The Men in Black Exposed,
Iowa's UFO Connection: Part 1
|submitted by William Posey IV|
Lucas: At the request of Mr. Hans Abbadon, I am taking a temporary leave of absence from the Alternate Reality Project to investigate the activities of the Men in Black in Iowa and determine what they want and who they work for. I agreed with him that these mysteries warranted further study and began compiling information in earnest.|
Does the Secret of the Men In Black lurk in this abandoned quarry?
Third Eye first reported on the Men in Black in January and February of this year (see: The Men In Black Come To Putnam, January, 1997, vol. 4 Issue #1, and The Men In Black Return: Cover-up By Aliens for Aliens?, February, 1997, vol. 4, Issue #2) after Dennis Rothschild, of Putnam, submitted a letter detailing his encounter with two mysterious men in the Shop and Split where he works. It turns out the duo was searching for Gregory Wilhelm, a scientist at Tesla Research Laboratories. Wilhelm, according to his wife Marjorie, disappeared on January 10, although it was thought he had gone to Boston for a conference. As of September, he had contacted his wife only once. Encoded in that letter, he stated that he was aware he was being followed and had gone to some place referred to only as "Limbo." It was believed that he was protecting a top-secret device he had been researching in the Aeronautics Division at Tesla.
The Men in Black were also spotted near Irish Grove, Lucas County (see: Rock Quarry Quarantined, September, 1997, vol. 4, Issue #9) where retired teacher Sam Gunderson had undergone a neurological change that landed him in Massaraty Asylum---a condition that had not changed since (see: The Man With Two Brains, May, 1997, vol. 4, Issue #5). The public and local law enforcement were restricted from the area supposedly by authority of the FBI. I wanted to know there was any connection between these events in Fayette and Lucas Counties, and what exactly was going on?
I began my investigation with Tesla Research Laboratories Aeronautics Division to see if they could tell me anything at all about Wilhelm. I placed a call the morning of September 20, and spoke to the secretary of the Aeronautics Division. The secretary told me up front that much of the information I requested might be classified and that she could only be superficially helpful. I expected this, but I asked her if she could tell me anything about Gregory Wilhelm. What I heard stunned me. Wilhelm was not in fact a researcher at Tesla, but instead carried the title of Aeronautics Archivist. The secretary explained that the Archivist acted as historian, cataloguing materials and equipment for the department. Wilhelm was essentially in charge of a supply warehouse for the Aeronautics Department. Additionally, he never worked as a researcher for the department, and she noted that there was no January conference in Boston which Wilhelm would have been qualified to attend. I asked if the Department ever permitted an Archivist to take materials from the warehouse for further study at home. No, she told me, only researchers and scientists with the proper authorization could do that. I thanked the secretary and hung up. Whatever device Wilhelm was hiding from the Men in Black had to have been smuggled out of Tesla, or come from another source. Either way, Tesla Research Labs would have little more insight to offer me.
The next afternoon I drove to Marjorie Wilhelm's house. She was holding up well considering she hadn't seen her husband for most of a year. When I expressed my condolences, she gave me a little smile.
"I know it's hard to understand," she said, petting her dog lying next to her on the sofa, "but I just know that Greg is all right. I can feel it. Besides, this arrived just yesterday." She went to a cupboard in the kitchen and returned with a postcard-sized piece of paper. "I found it in the mailbox with my newspaper." She handed me the card, her eyes sparkling. The card had this hand-written on one side:
Do not worry about me, for I think that I am now safe. I wish I could tell you more about what is happening, but to do so may jeopardize the Project. I should like to return to you by Christmas, and then perhaps we can go away from here and forget this whole mess. Be patient, my love.
"Do you think this is really from him, or do you think it might be another decoy letter?" I asked Marjorie. She shook her head.
"It can't be a decoy," she said firmly. "It just can't be. I have faith that my husband is alive and well, and I tell you that when this is over I don't even want to know what's been going on. I don't care who those weird men were. I don't care about that cylinder they wanted. I'll just be glad to have him back."
I didn't tell Marjorie what I learned about her husband's employment at Tesla, figuring that if he didn't tell her, then he probably had good cause. I commended her on her bravery, and assured her I was doing all I could to get to the bottom of this.
So far the Wilhelm-Tesla angle to this mystery didn't look like it was going to pan out. I decided to grab the bull by the other horn and speak with Sam Gunderson at Massaraty Asylum. I met with Gunderson's Psychiatrist, Dr. Michelle Weaver, to see if he still permitted her to inform the press on his condition. When she said 'yes', I asked how Gunderson was doing. She pursed her lips in thought.
"I wish I could say things are better for Sam," she lamented. "I had hoped that his condition could eventually be understood and controlled but, that's just not the case. In his lucid, awake state, he has been very patient with his ordeal. While his senses are still hyper-acute and he seems to be making progress in using them, his nocturnal episodes show no sign of abatement. He still wakes shortly after falling asleep and acts irrational and manic. It is quite clear at these times that his alter ego wants desperately to escape confinement. Since July we've had a psychologist try interacting with this other personality to help us understand this 'other Sam's' motives. Every attempt has failed. This other personality seems incapable of uttering a coherent word. During these periods, Sam is only able to click, gibber and utter nonsense syllables. At the end of the last session, Sam attacked the psychologist, and had to be restrained. He injured two orderlies. Sam is now twice as strong and perhaps ten times as quick when his other personality manifests itself."
Dr. Weaver took me to the commons room, where Gunderson was playing an acoustic guitar to entertain the other inmates. He looked haggard, too worn for a man in his sixties. I suppose that is what happens when one doesn't get a proper night's sleep for several months. I introduced myself and explained I was a reporter.
"Nice to meet you, Mr. Posey," he said, attempting a weak smile. "Will you look at this? Never played guitar before last week. Now I can hear and understand music just like you can understand the words I'm speaking right now. It's like talking, somehow."
I asked Gunderson if he was able to discuss the rock quarry or the odd structure he built out of household materials in his back yard before he came to Massaraty.
He laughed. "No, and I don't try anymore. Every time I try to talk about that, I clam up. Can't control it. I can't even write what I want to say. My body-brain won't let me. Hopefully these doctors and shrinks will find a way for me to speak about it again, but that experience just...just won't come out."
"I understand," I said. "But maybe there are some things you can tell me that don't relate specifically to your experience. First of all, have you ever noticed anything strange about the rock quarry, other than your experience in the pond? Did you ever see anyone else there?"
"No, not usually. Sometimes there'd be some kids, but most of the time it was completely silent. That's why I liked to take my walks there."
"Okay," I went on, "how about noises? Did you ever hear helicopters or airplanes over the quarry?"
"Sure! All the time. Although I've got to say that I only ever saw one helicopter over the quarry, and that was just a few days after I fell into the pool. Why?"
"Just checking. One other thing. Has anyone strange come to see you here?"
Gunderson's face clouded. "Yes, now that you mention it, I guess someone has."
Dr. Weaver nodded. "Two men from the government came here just last week. They said they had some questions for Sam concerning his experience. I was very reluctant to let them speak with him I just didn't trust them. They acted funny and---"
"Had a weird smell," I interjected.
"Yes! How did you---? Well, anyway, I finally told them they could speak to Sam, but they had better make it quick because it was morning and Sam was still recovering from his nightly episode."
Gunderson nodded. "Yeah, they were strange ones. Never even took off their sunglasses. Very rigid and pale. They tried to ask me about the incident and the thing in my back yard, but of course my other 'brain' wouldn't let me answer. One of them finally said that I was safe and that they could let me stay here." He looked a little worried. "Do you think they wanted to arrest me or something?"
"I don't know," I answered. I really didn't want to scare Gunderson at this point. "I don't think they'll be coming back, though. I'm sort of doing research on these men to figure out what they want." I told Gunderson that the men had been seen at the rock quarry, and that they were probably looking for the same answers he sought. I suspected that to be false, but I didn't want to tell Gunderson that the Men In Black were probably trying to cover the whole event up. I thanked him for his time, said good-bye to Dr. Weaver and left Massaraty.
There was only one place left to go, and that was the abandoned rock quarry. And it was there the mystery of the Men in Black began to unfold.
I arrived in Irish Grove in the early morning of October 27. The sun wasn't up yet as I hiked from the parking lot of the Eden United Church of the Savior toward the quarry. In twenty minutes or so, I cautiously entered the woods, the terrain becoming rockier. I didn't know exactly where I was going and the woods were pitch black but, I didn't dare use a flashlight---I'd be spotted right away. After about a half-hour, I saw it.
I stood on the lower, eastern rim of a great hole in the earth. Down below me, surrounding a half-acre wide pond, a huge assortment of people milled about equipment and vehicles. Three large machines mounted on the back of flatbed trucks were partially visible under tarpaulins. Hoses and wires ran out of the machines into the water. All was silent but I felt a buzzing in my head---the kind one gets when while under high tension powerlines. A faint electric glow pulsed where the hoses and wires touched the surface of the pond. Two jet-black Cadillacs were parked nearby, as well as three military Hummers. Several men in suits monitored and adjusted controls on the machines while others in military camouflage patrolled the area's perimeter. I was a good eighty or ninety yards above the site, so I couldn't hear if the men were saying anything could I make out insignia on the vehicles or uniforms.
I attached a telephoto lens to my camera and began snapping pictures when I heard a rustling behind me. I spun to see a short man dressed all in black, with slicked back hair and sunglasses. He held a silvery object that looked like a gun and a knife.
"Camera," he ordered in a monotone voice. Gingerly, I held the camera out to him by the strap, never taking my eyes off the thing in his hand. Then I suddenly dropped it and when he bent to pick it up, made a mad dash into the woods. I could hear him following me through the brush. I ran faster, worrying I'd break my ankle on a root or unexpected dip.
Suddenly, I felt a sharp crackle on my upper left arm, which then began going numb. I assumed the man must have shot me with whatever weapon he carried. I kept running, though, zig-zagging through the woods even as the numbness spread to my chest and legs. My vision swam wildly and soon all I wanted was to take a nap. Finally I could feel nothing and had no fear. I fell unconscious.
I awoke in darkness; rocking and shaking. Then my whole body exploded in aching agony. A light came on, a flashlight. A middle-aged balding man with glasses and a stubbly face illuminated himself for me.
"You're okay," he said. "You are on a truck, Mr. Posey, escaping danger." He held my lifeless wrist between his fingers, apparently checking my pulse. "I'm Gregory Wilhelm. And we're going to Limbo."
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