Simple Genius (5 page)

WHILE SEAN WAS WORKING on his investigation, Michelle was intent on beginning one of her own. In the cafeteria she took her tray and made her way over to the table where the woman in the wheelchair was having lunch. Michelle sat down beside her and opened her bottle of water. She glanced over at the lady.

“I’m Michelle.”

“Sandy,” the woman said. “What are you in for?”

“I’m apparently suicidal,” Michelle said bluntly.

The woman brightened. “So was I, for years, but you
get
over it. I mean I guess you do, unless you actually manage to kill yourself.”

Michelle ran her gaze over the woman. She was in her late forties, long bottle blond hair meticulously styled, fine cheekbones, a pair of vibrant hazel eyes, and an ample bosom. Her makeup and fingernails were immaculate. Even though she was only wearing plain khaki pants, tennis shoes and a purple V-neck sweater, she carried it off with the confident air of a woman used to far more expensive things in life. Her voice had a Deep South foundation to it.

“So what are you in for?” Michelle asked.

“Depression, what else?
My shrink says everybody’s depressed. But I don’t believe him. If everybody felt the way I did, well, I just don’t believe him, is all.”

“You seem okay to me.”

“I think I have a chemical imbalance. I mean that’s what everybody blames it on these days. But then like a snap, I just run out of energy. You seem okay too. Sure you’re not in here goldbricking?”

“I’ve heard of goldbricking when you’ve been physically injured.”

“People in lawsuits claiming emotional distress or mental trauma can help their case if they wind up in a place like this. You get a bed, three squares a day and all the meds you want. For some, that’s nirvana. Then their shrink testifies how they’ll never reach orgasm again or can’t leave their homes without fainting and, bam, they get a big, fat settlement.”

“Quite a scam.”

Sandy added, “Oh, I’m not saying lots of people aren’t legitimately screwed up, I happen to be one of them.”

Michelle glanced at the woman’s legs.
“Accident?”

“I was shot in the spine by a nine-millimeter bullet fired from a Glock,” she said matter-of-factly. “Instant and irreversible paralysis and in a split second outgoing, athletic Sandy became a poor crip.”

“My God,” Michelle exclaimed. “How’d that happen?”

“I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Is that why you were suicidal?
Because you were paralyzed?”

“The paralysis I could deal with. It was other crap that was hard to take,” she added mysteriously.

“What other crap?” Michelle asked.

“Not going there. You think you’re getting better?”

Michelle shrugged. “I think it’s too early to say. Physically I feel okay.”

“Well, you’re young and pretty, so once the bruises heal you’ll be fine to take control of your life.”

“Take control of it how?”

“Get yourself a man with money, and let him take care of you. Use your looks, honey, that’s why God gave them to you. And just remember this, title everything as joint tenants with right of survivorship. Don’t swallow the line that his money is his money bullshit.”

“You sound like you speak from experience.”

Sandy gave a shudder. “God I wish they let you smoke in here, but they say nicotine is an addictive substance. I say give me my cigs and get out of my damn face.”

“But you want to be here, right?” Michelle asked.

“Oh, we all want to be here, honey.” She smiled and slid two pieces of asparagus neatly into her mouth.

Barry passed by, assisting a young man.

Michelle nodded at him. “You know that attendant, Barry?”

Sandy studied him for a moment. “I don’t know him, but it’s easy to tell that book by its cover.”

“Where’s home for you?”

“Definitely not where the heart is, sweetie.
Now I’ve gotta go, I feel a migraine coming on and I don’t like people to see me that way. You might change your high opinion of old Sandy.”

She quickly wheeled herself away, leaving Michelle staring at her food.

After lunch, Michelle took a stroll that carried her by Sandy’s room. As she slowly walked by she glanced in the square cut of Plexiglas in the middle of the woman’s door. Sandy was lying asleep in her private room. Michelle continued on down the hall until she stopped at the locked door to the pharmacy. She glanced through the barred window and saw a short, balding man in a white coat dispensing a prescription. When he looked up and saw her she smiled. He turned his back to her and continued his work.

“Okay, you’re off my Christmas card list,” Michelle said to herself.

“Wandering again?” the voice said.

Michelle turned quickly to see Barry staring at her.

“What else is there to do?” she said.

“I can think of a few things. Your face looks better.
Getting those killer cheekbones back.”

“Thanks,” she said curtly.

“I saw you talking to Sandy at lunch today,” he remarked.

“Nice lady.”

“I’d watch out for her.”

“Oh, you know her well?”

“Let’s just say I know people like her. They can be trouble. You don’t want to get into trouble, right?”

“I never go looking for trouble,” she lied.

“Good girl,” he said condescendingly. “Look, if you ever need anything, don’t hesitate to ask.”

“Anything like what?”

He seemed both surprised and amused by her question.

“Anything means anything.” Barry looked around and moved closer to her. “I mean I know it gets damn lonely in here for a hot babe like you.”

“It never gets
that
lonely,” she said walking off. Sandy had definitely been right about that book’s cover.

Later that afternoon Horatio Barnes sat down across from Michelle.

“No tape recorder today?” she observed.

He tapped his head. “I took my vitamins today, so I’ve got it all up here. By the way, I talked to your brother.”

Michelle sat forward, her look suddenly anxious. “How much did you tell him?”

“Just enough to let him follow along.”

“Did you tell him about the bar?”

“Why would I tell him you went to a bar to get a drink and
accidentally
got in a fight with the Incredible
Hulk.
”

“Stop screwing with me. Did you tell him?”

“I was actually more interested in what he had to say about you.” He flipped back through his notebook. “He said you were a dynamo, with limitless energy and a drive that put everyone in the family to shame. A walking, talking tornado was his description. I’m sure he meant it with great affection. ”

“Bill has been known to exaggerate.”

“I think he was entirely accurate. But he also said something else interesting.”

“What was that?”

“Care to guess?”

“Look, who the hell’s playing games
now
. Just tell me!”

“He said that when you were little you were as neat as a pin.
Everything in its place.
They used to make fun of you.
But then, bam, complete personality change.”

“What’s the big deal? I grew out of it. Now I’m a slob.”

“You’re right; it does happen, but not usually overnight at age
six.
If you’d been a teenager I wouldn’t blink an eye. There’s a chromosome that goes haywire when you turn thirteen. It commands you to live in filth while withstanding all threats by parents to clean up your act. I’m just wondering what the reason was in your case because it happened long before that chromosome ordinarily flips out.”

“It was a long time ago. Who cares?”

“For our purposes the lapse of time doesn’t really matter. What does matter is what was going on in your head at that time.”

“You know, we’ve never really even talked about my relationship with a man who killed a bunch of people. I’m not a shrink, but don’t you think that might be
relevant
as to why I’m so screwed up?”

“Okay, let’s talk about him.”

Michelle sat back and kneaded her fists into her thighs. “There’s not a lot to tell really. He was good-looking and kind, an accomplished artist and an amazing athlete with an interesting background. He made me feel good about myself. He was in a bad marriage and was trying to make the best of it.” She added sarcastically, “In fact his only negative was he just happened to be a mass murderer.”

“And you can’t believe that you were so easily duped by such a man?”

“It had never happened to
me
before?”

“But also consider that serial killers are notorious for being great deceivers; it’s part of the psychological makeup that makes them who they are, and allows them to prey on their victims with such success. Ted Bundy is usually held up as the poster boy of that theory.”

“Wow thanks, that makes
me feel so much better.”

“And because of that one incident you just chuck years of professional success and sound instincts? Do you think that’s reasonable?”

“I don’t care if it’s reasonable,
it’s
how I feel.”

“Do you think you loved him?”

She pondered this. “I think maybe I could have, given time. And every time I think that, I want to slit my wrists. The bastard tried to kill me and would’ve if Sean hadn’t been there.”

“Sean to the rescue.
For which you were no doubt very grateful.”

“Of course I was.”

“I understand that while you were having your relationship, Sean was also seeing someone?”

Michelle said dully, “He’s a big boy; he can do what he wants.”

“But from what he said, that turned out to be a big mistake too.”

“You bet it did.”

“You think Sean’s a smart man?”

“One of the smartest I’ve ever met.”

“And yet he was deceived too.”

“But he figured it all out. Me, I was still in la-la land.”

“How did you feel about Sean and this woman?”

“Like I said, he’s a big boy.”

“That’s not what I asked you.”

She snapped, “I felt bad about it, okay? Are you satisfied?”

“Bad because he chose her over you?”

Her eyes narrowed. “You don’t have a lot of tact, do you?”

“We’ll assume that I don’t. But is that how you felt?”

“I think I felt he was making a fool of himself.”

“Why?”

“She was a witch. Desperate to get her claws in him. And she was a murderer too though we could never prove it.”

“So you suspected her of being a killer while Sean was seeing her?”

Michelle hesitated. “No, I didn’t. There was just something about her that I didn’t like.”

“So your instincts proved right with her.”

Michelle sat back. “I guess so. I never thought about that really.”

“Well, that’s why I’m here, to help you think of these things. And patients often contribute to the healing process perhaps without even knowing they are.”

“How so?”

“Like when you were in that bar. Part of you was looking for someone to hurt, to maybe even kill. Yet another part of you was looking for someone who could actually punish you, kill
you.
The result was you got the shit beat out of you, but you didn’t die, and I believe you had no real intention of doing so.”

“How are you so sure?” she said mockingly.

“Because people who really want to die use methods that are basically foolproof.”
He ticked items off on his fingers.
“A shotgun blast to the head, hanging, gas in the oven or poison down the throat.
Those people don’t want help; they want to die and they almost always do. You didn’t die because you didn’t really want to.”

“Suppose you’re right, now what?”

“Now I want to talk about Michelle Maxwell as a six-year-old.”

“You go to hell!” Michelle stalked out of the room and slammed the door behind her.

Horatio screwed the top back on his pen and smiled contentedly. “Finally, we’re getting somewhere.”

TO SEAN’S EYE the enormous brick and stone mansion ran at least two hundred feet in length and soared three stories into the overcast sky. It combined a number of architectural styles with at least eight chimney stacks that Sean could see; there was a proper British glass conservatory, gabled windows, a Tuscany-style veranda, mullioned windows, an Asian-influenced tower and a copper-plated domed wing. It had been built, according to Joan, by Isaac Rance Peterman, who’d made a fortune in the meatpacking industry. He’d named the place after his daughter, Gwendolyn. Her name was still on the entrance columns. To Sean’s mind the appellation could not have been more inappropriate as Gwendolyn looked like an overdressed fort with an identity crisis.

There was a cobblestone car park in front and the Hummer pulled through the gates where a uniformed guard was stationed and into an empty space next to a trim black Mercedes convertible.

A few minutes later, Sean’s bags were in his room and he was sitting alone in the office of Champ Pollion, the head of Babbage Town. The room was littered with books, laptops, charts, electronic gadgets and printouts containing symbols and formulas that Sean, even at a glance, knew he could never hope to decipher. Hanging on the back of the door was a white martial arts jacket and pants with a black belt attached.
So a genius with lethal hands.
Wonderful.

A moment later the door opened and Champ Pollion came in. In his late thirties he was as tall as Sean, but thinner. His brown hair had a small patch of gray on top and was neatly parted on the side. He wore a pair of khaki pants, tweed jacket with soft leather elbow patches, white button-down shirt, V-neck sweater and paisley bow tie. Sean half-expected to see a pipe swinging in one of the man’s hands to complete this picture of the 1940s-era scholar.

The man sat in his desk chair, leaned back, put his size-thirteen scuffed loafers up on the book-strewn desk, and glanced anxiously at Sean.

“I’m Champ Pollion. You’re Sean King.” Sean nodded. “Would you like some coffee?”

“Thanks.”

Champ ordered the coffee,
then
sat back in his chair.

“So the FBI’s involved in the case?” Sean asked.

Champ nodded. “Having the police and FBI running around, no one likes it.”

“And Turing was found on CIA property?”

“Why in the world would Monk have gone there? Those men have guns for God’s sake.”

“And you have men with guns here too,” Sean pointed out.

“If I had my way there wouldn’t be. But I merely run Babbage Town, so it’s not my call.”

“And you need guards here why?”

“Our work here has potentially enormous commercial application. We are in a sort of race against time. Others in the world would love to beat us. Hence, we have guards.
Everywhere.”
He waved his hand distractedly.
“Everywhere.”

“Has the CIA been here yet?”

“Well, spies hardly ever walk up and say, ‘Hello, we’re the CIA, tell me all you know or we’ll kill you.’” Champ pulled from his jacket pocket what looked like a thin glass tube.

“Did you just come from your lab?” Sean asked.

Champ looked suspicious. “Why?”

“That little thing you’re holding. It looks like a big eyedropper although I’m sure you have some technical name for it.”

“This
little thing
could well be the greatest invention ever, leaving Bell’s telephone or Edison’s light bulb a distant second.”

Sean looked startled. “What the hell is it?”

“It might well be the fastest nonclassical computer in the history of the universe if we can only get the damn thing to work up to its enormous potential. This isn’t a working model, of course, only a conceptual prototype. Now getting back to what’s happened here. There have been lots of people through Babbage Town recently. That included the local police in the person of a doddering old duffer in a Stetson hat named Merkle Hayes who says, ‘Good Lord’ a lot, and several stalwart members of the aforementioned FBI.” He put the tube down and looked up at Sean. “You know what I think?”

“What?”

“I think there’s some massive conspiracy going on. Not involving the CIA. They’d be too obvious a choice, wouldn’t they? No, I believe it has to do with the military-industrial complex that President Eisenhower warned the country about before he left office.”

Sean tried to hide his skepticism. “And how would that tie into Monk Turing’s body being found at Camp Peary?”

“Because right next to Camp Peary is the
Naval
Weapons Station.
And Camp Peary used to belong to the
Navy.
”

“Does what you’re working on have
military
applications?”

“I’m afraid I can’t say.”

“But you’re not working for the government?”

“Does this look like a government facility to you,” he said sharply.

“Maybe.”
Sean glanced over at the martial arts uniform on the door.
“Karate?
Kung fu?”

“Tae Kwon Do.
My father made me start taking it when I entered high school.”

“So he was into martial arts?”

“No, he made me take it so I could defend myself at school. It may shock you to learn that I was something of a
nerd,
Mr. King. And if it’s one thing teenage boys hate, particularly teenage boys whose neck size is larger than their IQ, it’s a nerd.” Champ glanced at his watch and then picked up some papers on his desk.

Noting this Sean said quickly, “I’ll need to go over the details of the case. If you don’t want to regurgitate them again, I can always speak with Len Rivest.”

At that moment a short, stocky, gray-haired woman came in carrying a coffee tray. She handed out the cups, sugar and spoons.

Champ said, “Doris, would you ask Len Rivest to join us?”

After she left Sean turned back to Champ. “So while we’re waiting, without revealing anything confidential, what exactly is Babbage Town? The driver didn’t really know how to explain it.”

Champ didn’t look inclined to answer.

“Just background, Champ, that’s all.”

“Have you ever heard of Charles Babbage?”

“No.”

“He was instrumental in developing the blueprint for the modern computer; no small feat when you consider the man was born in 1791. He also invented the speedometer. As a lover of statistics he drew up a set of mortality tables, a standard tool in the insurance industry today. And whenever you send a letter you use the single postal rate that Babbage conceived. But in my mind the most amazing thing that Charles Babbage did was break the Vigenère polyalphabetic cipher, which had withstood all decryption attempts for nearly three centuries.”

“Vigenère polyalphabetic cipher?”

Champ nodded. “Blaise de Vigenère was a French diplomat who fashioned the cipher in the sixteenth century. It was known as a
poly
alphabetic because it used multiple alphabets instead of simply one. However, it lay unused for nearly two hundred years because people thought it was too complex, to hell with it being impregnable to frequency analysis. Do you know about frequency analysis?”

“Sounds familiar,” Sean said slowly.

“It was the holy grail of the early code-breaking community. Muslims invented it in the ninth century. Now frequency analysis means what it says. You analyze how often certain letters appear in writing. In English the letter e is the most common by far, followed by the letter t and then a. That’s immensely helpful in decoding ciphers, or at least it was. Today decryption is based on the length of secret number keys and the power and speed of computers to factor those keys. All the linguistic romance has been ripped right out of it.

“A thousand years ago the substitution cipher was thought unbreakable. Yet the Muslims managed to blow it right out of the water and gave the cryptanalysts the upper hand over the encryption people for centuries. That’s why the Vigenère cipher was so revolutionary, frequency analysis was useless against it.”

Sean squirmed a bit in his seat in the face of this lengthy history lesson.

“Forgive me, Mr. King, but I promise I’ll have a point at the end.”

“No, it’s very interesting,” Sean said, stifling a yawn.

“Now, as I said frequency analysis was useless against the Vigenère monster, so craftily and uniquely was it
designed.
And yet old Charlie Babbage managed to put a knife right through its numeric heart.”

“How?”
Sean asked.

“He attacked it from a direction that was absolutely original and indeed set the standard for cryptanalysts for generations to come. And yet he received no recognition for it because he never bothered to publish his research.”

“So how did Babbage’s discovery become known?”

“When scholars went over his notes in the twentieth century, long after the man was dead, they determined that he had been the first to do it. And at long last, here is my point. I christened this place Babbage Town as
a homage
to a man with a great brain but little ability in
self-promotion.
However, if we achieve our goals here, have no doubt that we will scream it to the heavens.” Champ smiled. “After we secure all necessary patents ensuring that we will be fabulously rich once commercial exploitations of our various inventions commence.”

“So you get a piece of the pie?”

“I wouldn’t be here otherwise. Yet even if we don’t make a fortune the work is exhilarating.”

“So who owns Babbage Town?”

The door opened and a short, barrel-chested man in his early fifties walked in wearing a two-piece suit with a muted tie. His silver hair was gelled down and his eyes were blue and alert. He looked from Sean to Champ.

Champ said, “Len, Sean King.”

On that note, Champ took his nifty, if nonclassical and nonworking, glass tube computer, and walked out. It was only then that Sean fully realized the man had said a lot and told him nothing.