Lethal Experiment Read online

  “You struggle to remain proper at all times,” I continued, pointing to her diploma. “You hide behind the name N. Crouch because you think Nadine pegs you as a hick from the sticks. You suffer from feelings of inadequacy because your contemporaries graduated from prestigious colleges while you were stuck at the University of Pittsburgh School Of Medicine. You feel you haven’t lived up to your potential.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “There are no books or articles on display, which means you’re unpublished. What kind of big money psychiatrist is unpublished at your age?”

  N. Crouch pursed her lips. “I see,” she said. “Anything else?”

  “Your sons are off in college or working and they don’t call as often as you’d like. To compensate, you keep two dogs as pets.”

  “What,” she said. “Not the breed?”

  I smiled. “Akitas,” I said. “Japanese dogs brought to our shores by returning American servicemen, after WW2. Twin dogs from the same litter.”

  I bowed and sat back down on the leather throne chair. I may have smirked.

  “That’s amazing, Mr. Creed,” she said. “Truly remarkable.”

  “Why thank you, Ms. Crouch.”

  She said, “You took all the evidence on display and managed to get every single fact wrong. Every fact but one.”

  I smiled and said, “Bullshit.”

  N. Crouch stood. “I’m in my early sixties, not fifties. I don’t think I’m smarter than my friends, though none have surpassed me professionally. The pictures on the desk are my sister’s adopted children. I’m not divorced because I’ve never been married. I’m not from the Midwest, I’m from Miami. My contemporaries didn’t graduate from prestigious colleges because psychiatrists graduate from medical schools, not colleges. Speaking of which, Pittsburgh Medical happens to be the number one medical school in the country. In 2005 alone they received one hundred and eighty NIHA’s—that’s National Institute of Health Awards—totaling more than seventy-six million dollars.

  “And by the way,” she added, reaching into her lower desk drawer, “I don’t hide my first name and I am published.” She held up a book titled Cognitive Remediation in Neuropsychological Functioning and pointed to the author’s name: Nadine Crouch, PhD.

  She stopped for a minute and said, “What are you grinning at? You look like the village idiot.”

  Then it hit her.

  “Shit,” she said. “You just got me to tell you all about myself.”

  “Don’t take it too hard,” I said.

  “You probably already knew about the book.”

  “I Googled you before setting the appointment.”

  “I’m going to have to keep an eye on you, Mr. Creed,” she said. “You’re quite the manipulator.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You take that as a compliment?”

  “What’s the one thing?” I said.

  She looked puzzled.

  “You said I was wrong about everything but one.”

  She smiled.

  “Wait,” I said, sharing the smile. “I know what it is. I was right that you’ve been beautiful your whole life.”

  She grinned, and I cocked my head at her.

  “Ms. N. Crouch,” I said. “Did you just wink at me?”

  And thus began my professional relationship with Nadine.

  Chapter 8

  The word on Teddy Boy Turner was that the gambling bug bit him long before he scored the bartending gig at the Grantline Bar & Grill in Darnell, West Virginia. As a teenager, he mowed lawns and washed cars until he amassed enough money to start betting the sports book.

  In gambling, winning early in life usually leads to financial ruin down the road, and Teddy Boy’s experience was no different. His current losing streak had put his life in serious jeopardy. He was deeper in debt than his Grantline salary could ever pull him out—to Salvatore Bonadello, no less, one of the biggest and most notorious crime bosses in the country.

  Teddy Boy lived in the constant fear that one day soon the goons would walk in around closing time and demand payment. He was prepared to get a broken arm or leg, maybe some cracked ribs. What he wasn’t prepared for was a personal phone call from Sal Bonadello himself.

  According to Sal, the call went this way:

  “I been looking over your account,” Sal said.

  “I’m doing my best, Mr. Bonadello. I just need a little more time.”

  “How would you like your—whatcha call—slate cleared?”

  Teddy Boy thought about that. “I can smack someone around with a baseball bat for you, but I’m not a professional,” he said. “I never took a life or nothin’.”

  “Naw, not like that,” Sal said. “I need some information and a favor. You do a good job, maybe I wipe your slate clean. How would that be?”

  “It’d be like getting a new lease on life, Mr. Bonadello. Not to complain, but I’m working day and night just to pay the vig. I haven’t been able to make a dent in the loan.”

  “You know this kid, Charlie Beck?”

  “Everyone knows Charlie.”

  “He a friend of yours?”

  Teddy Boy paused. “Not unless you say so, Mr. Bonadello.”

  “Good answer. You seen him in your place with any girls?”

  “Yeah, sure. He gets a lot of action. Looks sort of like Tom Brady.”

  “Ever seen him with a high school girl? Short blond hair, name of Kimberly Creed?”

  “Not that I know of,” Teddy Boy said.

  Sal said, “Ted, you disappoint me. I was hoping to help you out with your—whatcha call—lethal problem.”

  There was a long pause and then Teddy Boy cleared his voice and said, “Well, there is a rumor going around.”

  “Ted?”

  “Yes sir?”

  “Gimme something I can use.”

  Chapter 9

  Ned Denhollen awoke confused and disoriented. He looked at one arm, then the other, trying to get his bearings. Ned probably remembered setting the alarm, closing up the drugstore and walking across the parking lot toward his car. Now here he was, lying on his back on the floor of a room he couldn’t possibly recognize, and—could this be possible?

  His wrists were in cuffs, chained to eyebolts in the floor.

  He lifted his head and saw me sitting on a chair positioned above his legs.

  Ned lashed out, tried to kick the chair over. And realized his feet were also chained to the floor.

  He shook his head angrily, pitched his torso upward a few times in an effort to show he was a fighter, a man not easily intimidated. But in fact Ned was not a fighter and he was easily intimidated, which is why he soon gave up posturing and began to blubber and cry.

  “Who are you?” Ned wailed. “What do you want? Why have you done this to me?”

  I sighed. “Ned, the reason we’re here, I’m worried about my daughter.”

  Ned abruptly stopped whimpering. No doubt he thought me a lunatic. “Excuse me?”

  “I’m Donovan Creed, Kimberly’s father. I’d shake your hand but...”

  Yeah, of course you would, Ned must have thought, but it’s chained to the floor!

  Ned studied me, as if trying to place me by inventorying my facial features. For Ned, it was a given I was unstable. But was I capable of murder? He wouldn’t want to find out. “Mr. Creed, I don’t know your daughter and that’s the God’s honest truth. I’m happily married. I think you must have me mixed up with someone else.

  “You’re the pharmacist?”

  “Yes sir, I work at Anderson’s Drug Store here in Darnell.”

  “What makes you think we’re still in Darnell?”

  “Oh, sweet Jesus!”

  “Ned, let me tell you what’s happening here. You and I are going to put an end to what’s been going on in Darnell. Before it affects my daughter, or her friends.”

  “Mr. Creed, I don’t understand why you’re doing this.”

  I sighed again. “If you think I’m enjoying
this…” I paused.

  Ned began shivering.

  “Are you comfortable, Ned?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I can get you a pillow and blanket if you like.”

  Ned shouted, “If you wanted to make me comfortable, you shouldn’t have chained my arms and legs to the floor, you son of a bitch!”

  “I can’t fault you for being upset,” I said, “but I need to move things along. I have it on good authority that you’re selling drugs.”

  Ned said, “I know your daughter, Kimberly. I’ve filled prescriptions for her. But I would never sell her any illicit drugs. You can ask her, if you don’t believe me.”

  “I’m not talking about Kimberly,” I said. Then I thought of something completely off the subject.

  “Is Kimberly on the pill?”

  Ned thought for a minute. “Not that I’m aware,” he said.

  I looked at him a long moment before saying, “It’s really none of my business, but that’s good to know.”

  “Sir,” Ned said, “I do sell drugs, I’m a pharmacist. But I only sell prescription drugs.”

  I kept my voice steady. “My daughter’s been dating a kid named Charlie Beck. Charlie’s twenty-one, his dad’s a local attorney, Jerry Beck. You know this kid Charlie?”

  “No sir, I honestly don’t.” Ned said through gritted teeth as he tried to control his anger.

  “Charlie’s a good-looking kid, really popular with the ladies. What I’m saying, Ned: he’s a player.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, sir, I truly am. But I’ve got a wife. She must be worried sick about me. Please let me go! I swear I never did anything to hurt your daughter. Please! I don’t know what you’re talking about with the drug thing, I swear to God.”

  “You see, Ned, this is why I had to chain you up. It’s why I might have to kill you.”

  “Wh-what?”

  Even after all this you’re still not being honest with me.”

  “How can you say that?” he wailed.

  “Tell me about your cousin.”

  “My cousin?”

  “Bickham Wright.”

  Ned’s face fell. “Oh, shit,” he said.

  “Oh, shit indeed,” I said. “Look, I’m going to save you some trouble. I already know the facts. I’m just looking for details.”

  I took a syringe from my pocket, removed the cap, and tapped the plunger to remove any trapped air.

  Ned’s eyes went wide. “What’s in that?”

  “It’s a lethal dose.”

  “Okay, stop. I’ll tell you everything.”

  “Thought you might.”

  “I don’t personally know any of the women they drugged,” Ned said. “But I know some of the names. I’m positive they didn’t drug Kimberly.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “She’s underage.”

  There was something in his eyes.

  “What aren’t you telling me, Ned?”

  He closed his eyes and winced. When he spoke his bottom lip quivered. “I know they killed one of the women. Erica Chastain.”

  “Who killed her?”

  “Bickham and Charlie.”

  “What did they do with the body?”

  “Buried it somewhere in the hills, where they like to hunt.”

  They told you all this?

  “When Erica went missing, there was an investigation. A lot of people remembered seeing her at the Grantline. I told Bickham it was over.”

  “You cut him off ?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “But he threatened you.”

  “Bickham said if they got caught they’d all rat me out. I was in it deep enough to do serious time. I’d lose everything.”

  “They drugged a lot of girls, didn’t they?”

  Ned nodded.

  “And all those girls have something in common. You know what it is?”

  “I’m not sure what you—”

  “They’ve all got fathers, Ned.”

  Ned paused before speaking. When he did, his voice was heavy with regret. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I wish I could…” His voice trailed off . He started to cry, then swallowed the back the tears. “I’m…I’m truly sorry.”

  I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing.

  Then, trying to keep the fear out of his voice, Ned said, “So…what happens now?”

  “Now you tell me exactly how it works. Leave nothing out. You can start with the names.”

  “Names?”

  “The names of the members.”

  “The members of—”

  “That’s right, Ned. The members of Fuck Club.”

  Ned winced. “I never meant for this to happen,” he said. “They—”

  “But it did happen, Ned. And you let it happen.”

  “Okay,” Ned said. His voice was weary. He’d given up the fight. “I’ll tell you everything I know. And then?”

  “And then I’ll end your suffering.” I paused a minute, then thought of something. “You have an insurance policy?”

  Ned smiled ruefully. “Cashed it in. See, this whole thing was always about needing more money.”

  “How much insurance?”

  “The death benefi t would have been a hundred thousand.”

  I nodded. “Tell me what I want to know, I’ll make sure your wife gets the hundred grand.”

  “You mean—”

  “Yeah. I’ll cover it.”

  “Anita.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “My wife. Her name’s Anita.”

  Chapter 10

  When I look at her I am reminded of all that matters.

  It was early afternoon and I was back in North Bergen, where Kathleen rents half a duplex that was so small, I could hear her shower running when I came in the front door. I crossed the living room to the single bedroom and noticed the pile of clothes on the bed that Kathleen had laid out for the trip. The bedroom was twice the size of a standard prison cell, which made it large enough to hold a queen bed, an end table, and a medium dresser. On the far wall was a door that led to the bathroom. I pushed it open a few inches and peeked inside. The shower door was made of ribbed glass. The steam from her shower had fogged it up pretty well, but I could make out enough of her form to get my heart pumping. I silently backed up and closed the door so I wouldn’t startle her.

  When she shut off the shower I called her name. A moment later she opened the door, wrapped in a towel. She glided through the bedroom, into the hall, and adjusted the thermostat to a cooler setting. Then she jumped into the bed where I’d been waiting.

  Afterward, she slipped out of bed and I propped my head on one arm as I always did, to enjoy the view of her backside. Kathleen lifted her arms high above her head and stretched, arching her back, totally unaware of her sensuality. It was so Kathleen, the way she could turn a simple activity into a defining moment. Still with her back to me, she stepped into her panties and wriggled her lower body just enough to get them over her hips.

  She went back to the bathroom and started drying her hair and I tried to decide what the best thing about her was. And gave up. In a word, she was spectacular, and I was confident that everyone who met her at Sal’s party that night would instantly fall in love with her.

  As I watched her working her hair, I thought about how completely comfortable I felt in her presence. And that’s when it hit me: in the full hour I’d been home, we hadn’t felt the need to exchange a single word.

  By four o’clock we were wheels up in the Lear 45 I’d leased from Sensory Resources, the government agency headed by my facilitator, Darwin. I can usually wrangle free use of the agency jets, even when it’s not agency business, but this flight was taking us to the birthday party of a known criminal, and Darwin wasn’t taking any chances being linked to that.

  At around six p.m. we checked into my favorite hotel in Cincinnati, the Cincinnatian. While I hit the mini bar, Kathleen began stripping.

  “Again?” I said.

 
“Relax, Tiger. I’m just taking my real shower.”

  “What’s wrong with the shower you took a few hours ago?”

  “That was for you. This one’s for the party.”

  Chapter 11

  “Where are all the G-men?” Kathleen said as our stretch limo passed through the gates and headed up the long entrance to Sal’s mansion.

  In the old days, the FBI and local police would have been stationed at the bottom of the hill, writing down license plate numbers and snapping pictures of all the guests.

  “These are happier times for organized crime,” I said. “These days the feds are more interested in terrorists. As for local law enforcement, the mayor and police chief are apt to stop by for a celebratory drink.”

  Kathleen frowned. “No submachine guns?” she said.

  I’d made the mistake of mentioning Sal’s party to Kathleen a week earlier, and she insisted on coming. I had been determined to keep this part of my life a secret from her, but two days of her world-class pouting weakened my resolve. Plus, there was a part of me that wanted to see how she’d react to meeting Sal. Would she be able to handle a gangland social event?

  “You might see the occasional weapon brandished,” I said.

  Kathleen seemed fascinated by the prospect of meeting an underworld crime boss. Over the past few days she asked a hundred questions about my relationship with Sal. I lied by omission, commission, and every other way a person can lie. In the end I led her to believe that Homeland Security had an unofficial alliance with the mob, and that they helped us identify and locate suspected terrorists. I told her that going to Sal’s birthday party was good business for the government, and asked if she’d be willing to perform with a magician at Sal’s party. After telling her what she’d have to do, Kathleen was delighted to be included. As evidenced by her B-movie mob speak.

  “Will there be a lot of guys named Lefty?” she said.

  “Don’t know.”

  “How come criminals never call anyone Righty?”

  “Don’t know.”

  We pulled up to the front entrance and came to a stop. The driver climbed out, circled the car, and held the door open for us. Kathleen was wearing a cocktail dress, so I got out first and served as a modesty shield.