by David Hosp
“There are no goddamned dots! All you’ve got is rank speculation and your own suspicions. Do you have anything that qualifies as evidence of Venable’s involvement?” Train was silent. “I didn’t think so.” Torbert looked back and forth between Train and Reynolds. “Willie Murphy is not our problem; the Virginia State Police are handling that. And without any evidence, this department is not going to investigate Senator Venable. Am I making myself clear?” No one answered. “Twenty-four hours, gentlemen. After that, this case is closed.” Torbert looked briefly
at Reynolds and then walked out of the office.
“That went well, I think,” Reynolds said.
“It’s fun to watch his tail twitch, at least,” Cassian said.
“As unfortunate as it may seem, if he aims that little rat tail at you, you will feel the sting,” Reynolds said.
“You telling us to drop this, Cap?” Train asked directly.
Reynolds shook his head. “No, I’m saying that if you want to find something on Venable, find it quickly.”
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“Let’s think this through,” Train was saying.
Cassian had too much on his mind to think anything through effectively. First and foremost, he was concerned about Sydney. She was leaning her elbows on the chair by the side of Amanda’s bed, barely able to keep her head up. The tear tracks seemed permanently etched into her cheeks, though she’d managed to stanch the grief over her mother’s death and seemed to be devoting all her strength and focus to Amanda. She had said almost nothing since the violence at the Chapin mansion. Cassian had wanted to take her home, but she insisted on staying until they knew more about Amanda’s condition.
“Your mother killed Leighton because he was blackmailing her and she thought he’d killed your sister; but once she found out that Liz was investigating the Institute, she seemed pretty sure that Liz’s death was somehow connected to that investigation. This scumbag private detective—Salvage—he was clearly involved in all this, but probably just as a hired hand; that seems to be his reputation, anyway. He followed Sydney out to the Institute, though, so that ties him in to the Willie Murphy murder in all likelihood. But how do we prove Venable’s involved?”
“I don’t know what to think anymore,” Sydney said, fresh tears running down her face. “All I want is for Amanda to be all right. She’s the only family I have left in the world; I’d be willing to forget all this if only she’d wake up.”
Jack touched her shoulder, saying nothing.
Train cleared his throat. “I understand how you feel. But we can’t do anything to help her now. All we can do—all I can do—is to make sure the bastard pays for this.”
Jack put a hand to his forehead. “His father ran the Institute for years, and he stood to lose the most if anyone went public with anything really bad about the place.”
“That’s motive, not proof,” Train pointed out. “How do we nail him?”
“Follow the money,” Sydney said quietly, her tears having subsided for the moment.
“What?” Train sounded startled.
“We’re in Washington, after all,” she said. “Might as well take Deep Throat’s advice and follow the money. If Salvage was a hired hand, someone must’ve been paying him.”
Train shook his head. “We issued subpoenas a few days ago for his bank records, after you found his wallet, but we’ve been getting the runaround from the lawyers. ‘Right of privacy’ . . . ‘due process’ . . . bullshit like that.”
“He’s dead now,” Sydney said, her voice cracking. “I’m not sure the dead have any due process rights—or at least none that he’s likely to assert. Call them again, and there’s probably nothing they can do anymore.”
Train rubbed his chin. “I hadn’t had time to think about that, but you’re probably right. Now that he’s dead, we shouldn’t have any problems getting the bastards to cooperate. Shouldn’t take more than a few hours,” he speculated.
“It’s worth a shot,” Cassian agreed. He was just happy to have Sydney pulling out of her despair. “If you concentrate on
that, I’ll go back to the Institute to take another look around.”
“You have anything in particular you’re looking for?”
“Not really. Liz’s notes suggested that she thought there were new experiments going on up there. I think I’ll just do some poking around. Maybe I’ll talk to Mayer, too; if there’s anything going on, I’d bet my paycheck he’s involved. He seemed a little too eager to chalk Willie Murphy’s death up to an overdose. There may be more that he’s not telling us.”
“Sounds good,” Train said. “I’ll probably have the financial records before you get down there, so call us from the Institute and I’ll let you know what we’ve found.”
Cassian looked at Sydney, who still had the glazed-over look of a Holocaust survivor as she hovered over her niece’s bed. “Don’t worry,” he said. “We’re going to find out who’s responsible for all this.”
Chapter Sixty
CASSIAN WALKED THROUGH the front door of the Institute with his badge already out. “I need to see Dr. Mayer,” he said to the orderly working at the desk. The man looked at him suspiciously, but picked up the phone and dialed a two-digit extension. He turned his back when he spoke so that Cassian couldn’t hear him. After a moment he hung up and turned back to the detective.
“He’s with a patient, but he should be with you in fifteen minutes,” he said.
“Fine,” Cassian said. “I need to use the phone in the meantime. Is there someplace with some privacy?”
The orderly pointed down the hall opposite the one that led to Mayer’s office. “Second door on the right. Is it local?”
“I’ll make it collect.” Cassian headed down the hall and ducked into a small room with a chair and telephone. He dialed the station house in D.C. and waited for the charges to clear. After a moment, Train’s voice came over the line.
“We got him,” Train said.
“Venable?”
“Looks that way. Several large payments were made over the last month to Salvage.”
“And you can tie them to Venable?”
“Not yet, but they’re from a government account. The account has some blinds on it, so it’s gonna take a little time to unwind it all, but it’s a safe bet that Senator Venable is holding the strings at the other end.”
“Good. Looks like we’re getting somewhere finally. Torbert’ll be pissed.”
“I know. Warms your heart, doesn’t it? But that’s not all, partner. We got more.”
“I’m listening.”
“We pulled a history on the account that was directing cash Salvage’s way, and guess who’s also been getting paid off?”
Cassian thought for a moment. “Gimme a hint.”
“He’s in your neck of the woods.”
“Ah.” Cassian smiled to himself. “Dr. Mayer, I presume.”
“Give the man a prize. So you’ve actually got some work to do down there.”
“Looks that way, doesn’t it. I’ll let you know what happens as soon as I talk to him. And if you get anything else, let me know, okay?”
“Will do. And Jack?”
“Yeah?”
“Say hello to this asshole for me, okay?”
“Will do.”
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Cassian hung up the phone and stepped out of the room. He turned back toward the reception desk, but there was no one standing duty. He was tempted to storm down to Mayer’s office and begin demanding explanations, but there was no way of knowing whether he was there or whether he was off in a private room with a patient. For a moment Jack supposed he would simply have to wait, but then he had another idea.
He ducked down the hallway that led to the stairs he’d taken to the basement when they’d found Willie Murphy’s body. The buzz of the generators and HVAC grew steadily louder as he descended into the dark cavern of the basement. He followed the concrete hallway around the maze until he came to the room that Murphy had used as a makeshift off
ice.
The crime scene tape was still strung across the doorway, though now three days after the body had been removed there was no one standing guard. The place was a mess. Fingerprint dust covered every surface, and the furniture was askew, but the chair in which Murphy had spent his final painful moment was still pulled back from the desk. Jack went over and sat down.
From this vantage, he had a sense of the view of the world that Willie Murphy had experienced for much of the past three decades. It was dark and narrow, and yet somehow warm and safe. On the far wall, several pictures of mountains and landscapes inexpertly ripped from magazines over the years were hung carefully in order. In a corner, hidden from the view from the doorway, was an ancient rocking horse that looked as though it had been restored with love. Cassian looked over at the battered guitar case and remembered Sydney’s description of the beautiful music the man had been able to produce without any formal training. It was all such a waste, he thought.
On the desk there were some sheets of paper and pencils, as well as a few tools, but nothing that gave Cassian any insight into what had happened to the man. He opened the drawers of the desk one by one; most of them were filled with more tools and nails and screws and all of the accoutrements necessary to a life as a handyman. He was about to close the last drawer when a slip of paper tucked deep in the back of it caught his attention. He gave a tug, and although it seemed caught in the joints at the back of the drawer, after a moment it came free.
He held it up and examined it. It was a large envelope, the kind one might use for business correspondence. There was nothing written on it, but at the bottom he could feel something rattling and shifting like pebbles. He opened the envelope and looked in.
At first he couldn’t tell what he was looking at, so he reached his hand in and grabbed a handful of the contents, pulling them out and spreading them on the desk. They were pills. Most of them were large and green with the marking “X-286” on them, but there were others of different shapes, colors, and sizes. “What the fuck?” he muttered to himself.
“They’re medications,” came a voice from the door.
Cassian looked up and saw Mayer.
“I knew you were here, and when you weren’t in the waiting room I figured you probably came down here to poke around. I hope you don’t mind that I followed you.” He looked tired, and there was an air of resignation about him.
“Medications for what?” Cassian asked, skipping the pleasantries.
“It depends on which ones you’re asking about. The green ones are psychoactives to treat post-traumatic stress disorder. From the look of it, some of the other ones are earlier versions of the same medication, and others ...I don’t really know. I would have to go back through our records.”
“What are they doing in Willie Murphy’s desk?”
“He was taking them. Actually, the green ones seemed to be having a remarkably positive effect. He was much more comfortable in his skin over the last year, and he started to make real progress in gaining back much of the time he’d lost. Ironic, isn’t it?”
“What?”
“That what’s going on here—what was helping to make him better—also got him killed.”
Cassian put the pills back into the envelope. “You wanna tell me about the money?”
Mayer scoffed. “That’s what bothers me the most. When this all comes out, people are going to assume that this was all about the money. It wasn’t, you know? The money was irrelevant; I suspect when you add it all up, the payments that went to me will seem remarkably paltry.”
“What’s it about, then?”
“It’s about the future. It’s about protecting this country, and the world. It’s about healing people.”
“I’m gonna need a little more of an explanation.”
Mayer leaned against the doorjamb. “Perhaps I should call my lawyer.”
Jack took out his gun and placed it on the desk next to the envelope. “If you think you can get out of here, be my guest.” He glared at the older man. “I don’t give a shit about you, Doc. And I don’t care about my career anymore, so you should take that into consideration. Given what we’ve found so far, eventually we’re gonna find out the who, where, when, whats. I want to know about the why.”
“Put your gun away, Detective, I’m not calling my lawyer, I just thought that was what I was supposed to say. Isn’t that what people in my position are supposed to say?”
“You watch too much TV.”
“Probably, but there’s not much to do all the way out here.” The doctor sighed and walked into the room, taking a seat across the desk from Cassian. “Believe it or not, I’m glad you’re
here. It will be a relief to be done with this all.”
“So tell me.”
He shook his head. “I don’t even know where to begin. Perhaps I should start by trying to explain to you that we never meant any harm...”
Chapter Sixty-one
THE STREETS OF GEORGETOWN were quiet, and the trees that lined the lanes sheltered the nineteenth-century colonial townhouses, shrouding them in privilege and secrecy. This was one of the nation’s power centers, where the political elites held their private cocktail parties for friends and adversaries alike, and where gentlemen’s agreements consummated over drinks in quiet parlors had ramifications throughout the world.
Train and Cassian stood on the brick walkway leading to the front door of one of the largest townhouses in the neighborhood, waiting. The door opened, and a butler peered at them through the crack. “May I help you?”
“Is he in?” Train asked, holding up his badge. “Tell him Detectives Train and Cassian are here. We’ve spoken before, and we need to see him again.”
“Is he expecting you?”
“No, but he’ll want to see us. Trust me.”
The butler opened the door and ushered them into the entryway. “Please wait here while I see if he’s receiving guests.” He disappeared down a hallway, and neither Train nor Cassian spoke while he was gone. It took only a moment or two before the man returned. “He’s in his study. This way.” They followed him down the hall. “May I get you gentlemen anything?” He was clearly accustomed to helping his employer entertain.
“No thank you,” Train said.
They came to a large dark beveled wood door. “Very well, then. He’s in here,” the butler said. “Please let me know if you need anything.” He opened the door and extended his arm in invitation, then retreated back down the hallway.
“Come in, gentlemen, come in,” came a voice from beyond the door.
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Train felt numb as he walked through the door. It all fit, and yet none of it made any sense. In some ways, he dreaded whatever explanation he would find.
Irskin Elliot sat in a comfortable leather club chair at the far end of the room. A heavy book rested on his knee, illuminated by a small brass standing lamp next to his chair. “Come in, please,” he repeated. He carefully folded a silk bookmark into his volume and set it onto the small end table next to his chair. “I enjoy reading philosophy these days. Perhaps it’s so I can reconcile myself to my own impending demise. Speaking of which.” He punched a button on an intercom unit on the table. “Matthew, will you please bring me two of my heart pills?”
“Two, sir?” came the reply.
“Thank you, Matthew.” Elliot shrugged his shoulders at the detectives. “Without my medicine, I’ve no doubt I’d have been in the ground decades ago. As it is, the doctors won’t guarantee any amount of time. Now, gentlemen, what can I do for you?”
Train heard his own voice. “We’ve fleshed out some of the information in connection with the deaths of Elizabeth Creay and Lydia Chapin, as well as those of Willie Murphy and Leighton Creay. We wanted to run some theories by you, and get your take.”
Elliot shook his head. “I just don’t know what to make of any of this, but I’m happy to provide whatever help I can. The notion that Lydia was behind all this, that she might have had somethin
g to do with the murder of her own daughter . . . it’s all so unbelievable.”
“It is,” Train agreed. “Although Mrs. Chapin claimed that she had nothing to do with Elizabeth’s death. In fact, while she admitted killing her ex-son-in-law because she believed that he killed her daughter, and because he was blackmailing her over the custody of her granddaughter, she denied any involvement in her daughter’s death.”
“Interesting. Did you believe her?”
“We’re starting to. We ran some checks on the finances of the corrupt private detective who killed Mrs. Chapin, and he was receiving payments from a blind government account. Interestingly, that account was also making payments to Dr. Aldus Mayer, the head of the Institute.”
Elliot scratched his chin. “So you’re thinking that Venable controls the account, and your theories about him are panning out?”
“That was the direction we were going in. But then we dug a little deeper, and found that there was no way that Venable could have controlled the account—it was attached to the executive branch, not to Congress.”
“That would certainly make it difficult for him, though not impossible. He’s a very powerful man.”
“Yes, he is,” Train admitted. He held his breath. “As are you.”
Elliot looked long at Train before replying. “I’m a mere government functionary, I assure you.”
“Oh, I think you’re too modest, Mr. Elliot.” Train walked over and sat in a chair across from Elliot. “I have to be honest, when we talked at Elizabeth Creay’s funeral, I had very little idea what the Department of Health and Human Services was responsible for. It turns out that it’s much larger than I thought. It controls almost the entire medical profession, including the Food and Drug Administration, the National Institutes of Health, Medicaid and Medicare, as well as research into bioterrorism, and the Centers for Disease Control.”
“You’ve been doing your homework,” Elliot said with a smile and a nod. “Very good for you.”
“Thank you.” Train was silent for a few moments, gauging Elliot’s reaction before continuing. “You mentioned to me when we met that you worked for the Chapins’ company when you were younger. Would you mind telling me in what division?”
