Omens
Page 91
That was the crazy, fucked-up piece of American history that was MKULTRA. What did it have to do with William Evans? With the murder of his son? There were no obvious answers here. We had to go deeper.
• • •
The only lead we found was the name of Evans’s supervisor, Edgar Chandler. He wasn’t just Evans’s boss at the CIA—he’d been his thesis adviser in school, too. So it seemed that Chandler had worked for the CIA then and brought his prize student along.
While Gabriel made coffee, I continued searching and learned that Evans had been in private practice since Peter was born. Did that mean he’d quit the CIA? Or only pretended to?
The deeper we went, the harder the slog. Finally, we hit a story that hammered home exactly how classified MKULTRA had been in its day.
In 1974, as word of MKULTRA was just beginning to leak, a hungry young Chicago journalist caught a whiff of it and saw a career-making break. As she researched the story, doors were slammed in her face. Colleagues advised her to drop it. CIA representatives strongly advised her to drop it. All this only seemed to strengthen her conviction that this story needed to be told. The government was trying to stop her. She would not be stopped.
Except she was. While walking to her car one night, a man approached her in the parking lot. He didn’t say a word, but she later provided a perfect description of him to the police. Not surprising, given that his face was the last thing Anita Mosley ever saw.
Her attacker had thrown acid in her eyes, blinding and scarring her for life.
When speculation arose that the man was connected to the CIA, all the local news outlets received a letter from the attacker, claiming he was simply a patriotic American teaching a lesson to a Commie woman reporter. The police never found him to test that claim.
After that, Anita Mosley disappeared from reporting for a while. She might have been scared off, but from everything I read about her, I doubted that was the case. Maybe a significant other urged her to take some time off. Maybe her employer forced her onto disability leave. All I could tell was that she went quiet until the Senate hearing on MKULTRA, and then she reemerged as an authority. That’s where I found the connection to Evans’s boss, Chandler. She’d mentioned him in an article. Nothing damning, just one name on a list. But it was a start.
“She still lives in Chicago,” I said. “Freelance these days, but there’s nothing here to suggest she’d like to put MKULTRA behind her. She spoke about it last year at Northwestern.”
“She’s still angry,” Gabriel said. “Certainly understandable, given the circumstances, though it does seem a little . . .”
“Pathetic?” I regretted the word as soon as I said it. Unfair to use against a woman who’d fought so hard and suffered so much. And yet I couldn’t help seeing an element of pathos. She’d fought the CIA and lost. By the time she rebounded, the “secret” was common knowledge and she couldn’t hurt those who’d wronged her. Yet she wouldn’t drop the matter, either, doggedly struggling to keep alive a scandal no one seemed to care about.
Still, it didn’t bother me enough to suggest we leave the poor woman alone. She’d chosen to make this her life’s work. We’d be foolish not to take advantage.
• • •
“She’ll see us,” Gabriel said when he hung up.
“Really?”
“Are you surprised?” he said. “I doubt anyone other than academics has asked for her expertise in a very long time. She’s quite eager to impart it. At a price, of course.”
“How much?”
“Five hundred for an hour of her time now, plus an hour of follow-up, if required. Given the usual rate for an expert, it’s a bargain.”
“It’d be more of a bargain if it was free.”
“True. But think of it as a charitable donation to the victim of a tragedy. That should make you feel better.”
“Only if I can get a tax write-off.”
He shook his head and we left.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
We met Anita Mosley at a coffee shop. It was a neighborhood of office buildings, meaning the shop was closed on a Saturday. She was at a stone table outside, sitting with military stiffness, hands folded on the table, staring straight ahead as cars zipped past. She was in her early sixties, a trim figure in a stylish pant-suit and perfectly coiffed brown hair, artfully streaked with gray.
“Ms. Mosley?” I asked as we approached.
The shades swung my way.
“Do you want to stay here?” I said. “Or find a shop that’s open?”
“The fact that this one is closed is why I chose it. It is public yet not public.” Her tone was crisp. “May I ask whom I’m speaking to?”
“Olivia Taylor-Jones.”
“Ah. The girl.” She turned to Gabriel, as if sensing him there. “And you would be the infamous Gabriel Walsh, I presume.”
“I am,” he said as we sat.
“Excellent. Now, I have received confirmation that the payment has been wired to my account. Thank you for that, Mr. Walsh. I know it is an inconvenient way to do business, but until the American government sees fit to print bills I can read, I’m stuck with that. Unless I emulate Ray Charles and ask to be paid in singles.” A brief, humorless smile. “Which would hardly be more convenient for either of us. Now, I believe it is Ms. Taylor-Jones who wishes the information? You do still go by that name, I presume.”
I tensed a little. A reaction I doubted even a sighted person would notice, but she seemed to pick it up.
“I know who you are,” she said. “Let me assure you, serial killers hold no fascination for me, and their actions have no bearing on you. I have met monsters, and they all had quite normal parents. I will admit that I find it curious that your investigation would bring you to MKULTRA, but you are being thorough, and I cannot fault that. So Ms. Taylor-Jones, is it?”
“Olivia,” I said.
“Thank you. Now let us begin. I can confirm that Dr. William Evans worked for the CIA from 1960 to 1969. He began as a PhD candidate under his adviser, Edgar Chandler, who was also employed by the CIA. Chandler was in charge of several MKULTRA subprojects. His name can be found in the documents turned over to the Senate subcommittee.”
“So Dr. Evans was involved in the project?”
“MKULTRA as a whole was huge. Evans’s role in it was relatively minor. He started as a graduate student and was still a junior man when he quit shortly before his son was born. Or that’s the official line. The matter of secrecy surrounding Evans is twofold. Let’s start with part one, the main experiment he was involved in. Have you heard of Operation Midnight Climax?”
• • •
The only lead we found was the name of Evans’s supervisor, Edgar Chandler. He wasn’t just Evans’s boss at the CIA—he’d been his thesis adviser in school, too. So it seemed that Chandler had worked for the CIA then and brought his prize student along.
While Gabriel made coffee, I continued searching and learned that Evans had been in private practice since Peter was born. Did that mean he’d quit the CIA? Or only pretended to?
The deeper we went, the harder the slog. Finally, we hit a story that hammered home exactly how classified MKULTRA had been in its day.
In 1974, as word of MKULTRA was just beginning to leak, a hungry young Chicago journalist caught a whiff of it and saw a career-making break. As she researched the story, doors were slammed in her face. Colleagues advised her to drop it. CIA representatives strongly advised her to drop it. All this only seemed to strengthen her conviction that this story needed to be told. The government was trying to stop her. She would not be stopped.
Except she was. While walking to her car one night, a man approached her in the parking lot. He didn’t say a word, but she later provided a perfect description of him to the police. Not surprising, given that his face was the last thing Anita Mosley ever saw.
Her attacker had thrown acid in her eyes, blinding and scarring her for life.
When speculation arose that the man was connected to the CIA, all the local news outlets received a letter from the attacker, claiming he was simply a patriotic American teaching a lesson to a Commie woman reporter. The police never found him to test that claim.
After that, Anita Mosley disappeared from reporting for a while. She might have been scared off, but from everything I read about her, I doubted that was the case. Maybe a significant other urged her to take some time off. Maybe her employer forced her onto disability leave. All I could tell was that she went quiet until the Senate hearing on MKULTRA, and then she reemerged as an authority. That’s where I found the connection to Evans’s boss, Chandler. She’d mentioned him in an article. Nothing damning, just one name on a list. But it was a start.
“She still lives in Chicago,” I said. “Freelance these days, but there’s nothing here to suggest she’d like to put MKULTRA behind her. She spoke about it last year at Northwestern.”
“She’s still angry,” Gabriel said. “Certainly understandable, given the circumstances, though it does seem a little . . .”
“Pathetic?” I regretted the word as soon as I said it. Unfair to use against a woman who’d fought so hard and suffered so much. And yet I couldn’t help seeing an element of pathos. She’d fought the CIA and lost. By the time she rebounded, the “secret” was common knowledge and she couldn’t hurt those who’d wronged her. Yet she wouldn’t drop the matter, either, doggedly struggling to keep alive a scandal no one seemed to care about.
Still, it didn’t bother me enough to suggest we leave the poor woman alone. She’d chosen to make this her life’s work. We’d be foolish not to take advantage.
• • •
“She’ll see us,” Gabriel said when he hung up.
“Really?”
“Are you surprised?” he said. “I doubt anyone other than academics has asked for her expertise in a very long time. She’s quite eager to impart it. At a price, of course.”
“How much?”
“Five hundred for an hour of her time now, plus an hour of follow-up, if required. Given the usual rate for an expert, it’s a bargain.”
“It’d be more of a bargain if it was free.”
“True. But think of it as a charitable donation to the victim of a tragedy. That should make you feel better.”
“Only if I can get a tax write-off.”
He shook his head and we left.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
We met Anita Mosley at a coffee shop. It was a neighborhood of office buildings, meaning the shop was closed on a Saturday. She was at a stone table outside, sitting with military stiffness, hands folded on the table, staring straight ahead as cars zipped past. She was in her early sixties, a trim figure in a stylish pant-suit and perfectly coiffed brown hair, artfully streaked with gray.
“Ms. Mosley?” I asked as we approached.
The shades swung my way.
“Do you want to stay here?” I said. “Or find a shop that’s open?”
“The fact that this one is closed is why I chose it. It is public yet not public.” Her tone was crisp. “May I ask whom I’m speaking to?”
“Olivia Taylor-Jones.”
“Ah. The girl.” She turned to Gabriel, as if sensing him there. “And you would be the infamous Gabriel Walsh, I presume.”
“I am,” he said as we sat.
“Excellent. Now, I have received confirmation that the payment has been wired to my account. Thank you for that, Mr. Walsh. I know it is an inconvenient way to do business, but until the American government sees fit to print bills I can read, I’m stuck with that. Unless I emulate Ray Charles and ask to be paid in singles.” A brief, humorless smile. “Which would hardly be more convenient for either of us. Now, I believe it is Ms. Taylor-Jones who wishes the information? You do still go by that name, I presume.”
I tensed a little. A reaction I doubted even a sighted person would notice, but she seemed to pick it up.
“I know who you are,” she said. “Let me assure you, serial killers hold no fascination for me, and their actions have no bearing on you. I have met monsters, and they all had quite normal parents. I will admit that I find it curious that your investigation would bring you to MKULTRA, but you are being thorough, and I cannot fault that. So Ms. Taylor-Jones, is it?”
“Olivia,” I said.
“Thank you. Now let us begin. I can confirm that Dr. William Evans worked for the CIA from 1960 to 1969. He began as a PhD candidate under his adviser, Edgar Chandler, who was also employed by the CIA. Chandler was in charge of several MKULTRA subprojects. His name can be found in the documents turned over to the Senate subcommittee.”
“So Dr. Evans was involved in the project?”
“MKULTRA as a whole was huge. Evans’s role in it was relatively minor. He started as a graduate student and was still a junior man when he quit shortly before his son was born. Or that’s the official line. The matter of secrecy surrounding Evans is twofold. Let’s start with part one, the main experiment he was involved in. Have you heard of Operation Midnight Climax?”
