A Fistful of Empty Page 8

  I ordered some S.O.S. and a cup of coffee. Two booths away I watched a huge construction worker shovel his breakfast into his face. He ate with metronomic efficiency, stopping only when enough food had collected around his mouth that he could wipe his face with his toast. When my food arrived I ate quickly, but with an eye for my neighbors.

  From there I went to Onslow’s apartment. The buildings on Newminster Road are done in early poorhouse. Identical redbrick blocks with sloping metal roofs on them like dunce caps. Each one with row after row of tiny windows to ration the sunlight. A tad less imagination and they would have been invisible. Instead they were just hideous.

  Terence Onslow’s building faced poorhouse number five. I took the elevator up and followed the arrows to his apartment. I knocked until I was sure no one was home. A quick check of the hallway and I pulled out my lockpicks. Ninety seconds of coaxing and I was inside. I locked the door behind me. Onslow’s apartment was immaculate. The kitchen was all smooth surfaces and closed cupboards. Nothing, not even a toaster or a coffee maker, was on the counters. The white sofa and glass coffee table told me that he didn’t have kids or a dog. There were three wicker chairs around the dining table. The fourth was in front of the electric range. I walked into the kitchen and saw a skillet on the range. I picked it up. Bits of meat still clung to the pan. I was looking at the print of a human hand.

  I put the pan down, pulled the chair away from the range, and sat down. No need to hurry. Terence Onslow wasn’t coming back.

  A couple of deep breaths cleared my head. Stay frosty, Leo, or you’ll be next. That was all the motivation I needed. I stood up, pulled out my pocket recorder, and began to make notes.

  No struggle. Onslow knew him? Surprised? Grabbed outside? Door had no dead bolt. Did he get in like me? Onslow had the disk. How did he know that? What’s their connection? Tortured Onslow to get location. Got key for locker. Why put disk in locker? Onslow dead? Yeah, or still being held until the man gets the disk. Maybe he needs him to analyze it, like I need Reed. I clicked off the recorder, got a towel from a kitchen drawer, and began to search the apartment.

  I was pretty sure Onslow was dead, so I focused on information about his past. His interest in science fiction and bondage magazines was no use to me. He wouldn’t be out buying any new ones. I knew nothing about the man until I went through the desk in his bedroom. The center drawer had an address book and checkbook. I pocketed those. The top side drawer had recent credit card slips, canceled checks, and payroll stubs. I glanced through them all and put them in my jacket. The deep file drawer had tax returns, insurance policies, warranties, and information about his car. There was nothing unusual in any of the files, so I left them after noting the make of the car and its tag number.

  I wiped away any trace of my visit and put the towel in my other pocket.

  In the car, I checked the address for my next stop: BMR Inc., Terence Onslow’s employers.

  18

  BMR sat midway up a hill overlooking an auto park. Down below, fifteen automobile dealers were clustered on both sides of the road, eagerly playing their version of grand theft auto. For most people, buying a car is like playing the shell game at a pickpockets’ convention. It’s a shame because ten minutes of homework and the willingness to walk away will give you the upper hand.

  BMR was a dark green mirrored cube. I watched myself walk up to the entrance, and saw no one I wanted to know.

  The security guard at the front desk was a paunchy black man with a fringe of tight white curls.

  “I’d like to see Mr. Terence Onslow.”

  He consulted a directory, then pushed a number on his phone. No answer. He dialed another number.

  “Is Mr. Onslow here, Marcia?” He listened, then turned to me.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Onslow is not here. The secretary said he’s been gone for about a week. He had to go home. There was a death in the family.”

  Cute. Somebody had a twisted sense of humor. “I’d like to speak to Mr. Onslow’s supervisor, then.”

  “And you are?”

  “Leo Haggerty, private investigator.”

  He dialed another number and tried to sell someone on the idea of talking to me.

  “Ms. Hornyak will talk to you. She’s Dr. Shatzkin’s secretary. Mr. Onslow worked for Dr. Shatzkin. Why don’t you have a seat. She’ll be right down.”

  “Thanks.”

  I looked at the lobby chairs; armless, tubular metal squiggles that doubled back on themselves for support. No thanks. The green tint of the glass put a permanent verdant cast on the landscaping around the building.

  Other consulting firms dotted the hillside. Tysons Corner is the Virginia headquarters for the “Beltway Bandits,” consulting firms of scientists whose arcane knowledge the government thinks it desperately needs and ex-government officials who know how to massage the swollen teats on the giant sow of procurement.

  The car dealers down below were rank amateurs at the alchemy of turning bullshit into gold.

  “Excuse me. Mr. Haggerty?”

  I turned to face Ms. Hornyak. She slipped me one of those soft, curved flippers, from the age of the kiss on bended knee, that you can’t shake, even gently. I let her have it back.

  “I’m Alison Hornyak, Dr. Shatzkin’s secretary. How, may I help you?”

  “I’m a private investigator, Ms. Hornyak. I’ve been looking into the activities of Mr. Terence Onslow. I’d like to know what kind of work he did at BMR.”

  “What are you investigating? Do you think it involves BMR?”

  “It could. It’s too soon to tell.”

  Ms. Hornyak compressed her lips in thought. She was tall, plain, and myopic. Thick glasses hung from a strap around her neck. Her features were good: clear gray eyes, a straight nose, high forehead and cheekbones, full lips. Her brown hair was limp and piled upon her shoulders like poorly hung drapes. A shapeless business suit didn’t flatter her. She made me think of the women I’d met at my twenty-year high school reunion who were so much more attractive than they’d been as girls. One of them told me the secret. They weren’t being dressed by their mothers anymore. Maybe Ms. Hornyak still lived at home.

  “I’m not at liberty to tell you anything specific, Mr. Haggerty. However, I think Dr. Schatzkin would like to talk to you. Will you follow me?”

  She turned and led me through a set of double doors, down a hall, up an elevator, through another set of doors marked Authorized Personnel Only, to an office door. The nameplate read Robert Schatzkin, M.D., Ph.D.

  Ms. Hornyak knocked and opened the door.

  “Dr. Schatzkin, this is Leo Haggerty, a private investigator. He’s looking into Terry Onslow’s background. He thinks it might affect BMR.”

  Schatzkin pointed to a seat facing his desk. “Thank you, Alison.

  “I’d like to see some identification, Mr. Haggerty.”

  I showed him my license and gave him one of my cards. “What do you want to know, Mr. Haggerty?”

  “First, what kind of work does Terry Onslow do for you?”

  “He’s a computer operator for us, that’s all. He enters and analyzes data we receive from field trial physicians.”

  “Does he have access to anything vital or secret that you are doing?”

  “No. He isn’t one of the research team. Just a data processor.”

  “I understand that he’s been gone for a week now. A death in the family.”

  “Could be. I really don’t know. If so, I think it shows that Mr. Onslow’s position here could be easily filled. We haven’t missed a beat.”

  “What does BMR do, Doctor?”

  “We’re a biomedical research firm. We have a number of different projects going.”

  “What about this one? The one Terry Onslow was on?”

  “This project is looking at combinations of anti-viral and immuno-modulators to try to stop the transfer of the HIV virus from infected mothers to their fetuses.”

  I scribbled notes in my notebook. Schatzki
n leaned back in his chair. He had on one of those ridiculous toupees that look like a roadkill. His face was dominated by a hook nose and thick, plum-colored lips. To boot, he was as thin as last year’s dead.

  “Let me ask you a question, Mr. Haggerty. Why are you investigating Mr. Onslow?”

  “I’m sorry, that’s confidential, Doctor. It’s just a routine background check, that’s all.”

  “He’s been offered a job elsewhere? Is that it?”

  “I’m sorry, Doctor, I don’t know.”

  “Why do you think it might affect BMR?”

  “Mr. Onslow has been connected to a couple of individuals of dubious reputation, shall we say. I told Ms. Hornyak that it might affect BMR before I knew what his position was. He seems so peripheral to the project that it’s hard to see how he could compromise your work.”

  “Well, I think you’re probably right. Terry was not privy to the design of the study, nor did he know what compounds we were testing. I don’t see how he had knowledge that could hurt us.”

  Schatzkin looked quite relieved now that he’d convinced himself there was nothing to worry about.

  “Thank you for taking time to speak with me. I can find my way out.”

  “You’re welcome.” We shook hands and Schatzkin was poring over a journal before I closed the door.

  On the way out, I passed Alison Hornyak’s desk. I stopped and handed her my card.

  “If you hear anything about Terry Onslow, you know, gossip, rumors floating around the office, would you please give me a call?”

  Ms. Hornyak took my card and fixed me with a stare like I’d suggested an unnatural sex act. I smiled and turned away. I’d gone three steps when I returned to her desk.

  “You said that Mr. Onslow had gone home to attend a family funeral. Can you tell me where he was from? I’d like to try to talk with him by phone.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t have that information. You might check with Personnel. They’re one floor down, at the far end of the hall.”

  “Thank you.”

  I introduced myself to Talisha Scoggins of Personnel. Every strand of her corn-rowed hair ended in a bright bead. When she spun around in her chair to face me, her hair flew like a carnival ride. As the ride ended she topped it with an incandescent smile. “Can I help you?”

  “I hope so. I’m a private investigator trying to locate Terry Onslow. Do you know him?”

  “Yeah, sure. He’s been out. Family funeral, I think.”

  “How long has he been gone?”

  “Couple of days, I guess. Why?”

  “You like Terry Onslow?”

  “Yeah. He’s a nice guy. Why?”

  “I think something’s happened to him. Something bad. Why don’t you check his time sheets. I’ll bet he’s been gone at least a week. Pretty long for a funeral, huh?”

  “He could have stayed to help out his family.”

  “Okay. But he’d call, right, to let a supervisor know, to make a change on his leave slips. I’ll bet you nobody’s heard from him.”

  “I don’t know …”

  “Tell you what, if I’m wrong, I’ll drop it right here. You don’t have to say a thing. Punch it up on your screen. See for yourself.”

  Talisha turned to her computer. I thought about grabbing a bead as it went by and climbing aboard.

  Two minutes went by. She looked at her screen, then tapped out other codes and studied what came up. When she turned back, she wasn’t smiling.

  “Okay. You’re right. He’s been gone for six work days. He was switched to leave without pay last Wednesday. The computer supervisor for the project sent a letter out on Friday. I read the letter. It said that unless Terry returned his calls or checked in by Friday, he’d be fired. What do you want to know?”

  “I want to know everything I can about the guy. Do you know who his friends were?”

  “No, but I can find out pretty easily. The computer support staff for that project isn’t too large. If he didn’t hang out with somebody there, they’d know who he did spend time with.”

  “Great. Here’s my card. If you locate someone who knew Terry well or who can put me in touch with such a person, call the beeper number, any time, day or night. Tell them I’ll pay for the information. That includes you.”

  I slipped out my wallet and put two twenties on her desk. “That’s a down payment. I’ll match it for anything I can use.” Talisha looked infinitesimally insulted but slipped the money into her desk drawer.

  In my car, I called Reed Lewis.

  “Hello, Reed. Tell me that you know everything about that data disk.”

  “Okay, I know everything about that data disk.”

  “I hate when you do that.”

  “I know. But it’s the only reasonable reply to your absurd request.”

  “Point well taken. Do you know anything about what’s on the disk?”

  “Not yet, Leo. When I find the right program to crunch the numbers, I’ll know something. Until then, nothing. Do you know anything about whose disk it is?”

  “Yeah. His name is Terry Onslow. He works in the computer support services for a company called BMR Incorporated. Do you know them?”

  “No, but I can find out what computers and software they use. Most companies try to stay with the same programs for their basic functions. It keeps their costs down. Those programs should tell me what statistical analysis package to use. Do you know what kind of project he was on?”

  “He was entering data and analyzing it on field trials from physicians using various combinations of, wait a minute”—I flipped open my notebook—“anti-virals and immuno-modulators on transmission of HIV from infected mothers to fetus. How does that help you?”

  “Hey, Leo, you call me for stuff you don’t know. I call other people for things I don’t know. I’ve got friends who are freelance consultants to biomed firms. I’ll make some calls. Ask them what the data looks like for those kinds of studies.”

  “Great. Looks like we’re closing in on it. Call me as soon as you have something.”

  “Can I get back to my work, please?”

  “Silly me, keeping you like this.”

  19

  Back at the Bed-a-Bye, I played telephone tag with Rhodasson, checked in with the office, and waited. What did Terry Onslow have that was worth killing him, Bonnie, and Arnie for? He was a computer operator on a medical research project. An anonymous number cruncher. It couldn’t have been something routine to the job because he was being replaced. Now if someone wiped out the whole support team, I’d have something there. It had to be something unusual he knew, something he did differently from other people in the pool. Unless he was a genius and saw things everybody else missed, it had to be something he came across accidentally or otherwise that no one else saw. Something in the numbers. Something so glaring that even if he didn’t know what the study was, or what the data meant, he knew it was hot.

  I looked at the copies of Call to Arms I’d taken from Snipes’s house. Maybe there’d be something useful in there. Like a letter to the editor from my unknown adversary, with his home address.

  I piled up the pillows, lay down, and started reading.

  The first issue had an article by Professor Herbert Schneckerl, Ph.D., head of the Institute for Race Studies, that explained to me how niggers were the result of breeding between African Jews and baboons. That accounted for the physical and sexual prowess of the nigger, owing to his recent descent from the apes. The nigger, it went on, was all appetite and no brains, while the Jew was the opposite. Alone, neither one was the equal of the thoughtfully virile, white Christian male. Fascinating stuff this. Dr. Schneckerl went on to explain how the nigger was actually the Jews’ “Golem,” a mindless brute sent to corrupt and destroy the “New Jerusalem” of white America. The nigger’s rampant sexuality created a horde of brainless apes led around by their dicks. In the background the cowardly Jew, craven but cunning, stood waiting to take over America after the firestorm of nigger revol
ution. What was to be done? I could hardly wait for the answer, which was promised in the next issue. I flipped through the magazine looking for anything of use, then threw it away.

  I picked up the next issue and there was Dr. Schneckerl’s face. Curly corn-silk hair, bland round face, fixed smile, and empty blue eyes. Alfred E. Newman on PCP.

  Ah, the solution. The gift from God to his white Christian children: the cleansing plague of AIDS. Its main victims were homosexuals. Everyone knew that the Jews had an extraordinarily high percentage of queers, owing to the frigidity of their women and their own perverse desires. How could you expect a race that rejected Christ not to be perverted in every fashion? A sidebar promised a theological analysis of homosexuality as a sign of Satanic possession. After all, wasn’t the Osculum Infamae, the kiss of shame demanded by Satan, actually analingus as foreplay to being buggered by him?

  The other main group of victims, intravenous drug users, were overwhelmingly black, or their brown cousins, the spick. Both were unable to tolerate frustration and work for their rewards in this life like the noble white Christian man and woman. So they gave in to the immediate physical pleasures of drugs; and because of their lack of will, an obviously missing higher mental function, they became addicted. This plague of AIDS would cleanse America of the pestilence of the nigger and the kike. Dr. Schneckerl concluded sadly, though, that while the nigger population would be much smaller, it probably wouldn’t be entirely eradicated, and that the ultimate menace was still the sly old Jew always waiting to bring down the clean, pure, white Christian.

  Scheckerl closed with a group of bizarre recommendations on how to protect yourself from accidental infection by any racially impure people.

  I went through the rest until I came to a picture of a man hanging impaled on a barbed wire while German shepherds tore him to pieces. In the background guards smoked and smiled. The caption read “Christmas Dinner, 1943.” I tore the magazine in half and threw the pieces across the room.