CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
We met Anita Mosley at a coffee shop. It was a neighborhood of office buildings, meaning the shop was closed on a Saturday. She was at a stone table outside, sitting with military stiffness, hands folded on the table, staring straight ahead as cars zipped past. She was in her early sixties, a trim figure in a stylish pant-suit and perfectly coiffed brown hair, artfully streaked with gray.
“Ms. Mosley?” I asked as we approached.
The shades swung my way.
“Do you want to stay here?” I said. “Or find a shop that’s open?”
“The fact that this one is closed is why I chose it. It is public yet not public.” Her tone was crisp. “May I ask whom I’m speaking to?”
“Olivia Taylor-Jones.”
“Ah. The girl.” She turned to Gabriel, as if sensing him there. “And you would be the infamous Gabriel Walsh, I presume.”
“I am,” he said as we sat.
“Excellent. Now, I have received confirmation that the payment has been wired to my account. Thank you for that, Mr. Walsh. I know it is an inconvenient way to do business, but until the American government sees fit to print bills I can read, I’m stuck with that. Unless I emulate Ray Charles and ask to be paid in singles.” A brief, humorless smile. “Which would hardly be more convenient for either of us. Now, I believe it is Ms. Taylor-Jones who wishes the information? You do still go by that name, I presume.”
I tensed a little. A reaction I doubted even a sighted person would notice, but she seemed to pick it up.
“I know who you are,” she said. “Let me assure you, serial killers hold no fascination for me, and their actions have no bearing on you. I have met monsters, and they all had quite normal parents. I will admit that I find it curious that your investigation would bring you to MKULTRA, but you are being thorough, and I cannot fault that. So Ms. Taylor-Jones, is it?”
“Olivia,” I said.
“Thank you. Now let us begin. I can confirm that Dr. William Evans worked for the CIA from 1960 to 1969. He began as a PhD candidate under his adviser, Edgar Chandler, who was also employed by the CIA. Chandler was in charge of several MKULTRA subprojects. His name can be found in the documents turned over to the Senate subcommittee.”
“So Dr. Evans was involved in the project?”
“MKULTRA as a whole was huge. Evans’s role in it was relatively minor. He started as a graduate student and was still a junior man when he quit shortly before his son was born. Or that’s the official line. The matter of secrecy surrounding Evans is twofold. Let’s start with part one, the main experiment he was involved in. Have you heard of Operation Midnight Climax?”
“I saw it mentioned in one of the articles, but only in passing.”
“The name is proof that the CIA can have a sense of humor. Operation Midnight Climax was a subproject of MKULTRA based in San Francisco, under the auspices of George White. They realized the best subjects are those unlikely to talk about their experience . . . such as johns who get dosed at a whorehouse.”
“Ah.”
“At the time, the CIA knew little about the world of hookers. Or about kink. They quickly learned how to exploit human proclivities to their advantage. They eventually opened other whorehouses in Marin County and New York. Yet there’s one that can’t be found in any of the surrendered documents. Right here, in Chicago. That’s where Evans worked. So why hide that one? Because it operated completely off the radar, even within the ranks. In the others, as bad as they were, limits were drawn.”
“And the ethics were a little looser at the Chicago house.”
“That’s the rumor. I can’t confirm it. Any evidence has long been shredded and anyone who worked there has kept his mouth shut. I tried to get Evans to talk once. It seemed as if he may have had moral qualms. He politely but firmly shut the door in my face. So my sources have been former subjects—the ones who don’t fear for their lives because they’re too crazy to know they should.”
“Crazy as in reckless or as in . . . ?”
“Certifiably insane. Presumably as a result of what happened in that Chicago whorehouse. That’s the beauty of fucking with the human mind. If you break it, that’s fine, because the damage covers your tracks. Who’s going to believe the paranoid schizophrenic who claims the CIA made him crazy and now they’re out to get him?”
“So that’s what Evans was involved with before he left the agency.”
“If he left. That would be the second part. While the record clearly shows that William Evans quit his job with the CIA in 1969, there are suggestions that he did not leave entirely. By the late sixties, most of the MKULTRA experiments had officially been abandoned. The civil rights era meant people were taking a closer look at government powers. Information about the experiments was leaking. It was still years before Gerald Ford appointed a commission to investigate, but things were already coming to an end. Or, as some believe, the CIA was simply pulling the curtain tighter.”
“Ostensibly abandoning the projects, to continue them in secret with men like Evans who had apparently left the service.”
She nodded. “But that’s all speculation. I’ve pursued it to some degree but this”—she pointed at her glasses—“makes serious investigative journalism very difficult, as I’m sure my attacker knew. So while I can provide you with contacts, this marks the end of where I can take you.”
Gabriel wanted to start by interviewing Evans’s former boss. “A poor choice,” Anita said. “Edgar Chandler will never speak to you.” But Gabriel insisted and Anita gave him the information she had on Chandler.
As we were leaving, Anita called me back.
“You’re doing this in hopes of proving your parents are innocent,” she said. “They aren’t. I had friends who covered the case. None of them doubted the Larsens’ guilt.”
“So you think it’s a coincidence that Peter found out about his father shortly before his death.”
“I didn’t say that. But the likelihood of a connection between MKULTRA and all eight deaths is minimal to nonexistent. You seem like a bright girl. Don’t spend your life chasing answers that aren’t there.”
One could say the same about her. When I looked at her face, lined with bitterness, I realized she knew exactly what she was saying.
“I’ll remember that.”
“Do. And if you have questions about your parents later, you know where to find me. I may not be much of an investigative reporter these days, but my contact list is extensive.”
“Thank you.”