‘Why didn’t you come downstairs?’ Dover demanded.
Instead of answering, Simon rose and started around the desk. ‘What happened to you?’ he asked.
‘They told you I was in the ER.’
‘But I thought … you were there with Bradley Morris. No one said …’
‘So why didn’t you come right down?’
‘I was going to … I … haven’t been feeling well and—’
‘Don’t bullshit me, Simon. Bradley Morris is upstairs on his last legs. You have what might be insurmountable problems now. The remission he experienced stopped and reversed itself in an almost magical way within an hour, it seemed. This process, or whatever the hell you call it, is a major fuck-up failure.’
That can’t be.’
‘No, and I’m not standing here either. It’s all in your fucking imagination.’
‘Listen, listen,’ Simon pleaded, ‘I’ve been thinking about it and I might have an answer.’
‘You might have an answer?’ Henry Dover said calmly. ‘You might have an answer. Bradley Morris killed Jack Temple. I just received a detailed report. It was a brutal murder. If anything, the man might have become a worse animal than he had been in the past. Maybe that’s another unexpected result of your work. Look at the havoc and death Louis Williams caused here!’ Henry Dover shouted, his arms out.
Simon knew it was his imagination at work, but he felt as if he was actually getting smaller in front of the raging, explosive Henry Dover. Soon, he would be impossible to see. He’d be less than an ant, less than those people he mocked out there in their beehive homes in the developments.
‘I know. I’m …’
‘Get your ass upstairs and do whatever you have to do to learn anything else from Bradley Morris before he dies. I have some calls to make. Go on!’ he screamed.
Simon felt himself leap out of his skin and hurried past Dover. When he stepped out of his office, he saw Mrs Goodman standing off to the right looking at him. She reminded him of his mother after he had been caught spying on the girls in the girls’ locker room at school and sent home. It wasn’t a look of disappointment or reprimand.
It was a look of disgust.
Mrs Goodman retreated and he walked slowly, dejectedly, to the stairway like some general who was going to inspect the battlefield upon which his army had just been devastated.
Palmer thought about calling Tucker, but quickly rejected the idea. He had no illusions about his partner ignoring official procedure to follow up on a case they were ordered to drop, and possibly for good reasons. The FBI might have come across evidence to indicate that Bradley Morris’ death records, prison records and criminal records were manipulated and there were criminal activities crossing state lines, perhaps even involving federal statues.
Palmer couldn’t help referring back to the day he and Palmer had escorted Ceil Morris back to her apartment, to his intuitive sense that she was telling the truth, that she wasn’t some poor, lost and confused lonely lady. Right from that moment, he believed she had indeed met her supposedly dead son and what had happened to him, what he was doing now, even if it went beyond the scope of anything he and Tucker had confronted, called to him, haunted him, would not let him just leave it be.
There were those who became so integrated with the system in which they worked that they had dampened any possibility of original thinking, and there were the admittedly rare and even rebellious ones like him. We don’t get promoted as easily and as regularly, he thought. We cannot be trusted to accept and keep within the confines of the rules and regulations. We stir up the pot and so we are deliberately passed over, but that is a price we’re willing to pay.
It doesn’t make us prime prospects for a normal or so-called stable life. Maybe that was what Tracy had seen in him from the start and what made her, until just recently, hesitant about expressing any commitment, any hope for a relationship with longevity. What had caused her to change her mind now? Was her passion and love for him so strong that she would willingly risk happiness, or did she finally come to admire him for his courage and independence?
Was it courageous for him to be so stubborn and determined or was he simply and clearly not a team player?
How much easier it would have been to go home today as Tucker had? He was a good team player because he could turn it off. He could have a life outside of his work. He was not only willing to be that way, he appreciated that he could be that way. Tucker embraced all the limits, all the forbidden zones, all the unnecessary detours. They were his salvation. He was the straight-shooter’s straight shooter. If anyone could be a nine to five cop employee, Tucker could be.
But I’m not Tucker, he thought. And God help me because I never want to be.
He sped up once he had crossed the GW Bridge. His plan was to see if he could meet this Dr Oakland and somehow get at what was going on here. He had no illusions about the man being cooperative, but he had faith in his own ability to get in between the lines, slip under the doors of no comment or subterfuge and scratch the surface of the truth. Of course, he had no concrete idea what that truth might be. All he knew was it had to be more than what they knew so far and that it involved people in high places and elaborate cover-ups. That was enough motivation to keep him moving forward.
When he reached the small hamlet, it struck him as odd that no one he went to in this very small community for directions had heard of Classic Industries. Did no one from the area work there? The clerk at the self-service gas station just shook his head. He claimed also to be a lifetime resident, but said he had heard only of Classic chicken farms. The two other customers lived in the hamlet, but one worked in Middletown, which was a city about thirty-five miles south, and the other was a second home owner. Neither had heard of it either.
He stopped in the village and went into a small grocery store, but the employees he spoke with there were recent, two of them possibly illegal aliens. They were both very nervous about answering any questions. The manager said he had a vague memory of the company, but he wasn’t absolutely sure where it was located … on some back road out of the village proper was all he could offer.
Palmer was too late to speak with anyone at the post office. The doors were closed. The village was too small to have a local police station and he was unable to spot any law enforcement patrolling about the village proper this visit. He was getting very frustrated when he happened to see a postal employee pull out of the parking lot behind the post office. He started his car and went after him. The man was obviously annoyed and a bit frightened when Palmer leaned on his horn continuously until he pulled over.
Palmer drove up alongside and rolled down the passenger’s window. ‘Sorry to disturb you,’ he said.
‘What’dya want?’
‘I need directions. No one I’ve spoken to seems to—’
‘To where?’ he asked, more annoyed now than frightened.
‘I’m looking for a company called Classic Industries.’
For a moment Palmer thought the postal employee wasn’t going to respond. He paused, gazed ahead and then finally turned back to him.
‘We don’t deliver any mail to that company,’ he replied.
‘What?’
‘But … I know where it’s located. It’s off of fifty-two. They took over an old Catskill resort hotel and gave it a new face. Go straight about three miles and then look for a road on your left with a broken fence. It’s about a half mile up that road on your right. Only reason I know about it is my brother works for the phone company and has been there.’
‘That’s great. I appreciate it. Sorry about frightening you.’
‘I wasn’t frightened,’ he replied quickly. ‘People around here use the horn more than the accelerator these days. Lots of second-home owners from the city,’ he added and drove off.
Palmer laughed to himself, half amused and half refreshed by these simpler, no-nonsense responses from more rural people. He followed the man’s directions and found the road
, thinking how odd it was that it had no road sign. The road itself was pitted and cracked. At one point, bushes and some branches of trees extended too far and required him to pull completely to the right to avoid them. It was obviously not a road that trucks used.
And then suddenly it improved dramatically and there, looming ahead, was a four-story structure with a security gate. There was no security guard at the gate, but he spotted a call box. He didn’t see any other cars in the parking lot in front of the building, but he did see a driveway that went around toward the rear. He also noted that the road he was on turned toward the rear, so he imagined there was another approach.
He understood what the postal employee meant about a new face. The building had a coffee white stucco and was on a small rise. Maybe in its heyday as a resort, it was a handsome structure, but now it was rather nondescript with only the small black letters spelling Classic Industries over the front entrance.
There was probably some real estate tax advantage to being out here, Palmer thought and imagined a man like Henry Dover would give high consideration to such things. He reached over to press the button that would enable him to reach someone inside the building. At least, he hoped there was someone inside the building. There was no activity around it and no sign of anyone present. He could hear the beep when he pressed and waited. A dry, husky voice responded with a not very friendly, ‘What do you want?’
‘I’m here to see Dr Oakland,’ he replied. ‘My name is Palmer Dorian,’ he added and then thought he might just be turned away if he didn’t say, ‘Detective Palmer Dorian.’
‘Just a minute,’ he was told. Although the person he was speaking to didn’t sound at all friendly, he at least didn’t immediately say he’d never heard of Dr Oakland or Dr Oakland wasn’t there.
Palmer considered the building again. Behind the high fences and with its electronic surveillance systems, it looked as formidable as a medieval castle must have looked to soldiers about to storm it with their swords and bows and arrows. The late afternoon sun had fallen behind the structure. Shadows seemed to rush at it from the surrounding forest and creep quickly up the sides and front of the building, oozing around the corners and toward the top. He was able to see the security cameras expertly placed to cover a good portion of the area surrounding the property. A camera at the gate moved a little to capture him.
‘Dr Oakland doesn’t have you down for any appointment today,’ the voice said. ‘What is this about?’
To come this far and be turned away would be too much of a disappointment and too frustrating, Palmer thought. Like some poker wizard, he decided to show his top card.
‘It’s about Bradley Morris,’ he replied. It wasn’t completely a stab in the dark. There were all those dots Tracy helped him connect, but how or why Bradley Morris would have anything to do with Dr Simon Oakland and Classic Industries were questions he couldn’t answer yet.
This time the voice didn’t reply. Instead, Palmer heard a buzzing and the gate began to open.
Those were the magic words, he thought. There was no denial, no ‘we don’t know what you’re talking about’, no one saying he must have made a mistake.
He drove in slowly, parked in one of the spots designated and got out of his car. For a moment he just stood there looking up at the building. The windows were more like mirrors, dark now, reflecting only the vague twilight.
As he approached the entrance, the door opened and a security guard stepped out. He could see a second one just inside looking out as well.
‘You have identification?’ the security guard asked him.
He reached for his ID and flipped it open.
The guard looked at it. Then he raised his cellphone to his lips and said, ‘NYPD.’
He listened a moment and then stepped back enough for Palmer to enter the building. The second guard didn’t move. He waited until Palmer was completely inside, and then he turned toward the elevator. He pushed a button and turned back to Palmer. The two guards were so close to him now that it was as if they didn’t want him to gaze too far left or too far right. The elevator door opened and they all stepped in.
‘Pretty tight security here, huh?’ Palmer asked them.
Neither man responded.
The elevator doors opened and they led him out to the right, stopping at a dark-wood double door. One of the guards knocked and then opened the door and stepped back.
‘Go on in,’ he said.
Palmer nodded and entered Simon Oakland’s office. The two guards followed behind him and closed the door. From the pictures Tracy had shown him on her computer, he recognized Henry Dover behind the desk.
‘Detective Palmer Dorian,’ he said. ‘Please, have a seat.’ He indicated the chair in front of the desk. ‘Dr Oakland will be with us shortly. He’s working on a little problem.’
‘You’re Henry Dover,’ Palmer said moving to the seat.
Dover smiled. ‘You know most people think fame, celebrity, is something of value to pursue. They just don’t understand how disrupting and downright annoying it can be when you are a serious, hard-working individual.’
‘What happened to your head?’ Palmer asked.
‘Oh.’ Dover touched his bandage. ‘Stupid accident, I’m afraid. Bumped into something I should have anticipated. That’s what happens when you don’t keep your focus, Detective. I’m sure you agree.’
‘Absolutely.’ Dover smiled and leaned forward.
‘You’re one of the detectives who was investigating the deaths of Father Martin and Jack Temple, were you not?’
‘And a taxicab driver.’
‘Oh, right, right. Well,’ Dover said sitting back, ‘wasn’t this case shifted to the FBI?’
‘How do you know so much about our work, Mr Dover?’
‘Jack Temple was an associate of mine. His death was a major blow. It will be some time before I get over it.’
‘Did you use your influence to have the case given to the FBI?’ Palmer asked.
Dover just stared for a moment. ‘Aren’t you overstepping your boundaries, Detective? Why are you still pursuing an investigation when you have been reassigned?’
‘I have questions I can’t ignore. I’m one of those guys who keeps his focus, as you said one should,’ Palmer replied.
If there was any lightness or any fragment of cordiality in Dover, it died instantly. His eyes hardened. ‘So, this is something you’re doing independently?’ Dover asked.
‘The FBI won’t mind some free assistance. After all, don’t we all want to solve these horrendous crimes? I’m sure you want your friend’s killer brought to justice,’ Palmer said. ‘What do you do here exactly, Mr Dover? Inquiring minds would like to know.’
Dover smiled again. ‘All in good time, Detective. Like good wine, good information needs to be finessed, aged with care, protected.’
The door opened and Simon Oakland entered. Palmer was not prepared to see such a small man. He wore his lab coat and carried a clipboard.
‘Ah, there you are, Simon. This is Dr Oakland, Detective. Simon, this is Detective Palmer Dorian who is looking for information about Bradley Morris. He thinks you might know something about him. Am I correct, Detective? That was what brought you here?’
‘Yes,’ Palmer said. He started to rise so he could turn completely to Simon Oakland.
‘Oh, don’t get up, Detective,’ Henry Dover said. ‘Dr Simon will be happy to spend time with you. I’ll get up instead,’ Henry said rising to vacate the desk chair for Simon.
Palmer sensed his danger, but thought it better to pretend otherwise. He relaxed again.
‘Dr Oakland,’ Henry said indicating the desk chair when Simon didn’t move.
Now Simon silently moved toward the desk, but Dover did not step away.
‘I’m curious,’ Henry Dover said, holding that cold smile, ‘before I leave you two, how did you manage to connect Bradley Morris to Dr Oakland?’
‘I didn’t exactly, but I’m a fairly good poker player.�
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‘Bluffed on a hunch, then?’
‘Well there were some dots that connected Father Martin to Jack Temple to you to Classic Industries and finally to Dr Simon Oakland.’ He turned to Simon. ‘I understand you’re something of an expert when it comes to the study of aging, are you not, Dr Oakland?’
Simon looked quickly at Henry Dover, whose cold smile evaporated.
‘Very good. You have, as they say, done your homework, Detective Dorian.’
‘What is this all about?’
‘It’s about justice, right Dr Oakland?’ Dover asked Simon who had come around his desk.
Simon paused, looked at Palmer and nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
‘We have good intentions here, Detective. We’re trying to ease the burden on the penal system, the whole justice system, if you will. A few things have gone wrong, but we’re trying to get back on track, right Dr Oakland?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘A few things have gone wrong? People have been murdered, a convict supposedly dead and buried might be out there raging. I would say more than a few things have gone wrong.’
‘Yes, but it isn’t for you to say now, is it, Detective? In fact, you have been the one to step over the line,’ Henry Dover said. ‘I’m afraid you have to go back to Go. Isn’t that what we used to say when we played that kid’s game? Only … I guess it’s now a little too late to just go back.’
Now, certain he was in more danger than he had suspected, Palmer started to rise again, but this time, the two security guards were on him, holding him back.
‘What the hell …?’
Before he could do anything else, one of the attendants, who had slipped in behind Simon, stepped up and stuck Palmer in the neck with a syringe. He struggled for a few moments and then felt himself sinking into unconsciousness.
‘Well, here you are, Simon,’ Henry Dover said nodding at Palmer, ‘another … what do you call them … specimen?’
Life Sentence Page 19
