Vanderbilt University
School of Journalism
8:30am
Debbie Hudson smiled as Robert walked into the office. She was glad to see someone who made her job easier. As secretary for the Dean of Liberal Arts, Hudson fielded a litany of phone calls and visits that could make her days as hectic and unpredictable.
An angry student looking for someone to blame because her 4.0 was ruined was likely to storm into her office and complain about an American Lit class before realizing that Hudson was merely the go-between. Situations like that made the day adventurous but exhausting. She enjoyed seeing faculty members like Robert who showed her respect. They knew that for every one emergency Dr. Ben Hoek had to solve, she stopped 10 from even going that far.
“He’s in his office, Robert. Just go in.”
“Thank you.”
Ben stood up. “Thanks for coming in. Did you and Julian find anything?”
“We think we have a lead, but we need more information. I want to know how you decided to put the folders together.”
“The folders from the cookout? Let’s see, I just printed off news articles that I found and typed up a brief page on what Tiffany had told me. Jonathan made copies of what the police had, so I added those. Why?”
“Well, we found a tattoo that could indicate Harvel was more than a mentally unstable loner. Again, it could mean nothing. I want more than a brief bio. Is there any way to find out his hobbies or what organizations he was in?”
Ben pressed the tips of his fingers. “There is a way to find out.” He paused for dramatic effect. Robert leaned forward.
“Kristoff.”
“You mean Kristoff Tulowitzki?”
“Of course.”
“I have no problem asking him, but what makes him so qualified?”
“He’s a conspiracy theorist, but he’s such an organized thinker, he can explain his theories without sounding like a crackpot. I’ve heard he can make you think that Lee Harvey Oswald, the CIA, the Cubans, or the Russians assassinated Kennedy.”
“Interesting. Well, if this is his wheelhouse, he probably won’t mind sitting down answering a few questions.”
“I don’t think you have to settle for a few questions. I think you could get him all the way on board. Let me ask you, what answer did you come up with for my turntable question?”
“Turn–oh yeah. It’s unsolvable. You didn’t give us enough information.”
“Go on.” Now Ben was the one leaning forward.
“It’s a variation of a logic puzzle the Romans developed. How fast would a chariot wheel have to spin before it begins to break apart? It’s about order versus chaos. The Romans were obsessed with unification. They wondered how much unifying they could one do before things would unravel. The answer was…it depends. It depends on the size of the chariot wheel and the strength of the tools that forged it. That’s the point. How much order can you bring to the world? It depends on how big the world is that you want to conquer and how strong the tools are that you’re using?
“So back to your question, it depends on what kind of glass you want to use and how much water is in it.”
Ben made a mental note to use that example in the future. “Great answer, Robert. That question is your opening. I feel like each of you will come to the same conclusion but with different types of reasoning. That question was my way of giving you all something to think about even if you said no. Maybe it’d stick with you enough that my request wouldn’t quite leave your mind.
“Call Kristoff. Begin by asking him what answer he got. Then tell him your answer. He’ll appreciate it. From there, ask him about the case. The idea that a small piece of evidence could link to something bigger will more than likely draw him in. At the very least, he can give you a few leads.”
“Thanks, Ben. I’ll call him when I get to my office.”
“Don’t call him. Go see him like you came to see me. He’ll appreciate the effort. Plus the face-to-face contact will make your point more forceful. It’s Monday. He’ll probably be working in his office with the door closed. At first he’ll be grumpy that you interrupted him, but once you get talking, he’ll be fine.”
The two shook hands. “Thanks again, Ben. Talk to you soon.”
On his way out he waved to Debbie Hudson. She smiled, nodded and turned her back to her computer.
***********
Tiffany sat at the coffee table on her living room floor. A whole wheat turkey and cheese sandwich lay on a plate, half-eaten beside a bowl of Cheerios next to her computer, a bottle of water next to that.
She wanted to write an article about the need to understand Harvel without sounding too sympathetic. She knew what she wanted to say but not quite how. She took a bite of her sandwich, chewing while her fingers hovered aboard the keyboard. Her phone buzzed and she jumped nervously. She moved the papers that buried it and answered on the second ring.
“Hello, is this Tiffany Saunders?”
“Yes?”
“Hi Tiffany, I’m sure you’re busy, so I won’t take up your time. I’m Dr. Julian Daniels, associate English professor at Vanderbilt. I’m a good friend of Ben Hoek.”
“He’s doing well. I was calling because he asked me to look into the Christopher Harvel story you were working on.”
Julian looked phone to see if he hadn’t dropped the call. Tiffany’s silence meant something but he couldn’t tell what.
“Hello? Ms Saunders?”
“Sorry, yes I’m still here. What specifically did you need to know?”
“Well, long story short, a few professors here are very interested in the details of the case. I was wondering if it’d be possible to meet up with you to discuss it.”
“Sure. I’ve been trying to approach it from some fresh angle, but I can’t find anything worth pursuing.”
“Dr. McDonough from the Classics Department and I would like to meet with you because we may have something. Do you know where Fido’s on 21st is?”
“I do. Will Dr. Hoek be there?”
“No, but if you have any questions, feel free to call his office.”
“Should I bring anything?”
“Bring everything you can. What day and time works for you?”
“Well, since I’m suspended from work, I can meet whenever. How about this evening after dinner around 8:00?”
“If you get there before me, just know that Dr. McDonough has a large beard, and I guarantee you he’ll be wearing a white shirt. You’ll know him when you see him, even if there’re 10 guys who fit that description, you’ll just know. He looks like he spends his days in a library. I mean that in the best possible way.”
Tiffany laughed. Maybe meeting with two crusty professors wouldn’t be so bad. “Sounds good. See you then.” She hung up the phone and looked up the professors on the Vanderbilt website. Robert matched the description given to her, but she was surprised by how young Julian looked. She wondered if he was married but pushed the thought from her mind. She ignored the urge to do any further research, tied her shoes, and went for her run.
**********
Tiffany pulled her car into the cramped parking lot behind Fido’s. She stepped inside and scanned the area. She recognized Julian from his faculty picture and walked to where he sat.
“Dr. Daniels, nice to meet you in person.”
“Likewise. And call me Julian.”
“Sounds good. Where’s Dr. McDonough?”
“He couldn’t make it, but he did give me a few questions to ask.”
Tiffany felt a twinge of excitement at the news that it’d just be them. She enjoyed being out with an attractive member of the opposite sex, even if it were strictly professional.
“Well, ask me whatever you want. I brought my laptop. It has my notes as well as everything I collected.” She sat it on the table. “Before we get started, I’m gonna get something. What are you drinking, Dr. Daniels?”
“The Simple Summer. It’s got cucumber syrup, milk, & espresso. Here, try some.”
“Thanks but no thanks. I think I’ll try something sweeter.”
He chuckled, “More for me. Choose wisely.”
She returned holding a mug.
“What’d you get?”
“The Local Latte.”
“Good choice. Honey & cinnamon in a latte, right?”
“Local honey. Makes all the difference.”
“Of course.”
The two laughed and a moment of silence passed as the mood shifted from casual to business. “So is there anything specific you need me to clarify?” she asked.
She glanced at his ringless left hand in spite of herself. She enjoyed meetings like this because she didn’t have to impress him, and everything was about the work. Any romantic energy they felt was muted by the work that they were here to discuss.
Julian set his phone on the table and pressed the record feature. “We’re really interested in Harvel. What’s his background?”
Tiffany pulled up her notes on him. “Let’s see, born 1970 in Muncie, Indiana. Graduated from Muncie High in ’88. Went to Purdue University, dropped out after three years and joins the Marines. While there, he was a sniper who fought in Operation Desert Storm. Spent some time in Kosovo in the mid 90s. Was honorably discharged in ’97. Awarded the Purple Heart.
After leaving the military, he worked in Arizona as a border patrol agent. He also took evening classes at Arizona State, got his degree but continued working his day job. He earned his Masters in History. Then all of a sudden, he just quits. Calls his boss says he’s not coming in.”
“Did he give a reason?”
“No. His boss just said that he called and matter-of-factly told him he was quitting. No yelling or any sort of emotion. This was in November. Apparently, after 9/11 he’d begun to behave erratically. Some of his co-workers believe he was experiencing some PTSD symptoms.”
“PTSD? Four years after being honorably discharged?”
“Yes, from what I gathered, we’re still learning about it. The illness affects people in different ways. Some control it better than others. Some experience it after certain events or hearing certain noises,” Tiffany said.
“Fair enough. So what next?”
“Well, he then showed up in Texas in ’04 where he leased an apartment for 6 months and paid some bills. He got a job adjuncting and working maintenance for Alamo Community College in San Antonio. No abrupt departures this time. He returned his apartment keys, he re-painted his apartment as stipulated by the lease, he even gave the college his 2 weeks notice…Does any of this help?”
Julian finished his drink and signaled to the barista that he wanted another. “Actually yes, we’d gotten some basic information about where he lived and what he did. But it’s sometimes hard to believe what you read online. Hearing it from you makes it much more credible. Also, you’ve been much more detailed about his behavior and the reaction by others to his behavior.”
“Okay good, I just don’t want to be repetitive.”
“No, you’re doing great,” he said.
Tiffany smiled, the two made eye contact.
“He left Texas and disappeared again. Showed up in Woodbury, Tennessee in ’08. He lived there until a week before Bissette got to town. That’s all the factual information I have on him.”
Julian nodded. He pauses a moment before speaking. “Debussy once said that music is in the silence between the notes. The same is true about stories. The brilliance is in what’s unsaid.”
“You’re interested in the years where he’s off the grid.”
“What do you think happened when he left in ’01?” he asked.
“I think he went to Mexico. I don’t think he went deep into the country, I think he traveled just far enough to disappear. If anyone were looking for him, they could’ve found him. You know what I mean?”
“I understand,” he said.
“I think he was following the War on Terror. He knew going back to the military wasn’t really an option, but he wanted to help. And so he stayed close, maybe doing some illegal things to make money but also observing and getting information.”
“Do you think he may’ve been working for our government?”
“I have that feeling. But if he was, the work he was doing wasn’t official.”
“So we have a smart, educated, dedicated, skillful guy possibly working off the grid in Mexico for the United States during a time of heightened suspicion about terrorism.”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe,” he echoed.
“So he resurfaced in Texas and took a reputable job in ‘04. Maybe he’s running from someone? If you’re on the grid, you’re easier to keep track of. But also, it’s harder for someone who’s after you to just run up and kill you.”
“I agree. He’s a veteran, so he has some credibility. He uses that to get another state job, one that allows him to lay low. But not too low because if he doesn’t show up for work one day, the police are going to look for him.”
“Okay, so he stays there until ’08. Then for the next three years he’s gone again, only to show up in Tennessee in 2011. You wanna hear my theory about ‘08 to ‘11?” she asked.
He sipped his drink. “Yes.”
“I think he was in Tennessee the whole time.” Tiffany waited the way you do when making a contrarian statement.
Julian took the bait. “Why?”
“I think he was on the run again. Maybe not for the same reasons or even from the same people. But he was definitely trying to keep himself safe. I think he saw that it’s better to get out of Texas but live somewhere rural enough to sustain himself.”
“So where in Tennessee was he at?”
“I think all over. The state’s not huge, but it’s big enough to hide in. I’m from Knoxville. That’s East Tennessee, all kinds of mountains there. And then West Tennessee is flat with plenty of farmland. And Middle Tennessee has a little bit of both. He could travel through the state for years and make no indelible marks and keep himself alive.”
“Fair enough. We’re filling in the gaps, the silent parts. But we have to make it fit with what we do know, the noisy parts. How do you think that works?”
The server returned to their table. As she removed their glasses, she casually asked, “we’re doing last call. Would you like anything else? Also, how do you want me to split the check?”
“Just one,” Julian said.
“It’s okay, make it two,” Tiffany said.
“You came out of your way to talk to me about the work you’ve done,” he said.
“No, it’s great to have someone listen to me about this stuff for once. I probably owe you. Let’s just call it even.” Tiffany wouldn’t have minded him paying had it not been for the eye contact earlier in their conversation. She wanted to avoid any sort of semblance of a date, especially since they clearly would have to meet again.
“One last thing,” Julian said. “Can you pull up a couple pictures of Harvel?”
She showed a headshot as well as the full body surveillance image of him getting into his car.
“That’s the one, the picture that was on the news,” he said. “What do you know about his tattoos?”
“Nothing out of the ordinary. There were a few common military style tats, and a few that seemed weird but nothing that would draw red flags, no gang tats or anything like that.”
“Someone like him wouldn’t have gang tats, but could he have tats that could give clues to the unknown parts of his story?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe. Is there something specific you’re wondering about?”
“Yes, look here.” He angled her computer so she could see what he was pointing to. “Dr. McDonough identifies this as a Renaissance Era memory wheel.”
“Memory wheel?”
“A circular object where you would store images, mental images. These mental images acted as pegs upon which you could place things that you wanted to remember. It was a loci or location.”
She nodded. “I think I get it,” she said.
“Here’s what people did before post it notes and cell phone reminders. They thought of a place they were familiar with like their homes. And they attached what they wanted to remember to the furniture in their homes. For example, if they wanted to remember that Harvel was from Indiana, they’d picture their living room and place something associated with Indiana, a basketball or an Indian, something that would help them think of Indiana. And if they wanted to remember that he was in the military, maybe a gun on their favorite table, et cetera, et cetera until they had everything they wanted to know.
“Speakers would use this technique to remember the order of their speeches, which is where we get the term ‘in the first place.’ Well, as you can see, it’d be easy to run out of places. How many buildings could you really be familiar with?”
“Right, so they invented the memory wheel to give them more places,” she said.
“Yeah, you just place things that you’re familiar with on the wheel. You and I might make a wheel that had the 26 letters of the alphabet. That creates 26 extra spots.”
“So he has a Renaissance memory wheel tattooed on his forearm. And you think this is some sort of clue as to what he was doing in Mexico or wherever he was when we couldn’t track him?”
“Yeah, it’s just not something you get a tattoo of unless you’re really interested in that time period. Dr. McDonough said it’s rare and specific, not the type of picture to circulate in tattoo parlors. One’s not likely to see it on a poster, point to it and say, ‘that looks good. Give me that.’ And it’s not something you would just stumble across haphazardly.”
“So you think it’s something you’d get a tattoo of if you were really into studying that kind of stuff?”
“Exactly,” he said.
“I’ll look into it. I have some friends in Metro I could ask,” she said.
“Good. McDonough seems to think that if others have the tat, that it’s rare. It may not turn up in any initial searches.”
“If nothing comes up, I’ll see if they could call in a favor with the TBI or FBI.”
“Thanks, Tiffany.”
They signed their checks and left. As he drove home, Julian thought about how difficult it’d be for him to disappear in the 21st Century. If he wanted to leave tomorrow, how long before he would leave a trace of his whereabouts? And could he just reappear in another state and get a job without arousing questions about his past?
One thing he knew: despite the erratic behavior, Harvel was not crazy. The apparent chaos of his life was not because of an unstable mind. Julian wondered if Harvel’s actions were rooted more in logic than instinct. If so, then what he did—both on the day of the shooting and the years leading up to it—could be understood.
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