There was a long silence. “Unbelievable! If it can do what Von Braun claimed, this could be the greatest scientific breakthrough since antibiotics. How did you locate it? Who had it hidden all this time?”
“I promised he would remain anonymous. So many people who possessed the box have died. I’m sure you understand.”
“Of course. Nick and I would love to meet Dr. Skinner. Do you think you could arrange an introduction?”
“I’ll ask him the next time I see him.”
“Thank you. I must go tell Nick the news. Good work!”
My next call was to Kevin. My partner had been involved with the box and helped rescue Maggie from her captors. I hadn’t told him that Skinner had hired me to locate the device because I wasn’t certain that I was going to give it to him.
“Kevin, can you come over? We need to talk?”
“Be right there.”
“So what’s the big news?” Kevin asked. “New case?”
“Sort of,” I replied.
I told him the whole story, from the moment I first met Skinner through handing him the box. As with Arnie, I didn’t tell him where I’d found the box.
When I finished, he looked at me and shook his head. “You had the box all along, didn’t you? I didn’t believe for a minute you pitched it in the river, but I wasn’t about to say anything. That damned box was nothing but trouble.”
I nodded. “Yes, I did. Thanks for not spilling the beans.”
“What did you call the thing in the box, a Neuron Encoding Synapse Disruptor? Do you think it will actually do what Skinner said it would do, erase a person’s memory?”
“He feels confident that it will. If it does, it will be a dramatic breakthrough in treating a whole list of psychological disorders.”
“I can see that,” he replied, “but I can also see how it could be used for a whole list of nefarious purposes as well. No wonder four governments tried to get their hands on the device. Do you think it will be safe with Skinner?”
“I saw the bank vault where he’s going to keep it, and he’s mentioned more than once that it couldn’t fall into the wrong hands.”
“Bank vaults have been breached before. If common criminals can break into one, I wouldn’t think it would be too difficult for a team of government black ops agents.”
“Unfortunately, you’re right. Skinner should have an around-the-clock security detail on sight. If he hasn’t thought of that I’ll mention it to him.”
“Are you sure Skinner has the device?” Lloyd Hatfield asked.
“I didn’t actually see the thing, but the old P.I. showed up carrying a grocery bag,” Luther replied. “I saw Skinner as the old guy was leaving. He was all smiles. Looked like a kid on Christmas morning with his first bike, so I’d say he has it. What do you want us to do?”
“Just keep an eye on the place for now. We don’t want to tip our hand too soon. We don’t even know if the damned thing actually works. Let’s let Skinner test his device. If we see that it does what it’s supposed to do, we’ll make our move.”
CHAPTER 8
I was having my second cup of coffee and reading the morning paper when I heard someone banging on my door.
“Walt! Are you in there?”
It was Dad’s voice.
When I opened the door, Dad, Bernice and Jerry stomped in, obviously pissed about something.
“Did you read this morning’s paper?” Dad asked.
“I was doing just that when someone came banging on my door,” I replied holding up the paper.
He grabbed it out of my hand and shuffled through the pages. “Here it is!” he said, handing it back.
The headline read: KC health inspectors trashed and bleached food for homeless. City officials explain why.
“Okay,” I said, “what about it?”
“If you’d take a minute to read it, you’d see!” he replied, exasperated.
“Since you seem to know so much about it, why don’t you give me the highlights.”
He took a deep breath. “Yesterday, members of Free Hot Soup, Kansas City were having a picnic at Ilus Davis Park, sharing food they had prepared for the homeless, when the Kansas City Gestapo showed up and poured bleach on all the food. Ruined every bite!”
“That doesn’t sound right. Are you sure?”
“Hell yes I’m sure. Saw it with my own eyes. We were there, all three of us.”
“Okay,” I replied, suddenly concerned. “Let’s go in the living room, find a seat, and start from the beginning.”
“It all started several months ago,” Dad said. “We met some folks at one of the Senior Tea Dances who were members of an organization called Free Hot Soup. When I say organization, I don’t mean it in the regular sense. There’s no building or charter, or even a not-for-profit status. They’re just a group of people who want to do something out of the goodness of their hearts and help the homeless.
“Every so often, someone will post on social media that they’re having a picnic at one of the parks. Anyone who wants to participate just prepares something at home, brings it to the park, and shares it with the homeless. They have been doing it for about three years. We went to one and really enjoyed the experience. It was good for us because it made us feel like we were doing something useful, and for the homeless folks, it was probably the best meal they had eaten in a week.”
“So how did the city get involved?”
“Some tight-ass from the Kansas City Health Department showed up. He claimed there were health code violations. No one had inspected the food, there was no way to guarantee that the food was at the right temperature, and that we needed a permit to share our food with our new friends.
“The fool went on to say that the city can’t allow food to be served publicly without affirming that the preparers are trained in safe food management, proper temperature controls and other defenses against contamination, and have an inspected kitchen. All we were doing was having a picnic! Idiot!”
“And they actually poured bleach on the food?”
“Absolutely! Health officials and cops did it so no one could eat it after they left. I had to hold Bernice back. You know how she feels about her snickerdoodles. When they started pouring bleach on her cookies, I thought she was going to draw on them.”
“I woudda, too!” Bernice grumbled, “if John hadn’t stopped me.”
A few years ago, Dad and Bernice took a firearms class and got their concealed carry permits. Bernice never leaves the house without her .32 strapped to her leg.
“So why are you telling me all this? What do you want me to do?”
“Call Ox,” Dad replied. “I know you still have some clout at the police department. Try to find out how serious they are about this. From what I hear, Free Soup is going to continue with their picnics and the three of us are going to help even if it means winding up in the clinker.”
“Okay, I’ll give him a call, but as far as me having any clout, no one at the Health Department will give a damn about what I think.”
The three of them stomped out, their panties still in a twist.
I promised I would call Ox, but I knew what he was going to say. It is estimated that over 1,700 people are homeless in the Kansas City area. For many people, the term homeless brings to mind the old wino with a bottle in a brown paper sack or a bag lady pushing a grocery cart filled with things salvaged from the trash bins. There are certainly those among the homeless, but there are also veterans who are suffering from their experiences on the battlefield and families with children.
The homeless often gather in make-shift camps under a bridge or in some other public place. There are tents, crude shelters made of cardboard, and open fires, but the one thing lacking is sanitary facilities. It is not uncommon to see someone squatting behind a bush.
All this presents a problem for city officials. Few want to be the Scrooge who gives the poor homeless people a hard time, but inevitably, the public outcry becomes so loud they have to do som
ething. People don’t want to go to parks occupied by vagrants, and what homeowner wants a homeless camp a few blocks from their house?
During my five years on the force, Ox and I were sent, along with other officers, to break up homeless camps. The residents were ordered to pack up their tents, douse their fires and move on. City workers then spent hours cleaning up the mess.
The tragedy was that the homeless just went to another part of the city and re-established their camp. A vicious circle with no real solution.
“Ox, this is Walt.”
“Hey, partner, what’s up?”
“I just had a visit from three angry citizens, Dad, Bernice and Jerry. They were all in a dither about the city pouring bleach on food for the homeless. Do you know anything about that?”
A long sigh. “Unfortunately I do. I was there. It was one of the hardest things I ever had to do. Hungry people watched in disbelief as we ruined perfectly good food.”
“What put a burr under the Health Department’s saddle? Why the overkill?”
“I think it’s a knee-jerk reaction to citizen complaints. The Free Soup people have been having their so-called picnics in public parks. Residents made a stink and got one of their Missouri Legislators involved.
“The excuse that was given by the head of the Health Department was that their organization didn’t have a proper permit. He claims there are forty-three other organizations that have the proper permits to distribute food to the public, and there’s no reason why Free Hot Soup shouldn’t comply as well. We hit picnics at four different parks in the city. Even the mayor said it was the right thing to do. The guy also said the food wasn’t safe to eat. Try telling that to a man who’s been foraging for scraps of food in a dumpster.”
“According to Dad, they are just a group of private citizens preparing and sharing food from their own kitchens with people who are hungry. Bernice made snickerdoodles.”
“I hear you. It’s a real mess.”
“From what Dad tells me, Free Hot Soup is going to defy the suits and keep on doing what they’ve been doing for three years. How do you think the Health Department will respond?”
“No idea. I just hope I’m not part of it.”
In the days that followed the article that appeared in the Kansas City Star, social media lit up like a Christmas tree. It was quite obvious that the public sided with Free Hot Soup and slammed the city officials for their heavy-handed tactics.
Then came the moment I was dreading. Dad informed me that there was going to be another picnic on Saturday and the Three Amigos were definitely going to be there. I figured I’d better be there too in case they got hauled off to the pokey.
Bernice baked another batch of snickerdoodles and not wanting to be a poop, I prepared my signature dish, tuna casserole, in an aluminum pan I could leave behind.
When we arrived at the park, it did indeed look like a picnic. People had spread blankets on the ground and opened baskets of food. The residents of the camp stopped, chatted, and thanked their benefactors for their generosity. I overheard one woman say, “It’s not just about the food. You get to talk to people out here who care.”
Dad pointed to a guy surrounded by a small group. “He’s from the American Civil Liberties Union. He’s here just in case the gestapo tries to crash our party again.”
I kept watching and waiting for sirens to come blaring into the park, but thankfully, they never came.
After everyone was fed, I noticed them gathering around a campfire. Much to my horror, the thing that had drawn them there was Jerry!
My old pal likes to think he’s the second coming of Rodney Dangerfield, and he never misses an opportunity to share one of his stand-up routines. I hoped he knew what he was doing. This could be a tough audience.
“Let me start by saying that I’m so sorry for what you’re experiencing in your lives right now, but in spite of everything you’re going through, one thing that can help make your burdens a bit more bearable is a good laugh. If you can, just for a moment, find the humor in your situation, it can lighten your day.
“I just read an article saying that 79% of accidents happen in the home. Finally! Good news for the homeless!”
There were a few chuckles.
“A homeless guy approached me asking for change. I said, ‘Oh right! You’re asking me for money, but you can afford those trendy jeans with holes in the knees!’”
Everyone laughed as one of the Free Hot Soup girls wearing a pair of the trendy jeans covered her face.
Jerry forged on. “I was gonna give my change to a homeless guy today, but his sign said ‘ONE DAY THIS COULD BE YOU.’ So I held onto it, just in case he was right.
“I saw a hobo walking down the street wearing one shoe. I said, ‘Hey buddy, did you lose your shoe?’ ‘No,’ he replied, ‘I found one.’”
By now, everyone was giggling at Jerry’s silly jokes.
“Studies have proven that cats are smarter than dogs. How many cats have you seen sitting beside a homeless person?
“And now, I will leave you with a question man has been pondering for ages. If a turtle has no shell, is he homeless or naked?”
The audience clapped as Jerry took a bow. My goofy friend had lightened everyone’s day.
As the crowd dispersed, Dad grabbed my arm. “Son, there’s someone I’d like you to meet.”
He led me to the blanket where a young man who appeared to be around thirty was munching one of Bernice’s snickerdoodles.
“Walt, this is Warren Prescott. Warren served in the 3rd Battalion, 4th Marines. Two tours in Afghanistan.”
“Pleased to meet you,” I said, extending my hand. “Thank you for your service.”
He nodded and shook my hand.
“Warren’s had a rough time since returning home,” Dad continued. “He has no family to support him and he’s had difficulty holding down a job.”
“PTSD?” I asked.
He nodded again. “I saw terrible things over there. I just can’t seem to get past it. I think I’m going okay and then something happens, it could be as simple as a car backfiring or thunder, and I just go to pieces. Not many employers want to hire a guy cowering in the corner.”
I knew exactly what he was talking about. A few years ago, I met Ben Singleton, another vet returning home from Afghanistan. He too was suffering from PTSD. Even with a loving wife to support him, he couldn’t deal with the trauma he had endured. I could only imagine what Warren was going through with no support at all.
Then Warren said something that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. “I’d do most anything to be normal again.”
The first thing that popped in my mind was Skinner’s NESD. Sitting right in front of me was the perfect candidate. No family, no job, no home, and willing to do anything to expel the demons in his mind.
“Warren” I said, “If you really mean that, I might just have something that could make that happen.”
CHAPTER 9
The next day, the headline in the Kansas City Star read, Volunteers defy KC Health Department, feed homeless people downtown.
It went on to say that the volunteers, freshly trained in tactics of civil disobedience, wore sweatshirts saying, “Access to food is a human right.” They brought protest signs to show any official who might stand in their way. Unlike the previous gathering, no one tried to stop their mission.
Needless to say, Dad, Bernice and Jerry were happy campers. Bernice’s cookies and Jerry’s jokes were a big hit.
I was a happy camper too. Instead of having to deal with my friends being arrested for civil disobedience, I could concentrate on getting help for Warren Prescott.
I gave Dr. Skinner a call.
“Dr. Skinner, I was just wondering how things were progressing at the treatment center.”
“I think you will be amazed,” he replied. “Why don’t you come by and take a look for yourself.”
“I’ll be right over.”
When I stepped into the foye
r of the old bank building, I was indeed amazed.
Skinner and his backers must have a lot of clout. In a week’s time, the bank had been transformed into a modern treatment center.
“What do you think?” Skinner asked, obviously proud of his accomplishment.
“This is fantastic,” I replied. “It looks like you’re ready to get down to business.”
“We are indeed. The next step will be selecting our first patient.”
“I may be able to help with that.”
“Oh really! Tell me more.”
“When we first talked, you said the NESD could help alcoholics, drug addicts and domestic abusers. How about people suffering from PTSD?”
“Absolutely! PTSD is the result of a traumatic experience. Whatever that experience was, is permanently stored in the person’s memory. Certain stimuli trigger the memory of the tragic event. Erase the memory and the PTSD is gone.”
“Is it possible to just pinpoint the traumatic memory with your device?”
“Unfortunately, no. We are not at that point at this time. Maybe someday. For now, it’s all or nothing. Think about a puzzle, the kind you put together on a rainy day. Let’s say the puzzle has a thousand pieces. When it’s all put together properly, there is a picture, but in the box, it is just a bunch of random pieces that mean nothing.
“Think of the brain as a puzzle with 100 billion pieces. As long as all those synapses are connected, the memory remains intact. If a person had some kind of trauma to the head, it can sometimes disrupt some of those synaptic connections either temporarily or permanently. We call this amnesia.
“In here, we disrupt all of the synaptic connections, not by a blow to the head, but by impulses from the Eraser. After the treatment, all memories are gone.”
Another question had been bugging me. “If you say all memories are gone, does that include speech or other basic skills like eating or going to the bathroom?”
“Excellent question. Picture everything an adult human has learned over their lifetime as a gigantic brick wall, each brick representing some bit of information learned at some point in time. A newborn infant comes into the world as a blank slate. It has no bricks when first born. Over time, as the child learns to speak, walk, and so forth, new bricks are formed and cemented into the wall.
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