by Tom Schreck
“Would you say this is the first break in the investigation?” The pretty brunette with the huge brown eyes was saying to a correspondent next to the Crawford courthouse.
“The police officer had, I believe, a T-shirt believed to be Howard Rheinhart’s with Rheinhart’s blood stained on it. It was in the back of the officer’s personal vehicle with an assault-style knife that would be consistent with the weaponry used in some of the slayings, and at least one source is saying the police officer was at the scene of the latest killing before the 911 tapes show the murder was called in. The police officer’s name is Brendan Mullings and he has been placed on administrative leave.”
“Is there speculation that he is the slayer?” Brown Eyes asked.
“Not yet. It may be that he was just involved in unauthorized activities, but either way the Crawford PD just isn’t saying.”
While the two continued talking, the TV screen was filled with the official cop photo of Mullings.
It was the guy I had been calling Larry Bird.
34
Crawford was a mess. There were services for the policemen who were murdered, there were yellow ribbons all over town to signify city mourning for the teenagers who were slain, and there was the constant presence of the national news people. Howard Rheinhart’s image was on wanted posters, and a fair number of them had been defaced with messages about how he should be tortured when he was caught. Now Mullings was getting his fair share of sound bites, and there was speculation that he was way too close to everything and his suspension was soon to turn into an arrest.
The Union Star front page was a tribute to the policemen, and they began a new section of the paper dedicated just to the slayer. There was a day-by-day section, complete with a timeline and full biographies of all the victims. The special section made the situation that much more bizarre, like it was a media opportunity. I wondered if advertising in the “Slayer” section came at higher prices.
In the regular local section there was a short piece on the back page about the McDonough kid who overdosed last week. The coroner was unable to identify the specific drugs that he used; he was only able to list the metabolites of whatever was in the kid’s system. In other words, whatever he was taking was not related to any current drugs of abuse that came up on current drug screens. That, the article said, was quite unusual because although new designer drugs are always being tinkered with, they almost always are derivatives of some already-existing popular drug.
The metabolites, the stuff the body breaks the drugs down to in our metabolism, were new and different from anything anyone had ever seen. It appeared as though the kid had taken the drug for about two weeks before OD’ing, and they couldn’t tell if he took too much of the substance on one occasion or if the buildup of the stuff in his system did him in. I had some questions for Rudy.
“Rudy,” he said when he answered the phone.
“Geez, you’re gruff,” I said.
“Kid, I’m busier than a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest.”
“All right. Quick question. When someone OD’s, is it more likely because they took too much at one time or that they’ve been taking too much over the course of a few days?”
“Uh. If I understand you right, it can go either way, but it’s more common for addicts just to do too much. Drugs that build up over time usually don’t make it to market, or for that matter even the black market. People tend to frown on drugs that will kill them if they take a dose for a few days.”
“Do you know the coroner?”
“Stanley? Sure. He has a pig roast every summer.”
I tried my best to not conjure up the image of Rudy at a coroner’s pig roast for about fifteen different reasons.
“Call him and ask him about the toxicology reports of the slaying victims.”
“Kid—”
“C’mon, Rudy, this is important.”
“You should be resting or doing arts and crafts or something. I’m not kidding—you shouldn’t fuck around with PTSD.”
“Call me as soon as you know something,” I said, and I hung up before I got the argument.
I got Al his breakfast and added sardines for being such a good boy. I was listening to the soothing sounds of him snarfing it all down when the phone rang.
“All the victims had some sort of unidentifiable designer drug in their system,” Rudy said.
“I figured. One more question—was it the same designer drug in each kid?” I asked.
“No. It was slightly different in each case. How did you know that?”
“One more question.”
“You just said that.”
“Was it poisonous if it built up?”
“He didn’t say. I’m not even sure he could tell something like that.”
“Call him right back and ask him.”
“Kid—”
“Rudy, call him.”
I hung up and sat back on the couch. My neck vein was doing its thing and my knees were going up and down. I think I had figured something out but I needed it confirmed.
The phone rang.
“Yes, the shit in all of them was poisonous and very similar but not exactly like the shit that killed the McDonough kid. How’d you know all this?” Rudy said.
“Rudy, these murders aren’t what they appear to be. They’re about something else entirely.”
“What?”
“You remember the guys who died while Howard was in Green Haven?”
“Yeah, they were taking that ‘Blast’ shit, right?”
“Yeah—how fast did they die?”
“I don’t know, they all died within two weeks of taking it, I think.”
“And then the grad student disappeared.”
“So?”
“Suppose the grad student was trying to perfect a new get-high drug. He tests it on the inmates but finds out they die when they take it.”
“Yeah …”
“Suppose that same guy is still trying to perfect the drug. So he test markets it on a bunch of high-school kids.”
“Yeah, but those kids were murdered before they died from the drug.”
“Exactly. Whoever the guy is, he’s taking the kids out before they can OD and implicate him.”
“But why all the weird shit? The blood drainings, the decapitating …”
“Two reasons. One, so he can frame Howard, who conveniently was discharged just in time. I’m betting the guy studied when Howard would be paroled and set this plan up for a perfect cover.”
“Huh?”
“He picks Crawford because he knows Howard will be there. Decides to use McDonough kids as his human guinea pigs and knows if the drugs don’t work, he can kill them and blame Howard. In the meantime, he kidnaps Howard so Howard can’t defend himself.”
“What’s the other reason for the murders? You said there were two reasons,” Rudy said.
“The sick bastard likes it,” I said.
35
“You think Mullings did it?” I asked Kelley. We were promulgating a stereotype by meeting at the Dunkin’ Donuts. I had a toasted coconut and a glazed and Kelley was just drinking coffee.
“Look, Mullings is an asshole, everyone knows that, but that hardly makes him a murderer,” Kelley said.
“What about the kids at McDonough, the ones in the fan club?”
“They’re keeping an eye on them. Two got picked up for smoking pot, and they had some strange kung-fu-type weapons on them.”
“What are you guys making of that?”
“Creepy pothead kids with toys to make them feel tough.”
“Did they do forensics on them?”
“Forensics? Duffy, go back to boxing, will ya?”
“Humor me for a second. What if we looked into
this guy Gunner a little closer?”
“So, all we have to do is find a guy who left the area a decade ago and who there’s presently no record of … anywhere?” Kelley said.
“Aren’t there records I can go through—death records, driver’s license, shit like that?” I asked.
“Yeah, but unlike on TV, it isn’t that easy. I can try, but I have to have a reason to start requesting that sort of thing.”
“A reason? You’re kidding, right?”
“Not really. There’s two ways of doing this. I can present the whole bit to Morris, who can then take over. That’s the legitimate way.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Maybe you’ve forgotten, but Howard has confessed. Why would anyone expect anything different? There’s a confession, a history, and clearly a means, in that he’s done this sort of thing before.”
“What’s the other way?”
“I sneak around and get the information.”
“You up for it?”
“You’re nuts, you know that?” Kelley said and then shook his head. He said he’d have whatever he could by the end of the day or sooner.
Around three thirty Kelley called and let me know he came up with absolutely zero. He was able to do it quickly because nothing at all came up on Gunner. The best we can tell is that he ceased to exist, at least in this country, about five years ago. No medical license renewal, no driver’s license, no credit card, and no mortgage. There was also no record of death.
As a last-ditch effort, I called my new friend back in Wisconsin. I think I had gone to that well enough, but I had nothing left to do. I remembered her extension and dialed her directly.
“Leslie, it’s Dr. Dombrowski. How are you?” I used my best too-cool doctor voice. “Hey, hon, I’m still striking out on ol’ Guns. You didn’t think of anything else, didya?” I said.
“Hi Doctor. No, I really haven’t,” she said.
“How about the doctor who Guns left to take care of, the sick guy with no family?”
“Ah, it was a long time ago now. Hang on, some of the other nurses are here today. Let me see what they know.”
She pulled away from the receiver but didn’t cup her hand over it. I heard her yell to the others if they remembered Dr. Gunner and the other doctor. There was the usual banter.
“Oh, what’s his name?” a nurse said.
“He was kind of cute,” another said.
“You think? I didn’t think so,” the first nurse said.
“Wasn’t it Dr. Richardson?” a different one said.
“No, Richardson’s in California. He’s a jerk,” another said.
“Ask Julie, she remembers everything,” the first one said.
Leslie returned to the phone.
“Hang on, Doctor, we’re going to ask the unit secretary,” she said. I heard her call to whoever was the unit secretary.
“Dottie, who was the doctor that had pancreatic cancer that was friends with that Dr. Gunner?” she said.
Dottie must’ve gotten up and joined the circle of nurses.
“Oh, yeah, what was it? It began with an A. Avalon, like Frankie Avalon,” Dottie said.
“Abadon, not Avalon,” one of the nurses said.
“Yes!” they all chimed in together.
Leslie got back on the line.
“Did you hear that, Doctor? It was ‘Abadon.’ We all remembered at once.”
“A-B-A-D-O-N?” I said. I felt a chill.
“Yep,” Leslie said. “But I don’t know where he went.”
“I think I do,” I said to myself but out loud. “Thanks,” I said, and I hung up.
That night at AJ’s, I laid it all out for Kelley. Gunner is alive and well, living in Crawford after stealing the original Abadon’s identity. Kelley wasn’t as positive as I was.
“So how does he just take the guy’s identity?” Kelley asked.
“He had the perfect cover. This guy was dying, so Gunner could quit his job on the grounds of being distraught and no one would suspect a thing. He takes him someplace, tells no one, kills him before he dies, and takes his identity. They’re about the same age and he’s privy to all of Abadon’s personal information and he just takes his identity.”
“Then why does he come to Crawford?”
“To have Howard as a patsy.”
“I don’t know, Duff.” Kelley sipped his beer. “Why would he risk it?”
“One, because he’s deranged, but there’s probably a more logical reason. He knew Howard was due to be paroled, and he knew Howard could identify him from his time in Green Haven.”
“Huh?”
“If Howard could finger Gunner as the graduate assistant with the fatal drug, then he could put him away. If Gunner wanted to pursue his drug experiments, he could choose the kids from this area as well as kids from any other area. Then, if the experiments didn’t go right, he could kill them and make it look like Howard did it.”
Kelley’s eyebrows went up and down and he looked straight ahead. After a moment he turned back around.
“Duff, it’s a little out there,” he said.
“Tell me it doesn’t make sense,” I said.
“No one’s going to buy this, you know. All you really have is a name and a missing guy,” Kelley said.
“How many Abadons you know?”
Kelley just sat and looked straight ahead.
“I’ll tell Morris and he’ll laugh,” Kelley said.
“I know,” I said.
“That means you’re not only in the private-eye business again, but you’re also going after a serial killer.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“You sure you want to do this?”
“Nobody else will,” I said.
36
My first thought was to wait for Gunner to leave the clinic, whack him in the back of the head, take him to the police station, and tell my theory. On deeper reflection, I decided that would get me arrested and keep him out on the street. In order to really put Gunner away, I was going to have to have hard evidence on him. Howard had confessed and he was still the obvious suspect.
In the meantime, I had to keep an eye on Gunner so he wouldn’t kill again. I took a ride to the clinic and spied the parking lot, but there was no sign of his SUV. Then, it was over to McDonough while I sat in the idling Eldorado, listening to Elvis do his Aloha from Hawaii via Satellite. Elvis always introduced the band about three-quarters of the way through the show, and it was right about that time that I got sick of waiting and headed back over to the clinic. The eight-track kicked around to the second track for the second time, and there was still no sign of him.
I drove until I found a pay phone, which took a while because since everyone has gotten wired or whatever the appropriate geek expression is, there’s no need for public ones. The old-fashioned diner on Pearl Street, about two miles from the clinic, still had one and I went there to call Monique.
“Monique,” she said when she answered.
“Be honest, the place isn’t nearly the same, is it?” I said.
“All kidding aside, which is never the case with you, no it isn’t. You add spirit to the place,” she said.
“Yeah, yeah …”
“There you go again.”
“Hey, is Abadon in?”
“No, as a matter of fact he had to leave town kind of abruptly. We’re not sure when he’ll be back.”
“Shit …”
“Why would you care about him getting out of town? I thought you’d be happy.”
“I’ll tell you later. Thanks, ’Nique. Give the Michelin Woman a kiss for me.”
“Duff, you know she’s gunning for you. Said something about you not being able to save yourself this time.”
“Yeah, she may be right too.”
I signed off and tried not to think about getting fired. For one thing, I had enough on my mind at the moment and, for another thing, I was always just about to get fired. After a while you get used to it.
I took a ride to the Y and didn’t see Gunner’s car, so I headed out to their compound on Route 44. I kicked around the idea of why Abadon would need to abruptly take some time off. With the kind of jobs he had, clinic and high-school consultant, it would cause a lot of chaos for the staffs there to do without him on such short notice.
Something had to be up.
I left the Eldorado up the road and walked into the training camp. The sweet odor that I picked up the first time I came was more pronounced today and it wasn’t pleasant. I moved carefully down the side of the long dirt driveway because my latest revelations about Gunner/Abadon suggested he wasn’t a kind person. The fact that he constantly spewed a bunch of born-again crap just made it worse.
The pit bull was guarding the stone garden, pacing back and forth, his paws rustling the stones with each stride. Just to the left of the steel building there were three SUVs all exactly like Gunner’s. There was no sign of Mitchell or Harter, and I had no idea how they figured into this. For that matter, I didn’t really have any idea what “this” was.
I stayed about fifty feet away, fairly certain I was undetectable in the circle of brush I chose. For the longest time I just watched and waited. Then the doors opened.
Two Asian men wheeled hand trucks to the separate SUVs with Gunner, walking a few strides behind them. The Asian men were the same height and dressed almost identically, the one on the left wore pressed black slacks and a red silk T-shirt and the one on the right had the same getup except for a purple T-shirt. They both had on wraparound sunglasses with orange lenses. They shook hands with Gunner and headed out the driveway. I ducked down to ensure I was out of their view.
