The Evil That Men Do

by Robert D. Rodman

  We came to a chain link fence, Akrich’s property line. It was a five-footer topped with nasty v-shaped brads of sharp wire. There was no horizontal support beam at the top, so it was impossible to climb over. If we turned left, we’d be moving away from the house and from danger, but we might encounter more fencing and find ourselves cornered. To the right was Houston Road, but that way would take us nearer to the house and danger.

  I scanned up and down the fence line. “This way,” I said. Lucy vacillated. “The ground slopes down,” I hissed. “Should be a place to go under.” She caught on. We walked quickly to our left and came to a place where the fence no longer touched the ground. I stooped and grabbed the bottom links, tugging upward. Lucy bellied under. Then she pulled the fence bottom the other way, toward herself, but it wouldn’t go as high in that direction. I couldn’t quite squeeze under. Someone was crashing through the woods. The jolt of fear gave Lucy added strength and she eked out another two inches. I wormed my way under, lacerating shirt and skin on the prongs.

  We sprang to our feet, running full out. I heard the fence rattle, and the sound of metal on metal—the gun barrel scraping the chain link. I tensed for shots, but none came. He must have known his weapon was not accurate at that range, and the gunshots risked unwanted attention.

  We were on another estate. The main house was off to our left. I thought of running to it, but if it was unoccupied we would be trapped. A car flashed by us in the distance. It must be Orchard Drive. I slowed to wait for Lucy. She was flagging, her breathing labored, but jogging gamely.

  With fifty yards to go she stumbled to her knees. I went back, hooked her elbow, and helped her up. I said, “La coche es próxima.”

  “El coche esTÁ próxiMO, damn it,” she gasped. “I’m going to make it if only to fix your wretched Spanish.” She began to walk, then broke again into a jog. Moments later we emerged onto the road a few dozen feet from where I had parked. We sprinted to “el coche” like marathoners to the finish line. It cranked and started. I pulled a U-turn on two wheels that would have made Steve McQueen blanch, and sped away.

  We said nothing for a short while, inhaling deeply to catch our breaths. Lucy broke the silence. “Well, Dagny, long time no see. What’ve you been up to?”

  “Quite a bit as it turns out. What about you?” We broke into peals of laughter at our mock formality. We might have been girls out having a lark, except for being more filthy and disheveled than Haitian street urchins. “Did they hurt you?” I asked.

  She knew what I meant.

  She shook her head. “He might’ve, but that wouldn’t jibe with suicide. I’m not sure why they kept me so long.”

  “Why’d they keep you at all? Tell me your whole story, and then I’ll tell you mine.” As she began, I set our course for police headquarters.

  Chapter 24

  Today is Thursday, right? said Lucy. “I tried to count the days, but it was confusing.”

  “You did a good job; it is Thursday.”

  “Since you were going to Frisco last weekend, I decided to visit some friends in La Jolla. I’d borrowed a typewriter from one of them when she lived here because I had to fill out a bunch of application forms that weren’t online. When she moved I forgot to return the damn thing, so I stashed it in a kitchen cabinet. I figured to return it the next time I visited, but I forgot to. This time she reminded me, so I needed to retrieve it. I went into the apartment alone because I was tired of being a wuss. When I pulled out the typewriter from inside the cabinet where I’d stored it, I found a bunch of loose-leaf binders hidden behind it. I grabbed them and the typewriter and got the hell out.”

  She paused to catch her breath. I was riveted to her narrative.

  “This means something to you, doesn’t it?”

  “It may be important. Please go on.”

  “The notebooks, they were all in Churok. I spent an hour leafing through them, enough to realize that they were Judy’s research data. I thought if I showed them to Professor Akrich, he’d see that she hadn’t plagiarized anyone. I practically ran to his office with them. He was at lunch so I waited. He had an appointment at one o’clock but I begged him to see me. He was surprised because I’d left him a phone message earlier saying I’d be out of town. Anyway, when I showed him the notebooks he about freaked. I mean, like, he was speechless. Then he recovered and tried to be cool. He said the notebooks were very significant, that they could exonerate Judy. He asked me to leave them. But I had this funny feeling. I told him I’d rather keep them, if he didn’t mind. He said he did mind. He went through this rigmarole about the notes belonging to the university and I’d really get lots of credit for finding them. Meanwhile, I’m getting these weird vibes, and I’m wondering why were they hidden in the first place. So I snatched them up and split.”

  “Did he make any attempt to stop you, I mean, physically?”

  “No, not really. I can’t imagine that. But even before I was out of the building I felt like I’d just pissed away my whole career. I thought about going back and apologizing and turning over the notebooks, but in the end I just tossed them in the trunk of my car. I was hoping my buds in La Jolla would have some insights. But I never got there,” she squeaked, and began to weep.

  I reached over and patted her knee. “What happened then?”

  “I was taking Storke to the 101 when two assholes in a Firebird cut me off just past the fire station. I ran into the curb. They stopped and one of them runs over to me all apologetic like. Then he puts this little tube to his lips and the next thing I know I’m on the floor of his car, held down by that fuckwad that clobbered you. They took me blindfolded to that cabin and tied me to the bed. I got two meals and two trips to the john a day. God, the boredom was torture. I felt I was there for months, but I kept track of the days.”

  “What about the phone call to the Worthingtons?”

  “Oh yeah, I forgot. They made me call my friends in La Jolla and make up some bullshit story why I wouldn’t be there. I let slip”—she put finger quotes around the word slip—“that if I didn’t check in with Doris and Ernie they’d be alarmed. That’s when they said it wouldn’t matter because by then I’d be just another suicide statistic. But later they made me call anyway. Did you understand my message?”

  “Charles finally figured it out. We were worried sick about you. I was considering putting a gun barrel in Akrich’s mouth and forci—”

  She interrupted. “What did Professor Akrich have to do with this? Those guys must’ve been the ones that got Judy and Troy.”

  “Do you know where you were held captive?”

  “Wait a minute. I thought the street you were parked on was familiar. Oh shiiiitt. It was on his property. But why? I don’t get it.”

  I took the onramp for the 101 east, concentrating on merging with traffic before I answered. When we reached cruising speed I pulled the microfilm out of my handbag. “These are your notebooks,” I said, brandishing the pilfered spool. “Judy didn’t write them, I’m afraid. She stole them. And she wasn’t the first to steal them.”

  I filled Lucy in on Starry Night, Professor Akrich, and the elusive notebooks. She hung on every word, her emotions ranging between admiration and horror. When I told her how I got the microfilm she exclaimed “You go, girl,” and jabbed a fisted arm in the air. Even as I was telling my tale, I was fleshing out a theory to explain the facts as I knew them.

  I pulled up by the red curb in front of the main door into the Police Department. “Let me call John’s and see if he’s back. I’ll get him to meet us here.”

  I phoned the house and got the machine. I thought I might as well check messages. There was one: “This message is for Dagny Jamison. This is Reginald White. I’m chief counsel for Wellex Pharmaceuticals. I understand that you believe a Wellex product may have been used in a crime. I’d like to discuss the matter with you. This is Thursday morning, ten a.m. My afternoon calendar is clear. If you get this message, and you possibly could, would you come to my of
fice at company headquarters at two o’clock this afternoon? The receptionist will be expecting you. I already left this message at your office. Thank you.”

  It was quarter after one. Barely time to get home, clean up, and drive to Wellex. I knew I should go inside with Lucy and turn the entire case over to the authorities. But the temptation to fit one more piece into the puzzle that now obsessed me was too great. I explained the phone message to Lucy and sent her into the police station. “You go in there and tell them the whole story. You’ll have to file kidnapping charges against Akrich. Don’t hesitate. We’re talking capital crimes here. Tell them where I’m going. And don’t leave the station until I get back. Believe me, we’re in terrible danger.”

  I watched Lucy pass through the double doors. I drove home with extreme caution, the Glock with a chambered bullet resting between my legs. Alert, pistol in hand, I parked and dashed inside. Immediately on closing and locking the front door I began to strip, reaching total nudity and the washing machine at the same time. I loaded the washer and climbed the stairs buck-naked. I was mud-streaked from tip to toe. I took a hot shower that managed to exceed in pleasure my hot bath of a mere eight hours ago. If I am reincarnated as a pig, I’ll have a trotter up on wallowing in dirt.

  I couldn’t afford the luxury of a soak. I scrubbed myself clean and dressed quickly. I aimed to get what information I could from the Wellex lawyer, and to return at once to the police station to file my own kidnapping charges. The sooner the cops were on this case, the better. The silent, anesthetizing darts frightened me.

  I’d formed a partial theory while Lucy was narrating her misadventure. Akrich had photographed Starry Night’s notebooks. I had the proof. He’d been “discovering” all these facts about the Churoks, culled from the notebooks. He published them as original research to advance his career. Starry had to be eliminated as the one person who might have uncovered his perfidy. With Tommy in charge, Akrich had good reason to believe that the notebooks would remain under wraps. For over twenty years they did. Then Judy Raskin appeared on the scene and somehow gained possession of them.

  Judy, I feared, was into blackmail. It couldn’t have been for money—she was well off. It had to be for some kind of academic favor, maybe Akrich’s approval for work not done. Or maybe she wanted to force him to acknowledge his plagiarism, apologize to his colleagues and the Churoks, and remove himself from academia. Who knew what else? The human heart is a many-chambered vessel. Whatever the cause, it cost her her life.

  Akrich must have planned Judy’s “suicide.” He knew her well enough to be sure that she would retreat to her home to recover from the shock of his accusation. I didn’t know when, or by what means, he’d been able to hire hit men to carry out the murder. There was more to the man than the pious professorial façade revealed. He undoubtedly provided his minions with the incapacitating cocktail of Welnarkothal and Nandrolex, and Judy’s home address. The delivery system, evidently a blowgun, had come from his collection of Indian artifacts. I’d seen several of them in his office but their significance had been lost on me. The advantage of a blowgun over other weapons was that it would go relatively unnoticed. It could be disguised as a walking stick or pipe, and it was silent.

  By letting out that Troy was Judy’s accuser, Akrich frightened the poor bastard into fleeing, where he could be conveniently disposed of. He must have felt certain that Troy was aware of the notebooks, or was even part of the blackmail conspiracy. I didn’t think he had been, based on what I knew of him, but I wouldn’t have bet a large sum either way.

  What a rush the professor must have had when Lucy walked through his office door with those very notebooks. Here was an opportunity to destroy the evidence forever. Had he been a better actor, he might have pulled it off.

  The missing puzzle piece was how Wellex fit in. Was someone like Richard Maas a willing co-conspirator? Could he have provided the drugs? And if so, why? Brotherly-in-law love seemed too weak a relationship to risk being an accessory to murder one. Over the years, Akrich must have met plenty of Wellex employees. Bribery, persuasion, or alcohol may have coaxed out the formula, possibly under some innocent-sounding pretext. He didn’t need Maas for that.

  These thoughts rattled through my head as I drove to Wellex. I’d called the company and asked for Reginald White, wanting to make sure the call wasn’t a ruse. I got his secretary who verified the appointment.

  At ten till two I pulled into Visitors Parking. People were pouring out of the building. I thought momentarily that it was an emergency, but they looked happy, not annoyed or worried. It dawned on me that next Monday was the Independence Day holiday since the Fourth was on a Sunday. Wellex was giving its employees the afternoon off so they could get a jump on the long weekend.

  I walked upstream against the flow of people, once nearly bumped into the reflecting pool by the eager crowd. I announced myself to the receptionist cop and signed in. He said he was expecting me, gave me a visitor’s badge already filled out, and, surprisingly, directions to Mr. White’s office. With everyone going home, there was no one to escort me.

  The bustle of yesterday was absent. The halls were nearly deserted as I made my way toward the rear of the building. I turned right at the corner where Richard Maas’s office was located. Reginald White’s office adjoined it. The door was open but no one was visible. I always feel foolish knocking on an open door, and even more foolish saying things like, “Yoo-hoo, is anyone here?” but I did both. No response.

  White’s office was neat as a pin, the desk cleared of all work. Only the requisite computer and family photos were visible on the surface. My snooping instinct began frothing. I yoo-hooed again. Still no response, so I treated myself to a walking tour of the office. There were shelves full of law books and company notebooks, nearly all of which were labeled Proprietary and Confidential. Security was shockingly slack. I could have helped myself to any number of company secrets. Several works of art hung on the opposite wall. In the center of the wall, a large Ansel Adams photograph of a woodsy hillside bore the caption: Wellex, harnessing nature’s pharmacy for better health. Similar art to the left and right bragged of various Wellex products derived from natural sources. A door on the left wall toward the rear of the office was to a private washroom. I remembered seeing one on the right wall of Maas’s office. They probably shared plumbing.

  I stuck my head out the door and looked around. Not a soul. I backtracked past Maas’s office and looked up the corridor I had just come down. A couple of stragglers were walking toward the exit. Maas’s door was open with no sign of him, either. I didn’t like the man but perhaps he’d be in a more cooperative mood since I had an official invitation. I peered into his office. No one there. Maybe they were all in the same meeting. It was just coming on two o’clock. I started to return to White’s office but Maas’s was more interesting. He had stuff on his desk. Maybe a quick peek, just to hone my spying skills. If he showed up I could always say I was looking for Mr. White.

  I walked casually around to his side of the desk, scanning the top for anything interesting. My eyes wandered to his computer monitor, and then widened. Something looked familiar. At the bottom of a screen full of ordinary writing was something reminiscent of the coded writing on Akrich’s computer:

  yjr hot; rdvs[rf/ yjr [/o/ od pm yp ,r/ fp dp,ryjomh/

  My subconscious had been hard at work the past twenty-four hours. I knew immediately that it looked like touch-typing when your fingers stray off the home keys. I’ve done it a zillion times. You end up typing the letter next to the one you want. I studied the first word, yjr. It could be ukt or the. Aha! It’s off one to the right. I set my hands on his keyboard on the home keys, then moved my fingers one key to the left. Pretending I was on the home keys, I touch-typed the actual message:

  the girl escaped. the p.i. is on to me. do something.

  Holy shit! I got out the message I had copied in Akrich’s office.

  sltovj.

  yjrtr od s [tobsyr ombrdyoh
sypt mpdomh stpimf/ esyvj upitdr;g/ jrt ms,r od fshmu ks,odpm/

  =,ssd

  I could almost read it. The top line was akrich, the bottom line maas. The two last words of the message were my name. I didn’t take the time to decode the rest. I most definitely didn’t want Richard Maas catching me here. I’d be shot dead as an intruder.

  I walked as calmly as I could to the door and looked out. No one was in sight. I edged along the wall and peeked up the corridor leading from the lobby. Uh-oh. Three men had just entered the passageway and were approaching purposefully all abreast. I was sure the one in the middle was Maas. On his left was someone whose silhouette reminded me of the Gold’s Gym thug.

  I needed people. The old song ran through my head: “People, who need people, are the luckiest people in the world.” I wasn’t feeling lucky. In the hopes that Reginald White was not a part of Richard Maas’s gang, I ducked into his office, realizing too late that if I was wrong about him I was dead.

  He wasn’t there but my eye caught a reddish gray rivulet just beginning to seep from under the door of his lavatory. I stumbled back reflexively, muttering oaths not learned in Sunday school. As I turned hurriedly to leave, I lost my balance for an instant and brushed against the Ansel Adams. It wasn’t hung very well and crashed to the ground, the frame’s glass splintering into a thousand fragments. The noise shocked both my body and brain into action.

  My body spun out the door, pulse accelerating. I began a quick jog in search of an open office and human life. I didn’t think I’d be offed in front of witnesses. My brain was undergoing a revelation. These natural source drugs of Wellex. They got their ideas from the Churoks. Specifically, through Starry’s notes. Wasn’t one of the subjects of the notebooks medicine? The notes guided them to the botanicals. They refined the extraction methods. They patented everything using chemical formulae. The Churoks were none the wiser and out of the big money loop.