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"The Roacherian Effect" A novel by John C. Delavan
Chapter One
The man leaning over the vintage 1965 Shelby 427 Cobra sports car was tall, lean and muscular. Piercing blue eyes studied the engine from a deeply tanned face. Slightly unkempt blond hair, bleached to the palest shade of summer straw fell across a brow that seemed to suggest a powerful intelligence.
A quick jerk of the throttle linkage caused the car to rock perceptibly with barely restrained power. The deep, throaty note of the side pipes blast, echoing in the garage, then died back to the loping stumble characteristic of the 485 horsepower, Ford side-oiler engine. Found in storage after twenty-six years, the Cobra, chassis CSX 3152, had been painstakingly rebuilt to SC (Semi-Competition) specs. Satisfied the car was running perfectly Skipper Mason carefully lowered the hood and fastened the two latches that held it in place. He reached in and cut the ignition. The engine died instantly though the echo rumbled on for a moment longer.
"I was saying I need your help on this one, Skip," Bert Johnson said. Bert was chief of security for Intertech Electronics International, Inc., one of the largest research and development firms in the field of electronic warfare equipment in the free world.
Skipper moved around the Cobra carefully wiping non-existent smudges from its bright red, highly polished surface.
Bert knew his friend was listening even though nothing in Skipper's expression or actions gave the slightest hint he was even aware of Bert's presence in the garage with him.
"Frankly, Skip, I'm stumped. We know a file was out of place because Norma Hughs is an absolute freak about having everything in her vault in its place. She came in yesterday morning and found the file in the wrong place and screamed bloody murder about it all the way to the CEO. We'd have thought nothing of it except that the CCTV camera outside the vault also broke down during the late shift the night before. I can't seem to come up with any connection between the two events other than coincidence, but that particular file is extremely sensitive and I have a bad gut feeling something's wrong."
Skipper walked around the gleaming Cobra one more time then dropped the rag in his hand into a red metal trash can and closed the lid. Without looking at Bert or saying a word he slipped out of his coveralls, leaving only his running shorts.
Bert was momentarily envious of the lean, deeply tanned figure before him and his hand moved involuntarily toward his own mid-section where he carried ten extra pounds just above the belt. Skipper worked hard to maintain the physique that caused most women to look twice and made most men envious. Having known him since Army days when he served as team sergeant on Skipper's Green Beret A-Team, Bert knew Skipper would be the last person who would stay in shape just for the sake of personal vanity. He did it because it was part of his life and because his business demanded it.
Skipper knew Bert listened to his gut feelings and that he was usually right on target.
The seeming lack of concern for his narrative didn't fool Bert - he knew it actually bespoke of Skipper's total concentration on what he was saying.
In any event, as soon as Skipper realized his friend was here to ask for his help he knew he'd do anything he could for him. The high price he'd charge Intertech for his services had nothing to do with it; Intertech could well afford it, but Skipper would work for a friend for nothing if need be.
"Okay, Bert. Let me clean up quick and I'll take a run over to your shop and have a look-see. But it'll have to be quick 'cause I'm having lunch with Patti at eleven-thirty." With that Skipper bounded up the stairs three at a time and disappeared into the house.
Bert heaved himself out of the folding lawn chair he'd been sitting in for the past half hour and trudged up the stairs to let himself out the front door. He knew Skipper would arrive at the Intertech complex at just about the same time he would, if he left right away. Skipper loved to make the Cobra run like it was designed to but Bert's company-supplied Chrysler would deliver him at a much more sedate pace.
Out of Bert's sight Skipper leaned heavily against the rough texture of the hallway wall, staring at himself in the gilt-edged mirror at the other end. He inhaled deeply and consciously fought back the old familiar dread that always crept up his spine before a dangerous mission. A premonition? "There's nothing to fear, old buddy," he mumbled aloud to himself, "just Bert covering his tail over an hysterical employee who goofed." But the creepy feeling inside told him there was more to it than that. He shuddered, shook his head and headed for the shower.
As expected Bert saw Skipper rocket down the freeway off-ramp near the Intertech complex right behind him. Bert pulled into the executive parking lot, then met Skipper in the front lobby. The security guard already had a temporary ID badge ready and pretended not to notice the Cobra parked in the red zone right in front of his post. The two men went directly to the vault room. Skipper didn't need the ten cent tour. He'd been here often before, though usually just for a friendly visit with Bert in his office or the cafeteria.
"Norma, this is Skipper Mason, a friend of mine. Skipper's an investigative consultant we call in from time to time to help us out on certain things that fall within his field of expertise. Skipper, this is Norma Hughs, our vault custodian."
Skipper observed a rather plain woman in her late thirties, slim with dark hair just going grey at the temples and at the widow's peak on her forehead. She wore a little too much makeup and her lips were painted beyond their natural line in a garish red that clashed with the lack of color in the rest of her face. Norma was simply dressed in a plain gray suit with matching pumps of imitation crocodile leather.
"Bet she's got a matching handbag, key case and wallet to go with those shoes, too", thought Skipper.
"Hi," he said, with a very disarming smile that revealed nearly perfect straight, white teeth.
Norma's normally rigid standoffishness melted like ice cream in Sahara sunlight. Caught off guard she could only manage to smile shyly in response.
"Do you have a moment to help me, Miss Hughs?" Skipper asked. "It is 'Miss', isn't it?"
"Yes, I think so. And, um, yes, it's 'Miss'." Norma tried to be alluring but it was a skill she'd had precious little opportunity to practice and her effort was a dismal failure.
The effect made Skipper shiver inside but he didn't let it show as he gave Norma and her story his full attention.
"Tell me, Miss Hughs, what exactly did you see and do when you came in to open your vault yesterday? And, please, start from the time you got to the double doors over there," Skipper said, indicating the double security doors at the other end of the room.
Norma was flattered. No one had paid this much attention to her since that nerd from the mail room at the old building asked her to attend a model railroad convention with him two years ago. She was sure the convention might have been at least a little interesting with anyone else, but even now the thought of him made her skin crawl. Besides, never get to know the people you work with too well. Mother had warned her that good jobs are hard to find, and harder to keep when people discover your weaknesses. She had always found mother's advice to be good advice and had no reason to doubt her -- yet.
"Now this man", she thought, "I would go to a steer manure convention with and wish it lasted an extra week!"
"Well, Mr. 'Mason', was it? Yes. I arrive at those doors at precisely eight-fifty-five in the morning. I always arrive at eight-fifty-five with the guard to open the doors for me because their stupid security rules don't allow me to have my own key. No offense, Mr. Johnson, but I have never understood that and probably never will."
Bert smiled patiently. They'd been through this argument often, and Bert had been tired of it since the first time. But, he tried never to show his impatience to employees because, to him, this constituted bad form for a manager at any level.
"Anyway, to continue," Norma said, with a sidelong glance at Bert, "I always arrive at precisely eight-fifty-five a.m. so I can have my vault open for the engineers at nine o'clock sharp. When the guard opened the doors for me I walked across the room over here to my vault and I noticed the camera up there didn't follow me to make sure I'm all right. One can never be too careful, can one? And the rest of the security people here are always so nice." At this she gave Bert an icy glance that he shrugged off without outward concern. Norma went on, without seeming to take a breath.
"Anyway, I went ahead and opened my vault; then shut my inside gate here once I'd locked the big door open. Now I know for sure that no one had fooled around with my big door because every night when I leave I always set my combination dials to certain special numbers. My dials were set just the way I'd left them. But when that nice Dr. Roach came and asked for his project file I discovered that it was misplaced one file back. Now, Mr. Mason, I do not make mistakes like that. Especially with Dr. Roach's file. Do you know he's the only one who doesn't trust his information only to a computer and also keeps a complete file on his project here in the vault?" This fact gave Norma an increased sense of importance and she held her head a little higher. "So, I immediately called security and my supervisor. I assume I did the correct thing, Mr. Mason?"
"I'm sure you did, Norma. May I call you Norma?" Skipper paused and noted that she seemed to catch herself from answering too eagerly as she nodded. Then he continued his gentle interrogation.
"Now, you say the camera didn't follow you? Did anything else appear out of order in this room when you came in?" Skipper hadn't taken his eyes off hers since first addressing her and he could see her reserve was shaken. She'd turned from trying to resist him to trying to please him.
"No, everything else seemed to be in order. Both in the vault and in the room out here."
"Thank you, Norma. If I have any other questions later, may I call you?"
Norma reached for a pen and paper, saying, "Oh, yes, Mr. Mason, please . . ."
Skipper cut her off. "Thanks, but that won't be necessary. I can find you."
Skipper winked at her and abruptly crossed to the corner of the room, climbed up on a chair and looked at the CCTV camera mounted next to the ceiling. The cable leading from the base of the camera through a hole in the supporting frame was new, as was the rubber grommet. He noticed a slight bend in the edge of the hole causing a ripple in the grommet; and, just to the rear and almost hidden by the camera, he spotted a small hole in the wall. Taking out his pen knife, Skipper enlarged the hole and saw the end of a piece of metal.
"Hand me an envelope, will you Bert?" he called over his shoulder. Bert handed him one and Skipper pried the object out, along with a slightly larger chunk of the surrounding wall, and dropped it into the envelope. He looked over the equipment a moment longer, then turned away and stepped down.
"Let's go up to your office." Jumping to the floor, Skipper strode to the door with Bert hurrying to catch up.
Norma wistfully watched them leave the vault room, then heaved a heavy sigh and returned to her work.
In Bert's office Skipper settled into an easy chair facing both the door and Bert's desk. He'd developed an aversion to sitting with his back to the door long ago after having his skull cracked from behind by a drunk in a night club.
Bert sat at his desk, his hands folded on the desk blotter in front of him.
"Well, Skip, what do you think? Anything you want to know, that I know, I'll tell you."
"First off, what's the deal with the CCTV?" Skipper wanted to know.
Bert opened a file jacket in front of him and scanned down a page stapled to the front cover. "Let's see -- Security reported that at 0218 hours yesterday morning the screen went blank on the main control room monitor for the vault room. Standard troubleshooting measures were taken and the officer on duty dispatched the roving guard to check it out. The rover's report indicates that the cable apparently cut itself in half after wearing through the grommet on the frame. It was repaired by maintenance later that day." Bert looked up at Skipper with an expectant expression. "Sound reasonable to you?"
Skipper bypassed Bert's question and asked how long the roving guard took to arrive in the vault room.
"According to the log here, the motion detector went off at 0221 hours, and the rover called in to control from one of the desk phones in the vault room two minutes later. No problem with the motion detector if that's what you're getting at. It's been working right along. That's what has me stumped. That and the fact that no other disturbance of any kind has been noted." He flipped the cover of the file shut with a rare display of mild annoyance.
Bert Johnson was one of the brightest security managers in the country and would soon step into a vice presidency at Intertech. He had a natural talent for correctly reading corporate office politics, as well as skillfully managing events and people around him while portraying himself as brilliantly capable but non-threatening to his superiors. Bert also easily commanded the respect and loyalty of everyone who worked for him.
Years before he'd left military service just after Skipper, resumed his education and landed a night job in security with the newly formed Intertech Corporation. With his wife Mary's help and support he finished his master's degree in business administration and moved into the security manager's position.
Accustomed to having all the answers on security matters, finding himself unable to explain occurrences within his domain left him feeling somehow vulnerable. Bert didn't like it.
Old loyalties and friendships were important to these men and they were closer to one another than most brothers. Skipper understood Bert's frustration. "Don't let it get to you, Bert. First off, the cable didn't cut itself in half of its own accord. Look." Skipper emptied the contents of the envelope he'd been holding onto Bert's desk blotter. The lump of plaster board fell partially apart, held together only by the paper and paint of its outer cover. The silver pellet was half embedded in one side of the chalky white plaster.
"Well, I'll be..." Bert was visibly shaken. "Right under the noses of my guards. They didn't even hear a gunshot? I oughta fire every one of 'em."
"Again, Bert, settle down. It's not a bullet, so probably no gunshot." Skipper took out his pen knife again and carefully chipped at the plaster until the silver pellet rolled free on the desk blotter.
"Look closely my friend, and you'll see it isn't shaped like a bullet, which a man of your experience should easily recognize."
"Son of a....You're right. I'd say it's a custom cast pellet for a high-speed air rifle of some sort. Judging by the way this pellet cut through the cable, ricocheted off the frame and then dug nearly all the way through the plaster board, I'd say the air rifle in question packs a pretty good whollop."
Skipper was grinning now, but his grin didn't convey happiness. There was something more intense behind it, and when he smiled this way at people they usually got a very cold chill. Bert felt it now.
"Now you're talking, Bert, carry that thought a little further."
"What are you saying, Skip? That somebody waltzed into that room, fired a powerful pop gun at my TV camera, missed and then just vanished into thin air before the guard got there in three minutes? No way. The only way in or out of that room is through those security doors. Whoever you have in mind for this caper would have to have walked right into the waiting arms of my guard. Besides, the motion detector didn't pick anything up until the guard set it off, so whoever you have in mind didn't go that way."
Skipper appeared as cool as Bert appeared upset. It was almost like an act the two men had perfected after years of working together on an A-Team. Skipper was the calm, self-assured commander who set policy and Bert was the hard-nosed NCOIC (Non-Commissioned Officer In Charge) who saw that those policies were carried out. He strolled over to the window and clasped his hands behind his back, staring out over the green lawns and carefully trimmed trees surrounding the complex. He thought for a moment and felt the hair on the back of his neck beginning to stand up. What was going on? Why this feeling of dread?
"About that motion detector. Let's go look at it, okay?"
Bert was flustered but he could see Skipper's mind was working on something. He knew his friend well and knew he rarely got off track on an investigation.
"Okay, let's go."
In the vault room again, Skipper stopped just inside the door. He looked around the room and noticed that only two of the work areas were occupied, both of them toward the rear of the room near the security doors; away from the vault. Inside the vault he could see Norma glance up at him from her small desk. Quickly she looked back down at her work as though she didn't want to get caught paying attention to him.
"Bert, how much of this room does the motion detector pick up?"
Bert thought for a moment, then had to admit that he couldn't exactly remember.
"Can you have it turned on for me?"
"Sure can," Bert said as he picked up the phone on a nearby desk and called the control room.
"This is Johnson. Turn on the motion detector in the vault room will you, Clive? Thanks." He hung up the phone just as the green indicator light on the motion detector winked on.
"Thanks buddy. Now call him back and have him tell you when I set this thing off," Skipper said, already striding toward the vault.
Bert picked up the phone and was talking to Clive as Skipper reached the vault door and turned to face him. Bert looked from Skipper to the motion detector and back; an astonished look creeping across his face. He spoke into the phone again and hung up; then walked over to where Skipper was standing.
"Never picked me up, huh?"
"No, but all the lights indicate the thing is working. What the heck is going on? I just don't understand this whole mess very well at all."
"I think I do. Your guards shut it off in the morning before Norma enters the room, don't they?"
"Right. As soon as the rover begins unlocking the doors for her, they shut it down so the alarms won't sound when she walks toward the vault." As Bert finished talking, Skipper grabbed a tall 4-drawer file cabinet and horsed it over close to the device; then climbed up and removed a ceiling panel. He poked his head and shoulders into the space above and moments later was back down with a piece of circuit board in his hand.
"Here's your problem, unless I'm very much mistaken. Let's go back up to your office. Oh, and, uh, sorry about the mess here," Skipper waved his hand to indicate the file cabinet and the ceiling panel. Bert mumbled something about forgetting it and turned to Norma.
Efficient as always, Norma was already on the phone requesting assistance from the building maintenance department. Not needed here, Bert hurried after Skipper.
In his office, Bert sat staring at the circuit board, turning it over and over. "How in hell did somebody come up with something like this?"
"The 'How' part's easy, Bert. My question is: how did they get past your guards and all the surveillance stuff you've got here in order to install it? For instance, how many outside doors are there without an active guard post at all hours?"
Bert leaned over and consulted a clipboard hanging on the side of a small two drawer file cabinet next to his desk before answering.
"None," he said. "During the design stage we purposely set up the ground floor to have the minimum number of outside doors to watch -- the fewest the fire marshal would okay. Those we keep manned twenty-four hours a day."
"I just double checked," he said, gesturing toward the clipboard, "to make certain one of those posts wasn't left vacant that night for some obscure reason. I guess that would've made it too easy, though."
"Okay. If all the outside doors were manned, assuming none of your personnel has been compromised, then some extraordinary form of surreptitious entry is the only explanation. Do any of your windows on any floor open?"
No need to double check anything on this one. "No," he answered quickly. "All windows are non-operational on all floors. I really fought with the big bosses over that one -- and for once I won. Heck, those idiots even wanted elegant French patio doors in all the ground floor offices."
"Okay, that leaves the roof. Let's go," As he spoke, Skipper was already on his feet and half a stride from the door when Bert called to him.
"Skip! Hold on there, bud. What about that lunch date with Patti you had to be at ten minutes ago?"
Skipper abruptly halted and turned in his tracks, making a neat military "Rear, March!" movement, returned and stopped in front of the phone on Bert's desk.
"Mind?" he said, as he reached for the hand piece.
"Make yourself to home. You're on the payroll now anyway."
Skipper smiled and dialed a number from a pocket appointment book, absentmindedly drumming his fingertips on the desk top as he waited for The Rusty Pelican's Maitre D' to answer.
"George? Skipper Mason. Would you please put Patti White on the phone? Thank you."
Presently he heard a slightly husky, deeply sensual, female voice.
"Hello? This is Patti White."