The Peabody Connection

By Bill Knussmann

Not too far in the future, Matthew Kittle, an investigative reporter for a Washington, D.C. based national newspaper uncovers a scheme that could shake the foundation of the United States Government if it were to become public knowledge. Besides being a reporter; Kittle had an alternative motive in doing the research on this particular operation that was being carried out under the radar of the United States Government. People in the higher hierarchy of the government were directly involved in this scheme.

A few days before Kittle is to release the story for publication, he is found dead at his home in Washington, D.C. apparently from a suicide.

His paper decides to turn Kittles investigation over to two cub reporters; Stan Barton and Sarah Jameison neither of whom would draw attention to their real intent.

Stan and Sarah discover from Kittles notes, key elements are missing that would tie the parts of the puzzle together. Apparently Kittle kept the missing pieces lock away mentally. They decide to retrace step by step the investigative process Kittle took to expose the international operation that was detrimental to the security of the United States. Their investigation takes them to several locals in the United States and around the globe.

Once the operation is exposed; it has a profound impact on the U.S Government as well as other parties that were involved in the scheme.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Feb 19, 2008
• ISBN: 9781434324696

Book preview

Chpater One

All for Naught

Washington, D.C.

The White House Security Bunker

Fall 2010

Located four levels below The White House is a three-foot-thick, reinforced- concrete, walled room, forty by eighty feet, and designated The White House Security Bunker. It was constructed during the height of the cold war in the late sixties.

Stan Barton and Sarah Jameison, reporters for the Washington Union Tribune, Greg Franklin, national editor for the paper, and his friend Diane Emery sit across a large, cherry conference table from the President of the United States, Richard Hatfield. The President is flanked by his National Security Advisor Mike Evans, Chairmen of the Joint Chief of Staffs George Atkins, CIA Director Henry Stokes, the FBI Director Charles Peacock, Director of Naval Intelligence Ed Andrews, his Chief of Staff Jonathan Meyers, and White House Press Secretary Harry Giles.

Matthew Kittle should be sitting at this table instead of Sarah and me, Stan Barton was thinking. About a month ago I was a cub reporter, and now I’m advising the President of the United States on what action he must take. Sarah and I hold the fate of the United States in our hands and here we are ready to tell the President what we know so that he can take the proper action. Unfortunately, we’re here because of the death of a fellow newspaper reporter."

While Sarah was telling the President this amazing story and how it unfolded, Stan’s mind drifted back to the beginning.

Saturday 3:34 PM

Flying over Northern Virginia

Matthew Kittle looked out the window of the United Boeing 767 from his seat in the coach section of the morning Las Vegas flight to Washington, D.C.

He kept a tight smile on his face as he thought, "Finally, after almost eighteen months, I’ve got a scoop nobody ever dreamed had the slightest chance of existing. Today, what I have in writing, witness statements, and stored in my head is going to produce a haymaker of a headline in the Tuesday edition of the Washington Union Tribune."

Matthew was in his middle sixties, an investigative reporter for the newspaper, and working on the story of a lifetime. He’d been digging up factual material with solid numbers to substantiate his claims that Uncle Sam was a victim of the biggest inside sham in the country’s history. He was also aware this could be the last, and the most memorable and rewarding, story he ever worked on since he wasn’t getting any younger.

The tight smile broke into a wide grin as he turned his thoughts to when he won the Pulitzer Prize for exposing a kick-back scheme in the Pentagon Procurement Division. That was during the Carter years when morale was low and everybody was scrambling just to keep his or her head above water.

"It seems like yesterday when I was twenty-eight, fresh out of Journalism School at the University of Missouri in Columbia, and working for the now-defunct St. Louis Globe-Democrat, he mused. Today, what I have in writing, witness statements, and stored in my head is going to be a ‘haymaker’ of a headline in the Tuesday edition of the Washington Union Tribune. What a ride I’ve had…and it’s not over yet.

Like many young men during the 60s, Matthew’s education had been postponed with a tour in Vietnam working for the Naval Intelligence Command. He had been deployed in late 1967, and was among the last of the U.S. troops to leave Vietnam in 1973.

Once back in the states, the NIC helped him enroll in a Journalism Program at the University of Missouri in Columbia. He felt he had finally found his true calling and tried not to let his continued association with NIC overshadow his goals as a reporter.

While at the college, he met Abby, a co-ed from Arkansas majoring in what appeared to be mostly finding a husband. But he was smitten, so when he was offered a job as a reporter at the St. Louis Globe Democrat after graduation, they decided to wed so Abby could come back with him to St. Louis.

Those had been exciting, and sometimes tumultuous, years for the newly-weds. Matthew loved his job and it always came first. His dedication was further intensified after he won the Pulitzer Prize so early in his career. Matthew and Abby had two children, a son and a daughter, neither of whom saw much of their father because of the demands of his job. Within 10 years, the marriage had disintegrated and ended in a messy divorce. Abby and the children moved back to Arkansas, and Matthew gladly moved on to a job with the Washington paper and had very little contact with the children or his ex-wife after the divorce.

The cabin’s intercom broke his train of thought as a female voice announced their final approach to Dulles International Airport.

Please fasten your seat belts, and put your trays up in the locked position, seat backs up and your window shades raised, the voice instructed.

As he looked out the window at the approaching skyline of Arlington, VA., Matthew’s thoughts returned to the present and the incredible story he had uncovered.

Once I hit the terminal, I better call the boss and let him know that I finally have the goods for an explosive story. It’s going to be quite a surprise to him…and to a lot of other people.

Gregory Franklin, the National Editor at the Washington Union Tribune, was more than a boss to Matthew Kittle. He had taken a chance on rekindling Matthew’s potential after his divorce when he had been drinking very heavily and not always coming across with the story. Franklin had faith in Matthew’s incredible talent for unearthing facts that many people preferred to stay buried. But Franklin was cautious as well.

I don’t want to know anything about your investigation, your findings, who you talk to, collaborations with snitches, police authorities etc., until the copy is on my desk ready to go to the typesetters, Franklin had always insisted.

That was his Golden Rule. As long as he was in the dark, the paper was safe from lawsuits. His involvement before the scoop was in the can could cause trouble for the paper and also handicap a good investigative story.

Besides, he always said I was on my own with these undercover endeavors and he trusted my judgment, recalled Matthew.

The United 767 slowly banked slightly left, then right to line up with the runway, and there was the familiar swoosh of air entering the fuselage cavity just vacated by the lowering of the gear.

Five minutes later the big jet came to a stop on the parking apron. The passengers were loaded on the Jet-Tram for the three-minute run to the jet way for gate 37. Matthew disembarked and started to head for baggage claim when a thought jarred him.

The last couple of days I’ve been so busy putting the pieces together on this story, that I haven’t given a thought to whether I am being watched or followed. I’m afraid I’ve let my guard down when I should be proceeding more carefully than ever. This story is going to have amazing repercussions for some very high-level government officials.

He made a one-eighty turn and headed back towards gate 37, trying to look casual, but all the while quickly moving his eyes and sweeping the hallway for any person who might have more than a casual interest in him.

He walked past gate 37 and continued to the end of the hallway before turning back in the direction of the baggage claim. He didn’t notice anyone paying particular attention to his baggy slacks or his wrinkled, short-sleeved sport shirt. Matthew would be the first to admit he sure would never make Calvin Klein’s best dressed list.

He decided to stop at the pay phone island and made the call to his boss. Depositing coins in the pay phone, he dialed the number. As the phone made the connection, he thought again about his boss, the rapport he had with him and the mutual respect each had for the other.

Franklin, like himself, was a man in his early sixties. When you first saw or met him; several things struck you. One, he always wore a short-sleeved, white dress shirt and a bow tie. Two, he always had an unlit cigar in his set, chiseled jaw. There were constant betting pools on how long he would chew the same cigar, before throwing it on the floor when a fit of anger erupted. He was usually aiming at the trash can, but missed. And his anger was usually directed at a cub reporter over a simple mistake in the reporter’s copy caused by inexperience. Yes, Gregory Franklin was one-of-a-kind, someone you could trust. He was also a person of the highest character who would back his subordinates’ actions, even if it meant going all the way to the top. For a man his age he had tremendous forearms and biceps hanging on his five-foot-six-inch frame. The son of a Wyoming coalminer, his muscular frame was developed working in the mines during summer months off from his college studies. He was proud that his hard labor had put him through journalism school at the University of Wyoming. Since graduation, his one and only job had been with the Washington Union Tribune working his way up from copy boy to National Editor.

After several rings, Matt heard the gruff voice at the other end, Franklin.

Greg, I’ve got the goods on you-know-who, Matthew announced.

I don’t know who you-know-who is, Greg growled. And I don’t want to know until I see the copy. Are you certain you have the facts this time on whatever story you’ve been working on for the last— how many years is it?

Boss, I’ve got ‘em dead to rights. There’s no way the facts can be disputed or compromised. It’s been nearly two years, but I bagged a trophy. Stand by to light that victory cigar, it’s time you smoked one instead of chewing on that same old brown piece of a lunch bag, Matthew chuckled.

Matthew you better not be wasting my time, Franklin fired back. You remember what happened the last time you had the so-called goods. Let’s see, who was it we were apologizing to? Who was it that was forcing us to print a retraction to everyone in the world, including God? Do you remember who that was? Oh! Yes! I seem to recall it was the Secretary of State in the last administration. Yes, that’s it—he was in bed with the Arab nations… concerning, what was it? Of course, it was cornering the market in, of all things, the parts suppliers for our Air Force fighter/interceptors. We’ll never live that one down, he said sarcastically.

Listen Greg, Matthew insisted. This is the holy grail of scandals. At the center is our national security. I’ve got them in the crosshairs—corruption of the highest magitude. Just like you demanded when I took on this assignment, I have verifiable sources for all pertinent pieces of this puzzle.

You better have, because this is the last straw, Greg growled back.

I’ll be in Monday, said Matthew. Save me two columns on the front page of Tuesday’s edition.

OK, Matthew. Catch up on your sleep and have a clear head when you write the opener…and it better be an excellent first shot across the bow. I’m counting on you - this better be the Real McCoy, warned Franklin.

I won’t let you down, boss. I owe you big time, and now I’m in a position to pay you back for sticking with me and covering for me over the years. I’ll see you bright and early Monday morning, Matt assured him.

Well I hope for your sake you’ve got all the facts—solid facts, no dream world stuff. It better be solid as the Rock of Gibraltar. Go blow off some steam tonight and I’ll see you Monday, said Greg.

Matthew heard the click. Conversation over. He hung up the receiver, grabbed his briefcase and once again started for baggage claim. On his way he stopped at a postal drop where he slipped a white business envelope into the letter slot.

He hadn’t noticed the young, stunning redhead standing across the aisle observing him as he talked with Greg. She’d been reading his lips. She knew exactly the one side of the conversation that counted—Matthew’s.

Matthew grabbed his suitcase from the luggage carousel and headed for long-term parking. Once again, he didn’t set class standards when it came to his selection of cars. Out in the far corner of the lot, where he thought it was in the open and safe, sat a 1986 Volvo 440 four-door. Sixty percent of the original white, clear-coat body paint was covered with gray primer and body patch. As this four-wheel nightmare approached on the streets of Washington, it wasn’t a far stretch to suspect it was used for target practice at Fort Benning.

Anyway, what counted was that Matthew thought it had class and it was easily recognized by everyone as his pride and joy. He loaded his belongings into the back seat and headed for his two-bedroom brownstone in the Georgetown area of Washington.

As he entered his short driveway, he pressed the garage door opener which activated the chain drive that swung the one-piece door out and rotated it into the ceiling cavity of the brownstone’s basement.

Matthew unloaded his luggage and headed upstairs to the kitchen and on through to his bedroom. He dropped his belongings on the bed and reversed his tracks turning his attention to the kitchen table where his last three weeks of mail was neatly stacked.

What would I do if I didn’t have Sharon, he asked himself. Sharon Walker was a sophomore Criminal Law student at George Washington University. They had originally met earlier that year when he was romping in the park with Brinkley, his 90-pound Landseer Newfoundland dog. Sharon had been immediately attracted to Brinkley, and Matthew was struck by her confidence and poise. As they talked and exchanged backgrounds and lifestyles, they had struck a bargain on Sharon helping Matthew with Brinkley and minding his house while he traveled for his job. She was worth the hundred dollars a week he paid her to clean, bring the mail in, and, most importantly, take care of his beloved Brinkley.

Brinkley was his family, the only family he’d had the last four years. Ever since he saw Brinkley at the dog pond as a puppy, he knew it was meant for them to be partners. From the beginning, they shared an uncommon bond of mutual trust and affection.

Tomorrow morning I’ll call Sharon and have her bring Brinkley home, he thought. When Matthew was traveling, Brinkley stayed at Sharon’s apartment. Both Sharon and her roommate, Karen Jennings, loved to have Brinkley stay with them.

In direct contrast to his personal appearance and the extraordinary vehicle of which he was so proud, Sharon kept the split-level brownstone spotless. On Monday mornings when she showed up to clean after the weekends, she would read him the riot act if Matthew had reverted to his natural instincts to live like a tramp. After almost six months of Sharon’s brow-beating, Matthew was finally getting the idea that neatness counted…well, at least at home.

Thumbing through the mail, he made two piles on