Pete Stanton makes the situation slightly clearer when he calls and says that the fingerprints of the guy I killed showed that he was, in fact, Mike Carelli, the Special Forces officer who supposedly piloted the chopper. I didn’t recognize him from the picture, but as in the case of Archie Durelle, the picture I had seen was seven years old.
Either way, I’m getting a little tired of people trying to kill people that I care about, including myself. And I’m getting more than a little angry about my government standing by and not doing anything to prevent it.
I call Alice Massengale at her Newark office and tell her I want to see her about her representations at the hearing. She seems reluctant, so I use the same approach on her that I used on Hamadi: I tell her that if she doesn’t meet with me today, she can learn what I have to say by turning on the television tomorrow. It works again, and an hour later I’m in her office.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Carpenter.”
Cindy Spodek said that Massengale can be trusted completely, but at this point I’m not ready to give her the complete benefit of the doubt. I’m certainly not concerned about the social niceties. “You misled the court about Stacy Harriman.”
If she’s cowed by my direct approach, she hides it well. “That’s a serious accusation.”
I nod. “And an inaccurate one. I should have said, “You misled the court about Diana Carmichael.”
“Diana Carmichael,” she says, concealing whether the name has any meaning for her. “Suppose you tell me what you are talking about.”
I continue. “Here’s some of what I know.” I then proceed to detail some, but not all, of the facts I have learned about Hamadi et al. I tell her that a group of people stole billions during the chaotic reconstruction period in Afghanistan and then faked their deaths and disappeared.
“But it is difficult to disappear with a huge amount of ill-gotten money and exist in society. So an elaborate scheme was set up, whereby fake companies would do fake business with each other, showing huge earnings in the process. But in reality they were earning nothing; the money that they received was the stolen money, effectively laundering it. Hamadi was the front man for the operation.
“I know a lot more than that,” I say, “and what I don’t know, I am going to discover through the Freedom of Information Act.”
“Mr. Carpenter, you can believe me or not, but the story you are telling is one I am completely unfamiliar with.”
“If that’s true, then you were set up to mislead the court, and you should want to help me get the truth out. Because I am going to prove that the government you represent knowingly withheld information, stifled investigations, and then deliberately misled the court. It resulted in my client twice being convicted of a crime he didn’t commit.”
“All I can say is that I will look into your allegations.”
“Good. You should start with Hamadi.”
She nods and asks me if I can write out all the particulars of what I know about him.
I start to do so, and I’m almost finished when I realize something else I can give her. “I have pictures of the people at his funeral. They meant nothing to me, but maybe…”
I stop talking, and the pause becomes so long that she says, “Maybe what?”
All of a sudden I’m not inclined to explain it to her. All I want to do is get out of her office and go home, because I just realized who is not in those funeral pictures.
On the way home I call Sam Willis and ask him to come right over with the pictures. I want to go through them again, just to make sure I’m right.
Next I call Kevin and ask him to check whether a golden retriever was reported missing to the Essex County Animal Shelter during a specific one-week period back in March.
Sam is already at my house and set up when I arrive, and I look at each one slowly and carefully. I still don’t recognize anyone, which is exactly what I was hoping.
I call Karen, Pete Stanton, and Marcus and ask them all to come over on a matter of urgent importance. I want Pete with us where we’re going, because law enforcement should be present, and I want Marcus with us in case we run into a couple of hundred bad guys with machetes and bazookas.
Karen, Pete, Marcus, and I are in the car and heading off within forty-five minutes. Kevin calls me on my cell while we’re on the road, and he confirms exactly what I suspected about the animal shelter records.
Next I ask Kevin to check the records of Gary Winston, the surgeon who was on that chopper. What I want to know is what kind of surgery he specialized in. Actually, I believe I already know, and I just want to confirm it.
Karen is surprised when I tell her that we are heading for the cabin, and shocked when I tell her why. I’m encouraged when Pete hears what I have to say and doesn’t ridicule it, but even if he did, it wouldn’t matter.
I think I’m right.
I’d better be right.
It takes almost an hour and a half to get up there, and we park close but out of sight of anyone in the cabin. I’m not sure how to go about approaching it, since there is a very good chance that gunfire might be heading our way when we do.
Pete and Marcus come up with a plan; they will sneak up and enter the cabin, disarming anyone who might be inside, while Karen and I wait by the car for them to signal to us that it’s safe to come up. As far as I’m concerned, it’s the perfect plan.
Pete and Marcus head off, and for the next fifteen minutes Karen and I hear nothing. No voices, no gunfire, no noise of any kind. I’m trying to figure out whether that’s good or bad news, when my cell phone rings.
“Come on in,” Pete says.
“Is there anyone there?” I ask.
“Come on in,” he repeats, and hangs up.
Karen and I drive the rest of the way to the cabin. No one is outside and everything is completely quiet, and I have a brief flash of fear that Pete was forced to call me and that we could be walking into a trap. Then I remember that Marcus is with him, and I get a new infusion of artificial courage.
Karen follows me as I enter the cabin. Pete is leaning against the counter that separates the kitchen area from the main room. Someone I assume to be Anthony Banks lies on the floor unconscious, with Marcus standing over him.
In the corner of the room, lying on an area rug and chewing on a toy, is Reggie, looking none the worse for wear from his adventure.
And sitting at the small dining table is a woman I recognize as Yasir Hamadi’s live-in lover/employee, Jeannette Nelson.
Also known as Diana Carmichael.
Also known as Stacy Harriman.
Even though she was expecting this, Karen doesn’t recognize her at first, but slowly it starts to sink in. She stares at her as if trying to process what she is seeing. Stacy just sits there, sullen and silent, as Karen slowly walks toward her.
“You,” Karen says slowly, “are a piece of shit.”
* * * * *
YOU WOULD THINK that discovering that a murder victim is actually alive would be enough to quickly spring from prison the man wrongly convicted of the killing.
Unfortunately, the system does not work nearly that efficiently. The state has to endlessly investigate the developments, a hearing has to be scheduled, and witnesses have to be heard. That would all be fine, except that Richard is sitting in jail.
His reaction when I told him that Stacy was alive and Reggie was safe was not what I expected. I expected shock and euphoria; what I got was an almost dulled acceptance. This man has been battered and beaten down by events, and I have to get him out of that cell as soon as possible.
To that end I once again call to arrange a meeting with Alice Massengale. This time she doesn’t resist at all, asking me to come in right away, which I’m happy to do.