Brad Parks - Faces of the Gone

Then, at six o’clock, Monty would drive Carter Ross’s car to the airport, use the passport to check in for the flight and get through security, then use it again to get through customs on the other side. The next day, Lamont P. Sampson, using his own passport, would fly back-leaving “Carter Ross” on his Dominican vacation.

The Director knew someone would eventually notice when Ross didn’t return, but he was less concerned about that. The authorities up here would locate Ross’s car in long-term parking, check the airline manifold then conclude he had gotten on a plane for the Dominican Republic safe and sound.

To the authorities down there, Carter Ross would be just one more American who went on vacation and decided, for whatever reason, not to come back. The Director didn’t know whether Ross’s family had means to investigate his disappearance. But it didn’t really matter. The Director knew how to weight down a body. Unless his family had a submarine, they were never going to find him.

It was all so perfect the Director was tempted to get it over with quickly: to stick a bullet in Ross’s ear, dispose of the body somewhere wet and cold, and be home for supper with his family.

But no, a small amount of patience was required. First, the Director needed to find out if Carter Ross knew more than he had let on-and if he had shared those thoughts with anyone else. Maybe Ross would be unwitting enough to spill, maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe the Director would have to coerce it out of him. The end result would be the same: Carter Ross’s final hour on this earth was already well under way.

The office of Randall N. Meyers had a large expanse of carpet that was a step up in quality from the thin, standard-issue floor covering his peons walked each day. In the middle of the room, a highly polished conference table was surrounded by eight cushy chairs. Along the side was a small living-roomlike setup, with a leather couch and matching recliners surrounding a low coffee table. On the two unwindowed walls, there were various plaques, diplomas, and newspaper articles, chronicling a long, successful climb to the higher reaches of law enforcement. Then there were the pictures: a portrait of Meyers as a young infantry officer, a pair of posed photos with two U.S. presidents, then a collection of more candid shots with three or four people who looked vaguely familiar as senators or congressmen.

It was all meant to convey the high standing of the man inhabiting the office. Because, obviously, anyone with enough juice to command from the federal bureaucracy such tremendous resources of square footage, carpeting, and furniture had to be someone around which solar systems rotated.

That someone, Randall N. Meyers, was sitting at the far end of the room behind a large, mahogany desk. He was a bear of a man who did not bother standing when I entered. He was casually dressed in a blue button-down shirt, which was wrinkled by the presence of a shoulder holster that was weighted down by his service weapon. Even seated, his considerable girth was obvious. I immediately pegged him as suffering from high cholesterol, hypertension, and occasional battles with gout. Some people just have that look.

Then again, he also looked like he could pick up a Honda if he put his mind and muscle to it. Somewhere in Randall N. Meyers’s past there had been heavy manual labor or a lot of weightlifting.

“Uh,” L. Pete said, clearing his throat. “Here you are, sir.”

Meyers looked up briefly and told L. Pete, “Thank you, Monty. You can leave now.”

But L. Pete was already slinking in that direction. His entire demeanor had changed the moment he entered that office. Gone was the little man with the firm handshake and the self-important-albeit Napoleonic-air about him. Around his boss, he was halting, uncertain, and deferential, like a puppy accustomed to scolding. He was gone before Meyers could tell him not to let the door hit him in the ass.

“I’ll be with you in a moment, Mr. Ross,” Meyers said without looking up, waving at the chairs in front of his desk. “Take a seat.”

I sat and Meyers returned his focus to the incredibly vital document in front of him, doing his best to send the message the piece of paper contained information that far outdistanced littl’ ol’ me in importance. I was merely a distraction he would deal with when the more weighty matters that occupied the rest of his precious time were properly handled.

It was all part of the intimidation game, of course-along with the furnishings, the size of the office, and the pictures on the wall. And I guess it worked on some people. As a journalist, you can never let yourself get too awed by someone. You have to remember that anyone, no matter how important they try to make themselves seem, is just as likely to be full of crap as anyone else. That was especially true with someone who went out of their way to impress upon you just how important they are.

So I did what I always do when I’m in a source’s office and they’re not paying attention to me: I subtly invade their privacy. You can learn all kinds of things from studying someone’s desk, especially a large desk like this one, which had so much room for pictures, knickknacks, and top-secret files.

In Meyers’s case, I learned he didn’t give a crap about his family. Really. There was one picture of him, a mousy woman, and three awkward girls. The rest were pictures of Randy Meyers and his buddies on a variety of exotic vacations: hunting, fishing, scuba diving, skiing, paragliding, skydiving-all macho activities by macho men.

The settings varied from the Caribbean to the Serengeti to the tops of mountains, but there was one constant to all the photos: in each one, Randy Meyers was in the middle. He was clearly the alpha male, bigger and beefier than everyone else, unafraid to throw around his weight.

And sure, I didn’t know him. But I knew guys like him and I could see him on those trips. He was the big shot, ordering the most expensive drinks (when someone else was buying), belittling anyone who didn’t catch a fish (unless he hadn’t), bossing around the strippers and whores (because he was too inept with women for the pickup game).

My decision to dislike the man had been thoroughly cemented.

Once I was done with the vacation pictures, I moved on to the top-secret files, doing my best to read them upside down, hoping to see the name Irving Wallace pop out of one of them. But there didn’t appear to be anything of use or importance. Even the supposedly vital document Meyers had in front of him was a letdown. It was a goddamn receipt for an airline flight.

Now I was getting steamed. While I was sitting there waiting, losing precious time against deadline, this jerk was planning another vacation with his idiot buddies. I started clearing my throat, shifting my weight, and making other not-so-subtle signs of impatience. But Randall N. Meyers was paying me no mind whatsoever, to the point it was getting downright bizarre.

How long had I been sitting there? I wanted to look at what time it was on my cell phone. But, of course, I couldn’t. The square-jaws downstairs had taken it from me.

Finally, Meyers looked up.

“Sorry about that,” he said, with a weighty sigh. “I hope Monty was courteous.”

“Yeah, he was a gem,” I said. “You must have sent him to all the best obedience schools.”

A brief look of amusement passed over Meyers’s face, then faded.

“Do your editors know you’re here?” he asked.

“I ran out before I had a chance to tell anyone,” I said. “But don’t worry. If I tell them we’ve got a good story, they’ll back me.”

“Very good,” he said. “Excellent.”