Lessons Learned: The Flint Stryker Thriller Series - Book 1

by Allen Gregory

  Flint grunted just as the doctor unexpectedly snatched a heavy book off his desk and tried to slam it against Flint’s forehead. Faster than imaginable, Flint put up his right forearm, blocking the blow, and using his left hand, knocked the book from the doctor’s hand.

  “Will you please STOP that?” Flint yelped. “I can’t handle that this morning! I’m too hungover!”

  Dr. Malloy bent to retrieve the book, “But you did handle it, Mr. Stryker. Even in your alcohol-addled state, you handled it remarkably well. After all the tests you’ve participated in over the last several months, I feel like I have a pretty good handle on how you do it.”

  Flint started the coffeemaker and turned to face Dr. Malloy, “That’s great. It’s always been a weird thing to me. It’s almost like a mental warning buzzer that only I can hear.” Flint sighed and continued, “It is what it is, and I can’t explain it. All I can tell you is that it doesn’t help me with any of my courses. I’ll graduate, but just barely – thanks to all your help.”

  “Not at all, son. You’re very capable but just unfocused. Once you can channel your energies, mental and physical, there is scarce little that you can’t accomplish.”

  Flint laughed drily. “That’s good of you to say, Doc, but honestly, I have no idea what I’m going to do when I graduate, let alone figure out why you can’t catch me by surprise. I have no idea where I’ll live, no real job prospects – nothing.”

  Flint poured Dr. Malloy a steaming cup, careful not to splash him with scalding coffee, and then one for himself. While the doctor sipped, Flint continued, “Believe me, I’m grateful for all the interest you’ve shown in me since I’ve been here, but I’m just trying to figure out what to do next. My girlfriend Amber thinks I’m headed nowhere, and I’m afraid she’s about to tell me to get lost, so there’s that. I feel so damned hopeless.”

  The doctor let the moment hang in the air. Meeting Flint’s gaze, he finally said, “Well, that is exactly why I asked you to meet me here this morning, Mr. Stryker. But, before we discuss that, there’s one other thing…”

  “Sure, Doc, what’s that?”

  Looking down at Flint’s bare feet, he asked, “If you don’t mind my asking, where in the world are your shoes?”

  Four

  Before Flint could answer, there was a rap on the doctor’s office doorframe. Looking up, the two men saw the uniformed campus police officer Jerry Colburn standing at the door.

  “Yes, Jerry?” the doctor queried. “Can I help you?”

  “Excuse me, Dr. Malloy, I’m sorry to interrupt you. I just wanted to make sure you knew.”

  “Knew? Knew what?” The doctor’s heavy-knit brows furrowed.

  The officer glanced at Flint, uncertain whether to continue.

  “Please, go ahead, Jerry. Anything you need to tell me is all right for Mr. Stryker to hear.”

  The officer rubbed the back of his neck and looked first at Stryker and then back to Dr. Malloy. “It’s your graduate assistant, sir, Garrett Riggs. I’m afraid… he’s dead.”

  Both men jolted, their mouths agape. “Dead!? What do you mean, dead? What happened?” Dr. Malloy sputtered.

  “He was found dead this morning at the Rec Center, in the pool, sir. You know he has a part-time job there and had a key. It appears he let himself in for a late-night swim after having had too much to drink.” Officer Colburn looked down. “Well… He drowned himself, sir. The custodian found him this morning.”

  “Oh, my Lord,” Dr. Malloy muttered as he collapsed in his chair. “How can that be? Just yesterday he was in my office talking about his plans after completing his thesis.” Colburn glanced at Flint, noticing he didn’t look well at all. The poor kid was probably good friends with Riggs and was in shock. He hoped he wasn’t about to be sick.

  “I think I’m going to be sick,” Flint gurgled, looking about for the nearest trashcan.

  “Use that waste basket by the coffee counter,” Dr. Malloy said quickly. “Hopefully the paper towels in there will absorb most of it.”

  While Flint heaved enthusiastically into the trash can, Dr. Malloy turned to Officer Colburn. “Jerry, does it appear that foul play was involved? Nothing that would indicate any kind of violence or anything?”

  Colburn shook his head. “No, sir. Everything at this point indicates that he let himself in, took off his shoes and clothes and jumped in for a swim. His alcohol blood levels were extremely high, and the police are speculating that he was simply too drunk, perhaps passing out in the pool, and drowned.”

  Dr. Malloy chewed his lip and pondered the officer’s comment. “Yes, I see. How sad. He was a tremendous young man, and I truly will miss him. He had no family to speak of – has anyone notified his parents, who live in Washington state?”

  A fresh wave of gagging and spitting alerted the doctor and Officer Colburn that Flint wasn’t quite finished. The two men wrinkled their noses at the smell coming from Flint’s direction.

  Ignoring Flint, Colburn took a notebook from his shirt pocket and responded, “Yes, sir. They reached Mr. Riggs this morning, and they’ll be flying in this afternoon to claim the body and make arrangements.”

  The doctor tutted and shook his head. “What a horrible turn of events! I’ll reach out to them later this afternoon. Would you please get word to them that I’d like to speak to them?”

  “Sure, Doctor. I’ll be glad to.” Flint sent another hot spurt of upchuck into the wastebasket and beyond, the stringy sputum clinging to his lips. Colburn looked at Flint with sympathy. “I’m sorry about your friend, son. You might see if the Doc here can offer something to settle your stomach.” He nodded to the doctor and exited the office.

  Flint wiped his face with a discarded memo in the doctor’s wastebasket. “Ohhh… I wish I were dead.”

  Dr. Malloy closed the office door and stood silently with his back to Flint, his hands thrust in his back pockets. “No Flint, I don’t think you do. Imagine our poor friend Mr. Riggs, lying at the county morgue, gray and clammy, unable to tell us what really happened to him.”

  Flint jerked his head toward Dr. Malloy, “What do you mean what really happened to him?”

  Dr. Malloy turned to face Flint, his face hard, his teeth set. “It’s quite simple, Mr. Stryker. Mr. Riggs didn’t drink. In fact, he’s never had a drink in his life. His religious convictions strictly forbid the consumption of alcohol.”

  Five

  Thunderstruck, Flint stared at Dr. Malloy, his bloodshot eyes watery and stretched open beyond what he thought possible. “He didn’t drink? Well, how do you explain his being – excuse the expression – dead drunk? He might’ve been a closet drunk… Maybe you didn’t know him as well as you thought you did, Doc. After all, sometimes people surprise you with their private lives.”

  “No, Mr. Stryker, I know for a fact that Mr. Riggs didn’t drink. There’s no question in my mind. Sad to say, I’m convinced Mr. Riggs was murdered, and I have a pretty firm conviction as to who killed him.” He shifted in his chair, turning to look Flint squarely in his greasy, sweaty face. “Mr. Riggs was my graduate assistant, that’s true. But he was so much more than that, Flint.” He blew out his cheeks and took a deep breath. “And that brings me to what I wanted to talk to you about today.” He opened his desk drawer and took out two thick manila folders, bound by heavy-duty rubber bands.

  Curious, Flint rose from the floor and pulled the doctor’s office chair a bit closer to Dr. Malloy. The doctor unbanded the folders and spread the first one on his desk for Flint to see. “As you can see, Mr. Stryker, this is Mr. Riggs’ folder. It contains quite a bit of information about him. Background information, including personal, education, activities and so forth. There’s not much about Mr. Riggs that I can’t tell you.”

  Flint’s eyes scanned the sheets Dr. Malloy spread before him. It was true. It was almost like a security agency dossier on Garrett Riggs with many pages of information, and lots and lots of photos.

  “These are just the more pertinent har
d copies I was going to share with you today. I have a digital file on Mr. Riggs that encompasses so much more than what you see here – from his birth to his untimely death early this morning.”

  As the doctor turned the pages, Flint became more and more uneasy. What was it he had thought? It was almost like a security agency dossier. His eyes widened. That was exactly what it was like! Dr. Malloy had been spying on Garrett Riggs almost since birth!

  “How in the hell did you get all of this on Garrett!? Have you been snooping into his personal life for his whole life, Doc? What are you, some kind of perverted sicko?” He drew back, noticeably distancing himself from the doctor.

  Dr. Malloy’s face was grim as he looked steadily at Flint. “No, Mr. Stryker, I am not some perverted sicko, as you put it. Mr. Riggs worked for me, and he voluntarily provided me with a great deal of this information. Through careful investigation, I determined the rest, and Mr. Riggs was going to move on to bigger and better things once leaving here. He was going to work full-time for the company I have worked at for over twenty years. I’m hoping you’ll consider an employment opportunity there as well.”

  Flint couldn’t believe his ears, but Dr. Malloy looked deadly serious. Surely, he was joking.

  “Employment opportunity? What in the hell are you talking about? And what company do you work for? I thought you were a college professor! And why would I ever consider a job that could get me murdered?”

  Flint’s heart was hammering against his chest, sweat pouring from his brow. But Dr. Malloy’s soothing voice was like the Vivaldi music he’d heard when he came in, tranquil and even. “Mr. Stryker, control yourself, and give me a chance to explain what I wanted to talk to you about.”

  With that, he turned back to the other folder, the one that was still bound. He showed him the tab which had his name printed neatly on it. His unbelieving eyes tried to focus as the doctor unsnapped the band from the folder and opened it, revealing its contents.

  Flint was aghast. The doctor allowed him to thumb through the folder’s contents. It was the same as Garrett Riggs’ folder except this time it was filled with pages about him – Flint Stryker! And the photos – baby pictures, toddler photos, grammar school class photos, middle school, high school, and dozens and dozens of college photos!

  “And Mr. Stryker, just like our poor Mr. Riggs, we have an extensive digital file on you as well filled with this and half again as much information about you. You see, we have to know who we are getting … er… involved with.”

  Flint looked dully at Dr. Malloy. “Involved with? What do you mean involved with? I thought you were my faculty advisor, for God’s sake! Sure, you’ve been great to me since I’ve been here, but I thought you were just some teacher that took a wayward student under his wing to try to help him. You know, sort of earn your wings like Clarence in It’s A Wonderful Life.”

  Dr. Malloy chuckled. “Clever analogy, Mr. Stryker, but no, my motives were not altogether altruistic. You are indeed wayward, and while I do care a great deal for you, I saw something great in you that was overshadowed by your lackluster academic performance. I saw several attributes that go beyond mere academics and the mundane pursuit of gainful employment and a tiresome ordinary career. I saw – see – something special.”

  Flint cleared his throat. “I’m not sure I’d say that my academic career would be classified as ‘lackluster’. Uninspired, maybe, but not lackluster…”

  Dr. Malloy smiled – he saw color creeping back into Flint’s cheeks and knew he was getting a grip on himself. Now would be a good time to tick the next box. “Mr. Stryker, take a sip of your coffee and let me tell you a little bit about Linchpin…”

  Six

  Professor Huxley stroked his goatee as he re-read the text on his phone. “MEET ME AT THE PLANT AT 4:00 PM TODAY. BE READY TO EXPLAIN YOURSELF.”

  Tesar Arman was obviously in a bad mood about his handling of the situation with Garrett Riggs. He couldn’t understand why he should be concerned – after all, he and Estebe Sebastian had taken great pains to ensure that Riggs’ death would be viewed as nothing more than a tragic accident. Any waterboarding residue would be attributed to the effects of drowning, and the amount of alcohol in his system would easily explain how he drowned. Tsk! These careless, irresponsible students were always getting themselves into situations they couldn’t handle,

  Why did Arman have to meet at the sewage treatment facility? Didn’t he know it stunk in there? Well, it wasn’t his choice, but he knew he’d better be on time. He deleted the text and made a mental note for his departure time to arrive at the campus’s wastewater treatment plant early. No problem – once he explained that Riggs had overheard his conversation with Sebastian, he was sure he’d understand.

  Besides, after what he’d heard, Riggs couldn’t be allowed to live, right?

  Later that afternoon, Huxley was standing patiently in the damp coolness of the school’s water and sewage facility located two miles away from the university in the middle of nowhere. In the dim light of the large room, he scrolled through the messages on his phone, awaiting the arrival of Arman and his ever-present bodyguard, Hadeon Savchenko. Savchenko was a violent, brutish man, with dark features, close-cropped hair, and scars predominantly featured on his unyielding visage. The professor shivered at the recollection.

  The door to the facility creaked open and the bright afternoon sun streamed in, causing Huxley to shield his eyes. The silhouetted outline of two men was all he could make out against the blinding brightness.

  “Mr. Arman? Savchenko?” he croaked.

  They allowed the door to close behind them and now he could see them more clearly even though the aftereffects of the bright sunshine were still present on his corneas. The brightness left his vision blurry and took several seconds before the presence of Arman and Savchenko could fully register in his brain.

  “I’m glad to see you–” Huxley began.

  Savchenko strode directly to him and grabbed his right hand, wrenching it forward in one swift motion. Huxley yelped, which turned immediately into a squawk of pain as Savchenko bent two of his fingers awkwardly back.

  “Hey! OW! You’re hurting my… OW! Oh God, that hurts! What are you… AGGGGHHH! Stop it! For the love of God….”

  Huxley twisted like a motivational speaker walking on hot coals, as he tried to position himself in a way to relieve the tension on his twisted digits. It was no use. Whichever way he moved, Savchenko anticipated his movement and twisted his fingers even further. He led him around a five-foot circle like a child twirling a model airplane on a tether.

  “Professor Huxley, get ahold of yourself,” Arman murmured, his hooded eyes obscured by the shadows cast by the overhead light. “If I had known you were such a weakling, I would never have given you such an important assignment.”

  “YOW! What d-do y-OW! Mean? I’m not a weak-OW!-ling! This bastard – OHMIGOD – is hurting my hand! Pl - OWOWOWOWOW! — PLEASE MAKE HIM STOP!”

  At an imperceptible nod from Arman, Savchenko released Huxley’s fingers, and the Professor collapsed into a sobbing, sweaty heap cradling his mangled right hand.

  Savchenko produced two folding chairs, setting one just out of the periphery of the overhead light. He placed the professor’s chair almost directly in the center of the pool of light from the overhead lamp. He grabbed the professor’s collar and threw him roughly in the chair, and then positioned himself behind Arman.

  Snuffling and whimpering, snot running down his face, the professor struggled to find his voice. “W-what’s this all about? It’s about Riggs, isn’t it? I had to dispose of him, you know. He-he o-overheard Esteban and me discussing several of our other undercover assets. He said he didn’t hear anything, b-but I know he did… We had to get rid of him…er… didn’t we?”

  There was silence for a full thirty seconds, and Huxley was sure Savchenko was about to reach over and break his neck with one surefire, swift snap. Instead, Arman leaned slightly forward and spoke through tightly
-clenched teeth, “Did you know that Riggs was a member of Linchpin?”

  Huxley recoiled as if struck by an unseen hand. “What?! No! No, he couldn’t have been a member of Linchpin! He was just an ordinary student – a nobody!”

  Arman leaned slightly back into the shadows. “Oh, Mr. Riggs was anything but ordinary, Professor Huxley. Mr. Riggs was no ordinary student, and he was anything but a nobody. Mr. Riggs was a well-cultivated, and apparently well-disguised junior operative for Linchpin.”

  Huxley wiped his nose with his left hand, wincing at the movement to his right hand. “That’s im-impossible! I would have known that! There’s no way I couldn’t have known that! I’m well-aware of all of the operatives cultivated on campus by Linchpin!”

  Savchenko abruptly stepped forward and slapped Huxley violently across his left cheek, sending the professor into another convulsion of blubbering panic. Covering his face with his hands, the professor peered cautiously at Arman as Savchenko stepped back behind him.

  “Don’t insult my intelligence, professor. If you didn’t know that Riggs was an asset of Linchpin, then your failure is inexcusable.” He pulled a photo from his inside jacket pocket and thrust it toward Huxley. “Do you know who this is?”

  Meekly, Huxley lowered his hands and glanced nervously at the photo. He recognized the face. He hesitated before replying, clearing his throat. “Ahem. Yes. That’s Flint Stryker – I’ve had him in several of my upper-level classes.”