Behind the desk a squat man sat, with a thick fringe of light brown hair about a bald head, eyeglasses perched up over his forehead, and a finely trimmed brown beard that was missing a moustache. He had on a black turtleneck, and both sleeves were rolled up. He was reading a stapled sheaf of papers when his glance shifted and took me in.
“You don’t look like Don Oliphant,” he said, his voice gravelly.
“I’m not, Professor Knowlton,” I replied, stepping in front of his desk. “My name is Lewis Cole, and Don graciously allowed me to take his appointment.”
He turned in his chair, dropped the papers on his desk. “Have a seat. You look too old to be a student, Mister Cole, so what brings you by today?”
I sat in a solid but comfortable wooden chair. “I was hoping I could ask you a few questions.”
“For what purpose?” he asked sharply. “Are you a lawyer or a member of law enforcement, Mister Cole?”
“Worse,” I said. “I’m a writer.”
That brought a laugh. “What kind?”
“Well, freelance right now. I used to be a columnist for Shoreline magazine, based here in Boston.”
“What did you write for them?”
“A column about the New Hampshire seacoast. Called ‘Granite Shores.’”
“You said you’re no longer with them. Quit?”
“Fired.”
He tidied up some of his papers. “Economic problems?”
“Let’s just say a personality conflict,” I said. “I had one, and my editor didn’t.”
Another laugh. “Okay. So what kind of story are you working on?”
“Research, right now. About the demonstrations up at the Falconer nuclear power plant.”
He frowned. “Nasty business.”
“Certainly was,” I said. “I was there in the crowd when Bronson Toles got shot.”
He shook his head. “No, I meant the entire power plant up there being nasty business. Should never have been built. But the corporations and their enablers in the NRC and Congress swept aside people’s concerns and had the damn place built. So nobody should have been surprised when the people finally spoke up and violence broke out.”
“I think a lot of people were surprised, starting with Bronson Toles. And the other people who got killed and injured when the Nuclear Freedom Front folks stormed the plant site.”
“That’s what happens when you give poorly trained security personnel firearms. The innocents get killed.”
“I think the forensics is still up in the air over who fired the fatal shots.”
He laughed again. “Some writer you are, taking the company line. Don’t worry, you won’t be contradicted. Enough people will get the word, and the right paperwork will get shuffled around, so those who got killed actually committed suicide. Or some gunmen on some grassy knoll somewhere opened fire. But whatever it takes, the ones in power won’t get blamed. It’ll be just like the Little Big Horn rebellion back in 1976; scores of Native American activists were later found dead, and most of them supposedly died of exposure or suicide. I’ve read some of those autopsy reports. Funny how government doctors missed a bullet in the head when they diagnosed some woman activist as having died of exposure, and another one who was found in a bathtub with numerous knife wounds supposedly died later of carbon monoxide poisoning.”
When I was in college, I wasn’t too fond of professors who prattled on and on, and I found that my dislike hadn’t gone away over the interceding decades.
“That’s quite fascinating, Professor Knowlton, but I was hoping we could steer the conversation back to why I came here today. I also realize you only have a fifteen-minute block before another student comes knocking at your door.”
He raised a hand. “My apologies, Mister Cole. Research, you said. For a freelance article, then?”
“That’s what I’m hoping for. And I’m also hoping you could assist me in locating Curt Chesak, the head of the Nuclear Freedom Front. I’d like to talk to him about a proposed book project about the demonstrations at the power plant.”
He said nothing and continued looking at me, and I looked right back at him. Finally he said, “You’re certain you’re not a law enforcement official?”
“Positive.”
“Could I still see some ID, please?”
Feeling generous, I opened up my wallet, passed over my New Hampshire driver’s license, as well as my official press pass, issued by the New Hampshire Department of Safety. He examined them both and gave them back to me.
“What makes you think I know anything about Curt Chesak?”
“I was led to believe that you were an associate of his.”
“‘An associate of his.’ And who said that, someone whose dad worked for Senator McCarthy back during the Red Scare?”
“No,” I said. “A source I know, a source I can trust.”
“From the news accounts of what happened at Falconer, you must know that lots of cops are looking for Curt Chesak. Some of them have actually paid me a visit.”
“Lucky you.”
“Yeah, right, luck,” he said. “And you know what I told each and every one of them? That even if I knew where Curt Chesak was — which I’m not admitting — I wouldn’t even consider turning him in. Because he’s a true believer, a fighter for the people, an organizer who has made a difference. To lots of people, he’s a damn hero, and I’m not in the business of turning over heroes to the police.”
“To lots of people, he’s a damn thug.”
Knowlton raised a hand. “Of course that’s how the corporate-powered media are going to portray it, and—”
“I saw what he did,” I said sharply, interrupting him. “I saw him at the Falconer plant site last week, where he took a length of pipe and nearly beat to death a Tyler police officer.”
“Price of progress.”
“The price of… ” I couldn’t go on anymore. I wanted to reach across that academic desk, pick up his coffee mug, and crack it against his skull just to give him a taste of his blessed progress.
“Absolutely. The Tyler police officer who was allegedly injured by Curt Chesak wasn’t a person anymore. He—”
“She,” I corrected him.
“He, she, does it make a difference?”
“Makes a difference to some. Including me.”
“Whatever,” the professor said. “That police officer was more than just a police officer. She was a symbol of the corporate oligarchy that has been running this country for decades and, in the spirit of self-defense, what happened to her was a just response to oppression.”
Focus, focus, I thought to myself. “So, when was the last time you saw Curt Chesak?”
A slight smile. “Not going to happen, sorry.”
“But you do know him.”
“I refer you to my earlier statement.”
“Ah, even if you did know him, you wouldn’t admit it.”
“True, because you know, when it comes to—”
“Excuse me, I think you’ve misunderstood why I’m here.”
“Oh?”
I stood up. “I’m not paying tens of thousands of dollars per semester to listen to stuff I can hear for free at 2 A.M. on Newbury Street, when the bars close.”
His lips pursed and his eyes flared. “You can leave.”