Dream of a Falling Eagle

Chapter 5

Dr. Guy Fournier's office at the university was on the third floor of a four-story, rather nondescript building called Faul Hall on the southwest edge of the sprawling campus in lower Manhattan, just off Washington Square. I had decidedly mixed feelings upon returning to the university where I had worked for so many years at a job I'd loved, abruptly walking away because of an act of betrayal, one of a series of betrayals that had almost cost Garth and me our lives. I was early for our appointment, and the door was open, so I went in. The office was rather long and narrow, with two walls taken up by floor-to-ceiling built-in bookcases crammed full of books in English and French. There was a small wooden desk to the left of the doorway, and its surface was piled high with a clutter of student papers and books festooned with multicolored book markers. A gleaming computer workstation was set up against the opposite wall, next to a dirt-streaked window that looked out on a fire escape and a view of the campus that would have been more pleasant if the window hadn't been so dirty. The work-station and its cleared perimeter comprised the only neat area in the office; the floor was littered with stalagmite-like stacks of more books and old magazines, also in English and French. It looked more like a neglected storage area than a place to meet students. I sat down on a stack of ancient National Geographies and waited.

Dr. Guy Fournier arrived precisely at 11:15, the appointed time. His office might be shabby, but he was not. The white-haired man wore sharply creased black slacks, expensive black loafers, and a lightweight gray blazer over a white cotton turtleneck. The man had presence. He was a little over six feet, and stood very erect, almost as if he were at attention. In person, his large, gleaming black eyes in the triangular face were even more striking than in his photograph, which had apparently been taken a few years before. I put him in his early sixties.

"A pleasure to meet you, Dr. Fournier," I said, rising off the magazines and extending my hand. "I'm Robert Frederickson. I very much appreciate your agreeing to see me. Your door was open, so I came in. I hope you don't mind."

"The pleasure is mine, Dr. Frederickson," he said in a rich baritone that was pleasantly laced with a rather lilting Creole accent. He set down a worn leather briefcase on top of a stack of papers on his desk, moved across the room, and turned around the chair at the computer workstation so that it was facing the desk. "My door is always open, especially to such a distinguished visitor as yourself. Please sit down."

I did, pulling the chair even closer. Fournier went behind his desk and settled himself into a wooden swivel chair that creaked as he leaned back and crossed his legs, folding his hands with their long fingers across his flat stomach. "Dr. Robert Frederickson," he continued, smiling easily. "Mongo le Magnifique-the name you used when you were a star with the Statler Brothers Circus. Your friends still call you Mongo. Criminologist, ex-college professor who taught at this very university, black-belt karate expert, private investigator extraordinaire. Along with your brother, an ex-police detective, you have been involved in some most unusual-one might even say bizarre-cases. I particularly enjoyed reading about your exploits with that previously unknown creature."

"You seem to know a lot about me."

He shrugged. "Doesn't everyone? As you can see by looking around you, I read a lot, and you are a celebrity. Time magazine once referred to you as 'the deadly dwarf.'"

"I must have missed that issue."

"People here still talk about you all the time. It seems you were an extremely popular professor, always playing to a packed house. And you knew your stuff, used to publish a lot of research papers. There are wild rumors, but nobody seems to know for certain the reason you left. You and your brother are currently working as part of a Presidential Commission examining the CIA. Your particular assignment is to investigate and attempt to document alleged illegal activities by the CIA in Haiti."

"I'm impressed. May I ask how you know all this, Doctor?"

"The formation of the Presidential Commission was never formally announced, but its existence and task are no secret to people who follow politics closely. It was reported in both The New York Times and The Washington Post. Also, I'm quite active in Haitian affairs in this country. What you're doing is common knowledge in the Haitian community throughout this country. We-most of us, that is-appreciate what you and the president are trying to do. There is much hope for righting great wrongs, but there is also a good deal of terror. Hope is not a feeling that comes easily to my people; it has been crushed, along with their bodies, too many times. News of what has happened to people who spoke to you-or who might have been willing to speak to you-has traveled fast. I'm afraid you'll meet with considerable resistance from any remaining witnesses you wish to talk to."

"Actually, we're in the process of wrapping things up."

"Yet you are here, and I assume your visit is in connection with your investigation. As for myself, I am not afraid. I would love nothing better than to help bring the CIA criminals to justice; they helped ruin my country. Unfortunately, despite my extensive experience with the dupes of these criminals, any hard evidence of criminal activity I have is probably considerably less than any hard evidence you now have. I can regale you for hours with some blood-chilling stories, but my guess is that you've already heard all of them. If you've come to me for some kind of documentation, I'm afraid you've wasted your time. As I'm sure you're aware, I was considered a pariah, and officials of the Church, government, and army did not exactly whisper secrets in my ear. However, I will try to answer any questions you may have, and I will be more than happy to appear as a witness at congressional hearings to testify to atrocities I have seen-but I can't prove any connection to the CIA."

"That's very decent and courageous of you, Professor. I'll discreetly pass along your offer to the head of the commission, who'll keep it in the strictest confidence. Actually, I've come to see you about another matter."

The man with the coal-black eyes and mesmerizing gaze frowned slightly. "Oh? And what would that be?"

"I wanted to ask if you have any idea why someone would place your photograph on a voodoo altar."

Fournier leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on the desk and lacing his long fingers together under his narrow chin. "My photograph on a voodoo altar?"

"Yes, sir. In the place of honor, if you will-right in the center. You seemed to be the point of the display."

He lowered his gaze, sighed, shook his head slightly. "This is very embarrassing."

"Why is that, sir?"

Fournier looked back up, smiled wryly. "Haiti is a Catholic country, as I'm sure you know, Dr. Frederickson. Virtually everyone is Catholic. But Haiti is also, as you know, the home of a panoply of pagan practices transplanted there by African slaves, a belief system Americans call voodoo. Unfortunately, many ordinary Haitians tend to mix the two belief systems-voodoo and Catholicism; Catholic saints become voodoo saints, and vice versa. Haitians see no contradiction. Voodoo is very old, and it's embedded in the fabric of our society. I was known as a political dissident and a fighter for the rights of the underclass-which is ninety-nine percent of our people. I was considered by many people to be a hero, and now, apparently, one of those misguided souls has promoted me to saint. The person was probably using my photograph as an object of worship."

"That doesn't seem likely in this case." "Oh?"

"The guy who had your picture on his altar was an ex-general by the name of Vilair Michel, a murderer and torturer who ran Fort Dimanche for a while. He was in this country illegally. You wouldn't exactly have been a hero to him, much less a saint. His background indicates he'd have preferred to have your head on a platter rather than as an object of worship on an altar. I'd have liked to ask him myself what it was all about, but when we found him his heart had been cut out."

"Another one," Fournier said, grimacing and turning his head away sharply. "That's disgusting."

"He was a mess, all right."

"I hadn't heard about this one. When did the murder take place?"

"It's a fresh kill."

Fournier shook his head, looked back at me. "Another potential witness?"

"Yes. Finding your photograph on a voodoo altar in Michel's house is just a loose end-a curiosity, really. It's a long shot that it means anything that could be useful to us, but I thought it was worth taking a subway ride to check it out."

He again shrugged his shoulders. "I'm sorry I can't be of help. Symbolism plays a very large part in voodoo, as in other religions. If there were other objects on the altar, they could help explain what my photograph was doing there."

I opened the manila envelope I had brought with me, took out the two photographs, handed him the head-and-shoulders shot. "This is a copy of your photo."

He made a soft hissing sound. "It looks like an army surveillance photo."

"And this is how it was displayed on the altar."

Fournier studied the second photograph for a few moments, then smiled thinly as he slowly nodded his head. "Yes," he said, handing me back the pictures, "this explains it. Very interesting."

"It means something to you?"

"This is what's called an array of atonement. Apparently your murderer and torturer was truly sorry for the crimes he had committed. He was seeking forgiveness. That's the meaning of the cross, voodoo fetishes, and veves on the altar. My photograph almost certainly represents a symbol of how he felt he should have behaved during his lifetime. He may also have been praying to me for intercession with God, as a Catholic does to a saint. That's unclear. What is clear is his regret for past misdeeds and his desire for redemption. That's probably why he agreed to cooperate with you in the first place. It's a shame he was killed before you could talk to him. I believe you would have found him most cooperative."

"It certainly is a shame," I said, replacing the photographs, rising to my feet, and extending my hand. "But at least you've satisfied my curiosity. Thank you for your time, Professor."

Fournier stood up, shook my hand. "I'm sorry I can't be of help to you in tying the CIA to what went on over there for decades."

So was I. "It's all right, Professor. The fact that you're willing to testify to what you did see going on could prove very helpful."

"I can provide a good deal of information on corruption within the Church in Haiti, and the collaboration of the Church hierarchy with the ruling class. I'll be happy to write it all down for you."

"Thanks, but I think we'll leave the Church out of this one. We've got enough other things to do that are more important than getting into a spitting contest with Rome. Thanks again."

I used a pay phone to call Carl Beauvil in Spring Valley to tell him what I had learned about Dr. Guy Fournier and the photograph; I didn't see how the information could be of any use to him, but his willingness to help us deserved appropriate payback. Then I headed over to the Federal Building to see if some long-overdue documents we had requested under the Freedom of Information Act had arrived. They hadn't. Since I was out of the house anyway, I decided to catch up on some background research I'd been putting off, so I headed uptown to the public library at Forty-second Street.

It was late afternoon when I got back to the brownstone. Garth was hard at work hacking away at the computer in my office. He was still using only his index fingers, but he started wriggling the other digits when he looked up and saw me. "How'd it go?"

"Total waste of time. It seems the general was feeling a little guilty about all the people he'd castrated and blinded, and he was using Fournier's picture to try to pray his way into voodoo heaven."

Garth grunted. "Somehow I doubt he made it."

"Somehow I agree."

There was a knock on the door, and I turned as Francisco entered the office. The bright floral print tie he was wearing with his gray three-piece suit clashed with the somber expression on his face. "You've been gone much longer than expected, sir."

"Yeah, well, I had a couple of errands to-"

"The protocol we established at the beginning of this investigation calls for the both of you to leave an anticipated daily schedule with me, and then if either you, Garth, or the two of you together are going to be away longer than expected, you call the office. If I'm not here, you leave a message on the office machine."

I looked over at Garth. "Were you worried?"

Garth pretended to think about it for a few moments, then said, "Not really."

Francisco was not amused. "I still think we should stick to the protocol, sir. You didn't check in the other night either. I have responsibilities. The protocol was set up when you accepted this assignment because it was agreed that the two of you could be in constant danger. If I think anything may have happened to the two of you, I'm to contact Veil immediately, and he'll provide for my personal safety while I deliver the work you've completed to the senator, with copies to the police and FBI. I almost did exactly that the night the two of you spent in the Spring Valley police station. For all I knew, you could both have been dead. I'm not being overly protective, sir. Considering the nature of the enemy, this is just good business practice. It was your idea."

"You're right, Francisco," I said seriously. "Garth and I have both been a bit forgetful. We'll try to improve our performance in the future."

"Thank you, sir," Francisco replied, and smiled. "I have a return address for the plagiarist, sir."

"Already?"

He shrugged. "It wasn't rocket science, sir. I didn't think it would be that difficult, so I didn't bother to hire a temp. A number of the editors I spoke with were familiar with Mr. Dickens' work, and they were all sympathetic. One of them had just received a submission from this Jefferson Kelly, so she still had the stamped, self-addressed return envelope that came with it. The address is in Huntsville, Alabama. I got a telephone number and called. It's the home district office of William P. Kranes."

Garth had resumed typing, but now he paused and looked up from the computer. "The William P. Kranes?"

Francisco nodded. "Yes, Garth. That one. The new Speaker of the House of Representatives."

Garth and I looked at each other, and my brother raised his eyebrows slightly. "Interesting development," he said quietly.

Indeed it was. Representative William P. Kranes was a pudgy, gremlin-like figure with a head of bushy brown hair and elfin smile, one of several ultra-conservative, howling junkyard dogs of C-SPAN who'd become leader of the pack, surfing to power in the last election on the crest of a powerful wave he'd been instrumental in creating, a poisonous, rushing tsunami of homophobia, antifeminism, and an entire devil's thesaurus of hysterical code words intended to give aid and comfort to anybody who was antiblack, antipoor, anti-anything that wasn't basically white, middle-class, and male. He was the most powerful man in Congress, now third in line of succession to the presidency, but only one of several southerners who now sat in key positions of power. Much to the dismay of both Garth and myself, it seemed to us that in the last election the Confederacy had finally won the last, great battle of the War Between the States, demonstrating without question that what a majority of Americans wanted to be- for a while, at least-was part of a nation of antebellum southerners in a time and place when states' rights ruled and "people of color," immigrants, women, homosexuals, and virtually every other minority group "knew their place," which was at the back of the bus, or even under it. Garth had been only half joking when he'd remarked one day that it could only be a matter of time before lynching was legalized as part of some new "Law and Order" package.

"Nice job, Francisco," I said. "Now you can go back to your other work."

"Yes, sir," Francisco replied, and left to return to his office at the front.

"So," I said, walking over to Garth, "the situation is not without its irony. It turns out that one of William P. Kranes's racist, fascist flunkies is our copycat. Wouldn't he be surprised to learn whose work he's been stealing and claiming as his own? I think it's funny as hell."

I knew Garth thought it was funny too, but he wasn't smiling. "I'd pay good money to be able to set up and watch a meeting between Moby Dickens and his admirer."

"And I'd double it. But you know it isn't going to happen. Delivering the bad news to Mr. Kelly is part of our job."

Garth nodded. "It could also be a woman, someone using 'Jefferson Kelly' as a pseudonym. Kranes is a big shot and that's a big district to service. Even so, how many people can he have working there, with access to office mail? It shouldn't be that hard to dig him-or her-out. He's probably wearing a T-shirt with 'I Am a Poet' written on it."

"One of us can pop down there and have a chat with Mr. Kelly after we finish the report."

Garth shook his head. "It won't wait. Unfinished business is a distraction we don't need."

"Unfinished business. You're joking, right?"

"No," Garth replied evenly, fixing me with his steady gaze. "I thought I'd explained to you-in detail-the metaphysics of this thing. Taking care of Mr. Dickens' problem is ultimately more important than trying to cure America of the CIA. In the end, all we're probably going to get from the CIA investigation is a lot of grief, frustration, booing, and hissing. But with this, we help Moby Dickens get his soul back. Think about it."

"I am thinking about it. It'll wait two and a half weeks."

"No. It won't."

"Squirrelly, Garth. Very squirrelly."

My brother didn't smile. Finally I rolled my eyes, slapped my forehead, and continued. "Jesus! I'll send Francisco."

"No good. One of us has to go. Somebody has to read this Kelly the riot act, and Francisco's not the one to do that."

"Reading people the riot act is your department. If you think it's so important to do this now, then you go. Metaphysically speaking, that seems the right course of action."

Garth again shook his head. "Still no good. Kranes is a big bag of pus; every time he opens his mouth, something poisonous pops out. I might run into him there. If I lay eyes on the fat, hypocritical, demagogue fascist son of a bitch, I might tear his head off."

"Congress is in special session, which means Kranes is almost certainly in Washington. And if he's not there, he's off someplace with his forces of darkness planning for their party's convention. You won't run into him."

"Well, I have to assume that anybody working for him is also a bag of pus. I don't trust myself. This requires a deft hand, Mongo. It's best that you go."

"Garth, stop jerking me around! I went to see Fournier, so it's your turn to go on the fucking metaphysical road. Considering the way you chug along on that computer, we'll waste a whole day if I go."

"The report will get done on time." Garth paused, leaned back in my chair, and smiled slyly. "We'll flip a coin."

"I always lose coin tosses with you."

"Maybe this time it will be different."

It wasn't.