The Methuselah Project (42 page)

Indignation ballooned inside Roger’s chest. “Mr. McBride, what you personally do or do not find believable will never change reality. If a fact is true, then it will remain true, regardless of your ability to accept it.”

Jaworski laced his fingers behind his head and leaned back in his seat. “Exactly the point. If you’re a crackpot or a dangerous mental case, that fact will remain true despite your wild claims or emotional outbursts. If, however, it turns out that, contrary to all logic and believability, any portion whatsoever of your claims can be substantiated, then yes, that also would remain true, despite our multitude of reasons to believe otherwise.”

Words. Waste of time. The hours behind new bars had pumped Roger with anger, but also with fear. Was this the beginning of more decades in a cage? He folded his hands to keep them from trembling and forced himself to act calmer than he felt. “So this is some sort of test, is it? An interrogation? Shoot. Ask me anything.”

McBride stepped to a device mounted on a tripod and pressed a button. “We would like to videotape your testimony, Captain Greene. For the most detailed record, please state your name, rank, unit, and whatever you want to say about yourself, your supposed military service, your time in Europe, and how you claim to have ended up in the United States. Please be sure to be as specific as possible, including your activities for the past several days. That is, if Miss Mueller’s lawyer has no objections?”

The lawyer, whose name Roger didn’t even know, cleared his throat. “Normally I prefer to confer with clients in advance. If he agrees to address the points you mentioned, he may do so, but I reserve the right to interrupt if I deem it advisable.”

Roger couldn’t keep the growl from his voice. “I’ve got nothing to hide. Let’s get the show on the road already.”

“No need to hurry,” Jaworski said. “Take your time. Remember, include every pertinent detail you can.”

For the next hour, Roger told them about himself, beginning with how he traveled from the United States to Canada and from there to England to fly with the RAF against German fighters and bombers. He explained how the Eagle Squadrons had reverted to American control when the United States entered the war, gave an overview of his flying career, and then explained how he was eventually shot down and taken prisoner. From there, he repeated everything he could recall concerning the other airmen forced to undergo the Methuselah experiment, the bombing, and his own survival and imprisonment down through the long, lonely years in the underground bunker.

The lawyer, who had begun doodling on his notepad and glancing at his wristwatch with increasing frequency abruptly stood up. “Gentlemen, I’m afraid I must excuse myself from this case. Miss Mueller, you didn’t fully explain your situation. My law firm has an honorable, much-respected reputation to uphold. We don’t handle insanity pleas, temporary or otherwise.” With black leather attaché case in hand, the man marched to the door.

“Please wait,” Katherine pleaded.

The lawyer had no intention of waiting. Without a backward glance, he opened the door and disappeared.

Roger stared at the door a moment. It was more or less the kind of response he might have expected. “Is that how the rest of you feel? You want me to clam up right now, so you can pack me off to a funny farm?”

“Keep talking, Roger,” Katherine urged. “Tell them everything.”

Despite the tension of the moment, Katherine’s sincerity, the caring in her pleading eyes, caused a reaction even he didn’t understand: tears welled in his eyes. The better he knew this woman, the more wonderful she became. Wasn’t it to protect people like Katherine that he’d gone to war in the first place? Roger wished he could reach across the table and hold Katherine’s hand just to stay in contact with one of the few people who had ever truly cared about him.

Jaworski nodded noncommittally. “Go on. We’re listening.”

Throughout Roger’s account, each of the remaining men jotted notes onto pads or notebooks, although each one seemed interested in totally different portions of his story. As Roger spoke, he tried in vain to interpret their expressions. Katherine obviously believed him and hung on every word. Tears of empathy glistened in her eyes when he described the intense loneliness and near-suicidal depression he’d endured in the bunker.

Roger noticed Colonel Davenport rolling his eyes at one point. The other men, however, remained poker-faced, neither nodding nor shaking their heads. They simply watched, listened, and wrote down an occasional notation.

Roger completed his account by describing the events of the past several days: the museum incident in Georgia, the attack atop the Soldiers and Sailors Monument in Indianapolis, and the shootings in White River Park.

He paused and searched his memory for anything else worth mentioning. Thinking of nothing else earthshaking, he clasped his hands together. “That’s about it. My whole life in a nutshell.”

Special Agent McBride sat silently, contemplating his page of notes. The two men in uniform exchanged a look Roger couldn’t decipher. Jaworski broke the silence: “Quite a tale. Do you offer any tangible proof concerning everything you’ve just told us?”

“I can verify all those last parts,” Katherine said. “Plus, I can give a written statement about Uncle Kurt.”

Roger jerked to his feet and began pacing despite the leg chains. “How can I prove it from this room? How would
you
prove it if those things happened to you? What? Do you want to shoot me and watch me heal in front of your eyes?”

Katherine’s head jerked up. “He does have a bullet in his chest. It came from the gunman at the Soldiers and Sailors Monument. That should prove something.”

Colonel Davenport leaned back in his seat and fiddled with his ink pen. “These days, people perform all kinds of piercings and insertions on their bodies. Even if he does have a bullet or something embedded inside him, it won’t corroborate his story. A bullet might be evidence of a robbery attempt gone bad. For all we know, he could be the survivor of gang violence.”

Roger glared at him. “So you agree with that snooty lawyer? You think I’ve lost my marbles? Listen, all I’ve ever wanted to do is to fly airplanes, serve my country, and find the perfect woman to share life with. Why is the whole world conspiring to stop me? I was serving the United States by fighting fascism before America woke up and jumped into the battle. It’s not my fault I got caught by a gang of mad scientists on the other side of the pond. I tell you, I am Captain Roger Greene!”

“I’ve heard enough,” McBride stated to Jaworski. “Are you ready to bring him in?”

Confused, Roger looked from man to man. Bring him in? Was this modern lingo for “lock him up and throw away the key”? When Jaworski nodded, McBride strode from the room, shutting the door behind him. Heavy silence ensued.

“What’s happening?” Katherine’s voice was tremulous. “Where did he go?”

Jaworski pulled a cell phone from his pocket, glanced at it, then put it away again. “Don’t be alarmed. While we’ve been conducting this interview, another witness who wished to remain unseen has been observing via closed-circuit TV in the next room. That witness is one of the extenuating circumstances I mentioned earlier. Our panel would like to hear his assessment of the prisoner’s testimony.”

A moment later the door reopened, and Special Agent McBride held it while the deputy rolled a wheelchair into the room. In the chair sat a wrinkled man who had little more than a half-circle of wispy, white hair around his bald pate. His sky-blue eyes were rimmed in red. Those eyes locked onto Roger and didn’t let go.

To Roger’s surprise, it was General Davenport, who had sat in silence throughout most of the proceedings, who approached the old gent in the wheelchair. “Well, sir, you’ve heard and seen the prisoner’s whole testimony. Would you please tell us your opinion?”

Eyes still fixed on Roger with a glare that could have melted cast iron, the elderly fellow wiped a handkerchief across each cheek. Something about the man’s eyes stirred vague recollections. Lately Roger had spent so much time dredging up memories of classmates from Plainfield High. Could this be someone from his school days?

The man pointed a quavering, bony finger in Roger’s direction. “Young punk, you are a scandal. That is the most impressive impersonation I’ve ever seen. Your plastic surgeon must be a real doozy, because you even look like Roger Greene. But any student of history could research everything you just said about the Eagle Squadrons, the Fourth Fighter Group, Debden, the whole kit and kaboodle.” The man’s voice became shriller. “If an imposter wanted to, it wouldn’t be hard to find the names of fighter pilots who flew over Germany and never returned. So I’m going to prove you’re a faker by asking three questions only the honest-to-goodness Roger Greene would know. I warn you, if you don’t know all three answers, I’ll come out of this chair and tear you limb from limb for besmirching the memory of a great American patriot.”

The truth dawned on Roger. This old codger served in the war! Had he flown with the Fourth Fighter Group?

The elderly man cleared his throat. “First, what was the name of the pilot who flew as Roger Greene’s wingman on his final mission?”

“Easy. He was a swell guy and my best pal in the army, Walt Crippen.”

The man in the chair maintained eye contact. Clearly the old boy was searching for the slightest trace of a deception. But Roger also detected just a hint of shock in those blue eyes. His mind raced.
Could this old-timer be—?

“Next question. Before Roger Greene was shot down, he did something special for Walt Crippen. What was it?”

Roger groped through his memory. He and Walt had done thousands of things together, but those events had happened so long ago. He might’ve bought Walt a beer at the Rose and Crown pub. He might’ve carried a letter for Betsy to the censor. As each possibility occurred to him, he discarded it as not the sort of event this elderly fellow would consider significant. Then his mind locked onto it. “Walt and I did a lot of favors for each other. Like I said, we were buddies. But if you’re asking about the very last thing I ever did for Walt Crippen, it happened in the sky over Germany. He had an Me 109 hot on his tail, and I was fighting for my own life. I broke out of my dogfight just long enough to flame the Hun gunning for Walt. It was a pure luck shot. The bad part was, that action used up the last of my ammo. Then two Me 109s pounced on me and shot up my plane. I bellied into the Third Reich.”

With trembling fingers, the old man dabbed his red eyes with the handkerchief, but maintained an air of disbelief. Roger ignored the others. He could practically feel electrical tension in the room. Were they all holding their breath? Did they realize they were witnessing the most extraordinary interrogation of their lives?

Roger couldn’t bear not knowing any longer. He softened his tone. “Are you … are you Walt Crippen?”

The elderly fellow didn’t answer directly. “I have to be sure,” he said with a quaking voice. “I have to be dead positive. Last question: Roger Greene and Walt Crippen had an ongoing private bet between them. Only those two knew about it. What was the bet?”

Roger immediately grasped the allusion. More importantly, the very question revealed that this frail figure before him was, indeed, his former wingman. Roger laid both of his cuffed hands on the man’s shoulder. “Walt, each time you and I flew on a mission together, we renewed a wager about who would be first to take out an enemy airplane. It was our private game. None of the other boys knew about it. The prize was a ten-dollar bill.”

The man in the wheelchair emitted an astonished gasp. His eyes couldn’t have registered more terror than if he’d spotted a skeleton clawing its way out of a grave.

Awkwardly, because of the handcuffs, Roger dug into the sack of his clothing and removed the leather jacket. He unsnapped the right-hand pocket flap. “Walt, I’ve been waiting an awful long time to pay my debt. You scored the first kill in our last mission together. This belongs to you.”

Out came the ten-dollar bill that had lain in that pocket, practically untouched, throughout most of his captivity. Roger unfolded it. He held the banknote up so his old friend could see his own printing and then read aloud the words jotted along the edge in blue ink: “To my good buddy, Roger Greene. On loan until I bag the next German fighter! Walt.”

“It’s him! It’s really him! I don’t know how it’s possible, but this really is Roger Greene.” Walt Crippen dropped his head and broke into sobs.

Roger eased down to crouch beside the wheelchair. “Walt, buddy. You don’t know how I’ve missed you.” He embraced the hand of his old friend, the man who had once flown side by side with him through deadly skies—the man who’d probably spent most of his years believing that Captain Roger Greene had paid the ultimate price for saving his wingman’s life.

With Walt’s weeping face buried in his shoulder, Roger looked at Katherine. Tears ran down her cheeks and got caught in the corners of her huge smile. He lifted his eyes to the open-mouthed officials. “Well, gentlemen? Any more questions?”