Page 5 of Incident At Monticello

‘Starving Artist’s Mantra’: “I’m good enough; my work is good enough; and damn it, people like me!”

  More than inspired by Saturday Night Live, I crutch this mantra as a comical shield against self-doubt.  Not so much pure inspiration as it is strength within a breath of jocularity.

  All in all, I thought my first draft of 5K to be Ok. Perhaps a Princess step beyond Ok. Objectively or not, I give it a C+. With more detailed in evaluation I understood that the characters need further development, and of course it needs more of all those descriptive thingies. But I am pleased that the story-line was building structure.

  Mostly, my disappointment lies in its volume; its word-count.  Reading what I have written so far and knowing what my mind holds as the rest of the story, I believe it to be half its finished length.  Now…  I could build it Tolstoy-like; description, description, description. Through this effort I could surely lengthen it into a novel. But I’m not Tolstoy. My style is pages far removed from his. The Five Kings, a Short Story. So not seeing a yearlong Paris Holiday coming from this, I’ll finish it and file it away on the Island of Misfit Short Stories. Perhaps one day Santa will gather all these stories and offer them to all the good little girls and boys.

  I wonder; I look inside. I mean… is it really its length that makes me quick to shelf it. Or is it fear of failure lurking. How easy it is to fall back to my safe place. That place where everything I’ve written and had success with tells of dead people. Real people. People that were once alive and now aren’t. Historical people. It seems easy for me to load fiction, but impossible to pull the trigger. Do you here it? You hear it right? It is faint, but I hear ‘The Debate’ calling me to my safe place.

   

   

  ‘Reality, a concept not meant for the disturbed.’ 

  Next afternoon

  Arriving fifteen minutes before prompt, I have time to muse proactively.  How will Greg handle his disappointment?  How will I handle his handling?  Is it in my DNA to be nice to him?  Maybe, just maybe, I should try the ‘Not such an ass approach’.  What would Jesus do?

  After undergoing the wand, the poke, the probe, the valuables in the basket and the scan, I was allowed to enter the Colorado Bureau of Investigation building.  I’m directed to ‘Information’ and greeted by Marge.  At first, I guessed Marge to be a volunteer. At second, a volunteer working in a federal building seemed out of place.  Marge did seem to fit the volunteer profile; a Baby Boomer elated in her work.  Marge, I knew was Marge; the red letters of her nametag said so.

  With a huge smile and her hands clasped as if in prayer, Marge greeted me. “Welcome sir. How can I make your visit with the Colorado Bureau of Investigation a memorable one?” Rengaw, leave it alone. What would Jesus say?

  “Marge, are you required to say that greeting?”  That probably wasn’t it. My thoughts heard Pamila; ‘Daniel, be nice to Marge.’’

  My question must have thrown her off of her game as her smile lost a little of its welcome.  “Umm… yes, yes sir I am.”

  “Well Marge I must say, you say it delightfully.”  Instantly Marge’s face was ablaze red. Her smile returned full. “Marge I’m hoping you can help me. Would you please direct me to Greg Tillman’s office.”  With two keystrokes of her gentle fingers she found her information. She pointed to three elevator doors.

  “Sir, take the elevator to the 12th floor. Someone there will assist you further.”  I smiled at Marge.

  “Marge it has been a wonderful slice of my day speaking with you.”

  She smiled back and said; “Have a nice day sir.”  Pami, Jesus, they’d be proud.

  The Lift bumps to a stop. (I don’t know, I just wanted to use the word Lift.) The lit number is 12 as the doors slide apart. As I step out a visual survey reveals a young women sitting. Her large desk is a barricade defending a hallway.  The metal desk was bolted to the floor and appeared to be bullet proof. It was indeed bolted to the floor, but bullet proof? Probably only in my little mind.

  Less a twelve-line phone system the desk top was without clutter. She brandished a side-arm. It was a graphite 9 millimeter that held armor piercing bullets. (Again, small cranial space. Sensing a pattern yet?)

  I said hello and searched for a name tag.  The one I found, gold letters pressed on black plastic… Marge.  No, no it can’t be. Instantly I knew my head was going to explode. Hush Pamila. Sorry Jesus. There was no way I could not speak of this… this coincidence.  And just as I was about to sarcasm that which only I would understand, the 9mm with armor piercing bullets froze my tongue. Self-preservation left it alone. But it was not without wanting to address-it pain.

  In a tone without a slight of threat, I gently said; “Hello Marge. I have an appointment with Greg Tillman.”

  “Your name sir?”

  “Daniel Rengaw,” I said, still floundering with hers.

  “Thank you Mr. Rengaw. One moment please.” This smile-less version of Marge picks up the hand-set and punches a series of numbers. Seconds pass.  “Yes sir there is a Daniel Rengaw here to see you. No sir he is alone.”  Many more seconds pass.  “Yes sir…  So…  How shall I direct him sir?  Yes sir.”  Looking slightly exasperated she hangs up a bit less than gently.  “Mr. Rengaw please have a seat.”  She directs me to three wooden chairs with flowered upholstery.  “Someone will be with you shortly.”

  “Thank you… Marge.”  I must have. I must have punched her name slightly. She briefly glares at me and then assumes a protective posture. I thought it a Korean Demilitarized Zone posture.

  Taking a seat my mind tries to unfold her words: “Someone will be with you shortly”.  My chest squeezed hard a possible impending let down. Is Greg’s ‘handling’, going to be something I won’t get to witness?  I hope absence is not going to be his response to his Pami-less disappointment. Would my day be ruined?

  Turning the corner with a steady and quick gate, a woman in her thirties wearing a navy blue business suit approaches me.  “Doctor Rengaw. I am Specialist Colleen Beamer.”  I didn’t remember playing the Doctor card.

  Specialist Beamer’s hand shake was firm; brief. Two quick pumps and move on.  “Could you please follow me to my office?”  I keep pace.  I be curious.

  “Will Mr. Tillman be joining us?”

  “He’ll be joining you.” That be the end of our walking conversation. I was okay with it. ‘He’ll be joining you,’ is all I needed. Heading down the hallway my thoughts drift. As you must know by now that they will. My drift; what were the investigative mysteries swirling behind each of these closed doors?’

  Without hinting, Specialist Beamer suddenly stops at and opens a glass door. The etched lithograph on the fogged glass says: Hand Writing Analysis. The large room is rectangular in shape. A row of tables split the center of the room.  The table tops are cluttered in an organized mosaic.  One wall is lined with filing cabinets. Another, with large books on metal shelves.  The last two walls hold six cubicles each. Each cubicle looked staged pristine; there were no archaeological findings that suggested human personalities had ever existed in this place.

  Books… why would they need books? Naive, confused, either way, would it not all be computerized in the 21st century.  Perhaps I was wrong. Or were they of historical significance. Unused today and more a remembrance of yesterday. That I understood. Those I appreciated.

  Colleen was walking away from me as her words pulled me. “Doctor Rengaw this way please.”  She heads to one of the sterile cubicles.  “Please have a seat; there.”  She points to one of three chairs. They were gray, metal, and genetically engineered for discomfort.   I sat; there.  “Doctor Ren-”

  I interrupt; “Excuse me Specialist, did Greg Tillman tell you that I was a Doctor?”

  “No.” Her ‘no’ hung awkward. “As I was-”

  “I am sorry to interrupt again.”

  “Then why are you?” She didn’t say that. I
probably would have. You know... drift and all. I didn’t pause for my thought. “Specialist, I do have an honorary Doctorate but how do you know that?”

  Sounding almost like a real person, she answered; “I read your second book. That information was in the Jacket Bio.” Back to a non-person. “Now… Doctor Rengaw, this presentation will go much smoother if you let me present all of the results.” She was telling me to shut the hell up.

  With a sampling of rude, I told her; “Specialist Beamer I can see that your interpersonal skills are well within Bureau standards…”

  “Thank you.” If the mind is a terrible thing to waste, sarcasm wasted is forever lost.

  Her, the, light blue folder is handed me. Whatever it held was titled: Hand Writing Analysis 2,2,A. Not wanting to be told to shut the hell up again, I did not ask what 2,2,A, stood for? She continued her well trained presentation. “Report 2,2,A, is the scientific results of the hand writing analysis that this department completed.  The methodology used is called ‘Triple Simile Analysis.  In layman’s terms, TSA compares existing documents, to the document of interest.”

  “I know,” I said. It was a stupid thing to say and I missed her next few words as I mulled over just how stupid it was.

  The ones I missed began with; “Three points of similes are compared: penmanship and script style; diction and vocabulary; and word usage.  Using each point of simile, a percentage is determined.  This percentage is a logarithmic determinant of probability.  The actual probability that the original document, and the document of interest, were created by the same person.  Once each point of simile is determined, those three percentages are used to determine the overall probability.” She paused, sat back, and insulted me. “I will let you read the report yourself. It should be easily understandable, for someone of your intellect.” No no you see… I can’t in writing put the proper inflection on it. It was an insult alright!

  As if Hitler himself had entered the room Specialist Beamer jumps to and snaps to attention. I thought it an awful lot of respect for one single report.  “Mr. Director.”  His reply to her is not to her.

  “Daniel.”  Recognizing the voice I realize that it is Hitler.

  I turn and greet the Fuhrer; “Greg.”

  He takes the seat next to the specialist. She ‘at ease’s’ back into her chair.  With finger nails on blackboard fake-ness, Greg says; “Don’t let me interrupt. Please please continue.”  His condescending tone was either lost or ignored by the Specialist. Neither was by me.

  She turned from him to me and continued; “As I was saying Doctor Rengaw-”

  “He is not a real Doctor you know.” She stopped abrupt with his words. “Some community college on the east coast waived a magic wand and made him a toy doctor.”

  Just for the record, I clarify; “It’s an honorary Doctrine from George Washington University.”

  His reply… ready for it? “Whatever!”

  Perplexed and uncomfortable by her boss’ snap, the Specialist adjusts her seated position. I wasn’t sure if her gaze at him was in wonder or a passive aggressive scolding. Still on him she begins again toward me. “Yes…  The analysis is a three point simile comparison.”  She already said that.  “It compared the document inquired on, with the subset of documents you supplied.”  Sputtering a bit, it is clear that her thought train is heading for derailment.

  Not wanting to interrupt us, he did, again; “Mr. Rengaw did not supply those documents. His wife did. At least that was my understanding.”  Colleen tried to decipher Greg’s animosity.

  Again I clarified; “Pamila could not be here today. She had to work.”  That would be the last of my patience with his need to be an ass; my last offering of civility. Specialist Beamer was in uncharted waters and Tiger Sharks were circling. All she could do was wait for the feeding-frenzy to end.

  With her eyes starting to squint and her lips disappearing, she desperately tried again. “We did this scientifically with all three points.”

  Once again, an ass; “So tell me Mr. Rengaw… oh I’m sorry, Doctor Rengaw. Where did these other documents come from and why are all the dates and signatures blackened out?”

  Saying nothing I urged a look on the Specialist. She took the nonverbal prod. “Again…” Miffed pause. “We came up with a likeliness of similarity, in each of the three categories, and then determined an overall percentage that they were written by the same person.”  As if she had suddenly become bored with her words and whatever this had become, she began rushing her presentation.  Not bored, not caring, I’m not sure what he was not, Greg could not stop.

  “You know Daniel I think you and your wife have been less than honest with me; played me a fool.” How easy it had been.

  Specialist Beamer’s patience was depleted. Her anger was controlled but on a medium simmer. Her fight or flight instinct was kicking in and flight seemed the better career move.  Fumbling with her paper-work she tried to sort them into an organized pile.  Failing this, she gathered the loose pile, pulled it to her chest, and excused herself.  Colleen wanted to and tried to part with some dignity. She spoke brief and professionally. “Mr. Rengaw you can read the report. If you have any questions please call me.”  Her words were her last as her flight-plan had been approved and she was clear for departure. Her final destination was the closed behind her office door.

  Her exit stage left was my queue to do so as well.  Report 2,2,A, firmly in hand, I stood, glared with squinted eyes of my own at Tillman, and quietly started for the door.

  Now… This controlled departure would have been the adult thing to do. However, for a reason unknown to me, I stopped, turned to Tillman and asked; “Director, can you tell me how many different men have been president?”  With my stopping and turning, I’m sure he was prepared for angered words. My question vapor locked his brain.  Within his stunted mind the clock chimed seconds like a polished-metal Triangle.

  Greg was tentative with; “What?  Why are you asking me that?”

  I was quick with; “Do you know the answer?”

  His now attentive colleague’s eyes were fixed and waiting for his reply.  In his understanding of this moment, he felt it to be a significant life moment.  I had maneuvered his moment to be just that. Timing, is everything.

  He tentatively proposed; “Well… President Obama is our 42nd president. So I guess that means the answer is 42.”  A muffled snicker background the room.  He looked to me for confirmation.  I smiled a smile that would leave him only wonder. Turning filled with won comfort, one thought crushed hard in me: Idiot!  Reveling in my distribution of his embarrassment I began my exit; stage left.

  Expecting only triumphant silence while departing, I heard; “Daniel!  When are you leaving for Virginia?”

  Not turning or pausing I was quick to answer the words of a baffled man. “I’m not going to Virginia.”

  Greg returned volley. “Huh? Funny but that is not what the Associated Press is reporting.  So I guess you aren’t going to be at the Press Conference.”  A pulsed neuron sent word to my legs to stop. I manually overrode the command and pulled the door closed behind me. Standing in the empty hallway I asked myself two questions; what the hell is he talking about, and should I be without an escort?

  With these different questions fighting for position, there was an easy voice. “Doctor Rengaw let me walk you out.”

  “Thank you Specialist Beamer.”

  “Please I would like you to call me Colleen.”  The happenings of the past minutes apparently had given her a personality. Or at least brought forward a hidden piece of her true being.

  Walking, her gate was easy and our pace was slower.  With her surely noticing, I glanced at her face.  Her eyes were red and the surrounding area puffy.  It was an uncomfortable walk. Down the hallways, descending in the elevator, and into the lobby. We small talked only and those talks weren’t many.

  Arriving in the lobby not far from Marg
e, Marge 1, Colleen looked at me and in a tone I had not heard from her; “I’m sorry about what took place. It was all very unprofessional. It was nice meeting you Doctor Rengaw.” She extended her hand. The departing shake was of the porcelain Colleen.

  Colleen started to turn and then said; “Doctor Rengaw I enjoyed your book very much. I found it very insightful. Unusually so.”  Her smile was wonderfully sincere; as only women can. Warmly she turned to the elevator and professionally greeted a passing co-worker. Our brief sharing had ended and I stood sleeping with thought.

  Marge woke me with loud and excited waving. “Have a nice day Doctor Rengaw.” Still wanting to doze I forced a smile that was less than she deserved. This ended my memorable visit at the Colorado Bureau of Investigation.

  It had to have been there for some time; pumping unchallenged and unnoticed. I felt the adrenalin that was driving my muscles and questioning my mind.  His words, Associated Press Virginia Press Conference all ran into one long confusing sentence. As I stepped out of the building the odor of the air was none. The usually bouncing metro sounds seemed to have settled dull into the concrete. In a way as never before, downtown Denver seemed unfamiliar. Walking without seeing Rojer was visible in thought. A shaking tingle asked me why. This unsettled me. I had to be at my computer right now. I had to know right now and right now I Knew I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.

  Mervin bounced up to my home arrival doing the Lenny’s been here dance.  I played the game. “Come on buddy want a treat?  Let’s go. Gotta get it.” Playing his part he barks once.  Bent over and clapping. “Come on let’s get it.”

  Releasing the deadbolt I pull the interior door clear. A Special Delivery envelope falls in to my feet.  I rush with a bad feeling. Maybe it will go away. The envelope; if I don’t pick it up maybe it will go away.  Standing over it, Mervin jumps to the snack and chomps. It didn’t go away.

  “Oh shit!”  Staring at it as if reading for the first time, I mouth; OVERNIGHT, Charlottesville, Va.  The bad feeling gets worse.   Not knowing that I’m doing it, I close the door and take a seat on the cedar chest located just inside the door.  I de-vein the envelope and remove the contents.  “Rojer!”

  Instant Message: GET ON ROJER!  Ten minutes go by and still no Rojer on screen.  Using more conventional communication I ring up his cell. After one ring Rojer asks for a voice mail.  I’ll give him a message!  “Rojer I need to speak with you. Rojer get on line!”  He would know that I knew.  I sit staring at my computer. Not patiently.  One minute.  Two minutes.

  Pixels pop, and with obvious forced sincerity Rojer greets me. “Danny. Hey buddy.”

  Holding up the tickets I ask as snotty as I can; “Do you know anything about these?”  Like a fourteen year old being shown the magazines found under his mattress, he stupid fourteen year old denies.

  “What are those Danny?”

  “It is a plane ticket. Departing Denver International Airport at 9:12 a.m. on the 4th and arriving Virginia at 3:28 p.m.”

  Rojer looked off-camera and with forced sincerity gone, caved hard. “Danny, what do you know?”

  “I know, that an hour ago, an idiot from the CBI, asked me when I was leaving for Virginia.  I didn’t even know I was going to Virginia!”

  “Oh yeah. How was your meeting?”

  “Rojer!”  His cheek muscles relaxed dropping an awkward smile.  “I also know that the Associated Press is reporting some sort of a press conference. A press conference that I am supposed to be at.  In Virginia!”

  I looked at him waiting for a response. He waited as long as he could and then started sputtering.  “I have been trying to call you all afternoon.  Danny why don’t you answer your cell phone?”

  “I didn’t have my phone.”

  Rojer tries to scold. “You do know the reason people have cell-”

  “Rojer don’t try to make this about me!  This is about you!”  He looked like a puppy that had just peed on the rug.

  “Rojer, give it to me straight, now, please.”

  The levee holding him back burst.  “I’m sorry Danny it just sort of happened I need you to come here.  I need you to help me.”  This time he waited for my reply. I gathered the calm from within. Deep within.

  As monotone as I had within me, I asked for more. “Okay Rojer. I need all the details.  Please give it to me. No bullshit.”  He seemed relieved that I still loved him and began his defense.

  “Alright…” He pulled a breath. “Let me explain. This time you have to listen to me. Everything. Until I’m finished.  Okay?”  I nodded.  “First I need you here to meet with the FBI on the 5th.”

  “Rojer the FBI-”

  “Danny please.”  I shut up.  “Danny this is all Peter Henderson’s doing.  He wants you to go to Quantico with us. The evaluation… the FBI’s evaluation… I told you about it. Well it’s finished. Secondly, the next day, the Foundation is having a press conference here at Monticello.  The Richmond Times Dispatch ran a story about the press conference. The article… it kind of mentions you. You being Doctor Daniel Rengaw.  It said you would be at the press conference. The article was on the front page.  You do know that you are a local celeb don’t you Danny.”  A neurological relay clicked an understanding. A Front page exposé for a Press Conference at Monticello. Peter Henderson’s forgiving and accepting attitude with Sheridan over The Document article. Clear as mud became clear as marketing.

  Still trying to present calmness I asked; “Okay Rojer why does Henderson want me to go to the FBI briefing? And why does he want me to attend this press conference?”

  Rojer; “Quantico I don’t know, I’m not sure. But the Press conference… you’re not just attending Danny; you are the press conference.  I mean others will be there. I don’t know. He sort of demanded you be there.”

  “Demanded!” I shouted.

  “Danny I told him you’d come.”

  “Rojer… I don’t… I need more information than that.”

  “I know I know. But I can’t. I mean I don’t know anything more. I’m sorry but I just don’t.”

  Rojer’s cheeks softened and a shy smile grew as he said; “Danny my Momma use to say that if it walks like a duck… Well you know. And Danny this duck swims in a big ole publicity pond.” My eyebrows lifted with his words. “Times are tough Danny. Everywhere. The Foundation is struggling as well.  Rumors are out there that Monticello may be sold.”

  “Sold?” My four letter word came without thought. He’d gotten my attention my attention and he knew it. Crossing his arms he sat back with a knowing smile.

  I quickly tried to hold fast. “Look Rojer this is bad timing for me. I’m working on a project and I’m-”

  “For me! Danny please for me.”

  I tossed him bullshit. “That doesn’t work on me Rojer. Damn… you’re way too ugly to be my wife.”

  He knew he didn’t have to, but he weakly begged. “I don’t know what else to say Danny. Well… I guess I can get a new job.”

  “Oh shut the hell up.”

  “Okay Danny what about this. What if I promise to get more information before you arrive?”

  “I haven’t said anything about arriving Rojer.”

  “I really need you to arrive Danny.  Will you?”

  My slow head shaking called him a Bastard. He didn’t care and just sat there with a stupid look on his face. “Damn it Rojer Pami is going to be pissed. And not just a little.”

  “No no she won’t. I talked to her a little while ago.” My thoughts called him a Bastard.

  “You called her?”

  “I couldn’t reach you Danny I really did try.  I sorta told her I needed you to come here.  She sort of kind of seemed okay with it.  Come on you know you can work it out with her.  What do you say?”  I sat quiet and thinking. Mostly I thought how his tone had gone to that Red-neck drawl that it sometimes does when he is trying too hard.

/>   I lifted the tickets in front of the camera. “You expect me to fly coach?”

  He pulled down that so last year fist pump and loudly hushed out; “Yes!”

  Waving the tickets I asked; “Who is paying for this I hope it’s not you?”

  “No! The Foundation is paying.”

  “Good!  And tell Henderson that I want a suite at the Radcliff. Oh and a limo pick up.  I want this to cost him.” I think maybe only in my imagination, but Rojer looked nauseated.  “No never mind Rojer.”  I didn’t want to bilk the Foundation. I didn’t want the foundation to pay for my room, but I did inquire of my Billet. “Rojer you still have that roll-away?”  He looked less nauseated. “They’ll put you up in a hotel Danny.”

  “No I want to stay there. Are you kidding me; how many people get to sleep at Monticello. But I do want a Town Car airport pick up.” I was not sure if Rojer believed me. I looked at him for understanding and said; “I’m not kidding about the puck up Rojer.” Peter is going to pay for something.

  “No problem Danny.  Thanks buddy. Oh… and good luck with Pami.”  He chuckled pretty hard.

  “You’re an ass Rojer.”

  “Alright Danny I guess I’ll see you on Sunday.”

  “Sunday it is and don’t forget that you promised more information upon arrival.”

  “No problem, I promise.”

  “Okay Rojer-” Before I’d finished my thought he was gone. I guess he did not want to chance a change of mind. My unfinished thought? Adrift.

  At this point in the writing I come upon a quandary. What immediately follows cannot be a new paragraph as it is a continuation of the immediately previous. I could pen some fluff that is a smoother transition, but I’ve got nothing. Here it is.

  In 1775, George Washington was headquartered in Cambridge Massachusetts. Just outside of Boston.  His army controlled the high ground surrounding Boston.  The British army controlled the city of Boston. Washington was consumed by wondering of when would the British attack and how would they attack? In real time, I feel a kindred spirit with Washington.  I to was consumed by wondering of when would Pamila attack and how would she attack?

  Like Washington, I held the high ground; preparing dinner in the kitchen.  At the expected time of her arrival home from work, I was hunkered down. All available weapons at the ready.  The garage door opens and Pami’s car pulls in. Seconds later the kitchen door swings in.  She walks directly to me and kisses me on the cheek.  “Go, Rojer needs you.  I will make sure that you have all your medicines and equipment.”

  No frontal assault; this scared the hell out of me. Was I weak at flank? Was it exposed?  With a tactical retreat she starts to depart the field of battle.  Suddenly she deploys her reserves.  “You haven’t traveled since the transplant, are you sure you will be okay?”  Feeling defenseless I simply nodded.  She continued her retreat and headed upstairs. I tried to negotiate terms of surrender.

  “Can you please reschedule my Optometrist appointment?”

  “Anything you need. Honey!”  Sarcasm; that I was prepared for.

   

  ‘The beginning of a journey, only exists because of its end.’ 

  Sunday February 4. 48 minutes out of Denver International Airport. 34,500 feet.

  ………

  Colorado Bureau of Investigation

  Hand Writing Analysis Report: 2,2,A,

  Date: February 2, 2010

  Authorizing analyst: Colleen Beamer.

  Security Classification: 0

  Distribution: All

  Percentile results of ‘Three Point Simile Comparison’:

  ‘Penmanship and Script Style’: 72.6 %

  ‘Diction and Vocabulary’: 35.1 %

  ‘Word Usage’: 1.1 %

  ‘Overall Simile Percentage’: 36.2666 %

  Summary:

  ‘Penmanship and Script Style’, simile comparison, resulted in an above median percentage.

  The analysis of ‘Comparison Documents’, to ‘Document of Inquiry’, yielded a determined, ‘medium - high’ likelihood; that ‘Comparison Documents’ and ‘Document of Inquiry’, were written by same person.

  Although line width was not favorably comparable: flow; peak; smoothness; height and overall display; are favorable.

  ‘Diction and Vocabulary’, simile comparison, resulted in a below median percentage.

  The analysis of ‘Comparison Documents’, to ‘Document of Inquiry’, yielded a determined, ‘low - low medium’ likelihood; that ‘Comparison Documents’ and ‘Document of Inquiry’, were written by same person.

  The context of documents showed little favorable comparison.  Likelihood that the ‘Compared Documents’ and the ‘Document of Inquiry’ were written during the same time period, is low.  However, when the ‘Document of Inquiry’, was compared to the ‘Comparable Documents’ labeled 21 and 22; the percentage was highest.

  ‘Word Usage’, simile comparison, resulted in a below median percentage.

  The analysis of ‘Comparison Documents’, to ‘Document of Inquiry’, yielded a determined, ‘zero - very low’ likelihood; that ‘Comparison Documents’ and ‘Document of Inquiry’, were written by same person.

  Likelihood is so low, it is almost insignificant.

  Several words and phrases, showed no relation; Jihad and references to numbers of American citizens, are among them.

  ‘Overall Percentage’, simile comparison, resulted in a below median percentage.

  The analysis of ‘Comparison Documents’, to ‘Document of Inquiry’, yielded a determined, ‘low - low medium’ likelihood; that ‘Comparison Documents’ and ‘Document of Inquiry’, were written by same person.

  Final analysis based on percentages; the ‘Document of Inquiry’, was not written by the same person that wrote the ‘Documents of Comparison’.

  Report Complete.

  Colleen Beamer

  ………

  I am whole heartedly aware that it took me almost three days to read the report that specialist Beamer had given me.  I also knew that my sudden trip had left me with little free time.  Still, I had to wonder where my obsession with The Document had gone. Where was my unabated need to know?

  Neurologically and spiritually absorbing report 2,2,A, I was torn by feelings far away from each other. Neurologically, I was comforted to know that reality had not departed me quite yet.  Spiritually, melancholy was the real moment. The tiny sliver of light that had been beaconing my wish-fullness had been extinguished. The facts back in their folder, I placed them forever away.

  In my assigned seat, probably looking forward to my visit to Monticello, perhaps still looking back to light lost, I was in a shell of me. “Sir?” I heard a sound. “Sir!” Clearer and louder I heard it again. As if awakened from a waking dream of Space Creatures, I realize that we are not alone. Black pants and a teal shirt, a human male wants my attention.  “Excuse me sir. Would you like a meal?”

  “Oh. Sorry. Here let me put this down.”  I carefully take the tray that the steward is offering and place it on the toy seat-back shelf. The meal he claims I ordered.  I corrected the teal man. “Rojer ordered it.”

  “Yes sir.”  With a guarded yet detectable tone he replied. From next to me a brief giggle was let loose. The elderly woman in the window-seat next to me attempts polite conversation.

  “Looks good!” she claims.

  Not as enthusiastic as she, I comply with my required non-rudeness; “Yes. Looks fine.”

  Investigating my meal, I felt like an autopsy doctor trying to discover what went so horribly wrong.  I was picking curiously at my dinner when Window Seat spoke again; “You are not comfortable flying are you?”

  I was a bit caught but replied; “Why do you think that?”

  “Well…” Her pause was to me out of place. But it was apparently her and she continued. “I fly often visiting family and I like to analyze people when I travel.  You seem to be a Nervous N
elly.”  I found her words chuckling homespun. Profiling myself; she was brought up in a large Christian family in a small community.

  Hoping it would end the conversation that I really didn’t want to be in, I replied; “I am just a little preoccupied.”  My hope was instantly dashed.

  “What were you reading?” It wasn’t that I wanted to be short to her; but she was right. I was not a big fan of flying. Challenging Newton’s first law of Gravity and all.

  “It was just some work stuff,” I said. And not wanting to be here, doing this, I probably toned rude.

  It was then, with intent to end this, I went all full insensitive. “However, the other day I was reading about the Aztec Indians. Did you know that during spiritual sacrifices they would cut the still beating heart out of their sacrifice and then eat it as part of the ceremony?”

  She must be a serial killer; stone cold. Nothing. Not a flinch, let alone a pause from her meal. She sliced into what appeared to have once been some form of animal. Fork held and swirling around in dark brown gravy, she placed it into her mouth.  A drop of blood-brown gravy clinging to her chin went unattended to. A Grandmother in a Rockwell painting, she had the constitution of a Slasher.

  Another piece of protein was consumed.  Without missing a bite she asks; “Do you have any pets?”  With this inquiry I conceded; my verbal skills are no match for her persistence. She’s relentless.  Before I could finish a syllable she interrupted whatever I might have said. “I have three cats.”  Not knowing if she wanted a reply, I hesitated.  “You don’t talk much do you?”  Again I did not know if a response was required.  I asked myself how I’d lost control so quickly. I thrust with cannibalism; she parries with no interruption of her meal.  A reflex suddenly pulls my face back; a cell phone mere inches from my eyes.  “These are my babies.” She eases the phone away and points. “This is Taffy. Simone. And this is Chu.  Chu is the Siamese. She has a bit of an attitude.”

  On me like an anxiety attack, my self-preserving sense of flight grasped me firmly.  Here I’m on my way to meet with the FBI at Quantico, and some six year olds’ Gammy just kicked my ass. “Excuse me. I need to use the restroom.”  My quick departure was made easier by the empty aisle seat.

  As I clear the seat, I hear; “Make sure to wash your hands!”

  While in the phone booth that is an airliner bathroom, I came to a conclusion. After a failed attempt at humor with a security person earlier, and now my ill-fated conversation with Gammy, I was definitely off of my game today.  (Let me give a little friendly advice. Airport screeners don’t take well to humor about them buying dinner first.)

  After splashing cold water on my face, and washing my hands, I reluctantly start back to my seat. Arriving at my assigned seat and recognizing Gammy, something was amiss. My mind was questioning the changed surroundings.  I looked at the seat numbers stamped on the overhead. My eyes verified that indeed this was my point of departure. Yet confusion hesitated me.  Someone was sitting in the previously unoccupied aisle seat.  A male in his early twenties looked up at me in full smile.

  “Are you Doctor Rengaw?”   Again there was a slight hesitation. But I was determined to regain control of my flight-life.  Looking down at the young man I decided to clarify his choice of title.

  “Doctor is honorary. May I please slide in?” Sitting between Gammy and the mystery man, I waited to see which seat words would come from first.  Just as Gammy tried to reengage, the mystery passenger wanted into the game.

  “My name is Ben.  I recognize you from the news.”

  Surprised that I had been news, I asked; “The news?”

  “The news and your book.”  I felt Gammy glance inquiringly.

  It hit me instant that this might work for me. That this conversation may be more in my comfort zone. Taking Ben’s temperature I asked; “Which book?”

  “The Virgin Dynasty,” he answered. “I think it was your second book.” A perfect 98.6 degrees.

  Not wanting to leave an opening for anyone else, I chose and presented words. “Ben, this is…”  I turned to her. My mind searched but found only Gammy. Meeting her eyes my pause was immediate embarrassment. I had no choice but to take it. “I’m sorry… ma’am I don’t know your name.”  In a soft voice, one previously not presented, she claimed to be Marjorie Stills. Marjorie with an ‘I’ and an ‘E’.  This name played in my ears like a Monty Python skit. The scene played out. My words were gone before I heard them.

  “Marjorie! You have got to be kidding me.” My semi-aggressive outburst silenced her and made me feel bad. “No! Sorry Marjorie. I love your name. It’s a lovely name.”  A perfect Gammy name.

  “Ben this is Marjorie with an ‘I’ and an ‘E’.”  I didn’t say with an ‘I’ and an ‘E’; but damn it was right there.  Looking back to her I clumsy’d through the introduction already made. “I’m Daniel Rengaw.” Ben modified my introduction and continued his.

  “Doctor Rengaw I’m a student at the University of Virginia.”

  I cut in; “Why were you in Colorado Ben?”

  “I was at a friend’s wedding in Evergreen.  I have never been there before. It’s beautiful.” Ben changed his word flow pace. “Having read your book, I do have one question for you.”  Waiting upon the question, Ben did not present one.

  “Go ahead Ben.”  I now had full confidence I could carry this. Perhaps it was the Doctor title. Perhaps it was that I couldn’t hang with Marjorie.

  Ben asked; “In the book you seem to be saying that Washington and Jefferson both felt that slavery was wrong; yet necessary to keep the new nation together. That’s it isn’t it. Is that what you meant?”

  This opening volley by young Ben began a barrage of questions and intended answers.  I found out that he was from Philadelphia and a Pre-Med student.  We discussed history, politics, Colorado, and medicine. Well… mostly he discussed medicine. Our conversation lasted the remaining two hours of the flight.

  Hardly a peep was heard from Gammy. I did have brief moments of feeling bad about her exclusion. But selfishly I did nothing about it. I am after all a dog person. And now a dog with a pinching guilt.

  Our aircraft was taxiing to gate when I began my cordial but less sincere goodbyes. The kind that you give to people that you’ve met and likely will never see again. The kind that are kind of awkward. Is it a hand shake? A hug? And if a hug, how embracing, how long?

  “Marjorie, it was nice to have met you.  Take care of those babies.”  Her few words, her body language, were both given with minimal cordiality. Mostly there was abundant disinterest.  As loud as thought words can be, and as clear as she can be, my Pami told me that I had to make nice with Marjorie.

  I thanked Ben for the conversation and said goodbye. He gathered my departing words with more acceptance than did Gammy.  Just before clearing our seats I offered him my card and said; “I will be at Monticello until Tuesday evening. I’ll be very busy but if you would like a private tour I might be able to make it happen.”  To Ben it just became Christmas, New Year’s Eve, and his Birthday all packaged in to a single invitation.  He couldn’t thank me enough and he promised he’d call.  In this moment he was excited sincerely. But a bit sadly, I knew he would not call.

  With the completion of Ben’s jubilant goodbye, Pamila tapped me again on the shoulder. Beyond the previous awkward, making a Grandma happy is not always an easy task. And an offended one… well… I tried to give her a hug. With what I was sure was genuineness, she whole heartedly returned my apologetic offering.  Her eyes lit soft with my unexpected show of affection. We parted me feeling better. I hoped she did as well.

  Time travel accomplished.  Exiting the ramp I spot a clock. It tells me it is 3:59. My watch tells me it is only 1:59. With only a carry-on to be concerned with I head to the pick-up area located just inside the main exit.  Rojer told me my driver would be waiting. I suspected my driver would be a waiti
ng Rojer.

  I immigrated an island of rumbling excited emotions. Parents greeting their children. With more passion, wives or girlfriends greeting men and women. With less passion, but no less love, small children greeting Grandma and Grandpa. I looked for: with and ‘I’ and an ‘E’.

  Figuring Rojer’s face would pop out at me, I was wrong. The big Teddy Bear did not seem to be here.  My search enlarged to a group of two men and one woman; all standing together. All dressed in wrinkled cheap business suits. All holding hand-made signs.  My eyes caught one sign; hand written with black marker on cardboard. Two letters; T J.  Hmm… let’s think… could that be for me? (Sarcasm; even in thought.)

  Looking to connect visually I step a line towards the young man. Our eyes link up. Click. His face gains personality with an acknowledging smile.  “Mr. Rengaw?”

  My driver looked to be in his late twenties. He was tall; a few inches over six foot. His ill-fitting suit camouflaged his frame. But his swimmer’s build floated loose beneath his clothes. Thick blond hair settled here and there; a style that only works for the handsome young.

  “Yes I’m Mr. Rengaw.”  He tries to grab my bag.  “No it’s cool.”  Trying to sound young and… well, cool.   He led and I followed. Exiting the building, entering the out of doors, I notice how warm it was for February.  “Wow, the weather is nice.”

  “Yeah, it’s been super this winter.  We haven’t had much snow and it’s been pretty warm.”

  Thanks to Osama Bin Laden we have to walk a football field to a presumed safe, designated parking area.  Arriving at the car he pops the trunk and reaches. This time I hand over my bag.  “By the way my name is Tip.” He muffles; “Shit. I’m supposed to say that right away.”

  “I won’t tell your boss.”  His head jerks up to my eyes with the possibility that I might actually be considering it. My smile eases him that I’m not a whistle-blower. I think again I’m off of my game.

  He closes the door behind me, hurries around the front of the car and slides in behind the steering wheel.  Stretching to rearview mirror me, Tip asks; “Mr. Rengaw do you want to go straight to Monticello?”  He held his mirror’d question.

  “Yes that will be perfect.”  With my reply he held my eyes still longer. I chalked it up to not having gotten that destination request often. Or perhaps ever.

  We pulled out of the complex and hit the expressway.  “Tip?”  Again he looked to me in the mirror.  “Is that your real name?”

  “Yes,” he answered with a questioning tone.

  I knew the answer to my next question, but wanting to be one of the cool kids, I ask; “Tip… how long will it take us to get to Monticello?”

  He was too young for me to be so old and quickly answers; “Not long. Maybe forty five minutes or so.” He slightly pauses. “You’re sure you don’t want to stop somewhere first?”

  “No thanks. I’m cool”

  “Okay!”  He still couldn’t believe that anyone would go to Monticello straight from the airport.

  I settled in and reached into the small bag that I brought into the car.  I pulled out my recorder.  For the IRS, I’d make it a business trip.

  I clicked it on and began:

  “February 4th, 2010”

  “Start.”

  “May 6th, 1817.  Five days past, Thomas’ letter of request sent me on this sojourn.  His plea for my appearance led me to believe his malady must be of reason.  His urgency seemed strong, yet not of immediacy.  His script did not sound to be of a terminal result.

  Wishing to bring Thomas a small bounty of his fancy, I’d brought two barrels of hard cider, much Mule Deer venison, and Black Tea.  For Miss Sarah I had several bolts of French fabric, European pins, and two gallons of molasses.  Thus our departure from Philadelphia was delayed two days; enabling us to procure the desired.

  Being one and seventy, my physical self would have been better served by carriage. However, my zeal to enrich my inviters, provides for wagon only. Tibons, my aid of free stature, and I, removed my wagon from Philadelphia three days past.

  The rhythmic, hypnotic, and when attention paid annoying, sound of a repaired wagon wheel has been everlasting.

  I feel that my life sustaining organs have been tendered.  The buckboard, bench, and flat of the wagon, have left these old bones soft and muscles ripe with settled blood flow.  Like a Metronome, the wagon sways left to right and back. Always back, and again.  Not holding to rhythm are the bumps, holes, roots, and rocks of our path. For the length of our journey, the rhythmic clicks and swaying have been accompanied by jolts and bumps of no such rhythm.

  Elated to be near journey’s end, we conclude a final turn onto Mulberry Row.  Distant left, I see the first of seventeen negro homes. A constant reminder of an opportunity lost.  Our opportunity. Mine, his, and theirs.

  Distant and slowly growing larger, the first of such houses. Those with shelter, and those with freedom sheltered.  Each house structured exactly the same. The same in design, yet different in identity.  Different houses face different lines of direction. The reason, I am unaware.  Rolling abreast of the first house, the front parch faces north. The reason, I am unaware.  The next house on the right, the front porch faces south. The reason, I am unaware.  These houses exist. The reason, I am aware.

  A scented stream of Lilac and Cherry Blossom flows over the team. The geldings approve with jerking nods and a quick prance dance.  All included, all approve of the spring air; the bouquet of Monticello.

  Our last furlong on Mulberry row is visual verification that the slave dwellings have a soul and are of being. Each one unique.  Repeated seventeen times, all equal, yet each defined by its own identity.  Each its own personality. A living tapestry unique.

  A cherry switch drapes an open window. The warm breeze pushing its fragrance within.  Small children not of working age, play simple games of children who never are of working age. Running, throwing, being children.  Women in a family way grow, be, exist. Houses not filled with liberties, are full of the riches of family love. A love that no man can quash. With freedom not afforded them, this home is their only ownership.  Sadly and often it is not a family by birth, but a binding of dwellers.  This is the spring air; the stench of Monticello.

  Two and a half days of venture and last our welcome is upon us.  The red brick and oak mansion stages the first act.  Three house-slaves drop from the rotund front porch.  Arriving at my wagon they begin their tasks. They greet without words. They investigate and clear what they find; repeating until through.

  My first sight of Thomas and Sarah. Miss Sarah runs to greet me.  “Doctor Rush so glad you here.”

  “Good to see you Sarah. I am also glad. Glad to be rid of this wooden shackle.  Oh I am sorry. I shouldn’t have-”

  “No matter Doctor.”  I look upon Thomas still making way. His gate steady but does seem forced.  My impression of first. Thomas looks thin. He looks Virginian royal. He looks like Thomas Jefferson.

  “Benjamin my old friend. It has been too long.”

  “A couple of years Thomas.”  He gives me a firm hug. But perhaps not as firm as past.

  “It is good to see you Benjamin.  Come, come inside and let us get you presentable.”

  “Stop”

  The Lincoln turns into the parking lot. The only parking lot at Monticello.  Ascetically hidden, it is amongst a group of towering pines. “We’re here.”  Tip announces our arrival.  As we both climb out of the car Tip wants to talk. “Let me ask you something Mr. Rengaw. Are you somebody?”

  “What?”

  “I mean I hear you talking into a recorder and I’ve never taken anyone to Monticello before. At least no one with luggage.  It is just that I have had this job for almost two years and I still haven’t met somebody. You know… somebody famous.  Are you like that writer?  What’s his name…  Grissom, John Grissom. I think.” He handed me the bag from inside the trunk. He
missed the hand-off and it landed clothes full soft on the gravel.

  “Let me ask you something Tip. Do you have a dream?  Something you’d like to do more than anything?”

  “Yeah I’d like to meet somebody!”  I laughed as did he.

  “Tip my dream is to write The Great American Novel. I know that sounds cliché.  But if I could write like Dickens with description dripping from the pages; or inspire emotion like Harper Lee; it would be such a thrill.”

  Tip, hearing but not listening, jumps in; “I know Dickens. He wrote that Christmas thing.  You know… with the ghosts and chains and tiny Tom… or something like that.”

  His humor of youth put aside, I continued my soul purge to someone I did not know. “Sadly though I’m certain that they are Classics defined. I hope but doubt that there will ever be stories like those written by writers like them ever again. Did you know that Harper Lee only wrote one book? She won a Pulitzer Prize for it. To Kill a Mockingbird.”

  Tip again with youth; “I know that!  They filmed the movie at the Stanley Hotel. You must know it; up in Estes Park Colorado.  Jack Nicholson was in it. No that’s not it. Never mind.”  He lost me and I didn’t find it until later. No matter.

  “Here Tip!”  I so wanted to think me clever and put humor in my words, but I left one tip in the quiver.

  “No Sir the tip is already included.”

  “It’s alright it’s not much. Take it please! Buy a book on me.”

  “Thanks Mr. Rengaw. Maybe… maybe I will.”

  I picked up my two bags and tried to place something forever in my driver’s heart. “Tip. If you reclaim a life, you will meet somebody. If you reclaim a life that is your own, you will meet yourself.  Always remember that.  Take care of yourself.”

   

   

  ‘Again, again.’ 

  Six and a half hours of travel; my welcome is upon me.  The red brick and oak mansion waits for me.  Three grounds keepers tend the rotund front porch.  Arriving at my feet, a yellow Labrador barks a welcoming yelp. His greeting is without words; investigating, clearing me as okay. Waiting for others to greet me.

  I see Peter Henderson and Rojer. Mr. Henderson is halfway across the lawn and approaching to meet me.  “Doctor Rengaw, so glad you could be here.”

  “Good to see you Mr. Henderson. I am also glad. Glad to be unshackled from that airplane.  Oh… I’m sorry. Perhaps that was said without sensitivity.”

  “No matter Doctor.”  I look towards Rojer still making his way. His gate is steady and strides long.  My first impression is that he looks fit. He is dressed in a royal blue Monticello shirt. He looks like Rojer.

  “Danny! Buddy! It’s been too long.”

  “A couple of years Rojer.”  He gives me a bear hug. He’s as strong as always.

  “It’s good to see you Danny.  Come inside and let’s get you something to drink.”

  Tipton’s On the Walk. Later that evening.

  Grilled asparagus topped with lemon-butter sauce; Alfredo sauced risotto with capers and green onions; Cajun crab cakes; these were culinary choices that my pallet was anticipating.  This evening, my choice to eat. Another evening, my choice to duplicate.  Great Chefs always steal from others. Admit it, never!

  My pallet was still in shock from the earlier airplane autopsy. It needed to be awakened. Fresh shaved ginger would be the caffeine.  One strip of ginger and my taste-buds were brought to attention.

  Our table on the patio, on the river’s bank, was excellent; perfect. Still I was disappointed that the patio was enclosed due to time of year.  All in all, a great meal at a great location.  Now I was ready to find out how the company was.

  With a round breached, I fired. “Peter thanks for a wonderful meal.  The food was awesome and what a location. I’ll have to come back here in the summer.”  He hadn’t really said that he was buying; but he was. “I’d also like to thank you for flying me to one of my favorite locations on the east coast.  It would have been nice to fly First Class… but it’s all good.”  Rojer laughed nervously. Peter laughed temperately trying to gauge my sincerity.

  “However my coming here was agreed upon with the understanding that when I got here, I’d find out why I got here.  The three of us have been socializing for several hours and I still don’t have any information.”  Again Rojer with the same uncomfortable laugh.  I gave him a laugh questioning gaze as I went on. “So unless we are going to retire to the cigar room…”  Henderson looked at me funny as I continued. “I would like some information.”  I looked into his face and waited. He was trying to find his starting point.  I was sure that he knew this conversation would take place, so I was surprised that he seemed unrehearsed. He surely must have Chairman of the Board type verbal skills.

  “I do appreciate you gotting here.”  That a boy, not what I expected, but he played on my play.  He continued; “You being here will greatly help us and I feel passionately about that.  Almost as passionate as I feel about thanking you for having dinner with me.”  That’s the crap-ola I expected. Peter was getting warmed up.  He heaped on the crap with more ola. “I am thrilled that you had dinner with me.”  Not with you, on you. My previous thought was still forefront.

  “Doctor Rengaw let me tell you what I believe you are aware of. Obviously you know about The Document. And the newspaper article. Both of the articles actually. Also the fact that I would like you to go to Quantico tomorrow. And I am sure that you’ve heard about the press conference that will take place the following morning. I would like…” He did not finish the sentence. He started anew; “The foundation would like you to attend.  Is that all that you are aware of?”

  “I hope I’m aware of more than just that.”  He looked puzzled and I did not try to explain my attempted humor.  “Peter I do know about all of those. However, there are other things that you are not aware of.”  He glanced at Rojer.

  “Why do you want me to go see the FBI?”  He had quizzed himself on this anticipated question.

  Peter updated on what he had learned. “I have received a preliminary report from the Bureau. The results are most interesting.  Results that I think you will want to hear first-hand.”  I expected him to continue detailing me but he paused.  Not knowing why I glanced at Rojer. 

  Looking back to Peter with open palms I asked; “Well... are you going to tell me?”

  “I would like that to be a surprise for tomorrow.” Not liking that sentence I sat back in my chair with intent to let him know that.  He held silent with my body language.

  “With all due respect Mr. Henderson I am not a real patient man and I don’t like getting jerked around.”

  Rojer interdicts; “What Danny means… is that he is a busy man-”

  “That’s not what I mean Rojer.” I slowed my words back at Peter. “Apparently I’m not being clear.  Mr. Henderson let me put it on the table.  With the cards I’m currently holding, I’m about to fold.  If I don’t pick up at least one pair, I’m out of here.  I make my living off of my reputation. People pay to read my words.  Before I sit in front of a bunch of cameras and journalists and talk about alien abductions and Jimmy Hoffa, I want some information.  I want to be prepared. I am not going to be left hanging here in the winds by my Nads.”

  I wasn’t really sure if I was being passive aggressive, or aggressively passive, or whatever, but I tried for a simple informing tone. “Ever since Rojer spoke to me about The Document, some very strange things have been happening.  Much more than you are aware of.” Again he glanced at Rojer.  I did not slow my flow. “But the facts are, I don’t know the facts.  If indeed there are any.”

  Given back the table Peter works it. “Doctor Rengaw please give me just twenty four hours to make things clear to you.  I’m convinced you will understand all the facts.”

  Sitting back in my chair I stirred my Ice Tea with intent. I’m not sure what that intent was, but I had it
as I stared at Rojer. Snapping back to Peter I concede. “I will give you that time Mr. Henderson.”  Attempting a Charles Bronson stare I lean on the table and towards him. “But you need to know Mr. Henderson that I am not getting in front of the Press if I am not comfortable.”  Now finished with my kick-ass look, I sat back.

  “Completely understandable Doctor.”  Although Peter told me this, I doubted he did.

  I restarted; “Peter, I need to know, and I mean now. What are you getting out of this?”

  “Fair enough.  It is not what I am getting out of it; it is the foundation that I hope gains from you being here.  Daniel I am not going to work around this; the press conference is a public relations event.  Hopefully it will be a successful media blitz. Free advertising. A means to financial donations.  If this works, the result will validate the means.  Foundations suffer greatly during tough economic times Daniel. I am sure that you know that.”

  “Doctor Rengaw, your books, especially The Virgin Dynasty, have made you a celebrity in Virginia. A Jefferson expert. Therefore… a Monticello expert.  You can help The Foundation.” His look within me was for sympathy as he finished. “Which I think you want to do. Right? I mean why else would you be sitting here.”

  “Ouch! That was a low blow Peter. And you did… you placed it there with intent. It was not an errant punch.”

  “Perception is reality Daniel.”  I laughed at his instant honesty.  But what I didn’t know was that in time not too distant, these words would bang hard in my mind.

  After laughing at reality Peter continued; “I am asking you for a little time. If you’re not comfortable with the situation… well I guess you can bow out. No hurt feelings. I totally understand your insecurities Daniel.  But please I’m simply asking for twenty four hours.  Do we have a deal?”

  “A deal?”  He couldn’t have been quicker with a different word.

  “Understanding! How about understanding?”  I was not sure if that word was more to my liking, but I took the diplomatic road.

  “Understanding? We’ll see. Let’s go with that.”

  With Chairman Mannerism, abruptly the conversation was at an end. His task self-assumed as being complete, his self-a lotted time for us was as well.  “Gentleman I am afraid that I have to leave.”  Me being far too scrutinizing at this point, his word ruffled me. Why was he afraid? I did know that I was afraid. Afraid that he had to pay the tab.  And I feared that this thought was being displayed on my asking face. Not answering me he rose and nodded to Rojer. “Rojer.”  Turning to me he executed the perfect insincere I-give-a-shit-about-you pause. He obliged me. “Daniel.”  With etiquette calling, Rojer joined his standing.  I did not hear its call. Long enough to make a point, and as long as my uncomfortable self-awareness that I was would allow, I held seated. Rojer’s glare told me that my point was childish and helped me to my feet.  Peter extended his hand to me. “Thanks again for dinning with me.  The two of you are welcome to stay as long as you’d like. The Foundation is happy to take care of it.”  How can a foundation be happy?  Why do I have these thoughts?  I’m not happy about them. But I do seem happy with them. “Thank you again for coming Daniel. The Foundation thanks you.” There they are again.

  With his plethora of thanks Peter was working it. Chairman Mannerism.  “Not a problem Mr. Henderson. I hope you feel the same way tomorrow night.” I wish I could say that they were intentional; his brief questioning look of my words told me that I’d given him something to ponder.

  Peter closed the going-on-too-long cordials. “See you both tomorrow at Quantico.  Rojer you have your pass and the directions?”  “Yes sir I do. We will see you at 10:15.”  “Good night gentlemen.”  Convinced that he was a conquering hero, Chairman Henderson turned and departed.

  Like two teenagers, we wait for the Rents to get out of ear shot.  Rojer, hands clasped tight to his chest is sitting back aggressively in his chair.  His body language displays only bad for me. I’m not feeling the love.  Through my widened eyes, past my anticipating mind, and into my soul, Rojer sees only darkness.  “Did you have to be such an ass?”

  “What?”

  “He’s my boss!”

  “You mean because I didn’t stand up right away?”  That issue was on my mind, not his.  With squinting eyes and a nose wrinkled with disgust, he lightly shakes his head.

  With palms up and looking like a School-boy accused, I ask without a defense; “What?”  Sensing this was a direction not recommended, I change it. “Rojer tell me this… What do we know about this press conference?  If Henderson thinks I’m going to be his Dancing Bear he’s delusional.  I’m not you!” Before the exclamation mark was inferred, I knew it had been misused. But mostly I knew the words shouldn’t have been used at all.

  The School-boy was about to get the wrath of the angered Principal.  Rojer leaned in towards me and said nothing for infinity. Then, in a hushed and pissed voice, it began with wrath and ended with feeling hurt. “I can’t believe you just said that. You bastard!  Danny did you really mean that?”

  “Rojer I’m sorry. I’m an ass remember. I didn’t mean it I’m sorry.”  I hesitated with a hopeful reconciling moment.  “All I am trying to say is that my boss is in Colorado and that is where I’m heading if Mr. Bowtie doesn’t make sense of this.”  Rojer slowly relaxed back into his chair and looks with thought into nothingness.  He looks back at me and bursts into laughter. His laughter was not what I thought would be next.  ‘Mr. Bowtie’; that, he thinks is funny.

  I was glad he was laughing. Mental note to self: Mr. Bowtie is funny. Stored away for another time. But still I did not know the water’s temperature. Was I forgiven for my insensitivity? Was I forgiven for my stupidity?

  Rojer was still enjoying my humor pro-temp, but still he wanted to quiet the concerns that were still noisy within me. “Danny everything will be okay you’ll see. Tomorrow will be an interesting day and should explain everything.” As I was very much interested in everything explained, I was tempted to buy what he was selling. That passed with barely a notice.

  We both took an Alone to re-ingest our meal and digest the information that was and was not spooned to us. As if my chair was trying to jump from the floor I placed my hands on its arms with elbows high. The international symbol for let’s leave. Rojer began the close of our dining experience; “Do you want anything else?”  Even with me now aware of my awkward physical position, one that would propel me to my feet, I took one more shot at Henderson.

  “Maybe we should slap a couple of Cognacs on the tab.”  Apparently my choice of beverages had missed its intended mark.

  “Cognac?  Have you ever seen me drink Cognac?”  I’d never seen Rojer drink anything but Miller High Life.  Rojer declined; “No let’s get out of here.”

  As we walked through Tipton’s I gave Rojer some Man Love. “You’re a good man Rojer. Again I’m sorry.  I don’t know why you hang with me.”  He gave me an appreciative but here-it-comes look.

  “Yeah that’s what Pami says.”

  “Really?”  He enjoyed his jab at me and I very much enjoyed his enjoyment.

   

   

  ‘Chemistry, is fun-da-mental’ 

  Monday, February 5, 6:00 a.m. (Around)

  140 decibels of screeching devilish horror flick animal shrieks.  This is my wake-up-call at Monticello.  I jump up from my roll-away.  Entangled in blankets and sheets my balance teeters on none.  As only one can while so entwined in bed coverings I attempt a defensive posture.  “Rojer!” Assuming a bloody mauling is taking place I look to Rojer. Still in his bed Rojer is rolling with laughter. No mauling. No arterial blood spurts. No exposed intestines. Not even a Mervin-lick-attack. Tottering and then falling back into my bed I scream with wavering inflection; “You sure as hell better be bleeding and I mean a lot. What the hell! Shut that damn thing off.  What the hell is that?  What is wrong with you
Rojer?  I just had surgery you know. I think I’m having palpitations.”

  Rojer remains hysterical.  Now detangled and watching him, I start a low chuckle with what he premeditated.  He rolls towards me and sees me in my best Karate Kid stance. He rolls from me and laughs even harder.  My chuckle is now choking laughter. “What the Hell was that Rojer?”

  Through his laughing he chokes out; “Howler Monkeys. You like them?  I got them just for you. I know how you love that rooster.”

  “I hate that cock! Pami bought that thing and I swear she did just to piss me off.”

  Back on the roll-away I look to the still lightless window.  “Damn Rojer it is only four o’clock in the morning. Mountain time anyways.”

  “You’re not on mountain time.”

  “No shit! Rojer it’s still dark out.”

  “Wow you are a baby in the morning. Pami is right.”

  “There! Right there! What is that? When was the last time you spoke to my wife?”

  “Just a couple of days ago remember.” He was still lying in bed.

  “And you two talked about my morning personality?”

  “No Danny. Not that time.” He was deliberately taunting me now. “But we do speak almost every month.”

  “Since when?”

  “Oh…  We probably started speaking regularly five years or so ago. It was at least that because you were still drinking.”

  “Are you kidding me. You have been talking to my wife for five years and this never came up in our conversations.”  He paused a here-it-comes pause.

  “No… It wasn’t always talking. Sometimes we’d have cyber-sex as well.”  I looked down at the dark polished floorboards.

  “On my computer?” Rojer burst loud short laughter.

  “You’re not upset about me having internet sex with your wife but you’re pissed off because it’s on your PC.”  I gently shook my head and he laughed at himself.

  “You’re an idiot Rojer.”

  “I’m digitally dittling your wife and I’m the idiot?”  He lay back flat with self-indulged chuckling. I wasn’t sure if he wanted to, or needed to, but Rojer changed the conversation abruptly.

  “Look Danny can we please talk about my conversations with Pami another time.”  I said nothing.  He added; “Tonight. Maybe.”  Walking towards the kitchenette he said over his shoulder; “You do need coffee. Pami is right.”  I ignored him. He was trying to get another response. I didn’t feel like playing anymore.

  Ending The Howling, Rojer began anew with the still developing day and how it should unfold for us. ‘Us’ yes; but his explained agenda was more so for me. “A.I.S. at 8:00.” 

  “A.I.S.?” I questioned. He looked at me as if I had been living in the Rain Forest.

  “A… I… S?’ He stared eyes wide and asking. I shrugged, asking as well. He defined what he couldn’t believe a cool dude like me didn’t know. “Ass… In… Seat. Damn Danny, Pami is right again. You don’t live in the same world as the rest of us.”  These words I knew were not Pami’s; they may have been her thoughts. So I ignored; again.

  It had not gone unnoticed to me that Rojer woke in a playful mood. I did not know if this boded well for the day.  Verbal-ling away from the game’s play, I gave him his win. “Where do you keep the coffee mugs?”  With a proud glow from his face he handed me a mug. One from an assorted collection. Very single male. The cup in my hand had Oscar the Grouch from Sesame Street fame on it.  (Please don’t ask me.  I don’t know and I didn’t ask.)  He was very pleased with himself.  Touché.

  At 7:58 I was A.I.S. That seat belonged to a Midnight Blue 1970 Ford Falcon. It was Rojer’s Baby.  Mint condition and purred like a Mountain Lion.  The engine was beyond clean and mirrored chrome. An engineered sculpture.  He’s owned it for at least thirty years.  The upholstery was perfect. The paint job was cherry. Imbedded in a 21st century sound system was an 8-Track player. Retro cool and awesome sounding.  (Google 8 track youngsters).  So with a dozen 8-Tracks cased and ready for play, we headed out.  ‘Rock n Roll.

  Our drive afforded us an hour and a half to re-live High-school.  We exaggerated about the girls we knew. We reminisced of The Farm. We laughed about all kinds of stupid shit. And we sang; vigorously, emotionally, and horribly.  We surely were a sight cruising. We jammed to: Jethro Tull, Aqualung’ Bruce Springsteen, Born to Run; The Who, Who’s Next; and Janis Joplin, I got dem ol Kozmic blues again…  It was great!  We felt that free-from-all young again; if only for brief minutes.  Brief minutes that gave us cause to pause.

  Approaching the East Gate at Quantico I suddenly felt paranoid; sure we were going to get busted. Having left the 70’s just seconds ago.  Peace Dude!

  Traversing through the labyrinth of Quantico we arrive at building ‘E’ and ease the Falcon into a parking spot.  “10:09! Perfect timing.”  Rojer was man-proud of himself.

  We walked towards building E.  In the errant way that it tends to, my mind filtered through my happening. I was on Quantico; the headquarters of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.  My situation sent me in only one direction: profiling.  I was not sure what I was expecting of Quantico, but my cortex was not being surged with adrenaline.  Without the expected super-hero feeling, I was surrounded by… well, normalcy.  I felt let down. No G-Men wearing perfectly tilted Fedoras. There were no young female CSI agents with picturesque faces and Playmate bodies. Not a single black helicopters chasing a suspect armed with more weapons than the Taliban.  “What do you think Rojer? We are walking on one of the most famous law enforcement facilities in the world. Do you feel anything?”

  He shrugged his shoulders and said; “Looks like a medical campus.” I knew that Rojer was not in the same spiritual nostalgic place as I was, but his reply did disappoint me. Disappoint, because he was right.

  “You need to calm down Rojer. There is no way that you can keep this pace up.”

  “Where are the people Danny?  Why are there no people?”  This had not escaped me either. It all seemed kind of sterile eerie.

  Approaching the entrance I mumbled; “I wonder if Marge is here?”  He looked at me.

  “What was that?”  I shook my head and pulled one of four doors open. We entered building E.  Two rather large men greeted us.  When I say rather, I’d rather they didn’t hurt us.   My acute profiling skills told me: Agents.  Agents I supposed, but now barriers. They could have been part of the Chicago Bears defensive line.  I could tell by the outline of their jackets that they were packing Heat. Gats, Rods, Metal Muscle.

  One behemoth spoke and his oration was not what I knew I would hear. It was not the deep booming sound-wave I expected.  He was rather tenor and spoke succinctly. He was educated.  My thought: No doubt a graduate of FBIU.  This entertained me and I chuckled.  Rojer glanced at me. No… sorry it was more of a what-the-hell glare.

  We turned over our ID’s as requested.  Rojer wanted to speak for us and I had not a problem with that. Perhaps it would keep me out of trouble; as it did not feel to me that the Twin Towers were in a playful mood.

  Rojer addressed the graduate; “We have an appointment with Assistant Director David Conner.   Mr. Conner is in charge of the Forensic Analysis Division.”  Rojer hands the other Neanderthal our Pass. The Pass that said we were not here to free Dillinger. 

  He pulls the pass from Rojer and says; “I know who he is.”  Those words, that short boom, that’s what I’m talking about.  This agent had a una-brow the size of a baby’s arm.  He looks at the pass. “MMMMM… This way please,” he grumbles.

  “Lurch! Lurch Right. You’re doing Lurch from The Adams Family.” That is what I would have said if I was playing; if I wasn’t afraid of being trash compacted.

  Security protocol dictated that we be poked and patted, scanned with a wand, and personal items through the machine. I kept quiet and all went without incident.  Given visitor’s passes we were directed
to the 3rd floor. We were in. Curiously, without an escort.

  Rojer was in charge of getting us to our final destination. Rojer was always in charge of such things.  Perhaps we have stayed friends for so long because his strengths are my weaknesses. We were versed with vices.

  We entered the elevator alone and the door closed. Alone surely meant one thing. Rojer softly said; “Did you see the size of those two?”  No anticipated Rojer lecture. So… of course I felt free to be an ass. I jerked in all directions looking for hidden microphones. I covered Rojer’s mouth.

  “Shhh!  They’re listening!”  His relaxed face stiffened as he frantically searched.

  “Danny you don’t think they are-” My devious smile caught himself. “Just once. Please just one time Danny.” I enjoyed a snicker but knew I needed to keep it brief.

  “I’m sorry Rojer but this whole thing seems a bit ludicrous to me.”  Rojer made an offer.

  “Okay I’ll make a deal with you. If you don’t make a single joke while we’re here I’ll buy dinner.”  My ears perked up like Bubba’s hearing food going into his dish.

  “Okay but not Mickey D’s.”  Expectedly I got a look of disgust.  Knowing my jest had just broken our deal I was quick with; “That doesn’t count. Starting… now!” He shook his head indignantly.

  “Why did I want you here?”  I turned my face away from him and towards the doors.

  “Dumb-ass!” is how I left this infantile banter.

  Rojer led us towards our destination. Following him I noticed that there were no templates on the doors; only numbers.  Stopping at room 326, Rojer grabbed the door knob and pulled the door open.  Holding the door open Rojer wanted me to enter first.  I walked passed him; ignoring a stare that had intent to warn.

  Entering the room I could not help but to notice the similarity between this room and the one I had been in at the CBI.  This room was larger and the furniture was a different make. However, the lay-out seemed bureaucratically similar.  Cubicles, tables, book shelves, they were in the exact same places geometrically.  I assumed the CBI stole the lay-out from the FBI.  How anal is that. My son would be proud.

  Peter’s voice appeared before he did. “Rojer, Daniel, glad you made it. Right on time.  Gentlemen this is Director Conner.  David this is Rojer Ousten and Daniel Rengaw.”

  The Director sticks out his hand to Rojer.  “Mr. Ousten, Peter tells me you are the one that keeps Monticello going.  He speaks highly of you.”  He then offers and I accept; “Mr. Rengaw I have heard good reviews of your work.  I however have not read any of your work.  Not much of a personal reader I’m afraid.  The paperwork here seems to keep me busy. Government after all.”  Henderson gives his best Ed McMahon chortle.

  Rojer curiously fakes his own and then adds; “Thank you for taking your time to meet with us.”

  “No problem. Anything I can do for Peter and the Foundation.”  The Assistant Director’s hand directs us towards a door.  “Peter, gentlemen, this way please.”  Peter leads the way, followed by Rojer.  My eyes swing through the room one more time before leaving. Still profiling. Still playing.

  We enter the briefing room. I know this because a bronze placard says so. There is a large oval table; wooden and shined like a glass mirror.  At both ends of the room are large White Boards; writing-less and smudge-less clean.  Directly behind and over a podium is a 43 inch Sony flat screen with accompanying sound system.  (A Japanese television in a government building?  I guess they all are now days.)

  In one corner there is a small computer workstation. A multi-line- phone is centered on one end of the briefing table.  Everything is in excellent condition except the phone; it seems to have had a tough life. And of course everything is immaculate. Twenty or so standard office chairs surround the table and line the wall.  Three unfamiliar individuals are already seated. Two females and an older gentlemen.

  One of the women, a tall woman in her mid-forties, gets up and closes the door; locking it as she does.  This seems a little over top-secret spy stuff to me.  I look to Rojer. His blank face tells me he has no idea why.

  The woman who locked the door guides us to our seats.  She is wearing a purple business suit. It is well made and a bit snug. On her it is not a good snug.  It appears she has not been in the field recently.  She presents the controlling mannerisms of a supervisor.

  Stepping to the podium and grasping its top she opens. “Gentlemen if you would like to take a seat on the far side of the table we can get started.”  Rojer Peter and I proceed to the other side of the table. We make our way to our assigned seats. More correct; they were social protocol assigned.  As we settled she continued her narration. Rojer sat right of Peter and I right of Rojer.  Although I felt we chose seats that were properly called for, seating protocol must have been violated.  Peter looked right. First at Rojer, then to me.  Rojer gave Peter a look I imagined to be apologetic.  I was fine with being Third Chair. Peter’s left flank being exposed must have been the protocol broken. Whatever it was, a certain piece of Peter’s undergarments were bunching.

  The agent, standing at the podium across the table from us continued; “My name is Special Agent Whiten.  Director Conner assigned the responsibility of coordinating the analysis of: ‘Jef.Doc. 1’, and ‘Jef. Digital Recording 1’.”

  It was not her fault. She did not know better. I corrected her; “The digording!”  I was disappointed that I said it with weak conviction. I did not see, but I assumed a look from Rojer.  She looked at me with questioning. “Excuse me. I’m sorry what was that?”  I sensed just an FBI touch of rudeness.

  “The digording,” I repeated with more confidence. I paused. It was definitely for affect. I followed with; “A digital recording.”  The door was ajar. If FBI Geeks adopted the term, it would surely become a staple of techno-language nationwide. Maybe… maybe even globally.  I could tell she was mentally flipping through her neurological Thesaurus; wondering if it was a term that she should be familiar with.

  Disoriented and looking for a dignified clear of my correction, all she had was; “Yes thank you I will at this time turn the briefing over to Special Agent Lewis,” she said this pushing aside punctuation.

  The doubt I had unintentionally placed into her mind caused her to logarithm a flow of 1s and 0s. She stepped away still searching her RAM for verification.  As she took a seat next to the Director I felt she was the only one still considering my word. Even Rojer had tossed my Scrabble reject.  I did feel bad for any professional embarrassment inflicted. But it wasn’t a choice; I had to.

  Agent Lewis was a young woman in her early thirties.  She was very attractive with light brown hair. She was well tanned and appeared to have an athletic physique. Although her white lab-coat left interpretation available.  She was the CSI agent that my misguided imagination had expected. My misguided sense now caused me to ask if she was the exception. Not the Network CBS rule.

  Agent Lewis reaches across the table and hands a group of papers to Peter. Three sheets.  The special agent then changes to her preferred deliverance space. Almost without us knowing that she was doing it, she glides to the long end of the table to Peter’s left.  I surmised she felt more confident with a larger personal space. Maybe she wanted to better view all present; including the Director.  In just seconds it would be noticeable that she was confident with her FBI prescribed Toastmaster training.

  “Thanks Agent Whiten and good morning all.  My name is Kaitlin Lewis. I am an Organic Chemist here at Quantico.”  She’s a chemist! Not a Field Agent. This may explain the previous rule questioned.  After my Prozac-less mind interrupted reception of her words, she continued; “My team and I analyzed ‘Jef.Doc. 1’. The Analysis Report on that document was just handed to Mr. Henderson.  Mr. Henderson can share that report with you if he so pleases.”  She smiles at Peter. It’s polite but without any sincere feeling.  Agent Lewis’ presentation was being delivered w
ith more softness; less government mechanically.

  Kaitlin’s point of interest clearly laser’d in on Rojer.  “I would like to give you a summary of that report at this time.  Our analysis was divided into three distinct partitioned areas. Which are: the age of the paper; chemical composition of the paper; the chemical composition of the writing ink.”

  “The report Mr. Henderson was given contains a complete list of all elements.”

  Rojer inquires; “Are they listed by atomic number or atomic weight?”

  Without hesitation, as if she was answering what her name is, cute Kaitlin the Chemist snaps a reply; “Atomic number.”  She briefly looks at Rojer; a mental analysis by an analysis.  That’s my boy!  After processing she continues; “I will not go into specifics of this list.”  Again looking at Rojer; “If anyone is interested, the organic composition of the paper is listed by atomic number. I am sure Mr. Henderson will be happy to share that with you.”  Rojer smiled, nodded, and thanked her.  His smile was returned with one less polite, and one more genuine.  The yet to be named elderly gentleman, softly leaked an amused giggle.

  With what I believed as intellectual titillation, put aside, she moved on. “The document to be analyzed will be called: ‘the document of inquiry’.  The paper to be compared will be called: ‘the paper of comparison’.”  Where have I heard that before?  “Both the document of inquiry and the paper of comparison were furnished by the Curator of Monticello.”  Her hazel eyes flashed at Rojer.  “The chemical composition of the two papers is identical.  Identical in elements, compound structure, and manufacturing process; both organic and synthetic. In other words they are exactly the same.”  She said this looking directly at me.  I guess she figured me to be the stupid one.

  Rojer; “That is not surprising.”  My ears grabbed his supporting; for later. She picks up again; “The only variance between the two papers is Degradation.”

  “Excuse me Agent.”

  “Yes Mr. Henderson.”

  “Can you please explain to us what degradation means as used?”  Peter asked this as if he already knew the answer.  Like any good Trial Lawyer; don’t ask a question unless you already know the answer.

  “Yes sir I will. In just one moment.”

  “Oh I’m sorry. Please please continue.” Pathetic.

  “Are there any other good questions?”  Was she asking; are there any other good questions? Or was Kaitlin asking; are there any other, good questions?  She inquired a look. There were no questions. Either type.  “Okay then… moving on.” For the first time she flashed a little nervousness as she rustled her papers as if she was reading them. Kaitlin continued; “The ink on the document of inquiry was chemically analyzed for composition.  Again, the report has a list of elements and compounds.”

  “Upon initial analysis, the ink seemed to be made of fairly common compounds found in ink.  But further analysis showed several deviations from ink common today. First, the die in the ink, the compound used to give it color, consisted of Boysenberry and Blackberry.  Secondly, many of today’s inks contain alcohol. Alcohol is used to prevent congealing.  The deviation comes forth in the fact that the type of alcohol used in this ink is Grain alcohol.  Grain alcohol is not used in inks made today.  Also, Boysenberry and Blackberry are not used as dye in inks that are made today. I supplied our research department with the chemical composition and asked them for details on its possible origin.  Let me read you the summary of their findings.”

  It appeared as if she was becoming acquainted with the words; as if she had not read them before.  “Research on the chemical properties of the ink designated Jef.Doc. 1, yield the following findings:

  1. The ink was a rather expensive but widely used. Commonly used in the early 18th century and through the mid-19th century.  It was most common in South Carolina, North Carolina, Georgia, and Virginia.

  2. This composition of ink, was last produced no later than 1833.”

  My brain was actively pinging for a target. None found, no tactical words were launched.  However, I was intrigued and the Chemist had my undivided.

  She started to continue, but Rojer wanted to play Devil’s advocate. “Excuse me-”

  Peter slashed in on Rojer; “Are you saying that no one has used this kind of ink since 1833?”

  “No that is not what I am saying.” Her rebuff brought a chuckle from the old man. Both brought me a wry smile.  (Did you doubt it would?)  Still searching for that elusive ‘good question’, she clarified; “This ink was last produced in 1833.”  It clicked in me; Peter had an agenda. He knew his questions were obvious. Peter, in a behind the clouds way, was trying have Kaitlin make a specific point. He wanted her, as the expert, make the point. I knew the point, and I tried to dull it. (Did you have any doubt that I would?)

  I asked; “Agent Lewis is there a possibility that this chemical composition, if properly sealed, and stored under the right conditions, could be useable today?”

  Maybe with intended snotty-ness towards another, she replied; “A good question.  This chemical composition, stored in an air tight container, kept in a cool environment, could easily still be useable.”

  “Thank you Agent,” I snapped quick.

  Peter, rebuttal; “But these conditions would have to be perfect; is that not correct?”

  “Yes but duplicating-”

  “Thank you Specialist.” Director Conner cuts her short.  She looked at the Director with questioning in her Hazel-ness.  The Director prodded; “Please continue the briefing Agent Lewis.”  This unanswered dismissal did not go unnoticed by Rojer. And the now chivalrous Rojer wanted it answered.  He threw down the gauntlet.

  “So it could be done right?”  Peter wanted this topic tabled. No, more he wanted it removed from the table and thrown into the In-Sink-Erator.

  “I think we have spent enough time on this.”  With Peter’s words the Director continued his prod with a nodding to Kaitlin.

  Rojer retrieved it from the trash.  Sitting forward and noticeably slapping the table with his left hand, he tried to bring the proceedings to order. “Wait a minute! We are missing a valuable solution here.”  The Director seemed taken aback that he had lost control of the briefing.  Rojer went on; “Agent Lewis, if the chemists of the 18th century could make this ink, certainly someone with the chemical make-up, the recipe, could make it today. Is that not correct?  Am I missing something?”  He looked at her. I looked at her. Everyone was looking at her. A perfect Perry Mason moment.

  Rojer didn’t mean to, but he’d put her in that moment. She looked to the Director. He only stared; motionless.  “Well yes. A chemist could easily make it. Almost anyone with a little chemistry knowledge. Someone with the recipe as you put it. Yes. They could duplicate it.”

  Kaitlin was twisted along with the moment. She took a cleansing breath, straightened herself, and began again. “Mr. Henderson, let me now address your earlier inquiry on the meaning of Degradation.  Through Degradation Analysis of the document of inquiry, it was determined that this document is approximately 185 years old. With a variance of 1.6 years.”  I sat forward. Listening with a new intent I was forced to consider the possibility.  Without choosing words brought from thought I asked my question. I was pretty sure it was not a ‘good’ one. “Agent are you-”

  “So you are saying this document is 185 years old.” Rojer stomped all over my stupid with his own.

  “Yes! Plus or minus 1.6 years. That is what I am saying. Yes.”  Her eyes were on me taking in my temperament. I could feel it. A subtle push of eyes. I turned to Peter. I told you so! It was all over his face. And his face, that snide face, it was all over me.

  With reality in question my chest was choking my mind. I needed a thought Heimlich from Agent Lewis.

  “So how was this determination made? Carbon Dating?”  I was barely able to get it our as my saliva had left without saying goodbye. My stomach was slow roll
ing as my forehead glossed.

  Kaitlin; “No. CD is no longer the preferred method for anything less than a thousand years old.  The preferred technique is Degradation Analysis.”

  The Director leads the specialist; “Please explain what Degradation Analysis is.”

  Rojer not knowing why he was, quickly interjects; “Degradation Analysis is a scientific way to measure how much radiation has depreciated from a known element. Thus being able to determine the age of that element.  Is that right Kaitlin?”  I know why he interjected. She smiles at Rojer.  I was sure her Chemist’s women-parts were all a tingle.

  Still smiling, Kaitlin: “Very good sir. A perfect explanation.”

  “Please call me Rojer.”  Uh oh! We might have something here.  Rojer returned the smile.

  Let me slow this Match Maker session down. “Radiation. You test the radiation?”  Still enamored, my question forced her to break visual idolization of Rojer.  With a dissolving smile she looked back to me.

  “You see, all organic elements known to man contain a specific amount of radioactive iodine.  So when the paper was produced, when the compounds were formed, the paper had a defined amount of radiation. Degradation Analysis tests how much radioactive iodine has degraded. This allows us to determine its age.  It is very complicated, but very accurate.”  I think she is talking down to me again. I guess I’m not as smart as her new boyfriend.  This Chemist is insightful.

  The room settled into a calm quietness. Our thoughts had each of us into something different.  Agent Lewis’ pheromones were in full emanation. Rojer… I didn’t want to see where Rojer had gone. Me, I was thirsty.  Asking no one in particular; “Could I please have a glass of water?”

  A condensating glass pitcher and eight small gold embossed FBI water glasses are geometrically set in the center of the table.  Rojer pours me a glass and hands it to me.  My brain channels the realization that the pitcher and glassware were not there when we sat down.  When, and who put it there, is not channeled.

  Agent Lewis thoughtfully allows me time to refresh.  I raise logo to my eyes, tip and swallow. She continues; “Are there any other questions?”  Refilling, I say nothing. I had a dozen questions but couldn’t seem to separate one from the many.  “Okay then… since there are none for me I will pass the briefing back to Special Agent Whiten.”  My dealings with the CBI and now the FBI have made me evident of the emphasis on titles.  Director, Special Agent, Department Head. 5 Kings flashed my thoughts.

  Had I a Manicurist, she would be appalled at the destruction fingering her craft.  Tooth on nail, I was staring into the glass-like table as if it was a crystal ball. Searching and not finding.  Looking left to Rojer, he must have glimpsed my motion and his shoulders shrugged movement of unknowing.  I couldn’t tell what was winning his battle for cranial space; emotion, or science.  Was he in chemical lust, or processing the facts presented?  I needed him to be here. He needed to be thinking with the head on his shrugging shoulders.

  Agent Whiten gathered her feet.  Remaining behind her chair she pushed the deluge of perceived facts towards us.  “Thank you specialist Lewis.  At this time I will begin the briefing on the analysis of the digording.”  The older Agent gave a brief snicker followed by a mischievous smile. As I didn’t know why he did, it caused me to again consider who he was. In an inner way; a personality way.

  The word she used, my word, passed through my ears unnoticed. Had digording become so common in my vocabulary that her use of it went without notice?  Or was my mind so overwhelmed that I missed something I’d been waiting to hear. It wasn’t until several weeks later that Rojer told me of her vocabulary choice.  I felt that I had missed a defining event in my life.  An event without true life define-meant. But it was defined to me.

  She began in earnest. “The video that was supplied to us was of a 24 hour period. November 21, from 0600 hours, to 0600 hours on November 22.  This was the time period that was in question. The only period that the document of inquiry could have been placed on the writing desk, in the Study, at Monticello.  This according to Curator Ousten. The surveillance video was supplied by Mr. Peter Henderson.”

  Peter mumbled under his breath; “Chairman.”

  “Our scope of inquiry was focused on human behavioral abnormalities.” Not being the smarter of the two, I didn’t know what was meant by ‘human behavioral abnormalities’. I knew I was a human behavioral abnormality, but…  She didn’t care what I was as she continued. “Our investigating agent on site determined that the area where the document was found is off limit to visitors.  Agent Manning found the writing desk and surrounding area cordoned off by velvet ropes.  Thus making direct contact with the writing desk unavailable.  However, the desk was easily accessible to anyone so inclined. Therefore our task was to determine if the document was placed on the writing desk during this 24 hour period. And who placed it there.”

  “Our analysis of the video used two perspectives.  There was a perspective from a digital camera within the study.” Rojer gently and quickly slapped my thigh. “This camera was aimed at the writing desk and the surrounding area.  Secondly, there was video acquired from outside the building. All four profiles of the building.”

  “Both perspectives were analyzed using the following techniques: real-time viewing performed by three different specialists; digital zoom enhancement of the desk top, with digital motion sensing; a real time viewing of the building from the outside perspective.”

  “We felt that implementing these three techniques would yield the information sought.  Again, this information was when and who placed the document of inquiry on the writing desk.  This is the information requested by Mr. Henderson and Mr. Ousten.”

  I mumbled under my breath; “Chairman.”

  “Our objective was to detect human interaction of abnormality in the study and immediate area of the writing desk.  The findings of our analysis are as follows:”

  “The real-time viewing yielded no abnormal behavior by any person on the day of November 21.  Real-time viewing did not detect a specific time period that warranted additional detailed viewing. Therefore, none was performed.”

  “However, a single anomaly did present itself during this viewing.  At 1:20 a.m., on November 22, there was a technical malfunction within the recording equipment. This glitch lasted approximately two seconds.” ‘Glitch’, ‘Malfunction’, ‘Anomaly’, I didn’t think them synonymous.

  “Secondly, the digital zoom enhancement, with digital motion sensing analysis, determined no motion detected. And no human interaction.  The only anomaly was the technical glitch at 1:20 a.m. on November 22.  Because this analysis was performed using the same perspective, the glitch was expected and confirmed.”

  “Lastly, the result of the real-time viewing of the outside perspective determined that there was no detected human abnormality, and no human interaction out of the normal parameters.”

  I was feeling more real and more normal about the video analysis and I shared that feeling. “So the video seems quite normal. No sign of any Black Ops.”  I thought this would be a cool government thing to say.  I was wrong.

  “Please let me continue Mr. Rengaw.” I’d like to say that I mumbled under my breath; “Doctor.” But no.

  “There was one abnormality that needed further analysis.  At 1:20 a.m. on November 22, the video showed a two second period when the study, and only the study, was filled with a consuming white light.” She toned the word white as if it was a significant adjective; more descript than simply a color. “More specifically…”  She pauses and files through her paperwork. Finding her read she did. “At exactly 1:20 and .177666 seconds, there was a white light filling the study, and only the study.  This perceived light had a time period of exactly 1.77666 seconds.” ‘Perceived’; the word didn’t settle easy.

  These facts presented she went back to the summary.  “Since this was a second independent, verifiable a
nomaly at 1:20 a.m., on November 22, further analysis of this anomaly was required.  The results of that analysis are as follows.”

  “Reexamining the perspective from the inside of the study, using video zoom and enhancement, it was visually evident that the top of the desk had been changed.  Further study revealed to us that the papers now on the desk were that of the document of inquiry.  This detection was impossible with real-time viewing.”

  Rojer, apparently still with me; “Let me see if I have this straight.  What you are saying, is that the document just appeared after this… this glitch, or light, or whatever. Is that right?”

  “Yes that is correct.”  “Wouldn’t your motion sensing thing catch that?” I asked.

  “The motion sensing equipment did not detect any motion.”

  “No motion. It was just somehow mystically conjured? I asked. She paused slightly with a noticeable head tilt.

  “It was not there before the light, and then it was after the light,” she answered.

  I denied; “Einstein says that is impossible.” The Chemist looks at me. I know I’m the stupid one.

  Again with a tone indicating he knew the answer, Peter asks; “Agent could someone have entered the study and placed it there during the two second glitch?”

  “No sir.” She was emphatic as she strengthened her short answer. “We have determined it would have been impossible for someone to enter the study, place the documents on the desk, and exit the study in two seconds.”

  Rojer defines time; “1.77666 seconds.”

  She accepts clarification; “1.7766 seconds.” Rojer gets a stare.

  “Was anyone detected entering or leaving the house at this time?” I ask.

  “No one.  We used every perspective and every technique available to us to determine this.”

  My chair called me, asking me to place myself back into its grasp.  I eased back contemplating. I let loose a breath I didn’t know I was holding. Rojer wasn’t with me. He wasn’t seeking calmness. He was firmly dug in with forearms heavily entrenched on the table’s top.  After an unabridged pause the Director interjected; “Please continue Agent Whiten.”

  Whether she was pleased to or not, she did continue. “The source of the light is unknown. By our analysis there is not one.  The light, as we are currently calling it, has no heat, no Absolute Zero; none. Yet it has both density and mass.  The light is not light. At least not as we know it.”

  Rojer responds to a physical impossibility; “Einstein says that is impossible.” Why did it sound so much better coming from him?

  Looking directly at Peter she stops speaking.  The pause was unnatural and her awkwardness reflected such.  I didn’t know if she was finished so I asked if she was. She was frozen in time; fumbling in thought.

  Rojer; “That’s it? There is no more?”  My glaring asked the same. Help; she was fixated on the Director looking for some.   Unnaturalness had turned to something far worse within Agent Whitten.  Her professional flag seemed to be stressed in a typhoon and attempting to separate from its mast.  Finally, sensing her painfulness, the Director sprang to his feet.

  “Thank you Specialist Whiten.”

  Rojer muffled; “What?” The Director kind of wiggled back into his chair. He wanted to defend their cause but did not have a tactical plan to do so.  He looked into an open binder. He did not seem to be reading and did not turn a page.  With at least four eyes upon him, waiting, anticipating, he smoothly and abruptly sat back in his seat.  With quickened movement he placed his hands flat on the table-top as if gravity had just switched off and the table no longer had to obey Newton.

  With the required time for thought spent, the Director began; “After several days of analytical study, using all tools and minds available to us, our best scientists and technicians have developed a hypothesis.”

  Rojer’s adrenaline was still contained within his neurological system. But it wouldn’t be long and all that adrenaline would dump into his muscular system.  His chest first leaned toward the table and then he straightened back his frame parallel to the seat’s back.  It would only be seconds. Nope. It was now. “A hypothesis?” He shouted. Rojer was once again entrenched.

  The Director condescended to Rojer. He shouldn’t have, but here it was. “Yes a hypothesis. A hypothesis is an educated guess.”

  “Mr. Director I know what a hypothesis is!”  I had seen Rojer erupt before and this is what it looked like. Gather the children and take cover.  Rojer briefly looked at Peter and then back at the Director.  “But you are going to do further testing right!”  This was a side of Rojer that his new girlfriend had not seen before.

  Peter spoke; “Rojer it would take months to do further analysis and the cost to the Foundation would be prohibitive.”  Peter’s reprimand was nearly that. Rojer aimlessly searched the table top.  After finding something, he squared his ever tightening face on the Director’s.

  “So what is that hypothesis?”

  “Our best guess-”

  “Best guess? I thought you had an educated guess?”

  Peter snapped at Rojer; “Rojer!”

  The Director; “It’s alright Peter.” He went from Peter to Rojer. “I’m sorry Rojer, I meant hypothesis.”  The Director remembered that this was his ball-field. He was now playing the confident and calm Super-Star.

  The Director chose words carefully. “Our scientific hypothesis, is that this was a plasmic event.”

  Rojer; “A plasmic event. Some sort of physical element or compound of substance? Something like that?”

  Rojer’s mind was calculating even faster than he could keep up with. The palms of his hands were working hard on his eyes. His hands dropped to his lap, he sighed, he asked with trying accepted-ness. “Let me ask you a question.  Your best scientists, and your best technicians, can they explain how the Study, the only room in the building, was enveloped in some kind of plasma?”

  Peter’s face was beginning to angry flush. His tolerance with Rojer was slipping.  The Director was having his composure tested as well but was holding scientifically stoic. The male agent’s eyes were darting from person to person with all new words. Except for he, I may have been the calmest person in the room.  I knew only one thing for sure at this moment; I needed to help Rojer.

  Attempting to divert wrath that was building against Rojer I jumped in all stupid like. “Director I am not even sure what a plasmic event is. Does your team have any idea how this phenomenon may have occurred?”  I threw this at him quick in a more than miffed tone. His pause told me he was measuring an answer.

  “No we don’t. Not at this time.”

  Did I mention that I was the stupid one? I wasn’t sure what it was that made me so, but it was working for me. Agent Whiten rose and stepped in like a referee separating two fighters.

  “Why don’t we take a five minute break. Reassemble in… five minutes.” She was asking the Director with a look. He sat silent staring at nothing.

  As if electrically shocked he jumped to his feet and said; “Good idea. Let’s take five everyone.”  He said this trying to hide the frustration.

  Like the Christians not wanting to flee from the lions, or with the lions, or something, Rojer and I remained in our chairs.  The mostly silent elderly gentleman joined our sit-in.  Peter departed; but not without mumbled grumbles.  The Director, Lewis, and Whiten all followed order as it must be. The only difference was no noticeable grumbles.

  My comfort level with the elderly man had become that of a harmless uncle.  Without any good reason to, I placed cautious trust in his being. Slapping Rojer enthusiastically on the back I tried to clear some space in him. “Way to go stud! You got a new girlfriend and you pissed off your boss at the same time.”  Tilting his head back, the graying agent let out a perfect Santa chuckle.

  As you expect Rojer was not amused. Rojer with a troubled voice; “I think I’m in trouble here Danny.”

&
nbsp; “Ahhh!  It’s all good. It’ll be alright Rojer. Let me carry the rest of the conversation.  You be calm. It’ll all work out.”  Rojer had doubts as to my anticipated behavior. I know this because it was a worried questioning look that he gave me. “It’ll be good. You just sit there and make Goo Goo Eyes at the cute chemist lady.  I’ll change the direction of Peter’s wrath.” He smiled a bit.

  “She does like me huh?” The agent laughed again. It really was a great laugh; full, totally enjoying.

  “My name is Raymond Tiltwell.”  He spoke his first words. He did not stand or extend a hand.  “I am a mathematician. My title is Special Agent, but I’m not very well versed at being an FBI agent.”

  Mr. Tiltwell was a man in his early sixties. His full and kind of out of control hair had at one time been light brown. The dusting of gray made it… well gray. A one square inch patch of milk-white hair was outstanding over his right ear.  I appeared to be self-groomed. He did not spend his money on salons. He was age appropriate soft lumpy. He wasn’t obese but he didn’t spend his money at a gym either. His outfit, not really an outfit, began with a white short-sleeve button down shirt. It was decorated with a loosely hung Hunter Green tie. A barely visible black belt, overly visible black nylon pants, and red Chuck Taylor’s, finished the Ensemble. Oh… and you know it… there was of course a calculator ready for use in his right shirt pocket. I profiled: Right pocket; he was left handed. Mostly his attire could be described as comfortable. Profiled: The Mathematician didn’t care what anyone thought of his attire. I addressed him; “Well Agent-”

  “I just told you I am a numerologist. And please call me Raymond.” He said this with a tone that was not upset. But he did want it to have meaning.

  “Raymond it is.” He lifted his chin slightly. “Well Raymond, since you are still here and you haven’t spoken yet, can I assume you are soon going to?”

  “I am.”  Raymond’s perspective went from my words to Rojer’s ears. “Look fella, take your friends advice.”  Rojer’s aimless contemplating eyes found Raymond’s. “You just need to sit there and let your friend take over. The numbers will all add up for you.” His words tickled me but they also told me that Raymond had been doing a little profiling of his own. Seemingly eased by the fatherly advice, Rojer’s face softened noticeably.  He nodded a thanks to Raymond.

  I wondered why a mathematician, or was it numerologist… why here? Why now? Questions aside, math was more of Rojer’s thing than mine. My brain cramped my throat as I considered my promise to carry the conversation. Rationalizing that I could bullshit with the best of them, confidence eased my gullet.

  Raymond still looking at Rojer wanted to share more. “And your friend is right you know. The Chemist, Agent Lewis, she seems quite smitten with you.”  Oh it’s over! That should do it. Rojer was gone. Analytical was replaced by… well I’ll let you decide.

  It seemed before five minutes that the door swung open. Wanting to know what I was up against I study the faces of those entering. Being careful to strain emotions that were hiding from the emotions that were present. “You must first know your enemy, if you are to defeat him.” General Dwight D Eisenhower.

  The Director enters first. He really wasn’t mad when he left. He won’t be a problem. Peter is next. He is a tougher read. He left embarrassed and pissed. Peter’s redness had drained from his face, but he wasn’t smiling. I had hoped for more. He would be both my problem and my quarry. Agent Whiten showed no emotion, and that hadn’t changed.  She wasn’t significant to me at this time.  Four had left and only three had returned. Agent Lewis was missing.  I was convinced that her absence was not her choice.  And I wore convinced that her absence was noticed by Rojer.

  All actors on their marks, the curtain was raised. The Director introduces the mathematician; formally. With the vigor of an 18 year old, Raymond found his legs and accelerated to the white board on my left.  He picks up a black marker and with School Teacher skills, he simultaneously starts talking and writing on the board. His back is front to us.  Raymond’s apparent unprofessionalism was noticed by all. But it only mattered to the Director.  The Director leaked air.   But no doubt this was just Raymond being Raymond. And no doubt it was an aneurism in waiting for the Director.

  “I’ve been introduced so no need for that formality.”  Raymond spoke these words still writing on the board.  I already liked him. The Director’s annoyance with Raymond was amusement displayed for me. Rojer’s demeanor seemed steady so far.

  I could only partially see what Raymond was writing.  He was working furiously.  Squeaks, dotting, and other marker sounds were filling the otherwise quiet room.  His words continued; “I was given the report that you just received verbally.  It seemed fairly homogenous until I read the signature on the document. I’m a fan of our second Vice President.  With my intrigued scope of thought, and studying the report with a new perspective, certain numbers caught my attention. As they do.”  A Historical Numerologist; what’s not to love. Maybe he is a long lost uncle.

  He turned to face us, stepped aside the white-board and presented the fruits of his labor.  Numbers, written with a slashing penmanship that was hard on the black marker.  Numbers that in his hold of reality were living breathing creatures. His friends.

  I instantly took to deciphering.

  ………

  1.77666

  1:20 .177666

  (9 8 3) (9 7 4) (9 6 5) (8 8 4) (8 7 5) (8 6 6) (7 7 6)

  ………

  Again teacher like, he give us a few seconds with his playmates. A game of Visualization. He began to introduce them; “At 1:20 a.m., there was a…” He paused in thought. “Oh yes; a Plasmic Event.  This event lasted exactly 1.77666 seconds.”  He paused hard. Looking first to Rojer and then to me. Thinking he had enlightened us to all the truths of the universe, he was looking for that enlightenment on our faces. Since I was holding nothing, my poker-face showed it. However, I wasn’t bluffing; he had my attention.  His friends’ significance was not completely lost on me. But I wasn’t yet buying what he was trying to sell.  He needed to close; ‘ABC’.

  Not getting any kind of reaction that he was looking for, he got more mystical. “We have here a document with Thomas Jefferson’s signature on it. This very document was found on his writing desk at Monticello. And a plasmic event that lasted exactly 1.77666 seconds.” He was quick to see that he still had not rung the bell and only stopped briefly. “Okay… if I delete the last two infinity 6’s…”  He turns to the board and crosses out the last two 6’s.  Still talking with his back to us; “If you also delete the decimal point.”  Which he does.  “You have 1776.”   Like an Orchestra Conductor, his arm exaggerates and circles the edited number.  Turning and facing us he repeatedly taps the marker to his bulbous nose. His thespian play on thinking leaves black marks. He doesn’t notice, or doesn’t care. Or more likely does care for its visual oration affect. It wouldn’t work for me. But for Raymond it somehow did. I’m humored. The Director fidgets in his chair. Rojer is locked on.

  He continues; “1776, Monticello, Thomas Jefferson.” He nods suggesting that we must by now be with him. “Okay. Now let’s look at this.”  He turns again and circles 1:20 .177666.  With this my mind grabs the .177666. Until now it had not. I inwardly chuckled at the numerical cliff he was skirting.  His thumb smudges the last two 6’s; leaving only .1776.  The decimal point then suffers the same deleted fate.  1776; he’s starting to close.  He has my attention.  Rojer is sitting back in his chair; finger-tips rapidly tapping his lips.

  Holding up two fingers he briefly turns to us.  “Two coincidences. Two big coincidences. But are there big coincidences and little coincidences? Or are there only coincidences. “Hmm?”

  Raymond again addresses the board.  Attentiveness describes the atmosphere in the room.  Peter glances back at me. His glance is largely ignored and wholly unrecip
rocated.  This Santa, who once had an abacus and now has a computer, continues; “Let’s now examine 1:20.”  He circles the to-be-examined. He spins back towards us. Is spin a good word? I didn’t say gracefully spins.

  “There are seven sets, of three digit single numbers, that add up to 20.”  He turns back and circles the seven sets. (9 8 3) (9 7 4) (9 6 5) (8 8 4) 8 7 5) (8 6 6) (7 7 6)

  Stepping aside and still facing the board, he quotes my thought; “You see it Doctor Rengaw don’t you?” It was the first time anyone here had called me Doctor.  I was surprised that is was Raymond. And yes I did see it.  With a magician’s sleight of hand, the set (7 7 6) was corralled with a near perfect black ellipse.

  He closed; “If you take the 1 in 1:20, and add 776 to it, you have 1776.  For a third time.” Sherlock Holmes sharing the mystery solved couldn’t have done it better. Raymond circles the 1, smudges away the 20, adds 776, turns, pauses, and says; “Three times the times defining the Plasmic Event calculated to the same number; 1776.” Raymond took a deep sip of oxygen and finished. “Do you know what the odds are of that happening?”  He actually waited for an answer.  The numerologist; “With an assist from a mathematician’s best friend, I was able to calculate the odds of that happening.  I was able to determine that the odds of these three sets of numbers occurring at one exact moment, is 1 out of 322,185,524.  You have a better chance of winning Powerball twice.”

  Rojer shows no emotion and creepily remains perfectly still. His eyes open, his chest inflating and releasing, I think him still alive. As if physically exhausted and mentally spent from his presentation, Raymond’s chin dips and his shoulders slouch. Slowly he turns and gently replaces the marker. Returning to his seat he drops into it with a huff of breath.

  It was so silent in the room I could hear Rojer’s hard-drive whirling.  It was searching for the file named ‘Reason and Reality’. And he was not alone. My thoughts were also diagnosing and debating.  Facts or opinions? Reality or fiction? Coincidence or predetermined?

  The Director cuts into my neurological autopsy.  “Peter do you have any questions?”

  Mr. Henderson pauses briefly and begins his political ending; “Director, I would like to thank you and your team.  I think collectively you crossed all of your T’s.”

  It was time to help Rojer. “Really!”  I exclaimed intending to ruffle. I continued my rant in earnest. My tone was only decibels below angry. “Crossed all of your T’s?  I am not sure you have penned anything accept a question-mark.  I am very confused and questioning.  I am sure you can see Peter that I have a torrid rain of emotions.  I don’t think any person would be calm after all of this.  I am sure that both Rojer and I will eventually make sense of this. However it makes no sense now and I need time to process this.”

  I hoped that would make me the villain. Removing Rojer from Peter’s target. Trying to punctuate like a dramatic actor, I stand and deliver my line. “If this briefing is finished, I feel the need to depart here.”  Still in character, I politely thank the Director and his team.  Only the door was keeping me in the room.  Without forethought, I stop my scripted exodus and turn to Raymond.  Calmly, and with punctuation considered, I ask; “Raymond, do you know, how many different men have been President?”

  Without hesitation he answers; “Forty Three.”  I nod.

  “Thank you Raymond.”  He is wearing the slyest of smiles. Winking at him I turn back towards the door.  Peter stops me.

  “Doctor Rengaw do we still have an understanding?”

  Wishing to drive home a great exit, I turn deliberately and look into Peter’s eyes. For emphasis one quick breath. “Peter, I don’t understand a damn thing!”  It was ‘Gone With the Wind’ like.  If only in my little mind.

  Entering the hallway, Rojer collected me and made me wait to be escorted through and out of the building.  He looked at me and so wanted to laugh.  I whispered; “That was perfect!”

  “Danny hush!”

  Still at their post, the twin Gate-keepers eyed us as we left the Fortress of Senselessness.  We exited through the double set of doors and entered the sterile air of Quantico. I’d have preferred it the air of reality.  The warming chill seemed to invigorate us. But would it be enough to replenish our minds with understanding?

  Several steps across the building’s apron there was a metal click from behind. Then a re-click. The sounds weren’t loud but tink’d distinctly in the ambient quiet. A metal door slipping its latch and then grasping it again. “Mr. Ousten?”  A woman’s voice newly familiar to us.  Rojer and I turn towards building E and the inquiring question.    Special Agent Lewis was in search of us. Truer; looking for Rojer.

  “Mr. Ousten-”  She stopped mid-sentence and gave me an asking for my departure look.  Although I was not recently familiar with this look, I eventually recognized her request and did what any good Wingman would.

  “Rojer give me the keys and I’ll meet you at the car.”  Without mental awareness that he was, he tossed the keys to me. They hit me rather hard in the chest and fell to the cement. I chuckled; maybe only in thought.  I retrieved the set from the gray and looked to Kaitlin. She nodded a thanks. I headed for the 70s.

  Settling into the Falcon I look towards the area that I left the two.  Rojer was giving the Chemist a hand shake and looked very mechanical as he did.  I studied Rojer for an inkling of emotion.  When he was close enough to be defined, his face looked like a cartoon character. Goofy; I thought. Watching him as he slid behind the wheel, he said nothing. So I did. “Well?”

  Pulling the keys from me and flicking a business card on to my lap, he cocky nonchalant said; “She wants to get together for dinner.”  He starts the Bird of Prey and turns to me. The nonchalant was gone. He’d lost control and Goofy returned. “She asked me out.”  Stupid-fifteen-year-old-boy lit his face and crackled his words. In his mind I’m sure he heard nothing but suave. In me I heard and saw only a Lobotomy. In a testosterone driven display of male stupidity, I howl.

  “You dog!  Rojer! You are the man!”  My reaction made me question my age. It was a very short question.  Then very un-wingman-like; “You know you could be her father?”

  “Shut the hell up!  What was that?”  After a moment of adolescent high-fives and other not so mature displays of emotion, silence crashed us back to unappreciated adult reality.  The still undigested briefing came back into focus. Our mellow was harsh’d.

  Once the Falcon achieved cruising altitude, our attempt at detangling the truth from the mystery, the known from the unknown, and fact from fiction, began.  We crunched times and numbers. We over-discussed events. And we sampled blackberries and boysenberries. After all scenarios were contemplated, a reasonable and explainable course of events eluded our grasp.

  With our oral debate concluded and my singleness of thought continuing, Rojer offered the only conclusion that I thought was reasonable. “Danny I think it comes down to a single question. No matter what a Mathematician or Chemist tell us, do you believe Thomas Jefferson wrote The Document?  I know, that when I answer that question, it has to be no.  Common sense, logic, right?”  Rojer’s question made me ponder the single question.

  For the moment that was where Rojer left it. It wasn’t left very long. “Danny what are you going to tell Peter?”  I stared out the window and was watching Virginia slip away from me.

  Rojer flinched as I awakened from my Sphinx-like staring.  My Lap belt clicked, my left arm reached over the seat as my legs pushed and twisted. Draping my abdomen over the seat-back I searched. My bag jostled Rojer as I bumped it into the back of his seat. With little grace I dragged it onto my lap.  “Damn Danny.”  With a smooth slide I released the steel teeth that were clenching it closed.  I reached in and pulled out my phone.  My fingers began tapping; aligning 1s and 0s within my had-held computer. “What are you doing Danny?”

  “Punching in an address to the GPS.”

&nbsp
; “Are we going somewhere?”

  “We’re going to see a man about a thing.”

  “A man?  Where are we going Danny?”

  “We are going to visit Mr. Patrick Thomas.”

  “But I’m hungry. Aren’t you hungry?”

  “Drive we’ll eat afterwards. I’ll give directions. Damn! You’re always hungry Rojer.”

   

  ‘Common Sense has to answer the question.’

  In my best digitized voice; “In fifty meters, turn right on to Sunny Dell Way.”

  Rojer didn’t think it humorous and gave me placid. “This neighborhood looks pretty Yuppie to me. Are you sure this is right?”  I was not sure what he meant. I was sure I hadn’t heard Yuppie in a decade. And I was also sure he didn’t want me to tell him that.

  Still playing co-pilot; “There it is. Turn here Rojer.”

  “I’m still hungry.”

  “This won’t take long. I want to see if he’s home. Ask him a couple of questions.”  Rojer picks up the address.

  “There. Do you think I should park in the driveway?”

  “It doesn’t matter I guess.”  Making the conservative choice he pulls the Falcon to the curb across from the house.

  The house did not look Yuppie to me.  746 was a two story white Colonial with a large porch running the length of the living area.  Best described as: Well Kept Conservative.  The house, the two car garage, and the porch, were trimmed in light blue.  The yard was lightly cluttered with large Juniper bushes and a single Eastern Maple. The tree seemed too-south out of place. It was majestic; an artist’s canvas in oil.

  Rojer led up the driveway. The garage doors were shut, but the octagonal windows revealed empty space.  No vehicles lowered the odds of Patrick being home.  We Walked the Paving Stone path to the porch. The porch with eight mathematically spaced hanging baskets. Now through a winter, the baskets held remnants of once living summer flora. Rojer suddenly stopped, turned aside and yielded point.

  Stepping up and on to the porch step I heard a familiar rattle. Second step and it was followed by the sweeping slide of a door opening.  Stepping onto the porch and not wanting to startle, I froze.  The door swung fully open. Revealing a slender man wearing well-worn jeans, a plain yellow t-shirt, and Timberline work boots.  The same pair that were in my closet. His pair had seen much work; mine near pristine.

  He appeared my height; which made him about 5’10”.  Mr. Patrick Thomas I hoped.  He sported jet-black hair that did not appear to be dyed. His hands were clean and callused; a craftsman’s. Late fifties, maybe early sixties.

  “Doctor Rengaw!”  Freezing did not help; I was startled.  “I read in the newspaper you were going to be in town. I am pleased that you are here. Not sure why, but thrilled that you are.”

  “Mr. Thomas, I take it.”  He politely nodded.  I turn to Rojer who is still off of the porch.  “This is the Curator of Monticello; Rojer Ousten.”

  “Yes Mr. Ousten we have met before at Monticello.  It was shortly before Thanksgiving.”

  “I see a lot of visitors at Monticello. I’m sorry but I don’t remember you.”

  Patrick said softly; “A visitor.” I thought his tone a little questioning. Patrick continued; "No need to apologize.  I don’t really stand out amongst the others.  I guess I have a common face.”  Indeed he did. Patrick Thomas looked very common. He did not stand out amongst the others.

  “Oh hell where are my manners. Please won’t you come in?”  With a hand wave he offers his home. As I slide by, Patrick asks; “Mr. Curator did you know that Thomas Jefferson had an enlarged prostate the last eight years of his life?  He did.  Benjamin told me so.”  His question so far from anything, I paused slight my entrance.

  I was not sure if I actually asked, but I thought I asked; “Benjamin?”

  “Please gentlemen come in and be welcome.”

  Mr. Thomas leads us through the foyer and into the front room. All the while speaking as he opened his home to us.  “Doctor Rengaw I do not know… why have you chosen to visit me? I guess I can guess. No matter. I am glad that you have.  My instincts tell me that you have come to inquire.”

  Rojer had formed an instant bond with Patrick. If not, he would not have engaged so easily.  He answered Patrick; “We have-”  Ignoring my knowing that it would be rude to interrupt, I did anyways.

  “Mr. Thomas have we met before?  I don’t recall-”

  “You want to know why your face was familiar to me.”  Apparently he had ease with ignoring his knowing; or perhaps he was unknowing.  “A fair question Daniel.”  His face and eyes look up and to the right. Patrick asks the ceiling; “Do you believe in Providence Doctor?”  His head resets itself to address us.  “Oh my Dear, I have again declined you my manners.  Would either of you gentlemen like some tea?  I am bringing to a boil some water. And I also have some fresh baked Scones.”

  Rojer still hungry; “I would love a Scone. And some tea as well.”

  “Excellent!  Would you like some as well Doctor?”

  “Some tea would be fine thank you.”

  “I hope Black Tea is suitable.”

  “That would be perfect Mr. Thomas,” Rojer replies.

  “I’ll be right back. Please have a seat and make yourself comfortable.”

  Patrick in the kitchen, I look to Rojer for clarification of his word. “Perfect?”  His visual response was one that nice people should not share in public; or in text.

  Looking about, the room was decorated Quaint Functional.  A small Knotty Pine coffee table centered the room. Matching Harvest Rust loveseat and sofa were on each side of the light brown table. Book-ending the table was a pair of Over-stuffed Wing Back chairs.  We chose the white leather chairs for our Tea Party. Taking our seats, they were as comfortable as they looked.

  A childhood memory, a summer cabin that was beautiful in Knotty Pine, has given the wood a special place in my heart. This hand crafted table made with this memory was topped with a single large picture book. The book’s title; Scenes and Memories of Lake Doster. The creator; the late Joseph Langkamp. A man that I had the sincere pleasure of knowing. The memory’d wood and memory’d man, warmed fond remembrances. At this moment I didn’t see this coincidence as even a coincidence. Later, now, I see them both as intended.

  Several Landscape Oil Paintings were strategically displayed on the walls.  Not being knowledgeable of art, I did not recognize the artists; if I should have.

  “Here we are gentlemen.”  Thomas reappears carrying a white ceramic tray supporting a matching Tea Set.  Ceramic I assumed, once again not being knowledgeable of such things.  The tray was garnished with three Scones. Each Scone seemed perfectly symmetrically placed on its own plate. The treat wasn’t on the plate, the plate was under the treat.  “The Scones are of apple cinnamon. I hope no one has a pertaining allergy.”

  “No I think we’re good. They look delicious.” Rojer being gracious. Thomas distributed the tea and snacks.  Rojer carried the conversation forward. “Mr. Thomas, that tray and Tea Set look like Western European Glazed China.” Who are you?  I hoped my look given to Rojer asked that question.

  “Yes your eyes are gifted.  The set’s been in my family for several centuries.  The story is that the nephew of Benjamin Franklin, Benjamin Franklin Batche, gave it to my Great Great Great Grandfather.  Mr. Batche was the Editor of the Aurora; an 18th century Philadelphia newspaper.  I am sure that Daniel is familiar with him.  Are you Rojer?”

  Rojer; “I have heard the name before.  The Tea Set is very beautiful Patrick.”

  Patrick; “Yes it is.  It is the oldest keep-sake that we have from my ancestors who first settled in America.” Thomas hushed a chuckle. He continued; “1607… My family likes to tell that our ancestors were at James Fort in 1607.” He paused waiting for anything from Rojer. There was nothing and he went on; “Jamestown!” Rojer grunted with understanding. “But I know the
story not to be true.”

  Now realizing that I was holding history, and certainly something of financial value, I was feeling a self-fulfilling prophecy in the making.  I knew, I was going to erase history if I broke anything. I also knew that it would send me to my therapist if I did. Rengaw… easy… slowly… place the cup and saucer down.  Two fingers through the delicate handle, and the other hand supporting the saucer, I drained the tea and gingerly placed it on its home.

  Semi-patiently I listened as their polite oral foreplay continued.  Listening to Charlie Brown’s teacher, I noticed a hutch against a wall. Two etched-glass doors were swung open. There was a space filled with emptiness.

  Rojer looked to me. The lack of pace in my face told him that our Tea Party needed to end. My well of politeness was a single bucket from drained.  He turned back to Patrick and tried to politely move on. “Patrick-”  Rojer’s politeness told me this was going to take way too long.  Rudeness epitomized, I interjected.

  “Mr. Thomas, First of all the tea and pastries-”

  “Scones!” Thomas defines.

  “Yes Scones.” I said, pondering his definition far too deeply. I sensed his patience with me might be at an end as well. I stumbled with words again; “Yes, sorry, Scones. They were scrumptious.  I hope you don’t mind me asking you a few questions.”

  “No not at all do you know Joseph Ellis Doctor Rengaw?  I hope you do not mind me calling you Doctor.  Were you surprised when I recognized you?  I saw your face on the Jacket of your first book.  I never read your second book The Virgin Dynasty. Perhaps when we are through here I will.  Excuse me, please allow me to put these away.”  Patrick gathers the tray and quickly slips back into the kitchen.

  All now completely drained, I look at Rojer. My lips part. “Those Scones were good weren’t they Danny?”  Tickled by an inner laugh, I sit back into the leather comfort.

  Patrick returns saying; “I am guessing you want to discuss the document I sent you.  Did you read all of it?  I am certain you did.”  He takes his place on the sofa.  “How did you like it?  Did you know I wrote that in one sitting?  It took me almost six hours.  Hand written you know.  I’m not much with a computer.  It just came to me. Never wrote anything like that before. Well I did once but it was a long time ago.  After I wrote it I read it and I thought it unusual.  I was rather befuddled as to why I had those opinions. Not sure why I wrote them down.  Then later, why I sent the document to you.  Doesn’t that seem strange?  Can you figure that? Not sure I can”

  Rojer attempts to slow his ramble; “So you don’t know what possessed you to write that?”

  “Possessed! Hmm.” Patrick light laughs briefly considering Rojer’s chosen word. “Interesting word that.”  He smoothly rises and circles the couch in a slow thoughtful manner.  “You know, when I wrote that, time did not seem to be truthful. It lied to me.  As soreness cramped my hand, and the clock was long evident, I knew a long time had elapsed.  As well, the gathering of pages told me time had elapsed.  But when I was writing it, time did not seem to gain distance.  Before the ending of the start, I was at the beginning of the end. Tell me Daniel… when you write, does time stand motionless? You know and still travel.”

  My thought traveled to times wasted; is this one of those times? Was our trip to visit Patrick time I would never get back?  Indeed Patrick Thomas was a unique character. A character whose faculties I was beginning to question.  At times he was lucid and articulate. Others, he presented rambling and wandering. Eccentric? Dementric?  Were those two words my only choice? He does make a killer Scone. But should he really be using an oven?

  I felt like it was time for us to leave.  With the question of dementia subdued, I had to ask; “Mr. Thomas…”  As if he had just noticed I was in the room, his head snapped to me.  With him now intent on me I asked; “Who is ‘SDW’?”  Intently he changes to questioning.

  “SDW? Do you mean those as initials?”  Waiting for me to reply his head tilts slight.  “I don’t know Doctor. Am I supposed to? Should I?”

  Rojer tries to bring him back to functioning. “Patrick those initials are in the document you sent us.”

  He still looked confused.  His index finger tapping his nose, thinking, he responds; “I did know a Samantha Wilson. It was a long time ago. But I believe her middle name was Marie.”  At the last possible instant Rojer pulls Patrick back onto the ledge of reality.

  Standing and forcing an offering hand to Patrick, he says; “Mr. Thomas I think we have taken enough of your time.” Mr. Thomas stands and accepts Rojer’s hand. With his still unused hand Patrick grasps Rojer’s forearm.  The same two handed shake is granted me.

  “Thank you again for the Tea and Scones,” says Rojer.

  “Well thank you so much for visiting me at Tea Time.”  We thank him again, he thanks us again. Much thanks to Rojer, less thanks to me, we more thank he, we leave.

  Feeling as if ceremonial to an ending, the driver’s door latches closed. The driver leaks air and starts laughing.  Rojer composes himself and asks for a conclusion. “Well… what was gathered from that?” It was rhetorical as he never slowed. “Granted, the Scones were amazing and I did get to eat. But personally I don’t know what to think of Mr. Thomas.  Do you think he could have written that long document Danny? Or for that matter, The Document?  Did he seem like he could write a coherent hand written 68 page document?  But… but if he didn’t who did? And how is it he knew of it?”

  Rojer’s questions had my neurons spiking and my receptors denying. I had neither an answer nor reply.  I sat staring with no perceived view. I chuckled to myself as it suddenly hit me that lately I had done so often.

  I tried to form a sand castle of reason. But with each attempt the sand heaps to the base of thought. So unable to construct a complete structure I sift the sand; looking for a single granule that I could start a foundation of conversation upon.

  I could feel Rojer waiting for an answer. So I gave him one. One that he wasn’t ready for. “I don’t know Rojer.  I don’t. Maybe this is all some kind of a delusional dream!  Am I really here? Are you? I mean really here. Or, or, am I going to wake up next to Pami perspiring with an elevated heart-rate. I’ll look around and recognize where I’m at. Shit. Or maybe I’m going to wake up next to your ugly ass.  No that can’t happen; that would be a nightmare.”

  “Wow! What is wrong with you Danny?” His inflection was of attempted humor with underlying meaning. Then it went to an attempted humor hidden-on-anger. “Oh… my ugly ass? Do you have a date with a thirty something gorgeous chemist?” I laughed and he tried to console. “Danny it’s okay. Hey all that… all that bullshit you-”

  Grasping ahold of whatever I was at right now, I interrupted his armchair therapy. “What was up with that?  How in the hell did that just happen?  See this is a dream!  I’m telling you this is a dream.  I mean have you looked in a mirror lately?  No, really, look in a mirror, you have a face that a mother would have a tough time loving.”  Rojer’s eyes lock to my face. That face erupts in laughter.  Seconds pass still laughing at how funny we think we are. Low thunder follows a click. We pull from the curb and toward The Hill.  Rojer’s residence; Jefferson’s home; my white whale.

  ‘The William Tell Overture’ sounds from Rojer’s cell. It is a Rojer familiar ring-tone. “Shit that’s Peter! What am I going to tell him?”

  Uncaring of his concern and ignoring his question, I quip; “Are you kidding me. The William Tell Overture?”

  “Shut up what am I going to tell him?”

  “I don’t know. Wait! Tell him that if I’m there in the morning… well… then I’m there in the morning.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Work with me Rojer.”

  “Hello Mr. Henderson.” Listening, I play the figure out the question game.  “Yes he is.  Yes we have. He hasn’t decided. He said to tell you that if he is a
t the press conference, then he is. I don’t know. Yes. Yes. No, I don’t know anymore. Yes sir.  I will try sir.  Yes sir.  I understand. Okay.” A pause. “Sir?” A shorter pause. “Mr. Henderson?”  Rojer’s jaw-line clenches pissed.  “That ass hung up on me.  That ass!  He practically threatened me with my job.  That ass!  I have a contract you know. He can’t just fire me.  I’ll suit his fat ass!”

  I wanted to laugh, but I was pretty sure that would be bad.  I looked at him, he looked at me, he began a pensive laugh. I joined him with a noticeably uncomfortable one. I wasn’t sure how much I was allowed to enjoy his predicament. Rojer’s laughing didn’t completely quell his anger.  With more ease than anger, he let fly; “That ass!  Bastard!  I have a contract.”

  “Suit his fat ass Rojer!”  That did it; his laughter was full and genuine.

  The Sine-wave of emotions completing a full cycle, we ventured forward within my dream. Tranquil; melancholy; solace; none described my current state of mind.  None seemed possible at this moment.  I thought to strive for indifference; if only momentarily.

  “Rojer let’s end the business day. I want to enjoy the rest of the evening. Maybe take a walk to ‘The Throne’. Watch the sunset.  Just take it easy.  No more business talk okay?  None.  I am only here for another twenty four hours and I would like to enjoy some of my time here.  I don’t want to leave without some relaxation.” I turned to him. “Okay Rojer?”

  “Sounds like a winner can we eat now?  I owe you dinner anyways. Do you have a suggestion?”

  “Yeah…  I do…  Mickey D’s.  You’re getting fired soon you have to save your money.”