"At the time, the CIA knew little about the world of hookers. Or about kink. They quickly learned how to exploit human proclivities to their advantage. They eventually opened other whorehouses in Marin County and New York. Yet there's one that can't be found in any of the surrendered documents. Right here, in Chicago. That's where Evans worked. So why hide that one? Because it operated completely off the radar, even within the ranks. In the others, as bad as they were, limits were drawn."
"And the ethics were a little looser at the Chicago house."
"That's the rumor. I can't confirm it. Any evidence has long been shredded and anyone who worked there has kept his mouth shut. I tried to get Evans to talk once. It seemed as if he may have had moral qualms. He politely but firmly shut the door in my face. So my sources have been former subjects--the ones who don't fear for their lives because they're too crazy to know they should."
"Crazy as in reckless or as in...?"
"Certifiably insane. Presumably as a result of what happened in that Chicago whorehouse. That's the beauty of fucking with the human mind. If you break it, that's fine, because the damage covers your tracks. Who's going to believe the paranoid schizophrenic who claims the CIA made him crazy and now they're out to get him?"
"So that's what Evans was involved with before he left the agency."
"If he left. That would be the second part. While the record clearly shows that William Evans quit his job with the CIA in 1969, there are suggestions that he did not leave entirely. By the late sixties, most of the MKULTRA experiments had officially been abandoned. The civil rights era meant people were taking a closer look at government powers. Information about the experiments was leaking. It was still years before Gerald Ford appointed a commission to investigate, but things were already coming to an end. Or, as some believe, the CIA was simply pulling the curtain tighter."
"Ostensibly abandoning the projects, to continue them in secret with men like Evans who had apparently left the service."
She nodded. "But that's all speculation. I've pursued it to some degree but this"--she pointed at her glasses--"makes serious investigative journalism very difficult, as I'm sure my attacker knew. So while I can provide you with contacts, this marks the end of where I can take you."
Gabriel wanted to start by interviewing Evans's former boss. "A poor choice," Anita said. "Edgar Chandler will never speak to you." But Gabriel insisted and Anita gave him the information she had on Chandler.
As we were leaving, Anita called me back.
"You're doing this in hopes of proving your parents are innocent," she said. "They aren't. I had friends who covered the case. None of them doubted the Larsens' guilt."
"So you think it's a coincidence that Peter found out about his father shortly before his death."
"I didn't say that. But the likelihood of a connection between MKULTRA and all eight deaths is minimal to nonexistent. You seem like a bright girl. Don't spend your life chasing answers that aren't there."
One could say the same about her. When I looked at her face, lined w
ith bitterness, I realized she knew exactly what she was saying.
"I'll remember that."
"Do. And if you have questions about your parents later, you know where to find me. I may not be much of an investigative reporter these days, but my contact list is extensive."
"Thank you."
A Drop of Rain
Anita sat at the coffee shop table after the lawyer and the girl were gone. She didn't like to hurry off--that seemed as if she was nervous out here, alone. The poor old blind lady. She'd never been that before, and she sure as hell wasn't about to start now, no matter how hard her heart was pounding after that conversation.
They hadn't seemed to notice. That was a blessing. She was getting better at hiding it. Yet even after forty years, it took only the mention of MKULTRA to start her heart racing. Most times these days, though, she was the one mentioning it. Masochism, Blake used to say. Facing her demons, she'd say.
She wished she could tell Blake about the girl and the lawyer. He'd know Walsh. Probably wouldn't have had anything good to say about him, judging by the tidbits Anita picked up in a few quick calls made after Walsh contacted her. Blake had been a civil rights lawyer--he had little patience for young sharks like Walsh. But Blake was gone now, dead four years, and no one had replaced him. No one would.
A footstep crunched on broken concrete, so close that Anita's head shot up. She listened, but no other noises came. Then, when she strained hard enough, the faintest sound of breathing.
"Yes?" she said, snapping with as much impatience--and as little anxiety--as she could manage.
The breathing continued, so close her heart slammed against her chest.
"If someone is there, I fear you'll find this old lady a particularly poor target," she said briskly. "I carry twenty dollars in cash, no credit cards, and no jewelry worth the hassle of hocking it."
She didn't expect that to scare away a would-be mugger, but the street was not completely empty--she'd heard a few people pass since the lawyer and the girl had left. She'd spent enough years with Blake to develop at least a little faith in the human race. They might not be quick to intervene in all cases, but there were some advantages to being a blind old lady.
Yet her voice only echoed into silence. Then another shoe-squeak, so loud it seemed deliberate. The breathing moved closer until it was right across the small table from her.
She snatched out her wallet, cursing her trembling fingers as she did. She plucked out the twenty and kept the wallet open.