Andrew Klavan - Empire of Lies

FBI Special Agent Mark Sarkell: "We had several contacts from Mr. Diggs, and our investigators listened to his scenario very carefully. But after thoroughly checking the facts we were satisfied there was no credible substance to his accusations. We have no reason to believe that Mr. Rashid is a terrorist."

Casey's tearful mother: "He called me that last day. He said he didn't think he could take it anymore. He said no one believed him and the city was going to be blown up, and he couldn't stand to just sit by and watch it happen."

That was the last anyone ever heard of Casey Diggs. By then, he was living alone in a run-down railroad flat on the Lower East Side. No one saw him go out that last night. No one knew until almost a week later that he had not returned. In fact, it wasn't entirely certain what date he actually disappeared. When his mother finally called the landlord and asked him to check the apartment, there was nothing there but a fold-out futon, a table, a chair, and some milk gone bad. Even Casey's laptop computer was, like Casey himself, nowhere to be found.

More interviews. A glamour-puss private-detective lady hired by Casey's parents: "My own theory is that Casey was suffering from the beginnings of schizophrenia. He's probably living on the streets somewhere now. Worst case: Maybe he committed suicide and his body hasn't been found yet. But I still have hope."

That seemed to be the consensus. The cops, the feds, even Casey's parents seemed to believe their son had gone mad and was wandering homeless somewhere. There was only one dissenter from that point of view, in fact: the stick-insect roommate, Brent Withers.

"I think we can all agree that Casey was out of control," he told us. "He was abusing any number of substances. Acting in an erratic, irrational way. But it wasn't my impression he was delusional or anything like that. I'm not a doctor, but he didn't seem that way to me."

"You think he might've been telling the truth?" This was Patrick Piersall's voice coming from offscreen. "You think there might've actually been some kind of conspiracy?"

There was a long silence, and Withers's eyes closed and opened once in slow motion. Then he lifted his hands from his lap and let them slowly, slowly sink down again. "I wouldn't say that. I wouldn't want to say that."

Then there was Piersall for the finale, walking toward us again down that same street in Anytown True Crime USA. He came right up to the camera this time, right into our living rooms practically, his veiny nose practically protruding from the screen. His right eyebrow was jacked to the max. His syncopated delivery was amped to the point where every phrase was delivered like a punch to the head.

"Is. Casey Diggs. Still alive? Did he. Commit suicide? Run away? Or. Is there. A darker possibility? Is it possible that this troubled young man-uncovered-a conspiracy of terror? That the-threat-that everyone claimed he imagined-was, in fact, real? Is it possible-that Casey Diggs's-paranoia-wasn't-paranoia at all? And that his-attempts-to expose a-deadly-plot against the city of New York-finally-brought vengeance down-upon his own head?"

Good questions, I thought, stretching my eye sockets, trying to clear the wine out of my brain. They were damn good questions. I mean, weren't they? I mean, if Casey Diggs really was Serena's mystery man, wasn't it at least possible that her story was true? And if her story was true, wasn't it possible that Diggs was murdered out in the Great Swamp because of what he found out about this Professor Rashid?

A phone number came up on the screen.

"If you have any information concerning the whereabouts of Casey Diggs-call this toll-free number," said Patrick Piersall. "Police investigators are standing by. Your call is completely confidential."

Without thinking, I sat up straight and swept my phone off the coffee table. I called the number on the screen. Instantly, I heard a busy signal. Boop boop boop. It happened so fast, it sounded as if the line had been disconnected. I tried again. Got the busy signal again. Right away: Boop boop boop.

I ended the call. I set the phone back down on the table. I considered it there. Did I even want to do this? I wondered. Did I want to call these people? Set the police on Serena? Set the media on her? Just because Casey Diggs reminded me of the guy in a story she told me that probably wasn't even true in the first place? I mean, sure, if there really was a terrorist plot… If there'd really been a murder… If Diggs really was the right person… But was that the truth? Or was I just drunk? Just tired and unfocused after a long, emotional day. Seeing connections where none existed. Like my mother before me.

I picked up the remote and turned the TV off. I dropped back against the couch with a weary sigh. I pinched the bridge of my nose and closed my eyes. I had to think about this, pray about it. What was real here? What wasn't? What the hell should I do? What the hell was the right thing to do?

I was asleep in seconds.

Let me say here, as I've said at least a dozen times in at least a dozen places, that contrary to what you may have heard on CBS News and read in the Times, I never "decided to take matters into my own hands." I never set out to "investigate Diggs's allegations on my own." And I certainly never thought to make any kind of end run around the police or the FBI or Homeland Security or anyone. Trust me on this. I'm trying to portray myself as honestly as I can, all my flaws and failings on parade. But I'm not an idiot. If you're dealing with serious bad guys, the people you want to call are professional anti-bad-guy good guys-I know that. In real life, mysteries are not going to be solved by some small-city land developer, a former journalist who hadn't done any street reporting for over a decade and a half.

No. I went to the university the next morning because I simply didn't know what to think and, not knowing what to think, I didn't know what I should do. By the light of day, all my fears and suspicions of the night before seemed ridiculously implausible. What on earth made me believe that Casey Diggs was the man Serena met at The Den? What were the odds I had fresh information about a terrorist plot the FBI had already investigated and dismissed? And also, what kind of unbelievable coincidence would it be if I discovered all this because of Patrick Piersall, this ghost of a former actor who had been weirdly haunting my TV the last couple of days? The whole scenario was creepy and preposterous, like something out of my mother's notebooks. In fact, it was scary how much it was like that.

In the light of day, it seemed far more likely that Serena was a liar, that the FBI was on the job protecting America from its enemies, thank you very much, and that Casey Diggs was some bitter schizo who had nothing to do with anything and would eventually turn up drunk in a motel somewhere ranting about the end of the world. The best thing for me to do was forget about all of them and go home to my wife and children, where I belonged.

Which is exactly what I wanted to do. But I couldn't. Not until I was sure.

So, just after sunrise, I drove the red Mustang back into the city. I headed up to the Heights, to the university. It was another bright morning with the air cold and sad. The sun was falling in moted beams on the brownstones and the shop awnings. I had the radio playing light rock as I cruised the avenue and side streets around the campus looking for a parking space. I finally found a metered spot about three blocks from the school. I pulled up alongside it, my turn signal clicking.

Just then, the music on the radio ended and an announcer said: "And now, an entertainment minute with Sally Sterling."

I laughed out loud as I put the car into reverse. America must be starved for what this broad was feeding them because she seemed to be everywhere.