Black Friday (or Black Market) - James Patterson [89]
Caitlin gazed over his shoulder at the printout list. “So where do we start?”
Carroll shook his head. He was filled with doubts again. They would have to investigate, maybe even visit every name on the lists. They didn’t have time.
Scully, Richard P. Sergeant. Plastique expert. Hospitalized Manhattan 1974 for alcoholism. Extreme right-wing sympathizer. Occupation: cabdriver. New York City.
Downey, Marc. Military assassin. Hospitalized 1971-73: Occupation: bartender. Worcester, Mass.
Carroll gazed at the burgeoning list again. He had another idea. An Army officer, maybe? A disaffected officer with a grudge, or a cause? Somebody exceptionally smart, nursing a grievance, year after year.
Carroll laid his hands on the warm computer console. He wished he could coax all the secrets out of it, all the electronic links of which it was capable. He stared at the already lengthy printout again. “An officer,” Carroll said. “Try that.”
Caitlin went back to the keyboard to request more information. He watched her fingers move expertly over the keys. She was requesting information on known or suspected subversives, who had been officers in Viet Nam. Under the general rubric of “subversive” were included all kinds of people.
The screen began to issue more names. Colonels. Captains. Majors. Some were listed in these official records as schizophrenics. Others were supposedly burnt out on drugs. Others still had become evangelists, panhandlers, small-time bank and liquor store robbers. Carroll received a printout of these names as well. There were twenty-nine of the hard-core category in and around New York City.
The screen flickered again.
Names of the various officers on the FBI list now shimmered forth. Carroll once again ran his eye over them.
Bradshaw, Michael, Captain. Discharged VA Hospital Dallas, Texas, 1971. Occupation: Real estate salesman, Hempstead Long Island. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder victim.
Babbershill, Terrance. Major. Discharged dishonorably 1969. Known Viet Cong sympathizer. Occupation: English-language tutor for various Vietnamese families. Brooklyn, New York
Carroll blinked and tried to focus. His eyes were beginning to water. He needed to feel the fresh cold night air on his face. He didn’t move: he continued to run his eyes up and down the screen.
Rydeholm, Ralph. Colonel.
O’Donnell, Joseph. Colonel.
Schweitzer, Peter. Lieutenant Colonel.
Shaw, Robert. Captain.
Norsworthy, Robert. Colonel.
Boudreau, Dan. Captain.
Kaplan, Lin. Captain.
Weinshanker, Greg. Captain.
Dwyer, James. Colonel.
Beauregard, Bo. Captain.
Arnold, Tim. Captain.
Morrissey, Jack Colonel.
Too many names, Carroll thought.
Too many casualties in a war of total waste.
“Can you get me cross-references, Caitlin? Associations and connections between any of these men? The officers. The real hard asses out of Viet Nam?”
“I’ll try.” Caitlin tapped a few keys. Nothing happened this time.
She stared at the screen thoughtfully, then tapped another brief message.
Nothing happened.
She tapped out another message.
Nothing happened
“Is something wrong?” Carroll asked.
“This is the best I can get, Arch. Damn it.”
The message that shone in front of them read:
Further data: see files
“See files?” he asked. “These are the files.”
“They apparently have more information in FBI files that aren’t on the computer, Arch. They’re down in Washington. Only in Washington. Why the hell is that?”
Chapter 67
AT TEN O’CLOCK ON the evening of December 15, Sergeant Harry Stemkowsky was thinking that he was actually solvent. He was financially comfortable, probably for the first time in his life.
He’d just bought a new Ford Bronco, also a luxurious beaver coat for Mary. Life was suddenly getting decent for them, for the first time in their four married years together.
But Stemkowsky couldn’t bring himself to comfortably believe in any of it. This was all like Santa Claus, and trips to Disneyworld—that kind of transient shit.
Who could identify with the sudden net worth of $1,152,000?
Harry Stemkowsky felt