Winter was staring at the evidence tent while Shapiro spoke. He saw Archer and Finch inside the tent where technicians were pointing out evidence bags. Archer had clearly taken charge.
“I can only imagine how difficult this has to be for you.” Shapiro paused. “I know how close you were to Inspector Nations.”
Winter nodded, too full of emotion to speak.
“The FBI suspects someone in WITSEC provided inside intelligence. This is an FBI investigation, and we're here at their pleasure and are being excluded from participation. Tell me what happened last night,” Shapiro said. “The broad strokes.”
Winter told Shapiro the story, ending with the UNSUB who knew his name. Shapiro listened without interrupting, then shifted so his back was to the FBI's tents.
“I've ordered the WITSEC director to open an internal investigation to examine everything, including the various methods of communication we utilized and whether any of the transmissions could have been intercepted. I don't believe there is a leak from within WITSEC. We assumed that there are so many flags, triggers, and hidden traps that it's impossible. For decades we've tried to imagine every way a thing like this could be accomplished and we constantly design, refine, and implement counter measures. Only a handful of men had access to enough of the information to furnish the necessary intelligence, and, believe me, we monitor all of them closely. The fact that one of the assailants knew your name means, either he somehow recognized you, or somebody within the service sold us out.”
Winter nodded slowly. He hoped it was the latter, because the former was too terrible to contemplate.
42
Later, while Shapiro was in the Lear with Sean, Winter wandered over to the evidence tent. He listened to the sound of the refrigeration compressor atop the chiller unit as he stood outside the tent and studied the bags littering one of the tables.
He found himself staring at an open case, which held a badge and a scorched ID picture of Dixon beside it. Archer's voice interrupted his thoughts. “Deputy Massey, can you match some of this with individuals for us?”
“Sorry… sure.”
Inside the tent, he let his eyes wander over the articles, and he pointed to an Astros baseball cap that had been burned away to the brim. “That was Beck's.” He lifted a bag containing a watch. “This was Greg Nation's.” The watch's crystal was shattered, the stainless-steel band broken at the clasp.
“What about this?” Archer pointed to another bag, containing a foil wrapper and a Spectra film box. “They found this outside the hangar.”
“There are no cameras allowed in a WITSEC operation.”
“Thoughts?” Archer probed.
Winter inspected the box and foil through the plastic. “Opened recently, because it doesn't look weathered. Was it discarded by one of the firemen or sheriff deputies?”
“Already checked that. No fingerprints on the package or the foil.”
“Then I imagine the killers dropped it. Maybe they took pictures of Devlin for proof to the client that they'd succeeded. Easier than lugging a corpse around.”
“Good guess.”
A technician set an old Boy Scout backpack on the “incoming” evidence table. The initials G.W. were on the flap.
“Just a minute,” Archer asked. “What's that?”
“It was out in the debris field,” the tech answered. “There are some unusual objects inside.”
“Did that belong to any of your team?” Archer asked Winter.
“No,” Winter said.
“Put it down,” Archer told the tech, pointing to a clean space on the table. The supervising agent in charge tugged his right glove on tighter, then opened the backpack. Winter watched as Archer took the contents out one at a time, placing each on the table.
“A pair of eight-by-forty binoculars with a broken lens, a slightly used votive candle, a partially filled box of cigarettes, Penthouse magazine dated August of this year, a book of matches, and a pocket knife.”
“Probably belonged to a kid,” Winter commented. “When was this place closed?”
Archer called out to a rotund sheriff's deputy rinsing his hands under a flowing faucet. “Hey, Deputy, when was this place closed down?”
“It was in full swing until after Vietnam.” He took Archer's question as a summons and approached, shaking his hands to dry them. “It was used some, here and there, until the mid-'80s. It's been locked up tight ever since.”
“Maybe a kid of a caretaker, worker's kid?”
“No caretaker that I know of,” the deputy replied. His chrome nameplate said SLOOP.
“Well, some kid was in here at some point since the August Penthouse hit the racks,” Winter said laconically.
The deputy nodded slowly and studied the backpack. “G.W. We got a pair of boys-George Williams and Matthew Barnwell-both twelve-year-olds, reported missing by their parents last night.”
Archer turned to Finch, who stood in the nearby command tent ten feet away, watching Archer like a student. “I want a copy of that missing-persons report.”
“Where exactly was this pack found?” Archer asked.
“It was outside the debris field,” the evidence tech replied. He pointed to several acres defined by a fluttering line of yellow crime-scene tape that ran between metal stakes pushed into the ground. The field was being searched by at least fifty FBI and ATF technicians dressed in white jumpsuits and wearing surgical gloves. Hundreds of small plastic flags on wire rods marked the debris. Winter knew that red ones indicated where body parts had been located. Other colors stood for personal belongings, parts of the aircraft, or suspected bomb parts.
“I can show you exactly where it was.”
Archer called out. “I want a K-nine unit over there.”
Several of the men inside the tent filed out into the field like swarming bees, flowing toward the place the tech had pointed out. Winter didn't accompany them. Instead, he looked again at the shattered wristwatch.
The Omega's rear plate, he knew, commemorated the first manned landing on the moon. He remembered Greg saying once that as an orphaned child, he had stood barefoot in his grandmother's hard-dirt yard and stared up at the moon, desperately trying to see the astronauts she had told him were up there. His grandmother had told him it was a mighty long way to go to put up a little flag nobody could see. He knew then that he was standing between two worlds. One world was the only one he had ever known-poverty and hopelessness. The other was a magical place where a man could stand on the moon's surface. Greg told Winter that, at that moment, he didn't know how it would be possible, but he was certain which world he was going to live in. From that night on, he did everything he could to jump into that other world, like it was some passing train, and get a seat inside it. He had purchased the “Astronaut” watch when he was in the military so he would never forget that night-or the vow he'd made-a world away.
Sean and Shapiro stood outside the Lear's door, still talking. As Shapiro began walking toward the tent, Sean used her hand as a visor and scanned the landscape before climbing back up into the airplane.
When Shapiro saw Archer and the others, now a hundred yards distant, he asked, “What's happening?”
Winter set the bag containing the watch back on the table. “Found evidence a couple of missing boys might have been here. They're going to have a dog try and find them.”
“God, if the boys ran across those people…” Shapiro said, then broke off.
A sheriff's-department Explorer pulled off the road. The driver stopped, climbed out, and opened the back door. A German shepherd bounded out, straining the lead the driver was holding. After the animal sniffed the backpack, he tugged his handler toward the fence on the far side of the field. The officers and emergency personnel followed along like a lynch mob.
“Fred Archer is the case officer,” Shapiro said abruptly.
