Carnival of Shadows

  She poured the coffee. Doyle added a heaped spoonful of sugar into his cup, and Travis did the same. He tasted it. It was quite dreadful, and there were coffee grounds in his mouth.

  “Too quick,” Valeria said. “You need to let the grounds settle at the bottom.”

  Travis set the cup aside.

  “So?” Doyle asked.

  “So, tell me why you consider this a game, Mr. Doyle. I don’t see it that way at all, as I am sure you know.”

  “I am not trying to be evasive, Agent Travis, and I am not interested in provoking any kind of response in you aside from a willingness to step outside the lines.”

  “I have no difficulty stepping outside of any line, just so long as it gives me a satisfactory explanation.”

  “And if there isn’t one?”

  For a moment there was silence, a sense of tension, and then Valeria sat beside Doyle. The pair of them looked at Travis as if he were an exhibit in a gallery. He felt unnerved by such a focus of attention, and he spoke quickly, if only to distract their attention, to make them stop looking at him that way.

  “There is always an explanation,” he said.

  “Always?” Doyle asked.

  “Yes, always. Everything has an explanation, Mr. Doyle.”

  “I don’t disagree with that statement. At least, not in principle. Let us say that everything does have an explanation, but some of the explanations require that you look at things in a very different way.”

  “And again, you are being circumspect and guarded. You seem to have an infinite capacity to answer questions without ever really answering the question.”

  “I shall take that as a compliment, Agent Travis.”

  “It was not intended to be.”

  “I was joking.”

  “I was not.”

  “I think you’re both idiots,” Valeria Mironescu interjected. “It’s like listening to squabbling children. I think you both need to grow up, frankly.”

  Doyle laughed. He put an arm around her shoulder, pulled her close, and kissed her forehead. “See, this is what we all need, Agent Travis. A grounded and level-headed woman to tell us when we are behaving like children.”

  Travis did not laugh. He did not smile. “I don’t see it as a game. You cannot even begin to comprehend how significant this investigation is, not just to the Bureau, but to me personally.”

  “It is your test, is it not, Agent Travis?” Doyle asked. “They sent you on your own. That is not Bureau protocol.”

  “I don’t think you’re in a position to explain Bureau protocol to me, Mr. Doyle.”

  “I might just surprise you there, Agent Travis,” Doyle said. “From what I understand, it is not entirely usual for the Federal Bureau of Investigation to dispatch a man alone. That aside, I do not understand why additional officers have not already arrived to assist you. You have been here for four days, and you are none the wiser as to the identity of the dead man, let alone the identity of whoever might have been responsible for his murder. It appears to me that you have been thrown in at the deep end in anticipation of your bringing this matter to an acceptable resolution by yourself.”

  “That may very well be the case, Mr. Doyle.”

  Doyle leaned forward. “So let me ask you a question for once, Agent Travis.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “What if the murder of a man is not the real investigation here?”

  “If it is not, then what is?”

  “I mentioned a name to you, Agent Travis. Do you remember?”

  “Harold Blauer.”

  “Yes, Harold Blauer. Did you find the time to learn something of his fate?”

  “I did, yes, and that is one of the reasons I am here now, to ask you about this man. Why did you mention that name to me? Does he have some connection to what is happening here?”

  “Would you indulge me, Agent Travis? Would you let me tell you about the fate of another man who has some connection to this?”

  “So you are saying that Blauer is connected to this case, even though he died six years ago?”

  “I am, and it was a very unnecessary tragedy. However, he was not the only one, and that is why I want you to hear the story of a man called Frank Olson.”

  “Is that the name of the man who was found here?”

  “No, Agent Travis. I do not know the name of the man who died here.”

  “So who is this Olson, and what does he have to do with this case?”

  “Frank Olson was a doctor. In fact, he was a US Army scientist and one of their top researchers into the field of germ warfare. He was administered a drug without his knowledge. Actually, he was shut in a New York City hotel and given that drug repeatedly over a nine-day period. Olson fell into a deep depression as a result of that drug. In truth, he lost his mind, and the army feared that not only would he talk about what had been done to him, but that such revelations might compromise their continued research into germ warfare. He had a minder with him at all times, a man called Robert Lashbrook. Lashbrook worked for an organization right there in the heart of the American intelligence community. Anyway, Lashbrook didn’t do such a good job of keeping an eye on Dr. Olson, for Olson jumped, or—as many people believe—was thrown, from the thirteenth-floor window of that hotel. What little remained of him was there on the sidewalk, and the army and Lashbrook’s employers worked furiously to cover up the circumstances that led to the death of Dr. Olson. Whether or not there will ever be an investigation into that death is doubtful, but Frank Olson died, just like Harold Blauer died, and it is unlikely that anyone will ever do anything about it.”

  “And these people, Olson and Blauer… you are telling me this because?”

  “Because you need to know who you are working for, Agent Travis, and I think it is only fair that you have some kind of understanding of the real reason for your presence in Seneca Falls.”

  “The people I work for? What are you telling me, that this Robert Lashbrook worked for the Bureau?”

  “No, he didn’t, as a matter of fact. He might as well have, for there is little difference between the FBI and the organization that he did work for, but no, he was not a G-man.”

  Travis frowned. “I am confused.”

  “Don’t be,” Doyle said. “That is their intention in such cases, to throw as much misinformation at you as possible, and it leaves you with a sense of disorientation. Even Goebbels made such a reference, didn’t he? Something to the effect that if you told a big enough lie and kept repeating it, then eventually people would come to believe it. Even Socrates commented on the fact that if you want to make a lie work, then you need to attach a small element of truth to it. Truth, or at least the promise of truth, holds us like glue. Is it not the case that our natural human reaction is to reject those things that we don’t understand, the things that trouble us the most, just because we don’t want to believe that other human beings can be that evil and corrupt? Is it not true that if a man acted in the same way that most of the world’s governments act, then we would have him arrested, tried, convicted, and executed before he could do any further damage?”

  “Are you telling me that the Federal Bureau of Investigation was in some way involved in the deaths of Harold Blauer and Frank Olson? Is that what you are saying, Mr. Doyle?”

  “No, sir, I am not. I do not think that they were directly involved in those deaths.”

  “Meaning?”

  “What do you think I mean, Agent Travis?”

  “I think you are implying that the FBI is in some way involved in the death of the man that was found here in Seneca Falls.”

  Doyle smiled, looked at Valeria Mironescu, and winked. “Give the man a Kewpie doll.”

  “This is utterly outrageous. Mr. Doyle. How can you possibly think that the Bureau had anything to do with this homicide?”

  “I am permit
ted to think what I wish, Agent Travis. In fact, not only am I permitted to think what I wish to think, I am also permitted to say what I think without fear of reprisal, attack, censure, or penalty. Doesn’t the Constitution say as much?”

  “I think there is a difference between freedom of expression, Mr. Doyle, and unfounded allegations and accusations against one of the most important and powerful law enforcement organizations in the world.”

  “And there lies the rub, Agent Travis. The bigger the organization, the more easily it hides its identity. The bigger the organization, the more easily it not only obscures its intent, but also the consequences of its actions.”

  Travis felt the indignation and rage rising in his chest. For Travis, the Bureau stood for integrity, honesty, the maintenance of law and order, everything without which the society could not possibly hope to survive.

  “Every once in a while, we reach a watershed,” Valeria Mironescu said. She reached out and touched Travis’s hand.

  He withdrew it sharply. “You people are unbelievable,” he said. “I come here as a representative of the federal government. As far as you are both concerned, I am the law. I am here to investigate and expose the truth regarding a man’s death. With a single phone call, I can have fifty agents here, a hundred if I wish, and we can turn every single one of you inside out.”

  “And if we knew something, Agent Travis? If we really knew something and we didn’t tell you?”

  “Then you would be charged with obstruction of justice, that at the very least. If found guilty, you would serve a jail sentence, and in some instances, I am sure that the possibility of extradition out of the United States might be considered.”

  “Always the little people ground to dust in the teeth of the mighty machine,” Valeria said.

  “Little people who lie and withhold the truth,” Travis replied.

  “No, sir,” Doyle said, “Little people who tell the truth and thus fill the graveyards of this nation, I am afraid.”

  “What is this? A game of contradiction?”

  “I don’t want to say that you are naive, Agent Travis,” Doyle said, “but you are naive. You have allowed yourself to believe those things that make you feel safe. You have allowed yourself to ask only those questions that can be answered without challenging your own concept of how life works. Well, life does not work that way, at least not any life that could be worth living.”

  Travis stared at Doyle. “Don’t you turn this back on me, Doyle. You have no right to—”

  “To what, Agent Travis? I have no right to what? To tell you my opinion? To tell you what you don’t want to hear? I think you’ll find that as long as I am not breaking your very precious and sacred laws, then I am home free. You cannot go on pretending to yourself, Agent Travis. You are too smart. You are too perceptive. You have solved certain personal problems by closing down your mind and your heart to some fundamental truths. That is all too obvious. The question is why. Why would a man—a decent man, a good man, an aware man—force himself to forget the past, force himself to never look back, to never confront the things that had happened in his life? Why would he do that? Is it because he is afraid of maintaining his sanity? Perhaps, but then the sanity that he is trying to maintain is itself a kind of insanity, wouldn’t you say? How does it feel to be so wound up, Agent Travis? How does it feel to never once confront the fact that your mother killed for you, that she went to her own death in the firm belief that she was doing the right thing for her son?”

  “Stop right there, Doyle!” Travis said. “This is now too, too much.”

  “I think it is not enough,” Doyle replied.

  Once again, Valeria leaned forward and grasped Travis’s hand. “Listen to him, Michael,” she urged. “Just stop for a moment and listen to what he is telling you. He is trying to help you. He is trying to get you to see what has happened to you, what is happening to you right now, and what lies ahead if you keep going in this direction. The people you work for—”

  “Enough about the people I work for,” Travis said, and snatched back his hand.

  “The people you work for are not good people, Agent Travis,” Doyle said. “Are you not able to see even a little of the reasoning behind why you are here?”

  “I am here to investigate a murder,” Travis said. “Plain and simple.”

  “I am sorry to say that this murder, as you call it, is anything but plain and simple. You are not here to identify a dead man. You are not here to even determine who might have killed him or why. You are here for a very different reason altogether.”

  “You people are deluded. You people believe your own fantasies. What happened last night… what I saw here, those kinds of fantasies and deceptions, are not real life. That is not the world in which we live, Mr. Doyle. That is magic and trickery and illusion, and it does not translate well to the harsh light of day. Under the colored lights of the circus, the carnival, the traveling sideshows yes, but out here in the world in which I live, it is as much use as… well, I don’t know that it serves any purpose at all.”

  “It gives people truth where they had none, Agent Travis,” Doyle said. “It allows people to find some meaning and sense in amid all the madness. It makes people happy. It eases their burdens and anxieties. And though you consider it an illusion, a trick, a deception, I can assure you that it is not.”

  “More lies, Mr. Doyle, and I am growing tired of listening to them. If you want a truth, then there is the truth as I see it right now. You are a liar and a charlatan, and though I am intrigued by how you create these illusions, I am not here to address that. I am here to address the death of an unknown man and whatever web of deceit you attempt to weave around it, I know that someone here knows what happened, and I will be damned if I am going to leave Seneca Falls without the truth.”

  Doyle’s expression was neither condescending nor patronizing. It seemed sincere, almost sympathetic to the dilemma that faced Travis.

  “I am sorry for your loss, Agent Travis,” he said quietly.

  “My loss?”

  “The loss of your belief in humanity. The loss of your faith in people. The loss of your trust in yourself. The loss of your innocence, your willingness to be open-minded, your empathy, your curiosity, your courage—”

  “My courage?”

  “The courage we sometimes need to hear things that we don’t wish to hear, to accept the fact that we might not know everything that there is to know about the mind and the soul, about people. That seems to me to be the greatest loss of all, wouldn’t you say? The loss of our belief in possibilities.”

  “And now you sound like some evangelical preacher, Mr. Doyle,” Travis said, his tone almost derisive. “Now you sound like you’re trying to convert me to some—”

  “Enough now, Agent Travis,” Valeria Mironescu said. “The pair of you are now beginning to sound ridiculous. Whatever Edgar says, you contradict, and that is not even a discussion. That is just people contradicting one another. Even a child can do that, and you are no longer children.”

  “Sadly,” Doyle said, and laughed.

  The tone changed then—suddenly, almost imperceptibly—but Travis felt his sense of anger dissipate. He looked at Valeria Mironescu, at Edgar Doyle, and there seemed to be nothing there, as if the tension and resistance he’d felt so strongly no longer possessed any substance at all.

  “I think we are of very different viewpoints,” Travis said. “I am not here to contradict you, nor to argue with you, Mr. Doyle. I can appreciate that you have certain ideas and beliefs, and though I do not agree with them, that does not mean that I am unable to accept them.”

  “I think accepting my ideas and beliefs is the very last thing you are willing to do, Agent Travis. That is the whole point of bringing you here and showing you what we are doing.”

  “Meaning the things that I saw last night.”

  “That, yes,
among other things.”

  “And now what? Now you are telling me that Chester Greene can read people’s minds, that he can see things about people’s past experiences, that he can just look inside peoples’ heads and tell them things that they didn’t even know themselves? Is that what you are telling me?”

  Doyle nodded. “In a word, yes. And, to be honest, Mr. Greene is not the only one who possesses such a faculty.”

  Travis smiled, and then he started laughing. “Okay, Mr. Doyle, then I am willing to acknowledge that I do not accept all of your ideas and beliefs.”

  Doyle leaned forward. “And you want to know something else, Agent Travis?”

  “Yes, of course, Mr. Doyle. Please tell me something else.”

  “Chester, that fat little dwarf from Oklahoma, said very emphatically that of all the people in that tent last night, of all the people that he could have read, you were the very strongest. He said that your thoughts, whatever was going on in your mind, was the strongest perception he was receiving. I would agree with him on that point. People who possess this gift are like radio antennae, you see? They are like an antenna, and they just pick up on the wavelengths that people emanate, and they can read them as easily as you would read a newspaper.”

  “Oh, he said that, did he? Well, that seems to be very convenient, considering the conversation that we’re having, wouldn’t you say?”

  “You want to know something else?” Doyle asked.

  “You go on and tell me whatever else you care to tell me, Mr. Doyle,” Travis said.

  “I can tell you that those who hide from their pasts the most are also those who transmit the strongest images and emotions.”

  “Oh, is that so?”

  “Yes, Agent Travis, that is so.”

  “And would you like to expand a little on that theory, Mr. Doyle? Would you be able to give me anything other than a completely unprovable and unsubstantiated flight of fancy?”

  “I would, yes.”

  There was silence for a moment.

  Travis raised his eyebrows. “And so?”