, not knowing what to do or say next. And then she breaks the
silence.
“You have to leave right
now.”
“Can you tell me what’s going
on?”
“I’m not to have any contact
with you. Please leave, now.”
“I’ll be happy to leave as
soon as I get answers. If you’re Dr. Parker... who was that other woman?”
“They probably already know
you’re here... the security cameras... they’re everywhere.”
“No one knows I’m here. This
is not how I usually look. It’s a disguise.”
“I could lose everything, my
tenure, my job... everything.”
“And what about me. I’m
already invested up to my neck. You know the story... don’t you?”
“You want to know the story,
the whole story? Google the Gainesville Press, then search for Judy Swass.”
“Judy Swass? Is
that her name?”
“If you don’t leave now, I’m
calling security.”
“Okay, I’ll go. Thanks
anyway,” I say, then open the door.
“Wait,” she says, then opens
a closet. “I was about to throw these out; they have your name on them. I guess
that makes them your property.” She hands me a plastic grocery bag filled with
something heavy. “Now go!”
I grab the bag and make my
way to the university library, find an unused computer tucked away in a remote
corner where I can get some privacy, and then, open the bag. Inside are a dozen
sample jars, the same ones I just dropped off a month ago. I wonder; has Dr.
Parker even looked at them?
I’m tempted to return to her
office to get more answers, but if she calls security, my cover would be blown
and it might open a new can of worms. It’s clear, if I want answers, I’m going
to have to get them off the computer.
I search on the name “Judy
Swass” at the Gainesville Press website and find a half-dozen news stories that
reference her name. One captures my interest and I click on it:
“Local
Lawyer Found Dead in Parking Garage”
“Prominent
Gainesville attorney, Judy Swass, was found lying on the ground inside a center
city parking garage only a few feet from her BMW. She was declared dead at the
scene from a fatal injury to the throat.”
I take a moment
to gather my thoughts, and then, my mind starts racing. Can this be the same
woman I had befriended, the woman that seemed so much like me, the woman that
wanted to help me prevail? Why was she deceiving me? Why was she using Dr. Parker’s
name?
I read on:
“Her
handbag was missing when police arrived leading to robbery as the suspected
motive. A suspect has not yet been identified.”
I reason this was
probably only a case of someone being in the wrong place at the wrong time. But
what if the investigation leads back to me? What if I somehow, unknowingly, set
the events in motion which eventually lead to her murder?
I Google her name and stumble
upon her personal website:
“Judy
Swass and Associates”
Her clients resemble a page
from the Fortune Five-Hundred, and then I see it, the words, “Global World
Industries,” tucked in near the bottom of the extensive list. I click on her
bio and there she is, the same picture I saw on the university website for Dr.
Jessica Parker. Sadness overwhelms me and I think about the family she left
behind... if she really had a family.
Then a chill runs up my
spine. I knew her as a pleasant, sympathetic, associate who could relate to the
stresses and issues I was going through, but now I see the other side of her, a
cold emotionless attorney, a plant, a stooge, hired not to help me, but to
track me, hinder me, thwart my efforts, until I get so frustrated I just give
up. That secret network of professors and researchers she had so passionately
talked about were the scientists and engineers at GWI, and they weren’t there
to help me, rather, they would peer through my data and my reports searching
for anything that could be used to discredit me or even implicate me in a
lawsuit. Even worse, she had used her position of influence to trick me into
lying to Will, my most trusted friend, to shield her from a threat she never
had. It’s the most despicable case of deception I have ever come across. If GWI
was willing to go to these extreme measures just for a vague threat of bad
publicity... what would they do if the threat was real?
I need more information, but
none of the other news reports add anything to what I already know so I search
for an obituary, but there is none. Either the police gagged it until the
investigation is over... or maybe no one cares.
I pack up my things and head
for the front door. Outside I see the guy with the spiked red hair strolling
towards the game room. I reverse course, duck into the ladies room, wait a
couple of minutes, and then peek out the front door. The guy is nowhere in
sight so I hurry back to my car. I feel bad about standing him up, but he’s not
my type, I’m in a rush, and I have to draw the line somewhere. Hope he forgives
me.
The trip back to
Fargo’s place is long and tedious and I use the opportunity to reflect on my
situation. If there is a silver lining to all this, at least GWI no longer has
the inside track to what I’m up to. I can operate in secret without them
looking over my shoulder and anticipating my every move. But Dr. Parker was my
inspiration and the main reason I made the thousand-mile trip in the first
place. She promised me guidance and the use of sophisticated instruments that
can uncover microscopic tags in the water samples, unique markers that would
reveal the source of any contamination.
What
will I do now?
I’ve hit a
brick wall!
Will once told me, “When you
hit a brick wall, blast through it.” That’s great advice when you have
high-powered weapons at your disposal. What do I have?
I arrive at the
cabin an hour before dinner and scramble inside. Fargo is having a cup of tea
and Will and Juanita are reclining on the couch. I can hardly contain myself as
I relate the whole incident to the group.
“Dead? How?”
Fargo asks.
“An injury to the
throat. Didn’t specify.”
“Sounds
suspicious.”
“I can’t believe
this happened. I feel responsible.”
“There’s no way
you could have known. It was just a random event.”
“She didn’t
deserve this, even if she was deceiving me.”
“So what happens
next?” he asks.
“I don’t know.
She was my hope, my lifeline. I can’t do anything without the right equipment.
I’m through!”
“Listen, I know this guy who
helps agribusinesses meet pollution laws. He might have the equipment you
need,” he says.
“Even if he does, they charge
a ton of money for this kind of analysis. And how do I know if he’s just
helping these agribusinesses cover their tracks? He might conflict with my
research.”
“Don’t worry; this guy’s the
real thing. He’s a member of tribal council and I’ve known him a long time.
I’ll call him, see if he’s in.”
Fargo retreats to the kitchen
so I head to the bathroom to
wash off the tattoos,
remove the black nail polish, and unfasten the nose ring. A few moments later,
as I’m wiping off the eyeshadow, I hear a tap on the door.
“Come on, let’s go. He’ll
wait for us.”
I follow him back to the
living room still wearing the
old worn-out dungarees
and flannel shirt.
“What should I
wear? I can’t go like this.”
Fargo and Will go
blank for a moment, and then Juanita speaks up.
“Show me what you
have. Maybe I can help.”
She gets up and I
lead her back to my bedroom. She searches through the closet and then comes
across the deerskin outfit I received for Christmas.
“This is
beautiful.”
“Thank you. Fargo
and Will gave it to me.”
“Then put it on.
It’s perfect.”
“You think?”
“Of course. I
know the man Fargo speaks of. He will relate to your interest in Indian
culture.”
I pensively put
on the outfit with a sense of reverence and dignity, unfasten my hair so it
hangs straight down, and then tie in a feather, arranging it so it follows the
contours of my hair which now reaches almost to my waist. To finish off, I put
on the shell necklace Fargo gave me and the moccasins and then timidly stand in
front of the mirror.
“What do you
think?”
“I love it,”
Juanita says. “Let’s show the boys.”
We both saunter
to the front room and I model the outfit for the group. Will looks me over with
a gleam in his eye.
“It’s nice. You
gonna dye your hair blue again?” he asks.
“I don’t know.
Maybe later.”
“I like you
better with black hair.”
“Me too,” Fargo
says.
Interesting,
that’s the first time Fargo has ever commented on my looks. Never thought he
even noticed or cared. But then he immediately changes the subject.
“We have to go
right now,” he says, and holds
open
the front door. I follow right behind as he heads towards the jeep and then we get
inside.
He races along a dirt road
through endless pastureland until we come upon a white cinderblock building
with a flat roof. It’s completely isolated from the outside world except for
high-voltage power lines feeding the building. A sign on the door reads “Semi-Environmental”
and it’s obvious there’s some serious work being done inside because I can hear
the roar of many air conditioners running at full speed.
Inside, I’m immediately hit
with the brightness of the rows of florescent lights, the white floor tiles,
and the whitewashed walls which give it the look of a huge laboratory. Fargo
leads me into the back area and we approach a man working on a machine. He’s
Native American with shoulder-length black hair, appears to be about forty, and
is dressed in blue jeans and a yellow tee-shirt with the company name imprinted
across the front. He could pass for a quintessential postdoc research assistant
like the ones I used to work with during my days back at the university.