There are many who say that we have been visited by aliens from outer space.  But proof can be hard to come by, in fact, it can be murder!

MAJESTIC-12

Gay Toltl Kinman

Professor Sidney Worth entered Mom's Kitchen for breakfast before meeting Wilbur. It was 5:30, yet only one booth was empty. He saw Sheriff Barney sitting in the last one, a folded newspaper spread out next to his plate of fried eggs, ham and fried potatoes with a stack of toast beside it. Looked good. He wasn't paying attention to anyone else. Sidney recognized him as he had interviewed him on an earlier occasion.

He ordered up the same, drank from a cup that kept being refilled with fresh, good coffee, and went over the notes of his conversations with Wilbur.

Olive for olive branch. That's why he'd asked if the grandfather had been educated, as it was the connection, he, himself, had made when he saw the word.

Then when Wilbur said their last name was Cross. Cross is an X and a monument sure marks the spot. The riddle seemed too easy.

Maybe he was just grasping at straws. But the prickle in the back of his neck was still there. The prickle that told him he was on to something. If he found the camera and could get the pictures developed after all this time, what a coup! Conclusive proof that the spaceship and the aliens existed as several witnesses had said.. Everything would fall into place. The government would have to release what it had. The planeloads of material from the crash sites. The bodies found on the ranch and at San Agustin. The spaceship itself. And whatever else had been picked up by the searchers.

His heart pounded. He was almost there. He could feel and taste the victory. His belief and that of others would be vindicated.

It was the proof he needed. His anticipation level was so high he felt like he was being lifted off the ground.

He finished his breakfast, exhilarated, and asked for the check. The Sheriff was still reading his newspaper, drinking coffee, plate gone.

Outside, he approached his car.

"You're that UFO investigator." The man who said that had the biggest stomach Sidney had ever seen. The rest of his body was in normal proportions, and it seemed impossible that he could carry such a gigantic load in front of him and still stand straight. Sidney could hardly take his eyes off it. A dark hairy line poked through the fabric. He didn't know tee-shirts stretched that far. Faint words curved over the top of his belly. "Sturgis," Sidney thought it read.

Behind the man, a motorcycle was parked in front of Sidney 's car touching his bumper. A motorcycle that could only be labeled "hog." It looked oversized and mean.

Mean, that's what the man looked like. Mean and muscular. All the things that Sidney wasn't. His heartrate went up, not with exhilaration.

"I investigate claims of extraterrestrial life."

"You ain't going find any of that around here. All that stuff you hear is all made up by crazy people." He whirled a finger in concentric circles around his head. Crazy. He was. Whoever he was talking about wasn't. He was the crazy person.

"Lotsa folks around here don't want Roswell mentioned in the same breath as those loony UFOer tree huggers. So you might just as well mosey on out of town now."

His belly was almost touching Sidney 's relatively flat one. His breath came up from the depths of the garbage can that had been sitting out in the sun for a week. Globules of perspiration trickled down the side of the his face from under the bandanna tied around his short bristly hair. He couldn't wipe them away and still look threatening, for that's what he was trying to do.

Sidney could feel his own perspiration forming.

"Alls I'm saying, Mister Investigator is that you're done here. Time to move on. forget you ever heard of them UFOs and leave us alone. Do your investigation some place else."

Sidney stuttered something for he had no control of his voice and tongue.

"Is there a problem here, Professor Worth?" The Sheriff.

Sidney opened his mouth only to utter another croak.

"No problem,' the stomach replied. "Man here was telling me how he was just this minute leaving town."

"Was he now? Seems like it's a free country. Guess he can come and go as he pleases. We're might happy to have visitors stay as long as they like. So maybe you'd better let the gentleman go on with his business, Zeke." The Sheriff stood there, casual as could be, twirling a toothpick around his mouth like the words that were going back and forth between them had no other meanings than a plain one.

Zeke looked around just as casual and said, "Guess I'll be moseying along." He climbed aboard his hog more agile that Sidney would have expected for a man of his size, gunned the engine a little too long as though for emphasis and roared away, cutting off a small truck that honked its horn in aggravated protest.

"Sorry about that," the Sheriff said. "In case you didn't know, there's an element of people here in town that would like to take it back to the thirties, before the war even when it was a sleepy little town, not that it's too much different. The good old days to some people and they want them back. This UFO stuff has put them over the edge because they don't understand it. So if it goes away then they don't have to deal with it. Then there's our UFO extremists. Let's just say for sake of argument that they're not believers."

Sidney nodded, his mouth dry, eggs, hashbrowns not tasting as good as they had when he ingested them. "Thank you, Sheriff," he managed to say.

"Some here in Roswell don't cotton to believe in anything from up there." The Sheriff waved a hand toward the skies. "They believe that weather balloon story. Just wanted you to know that not everyone is open-minded as you and I are."

Sidney nodded again feeling his neck bowing like one of those dolls in the back of a car window.

"They've tarred and feathered a few folk who up and spoke their minds."

Sidney wasn't sure if the Sheriff was warning him--or threatening him.

Two days ago Sidney had received a telephone call.

"Yeah, like he remembers his grandfather telling him about it."

"What did his grandfather say?"

"That he was out at San Agustin with the Andersons and he had his Brownie with him and took a bunch of pictures. Nobody knew he was doing it."

"You mean, there were several people there and no one saw him taking pictures? Those Brownie box cameras were big."

"He told Davey, he kinda covered the camera up. Besides everybody was going too crazy to notice what he was doing."

"But didn't they remember afterwards that he had a camera? Didn't someone say to him, 'Go back to the car and get your camera'?"

"I'm jist telling you what Davey told me that he remembers. You want me to tell you the rest of it or not?"

"Yes, yes, of course, please go on."

"Well like I said, his grandfather's going around taking pictures of the space ship, and those critters that's on it. Or was on it."

"He has pictures of the aliens?"

"Yep, that's what Davey told me."

"Where are they? Why hasn't anybody seen them?"

"Which question do you want me to answer?"

"Where are the pictures?"

"They're still in the camera, leastwise that's what Davey told me."

"They're still in the camera? Since 1947?"

"That's what Davey told me."

"Why weren't they developed?"

"'Cuz the Army was all over everybody like Junebugs. Throwing people in jail for a week, scaring citizens, causing all kinds of ruckus. He thought he'd wait 'til the sand settled a little. See which way the wind blew after that. Army was threatening some people by putting them in an insane asylum outta state. And it wasn't only the Army. Lotsa folk around here thought some people had gone plum crazy. Not only that, they didn't want a bunch of outsiders swarming around. They jist wanted a nice, little peaceful town. That hasn't changed too much. Anyhow, he had the fear o' God in him, that's what Davey told me."

"I'd like to develop those pictures for my book."

"Thought you might. That's why I'm calling. Heard you give that talk and how you're writing the book and all. Thought you're the right person to give this information to. Maybe you'll put my name in your book, something like that?"

"You haven't mentioned this to anyone else?"

"Davey's jist up and told me about it a couple of years ago. He's talked about it before but I didn't pay much attention and he really didn't go into any details. Think he was worried about people wanting to send him up to some asylum. His grandfather was real scared."

"I'd like to interview Davey."

"Well, that's not quite possible, seeing as he up and died on me, and I might be going too soon, so somebody's got to know."

"I've very pleased you contacted me. Having those pictures will prove for once and for all the validity of the landing of a space ship, the existence of life on other planets."

"Don't know about that but it sure will tell everyone that something really happened in St. Agustin."

"St. Agustin and Roswell . Now, where is the camera?"

"Well, now, that brings me to another part of the problem."

"Let's hear it."

"Davey's grandfather hid the camera 'cuz the Army came out searching his place 'cuz he was with the Andersons . Even dug up his garden because they thought he had some of that material from the space ship. That metallic stuff. But he swore to them he didn't take any. Didn't matter to the Army, the FBI, and all them other alphabets, they still searched everywhere."

"They didn't find the camera?"

"No, sirree."

"So where is it?"

"Like I said, that's the problem. Davey never did find it."

"Davey didn't find it, but you did?"

"Not exactly. See, his grandfather left a riddle to where the camera was. Leastwise, that's what Davey thought."

"Davey thought his grandfather left a riddle?"

"He's pretty sure. But not like 100% sure."

"All right we have a riddle from Davey's grandfather. Do you have the riddle?"

"Yessiree, I do."

"Do you have any idea what it means?"

"No siree. If I did, I'd'a found that there camera, had the film developed and sold it to NBC or CBS for big bucks.

"And you're willing to turn the information over to me for nothing?"

"Well, sir, not exactly. Thought you might give me what's called a finder's fee."

"How much do you want?"

"I was thinking in the range of ten thousand."

"What! Ten thousand? Dollars?"

"Of course, dollars. But, we can negotiate."

"Negotiate! I could barely give you ten thousand cents ."

"I need some money outta this. My Social Security doesn't go too far, and there's a few things I need to do. Like I said, I'm going to be joining Davey up there soon. I got bad lungs too and that's what did him in."

"Let me see what I can do. I can draw you up a contract and if everything turns out as you say, I'm sure I can raise some money to pay you. But it would have to be after we produce the evidence."

"Okay. Know your word's good, and if you give me one of them there contracts then that'll have to do. Hoped you could give me a little money up front."

"Don't think that's going to be possible."

"Even a few bucks would help, then you got yourself a deal."

Sidney hung up the phone having gone from no hope in his research to the ultimate in hope. But he'd been there before. There'd been other callers willing to show him all kinds of things such as pieces from the space ship that supposedly had all been confiscated by the government. Was he just another old coot trying to make some money from a gullible author on a topic that was as dear to him as any religion. He believed!

Lack of solid evidence plagued all serious researchers who wanted to prove the truth. There was a hunger in all of them for that truth. They believed and didn't have to justify their belief to themselves or each other, but they wanted the truth. Sidney wanted the truth. It was his life.

He blocked out time on his calendar for a trip to Roswell to see Wilbur. He thought back to his speech in Roswell and which of them might be this man. The place had been packed but afterwards people had come up to him telling anecdotes from their past about the Roswell Incident. However no first hand eyewitness accounts, nor any tangible evidence. There had been one older man loitering on the fringe of the group--overalls, skinny as the proverbial rail, desert-dried skin, chewing on tobacco--was that him?

He'd had these calls before, but this one had the ring of truth, the back of his neck prickled during their conversation. San Agustin was where the space ship finally ended up after having disintegrated beginning on the ranch seventy-five miles outside Roswell and spread over a three-quarter of a mile long and several hundred yard- wide area. Or a second space ship. This was the common belief.

Parachute material to slow the craft down, or the exterior of the craft had been spread from there to San Agustin. The Andersons had actually seen and described the aliens. One was still alive. What happened after the Army got there no one knew and no one was allowed to talk about anything.

The Army had put out a press release about the Roswell Incident saying they had picked up a disc that had come from outer space. Roswell being the closest big town. Mistake.

Besides the telling press release, the other government `evidence' was from the Majestic-12 team, a seemingly authentic report to incoming President Eisenhower. Ironically, stamped all over the report was "MAJ1C" which looked like the word "majic" but was supposed to mean Maj, short for majestic, and the numeral 1 and C meaning one copy.

The drawback to Majestic-12 was that microfilm copies had been sent to two non-government people only so there was no way to verify its authenticity. If he could be verified, and Sidney had not given up hope, then that was irrrefutable proof of the material and the alien bodies.

The material was shiny, metallic, like silver foil. If crumpled, it would immediately flatten out again. It couldn't be burned or cut, was very strong, yet light. And some stuff like balsa wood.

The aliens were about the size of twelve-year-olds with heads half again as large as humans, large, deep set eyes ro eye area with slits for ears, four long fingers, almst tentacles, no thumb, perhaps suction cups on their fingertips, noses didn't protrude, hairless, upper arm longer than the lower one. They wore one piece grey outfits, perhaps like jumpsuits.

Sidney knew he was on to something. He'd always felt sure someone had taken photographs. Seemed to be the natural thing to do under the circumstances. So far, he hadn't had so much as a whisper of someone taking photographs. If only he could get a hold of the camera. If it existed.

Wilbur met him at his motel in Roswell and brought the riddle.

The arms go around.

The water comes up.

A branch is offered.

X marks the spot.

"Are there any windmills around here?"

Wilbur laughed. "Me and Davey been over that. Nope, no windmills. Not even anyone thinking about putting a windmill up. The closest we could get was a road that has windmill in the name. And if you look at the next line, "springs" fits.

"So--"

"Windmill Springs's the name. Windmill Springs Road . But there ain't no trees out there nowhere. No branches of anything. We went up and down the road a couple of times when Davey got serous about finding the camera. and there ain't no x's out there either."

"Was Davey's grandfather a educated man?"

"He was. Hada lota book learning. Taught at the high school for a while. English, think it was."

"And he left the riddle to Davey?"

"Yep, said something about it being Davey's inheritance but to tell you the truth he was getting pretty senile at that point."

"But he wrote the riddle before?"

"Yessiree, he wrote that soon as he buried the camera."

"But he didn't give it to Davey until later?"

"Well, Davey was away at the time since we were both coal mining in West Virginia . Jist before his grandfather got sick. Not in the head. He told Davey to open it up if anything happened to him. Davey didn't think anything was going to happen, so he didn't open the envelope until too late, when the old guy was gaga. By then, he couldn't tell him anything about anything. In fact, he didn't even recognize Davey. Then Davey started to get sick and he wanted to find out what this inheritance thing was all about. And if there was anything to the old man's story. And that's where we're at now."

Sidney read the riddle again. Then, he looked at the detailed county map and traced Windmill Springs Road . Long road going off into the middle of nowhere. Muriette, Igloo, Steppe, Baseline, Letterman, Tularosa all intersected it along the way.

"Have any of the roads changed names since 1947?"

"None changed that I can recall. New ones added, of course."

Sidney went back to the map looking at the names and the riddle. Olive. Olive branch.

"Nothing named Olive or--"

"Olive? Only Olive I know of is Olive and Ben Cross."

"No olive something in relationship to Windmill Springs Road ?"

"Since you put it that way, yeah, there is. Olive and Ben Cross got themselves a little monument 'bout the size of a tombstone right there on that Road."

"Monument?"

"They owned all that property out there, something like a thousand acres, had no children so they gave it to the State for a wilderness area, sure enough it is. The State ain't done nothing about it, let the place rot. Buildings are falling down. Government's claiming it from the State 'cuz it's got some of those endangered species like the lily-livered toad or something, and some yellow flower, both of them ain't anyplace else in the world so's--"

"The monument, it's on Windmill Springs Road ?"

"Well, isn't that what I jist said?"

"Will you take me out to see it?"

"Well, yessiree I will. First thing in the morning. Have to get there early before it gets too hot. Maybe head out about 6:30."

"My suggestion is to bring a shovel."

Wilbur hit the ground with the pick in a practiced swing. And again.

Sidney looked around and wondered why the space ship had crashed here. Perhaps because it looked like a giant landing field with nothing around? Maybe spaceships didn't have a choice if they were about to crash.

Sidney watched, not having done anything athletic in his life. He realized it was going to take a long time for Wilbur to dig all around the small monument for the pick just made a dent in the cement-like soil. He had directed Wilbur to start in the front.

Dedicated to Olive and Ben Cross

Generous patrons of this Wilderness area

1933

Sidney noted that the date was well before 1947 so it was possible Davey's grandfather had used it for a burial site.

Sidney wondered how long Wilbur was going to last with his lung disease. Maybe he should have hired someone in town to do the digging. No, better no one else knew what they were doing. Maybe all they were doing was rearranging the desert floor.

Wilbur was right, the marker was no bigger than a tombstone. Straight in the back, then angled out in front. It cast a small shadow, incongruous here where there was no other evidence of civilization except for the road signs, wood, painted white on a thin iron pole that leaned much like the Tower of Pisa .

He wanted to go back and sit in the shade of the car, but it didn't seem right when Wilbur was working so hard. Lucky for him Wilbur hadn't brought another pick. And just as lucky the shovel was useless at this point.

An hour later, Wilbur was still swinging away, albeit much slower.

Suddenly, there was a whump sound. Wilbur sank in slow motion to the ground. The back of his head had a wet spot. A red wet spot. Sidney computed this. At the same moment his knees gave way, having more sense than his brain and he fell to the ground as a zing sounded, and a sliver of marble drove into the back of his arm like an arrowhead. He lay curled in the shadow of the monument. He lay there without moving. He couldn't move.

Someone had shot at them, he realized. Wilbur was injured. Wilbur was dead. Not too many people survived a shot in the head.

A sniper? Who? Why?

Who knew what they were doing? If the sniper had been smart he would have waited until they dug up the camera. Was it someone protecting the monument like some distant relative of the Cross family? He hardly knew what to think. Being shot at was not in his realm of experience.

He lay, bent, facing the monument not daring to move. He would love to run to the car and race away. Unfortunately, the car was on the other side of the graveled two-lane road. If the sniper was still there, he'd never make it even on to the road.

"Wilbur," he whispered. "Are you all right?" He didn't know what else to say. "Wilbur?"

Maybe he should try to drag him into the cover of the monument. There was hardly room for a gopher, let alone another person.

He stretched his cramped legs, laying there frozen, but baking in the heat. He had a long sleeve shirt on and a hat and was in the shade for now, but that wouldn't last long. When the sun was straight up there'd be no shade.

Where was the sniper now?

He lay there eyeing a huge black bug crawling up the side of the monument. A big bug. Was it toxic?

He had no idea what to do. Would the sniper wait to see if anyone moved? Would he come down to check on his handiwork? Where was he hiding? There seemed to be nothing in sight when he was looking around earlier.

Scenarios.

The sniper could wait, presumably he had shelter, water, food, was used to the terrain and knew how to survive. The sniper could try to outwait him. See if there was any sign of life. Maybe the sniper was smarter than that, just took his best shot and left and here Sidney was roasting away.

The heat made him dizzy. He remembered something about salt. He never had salt. Too salty. He knew he was becoming delirious. So funny. If he died from heat. From deliriousness. He should drink some water.

He had water, the thermos lay by the marker.

He must have fainted for the next thing he was aware of was that the sun had moved. He felt cooked in his dark clothes, black pants, grey shirt. The sniper hadn't come after him. Was he still waiting for him to move? Somehow he didn't care. He was so thirsty. He had to have a drink. Maybe he could do it in the shelter of the monument. He unscrewed the cup from the thermos took the top off and drank. He could only swallow a mouthful before he choked, coughed. Did the sniper hear him? Did he think he was gasping his last?

He waited and tried to relax, letting just a trickle of water down his throat, then another.

His right leg was tingling with pins and needles. He tried to flex it and it felt worse. He looked at his watch. An hour. It seemed like all day. But the sniper could wait that long. Longer.

He decided to take his chances. The shade was shrinking. Better to die quickly with a shot to the head than slowly under the sun.

Wilbur had dug a hole in front of the marker. Sidney took the pick and on his hands and knees scrabbled away digging like he might use some gardening tool.

A piece of cloth.

Something was there.

He used the pick with care.

Oilcloth.

Something was wrapped in oilcloth.

He dug around it like an archeologist.

Then pulled it out.

He unwrapped a corner of it and glimpsed a part of the Brownie box camera.

He was dizzy with the prospect of what he had found.

He pushed the dirt back into the hole with the end of the pick scraping the dry-packed earth it was piled on. Lordy, it was hot. He still hadn't stood up.

Maybe the sniper was waiting to see what they dug up. That's what he should have done before he shot Wilbur. Or maybe he didn't want anything to be dug up. Maybe he didn't want to know the truth, maybe that's what he was afraid of.

Suddenly a sound of a motor in the distance.

He tried to run to his car, but could only scrabble along crabwise. He right leg was completely numb. He opened the door, and lowered the oil cloth package to the front floor.

He saw the flashing lights. The Sheriff?

Was the Sheriff the sniper?

Sidney 's hands were shaking so badly, he dropped the keys.

The Sheriff's car pulled up across the road.

Sidney kept ducked down, groping for the keys.

He heard the Sheriff slam the car's door, his feet scraping on the gravel as he walked over to Wilbur's body.

Sidney stuck the key in the ignition and turned it.

Click, click.

He tried again.

He heard the Sheriff's running feet on the road.

"Wait, Professor." He was at the open window now.

"You got nothing to be afraid of. Figured Zeke might follow you two. Wilbur was prancing around like he had a big secret. Let people know he was coming into some money. So I followed Zeke, not hard to track on a dusty road with the way he was riding. Knew he was up to something when he packed that rifle. What did old Wilbur promise you anyway?" His eyes glanced at the package on the floorboards.

Sidney felt as though he couldn't move. "He said something was buried out here. Wanted me to see it. Pay him if it turned out to be something of importance."

"What did he say he had?"

Sidney looked at the Sheriff. He felt he could trust him, but he didn't know who to trust anymore. He was in the middle of the desert with a dead man and a dead battery. Soon he might be joining them.

"I wish I knew."

"Maybe he had a piece of that shiny stuff from the space ship."

"That might have been it." Sidney couldn't lie and he knew the Sheriff wouldn't believe him if he did.

"Let me radio this in, and take your statement. Got some jumper cables in the trunk so I can give you a start. You go back to town, get your stuff and leave. Don't even turn the engine off. Don't think you should hang around, some folks won't be too happy if they find out you've dug up something." He eyed the package again.

He had the camera. He had the camera!

He wasn't going to get the film developed in Roswell . Maybe that's what Davey's grandfather had thought. He'd drive straight to Albuquerque , get in touch with someone who could bring up an image on old film.

The pictures all had a light streak down the left side like a lightening bolt. The kids were there pointing at something, kneeling beside something that looked like it had four long fingers. But it could have been just a shadow. People in the film on the right side looked ghostly, but recognizable. Not aliens. No spaceship visible.

Had Davey's grandfather used something to conceal the camera and that's what was over the lens? Were the aliens, like vampires, not photogenic? Had the film been old when it was put into the camera? Had there been a light leak in the old Brownie?

He'd never know. He'd have a real specialist back home look at the pictures, but he knew that even blowing up the pictures or developing the negatives again, there'd be no conclusive proof.