George Chesbro - Shadow of a Broken Man

"Why is it that I didn't see your name in any of the reports on the accident?"

His thin eyebrows arched slightly. "Would you really expect to?"

"Was Harry Barnes with you?"

"The watchman? Yes." He finally blinked. "You've been very busy, Dr. Frederickson. And resourceful."

"I'm a good reader; I was a Bluebird all through first grade. I'm also good in math. If I were to add two plus two in this case, I think I'd end up with a bribe. Did you set Harry Barnes up in the dirty-movie business in exchange for his forgetting the fact that you were there that Sunday?"

"All right," Lippitt said quietly, his eyes shifting. "I suppose that does become obvious."

"Was Barnes even there?"

A long pause. "No," he said at last. "But I was."

"Who the hell is Harry Barnes?"

"An ex-watchman who worked in Victor Rafferty's lab, as advertised. That much is true; and the story of what happened to Rafferty is true. I simply could not afford to become involved. You see, you've reached a wrong conclusion from your otherwise astute deductions."

"Have I? Let's take a look at it. A government agent and a world-famous architect are standing around on a catwalk over open smelting furnaces on a Sunday afternoon. You're having a pleasant chat when-whoops! — the architect falls into one of the furnaces. I'll bet that sounds silly even to you."

Lippitt abruptly sat down in a chair, crossed his legs, and lighted a thin cigar. He didn't appear to be amused, and it occurred to me that the man could be dangerous. "Often, what seems silly is the truth, Dr. Frederickson," he said easily, puffing on the cigar.

"Not in this case."

"Why not? I am telling the truth about the most important point: Victor Rafferty died five years ago."

"Lippitt, I don't think anybody saw Rafferty fall into that furnace." He'd stopped blinking again. "For some reason, you and your people want the world to think Rafferty is dead. Why?" I decided to take a wild swing at a ball thrown in from the bleachers. "Is Harry Barnes really Victor Rafferty?"

He almost smiled. "Are you serious?"

"Yeah, kind of. I admit it would be quite a transformation from the Victor Rafferty I've heard about, but I suppose playing porno-film maker is as good a cover as any."

"Cover for what?"

"For whatever work he actually performs for you."

Lippitt rose, put his hands in his pockets, and walked to the window. He didn't turn around when he spoke. "We've prepared a psychological profile on you, Dr. Frederickson. It's sketchy because of the limited time we've had, but it's fascinating nonetheless. Your karate, your Ph. D., your obvious need to achieve. You're aggressive, occasionally hostile, but I suppose that's understandable. You have the mind of a giant trapped in a dwarf's body. A pity."

"My mother thought so too," I said testily. "What's your point?"

He slowly turned and dropped his dead cigar into an ashtray. "My point is that we consider you a dangerous man. I'm not sure how to handle you."

"A suggestion: Try telling me the truth."

"The truth here is irrelevant!" he snapped. Then he sucked in a breath. "It is absolutely essential that you drop this investigation!"

"Essential to whom?"

"To the well-being of innocent people," he answered without hesitation. "Do you know what a 'freak' is?"

"Who would know better?" I said drily.

Lippitt didn't smile. "The term 'freak' has a special meaning in my field. Put simply, a freak is a terrorist, a torturer. Most of the ones I know of are truly psychopathic. They're used on occasion by all countries. Their assignment is simply to spread havoc, but only under special circumstances. Such a man was brought into this situation five years ago but- thankfully-never used. That doesn't mean that he won't be used now if it's discovered that this matter has been brought up again."

"As far as I know, you're the only heavyweight who knows about my interest in Rafferty."

Lippitt laughed shortly, without humor. "Yes, but who knows where your questions will lead? My good man, you have no idea how dangerous this business could become. The others have resources." He tapped the tips of his fingers together a few times while he stared at me, then dropped his hands to his sides. I had the feeling he'd made some kind of decision.

"I'll tell you the truth that you seem to think is so important and I say is irrelevant," he continued. "I know Rafferty is dead because I killed him."

I studied the map of Lippitt's face, but there was no key there to indicate whether or not he was lying. My mouth had suddenly gone dry. "How?" I asked in a cracked voice.

"I shot him to death," Lippitt said evenly. "He was trying to kill me. It was after I shot him that he fell off the catwalk into the furnace."

"Why did you kill him, Lippitt? Why were you after him in the first place?"

"He was about to defect to the Russians. He forced the issue; he backed me into a corner."

"But what would the Russians want with an architect?"

"Rafferty had certain invaluable information. We could not let him share that information with anyone."

"What kind of information?"

Lippitt shook his head. "I can't tell you that, Frederickson."

"Maybe you haven't had the time to cook up that part of your story."

He ignored the barb. "I won't argue with you over something that can't be proved," he said quietly. "Perhaps you should simply give me the benefit of the doubt."

"Why should I do that?"

"To save lives." His even tone lent weight to his words. I suddenly felt brushed back and on the defensive. "Other governments knew that Rafferty had this information," Lippitt continued. "What developed was a race to control Rafferty."

"That would explain the Missing Persons report with your name on it."

"Correct. A number of governments were involved; like us, they would have spared nothing to find him. What Victor Rafferty knew was that valuable. Now, if you continue to stir things up, certain parties may begin to suspect that Rafferty is still alive and they'll begin looking for him. If that happens, Dr. Frederickson, people will die. I guarantee it."

"Is that what happened to Dr. Morton?"

Lippitt caught his reaction a split second too late. "Who is this Dr. Morton?"

"He was Rafferty's neurosurgeon, and I think you know it. He was murdered a few days before the time you say you shot Rafferty. I believe the two cases are linked."

"I wouldn't know anything about that."

I was sure he was lying, and I wondered why. "Somebody else must have shared Rafferty's knowledge," I said.

"Why do you say that?"

"Somebody helped him get out of that locked hospital room," I replied. "If Rafferty had an ally, it seems reasonable to assume that the ally knew what Rafferty knew."

Lippitt shook his head. "Rafferty worked alone. There's a simple explanation for what happened at the hospital: The officer responsible for guarding Rafferty didn't do his job. The door wasn't bolted properly, and the officer fell asleep."

"That's your version. He says he was hypnotized."

"That's rather creative, but it's nonsense. What excuse would you use if you'd been in his place?"

"He also believes that you kept him from being sacked."

"Then he's a senile fool."

"You know, Lippitt, you make it easy to suspect that you and your people have Rafferty and don't want anybody to find out about it."

"And what if we did?" Lippitt snapped, anger flaring in his voice. "There would be nothing you could do about it! The only thing you'd accomplish would be to bring trouble-maybe death-to innocent people. The first person they might go after could be his widow."

"Why? Because she knows what Rafferty knew?"