“Do you know who they were? Had you seen them in here before?”
“No, and no. I figured they must be friends of yours. If I remember correctly, the guy bought a round of drinks and the three of you left together right after.”
“They were certainly not my friends!” Jerry declared. “They drugged me. I don’t remember anything after taking that first drink. While I was drugged, I apparently tried to rob a convenience store. When I woke up, I was in the pokey.”
Magroin’s mouth dropped open. “You gotta be kidding me!”
“I wish I was,” Jerry lamented.
“Jerry’s memory is a bit fuzzy due to the drugs,” I interjected. “Could you describe the couple?”
He thought for a moment. “They were middle-aged --- late forties, early fifties. The guy had a Clark Gable moustache. The woman was attractive --- nothing special --- except for her eyes. They were --- uhhh ---- yeah, that’s it --- she had Bette Davis eyes.”
Only a baby boomer would use icons from the 1940’s silver screen to describe someone, but being an old codger myself, I knew exactly what he was talking about.
For just a moment, my mind was filled with the gravely voice of Kim Carnes singing the early 1980’s hit, Bette Davis Eyes.
Evidently the description jogged Jerry’s memory too. “Yeah, I remember now --- the mustache and the eyes. Thanks, Pat. That helps.”
“Wish I could do more. Are you in trouble?”
“I will be if we can’t find those two.”
I handed Magroin my card. “If you think of anything else or see the couple again, please give me a call.”
“Will do.”
Back in the car, Jerry gave a big sigh. “Well, that was a dead end. What’s next?”
As much as I wanted to be positive, I actually had no idea what to do next.
Andre and Marcia Kepler paid five dollars each for admittance into the afternoon tea dance at the Senior Center.
They found seats just as a trio of geriatric musicians started playing the first tune of the day, New York, New York.
Two dozen elderly couples took the floor and began to foxtrot around the room.
“We’d better get this one right,” Marcia said. “Ramon was really pissed that we screwed up the first one.”
“Hey, that wasn’t our fault,” Andre retorted. “How were we to know some cop would come by to get coffee and donuts? But you’re right. We don’t want to screw this one up. I don’t know how many chances they’ll give us.”
The second dance was a lively rendition of Glenn Miller’s In The Mood. Defying age and infirmities, another dozen dancers hit the floor and began to swing.
Andre and Marcia had been watching the aged dancers.
“What do you think?” Andre whispered.
Marcia pointed to a woman with perfectly coiffed hair. “Her. She’s the one. See her purse. It’s Michael Kors. That woman has money. Time to turn on your charm.”
“I’ll do my part,” he replied. “You do yours.”
The next dance was The Tennessee Waltz. Andre made his way across the dance floor and approached the woman. “May I have this dance?” he asked, extending his hand.
The woman was somewhat surprised. “Why, I suppose so,” she replied, taking his hand.
“My name is Fred,” Andre lied, as they waltzed across the floor. “What’s yours?”
“Penelope, but my friends just call me Penny. I don’t think I’ve seen you here before.”
“No, this is our first time. I dance, but my wife, Ethel, doesn’t. We just came today so she could see what it’s like. I’m hoping to convince her to take dancing lessons.”
“Oh yes, you should,” Penny gushed. “It’s so much fun and good for you too.”
The next dance was Yellow Bird.
“Do you rumba?” Andre asked.
“Why, yes I do.”
While Andre was keeping Penny occupied, Marcia picked up Penny’s purse and retreated to the ladies’ room. A few moments later, she returned the purse and gave Andre a nod.
When the rumba ended, Andre said, “My goodness, I’ve worked up a thirst. I could use a drink. How about you?”
“Yes, that would be nice.”
“I’ll be right back,” Andre said after returning Penny to her table.
Moments later, he returned with soft drinks.
“Here you go,” he said, handing her the beverage. “A toast! To dancing!”
They clicked glasses. Penny took a long drink, and that was the last thing she remembered.
Poor Jerry was so despondent over his looming incarceration he couldn’t even crack a joke.
I was sitting in my office trying to trying to decide on some course of action that would lead us to the mysterious couple when the phone rang.
It was Ox.
“Hey, Walt. I may have something that relates to Jerry’s situation.”
“I certainly hope so. I’m at a dead end. What do you have?’
“Amanda and I were patrolling Midtown when we got a call. Someone called in a tip that an elderly woman was sitting on a bus stop bench on Broadway, lost and disoriented. When we questioned the lady, she said she had been at the Senior Center Tea Dance. The last thing she remembered was drinking a soda brought to her by a strange man who had asked her to dance. The next thing she knew, she was sitting at the bus stop. She has no recollection of anything in between. That sounded a lot like what happened to Jerry. I thought you should know.”
I was elated. “That sounds exactly like what happened to Jerry. I don’t suppose she had held up a convenience store?”
“No, nothing like that.”
“Was she hurt or injured?”
“Not at all. She was okay except for the temporary brain fog. After we determined she was unharmed, we took her back to the Senior Center where she had parked her car.”
“So that was it?”
“There wasn’t much else we could do. As far as we could see, no crime had been committed. We took a report and once we determined she was lucid and oriented, we left.”
“I assume you got her name, address, and phone number.”
“Of course. I’ll text them to you. I figured you’d want to have a chat.”
“Thanks, old buddy.”
My next call was to Penelope Adams. “Ms. Adams, my name is Walt Williams. I’m a private investigator. I understand you’ve had a rather unusual afternoon.”
“I certainly have, but how would you know that?”
“I used to be a police officer. The officer you met today was my partner for five years. The reason he called was that I am currently working with a client who had an experience similar to yours. I thought we might compare notes. Would you be open to that?”
A long silence. “I suppose so. I’d really like to find out what happened to me today.”
“Wonderful! I have your address. I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”
Penelope Adams lived in one of the ritzy condos overlooking the Country Club Plaza. If her living accommodations were any indication, Ms. Adams wasn’t hurting for money.
I took the elevator to the seventh floor and rang the bell. A very distraught woman opened the door.
“Ms. Adams, I’ll Walt Williams.”
“Oh, thank goodness you’re here. Please come in. Something dreadful has happened.”
I couldn’t imagine what horrible thing had transpired in the thirty minutes since I’d last spoken to her.
“What’s going on?” I asked when we were seated.
She wrung her hands. “I thought I’d pay a few bills while awaiting your arrival. When I took my checkbook out of my purse I noticed that there was a check missing. There was no record of it in the check register. I called the bank, assuming I had paid another bill and just forgot to enter it, but that certainly wasn’t the case.
“According to the bank, I was there this afternoon and wrote a check made out to cash for five thousand dollars! I have no recollection of doing that, bu
t the teller said I was there. How can that be?”
So there it was. The drug-induced Ms. Adams hadn’t robbed a convenience store. She had robbed herself!
“Ms. Adams, I’m afraid you have been victimized by a pair of con artists.”
“But how ---?”
“Undoubtedly there was something in the drink the man gave you. The same thing happened to my client.”
“Was he robbed too?”
“No, something worse. He tried to rob a convenience store while under the effects of the drug.”
“Oh, dear!”
“Why don’t you start from the beginning a tell me what happened.”
She thought for a moment. “Well, I was at the tea dance. I man I had never seen before asked me to dance --- it was a waltz, I think. It was nothing out of the ordinary. A lot of older singles come to the dance to meet new people.
“The next dance was a rumba. He was a very good dancer. When that number was over, we were both thirsty. He offered to get us soft drinks and I accepted. I took one drink and the next thing I knew, I was sitting on a bus bench on Broadway.”
“Did he tell you his name?”
“I believe he did. Yes --- it was Fred. He said he had come with his wife, Ethel. She didn’t dance, but he hoped he could get her to take lessons.”
“Can you describe them?”
“He was very handsome. Late forties, and --- oh yes --- he had a Clark Gable moustache. I never saw his wife.”
Although she hadn’t seen her, I was willing to bet the wife had Bette Davis eyes.
“What should I do?” she asked.
“I need to call the officer you met this afternoon. Now that we know a crime has been committed, he’ll need to file another report.”
“Will I get my money back?”
I figured the chances were slim and none, but I didn’t want to upset her any more than she was.
“I’m sure the police will do everything possible to get your money back.”
I called Ox. “Hey buddy. I’m at Ms. Adams condo. You and Amanda should come by. It would appear that the two con artists that drugged Jerry just took this poor woman for five grand!”
“Holy crap! We’ll be right there.”
CHAPTER 4
As I headed home, I gave Kevin a call.
Everything had happened so fast I hadn’t had time to tell my partner about Jerry’s incarceration. With this new development I figured it was time to get him involved in the investigation.
Twenty minutes later, Kevin sat, open-mouthed, as I related how Jerry had been drugged and arrested, and how Penelope Adams had been drugged and swindled.
“Unbelievable!” he muttered as I concluded my narrative. “So all we know about these two is that they’re middle-aged, the guy is handsome with a Clark Gable moustache, and the woman is attractive with Bette Davis eyes.”
“That’s it so far.”
“Did either of them get their names?”
I thought for a moment. “Yes, Penelope said the man’s name was Fred and the wife’s name was Ethel.”
Kevin burst into a fit of laughter.
“What’s so funny?”
He wiped a tear from his cheek. “I don’t suppose their last name was Mertz?”
Then it dawned on me. “Well, crap! I Love Lucy! I should have known they wouldn’t use their real names.”
“At least we know one more thing about them,” he retorted. “They have a sense of humor.”
“Back to business. In all your years as a P.I., did you ever run across a drug that would affect people this way?”
A long silence. “No, I can’t say that I have.”
“Me either, but I might know someone who does, Rocky Winkler, the head of Kansas City’s Drug Enforcement Unit. I’ll give him a call.”
During my time on the force, Ox and I had worked quite a few cases with the D.E.U. and I had great respect for the dedicated officer that spent his days trying to rid our city of low-life drug dealers. I found Rocky’s number in my speed dial.
“Rocky, Walt Williams here. If you have time, my partner and I would like to drop by and have a chat about a drug that neither of us has encountered before.”
“Absolutely! I’ll be here another hour. Can you come now?”
“We’ll be there!”
“Long time, no see,” Rocky said as we entered his office. “How’s the geriatric half of the former dynamic duo doing these days?”
“Doing okay. You’ve probably heard I have my own P.I. business now. This is my partner, Kevin McBride.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard about you two. Ox and Detective Blaylock keep me up to date on your shenanigans. On the phone you said something about a drug.”
“Yes, it’s something neither Kevin or I have encountered before.”
As I started relating what had happened to Jerry Singer and Penelope Adams, I saw the blood drain from his face. When I was finished, he buried his face in his hands.
“Sweet Jesus!” he moaned.
“So I guess this rings a bell.”
“It sure as hell does. I was hoping I’d get in my thirty and be out of here before that stuff hit Kansas City.”
My curiosity was certainly aroused. “So what is it?”
“Devil’s Breath.”
“Excuse me!”
“The drug is burundanga, or scopolamine. It’s derived from nightshade plants, and there are countless stories about how criminals in Colombia and Ecuador use the drug which is said to remove a person’s free will, to assault victims or rob them. It is also known as “Devil’s Breath” and has been described as the most dangerous drug in the world.”
Kevin snapped his fingers. “I have heard of it. Wasn’t there some kind of warning posted on social media about people taking a business card soaked in the stuff which puts them in a zombie-like state where they’ll do anything for their attacker?”
“There are so many stories about the drug it’s hard to tell what’s true and what’s just an urban myth, but I’ll tell you this, the US’s Overseas Security Advisory Council has warned travelers to South America about the dangers of falling victim to a scopolamine attack, and refers to “unofficial estimates” --- it doesn’t say where this figure is from – of 50,000 scopolamine incidents there every year.
“What’s with the ‘Devil’s Breath’ tag?” I asked.
“According to stories I’ve heard, one way of administering the drug is to use it in a powder form and blow it in your victim’s face. That sounds a bit far-fetched to me, but who am I to say. Most of the time the liquid or powder is mixed with food or drink and ingested by the victim.”
“That sounds like what happened to Jerry and Ms. Adams,” I replied. “Why haven’t we heard more about it?”
“Thankfully,” Rocky replied, “most of the incidents have been south of the border, but it’s use is becoming more widespread. I read a report that police in Paris arrested two Chinese women and a man who had been targeting elderly people with the drug. It is thought the three are part of an international triad-style criminal gang running a multi-million-dollar operation around the planet.”
“Targeting old people,” Kevin observed. “Sound familiar? Jerry and Ms. Adams are in their seventies.”
“So where do we go from here?” I asked. “If these con artists have hit two victims already, there’s bound to be more.”
Rocky sighed. “You’re right, of course. I’ll alert my staff to be on the look-out for more incidents and I’ll circulate a memo with the description of the two perps.”
“What about Jerry,” I asked. “If he was truly a victim of this devil’s breath, shouldn’t he be released?”
Rocky shrugged. “Thankfully, that’s not my problem. You’ll have to take that up with the prosecuting attorney.”
Kevin and I headed home to bring Jerry up to date on what we had learned at the DEU. When we arrived, we found Jerry holding court with the other residents in the building. Now that he was out of the hoosegow, n
o doubt he couldn’t wait to share his adventures.
My dad, his girlfriend, Bernice, the Professor, and Willie, sat in rapt attention as Jerry embellished the story of his one night behind bars.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“Jerry’s telling us what it’s like being in stir,” Bernice replied.
The old gal had obviously been watching too many crime dramas.
“Well, Kevin and I have some news. We just came from talking to Rocky Winkler at the DEU. We think Jerry may have been drugged with scopolamine. It’s new to Kansas City, but has been used extensively in South America.”
I was surprised when the Professor chimed in. “Ahh, scopolamine, Devil’s Breath. It has quite a history.”
“How do you know about this stuff? I asked, amazed.
“Well, I do have doctorates in Psychology and Sociology, and the use of this drug goes far back in human history. In ancient times, the drug was given to the mistresses of dead Colombian leaders. They were told to enter their master’s grave, where they were buried alive. It is rumored that the drug was used by witches during the middle ages.
“Josef Mengele, the Nazi physician dubbed the Angel of Death, had it imported from Colombia to use in interrogations. More recently, the Soviets and the CIA used it as a truth serum during the cold war. I daresay you’ve probably used it yourself.”
“You’ve got to be kidding!”
“Not at all. If I remember correctly, when you and Maggie took a cruise several years ago, you experienced a bout of sea sickness.”
“Yeah, so?”
“That little patch they gave you to put behind your ear actually was one milligram of scopolamine. You may have also had it in the hospital when you had your heart surgery. It helps ward off post-operative nausea and vomiting.”
“Well, now it’s here in Kansas City,” Kevin said, “and two con artists are using it to dupe old people into committing acts they normally wouldn’t do.”
Jerry had been listening intently. “If all that is true, am I off the hook for trying to hold up the convenience store?”
“Good question,” I replied, “and one I plan to ask Suzanne Romero.”
Lady Justice and the Devil's Breath Page 2
