Robert Thornhill
Lady Justice and the Conspiracy


Lady Justice and the Conspiracy

     Are we being poisoned?

    Those fluffy white trails crisscrossing the sky --- some say they are simply water vapor frozen into crystals. Others say they are deadly chemicals, some of which are for military defense, and others to control the weather and the world’s food supply.

    Are the chemtrails really part of a clandestine government conspiracy? Four people believe so, and claim they have proof, but each of their lives comes to a tragic and mysterious end before they can offer their proof to the world.

    Join Private Investigator, Walt Williams, as he searches for the truth and looks for clues to explain the untimely deaths.


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    Jack Carson switched on the dome light of his car and looked at his watch for the fourth time. The man he was supposed to meet was forty-five minutes late.

    His first contact with the man who would only identify himself as ‘Falcon’ was two weeks ago. He had told Carson he had contacted him because he had seen his name in numerous bylines in the Kansas City Star. It certainly made sense. Carson was the number one guy working the Star’s crime beat. His name was connected to at least a half-dozen stories every day; everything from drive-by shootings to domestic disturbances.

    Carson had nearly hung up on the guy when Falcon announced he was an Air Force pilot who had been recruited to fly missions solely for the purpose of dispersing deadly chemicals into the atmosphere. Carson received bogus calls every day which included everything from Elvis sightings to alien spacecraft landings, and part of his job was to sort the newsworthy tips from the obviously absurd.

    He was about to dismiss the guy as just another crackpot when he happened to glance out the window and see a series of fluffy white trails crisscrossing the sky. The trails had become so commonplace he hardly paid any attention to them anymore, but he remembered wondering once, why there seemed to be so many more and why they lasted so long before dispersing and forming a grey haze which blocked the rays of the sun.

    What the hell, he had thought. It was a slow news day and what did he have to lose other than an hour of time? He agreed to meet the man for the first of what turned into three clandestine meetings; all were at secluded locations and all were under the cover of darkness.

    The first time they met, Carson had halfway expected to see a guy wearing one of those tin foil hats which are supposed to keep evil forces from reading your thoughts, but quite the contrary, the man could have been the poster boy from an Air Force recruiting ad. He could have been Tom Cruise’s stand-in as Maverick in the movie, Top Gun.

    Falcon made it clear from the beginning he was to remain anonymous and under no circumstances could the information he would give be attributed to him. If his identity was disclosed, at the very least he would be court martialed --- or worse.

    Just like Woodward and Bernstein’s ‘Deep Throat’ in All the President’s Men, Carson thought as he listened to Falcon’s demand for anonymity.

    At that meeting, and the two which followed, Falcon shared details which turned Carson’s blood cold. He took meticulous notes about the men who were recruited to fly the covert missions, the planes that were loaded with deadly chemicals and the purpose of the ‘chemtrails’ which stretched from horizon to horizon across the entire United States.

    After each meeting, Carson would spend long hours trying to verify what Falcon had given him. He found enough evidence to give some credibility to the frightful scenario which Falcon had painted --- enough that he was willing to move forward if Falcon could provide him with the one piece of evidence which would convince him the story was true --- a sample of the brew Falcon said was pumped into barrels in the huge bellies of the Boeing KC-135 Stratotankers. Falcon had agreed and was supposed to deliver the sample at tonight’s meeting.

    Carson looked at his watch again. Falcon was an hour late and probably not coming. His story had been captivating, but when pressured to produce the one thing which could verify his wild claims, he would come up empty, because his story was just that --- wild claims which could not be substantiated.

    Carson sighed, started the car and headed home. On the one hand, he was relieved. It would be far better for our country if Falcon’s assertions were figments of his imagination. On the other hand, if what Falcon shared was true, the story he would have written had Pulitzer Prize written all over it.


    The next morning, Carson was at his desk reviewing the stories from the night before. There was nothing earth-shattering, but one piece about a fatal car wreck caught his eye. The accident had taken place just a mile from where he was to meet Falcon. He vaguely remembered hearing sirens as he waited for the whistle-blower to make his appearance.

    Naturally, the name associated with the story meant nothing to him. He had only known the informant as Falcon.

    Finally, his curiosity got the most of him and he headed to the county morgue.

    His position on the paper’s crime beat had taken him to the morgue many times and he knew the people running the place by name. All he had to do was ask and the attendant led him to the vault where the body from the previous night’s wreck was stored.

    A cold chill ran through his body when the attendant pulled out what was left of the man who was supposed to bring him evidence of a massive covert plan which, if true, was affecting every citizen in the United States. The attendant identified him as Dale Fox, a pilot in the US Air Force.

    He thanked the attendant and as he headed to his car, he pulled out his cell phone and scrolled through the names until he found the name of the officer who had filed the report, George Wilson.

    Nearly everyone called the officer Ox, because of his robust size. Carson placed the call and a sleepy voice answered, “What do you want Carson? I worked last night and I’m trying to get some shut-eye.”

    “Ahh, caller ID. The age of technology. Actually, that’s why I’m calling. You made a report on a car wreck with a fatality last night. I have a few questions.”

    “If you read the report, there’s not much more I can tell you. It was pretty cut and dried. It looked like the guy lost control on a curve and rolled into a tree. Probably died on impact.”

    “So you didn’t find anything out of the ordinary?”

    “Like what?”

    “I don’t know. Just something which didn’t look right.”

    “Nope, nothing like that.”

    “One more thing and I’ll let you go. Did you happen to find a vial of some kind of liquid in the car?”

    “No, again. What kind of liquid? You mean like booze? There was no alcohol in the car.”

    “Okay, thanks for your time. Sorry I woke you.”

    As Carson pulled out into traffic, he remembered Falcon talking about his commanding officer’s dire predictions of what might happen to any pilot divulging information about the program known among the aviators and crews as ‘Indigo Skyfold.’

    Falcon had done just that, and now he was dead.

    A coincidence?

    Carson didn’t think so.