Page 27 of Badlands (Nora Kelly #5)

C ORRIE AND S HARP made their way to the FO’s interrogation rooms. She had asked O’Hara to locate all of Oskarbi’s graduate students during the period before he went back to Mexico and then persuade the local ones to come in for questioning.

It had to be voluntary, since Corrie didn’t have enough evidence to get subpoenas, but “voluntary” didn’t mean coercion might not be employed.

O’Hara turned out to be good at that.

Of five who were local, he’d lined up three for questioning.

Sharp had stayed out of that process, but once the witnesses were brought in, he became involved—pointing out to Corrie that she’d had very little experience handling interrogations, and that he was there to observe and only intervene if necessary.

Corrie had to admit she was green when it came to questioning witnesses—and, in these circumstances at least, was glad of having backup.

The interrogation rooms at the FO were on the first floor, bare and intimidating.

Each had the usual one-way mirror, through which observers could watch and listen to the proceedings, and it was in one of these observation rooms that O’Hara, Corrie, and Sharp had gathered with their morning coffee to discuss the upcoming interrogations.

“So,” said Sharp, looking at Corrie and O’Hara with his sleepy, heavy-lidded eyes.

“What is the goal here? What information do you want to solicit?”

Corrie had written down a list of questions.

“Maybe it would be easiest if I explained the thought process that led me here. You see, I’d begun to wonder to myself if Oskarbi wasn’t at the center of some kind of cult.”

At this Sharp’s eyebrows shot up.

“A cult?”

“Yes, sir. You have this charismatic professor, Oskarbi, celebrated author of a bestselling book about drugs and phony Native American spiritualism. He gathers around him a bunch of starry-eyed students, coerces the female ones into having sex with him, and his male students into a sort of cowed obedience.”

She paused.

“Go on,” said Sharp.

She glanced at O’Hara, who had a skeptical expression on his face.

“And then, years later, two of the followers go off into the desert, strip naked, and die horribly—probable suicides. And they’re carrying these rare, ancient artifacts. One could make an argument for cult-like behavior.”

Sharp tilted his head.

“And yet they and Oskarbi’s other students went on to lead productive careers and lives. Normal. Respected.”

“I’m aware of that, sir. I did some research into the FBI databases about cults, and you’re right, it’s clear that in many aspects this does not resemble a cult. The two women were successful and confident, no drug or alcohol issues that we know of, no mental disorders, they weren’t abused as children—they’re not the kind of easy pickings a cult leader is on the lookout for. And speaking of cult leaders, Oskarbi vanished twelve years ago—so it seems unlikely he’s still running a cult here from wherever he is. There’s no indication of recruiting new members.”

“So,” said Sharp, “seems to me you just made an excellent argument why it isn’t a cult.”

“And yet,” said Corrie, “there’s the suicidal behavior, which looks very cultish. As I see it, these interrogations now are a chance to make sure these former Oskarbi students really are normal—and not hiding something.”

Sharp gave a slow nod.

“And how do you propose to do that?”

Corrie had thought about this.

“I propose to get in their faces.”

“And why do you think that will work better than, say, nonconfrontational questioning?”

“As you said, sir, they seem to be leading normal, productive lives. If that’s just a front, I want to see if we can’t break through and see what’s behind it.”

“And Agent O’Hara’s role?”

Corrie swallowed.

“Good-guy, bad-guy routine. I know it’s hackneyed, but it works.”

Sharp turned.

“Agent O’Hara—how do you feel about this?”

“We discussed it already and I’m game,” said O’Hara.

“I don’t mind playing the good guy to her bitch—I mean, her bad guy. Sorry.”

At this, Corrie laughed.

“No, bitch is okay. Bitch is good. Let’s call in the first one.”

Corrie watched through the glass as the first, Morgan Bromley, was led in by two officers; seated; and offered a cup of coffee or a soft drink, both of which he refused.

Then they left him to sit alone in the room for five minutes—SOP.

He was fit, at least six feet, four inches tall, handsome, clean shaven with deep-set brown eyes and an aquiline nose, his prematurely gray hair gathered in a long ponytail.

“Okay,” said Corrie, after the five minutes were up.

“Let’s roll.”

Sharp stayed behind to watch, while Corrie and O’Hara left the observation nest and entered the interview room.

Bromley sat at the table, an arrogant expression on his face.

“Mr. Bumly,” began Corrie, “I am Agent Swanson, and this is Agent O’Hara.”

“That’s Bromley ,” the man said, “and it’s Doctor . I have a PhD.”

Corrie didn’t apologize.

She just smirked. O’Hara took a seat on the opposite side of the table while Corrie remained standing.

“Dr. Bromley,” Corrie said, “we’re recording this interview, and you are under oath. Please state your name, occupation, and confirm this interview is voluntary and that you understand you’re free at any time to request an attorney or leave.”

“Dr. Morgan C. Bromley, PhD, professor, librarian, and archivist, New Mexico State Library. As for being here voluntarily, I was threatened that if I didn’t come in, I might be subpoenaed.”

“Please give a yes or no answer: Are you here voluntarily?”

“Yes. I suppose.”

“Let the record state,” said Corrie in a loud, unpleasant tone, “that the witness is here on a voluntary basis. Now, Mr. Bromley—”

“ Dr. Bromley.”

“My first question: Were you aware that Professor Oskarbi was sleeping with many of his female students—your colleagues?”

“What kind of question is that? What are you, the morality police?”

Corrie privately gave the man points for this comeback, but she kept her face tight and bitchy.

“Please answer the question.”

“Do I have to answer?”

“No. However, please note you are under oath and lying to a federal agent is a felony.”

“Well, I was not sleeping with him.”

“And the other students? I mean, the female ones.”

A hesitation.

Then: “Yes.”

“Which ones?”

Bromley gave a nasty laugh.

“All of them, I think. And why not? It was consensual.”

Corrie took a moment to consult her questions.

“Did you know Miranda Driver and Molly Vine?”

“Yes.”

“How well?”

“As colleagues. Fellow students.”

“Are you aware of what they did? Going out into the desert, stripping naked, and essentially committing suicide?”

“I read about it in the papers.”

By this point, news of the deaths had been allowed to spread under controlled conditions, but the FBI had withheld the information about the lightning stones.

“It seems a rather strange coincidence that two of Oskarbi’s former students would do such a crazy thing. Do you know why?”

“No, I don’t.”

“When was the last time you saw Miranda Driver?”

“I don’t recall.”

“But you’ve seen her since the days you were students together?”

“I’ve run into her. Same with Molly. We don’t keep in touch.”

“Is that so? I have reports that you did keep in touch with both of them—regularly.” She didn’t actually have reports to that effect but wanted to see his reaction.

“Sorry, is that a question?” Bromley asked.

“I am questioning the veracity of your statement that you didn’t keep in touch. I think you did.”

“I still didn’t hear a question.”

“Did you keep in regular touch with them?”

“I already answered that question.”

He’s a regular damned lawyer .

“How about Oskarbi? Are you in touch with him?”

“No.”

“When was the last time you had contact with him?”

“Not since he went back to Mexico. That would be… about twelve years ago.”

“He was your dissertation advisor. Tell me about him.”

“What can I say? He was charismatic. He drew you in. But I realized he was a phony pretty quickly.”

“So why did you remain his student?”

“Because it’s academic suicide to change your dissertation advisor halfway through.”

“Are you familiar with lightning stones?”

“Yes.”

“How about prasiolite lightning stones?”

“Yes.”

“And what do you know about them?”

“I understand they are associated with the Gallina culture. That’s all I know.”

“Speaking of the Gallina culture, you used to go on field excavations with Oskarbi and his other students—including Vine and Driver, correct?”

“Correct.”

“What took place during those field seasons?”

“Digging. And they were usually extended weekends, not ‘seasons.’”

“How about sex?”

“Back to the morality police? Sure, there was tent crawling—but it was mostly Oskarbi, sniffing around like a dog.”

“You didn’t like Oskarbi?”

“Oh, does it show?”

Corrie was starting to feel frustrated.

“How many field expeditions were you on?”

“Three.”

“When?”

“2011, 2012, and 2013.”

“And besides tent crawling and digging, did anything else happen on these expeditions?”

“There was eating, drinking, and sleeping. And swimming in the river. And s’mores around the campfire.”

“Anything unusual?”

“Not that I recall.”

“Did you find any prasiolite lightning stones?”

“No. I wish we had. There are only two known examples, belonging to a dodgy collector named Nash.”

“What did you find?”

“A lot of interesting material: lithics, ceramics, human remains. Unfortunately, Oskarbi never published and the stuff is still sitting in the basement of UNM somewhere. Except the human remains, which of course we left in situ, as required by NAGPRA.”

This was getting nowhere.

Corrie looked at O’Hara.

“Agent O’Hara, I believe you had some questions for this witness?”

O’Hara nodded.

“I do have a question,” he said, his voice suddenly taking on a razor-sharp edge.

He leaned forward toward Bromley.

“We have reason to believe Oskarbi was involved in a drug-fueled secret society, of which you were a member. Is that true?”

At this, Bromley began to laugh.

“A secret society? You mean a cult, don’t you? Secret societies are for the Founding Fathers and Ivy League students.”

“Just answer the question.”

“You FBI are still really defensive about Waco, aren’t you? I can answer in one word. No.”

A silence.

O’Hara looked at Corrie.

“Back to you, Agent Swanson.”

“I have no more questions,” said Corrie.

She stared at Bromley, who still had an amused, half-incredulous look on his face.

“Thank you, Dr. Bromley. You may go now.”

He got up, shaking his head, and left.

As the door slammed, Corrie turned to O’Hara.

“I thought you were going to be Mr. Nice Guy.”

He grinned.

“Well, the guy was so slick, I just had to pop him one. And I thought I could do you a favor by dismissing one theory in particular. He may be an asshole, but he’s no cult member.”

Corrie had to admit, as much as Bromley was a slick and evasive interlocutor, he was convincing.

“Noted. Let’s bring in the next one.”