The Chemtrail Conspiracy Set (Lady Justice Book 22) Read online

  What I also found were almost as many sites debunking the conspiracy theory and offering alternative theories to that hypothesis.

  One site would say the streaks in the sky are chemicals being spewed into the atmosphere for clandestine purposes. Then another site would explain why they are nothing more than water condensation produced by the big jets which has turned to ice crystals in the frigid upper atmosphere.

  One site would show photos like the one I found in Falcon’s apartment, claiming the big tanks in the belly of the aircraft contain the chemicals, while another site would say what we are seeing are ballast tanks used in flight testing of new airliner designs.

  One site would show photos of massive fish kills, saying the thousands of dead fish are caused by the cumulative effect of the chemicals which have been sprayed and fallen to earth over the years, while another site would claim the kills are caused by El Nino and global warming.

  Are the trails in the sky a conspiracy or just paranoid delusions?

  There were convincing arguments on both sides. The answer depended on who you wanted to believe.

  I let my mind wander for a moment and examined the possibility that the chemtrail theorists were correct.

  Just a few short years ago, it was unthinkable to believe our government was listening to our phone conversations and reading our emails, but it proved to be true.

  When the NSA was caught with their hands in the cookie jar, they justified their action by citing the hundreds of terrorist attacks that were thwarted, and the many thousands of lives which were saved as a result of their snooping. A typical case of the ends justifying the means.

  I can only imagine the discussion that might have taken place in some secluded room years ago.

  “Shall we ask the people of our country for permission to invade their privacy or just go ahead and do it? After all it’s for their own good.”

  We know what was ultimately decided and why. The chances were slim and none the average American wanted Big Brother snooping in their lives.

  I could see a similar scenario with the chemtrails.

  Years ago, our government was faced with two huge problems, global warming and the Russian ICBM’s pointed at the U.S. If they believed spraying chemicals into the atmosphere was the answer to these threats, it was highly unlikely they would go to the American people and ask permission to spray poison into the air. The average guy on the street just wouldn’t understand. Sure, there would be consequences, but certainly nothing as devastating as a nuclear bomb exploding in New York City or Los Angeles. The ends justified the means.

  On a much more basic level, I could remember my parent’s admonitions to not run with scissors, not stick beans up my nose or ride my bike with no hands, and I remember protesting, “WHY?”

  The answer would always be, “Because I told you so! It’s for your own good.”

  It’s no secret those in positions of power often make authoritarian decisions because they believe it’s for the greater good.

  Or, on the other hand, maybe the fluffy trails in the sky are just ice crystals.

  These were the thoughts running through my mind when I met my dad and Bernice, his significant other, returning to their respective apartments on the second floor of my building.

  They didn’t seem to be their chipper selves. “Why so glum?” I asked.

  Dad just shrugged. “We went to see Doc Johnson. We’ve both been a bit under the weather. Stuffy noses, aches and pains, not much energy.”

  “So what did he say?”

  “Not much. He said it wasn’t the flu. He wondered if we had been around other people our age. I told him we go to the tea dance at the Senior Center every week. He said we might have caught something there. He’d been seeing a lot of seniors lately with the same symptoms. Hell, maybe it’s just old age. We’re both ninety.”

  “So what did he tell you to do?”

  “Go home, drink lots of fluids and get some rest, so that’s what we’re going to do.”

  Then I saw a twinkle in his eye. “I’m going to whip up a pitcher of margaritas, then Bernice and I are going to hop into bed.”

  “I’m not sure that’s what Doc Johnson had in mind. What about rest?”

  “We’ll rest afterward,” he replied, patting Bernice on the rear end.

  As they headed off, I was reminded of my visit with Arnie and Nick. They had shown me an article by a Doctor Len Horowitz. The article stated exposure to ethylene dibromide, the stuff that was supposed to be a major component in the chemtrails, could result in general weakness, vomiting, diarrhea, chest pains, coughing, shortness of breath, upper respiratory tract irritation and respiratory failure caused by swelling of the lymph glands in the lungs. The article stated that the elderly and people with compromised immune systems were particularly vulnerable.

  It was certainly something to consider, or maybe, it was just old age.

  I had just settled into my recliner when the phone rang.

  “Walt, it’s Jack. I’m back in town and we need to talk. Can you meet me at Mel’s Diner in a half hour?”

  “Are you buying?”

  A big sigh. “Yes, yes, I’ll buy.”

  “See you there.”

  When I arrived, there were already two huge pieces of pie and two steaming cups of coffee on the table.

  “A man of your word,” I said, approvingly. Then I noticed a red knot on the side of his head. “What happened to you?”

  “Bumped my head when that jackass ran me off the road. It could have been a lot worse.”

  “So no other incidents on your way home?”

  “Nope. I’m hoping it was just some drunk or maybe someone texting while driving. It’s just scary as hell thinking I might be the target of a government assassin.”

  “Yeah, I get that. Let me tell you about a meeting I had with a couple of friends.”

  I proceeded to tell him about the Watchers and my visit with Arnie and Nick.

  Needless to say, he was enthusiastic. “Just another nail in their coffin. The more I hear, the more I smell Pulitzer Prize in this story.”

  If you live to write it, I thought. “So what’s next?”

  “Ever hear of Kristen Meghan?”

  I shook my head. “Can’t say I have.”

  “She worked for the Federal Government for twelve years, nine of which was with the Air Force as a bio-environmental engineer. Auditing chemicals used by the military was part of her responsibility. She found a hanger full of drums filled with the stuff we’ve been talking about, ethylene dibromide, and so on. The chemicals weren’t tied to any known operation, so she started investigating.

  “She had heard of the chemtrail conspiracy and started out with the goal of proving the chemicals weren’t tied to any kind of covert operation, but instead, she discovered just the opposite. Soil testing in various locations were found to have significantly higher amounts of the chemicals which were in the drums. The only way they could have been dispersed that broadly was through the air.

  “In 2012, she went public with what she knew. According to her, the military threatened to lock her up and take away her daughter if she didn’t stop asking questions.”

  “Let me guess,” I said. “You’re going to pay her a visit.”

  “I am. I’m hoping she’ll be willing to talk to me and maybe even share some of the test results from her studies. It would be one more bit of evidence to add to everything I’ve found so far.”

  “Well, good luck with that, and just in case you were wrong about the drunk driver, watch your back.”

  “Will do,” he said, and was out the door.

  When I first arrived at the diner, I spotted a man in another booth with a lap top computer. I didn’t pay much attention to him at first, but after Jack and I had talked for over an hour, the guy was still sitting there.

  When I got up to leave, he hadn’t moved.

  I got in my car and was halfway home when it struck me. I made a u-turn and headed back to t
he diner.

  The guy with the computer was gone.

  I went inside and flagged Mel who was busy scraping his huge flat, cast iron grill. I had been a regular customer for years and considered Mel a good friend.

  “More pie?” he asked.

  “No. That guy, the one sitting in that booth with the lap top. Was he one of your regular customers?”

  “Nope, never seen him before.”

  “He was certainly here a long time.”

  “He sure as hell was, and the piker didn’t even leave a tip.”

  Could have been anybody, I thought, Maybe he was a student from the university.

  Then again, maybe not.

  CHAPTER 8

  The next morning, I had a welcome respite from my stewing over the chemtrail dilemma --- my wife needed me.

  Now that I’m seventy-two it’s not often a woman, especially one as fetching as my wife, says she has need of my services, so I make it a point to be available.

  For twenty-five years, I was a real estate agent. At age sixty-five, I traded my briefcase for a badge. Maggie and I both worked at City Wide Realty. In fact, that’s where we met. Maggie’s still an agent and a very good one. Because of her experience and her sterling work ethic, the broker, Dave Richards, often gives Maggie some of the trickier listings.

  It was exactly that scenario that prompted her to ask if I had plans for the morning. Luckily, I did not.

  The listing Dave had given her was a large estate on Sunset Drive just south of the Country Club Plaza. Hector Ramirez who was the Kansas City contact for a Columbian Drug cartel had owned it until the Drug Task Force shut down his operation.

  As is often the case, the government confiscates property seized under these circumstances. Ramirez’ trial had taken the better part of a year and the house had sat vacant until the guilty verdict was rendered.

  One reason Dave gives these gems to Maggie is she has a team of workers ready to turn the neglected estate into a showplace. Consuela and her two daughters clean the place from top to bottom, Larry the Landscaper trims the shrubs and mows the lawn, and Jeff the Bugman exterminates the creepy crawlers lurking in the cracks and crevices. John, the licensed home inspector, goes through the entire home and gives Maggie a list of everything which needs repaired. The list is then given to Freddie the Fix-it guy, and before you know it, the place is ready for the cover of Better Homes and Gardens.

  This morning was to be Maggie’s first visit to the vacant house to take measurements and to make notes to give to her crew.

  Maggie and I have a rule that says she never EVER goes to a vacant house alone. Six years ago, she was abducted and barely escaped with her life. We never want that to happen again.

  When we pulled up in front of the house, there was no doubt her crew would have their hands full.

  The grass, having not been mowed for a year, was as high as an elephant’s eye as Gordon MacRae used to sing in one my favorite musicals, Oklahoma.

  As Maggie slipped the key into the door lock, I noticed a furry creature scramble for cover under the porch.

  The stench which slapped us in the face when we stepped inside brought tears to our eyes. The dead rat at the foot of the second floor staircase probably didn’t help. Jeff the Bugman, when stepping into such an odoriferous dwelling, often remarks that the place smells like ass-crack. I had never argued the point.

  “Holy crap, Maggie. Can your crew really turn this into a saleable listing?”

  She gave an involuntary shudder. “If anyone can, it’s them. Well, we might as well get started. This place isn’t going to measure itself.”

  I switched on my flashlight. All the utilities had been turned off and that was another reason we had to hang around the stinky place for a couple of hours. The utility companies were all scheduled to arrive at some point to turn things on.

  Maggie had one of those electronic gizmos which she holds up to the wall and when a button is pushed, the distance to the other wall is displayed. Just another example of the technological advances since I started measuring houses years ago with a retractable tape.

  My job was to hold the flashlight and then record the room’s measurements as Maggie read the meter. We were making good time since the rooms were virtually empty, the Drug Task Force having removed and sold anything of value.

  Things were proceeding nicely until we reached the kitchen. While I was waiting for Maggie to take the first reading, I made the huge mistake of opening the refrigerator door.

  Whoever had cleaned out the place had neglected to remove the food items from the fridge and they had an entire year, sealed up in the hot interior, to morph into God only knew what. The fridge’s innards were a veritable petri dish of fungus and black mold.

  Trying to stifle my gag reflex, I slammed the door shut, but it was too late, the room filled with the fumes of rotting decay.

  It was at that moment, the guy from Kansas City Power and Light made his appearance. He stepped into the room and coughed. “Crimeny! It smells like ass-crack in here!”

  If two guys say it, it must be true.

  He turned the power on, but of course after a year, the a/c didn’t work, so we spent the next four hours sweating like pigs. At last, all the rooms had been measured and all the utilities had been turned on. Maggie hung a lock box on the door and we headed for home.

  Once inside, I said jokingly, “I’ll flip you to see who gets the shower first.”

  She thought for a moment, then said, “Tell you what. You went way beyond the call of duty today and I owe you. How about we take that shower together?”

  “I don’t know,” I replied teasingly. “Will you wash my back?”

  “I’ll wash anything you want,” she said demurely.

  “You’ll even wash my ---?”

  “Oh, shut up and get in here,” she said taking my hand.

  On the way to the bathroom, I noticed the message light on the phone was blinking.

  It’ll wait, I thought, thinking of my sudsy reward for a job well done.

  Forty-five minutes later, after the water had run cold, I was toweling dry, when I remembered the phone message.

  I hit the ‘play’ button and an obviously excited voice came on the line.

  “Walt, this is Frank Katz. I just wanted you to know I finished my thesis on the chemtrails and I’m not too modest to say it’s brilliant. As soon as I add a few finishing touches, I’ll be submitting it to several publications. I’m convinced that once this information is in print, the public will simply not be able to ignore the trails crisscrossing our sky. They’re going to demand answers from our government. Soon, just like the snooping of the NSA, their dirty little secrets will be revealed for all to see. As soon as it’s in print, I’ll send you a copy. Thanks again for your input.”

  Frank Katz was about to hurl a stone at a hornet’s nest. It would be interesting to see who got stung.

  CHAPTER 9

  At seven the next morning, I struggled out of bed and headed to the kitchen for my coffee and bowl of Wheaties, the breakfast of champions. After our exhausting day at Maggie’s new listing, I had planned to just take it easy, stay at home and catch up on some paperwork. I was, after all, supposed to be retired.

  But it wasn’t to be.

  I had just opened the morning paper when the phone rang. It was Mary, the housemother at my Three Trails Hotel.

  “Mr. Walt, if you ain’t busy I wonder if you could come over?”

  “Problems?”

  “Not exactly. I got a kid wanting to rent a room and, well, he’s not like all the others.”

  “How so?”

  “He seems like a sharp kid and it don’t make no sense, him wanting to live in this dump.”

  A lot of folks would take offense at someone calling their property a dump, but not me. I had accepted that description years ago.

  A charitable description of the Three Trails would be ‘flop house.’ There are twenty sleeping rooms which share four hall baths, not a
good ratio if several of the tenants get the squirts at the same time.

  I understood what Mary was saying. Most of the residents were old dudes on Social Security or high school dropouts working out of the day labor pool.

  The last tenant who didn’t fit the usual description was Lawrence Wingate. The poor fellow had gone into the hospital for a life threatening operation. Before doing so, he gave his wife full power of attorney in case he didn’t make it off the table. By the time he woke up from the anesthesia, his wife had sold their home, cleaned out their bank accounts and run off to Hawaii with her secret lover. When the poor guy got out of the hospital, the Three Trails was all he could afford.

  “Sure, I can come over,” I said, folding up my paper. Best laid plans and all that.

  “Bring Willie, too,” she added. “I need some bulbs replaced and my old bones just don’t feel like climbing a ladder today.”

  Mary was tough as nails. She had to be to keep the guys at the hotel in line, but she was seventy-something and old age was beginning to creep up on her.

  “Will do. See you in twenty minutes.”

  I gave Willie a call and asked him to meet me on the front porch.

  Before I retired from real estate, I owned over two hundred apartment units and Willie was in charge of maintenance. Over the years, we became fast friends and when I sold the buildings and got out of the rental business, Willie kind of retired with me. I give him a studio apartment in the basement of my building rent free for taking care of the odd jobs around our building and the hotel.

  Willie beat me to the porch. “Trouble at de hotel?” he asked, getting slowly to his feet. Willie, like me, was seventy-two, and wasn’t as spry as he used to be.

  “No trouble. Mary just wants some light bulbs changed and wants me to meet a new tenant. It shouldn’t take long.”

  “Dat’s good, cause I’d planned to spend some time wif Emma today.”

  Although his body was feeling the effects of Father Time, apparently his libido was not.