Everyone Was Left Behind Page 13

  “Okay. If you ever change your mind, give me a call.”

  He took a card out of his pocket and handed it to the girl. She took it from him and all but ran away. Harrison, who had been watching from a safe vantage point after poking around in the woods a bit more, approached his partner.

  “Find out anything we didn’t know?”

  “Charity Price is a horrible liar. And her sister is a potentially helpful pain in the ass.” Seitzer fetched the flash drive from his pocket and passed it to Harrison.

  “What’s this?” Harrison asked, looking over the device.

  “Financial records from the church, courtesy of Hope Price.”

  “What am I supposed to do with them?”

  “Look them over, see if you can find any irregularities.”

  “Uh, okay. So where are we off to now—to see George Gregorson?”

  “Nah. We can visit him later this afternoon after he gets out of work. First, I think we should check out Stevenson Industries. Let’s find out why Graham Wilcox called them.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Stevenson Industries occupied a sprawling campus outside the eastern edge of Woodside. By the time Harrison and Seitzer approached the predominantly glass multi-level building, the early afternoon sun had burned off the remainder of the morning fog. A fountain in front of the main building, flanked by circles of daffodils and tulips, blasted water into the air.

  “Wow, fancy,” Harrison said as they passed through the stone plaza that surrounded the fountain.

  “Stevenson Industries is big time,” Seitzer said. “This place makes money hand over fist. You could argue that without Stevenson Industries, there would hardly be any Woodside left.”

  The pharmaceutical company undergirded the local economy. Before the business rose to power, Woodside had been another struggling upstate New York town, its industries migrating south. Though CEO and founder Robert Stevenson lived in a palatial estate a half-hour from the neighboring town, and many of the higher level executives lived in a subdivision between the two, most of the middle management team lived in Woodside, as did the chemists and scientists who made up a substantial part of the company’s workforce. This dynamic gave Woodside a white-collar vibe that most neighboring towns lacked—a vibe that was coincidentally absent from Holy Spirit Tabernacle. Sometimes the white collar sensibilities of Woodside collided with its blue collar roots.

  Seitzer and Harrison passed through the glass revolving door into a spacious atrium. Another fountain coupled with a cascading waterfall was surrounded by a lush layer of tropical plants. A man dressed in a suit and tie seated behind a large rectangular desk with video monitors mounted on top of it greeted the detectives.

  “Can I help you?” he asked.

  Seitzer produced his badge, as did Harrison. “We’re from the Woodside Police Department and we’d like to speak to someone from Research Division B in connection to a case we’re working on.”

  The security guard frowned as he looked at the monitor in front of him. “Just a minute, please. Let me see if I can get ahold of someone in that department.” The guard punched four digits into a cordless handset in front of him. “Yes. I have two men here from the Woodside Police Department. They’d like to ask you some questions.” The guard nodded, then asked Seitzer and Harrison, “Can you please tell me what this is in reference to?”

  “The murder of Graham Wilcox. He had multiple contacts with someone at an extension in Research Division B,” Seitzer said in a loud, firm voice.

  The guard relayed Seitzer’s words to the person on the other end of the phone and then said, “Okay. I’ll send them in.” After the man hung up, he gave directions for the detectives to follow. The first leg of their journey led them to an elevator not far from the security desk.

  “I wonder what Research Division B does,” Harrison said as the elevator descended to the basement.

  “Somehow I get the feeling the good people at Stevenson Industries won’t be too forthcoming with us,” Seitzer replied, staring up at a security camera at the top of the elevator.

  When the lift stopped and the doors opened, a young man with curly hair wearing a button-down shirt and khaki pants met them.

  “Hi, I’m Tom. I’m here to bring you to the lab.”

  Seitzer smiled. “Thank you, Tom.”

  “My pleasure. Right this way, please.” The young man set off at a rapid clip down the quiet but bright hallway filled with closed doors.

  “What does Research Division B do?” Harrison asked.

  Tom glanced back at them briefly before turning his gaze forward. “I’m sorry, our work is confidential.”

  Seitzer shot Harrison an ‘I thought as much’ look. Neither detective bothered to ask any further questions. In another moment, Tom led them into an office that overlooked a much larger work area that seemed to be a cross between a laboratory and an interview room. A balding man who appeared to be in his fifties sat behind a large metal desk. Nothing on the countertops or walls provided any indication of what normally transpired in the room.

  “Good afternoon, Detectives. My name is Jack Walton. I’m the head of this department. Please have a seat.”

  The detectives sat down in two chairs on the other side of the desk. “How is it I can help you?”

  “Do you know this man?” Seitzer asked, holding up a photo of Graham Wilcox.

  “No, I don’t. At least, not that I can remember.” The department head maintained his smile.

  “His name is Graham Wilcox. He was murdered Friday.”

  “I’m very sorry to hear that, Detective.”

  “Someone from extension 7351 called Graham Wilcox—whose extension is that?”

  “That extension isn’t specific to any one person; it’s a lab phone that many different people use.”

  Seitzer began to feel stonewalled. “Did anyone in your department have occasion to contact Mr. Wilcox, or did he contact your department?”

  “I can’t recall having any contact with that individual myself, but there are many different people who work in our division, so it’s possible one of them might have.”

  “We have phone records that indicate someone from an extension in this division contacted Mr. Wilcox almost three weeks ago. He called you back. You called him back. We have a video of Mr. Wilcox and his church demonstrating in front of Stevenson Industries one week ago. Are you sure you have no knowledge of Graham Wilcox?”

  The man shook his head. “I’m sorry, Detective. I can’t help you.”

  Seitzer glared at Walton. “I only have a few questions for you and I didn’t anticipate they would be hard ones, but if you continue to jerk me around, I’m going to take a different view of the matter. Perhaps we can try this again. Do you know Graham Wilcox, or can you point me in the direction of someone here who can?”

  Walton’s face softened a bit and he now appeared apologetic. “I’m sorry, Detective. I’m not at liberty to speak about what happens in this department.”

  “Look, Mr. Walton, I’m not interested in any trade secrets and I’m not a reporter. If we need to have this discussion back at the station, we can arrange that.”

  Walton sighed. “Hold on a minute. Let me speak with Mr. Stevenson.” The man retrieved a phone off of his desk and punched a number in. “Yes, this is Jack Walton. Could I speak to Mr. Stevenson?” Walton paused as he waited for Robert Stevenson to take the call. “Mr. Stevenson, I have two detectives who are inquiring into a man’s death. He apparently had some connection to our project… . Of course, sir.”

  The department head hung up the phone. “Please come with me, Mr. Stevenson has agreed to see you.”

  Walton led them back the way they came, down to the elevators at the end of the hallway.

  “I’m impressed,” Seitzer said. “Robert Stevenson takes your calls right away. You must be important.”

  “Mr. Stevenson has a personal interest in the work my department performs,” Walton replied.

  “Are w
e going to hear about what that work is?” Harrison asked.

  “That’s for Mr. Stevenson to decide.”

  The elevator stopped at the top floor. Its doors opened to a much more ornate looking floor than the one they had come from. Warmer colors covered the walls and floors. The institutional tiles from the basement had been replaced by a light brown hardwood floor and the ceiling was higher. A blonde woman sat behind a large desk near the elevators. She smiled at Walton and the detectives as they passed by but didn’t stop them.

  Walton took Harrison and Seitzer to the end of the hallway to an office enclosed by double doors. He knocked on the door.

  “Come in,” called a voice from inside. Walton pulled open the solid slab door. The detectives followed behind him.

  Seitzer had seen plenty of images of Robert Stevenson before, making his neatly trimmed white beard and matching white hair very recognizable. The man wore a very expensive Italian suit and the makings of a smile.

  “Good afternoon, Detectives. My name is Robert Stevenson.” Seitzer suspected the man reveled in that unnecessary introduction. “Please, have a seat. How can I help you?”

  Once again Harrison and Seitzer sat down behind a desk. Jack Walton circled around so he stood next to Stevenson.

  “We’re investigating the death of Graham Wilcox, a local Pastor who was shot to death last Friday. According to his phone records, someone from Research Division B contacted Mr. Wilcox three weeks ago. Mr. Wilcox also contacted that same number. We have footage of Mr. Wilcox’s church protesting outside of your building, so we’d like to know what connection Graham Wilcox has with Stevenson Industries.” He shot a glance at Jack Walton. “Mr. Walton was less than forthcoming with us.”

  “Please accept my apology for that, Detective. Jack was just trying to preserve the privacy of the work we do here. Go ahead, Jack, you can tell the detectives what they need to know.”

  Jack Walton cleared his throat before speaking. “We contacted Graham Wilcox as part of an ongoing research project we’ve been working on. He came in for an interview, we decided he didn’t possess any further information that we were interested in, so we did not contact him again.”

  “Why did he and members of his church end up demonstrating in front of your building two weeks ago?” Seitzer asked.

  “I honestly don’t know, Detective. Perhaps they were confused. Until you told me so, I wasn’t aware Graham Wilcox was involved in that protest, which for us was simply a minor annoyance,” Stevenson said.

  “So you weren’t angry that they protested on your property?” Harrison asked.

  Stevenson chuckled. “Detectives, I’ve been the subject of scathing op-eds in major newspapers. I’m not exactly concerned about the ravings of lunatics.”

  “Was that what you thought Wilcox was—a lunatic?”

  “Crazy is as crazy does, Detective.”

  “If Wilcox was just a crazy person, what kind of research project were you working on that made him someone you wanted to talk to?” Seitzer asked.

  Walton glanced hesitantly at his boss. Stevenson, apparently sensing Walton’s fear of disclosing any sensitive details, commandeered the conversation.

  “Research Division B is essentially our own version of the X-files if you will. The staff in that department scientifically investigates phenomena that some might consider supernatural.”

  Seitzer raised an eyebrow. “Why would your company be interested in doing that?”

  “I’ve always been interested in paranormal activity, even as a child. As I’ve grown, my interest in scientifically verifying what’s out there has also grown.”

  “So that’s why you brought in Graham Wilcox—to see if he could really tell the future?” Harrison asked.

  “Wilcox’s claim to foretell future events was only a small part of the equation for me. I was more interested in his claim that he could detect the presence of supernatural energy, or as he called it, demons.”

  “You wanted to know if Graham Wilcox could sense demons? Why?” Seitzer asked.

  “I don’t believe in ghosts or demons, at least in the way that most people try to explain them, as personal agents. But I do believe in energy. And I don’t mean the new-age definition of energy, but as something real and quantifiable.”

  “What do you mean, real and quantifiable?” Harrison asked.

  “I mean something that is rooted in the natural world, something that has so far been unexplained and unharnessed. Take electricity for example. For years, this was a power that people observed, but didn’t completely understand, and thus couldn’t manipulate. Now we understand electricity and can use it to power almost anything. Or take the work of my own pharmaceutical company. We’re unleashing power through chemical reactions to bring healing and repair to cells. I think the same phenomenon might be present in the various observable activities people experience. Once we understand it, we’ll probably discover that this energy is merely the result of something natural—everything in this world is, anyway.” Stevenson became increasingly animated as he spoke; his excitement about the subject was palpable.

  “And you’d like to be able to manipulate that power?” Seitzer asked.

  “Yes! Perhaps we will unlock the keys to many things if we can control these kinds of energies. Just about all human progress hinges on our ability to find new ways to manipulate our environment.” The CEO leaned back in his chair and sized up the detectives. “You think I’m crazy, don’t you?”

  “I’m surprised to hear that such a scientific, profit-driven company invests in something so unconventional,” Seitzer said.

  “It’s not as unconventional as you think. And Research Division B constitutes only a tiny fraction of what we allocate toward research and development. Think of it as covering our bases.”

  Truthfully, Seitzer was more surprised by how forthcoming Robert Stevenson had turned out to be, given the surreptitious manner which Jack Walton had operated during the beginning of the detectives’ visit. “Back to Graham Wilcox—what was the verdict on him?”

  Stevenson gave Seitzer a wan smile. “We determined that Mr. Wilcox was suffering from some kind of mental imbalance that would best be treated with medication and therapy.”

  “So he couldn’t detect demons or supernatural energy?”

  “No, we did not believe he could.”

  “Did you have any personal interaction with Graham Wilcox?”

  “Oh, no. Jack and his team conducted that investigation. I only get looped in after the fact, or if something noteworthy turns up.”

  “Has anything noteworthy ever turned up?” Seitzer asked.

  “Since that question seems not to have anything to do with your investigation into Graham Wilcox’s murder, I will decline to answer it.”

  “Mr. Walton, how did you come to determine that Graham Wilcox was imbalanced?” Harrison asked.

  “Through a simple psychological evaluation, Detective.”

  “And how is it that you differentiate between someone who can really detect supernatural energy and someone who is of questionable sanity?” Seitzer asked. “Assuming the former is possible, there must be a thin line between that and insanity.”

  Walton looked thoughtful for a moment. “That certainly isn’t always easy to determine, but we look for some kind of physical manifestation in a person’s life that is not purely the result of their perception. In other words, Graham Wilcox thought one thing was happening to him, but in reality, it was only happening in his mind—there was no physical evidence to back up his claims.”

  Seitzer asked the next question. “I’m just curious—how did you get Pastor Wilcox to come in and discuss this? I’m sure you didn’t tell him he was part of a research project.”

  “Mr. Wilcox was actually very forthcoming about his life. I think he relished opportunities to speak about his experiences and share his beliefs about the world. I don’t even think he questioned our interest in his claims; he seemed to assume everyone would be interested
in the things he was talking about,” Walton replied.

  “And how did you find about him in the first place?” Seitzer asked.

  “We read about him in an article in the local paper. Since he was local, we decided it wouldn’t hurt to bring him in for an interview.”

  Seitzer nodded, realizing it was Felicia Monroe’s article that had put Graham Wilcox on Research Division B’s radar.

  “What kind of frame of mind was he in when he left?” Harrison asked.

  Walton cleared his throat again. “I’m afraid Mr. Wilcox became increasingly paranoid as the interview progressed. By the end of our time together, he appeared convinced that we wanted to disable his powers so he could no longer expose the demons he felt were influencing the world.”

  “Something you said?” Seitzer prodded.

  “Well, I did recommend at the end of our session that he seek psychological help. He did not receive that advice very well. He said he knew what we were doing and that he would expose us for who we were. At that point, I had security escort him out of the building, just in case he became violent.”

  “Did you think he would become violent?”

  “I wasn’t sure what he would do.”

  “Did you have any contact with him after that?”

  “No. That was the last I or anyone else from our team spoke to Mr. Wilcox, as his phone records will no doubt corroborate.”

  Robert Stevenson sat up straight in his chair. “And now, since we have been so cooperative with you, can you tell me what connection you think Graham Wilcox’s death has with our company?”

  “Honestly, I don’t see much,” Seitzer said. “If you’re telling me everything that happened, then I probably won’t be back. I don’t suppose that interview with Graham Wilcox is on video, is it?”

  “Yes, of course. We record all of our interviews,” Walton said.

  “Could we get a copy of it?” Seitzer asked.

  Walton looked to Stevenson, who fielded the question. “Yes, we could arrange for you to have a copy. Although there is nothing particularly sensitive in it, we would politely ask for your discretion, and that the video goes no further than you or your partner’s eyes.”