scare might – just might – flatline him.”
“Okay. It’s plausible so far as to motivation.”
“Good. So he drops him into the scariest place possible.”
“Which is?”
“Hell.”
“Hear me out now,” Knuckles said. “What did Doom describe on that first tape? Going down into the Earth and finding himself in a giant barbecue pit with blazing eyes looking up at him. What would that be except Hell?”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Listen to it again.” Knuckles replayed the tape.
“5688 7854 January 23.5688 7854. My perceptions of the target are…”
Murex suddenly pulled over. “Wait a minute. Stop! Give me that.”
Ray Murex popped out the cassette and inserted one taken from John Doom’s apartment. He let it play for two full minutes.
“Sound like the same guy to you?” Murex asked.
“Not even remotely,” Knuckles returned.
“Ouch.”
They checked other tapes. All the voices matched. Except for the tape found on the body of John Doom.
“Scratch the theory he died doing what he loved best,” Knuckles muttered as Murex got the car back into northbound traffic.
“Suddenly I like Trey Grandmaison,” said Murex.
“Doesn’t fit.”
“What do you mean, doesn’t fit?”
“Whoever staged Doom’s death scene wouldn’t use TIRV paraphernalia if he was connected to TIRV.”
“I still like him. He bears a general resemblance to the mystery man who checked into room 314. And he has gray eyes. Let’s see how he takes our showing up unexpectedly.”
“You still carrying his business card?”
“Yeah.”
Knuckles grinned. “Then maybe he’ll be expecting you.”
“I’ve been expecting you,” said Trey Grandmaison at the door.
Murex kept his voice flat. “You have?”
“Well, either you were going to solve it, or return for more information. Either way, I expected another visit.”
“I’m Bob Knuckles. We’d like to know more about RV.”
“I’m on my way to teach a class. But follow me.”
Grandmaison led them to the barn.
“What is the purpose of a gray room?” asked Knuckles.
“That started in the unit – Stargate. We needed a quiet sealed environment in which to do our work. Gray is a neutral color that won’t influence the viewer’s imagination.”
“Uh-huh,” said Murex.
Knuckles said, “We think John Doom died in a gray room. Could we see yours?”
“Not much to see. But come on.”
The gray room was a flat hue from floor to ceiling. Behind a drop ceiling hung a battery of indirect lights. A gray blanket covered a floor mattress. It was very cold.
Murex asked, “No heat?”
“Ceiling lights will warm it up enough. Most sessions last less than 50 minutes. And I’ve had survival training. Cold doesn’t bother me.”
“What would you call this shade of gray?”
“Slate.”
“Doom had a room like this. But it was lighter in color.”
Grandmaison cocked an eyebrow. “He had a gray room? Then what was he doing RVing in a hotel?”
“That’s what we’d like to know. Where were you over the weekend, Mr Grandmaison?”
Grandmaison didn’t blink. “I returned from teaching an Advanced Applications class in Richmond, Virginia on Sunday morning.”
“How long were you there?”
“All week. Class started that Monday morning.”
“Witnesses?”
“Over 60 people took my AARV class. I can give you their contact information.”
“We may or may not need it,” Murex said glumly.
Knuckles scratched at the inner door. Gray paint flaked off. “Ever lock yourself in by accident?”
“Impossible. There’s no exterior lock.”
Knuckles looked. “You’re right. My mistake.”
“Where was Mrs Grandmaison last week?” asked Murex.
A vein in Trey Grandmaison’s forehead began throbbing. “With me. She assists me on the road. Is there anything else? I have to begin my ERV class.”
Knuckles asked, “Would you mind if we observe? I’m kinda curious about this RV stuff.”
“Happy to. Come on.”
The barn was insulated inside, and quartz space heaters radiated warmth from all four corners. It was barely enough. About a dozen people ranging in age from twentyish to fiftysomething sat on pine folding chairs facing a long table. Behind that stood a portable blackboard. Most shivered in their coats.
Grandmaison announced, “We have two guests from the Boston police investigating a mysterious death in the RV community.”
A woman raised a hand. “Are we going to work it?”
“If we were, you know I wouldn’t frontload you first, would I?”
The class laughed.
“Detectives Murex and Knuckles are just here to satisfy their curiosity.”
Murex stepped forward, showing a morgue photo. “Does anyone here know this man? John Doom?”
No one stirred.
“Does anyone here have a gray room, or knows someone who does?”
Heads shook all around. Murex stepped back.
Grandmaison said, “We’ll begin by debriefing on the overnight target. Who wants to start?”
A man stood and began reciting from a black binder notebook. “My perceptions of the target were of a tall spidery latticelike structure situated in a wide flat area.”
“Good. Next?”
“My perceptions of the target suggest an oil derrick on a land platform-”
Grandmaison interrupted, “Stop. How many times do I have to drill this into you guys? Describe, do not identify. Premature target identification will get you into trouble every time.”
“Sorry. Target was metallic, vertical, man-made, and I got strong sensory impressions of cross-braces and oil smells.”
“Probably associational noise from the derrick concept. Next!”
As the class went around the room, they described structures ranging from a NASA shuttle on its launch pad to high-voltage power line transmission towers.
Murex whispered to Knuckles, “They’re all over the map.”
When the last student was done, Grandmaison rolled up a portable overhead projector.
“Target 2004/0013 is very challenging because of the tendency of the viewer’s conscious mind to force a familiar identification. Hence, a class will bring back similar descriptions, dimensionals and other data, but will often lean toward different interpretations, usually biased by personal knowledge or analytic overlay.”
Grandmaison clicked a switch. The Eiffel Tower appeared on the screen – a white sheet nailed to the wall behind him.
