Back in the T Program offices, ready to start a new week, Craig had moved into Gary Lesserec’s little-used cubicle to keep his notes and write his reports.
Paige came to him, grinning broadly as she held the drooping paper of a fax. “Finally got it, Craig — first thing of the morning. It’s the list of all the people who used this CAIN booth in the days preceding and following Michaelson’s death.”
Craig sat up from jotting notes on a yellow legal pad. “About time,” he said. “We were supposed to have that last Friday.”
“I know,” Paige said with a sheepish expression, “but we’re lucky Jeannie came in today. She has one of the most sophisticated computer tracking systems on site… so naturally it didn’t work right and broke down. If we had to look through punch cards, I probably would have found it within an hour.”
He shook his head and took the fax from her. She pulled up a chair next to him in Lesserec’s cubicle, removed a felt tip pen, and made checkmarks beside some of the names.
“These are the PSOs who came in to do random inspections at odd hours,” she said.
Craig squinted down and picked up a different colored pen, ticking off the names of familiar T Program workers. Gary Lesserec had gone in and out many times. Michaelson himself had left in the mid-afternoon, presumably to go on his tour of the Plutonium Facility with José Aragon and then off to his meeting at the Director’s Office. He hadn’t returned here until after five when, according to the records, virtually everyone had checked out for the evening.
Gary Lesserec had been one of the last to leave before Michaelson returned. They had missed each other by only about five minutes.
“Nothing’s really obvious,” Craig said, scanning the list of names again.
Paige sat waiting for him, fidgeting in her chair. She remained quiet for no longer than two seconds. “Look at the next sheet. It’s the people who came in the following day. One name in particular is interesting I think.”
Craig looked it over, spotted the times of entry and exit — and immediately fixed upon one that didn’t belong. Diana Unteling at eleven forty-five PM. He recognized the name, but couldn’t place it. “Who’s this?” he said. “Another one of the PSOs?”
“No,” Paige said, drawing out the answer and trying to cover her smile. “It’s very interesting in fact.”
Then suddenly Craig remembered where he had seen her name. Diana Unteling had been Michaelson’s deputy on the on-site inspection team in the former Soviet Union years before. Michaelson had left her in charge when he had flown back to rescue the Laser Implosion Fusion Facility.
“I thought she was at DOE headquarters in Washington,” Craig said. “Was she back at Livermore on business?”
“According to Tansy’s schedules, Unteling and Michaelson had no meetings set up — and why was she out here so late at night? After you had ordered it sealed? The place was empty, but she stayed about an hour. What was she doing all that time?”
Craig made his mouth into a straight firm line, staring down at the fax paper. He suddenly sat bolt upright.
“Diana,” he said then he changed the tone of his voice. “‘Hal this is Diana, where the hell are you?’“
“Now you’re getting it!” Paige said. “You think Diana Unteling from DOE headquarters is the voice on the tape? This is bad news, or good news because it’s another whole line of reasoning we haven’t looked into yet.”
He stood up from the chair, leaving his clutter on Gary Lesserec’s desktop. “Let’s find out if Ms. Unteling is back in her DOE Headquarters or still out here. If I have to, I’ll travel to Washington DC tomorrow so I can talk to her face to face. I want to watch her expression before she has time to make up an excuse.”
“Do you think the FIB will fly you there?” Paige asked. “Won’t they just bring in one of their own agents in DC?”
Craig took a deep breath, remembering June Atwood threatening to pull him off the investigation. “It usually works that way — but right now my boss owes me a few big favors.”
CHAPTER 32
Carefully, very carefully, Duane Hopkins measured out a sample of hydrofluoric acid inside his glove box container.
Ronald or some of his buddies were full of bluster and bravado, not caring about the dangers to which they exposed themselves in their work. But Duane had a healthy respect for the terrible things he worked with. He knew the bad things radiation and poisonous chemicals could do to people. Stevie was living proof.
On his clipboard he made a careful note of the amount of acid he kept in his glove box, then added a little bit just to make sure no one thought he had lost any. Duane didn’t want to get into trouble.
Ronald had said an FBI man had been in that morning asking questions, and immediately the Plutonium Facility manager had ordered a full and complete inventory of all the controlled chemicals in all the glove boxes in Building 332.
Duane didn’t know what had prompted this extreme investigation, but he secretly hoped that something bad had happened, something bad enough to cause a full-scale crackdown. Maybe that would force the Lab to get rid of the dangerous substances like the ones that had made Stevie so sick. Duane didn’t know if it was radiation or poisonous chemicals that had given Stevie his cerebral palsy — maybe poisonous radioactive chemicals? — but people needed to be aware of the hazards. An FBI investigation might bring about a complete shakeup.
He had tried to telephone Mr. Lesserec over at the Virtual Reality program, but the man had not returned his calls. He wondered what this was all about.
Duane didn’t want to see his job disturbed, but maybe this would be worth it.
In the change room during the early afternoon break, Duane meticulously unbuttoned the front of his smock and changed into his street clothes, tucking in his green flannel shirt and sliding the jingling car keys in his pants.
With his voice raised against the loud background noise, Ronald barged into the change room with his cronies laughing about some crude joke; but Ronald stopped upon seeing Duane in his street clothes.
“Hey, Beavis! Where you think you’re going?”
Duane turned away and continued to get dressed, closing his locker door. “I have to go home. I’m taking the rest of the day off.”
Ronald scowled and took two steps toward him. “You didn’t ask me, Beavis. I didn’t say you could go home. You’ve got work to do, and some of my stuff too.”
“I can’t Ronald,” Duane said. “Stevie’s got a doctor’s appointment. He’s really sick. I have to take him in.”
One member of Ronald’s gang snorted. “The retard’s probably getting a brain transplant.” The others laughed.
“Yeah, Beavis here is donating his own brain. They need a microscope to find it, though.” Ronald guffawed.
Duane didn’t answer, but hurried out of the locker room. He didn’t know what else he could do to get even with Ronald, to get the bully off his back. It seemed everything he thought of went without notice, or he chickened out before carrying out his plans, knowing Ronald would catch him and beat him into a mashed pulp.
Maybe Duane could report him to that FBI man. Ronald had done so many things blatantly wrong that he must have been part of whatever the agent was investigating. Or maybe that nice man Gary Lesserec would help; Lesserec had said that he’d owe Duane one for that material he had provided.
But as Duane hurried out of the secure facility, past the checkpoints and the fence to his battered old Ford station wagon in the parking lot, he knew that all such thoughts were just fantasies.