Private Detective: BENNINGTON P.I.: A thrilling four-novel political murder mystery private detective series...

by D. W. Ulsterman

  “A bit of a shithole don’t you think?”

  Gabriel threw his head back and laughed loudly. I found myself both fascinated and attracted to its sound. It was the laughter of a child.

  “I like you, Frank Bennington. You don’t waste time with false pretense.”

  I found myself getting annoyed at how he kept addressing me by my full name.

  “Just call me Frank, ok? Like you call Father Barnes Victor, you can just call me Frank.”

  Gabriel’s head cocked to the right, his eyes filling with yet more amusement.

  “I call him Victor because it upsets him. I don’t honor the priest with his silly titles, but if you wish to simply be called by your first name, I am happy to do so.”

  My eyes settled on a recent newspaper clipping of a story involving allegations of dealings between the environmentalist lobby and certain, high ranking members of Congress. It was my first T3 Group assignment. Gabriel noticed my gaze and grinned.

  “Yes, quite a story, that one. I believe it started as nothing more than an Internet rumor, but one thing led to another, and it now appears quite clear there was much manipulation going on regarding these global warming allegations of the last few decades. Imagine that Frank, big government and big corporations embroiled in a long, sweaty, circle jerk at taxpayer expense!”

  Nearly ever inch of the room’s walls was covered in similar stories of corruption, lies, and public deceptions.

  “Mind if I smoke?’

  Though he had asked the question, Gabriel was already inhaling deeply from an unfiltered cigarette.

  “Those things are gonna kill you.”

  Gabriel held the cigarette in front of his face and looked at it in wonderment.

  “Well, that would be something, now wouldn’t it?”

  The answer made no sense, and I feared time was slipping away. I had to refocus Gabriel before he lost himself entirely in whatever world his mind drifted off into.

  “You said you remember everything, so I assume that means you can give me the formulation for Dedra’s treatment, right?”

  Gabriel’s eyes grew momentarily wider, seeming to engulf most of his face before retreating once again into his thin, narrow skull.

  “The woman you hope to save, her name is Dedra?”

  I nodded.

  “Yeah, Dedra Donnigan.”

  Gabriel stood silently inhaling deeply from the rapidly diminishing cigarette, its ashes falling onto his much worn boots.

  “Do you want to know what brought me to Victor in the first place Frank? Why I chose to help him?”

  “He told me you just showed up holding a copy of an article he had written about alternatives to conventional cancer treatments. You liked what he was trying to do.”

  Gabriel closed his eyes and sighed.

  “Yes, I suppose that version has enough truth to it. Do you wish to hear more truth?”

  I shrugged, hoping Gabriel’s idea of truth would eventually lead to the formulation.

  “Here, let me show you something.”

  Gabriel kneeled down next to one of the piles of paper on the floor and withdrew a manila folder which he then handed me.

  “Look inside that, read it. What does it say?”

  I scanned the documents inside of the folder. It was a World Health Organization study that indicated cancer rates were to rise by over 70% by 2030.

  Seventy percent! How in the hell is that possible?

  Gabriel was already moving to another stack of papers, nodding his head rapidly as he did so.

  “See, see how it’s forming. Imagine the money to be made via conventional treatments Frank - trillions!”

  I was then given copies of three medical journal articles. The first was by an Australian oncologist, dated in the late 1980’s. It indicated that post five year survival rates for patients with certain, particularly aggressive forms of cancers who underwent traditional chemotherapy treatments was less than three percent. The per patient cost of that treatment averaged nearly a half million dollars.

  A second article detailed how chemotherapy, while initially shrinking tumors, causes the body to release a protein that greatly increases the risk of future, and far more aggressive tumors in the future, thus ensuring that it will be the alleged cure, and not the cancer, that will kill the patient.

  The third piece outlined the cost of cancer drug development, noted in the article to cost well over a billion dollars in research and development before finally, years later, having an opportunity for review and possible approval by the FDA. Such a costly and time consuming process meant only the largest drug companies could afford to seek FDA approval, and thus, ensure the highly lucrative cancer treatment monopoly remained in place.

  By the time I had finished skimming that last article, Gabriel had placed an obituary notification in my hands. It was for the same Australian oncologist whose research journal I had just read. He had been found drowned in his own pool in March of 1992.

  I looked up at Gabriel, who was now rummaging through yet another pile of papers.

  “You think this doctor’s death was related to the research article?”

  Gabriel ignored my question, bringing me a second manila envelope, his voice indicating growing excitement over sharing this information with me.

  “Go ahead, Frank, look at that one.”

  Inside the folder were deposition papers from 1994 involving Wilson Memorial Hospital in Florida. Two doctors gave sworn testimony of pushing more expensive cancer treatments to patients they knew had little chance of survival. When asked why, both doctors indicated it was “hospital policy” to do so.

  Attached to the back of the deposition were two newspaper clippings. The first was a 1998 announcement of one of the doctors being promoted to Chief Surgeon at Wilson Memorial. The other was a death notice for the second doctor, who committed suicide in 1995, three weeks before he was to testify in the trial related to the original deposition. That trial was subsequently dismissed four months later.

  “There’s more – here.”

  Gabriel handed me a black and white photograph of an older, white haired man standing alongside a much taller, younger man dressed in a dark suit in front of the entrance to Wilson Memorial Hospital. On the back of the photograph was scrawled the date of June 22, 1999 and the names Doctor J. Fredrickson and B. Morehouse.

  Bill Morehouse. Son-of-a-bitch!

  Doctor Fredrickson was the one who had been promoted to Chief Surgeon. Bill Morehouse was of course, already well known to me, having been recently thrown out of his palatial residence in Washington D.C.

  What Gabriel had given me was a paper trail connecting the events of Wilson Memorial, and the likely involvement of Morehouse and his work for GenEx Pharmaceuticals, a company that stood to earn considerable dollars off of the continued use of its cancer treatment systems.

  Gabriel leaned down next to me, a long, bony finger pointing at the photograph in my hands.

  “And that is just one example, Frank. What happened there at that hospital is happening all over the country, all over the world. Hospital administrators paid off, governments passing regulations banning alternative treatments via institutions like the FDA, drug companies pushing for politicians willing to keep the whole thing going, hundreds of thousands of lives lost each year to ensure billions of dollars in profit. AND IT DOESN’T HAVE TO BE THIS WAY! That’s the tragedy Frank! Everything needed has already been provided! God would not punish his children like this, but our free will is choosing greed and death, over life!”

  I noted that when Gabriel’s voice rose, his French accent became heavier, more pronounced.

  “You’re sounding a lot like Father Barnes, Gabriel.”

  Gabriel stood back up, the thick stench of burnt tobacco dominating the air around him.

  “Victor wants to help, but he is also consumed by his own fear. Fear of me, fear of himself, fear of his lack of faith. He wants a god of vengeance to strike these people down, but God fell
asleep a long time ago, and doesn’t wish to be awoken to the mundane and insignificant follies of humankind.”

  I wasn’t sure if this Gabriel was bat-shit crazy, some kind of genius, or perhaps more than a bit of both, but I needed answers, and hoped he could continue to provide them. I pointed to Bill Morehouse in the photograph.

  “Gabriel, I know this man here. His name is Bill Morehouse. I’m almost positive he was behind Father Barnes having his research facility shut down. He’s basically a go-between for a company called GenEx, and members of Congress. There’s pending legislation some in Congress, who I believe are acting on behalf of GenEx, are attempting to stall, named HR 4221. Have you heard of it?”

  Gabriel shook his head as he poured himself a glass of wine.

  “Care to share a drink with me?”

  “No, Gabriel, we don’t have time to waste. The formulation, do you have it written down?”

  Gabriel emptied the contents of his wine glass and then filled it again.

  “No need, I remember it exactly as it was. I told you, I remember everything.”

  I stood up and looked at the Frenchman, trying to push him to give up the formulation without appearing to force him to do so.

  “Then can you write it down so I can take it with me?”

  Gabriel downed the second glass of wine, and lit another cigarette.

  “Of course, but even with the formulation, how does Victor intend to treat your friend if he is not allowed back into his own hospital to do so?”

  I had to admit to myself I hadn’t bothered to think that far ahead. I just wanted to get the formulation. After that, it was up to the priest while I continued working on getting the fast track legislation to a vote in Congress.

  “We’ll deal with that when we have to.”

  The Frenchman looked at me with a mix of disappointment and pity.

  “Do you really believe once you have the formulation you will simply begin treating your Dedra? That those who have orchestrated so much death and profit over all of these years, will simply allow such a thing? If the man in that photograph, Mr. Morehouse, already knows of what you are attempting, then your chance of success is already quite low Frank. In France, it was same thing. We found a means to repress the AIDS virus, and do so cheaply. That was our naïve belief, that curing was more important than profit, but it was profit that destroyed our work. It was profit that banished me into the shadows. The same will be done to you Frank, as it is already being done to Victor. How long before a former patient comes forward to slander him with a lawsuit? How long before he is put on trial, imprisoned, or simply killed altogether?”

  I grew increasingly impatient, knowing the priest could be making his way back up to Gabriel’s room in an even more confrontational mood than when he left.

  “I don’t know, Gabriel, but I’m gonna try ok? I’m not going to hole up over some damn dive bar piling up stacks of conspiracies all over the floor. I’m actually trying to get out there and DO something. So take pen to paper, and write down the formulation so I can get the hell out of here.”

  Gabriel finished the last of his cigarette and removed a pen from the inside of his jacket, then began looking for a piece of paper to write on.

  “I respect your dedication, Frank, even if I know it to be a foolish endeavor. Good deeds will not overcome the deadly greed machine you now face.”

  I glanced back at Gabriel as my ears detected the sound of approaching footsteps coming from the stairs down the hall.

  The Frenchman paused, his own eyes narrowing as he looked toward the door.

  “There is more than one person coming up those stairs, and I am certain Victor is not among them.”

  Gabriel moved quickly toward the Eiffel Tower poster, his steps silent as he did so.

  “Follow me.”

  I stifled the urge to roll my eyes, even as the sound of at least two people moving toward us from the hallway caused the floor inside of Gabriel’s room to tremble.

  Oh great, now the guy thinks he can walk through walls.

  And then Gabriel did just that - he walked through the wall.

  21.

  “Are you coming?”

  Gabriel’s head poked out from behind the Eiffel Tower poster. I moved quickly toward it, not nearly as quietly as Gabriel had managed, to find a square cut out hidden behind the poster that allowed passage into another small bedroom identical in size to Gabriel’s. There were no furnishings in the second room, and only the faint light from the street lamps outside allowed one the ability to see.

  Once I was inside the other room, Gabriel slid a piece of sheet rock in place to hide the access panel. He then pointed toward a small window outside of which I could see the rickety remnants of a fire escape ladder.

  As we both moved toward the window, the sound of a fist pounding on Gabriel’s door reverberated inside of the second room. I could hear the low voice of one of the men demanding they just kick the door in.

  Gabriel smiled down at me and then winked before sliding the window open.

  “It appears we have ourselves a little adventure!”

  The Frenchman moved effortlessly onto the fire escape landing, and then extended his right hand to help me cross through the window as well. I could hear the aged metal of the narrow platform groaning under our combined weight, and looked down nervously to the dark alley nearly twenty feet below us.

  Gabriel pointed to the black and rust ladder than extended downward.

  “After you. I’ll keep watch.”

  I hesitated, and then heard the sound of a door being forced open. It would only take a moment more before the men discovered Gabriel’s escape route. Setting my jaw, I swung myself onto the ladder and began climbing down, feeling the entire structure sway dangerously each time I moved to the next step. Above me, I heard voices shouting, and then Gabriel looked down, his face a mask of calm amusement.

  The skinny asshole is enjoying all of this.

  “Time to hurry, Frank, they’re on their way!”

  My arms stretched upward, I let go of the ladder and allowed myself to fall onto the ground, the impact causing my feet to send stinging waves of pain up into my legs. I may have lost some points on the dismount, but I stood there intact, and ready for action. Not too shabby for an old guy.

  “Get him!”

  I looked up to see Gabriel turning to peer back into the second room. He then leaned over the railing of the fire escape and motioned for me to move against the wall of the building.

  “Watch out, I’m coming down.”

  He’ll never make it in time. They’re already in the room.

  My mouth fell open as I watched Gabriel grasp onto the outside railing of the fire escape with both hands and launch himself feet first into the air, the bottom of his dark overcoat flaring outward as it captured the wind rushing upward from his descent.

  A second later and Gabriel stood beside me looking up from where he had just fallen from, as a familiar face glared down at both of us. It was one of the two guys who had followed Dedra to the Off the Record during our recent meeting together, the ones I had pegged as former cops now working as rent-a-thugs. The guy I remembered as Pot Belly was already working his way onto the fire escape ladder.

  I looked up at Gabriel, still stunned at his quick flight down from the fire escape balcony, wondering how he had managed such a thing without breaking both of his ankles upon landing. Gabriel in turn began jogging down the alley toward the street that ran in front of the Black Cat bar where Father Barnes had left the Ford pickup truck parked. I did my best to keep up with the Frenchman, but his feet seemed to fly over the wet concrete, his passing barely making a sound as he did so. Gabriel reached the street well ahead of me, then turned to watch as I approached, looking back at me like a proud parent would a child just learning to walk. It pissed me off more than a little, but given we were being followed, I didn’t have time to tell the Frenchman to wipe the look off his face.

  Headlights flashed from ac
ross the street. Father Barnes was already inside the truck with the motor running, waiting for us.

  This time it was me who moved first, pushing Gabriel’s shoulder as I moved past him and began running across the street.

  “Let’s get the hell out of here!”

  Rain was beginning to fall once again, the wipers of the Ford keeping time with my shoes as they struck the pavement. I couldn’t hear Gabriel, but rather sensed he was there, following closely behind.