The Smart Ones: The Adventures of Clark Westfield, #1

This is a work of fiction.  None of the characters or events are real.  Any similarities to any events or people living or dead in real life are purely coincidental....

Prologue:

February 2, 2020

A cold and trembling left index finger reached through the bitter freezing rain to press the button on the call box. Another lukewarm hand, also trembling, curled up in his right hand as his wife leaned on him from the passenger seat. A nervous silence followed as Mr. and Mrs. Mackoul waited to see if the scraped metal with its aluminum speaker and flaking yellow paint could connect them with anyone. The open car window let the rain and wind disrupt the husband and wife travelers with daggers of cold, wet wisps as they waited for a sound. Then, a crackle, some static, followed by much louder static and a swab of feedback.

Proceed! was the word the Mackouls could make out as a garbled voice choked its way through the little metal Venetian blind slits that protect the speaker. The Mackouls glanced at each other as the ancient iron gate in front of their car drew open. Mr. Mackoul drove through the gate on what appeared to be a seldom-used trail with tire tracks in the grass but no pavement. Mr. Mackoul plowed on, the tension rising in his throat.  His wife, too nervous to speak, pointed at a faint light shining through the trees. With muddy spins, the car slipped over the top of a low hill and arrived at a small house. A figure in a dark raincoat and a wide-brimmed hat stood on the unlit porch. Mr. Mackoul pulled up and rolled down his window.

Hi, sorry to bother you. I’m not sure we are at the right pace.... he volunteered as a salutation.

The figure walked up to the vehicle, opened the door, and got in the back seat. Drive forward on the path. I’ll tell you where to turn, said the man in the back. Mr. Mackoul recognized the voice from their prior conversation. It was the same voice that had called him and told him to come to this address.

Where is our son!? exclaimed Mrs. Mackoul without turning around as per the prior instructions.

You know our agreement, Mrs. Mackoul, please respect it, said the voice in the back seat.  The car slipped and slid through the muddy woods at a crawl.

Did you bring all the documents we discussed? asked the voice.

Yes, of course we did, Mr. Mackoul’s voice cracked with the anxious dryness in his throat.

Our agreement was that we would see our son, Greg. Where is he? pressed Mr. Mackoul with the last shred of courage he could muster.

Relax..., said the voice. Greg is perfectly fine. I believe he texted you both earlier to say exactly that. As we discussed previously, Mr. Mackoul, this is a process, and you must be patient and respect the agreement while we work with Greg. This is where you will be staying. A small unlit cabin stood soaked in the rain. Take your suitcases and leave the documentation in the car. You will both get out here, and I will bring your car to where it will stay. There is food, firewood, and a VCR with some old movie tapes. Someone will be in touch...

As the man exited the back seat, Mr. Mackoul stood in the wet grass to confront the passenger. We want some answers, and we want to see our son, or nobody is going any...

Mackoul’s voice fell silent as the man partially pulled back one flap of his raincoat to reveal a nickel-plated .38 revolver strapped to his waist. As his wife stood up from the passenger seat, the man closed his raincoat to conceal the gun. The mysterious stranger reached out and a leather gloved hand opened. Mackoul realized he must have wanted the car keys and leaned in to remove them from the ignition. The man took the keys and opened the trunk. He took out two matching floral patterned designer suitcases and placed them on the ground. The heavy suitcases sank into the soft mud under their own weight. A third suitcase, the kind a lawyer would roll into court containing legal files, remained in the trunk.

That’s everything, said Mr. Mackoul, pointing at the file suitcase.

Good, said the voice from behind the open trunk as Mrs. Mackoul went to stand next to her husband.

The cabin is unlocked, and the house keys are on the table, said the man as he got into the driver’s seat of the Mackoul’s car and closed the door. He started the car Mr. Mackoul shouted Hey man... what is this? You are leaving? Where are you going with my car? Where the hell is my son? Hey! Are you even listening!!??

But the man was not. The tires slipped in the mud a few times as the car drove off.  The Mackouls, shocked, wet, cold, and worried, looked at one another, turned towards the cabin, and went inside to wait...

The Smart Ones

The Adventures of Clark Westfield

By Tom Albright

Chapter 1

February 2, 2022

The news felt more believable, more true, when you held a physical newspaper in your hands. And Clark Westfield still loved the powdery feeling of black ink dust working its way into the grooves of his fingerprints. There was a perfection about the week of July 4 – the sun set late with a long golden twilight, and the New Jersey summer evenings were a friendly temperature most years. The humid, soot-heavy air over the Garden State that packs a 100-degree punch usually didn’t start until late July. A fleeting glimpse around the dinner table at his 19-year-old daughter, Clark could feel his gratitude swell deep inside, especially as his eyes fell on the newspaper he had folded and put down next to his plate and the empty chair where his wife Mary Lynn had sat for 20 years before losing her battle cancer. Five years had passed since their last conversation. They were five long, desolate, cold, silent years filled with the fog of grief, self-loathing, Covid isolation, self-doubt, and the deep rage only karmic bad luck could engender. But this July 4, much of that toxic emotional sludge had started to wash away. He was proud of his daughter Melody, and she had been so supportive as the father/daughter team had braved the blindness and confusion the loss of a matriarch brings that Clark even mustered a smile.

Parents Now Missing In Boy Genius Cold Case blared the headline.  A local boy named Greg Mackoul, a seemingly rare child genius with an IQ that was off the charts had been missing for two years in a classic vanishing.  Recently, his parents had left their family home unannounced and hadn’t been heard from, which had raised eyebrows. Was it grief? Either way, the Metuchen police had an open case of a missing high school senior and no one to talk to now that his parents had vanished. Now, two years after the Mackoul boy’s disappearance, another high school student had disappeared from a town nearby.

Mel, did you read the story about that kid from Maplewood who disappeared? And then also remember that kid from a few years back - right as the pandemic started and they couldn’t find him? Did you hear that the boy genius’s parents are now missing too? What do you think happened? Clark asked his daughter Melody. She was a bright and fascinating young woman, and the father/daughter relationship they had cultivated over her 19 years on earth would be the envy of any father of a teen.  It had been earned through the mutual dependency on one another after his wife’s passing and now was deep and unshakable.

Oh... that kid that lived on Magnolia Avenue? chimed Melody from the kitchen. One of my friends had a younger sister in his class, and they said he was totally weird – like super smart but weird in every other way. I think you call it Ass-berger disease or whatever?

It’s Asperger’s Syndrome, and super smart people usually have it, added Clark. It’s almost like when a brain has so much intelligence in one area like science, math, or musical performance, it can’t really do anything else right. 

Clark picked up the paper and began to read the article. The current missing boy, Alvin Matsumoto, was a 14-year-old with what the school principal called extraordinary gifts and was a National Merit Scholar, the national academic ranking that recognized high school students for their academic achievements. Alvin had gone missing two weeks ago and his parents first contacted the school and then the police, who launched a well-publicized search, fearing he may have gotten lost on his way home from school. The article stated that Alvin’s parents met with the school and police, and then after a few days, suddenly stopped cooperating with police and searchers, drawing enormous suspicion before disappearing themselves. 

Clark felt a faint vibration of what used to be adrenaline shock deep in his guts, knowing he was reading an intriguing news story. But the faint chemical blip was a pale reflection of the passion that used to flow freely and drive him to race to crime scenes and knock on victim’s doors late at night, in the hopes of obtaining a quote, or work the crowd at repasts of elected officials. It was the excitement of the news propelling him forward as God’s messenger -a town crier on a celestially sanctioned prophetic mission to inform the world of what was happening and what was to come. Those days - those surges out the door despite family responsibilities, those newsroom arguments with editors who didn’t believe his hunches, flipping sources to expose dirty cops, infidelity stakeouts - were gone. The bulldog reporter that gave Clark Westfield’s life meaning, purpose, adventure, and prestige had retreated in contempt for the world. and for news everywhere, for social media, for pundits, for 24-hour cable news propaganda factories, for podcasts, for blogs, for memes, and god knows what else was supposed to be important these days. It no longer mattered whether news was true, original, balanced, or neutral. There simply was no longer any appetite by the American people for news accuracy to be a checkpoint in a civilized society, and it terrified Clark at a very deep level.

Melody placed several steaming bowls of food on the table and called over to her father. OK Dad, it’s just you and me tonight. I made a 100% organic dinner for July 4! she sang happily.

We aren’t having hamburgers and hot dogs for the 4th of July? Am I being punked? Clark replied in genuine disbelief.

No! Absolutely no hot dogs or hamburgers! Do you know how irresponsible it is to eat meat from animals that were raised on fertilized fields with a massive carbon footprint? Melody was speaking passionately, as she was obsessed with climate change and planned to study environmental science.

Could you have at least cooked veggie burgers or something as a nod to American tradition? Clark asked in a joking tone but still wanting an answer.

Melody let out a deep sigh, sounding deflated in the way only a 19-year-old girl can when she was disappointed with her father. Dad...it’s time we abandon American traditions that are toxic! I made all these vegetables and they are all organic and non-GMO, and that’s a better action step than perpetuating the criminal meat industry and...

Do you even know what any of that means? asked Clark with genuine frustration. Have you REALLY measured whether your passionate monologue is going to help at any practical level?

See Dad, this is why we are so fucked. Every person thinks they can’t make a difference and then nothing gets done. If we could just rise against GMOs before it’s too late...

What GMOs? Too late for what?? Mel...I want you to think about what you are reading and step back for a second. A lot of what you are pointing at are scary rumors that play well in the press. We have been growing and eating GMOs for decades, and there haven’t been any problems, said Clark, lowering his voice as he talked further. It just seems there are bigger problems in the world right now that need immediate attention.

OK, but Dad...listen to me for a moment... said Melody her eyes filling with tears. If we don’t change how we see and do everything, we are risking all of humanity’s survival. How can we just allow smart people to mix and match genetics in plants with no accountability and no oversight? You realize it’s not just plants, right? It’s animals, too...there are genetic modifications in livestock already, and no one knows what they are, and who knows, they could be in people as well.

Mel...stop there. I’m not in the mood... Clark said gently. Everything isn’t a conspiracy to take over the world and oppress us. That’s just not how the world works in real life, only in James Bond movies.

I think the human race is more precarious than you think Dad, and we are on a precipice with science and technology that will permanently alter humanity, Melody argued.

Mel, I have seen humanity hang in there for quite a few challenges. You’d be surprised what we can handle, Clark chuckled. And that part about science and technology putting us on some dangerous cliff – get in line behind Copernicus, Darwin, and all the other historical figures who were accused of creating the same risks after basic scientific discoveries. I’m not being dismissive, Mel, but we’ve been here before. Humanity will do fine.

Melody felt concerned. Her entire life, her father had preached, often at high volume, about the virtue of pursuing the news as an act of patriotism. He had been a diehard 1st Amendment advocate, and some of the investigative stories he broke had made a huge impact. He would torture his family members by reciting every detail of every case and telling them what hit the edit room floor.  No journalist was more authentic and passionate about news than Clark Westfield –it would defy the laws of newsroom physics. And it was why Melody was so concerned about her father. The great crusading journalistic hero hadn’t broken a major story in at least a year. His three weekly columns on the commentary of his choice had become flat, almost satirical, watered-down fluff. It was obvious to those close to Clark that he hadn’t been himself for several years, perhaps as far back as before the pandemic had started and his wife passed. But this was different from personal grief - there was an existential pessimism to it that wasn’t present in the immediate years after being widowed. Clark had first found solace in his work like many men who lose their wives, working twice as hard and twice as long for distraction and ultimately, survival. But the last two years Melody had watched her father at home on the living room couch, screaming at the television and the various anchors on cable news. Most people had come around as the pandemic had retreated, and it seemed the news was more vital than ever, and yet, her father seemed to sink into an even darker place of disillusionment and journalistic chagrin.

Clark tasted the vegetables Melody had sautéed. They were mediocre despite her being a great cook. He turned and grabbed the packaging that was on the counter. 100% USDA Certified Organic was stamped on the label. What a joke... he smirked to himself.

What do you think happened to that other kid’s parents? asked Melody politely, changing the subject.

Who knows? People do crazy stuff... mumbled Clark dispassionately.

Dad, it seems like you just don’t care about anything anymore, said Melody with genuine concern. Are you depressed? Why don’t you get excited about stories anymore?

Mel...I didn’t leave the news, the news left me, said Clark staring down at his empty plate. He wasn’t ready to dissect his fundamental shift just yet so he changed the subject. First, I’ve been in this business long enough to predict that this is probably some family navigating immigration issues and they just took off.  Trust me, this is a non-event. And, in the impossible event that this is something much more sinister...who cares?

What do you mean who cares dad? That’s never come out of your mouth before. Melody could sense there was something more under her father’s responses.

I just mean if it turned out to be some elaborate murder, or theft, or even spy stuff,  its still a two-day story and the world moves on to the next thing. It’s almost as if the news coverage packages everything with a beginning, middle, and end giving us permission to move on and not to care, Clark stared into the distance.

Dad, can I bring up a delicate topic? asked Melody with trepidation.

Clark rolled his eyes and sighed. 

Here we go again..., he thought. What’s on your mind, dear? he asked.

Well, I'm not sure how to describe it but... Melody looked down at the table avoiding eye contact. You just seem like you’ve lost your fight... she said, her voice swelling with emotion. Clark shot her a perplexed look, though deep inside he knew exactly what she meant. Yet as spot-on as his daughter’s observation was, he saw no benefit in explaining to his young optimistic daughter how he had lost his faith in humanity. That would be narcissistic and cruel, he told himself.

I don’t think you want to have this conversation, Mel, he said in a low volume evasive tone, then got up from the table and left.

THERE WAS SOMETHING inherently humiliating on the twilight side of greatness. Clark Westfield had enjoyed a multi-decade career as a reporter, journalist, and author.  He was known in journalism schools around the country as the example of persistence, ethics, and dedication. He brought all the major industry awards to his employer newspaper, the Newark Examiner, the largest newspaper in New Jersey. Every possible regional journalism reporting award was his— Silver Bulldogs, Westinghouse Awards, State Press Association Annual Reporter’s Choice Trophies, and New Jersey Correspondents Medal of Excellence.  They stood in a glass trophy case in the newspaper’s reception area. Clark looked at the empty reception desk and the dark lighting in the offices behind the doors and paused. It seemed no one had bothered to come into the office for this meeting, so why should he? A voice broke the dreary gray thickness.

Clark... how nice of you to grace us with your presence, said Elizabeth Cranford in her faux matriarchal tone. Elizabeth was Clark’s editor, but 15 years younger. Clark had let her intern for him when she was a senior in college more than 29 years ago. She had started freelancing as an intern and was hired as a copy and rewrite editor immediately out of college. She had worked under Clark in his division as a right hand and protégé for more than ten years. He had taught her the ropes, looked out for her in office politics, and set her up to succeed on stories, which she did almost every time. She had worked with Clark on some of the biggest breaks of his career, most recently the investigation and discovery of a murderous ring of bereaved parents that systematically were executing opioid-prescribing doctors. She had also recently worked on a multi-year investigation that led to the discovery of Cold War bunkers in Harriman State Park in New York and a rogue CIA program that had caused a local murder. There were few people Westfield hated more than their former boss and managing editor, Sean Caldwell.  Clark saw it as a mission for the greater good rather than a personal vendetta to fight him, and when Caldwell was finally thrown out of the office, it was Elizabeth who filled the chaos of the managing editor’s job at Clark’s insistence. Clark had abdicated his position two years ago when the paper changed ownership. Now Clark was called an Editor Emeritus At Large '' and sometimes when the layout staff wanted to tease him, they would write the tag Legacy Columnist" above any of his articles. 

Clark loved working under Elizabeth. It gave him the opportunity to keep eyes on her and assist in stories or office politics—all behind the scenes, of course. Clark had decades of contacts he provided to Elizabeth. Police captains, clergy, celebrities living quiet, private lives, CEOs, and union leaders – Clark had covered every aspect and detail of their businesses and lives. He had won over the reasonable ones, remained frenemies with some, and was a marked man with others. Navigating that complicated weather pattern was what made Clark so extraordinary as a journalist. Now, it was all Elizabeth’s. She had spent 15 years by Clark’s side in the field with him introducing her to key players, teaching her how to cultivate or flip sources. He instilled in her a sixth sense that would sense when someone was telling the truth or not. When you are lied to multiple times a day by sources with an agenda, you either stop caring or you become hypersensitive to untruths, and it codifies a personal conviction. Clark was the latter, and so was Elizabeth. Whether it was a straight, bold-faced lie that they could easily prove false in their writing, like the police chief who denied being at the scene of a shooting despite video evidence, or sins of omission where relevant truths were simply left out of the conversation or obscured, they hated untruths.  Years ago, a bishop had told Clark and Elizabeth the diocese had no knowledge of a predator priest’s prior record, only for Clark and Elizabeth to find families in Pittsburgh to speak on the record about his activities that very afternoon. And it was that type of sin of omission that bothered the two of them the most, because what power players DIDN’T tell you is what usually did the most damage.

As for assignments, Elizabeth let Clark write whatever he wanted. Clark made her life difficult with the stipulation that she always found space in the print edition of the newspaper, and his pieces didn’t just live online. What are we going to do when a pulse bomb fries all our computers or a solar flare zaps the whole electric grid? I’ll still have columns in the newspaper! he would say. However, despite Elizabeth taking over the paper almost two years ago, she had yet to send Clark on an assignment. Despite the new owners being completely uninterested in the actual NEWS of the business, Elizabeth wanted to launch and break a big investigative piece. Clark had averaged at least one major investigative piece each year of his tenure and won so many awards it became a joke. That is until he won the Pulitzer Prize for investigative journalism for a piece on a local murder that had roots in Washington espionage. This was in 2019. The greatest irony was not that he exposed another example of our government behaving badly but rather that he had already been fired from the paper by Sean Caldwell, a casualty of the new ownership’s need to prematurely neutralize the insubordination he was so famous for, and was the essence of the testicular fortitude that had won him the award. Clark didn’t have to ask for his job back—no one even knew that paper had fired him yet, and Clark didn’t care. Elizabeth, in her new role as editor, after it all went down, had just started giving him assignments and running his columns. She didn’t ask anybody, and no one discussed it with her. And just like that, Clark Westfield had returned to the newsroom under the supervision of the woman he had trained to have superior skills to his own, and Elizabeth knew exactly how to use him. And not fearing any insubordination or gaslighting by Clark’s stratospheric intellect, Elizabeth decided today she would give Clark his first assignment. 

There is something about the week of the 4th of July, it’s a special kind of humidity, offered Clark with a smile as he appeared in Elizabeth’s office doorway, which was his old office. She looked up from her computer and smiled back. Despite how much she had achieved on her own, and her remarkable independence as an editor and manager, there was a sense of security that Clark brought to the newsroom that she never wanted to grow past. It wasn’t that she couldn’t handle any crisis on her own – it was that Clark was living proof that you survive most of the worst-case scenarios. Clark had lived through the biggest and most tragic events of the last 30 years in world news and in his own career. He had been falsely accused, endured allegations of malice, plagiarism, bias, negligence, and every other slight the world could throw at a reporter. He had been followed and received dozens of death threats in the mail. He had been beaten up, had knives pressed against his throat, and felt the cold metal of a gun barrel against his temple. But he was still here, still looking for the next important story. Still looking for whoever wasn’t telling the truth.

​Clark, I have to give you an assignment, said Elizabeth without looking up. Clark assumed she was joking. 

​Politics? Clark responded, also without looking at Elizabeth but rather staring out her office window. Silver leaves flashed as the trees swayed in the hot summer wind. Yeah, I was thinking I would write a piece about how nothing will ever return to normal until...

​I mean a real assignment, as in sit down and start taking notes, said Elizabeth, now looking him dead in the eyes and adding a sternness to her tone. Clark sensed the climate of the conversation shift. I need you to do an expose series on intelligence. Her voice dipped in volume.

​Not sure you remember this, Liz, resisted Clark, trying not to bristle at his former intern giving him an actual assignment. Though granted, you weren’t my boss then, but I recently did an extended investigation into certain intelligence agencies, and I’m not exactly welcome there any longer, but okay, it's been a while since I've been to Washington and—  Elizabeth cut him off again.

​Clark, you need to follow me here... Elizabeth slowed down her diction and made eye contact with Clark in a deep serious fashion that let him know this was something important. I’m not giving you a generic reporting assignment  intellectual columns and lengthy in in-depth investigations - as your editor that is what we agreed I would give you.  So this is an investigation. But... it's going to start as a series that is going to make you look like you’ve lost your edge. Elizabeth paused to allow Clark to focus on the next part of what she was going to say.

​I see.... and this is supposed to make me feel good...why? quipped Clark.

​Making you feel good isn’t my job, thank god, Elizabeth said, cracking a smile. Decades of intense work cultivates room between colleagues for edgy teasing. I need you to start off as if it were a routine feature series, and we can create some generic cover backstory like you are working with the Smithsonian or TIME Magazine or something lofty. Start out writing about the pathology of intelligence and then gradually get into the marketing of parent products like fertility and pregnancy supplements that promise smart children. Then examine the educational and learning racket and all of those conscience-gouging operations that pretend you need to go to a certain daycare to get into Harvard.  Elizabeth stopped speaking as she noticed Clark was smirking. What? What is it? she pressed.

​Nothing, said Clark boyishly. Elizabeth wasn’t going to let him off the hook on the off chance it was genuine wisdom under that grin and not Clark’s Gen X pedantics. After a few seconds of an awkward, silent deadlocked stare between the two, Elizabeth spoke:

​Then I want you to draw a thumbnail portrait of what life must have looked like for that poor Matsumoto boy growing up with all that pressure to succeed, she continued. He disappeared two weeks ago with no trace, and the police chief fears the worst.

​"What does that kid have to do with anything? I think he is just a runaway, maybe