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by J. A. Henderson

“You got a light?”

  -60-

  R.D. woke in intensive care with Detective Scharges standing over him. The officer had put on weight and his hair was white now, but he had lost none of his belligerence,

  “You able to talk?” he grunted.

  “I don’t much feel like having a conversation.”

  “Me neither.” The detective cleared his throat with relish. “Robert Duncan Slaither. I’m arresting you for the murder of Justin Fenton Moore. You have the right to remain silent but if you….”

  His voice faded away as R.D. drifted back into unconsciousness

  Though the boathouse had been razed to the ground, the police found Justin Moore. He had rolled into a pool of fetid water, filling a dip in the boathouse’s earthen floor, and was only partially burned. The slugs taken from his corpse matched R.D.’s gun.

  In the scorched trunk of his burnt out car, the police found the body of Beck Murray. A later autopsy ascertained the woman had died from stab wounds to the neck made by a letter opener next to her corpse. In the remains of the house, almost annihilated by the white heat of fire, were the incinerated remains of another body. Among the splintered bones was a half melted titanium star, fastened round what was left of her neck. Dental records showed that the victim was Clancy Moore.

  Scharges considered it an open and shut case. R.D. had driven to East Texas, armed with a pistol, intent on killing his former associate. Justin Moore had hid in the boathouse and tried to defend himself with a hopelessly inadequate weapon. It had done no good - R.D. had shot him six times.

  Ettrick Sinclair protested that R.D. wasn’t capable of gunning a man down in such a horrific manner, but he was an old friend of the accused and his opinion was discounted. Once again, he was ordered to stay away from the case.

  From there it was a short step to blaming R.D. for murdering his secretary. The Moore’s ruined house showed obvious signs of arson, so the psychologist was held responsible for torching it and causing the death of Clancy. The domino effect.

  R.D. kept quiet about Brighton Rock. A cryptic note and a strange device weren’t enough to back up his story and, deep down, he knew it.

  If he didn’t want to end up on death row, he only had one option.

  He pretended not to remember anything and pleaded insanity.

  -61-

  New Braunfells State Facility 2003

  “I have to go, R.D. I’m supposed to be on duty.” Ettrick pushed back his chair.

  “You don’t believe me?”

  “What do you think? I’m not going to buy into your sick little fantasy.”

  “But Brighton rock is still there. And that thing is impervious to heat!”

  “As you correctly surmised, a modified MP3 player and an ambiguous note won’t count as any kind of evidence. Even if they survived the fire.”

  “Then find something else to support my story! It’s what you’re good at.”

  “Scharges already did a pretty thorough investigation,” the detective grunted.

  “You’re better than him.”

  “I’m not a miracle worker. Just cause you find a present under your tree, it don’t mean that Santa put it there.”

  “What the fuck does that mean?”

  “It means I’m done with you.” Ettrick got to his feet. Time to put some distance and some perspective between himself and his treacherous old ally.

  “Did Scharges check out the trucker?” R.D. asked innocently. “I bet he didn’t.”

  “The guy that gave you a lift to hospital?” Ettrick shrugged. “He was just driving by when you came crawling outta the forest. Why would Scharges look into that?”

  “You would have. You should.”

  “Are you holding something back, R.D.?”

  “You tell me. If you’re so sure I’m lying, then why did I kill all these people?” The psychologist put on his most angelic face. “The old Ettrick Sinclair would never have given up like this. He would have hunted down the truth.”

  “You so sure that’s what you want?” Ettrick placed his hands on the table and glared into R.D.’s eyes. “What if it turns out you had a good reason for killing these people and I uncover it? You’ll go to trial. You’ll be sentenced to death.”

  “And you’ll get your man, like you always do. So, what’s stopping you?”

  “Don’t tempt me, R.D.” The detective thrust himself away from the desk.

  “If you don’t like my version, you’re still left with three dead bodies and no rational explanation for how it happened,” R.D. replied evenly. “I got flaws but I’m not a psychotic killer. You know something’s off. Go solve the bloody case.”

  He was right, of course.

  “C’mon. I’ll take you back to your room.” Ettrick motioned towards the door. “Then I’ll investigate a bit more. Maybe.”

  R.D. stayed sitting.

  “Now. Let’s go.” The detective beckoned to him.

  His companion coughed politely.

  “What?” The detective snapped. “You got something else to add to this insanity?”

  “You aren’t going to fetch my crutches?”

  “Huh?”

  “My crutches.”

  “Christ Almighty!” The detective’s hand shot to his mouth. “You been sitting down every time I came here.”

  He paled visibly.

  “I… forgot.”

  “There’s an awful lot of that going around.” R.D. replied nonchalantly. “Don’t you think?”

  The crutches were propped behind the interview cell door. Ettrick picked up the willowy trappings, weighed them in one hand, then set them down again. No matter what the psychologist had done to him, he felt a pang of genuine sympathy.

  Returning, he offered his arm to R.D., struggling to rise from his chair. Heavy steel callipers, encasing his legs, were visible for the first time.

  “Never mind them,” Ettrick relented. “Lean on me.”

  R.D. clutched gratefully at Ettrick’s jacket and hauled himself up. Steadied by his former friend he limped towards the door.

  “Please don’t give up,” he said. “I need your help.”

  “I think you’re beyond helping.” Ettrick squinted at the man leaning on his shoulder. “But I’ll do my job.”

  “What’s that lump pressing into my side? R.D. slid an arm round his friend’s waist to support himself.

  “Don’t get excited,” the detective replied. “It’s only my service holster.”

  “You may think this case is closed but there are other factors at play,” R.D. whispered. “So, once you start checking?”

  “Yes?”

  “Never leave that holster empty again.”

  -62-

  On the drive back, Ettrick thought about his wife. Had thought about little else since the day before.

  So… she had slept with R.D. It was a long time ago and they obviously hadn’t kept up their affair. Was that such a dreadful thing? After all, he was a cop. He’d seen decent people do much worse.

  But it was a big deal. He had never cheated on Madison. Never been tempted.

  Maybe he should have it out with her. Demand to know why she’d betrayed him. Problem was, he already knew.

  He was a cop. His job was dangerous. He worked long and late hours and didn’t want to be a desk jockey. He dealt in death and destruction and couldn’t leave that all in the station. He rarely even saw his wife these days. Couldn’t recall the last time they’d actually made love.

  He knew exactly why Madison had done it.

  Being the wife of a cop was shit.

  But could he forgive her? He’d have to, he guessed. He loved her. No matter what Madison had done, he couldn’t bear the thought of her not being in his life, even if it was only sporadically.

  As for R.D.? He’d do his job, as promised, find nothing - and never go near the fucker again.

  An hour later he pulled into his driveway and scurried out of the car, knowing he’d have to manoeuvre past his prying wife
. Of course, she was concerned about the fate of her former lover but Ettrick wasn’t in the mood for any kind of communication with her, never mind recounting R.D.’s crazy story.

  Taking a deep breath, he strode manfully across the parched lawn and through his front door.

  “I’ll probably find Edward fucking Scissorhands on my couch,” he muttered to himself. “That’s the kind of day I’m having.”

  But the only occupant of the settee was Madison, recovering from a strenuous bout of aerobics. Leaves of sweat mottled the centre of her t-shirt, spreading out between her heaving breasts. She might be a two timing harlot but, God, she was hot. The thought didn’t make him any happier.

  “How is he, Ettrick?” she panted.

  The detective stopped following her chest with his eyes.

  “It’s hard to tell.”

  “What did he say? This is the third time you been there and you still haven’t told me squat.”

  Ettrick knew a deluge of questions was about to burst over him.

  “I will talk about this. I will answer all your questions.” He took Madison by the shoulders. “Right now, I got nothing to say. I want to think about what I’ve heard before it goes cold.”

  “Goes cold?” Madison scowled. “He’s not a bowl of porridge.”

  Ettrick pursed his lips angrily. She probably hadn’t known what porridge was until she met R.D. He held out against his wife’s probing, putting on his official face and depending on the professional aspect of his request to subdue her. Her big brown eyes searched his mask for signs of a crack.

  “You can’t talk it through with me now?”

  “Like I say. I need some time to think.”

  “Not even if I make you a sandwich?”

  “Madison!”

  “Go think then,” his wife grumbled. “I’ll make you a sandwich anyhow.”

  The detective headed thankfully for the study, but she hadn’t finished.

  “Don’t shut me out of this, Ettrick.” She stuck her head through the serving hatch, a domestic Mona Lisa with a far from inscrutable frown. “This isn’t just some case you’re working on. R.D. was my friend too. And Frankie’s.”

  “I promise. I sure do promise.”

  Ettrick hurried along the hall, almost colliding with Meike, who was slipping through the study door like a yacht round a harbour wall. She drifted from room to room so gracefully it was easy to forget she was around.

  “Howdy Meike.”

  “Hello Ettrick,” she answered softly. “How is R.D.?”

  “Truthfully?”

  “Truthfully.”

  “At the moment I’d say he’s about as mad as a box of frogs. But Meike, I aint finished looking into it. Until I do, I can’t say any more.”

  He held up a hand placatingly. Her cold elegance and soft Scandinavian accent always made him feel slightly oafish. He was glad that he was a brilliant detective and she was only a nanny.

  “It’s the way I work. You understand?”

  “R.D.’s crazy, for sure.” She sailed away. “But he’s crazy like a fox. Remember that.”

  “Smart girl.” Ettrick muttered, as Meike continued down the stair. Looking at her slender back, however, he felt a disturbing pang of distaste. Who the hell was Meike sneaking into her room at nights? Sure, she was a private person. And the apartment was hers to do as she pleased.

  But she was in charge of Ettrick’s son. He had a right to be told these things. If you live with a cop, don’t insult him by trying to hide the obvious.

  The detective sidled into the study, shut the door and picked up the phone.

  “Detective Scharges?” he said to the man he now outranked. “I’d like to have a look at some of your old case files.”

  -Part 4-

  THE ASYLUM

  The moment I choose, I can be rid of Mr. Hyde

  R.L. Stevenson. The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr. Hyde

  -63-

  New Braunfells State Facility, Texas 2003

  Rain swept across the asylum parking lot in torrents and Ettrick held a briefcase above his head as he splashed from his car to the gates of the institution. All the same his shirt collar was dripping rivulets down his neck by the time he got inside. He presented his sodden badge to the girl behind the desk.

  “I’m here to see R.D. Slaither.”

  The psychologist was far more animated than on Ettrick’s last visit. The detective sat down and gave his former friend a stony stare. Oblivious, R.D. could hardly contain himself.

  “Well?”

  “What do you mean, well?”

  “I mean… well?”

  “It’s a wild story R.D.,” Ettrick sighed. “What else can I say? Very imaginative.”

  “And true. Don’t forget true.”

  “That’s beside the point, really. It just aint provable.”

  “I’m only interested in getting you to believe me. What did you dig up?”

  The detective bent and clicked open the briefcase lying by his feet. He lifted out several folders and placed them on his knee.

  “I’ve done some investigating. Like you asked.”

  He placed the top folder on the table between them.

  “Your alibi for Maggie’s murder checked out. The police already concluded you couldn’t have been there when she jumped.”

  “I didn’t think that was in doubt,” R.D. huffed. “And she didn’t jump. She was forced.”

  “So you say. Problem is, evidence can be interpreted in different ways.”

  Ettrick opened the folder and scanned the contents.

  “Work colleagues told Scharges that Maggie had become withdrawn and depressed in the days before her death. They were pretty concerned but she refused to talk about it. That gels with your story. But it’s also the typical profile of a suicide victim. See what I mean?”

  R.D. stared up at the ceiling, his jaw working from side to side. On the roof someone had written Fuking Cunts in thick black marker.

  “Very inferior class of loonies they have in here,” he remarked. “I’d sort it, if I could stand.”

  “You face the same problem with all the other evidence,” Ettrick continued. “Sure your wild tale fits all the facts, but it’s also the least plausible version.”

  “The most plausible one being I went on a murder rampage out of the blue?”

  “Well… yeah. Actually.”

  “I told you what happened exactly as I experienced it.” R.D. rubbed his temple. “But you’re right. Facts can be interpreted in all sorts of ways. And I interpreted them wrongly.”

  “Is this a confession after all?” Ettrick stammered.

  “Quite the opposite. I had to wait until you had every piece of evidence before I finally presented my conclusion. I’ve got one last shot at convincing you and this is it.”

  “Good luck with that.”

  “You gonna hear me out?”

  “Like you say, you got one shot at convincing me.”

  “I had a lot of time to think in here. Nothing else to occupy my mind. And the more I went over the events, the more I realised little details didn’t quite add up.”

  “Like what?”

  “One.” R.D. folded a digit. “Clancy’s coming out party was where I met Maggie. But Justin and Clancy left before she got there.”

  “What has that got to do with anything?”

  “According to Justin, his pheromones wiped out all my perceptions of him.” R.D. rubbed his hands together. “I had to put together a mental picture from my own memories.”

  “That’s why he didn’t seem any older.” Ettrick said. “Think I wasn’t listening?”

  “But Maggie never met him. So how could she put together a mental picture?”

  “She’d seen photographs?”

  “Guy hated being in the limelight. I’d never seen a picture of him.”

  “What are you getting at?’

  “Justin said his Inductance was the same as the ones ants produce.” R.D. licked dry lips.
“But ants can’t use pheromones to hide. They use them to communicate.”

  “You should take a page from their book and make yourself clearer.”

  “If Maggie didn’t use her memories to form a mental picture of Justin then, it stands to reason, neither did I.” R.D. tapped his fingers together. “The only explanation that fits, is if Justin was using pheromones to project a mental image of himself.”

  “Isn’t that the same thing?”

  “No. There’s one huge difference. If you were an Inductor and could project an image of yourself, couldn’t you just as easily project a mental image of someone else?”

  R.D. picked his words carefully. Aware this was the make or break moment.

  “It never occurred to me that the person I talked to in East Texas might not be Justin Moore. That someone might be using their pheromones to impersonate him.”

  “C’mon! Who could pull that off a stunt like that?” Ettrick raised an eyebrow. “You guys knew each other too well. It would have to be…”

  His voice trailed off.

  “It would have to be someone who knew us both intimately.” R.D. performed a short drum roll on the table top.

  “Someone like Clancy Moore.”

  -64-

  The detective’s heart came to rest on the bottom of a cold empty ocean.

  “Pretty obvious when you think about it.” R.D. rushed along, all too aware of the seismic shift his comment had caused. “Clancy was the first and only person to take the Cocktail. A much stronger dose than the animals. It was her affecting the researchers.”

  “This story is nuttier than your last version,” Ettrick protested weakly.

  “Is it? That’s why Justin wouldn’t test any more subjects. It’s the real reason he took Clancy off the Cocktail and moved her to virtual isolation. Hell, he probably helped falsify the records to make the drug seem useless.”

  The psychologist smiled thinly.

  “If Daler had ever found out its real value they would never have let his wife go.”

  “But he took the left over supply!”

  “There was no left over supply. Daler wouldn’t be that sloppy.” R.D. gritted his teeth. “I was never talking to Justin. It was Clancy - and she spun me a fine old story to shift the blame onto her husband.”