This blog will host a short story that I'll be writing for users to read online. The idea is that I can get feedback from readers that I can use to become a better writer, considering I've never written a book before.
I'm a huge science fiction fan and I have a very creative imagination, so this book will reflect those characteristics. It is based on information I've gathered from various sources on a reportedly secret underground base in Dulce, New Mexico. The majority of information for this has been researched in recent years by author and researcher Anthony Sanchez among many others. I've also seen several documentaries on the subject. Read this wiki article for more info. There is also a recent podcast from The Paracast, in which the host interviews Anthony Sanchez concerning Dulce base.
The title "Raux Base Investigations" (Raux pronounced "ROX") is derived from recent revelations on the actual name of the base provided by Anthony Sanchez, an abbreviation of which is RIO-AUX. The story will incorporate an investigative element that "stumbles" on to the secrets at Dulce. My goal is to create dynamic characters that clash and unite at certain times, with the mysteries of Dulce base sandwiched in the middle, but there will certainly be more to it than that, I promise.
I urge users to spread the word about this blog to those who might be interested in reading this and providing feedback. Enjoy!
NOTE: According to this recent blog post, Anthony Sanchez has left the research field permanently due to a devastating loss in his personal life. My thoughts and prayers go out to him and his family.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Chapter One: The Creepy Case
Agent Tarell Donovan is a tall man, his daughter, who’s quite tall for her age of 6, can barely reach his torso as she reaches for the bag of candy that he’s teasing her with. He just got home from a long day at the FBI office in Albuquerque, NM - a thirty minute drive from his home.
“Hold on sweetie.” He tells his daughter with a slight giggle. His daughter persists, “But why can’t I get it now?” she asks while jumping trying to catch the bag of goodies. “Because you need to eat dinner first young lady.” He throws the bag to his wife Rachel who's at the kitchen preparing dinner.
“Listen to your father Michelle.”
Tarell sneaks up behind his wife of 10 years and plants a warm kiss and a hug. “Hey you...cook here often?” he whispers jokingly to her right ear and to which she replies, “Only when there’s food in the kitchen.” She displays a warm smile.
“Yes, food that I provide with the sweat of my brow.” Tarell responds while depositing gentle kisses down his wife's neck.
She noticed a slightly serious tone. “Tough day at work?”
“Tough is not the word. Remind me not to kiss the Assistant Director’s ass anymore.”
“What did you do now? You know..” She pauses for a second. “You’re always getting yourself in a jam with your superiors.” She prepares the table while her husband removes his jacket and sits.
“It’s not like that this time baby. He asked me to take on a less-than-illustrious case, one with no leads. Not yet at least.”
“Isn’t that how they all start?” Rachel asked while serving dinner.
“Yeah a good number of them, but this one is just...I don’t know, boring.”
The doorbell sounds off, Rachel answers. It’s agent Frank Olivencia, Tarell’s partner accompanied by a girlfriend.
“Hey, I’m glad you made you made it Frank.” They exchange handshakes. “Are you kidding? I wouldn’t miss your wife’s beef with broccoli for the world.”
After a short exchange of pleasantries and a well-cooked meal, agent Frank gets a file from his car to share with his partner over drinks.
“Check it out Don; I have the coroner’s preliminary autopsy report on the murder victim.”
Tarell frowns and stares at Frank “Are you kidding me? I don’t remember asking you to bring work to my crib.” His Harlem, NY accent was audibly pronounced. He gets up from the table and walks over to the bar to replenish his drink. “Don! You need to read this! It isn’t the boring case you thought it was.” Frank follows him to the bar and shows him a close-up of the gunshot wound of the victim.
“Here, read the coroners note.” Tarell brushes him off: “Frank don’t you have a life beyond the bureau? This is really sad you know, I’m gonna have to get you some help. I’m seriously concerned.”
“Humor me for a change.”
Frank and Tarell have been friends for years. They graduated from Quantico together, both at the top of their class. They’ve been assigned to the same office since graduation and have been through thick and thin, creating a bond that’s not easily broken. It’s because of this that Frank gives in.
“Fine, let’s see what it says.”
Frank points to the doctor’s writing and Tarell reads aloud:
“Preliminary autopsy results reveal that the victim’s brain was sucked out through the gunshot hole, evidenced by the remains of brain matter around the outer cavity.”
“What the hell?”
Frank replies, “Yeah that's what I said. Not only that but there was no evidence of a break-in, no finger prints were found, not even a single hair, or foot prints of any kind.”
“Really?” Tarell is intrigued as he reads on to himself.
Frank summarizes notes from the case file paper-clipped behind the coroner’s report: “The entire apartment was combed twice and both times they came up with nothing, nada, zilch, zero.” He’s visibly excited. They haven’t had such an interesting case since they worked with NYPD on the would-be Times Square bomber.
Tarell stares at Frank with a confused look in his face. “So... NOT boring.”
The next morning, the two agents rise early and meet at the office to brainstorm, Tarell with his double Latte and Frank with his triple espresso. Frank begins: “So here’s what I was able to dig up last night.”
Tarell, dealing with a slight hangover, asks “Wait a minute, last night?”
“Yeah last night.”
“What did you do, sleep here?”
“Don’t be silly, I slept in the lounge.” Tarell grins. “You’re certifiable you know that?”
“Yeah I guess, but listen; I got some history on our victim Mr. David Gruby.” Frank walks over to Tarell’s workstation and pulls up a file on the screen. “Turns out the file was classified. I made some phone calls, pulled some strings and found out that the Department of Defense has their fingers all over these files. As you can see even declassified it will only show the scanned document that was edited, the majority of the information is blotted out.”
Tarell scans through the available text on his computer screen. “Why would the department of defense care about some nobody that works at a welfare office in Philadelphia?”
“That's the kicker Don; he’s only worked there for two years, despite the fact that the file says fifteen. Detectives interviewed a female co-worker who told them that he had just started working there a month after she started two years ago.”
“So what did he do for the other thirteen?” Tarell wondered out loud.
“I don’t know, yet.”
Tarell digresses; “Well let’s see what else we can learn.”
After studying the documents for some time, Tarell starts to wonder, “Does this guy actually exist?” Frank peeks over his flat screen monitor. “What do you mean?”
“Well, there’s no evidence of education, credit or income before his stint at the welfare office. It’s like he didn’t exist until two years ago, or fifteen if you believe the disinformation.”
Suddenly a fellow agent walks in. “Guys I have a phone call from someone claiming to know your victim personally, she says they used to date.”
The agents are intrigued; Frank is the first to respond. “What line is she on?”
“Line one.”
Frank picks up the phone and has a short chat with their new lead. After he hangs up he relays the information to Tarell. “She says that she recognized his picture from the paper and that his name was not Gruby, it was Mason, Mr. Gilbert Mason.”
“You’re kidding!”
“Not only that but she’s willing to meet with us for a tell-all statement. Apparently he dropped her like a bad habit just after he graduated from Penn State University where he studied Microbiology. Get your jacket, were going to Philadelphia.”
While on the plane the agents review the final report from the coroner on their netbooks. Tarell leans over to Frank and asks, “Hey, what do you make of this statement here?”
“Among the proteins found around the cavity, there are traces of an additional element, biological in nature, which cannot be classified. Further in-depth analysis is required to figure out its make-up.”
Frank responds, “Well, let’s hope they can find out what it’s made up of. It might shed some light.”
Tarell begins to sum up the facts. “So we have a victim who apparently doesn’t exist, a gunshot wound that has the characteristics of a puncture, a missing brain, an unidentifiable element on the remains and a record that’s been handled by the D.O.D, parts of which conflict with a witness’ statement. Did I miss anything?”
“You forgot the hot ex.”
“How do you know she’s hot?”
“She just accepted my friend request. I’m all over her Facebook account.”
-The next chapter will be posted within the next few days
“Hold on sweetie.” He tells his daughter with a slight giggle. His daughter persists, “But why can’t I get it now?” she asks while jumping trying to catch the bag of goodies. “Because you need to eat dinner first young lady.” He throws the bag to his wife Rachel who's at the kitchen preparing dinner.
“Listen to your father Michelle.”
Tarell sneaks up behind his wife of 10 years and plants a warm kiss and a hug. “Hey you...cook here often?” he whispers jokingly to her right ear and to which she replies, “Only when there’s food in the kitchen.” She displays a warm smile.
“Yes, food that I provide with the sweat of my brow.” Tarell responds while depositing gentle kisses down his wife's neck.
She noticed a slightly serious tone. “Tough day at work?”
“Tough is not the word. Remind me not to kiss the Assistant Director’s ass anymore.”
“What did you do now? You know..” She pauses for a second. “You’re always getting yourself in a jam with your superiors.” She prepares the table while her husband removes his jacket and sits.
“It’s not like that this time baby. He asked me to take on a less-than-illustrious case, one with no leads. Not yet at least.”
“Isn’t that how they all start?” Rachel asked while serving dinner.
“Yeah a good number of them, but this one is just...I don’t know, boring.”
The doorbell sounds off, Rachel answers. It’s agent Frank Olivencia, Tarell’s partner accompanied by a girlfriend.
“Hey, I’m glad you made you made it Frank.” They exchange handshakes. “Are you kidding? I wouldn’t miss your wife’s beef with broccoli for the world.”
After a short exchange of pleasantries and a well-cooked meal, agent Frank gets a file from his car to share with his partner over drinks.
“Check it out Don; I have the coroner’s preliminary autopsy report on the murder victim.”
Tarell frowns and stares at Frank “Are you kidding me? I don’t remember asking you to bring work to my crib.” His Harlem, NY accent was audibly pronounced. He gets up from the table and walks over to the bar to replenish his drink. “Don! You need to read this! It isn’t the boring case you thought it was.” Frank follows him to the bar and shows him a close-up of the gunshot wound of the victim.
“Here, read the coroners note.” Tarell brushes him off: “Frank don’t you have a life beyond the bureau? This is really sad you know, I’m gonna have to get you some help. I’m seriously concerned.”
“Humor me for a change.”
Frank and Tarell have been friends for years. They graduated from Quantico together, both at the top of their class. They’ve been assigned to the same office since graduation and have been through thick and thin, creating a bond that’s not easily broken. It’s because of this that Frank gives in.
“Fine, let’s see what it says.”
Frank points to the doctor’s writing and Tarell reads aloud:
“Preliminary autopsy results reveal that the victim’s brain was sucked out through the gunshot hole, evidenced by the remains of brain matter around the outer cavity.”
“What the hell?”
Frank replies, “Yeah that's what I said. Not only that but there was no evidence of a break-in, no finger prints were found, not even a single hair, or foot prints of any kind.”
“Really?” Tarell is intrigued as he reads on to himself.
Frank summarizes notes from the case file paper-clipped behind the coroner’s report: “The entire apartment was combed twice and both times they came up with nothing, nada, zilch, zero.” He’s visibly excited. They haven’t had such an interesting case since they worked with NYPD on the would-be Times Square bomber.
Tarell stares at Frank with a confused look in his face. “So... NOT boring.”
The next morning, the two agents rise early and meet at the office to brainstorm, Tarell with his double Latte and Frank with his triple espresso. Frank begins: “So here’s what I was able to dig up last night.”
Tarell, dealing with a slight hangover, asks “Wait a minute, last night?”
“Yeah last night.”
“What did you do, sleep here?”
“Don’t be silly, I slept in the lounge.” Tarell grins. “You’re certifiable you know that?”
“Yeah I guess, but listen; I got some history on our victim Mr. David Gruby.” Frank walks over to Tarell’s workstation and pulls up a file on the screen. “Turns out the file was classified. I made some phone calls, pulled some strings and found out that the Department of Defense has their fingers all over these files. As you can see even declassified it will only show the scanned document that was edited, the majority of the information is blotted out.”
Tarell scans through the available text on his computer screen. “Why would the department of defense care about some nobody that works at a welfare office in Philadelphia?”
“That's the kicker Don; he’s only worked there for two years, despite the fact that the file says fifteen. Detectives interviewed a female co-worker who told them that he had just started working there a month after she started two years ago.”
“So what did he do for the other thirteen?” Tarell wondered out loud.
“I don’t know, yet.”
Tarell digresses; “Well let’s see what else we can learn.”
After studying the documents for some time, Tarell starts to wonder, “Does this guy actually exist?” Frank peeks over his flat screen monitor. “What do you mean?”
“Well, there’s no evidence of education, credit or income before his stint at the welfare office. It’s like he didn’t exist until two years ago, or fifteen if you believe the disinformation.”
Suddenly a fellow agent walks in. “Guys I have a phone call from someone claiming to know your victim personally, she says they used to date.”
The agents are intrigued; Frank is the first to respond. “What line is she on?”
“Line one.”
Frank picks up the phone and has a short chat with their new lead. After he hangs up he relays the information to Tarell. “She says that she recognized his picture from the paper and that his name was not Gruby, it was Mason, Mr. Gilbert Mason.”
“You’re kidding!”
“Not only that but she’s willing to meet with us for a tell-all statement. Apparently he dropped her like a bad habit just after he graduated from Penn State University where he studied Microbiology. Get your jacket, were going to Philadelphia.”
While on the plane the agents review the final report from the coroner on their netbooks. Tarell leans over to Frank and asks, “Hey, what do you make of this statement here?”
“Among the proteins found around the cavity, there are traces of an additional element, biological in nature, which cannot be classified. Further in-depth analysis is required to figure out its make-up.”
Frank responds, “Well, let’s hope they can find out what it’s made up of. It might shed some light.”
Tarell begins to sum up the facts. “So we have a victim who apparently doesn’t exist, a gunshot wound that has the characteristics of a puncture, a missing brain, an unidentifiable element on the remains and a record that’s been handled by the D.O.D, parts of which conflict with a witness’ statement. Did I miss anything?”
“You forgot the hot ex.”
“How do you know she’s hot?”
“She just accepted my friend request. I’m all over her Facebook account.”
-The next chapter will be posted within the next few days
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Chapter two: Fact or Fiction
After landing in Philadelphia the agents get settled in a local hotel and after stuffing their faces with a couple of cheesesteaks headed out to meet Mason’s “hot” ex-girlfriend.
Tarell parks in front of the residence located deep in an unfriendly part of North Philly were drugs and prostitution is rampant. “Frank what was her name again?”
“Margie. That’s all she gave me.”
“I’ll bet you wish she gave you something else.”
“You know it, mi pana.” They look at each other and giggle.
Frank was born and raised in a town called Ciales in Puerto Rico then moved to the states with his family when he was a teenager. He enjoys mixing both languages often with those close to him. The phrase “mi pana” is a ghetto term, the equivalent of “my brother”.
The agents are welcomed in and begin the interview process. After a couple of standard questions, she begins to reveal essential details.
“We had plans; a family, house with a picket fence, maybe a dog...” She stares blindly while recalling her memories. Her eyes get puffy and tears start to build up at the outer corner of her eyes. “Shortly after graduating he told me he was approached by someone tied to the government. He said his name was John Smith and that he wanted to offer him the opportunity serve his country.”
Tarell glances at Frank. “An obvious cover name.”
“Did he say what branch of the government?” Frank asks after sipping on a cup of coffee.
“No, he said the stranger couldn’t tell him. All he could say was that it would be at an undisclosed location and that he’d be working on projects of the utmost priority for Uncle Sam. After that he disappeared, I never saw him again until last week when I saw his picture in the paper. Why did he change his name?”
Frank responds “Or who? We have reason to believe that the Department of Defense might have had a hand in that, but that hasn’t been confirmed. Are you sure there’s nothing to indicate where he might have went, anything at all?”
“Well I did find this post-it note near his computer.” She hands Tarell a wrinkled yellow sticky note, the contents simply read Dulce 8 am, DON’T FORGET! "What do you think Frank?"
“Well I know that dulce means “sweet” in Spanish but obviously this indicates some kind of meeting place. Margie, is there some kind of establishment with that name around here like a restaurant, bar or hotel?”
“Not that I know of.”
“We’ll have to do some digging then. Thank you Margie, you’ve been extremely helpful.” Tarell hands her a business card. “Please call if you find any more information, or if you remember something he said that can help.”
“Sure thing.”
It’s early in the evening when the agents leave Margie’s house and walk to the car.
“What the hell?” Tarell sees that the two right side tires have been flattened and walks around the perimeter of the car to check the other two tires to find them in the same shape. “Son of a bitch!”
Frank’s not surprised. “That’s what happens in the hood Tee. I’ll call triple A.” He pulls out his cell phone and suddenly notices a shadow through the peripheral vision of his right eye, he quickly turns to get a close look. “Hey!” He pulls out his Glock 23, “Freeze! FBI!” Frank chases after it; Tarell follows with Glock in hand. They follow him through an alley but the subject seems to have disappeared in the shadows. Frank can’t believe it. “Dammit, where’d he go? I had him in my sights!”
“Did you get a good look at him?”
“No it’s too dark.”
As soon as Frank finished his sentence the dark figure jumps up from behind a nearby bush and lands on top of a three-story row home.
“Whoa! Did he just--”
“Yea, he did.”
Frank is understandably upset “Shit! We’ll never find him now.”
Tarell agrees “He’ll be halfway to the Delaware River in no time.”
The agents head to the local FBI office to try and decrypt the note and hopefully find some answers on their mystery man. After a couple of hours of investigation the agents hit pay-dirt on the note. “Got it Frank!” Tarell exclaims while staring at a monitor. “Check it out.” Frank rushes over to Tarell’s temporary workstation and grins when he sees what the note meant by “Dulce”.
“It’s in our back yard, Dulce, New Mexico!” Frank’s sudden excitement begins to dwindle when he realizes something. “Wait a minute, how come we’ve never heard of it if it’s in our back yard? I mean it’s just under 130 miles northwest of Albuquerque.”
“Well obviously we’ve never had a case that took us there.”
“Yeah not once in 15 plus years. Don’t you find that strange?”
“I guess--but it’s just a coincidence.”
“Maybe so but I can’t shake the feeling that something’s not right, anyway let’s make like an amoeba and split. I got a feeling all our questions are gonna be answered at Dulce.”
The dynamic duo arrive at Dulce, New Mexico where they begin asking questions at local establishments concerning their victim. After a week of dead ends the two end up at a local bar where they drown their frustration in liquor. They’re about to pack it in when they’re approached by a middle-aged man, clearly inebriated.
“Are you the FBI guys?”
Frank answers “Yes we are sir, how may we be of service to you?”
“I heard you’re asking questions about a Mr. Mason.”
Tarell confirms “That’s correct, did you know him?”
“Uh…sort of” Frank pulled out a chair for their new lead. “I mean we met here one night and I guess we both just needed someone to talk to. I was going through a rough break up with a long-time girlfriend and he…well he had a fantastic story to tell, which in the end made me forget what I was depressed about.” He paused to reconsider telling the story.
“Apparently he worked at a secret government funded compound where he worked on one of many experiments that the public would probably not approve of. His specific project involved splicing genes from humans and extraterrestrial beings, then finding a way to combine them. The goal was to cure an alien disease that plagued the extraterrestrial beings, pushing them to the brink of extinction, the specific proteins that makeup our DNA can help them do that. Then at one point Gilbert had an argument with management about a top level decision concerning his project. He was put on administrative leave for a week to cool off. That’s when they met at the bar. I never saw him after that.”
Frank and Tarell look at each other, waiting to hear what the other is going to say. Tarell breaks the ice.
“Well…um…Mr…”
“Daniels.”
“Mr. Daniels are you sure you’re recounting the story accurately? I mean you guys were drinking right?”
“No I wasn’t, he was.”
“I never had a drink before in my life. At least not until that night, that guy gave me the creeps big-time. I had two drinks then vomited.”
Frank begins to bounce theories off of Tarell. “So either he made it up as a result of the intoxication or…”
“Or what Frank?” Tarell asked in a low whispery tone “Or he might be telling the truth? Because of the liquor?”
Frank stares at him for a second. “Possibly.”
Tarell parks in front of the residence located deep in an unfriendly part of North Philly were drugs and prostitution is rampant. “Frank what was her name again?”
“Margie. That’s all she gave me.”
“I’ll bet you wish she gave you something else.”
“You know it, mi pana.” They look at each other and giggle.
Frank was born and raised in a town called Ciales in Puerto Rico then moved to the states with his family when he was a teenager. He enjoys mixing both languages often with those close to him. The phrase “mi pana” is a ghetto term, the equivalent of “my brother”.
The agents are welcomed in and begin the interview process. After a couple of standard questions, she begins to reveal essential details.
“We had plans; a family, house with a picket fence, maybe a dog...” She stares blindly while recalling her memories. Her eyes get puffy and tears start to build up at the outer corner of her eyes. “Shortly after graduating he told me he was approached by someone tied to the government. He said his name was John Smith and that he wanted to offer him the opportunity serve his country.”
Tarell glances at Frank. “An obvious cover name.”
“Did he say what branch of the government?” Frank asks after sipping on a cup of coffee.
“No, he said the stranger couldn’t tell him. All he could say was that it would be at an undisclosed location and that he’d be working on projects of the utmost priority for Uncle Sam. After that he disappeared, I never saw him again until last week when I saw his picture in the paper. Why did he change his name?”
Frank responds “Or who? We have reason to believe that the Department of Defense might have had a hand in that, but that hasn’t been confirmed. Are you sure there’s nothing to indicate where he might have went, anything at all?”
“Well I did find this post-it note near his computer.” She hands Tarell a wrinkled yellow sticky note, the contents simply read Dulce 8 am, DON’T FORGET! "What do you think Frank?"
“Well I know that dulce means “sweet” in Spanish but obviously this indicates some kind of meeting place. Margie, is there some kind of establishment with that name around here like a restaurant, bar or hotel?”
“Not that I know of.”
“We’ll have to do some digging then. Thank you Margie, you’ve been extremely helpful.” Tarell hands her a business card. “Please call if you find any more information, or if you remember something he said that can help.”
“Sure thing.”
It’s early in the evening when the agents leave Margie’s house and walk to the car.
“What the hell?” Tarell sees that the two right side tires have been flattened and walks around the perimeter of the car to check the other two tires to find them in the same shape. “Son of a bitch!”
Frank’s not surprised. “That’s what happens in the hood Tee. I’ll call triple A.” He pulls out his cell phone and suddenly notices a shadow through the peripheral vision of his right eye, he quickly turns to get a close look. “Hey!” He pulls out his Glock 23, “Freeze! FBI!” Frank chases after it; Tarell follows with Glock in hand. They follow him through an alley but the subject seems to have disappeared in the shadows. Frank can’t believe it. “Dammit, where’d he go? I had him in my sights!”
“Did you get a good look at him?”
“No it’s too dark.”
As soon as Frank finished his sentence the dark figure jumps up from behind a nearby bush and lands on top of a three-story row home.
“Whoa! Did he just--”
“Yea, he did.”
Frank is understandably upset “Shit! We’ll never find him now.”
Tarell agrees “He’ll be halfway to the Delaware River in no time.”
The agents head to the local FBI office to try and decrypt the note and hopefully find some answers on their mystery man. After a couple of hours of investigation the agents hit pay-dirt on the note. “Got it Frank!” Tarell exclaims while staring at a monitor. “Check it out.” Frank rushes over to Tarell’s temporary workstation and grins when he sees what the note meant by “Dulce”.
“It’s in our back yard, Dulce, New Mexico!” Frank’s sudden excitement begins to dwindle when he realizes something. “Wait a minute, how come we’ve never heard of it if it’s in our back yard? I mean it’s just under 130 miles northwest of Albuquerque.”
“Well obviously we’ve never had a case that took us there.”
“Yeah not once in 15 plus years. Don’t you find that strange?”
“I guess--but it’s just a coincidence.”
“Maybe so but I can’t shake the feeling that something’s not right, anyway let’s make like an amoeba and split. I got a feeling all our questions are gonna be answered at Dulce.”
The dynamic duo arrive at Dulce, New Mexico where they begin asking questions at local establishments concerning their victim. After a week of dead ends the two end up at a local bar where they drown their frustration in liquor. They’re about to pack it in when they’re approached by a middle-aged man, clearly inebriated.
“Are you the FBI guys?”
Frank answers “Yes we are sir, how may we be of service to you?”
“I heard you’re asking questions about a Mr. Mason.”
Tarell confirms “That’s correct, did you know him?”
“Uh…sort of” Frank pulled out a chair for their new lead. “I mean we met here one night and I guess we both just needed someone to talk to. I was going through a rough break up with a long-time girlfriend and he…well he had a fantastic story to tell, which in the end made me forget what I was depressed about.” He paused to reconsider telling the story.
“Apparently he worked at a secret government funded compound where he worked on one of many experiments that the public would probably not approve of. His specific project involved splicing genes from humans and extraterrestrial beings, then finding a way to combine them. The goal was to cure an alien disease that plagued the extraterrestrial beings, pushing them to the brink of extinction, the specific proteins that makeup our DNA can help them do that. Then at one point Gilbert had an argument with management about a top level decision concerning his project. He was put on administrative leave for a week to cool off. That’s when they met at the bar. I never saw him after that.”
Frank and Tarell look at each other, waiting to hear what the other is going to say. Tarell breaks the ice.
“Well…um…Mr…”
“Daniels.”
“Mr. Daniels are you sure you’re recounting the story accurately? I mean you guys were drinking right?”
“No I wasn’t, he was.”
“I never had a drink before in my life. At least not until that night, that guy gave me the creeps big-time. I had two drinks then vomited.”
Frank begins to bounce theories off of Tarell. “So either he made it up as a result of the intoxication or…”
“Or what Frank?” Tarell asked in a low whispery tone “Or he might be telling the truth? Because of the liquor?”
Frank stares at him for a second. “Possibly.”
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