by Diana Kirk
"That's for me to know, ole' boy. Get him." Evidently his tone of voice perked up the sergeant. He dialed the Captain immediately.
O'Connor shuffled down the hallway, one hand in his pocket and the other around a cup of java. He glanced around and glared at Krastowitcz.
"Come on down to my office. This'd better be good, Krastowitcz."
"Thanks, Cap."
"I think we're close on this one. I need some investigative help." Krastowitcz tossed Canfield's key in front of O'Connnor. "It's a safety deposit key, but we don't know from which bank. I think it belonged to Grafton."
"What makes you think that?"
"A hunch, but the key has to belong to one of two people. I'd stake my life on it. Give me as many guys as you can and we'll trace this key. If we know where Grafton banked, he's got to have a safety deposit box. I'm pressed for time, Cap. I need to locate Dr. Pearson, ASAP. She was close to both Grafton and Latham, and she might be next. Something might've already happened to her. Bodies seem to be piling up everywhere."
The Captain examined the key and thought a moment. "Okay. You've got ten guys right now."
The men traced the key in thirty minutes. Grafton's checkbook, still in the evidence file, showed them where to go. Pictures filled the inside of Grafton's safety deposit box. Krastowitcz reached in and pulled out a handful. Pictures matching those same mutilated bodies he'd seen in Grafton's apartment. The same ones Krastowitcz had investigated over the past few months.
But these were different. In picture after picture, a blond young man stood next to the hacked and bleeding forms. Smiling. His foot resting on the bodies like a hunter posing for his victory shot.
Who was this guy? Canfield? Krastowitcz crammed the pictures back into the box. This was heavy shit! Really heavy, sick shit!
And what of Andrea? Where the hell was she? Was she in danger? She'd gotten close. Only Suzanne had been there, instead. Krastowticz hadn't heard from Andrea all day. The hair on his arms prickled.
Fifteen minutes later, he slammed the box down on the desk.
"Cap, Grafton was involved in the mutilations. I don't exactly know why or for what. Whoever killed Grafton knew of his taste for murder. According to Dr. Pearson, he'd been working on some sort of vaccine to cure all disease. I don't know, but she might be in trouble. I was supposed to meet her at eleven o'clock but we missed each other, then I got busy. I think she's in danger, now."
"What do you want?"
"Look at these. They answer a lot of questions."
O'Connor examined Krastowitcz's find. "Seems like these raise more questions than they answer."
"My gut tells me that somehow Andrea--Dr. Pearson--is in danger. I've got to track some people down and damned fast. I need to cover a couple of places and I can't do it alone. We need two units at the Medical School and two at the hospital.
"Four units? Fat chance."
Krastowitcz slammed his fist down on the desk. "Dammit, Cap. Pearson's got to be somewhere at Dorlynd."
Krastowitcz pulled out a cigarette and fired up. The acrid smoke filled his lungs and he coughed.
"Hey, I thought you quit those things?"
"I did." Krastowitcz walked to the door. "This case'd make a nun smoke. I need those units, Cap. Now."
O'Connor grabbed his receiver. "I'll do my best."
"Do better."
HARDWYN ENTERED the laboratory and roamed about, rattling file drawers, picking up beakers and tubes. Peter ignored him.
"What's this one?" He pulled on a file drawer, rattling it. "Why is this locked?"
"Don't know. It belonged to Milton," Peter refused to raise his head.
"You haven't looked in here? In your own laboratory? I find that hard to believe."
Peter remained hunched over his desk. "Believe what you want."
"Do you have the key?"
"No. Milton took it."
"As the Dean, I need to investigate these files. Find some-thing to pry them open."
"You find it. I don't break and enter private property."
"This is insubordination."
"Look, Hardwyn, I'm leaving, anyway, before you can find a reason to fire me. I'd rather make it sooner than later."
"Oh, yes, Peter, you're leaving. But not the way you figured. The police have narrowed their investigation. You're a primary suspect."
"You're lying"
"You were Milton's lover. You openly fought with him about his new love, Canfield."
"No, I-- How'd you know about Canfield?"
"You hated women. Especially Andrea Pearson. You killed her roommate, thinking it was her." Hardwyn's voice held a thread of anger.
"You're nuts. I wouldn't kill anyone. Milton knew you were charging everything to his grant. They sent the print-out to me, first, and I told him what you were doing."
"You knew nothing."
"You don't sound so sure."
"Why didn't you say something?"
"I don't give a shit about the money. I just wanted Milton. I never thought you'd kill him for it, though. Not for money. But you would?"
The Dean's eyes narrowed to slits.
"You're as stupid as he was," he hissed at Peter. "Dorlynd couldn't have had the fancy buildings and equipment you love so much without the extra money. Milton was too conservative. Like a miser, he didn't even spend what he was supposed to. If you don't spend it you have to give it back. NIH thought he stockpiled funds. That's what the grant was for. . . to spend on equipment and supplies. But Milton never cared. He overlooked his paperwork. It was too easy to use the funds. Then he found out, and I wondered how." He glared at Peter who shrank into a far corner.
"Where's the journal?"
"What journal?"
Hardwyn leaned down and studied his face. "Milton wrote it all down. He said the kid knew."
"Canfield?"
"Yeah."
Peter stared at Hardwyn's hand. A small caliber thirty-eight rested firmly in his hand. "I don't know anything about Canfield. He's been missing for a while. The police questioned me about him."
Hardwyn ignored Peter's remark. "I've changed all the files, but his journal. I need it, please, Peter." The look in Hardwyn's eyes seemed to soften. "The police'll find out soon enough. I've got to have it."
"You've got to have it. You killed him, didn't you?" Peter inched forward.
"Me?" Hardwyn pulled on the file drawer. "You're the one who was jealous of Milton and Canfield, weren't you?"
"No. No--I--"
"You couldn't contain your jealousy, anymore, so you killed him in a rage. Then you mutilated him, just like you destroyed that student he was in love with. When you realized Andrea was getting too close, you went to her office to get rid of her but--"
"You're insane. I had no reason. I loved Milton. . . I think. . . ." Peter backed into the file cabinets knocking the key from its hiding place. It bounced onto the floor.
"Pick it up."
Peter slowly bent down and studied the object.
"I said pick it up." Hardwyn shoved the gun at Peter.
"Open the file cabinet."
With shaking fingers, Peter placed the key in one of the cabinet locks. "It doesn't fit."
"Try the next one."
Peter slid the key into the next lock. A metallic popping noise released the drawer. "Nothing but files."
"Pull out all the files marked NIH. Place them on the bench."
"Stealing his last works so you can rob the glory?"
"What glory?"
"You didn't count on Milton finding the cure, did you?"
"The cure?"
"The serum. The formula he's been working on. He made a serum but he was murdered before--"
"Yes. Very sad. Milton was just a nut who didn't know when to quit. If he did find a cure, he'd put millions of people out of work. Millions will be lost to us. No more grant funds. How do you idiots think I run this University in this nowhere town?" Hardwyn reached into his pocket and pulled out a lighter and tossed it
to Peter.
"What's this for?" Peter's eyes grew large with fear.
"Throw those files into the incinerator and light them."
"What?" Peter stared at the lighter.
"You'll destroy the incriminating evidence or I'll destroy you. When NIH does an audit, all they'll find are some random files. No clear data."
Peter stuffed file after file into the incinerator. "What good'll that do?"
Hardwyn paced the laboratory. "No government agency'll penalize this university for losing their chief investigator to murder. The data was lost. Since Milton is dead, NIH will allow me to resubmit the grant, based on the existing hypotheses. This time, I'll add a salary for a new researcher. I'll need a chief technician. That's where you come in. We may even get a larger amount of money out of this."
Peter's gaze darted around the room searching for an escape. "I don't understand. . . what about Andrea?"
"That bitch. She's too smart for her own good. With a faculty appointment, she'd have figured out the theft in no time. Best to keep her out of the picture. The whole thing was elementary, my boy. It all started the night Grafton confronted me about the accounts. Had the nerve to swear at me for charging all our needed supplies to his bloody grant. How dare I without his consent? He forgot I'm the fucking Dean."
Peter remembered the fire in Grafton's eyes when he'd told him about what Hardwyn had done.
"He waved those printouts in my face like I was nobody." Hardwyn ranted, waving the gun, and pacing the room "He was too preoccupied with his stupid research to realize I'd been siphoning funds from it for years. Told me he had a few people who were loyal to him."
"Me?"
Hardwyn laughed. "You're sick, if you thought he cared for you at all. No. It was Canfield. The one who followed Milton around like a love-sick puppy."
"Shit!" Hot anger boiled up from Peter's groin.
Hardwyn slammed his fist on the desk. "Did you really think there was a place for you? You've been doing his scut work all these years. . .and he dumped you for that boy."
Peter threw the files at Hardwyn. "Do you know what will happen when the government finds out? You'll be disgraced. We'll all be disgraced for stealing from the grant. . . Neither one of us will be able to get a decent job in the academic community when this is over."
"Since when did you get so moral?" Hardwyn asked.
"That's not the point. Milton found a cure. Records have to be perfect on this one. Don't you understand? His findings are important research. There can't be any suspicion about the grant. If NIH finds fraud of any kind, then the whole project will be compromised. I can't let us lose the fight against AIDS. We've got to clear this up with NIH. If we corrected the expenditures in. . . ."
"Are you mad? I don't want a cure."
"These findings are too important. The whole human race depends on this one."
"Fuck the human race, Peter."
"You forget one thing." Peter straightened up against the file. "I know what you're doing, and I won't be a part of this. "He flung the lighter. "You'll just have to kill me."
Hardwyn laughed. "I may be a thief, but I'm no murderer." Hardwyn's laughter turned into a moan. He caught the lighter and grabbed the remaining files.
A weak flame sparked and flared.
Peter lunged at Hardwyn, shoving him against the bench, dazed. The gun flew from his hand, skidded along the floor, and slammed into the wall. In their scuffle, neither Hardwyn nor Peter heard the laboratory door open.
Chapter XX
. . . BUT SHOULD I TRESPASS AND VIOLATE THIS OATH, MAY THE REVERSE BE MY LOT.
-- Hippocrates
Six-fifteen. Andrea wondered if Hardwyn and Peter were still together, if Peter had tried to hurt him.
God! She had to warn him. What if she was too late? She stumbled out of bed. The room swayed and her heart jack-hammered against her chest. She leaned back against the bed and grabbed her clothes with fingers that had become clubs. She couldn't function.
Remember your own advice, Doctor. Slow down! Take a deep breath--at least as deep a breath as you can under the circumstances. Take it slow. Concentrate on the movements. Pull the skirt up over the legs. . . Her hands shook with each carefully choreographed movement. Too much epinephrine. No. Fear. Dwight Hardwyn could be next. She must try to find him, even if it meant disaster.
Now, all she had to do was get out of the hospital without being noticed. She opened the door and looked down the hallway.
No one in sight. She slipped out the door and hurried down the hall toward the stairs. A group of students exited a patient's room and walked down the hallway. One spotted her.
"Dr. Pearson? What are you. . .?" She pushed through the EXIT and hurried down the back stairs toward the ER parking.
A large dent pocked the back of her Bug. She'd hit some-thing. Her luck had changed. No one except for that student had noticed. She'd grown stronger in the past few days. More in control--even if the situation wasn't.
In the parking lot, she pulled at her car door. Her fingers slid into thin air.
It was locked!
Keys. Where the hell were her keys? She dug through her pockets. Nothing. Damn! She should keep a spare. . .
She did. Under the wheel well. With shaking fingers, she reached for the magnetic box.
And promptly dropped it.
Shit!
With these trembling hands, she couldn't hold on to any-thing.
Another deep breath and Andrea picked up the box, took out the key, and opened the door. Head down, she tried the engine.
Go slow. Don't flood the damned thing.
It grunted. Over and over again.
Why the hell hadn't she replaced the battery last month? Last month? Hell, that was another life. No time, of course. Like she had any now! She smacked the steering wheel and swore.
Now, she'd have to walk. That would take fifteen minutes and Hardwyn might not have fifteen minutes.
The Bug choked slower. . . slower. Suddenly, the engine caught with a fury, the whine deafening. She revved the engine, slid into first gear, and flattened the pedal.
She checked her watch. Six twenty-five. It had only taken her ten minutes to dress and sneak out of the hospital. In retrospect, it had seemed like an eternity.
A brief downpour had cooled everything, yet sweat trickled down her temple, spine, and between her breasts. Her breath rasped through her lungs.
No way. Not this time. The damn asthma couldn't interfere, again. Sheer willpower would keep it away.
She had to save Hardwyn, keep someone else from dying, another body from piling up at Dorlynd.
Her tires squealed their protest at her sudden turn into the parking lot. Andrea threw open the door and dashed up to the medical school entrance shoving her security card-key into the lock to gain access.
Nearing the lab, a sense of dread overtook her. A sensation similar to before. Five days ago. Last Monday. Had it been only five days since she'd entered her office and found Milton Grafton impaled by his caduceus? Dear God, it seemed like months.
No light shone from under the door. No sound escaped from inside.
Unable to go any farther, she stopped. An odd sensation, something moved through her, like electricity.
Her hand on the doorknob, the charge traveled up her arm, standing her hair on end. She pushed the door open and stepped cautiously inside. The room was alive. She sucked at the air as though it was liquid. Inhaling, she tasted the terror permeating the room. The heavy, spring-loaded door slammed behind her, enveloping her in darkness. She jumped, then laughed. "Get a hold of yourself."
Groping for the light, she slipped on something. Automatically, she bent down and scooped up a pen.
The sweating sensation returned. Her breath came in spurts. Her fingers brailled along the floor and cupped around a soft, cold hand. Instinctively she recoiled, and losing her balance, landed against the concrete blocks. The impact knocked out her breath, and gasping, she slid down on the cold
tile floor.
A hand. A goddamn hand. Too late. She'd been too late. Hardwyn was already there.
Minutes before.
Maybe he was still alive.
She edged back up the wall, fingers searching along rough concrete blocks, until she found the light switch and flicked it.
Light flooded the laboratory.
Temporarily blinded, she shut her eyes and blinked them back open, adjusting to the light. There, almost beneath her feet lay Hardwyn. He seemed to be sleeping. No blood. Nothing to slip in.
She crouched down and rolled him over. A large red hole covered the side of his head. Exit wound.
He'd been shot.
His heart had stopped beating instantly. Not much chance to bleed. A sob tore her throat and she covered her mouth to stifle it. Still, she felt out of place. Her gaze roamed the wall until it settled on the files, and slid lower.
"Not again! Oh, God. No-o-o-o. Not again. . ." Propped against the files, eyes staring upward as though he'd been begging, sat Peter. Blood trickled down the side of Peter's head, pooling on his right. For the third time, she'd come upon the aftermath of a violent death.
Her breath jerked in spurts.
Her heart labored in her chest. Not again. Not again. Not again. She couldn't take it, didn't need it. Not after this afternoon's close call. Peter? Hardwyn? Suzanne? Milton? Who did this? Her breath caught. She took several deep breaths and prayed she'd be able to stay conscious. Calm down. Breathe slower. You're all right. You're alive. But for how long? No, that was wrong. She had to calm down.
Spurts of laughter.
Was she surprised to see bodies?
Hell no. Where was the patron saint of practical jokes? This was an enormous joke played by the God of black comedy. Every time she opened a door she found a fresh body--sometimes, two.
Somewhere in the distance Ed McMahon must be shouting,
isolated in the theater of the absurd, "H-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-rr's Andrea!"
She leaned back against the wall. It was too much. All too much. She was losing it--physically and emotionally. Somewhere in the background, the laboratory door opened. Unaware, lost in comedic disbelief, Andrea laughed uncontrollably. Hysterically.
