“What exactly do you remember about that day?” Jen asked. “What do you remember about the bridge?”
Rick tried hard to pull up memories from the depths of his mind. But no matter how hard he struggled, he found himself unable to recall the details. “I’m not sure and it pisses me the hell off. To not know…”
“Not to worry. We’ll work through this together. You’re with your family now.”
“Where are we going?” he asked, diverting his attention from his frustrations.
“Derrick set up a base on Long Island. Rick, are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yes, I’m just not a big fan of Long Island.”
“I mean besides that. What’s the matter?”
He didn’t answer right away. Couldn’t. Finally, he said, “I feel like there’s a giant hand squeezing my head. I can barely tell my real memories from the fake ones.”
“Just give it time,” Jen assured him. “It will all come back soon enough.”
“I remember a face.”
Rick stood back up. He placed one hand against his forehead, the other braced on the wall to keep him from being thrown around like a ragdoll. One thing about that Derrick, he was a hell of an awful driver. Rick suddenly and aggressively swung toward Jen who now stood behind him, observing him. He pointed a finger at her. “It wasn’t just Obenchain, there was someone else!” He removed his hand from his head, feeling determination well up from inside. “There was some boss…I remember.” He scrunched up his face and unearthed a picture of the man. “He was a general, I think.”
“That would be General Straker,” Derrick announced, sounding like a kid shouting out an answer in class.
Sanaga cleared his throat. All eyes in the back of the van looked at him. He rolled his eyes toward the boy, who lay on his stomach by Sanaga’s feet. His wide eyes missed nothing.
In the far corner, Clara had her arms wrapped around her bent knees. She stared at the boy while keeping her head down, like she tried to hide her face from everyone in the vehicle. Was she wondering if she’d suffer the same fate? Rick shook off the thought. He didn’t have time or energy to deal with that right now. Obenchain was dead, now what to do with his kid?
“We will catch you up on everything, Rick, but time enough for that later.” Jen folded her arms, taking charge once again. “First, we have a few loose ends that need to be tied,”
“Like Arn…the boy,” Rick replied.
“It’s up to you, Rick. What do you want done with Obenchain’s brat?”
“You did say you were going to kill him,” Derrick reminded them.
Rick looked at Sanaga who stood up, towering over Arnold with a long sharp knife in his right hand. As if it were a valuable jewel, he stroked the glimmering blade with the fingers of his left hand.
He peered from Arnold to Rick. The child remained in the same position, his entire body shaking. It wasn’t clear whether he understood what went on around him, but he probably had a good inkling.
“We don’t need him anymore,” Rick said. “There’s no reason to keep him or kill him. Let him out at the next corner.”
Jen and Derrick exchanged a quick look of surprise via the rearview mirror. Derrick offered a quick one-shoulder shrug.
“Okay, then he’s free to go. Derrick, pull over on the next corner and we’ll dump him.”
“You got it, boss lady. We can drop him off just before we hit the highway.”
“We can dump him in a garbage can or something. I guess doesn’t matter if the kid can identify us…”
Rick frowned hearing the hesitation in the voices of his old, now reunited group. “We need to make plans!” he said, louder now. Would his authority be questioned?
“What sort of plans?” Jen asked.
“I want to talk about this Straker guy. I want to step on his throat as well!”
“And we will. We need to. But first, there’s one more little item.”
Jen peered down at Clara with a smirk on her lips. The innocence of youth was already fading. She’d matured by leaps and bounds in the last few hours. Finding out everybody in the world is screwing you can do that. She still, however, had a lot more to learn.
“What are we doing with your new friend?” Jen asked.
Clara tilted her face at Rick. She clearly wanted to hear the answer to that question. Did she wish they’d drop her off with Arnold? Or would she hold some loyalty to the people who’d rescued her from a fate worse than death?
When Rick said, “She stays with us,” Clara relaxed visibly. .
Then he added, “And as soon as I have the chance…”
He removed his gun from his belt and held it in front of his face. He cocked the hammer back and pointed the gun toward the ceiling. Clara’s eyes popped open. Rick smiled. “…I’m going to teach her the right way to use one of these!”
Chapter Thirty-One
It was still dark at 4:15 the next morning at the Brookhill Children’s Psychiatric Residence. It had been a sleepless night for many. Dozens of local and state police workers and investigators filled the hallways and classrooms as well as the outer grounds. School had been cancelled for the young patients. Many of the children were temporarily transferred to other facilities. The few who remained were kept in their quarters so they would be unable to interfere with the investigation.
Captain Benjamin Morgan had been the sheriff of Brookhill for over eleven years, since his transfer from West Philadelphia. As such, he had conducted more than a few investigations, but none of which had made as little sense as this one. He continued to keep his deputies organized and working hard, but he felt relieved when the state police showed up and offered to participate in the investigation. Morgan agreed to cooperate, not that he had much of a choice in the matter. He turned over all the information he had gathered. Unfortunately, it really didn’t add up to much.
Morgan, a tall man in his late forties, was one of the few black men to live in the small town of Brookhill. For the most part, his neighbors respected him. In fact, some had even recommended he run for mayor. His color and his inner city background were rarely an issue. He missed the fast action from his beat in West Philadelphia, but Brookhill proved to be a great place to raise his children and keep his family safe. A nice, small community where everyone knew everyone else. The only brutal and senseless acts of violence the townsfolk ever experienced were on television or in the local movie theatre.
That was, until now.
Morgan stepped out the front doors of the residence and lit up a much-needed cigarette. He took a puff and let the smoke drift out of his mouth. He watched officers standing around or walking across the long paved driveway that wove through the front gate. Morgan took a few steps back so he could get a better look at the farm. He couldn’t see any animals. They had been removed from the property for the same reason as the patients, so they didn’t get in the way of the investigation.
“Crazy thing that happened here,” Morgan said to the man he heard sneaking up behind him. After all these years, his police instincts hadn’t let him down.
Morgan turned to Pennsylvania State Police Captain Daniel Bustos, the head of the seven man team sent to investigate the multiple homicides reported by Morgan’s department. Bustos hunched over in a wrinkled, blue dress shirt, with his red-striped tie undone around his neck. He had a very solemn look on his face, caused by an investigation that approached twenty-one hours.
“I see a lot of craziness in my job, Sheriff,” Bustos said.
“We don’t get too much of it here.” Morgan removed the sunglasses from his face and rubbed his eyes. “Even with this facility at the edge of town, we’ve never had a problem. We get a runaway on a very rare occasion. We usually catch them in town and return them before anyone’s the wiser. Never anything as brutal as last night.”
Morgan took another puff of his cigarette, trying to enjoy every moment of it. He noticed Bustos examining it with envy. Morgan reached into his shirt pocket and took out the p
ack. “Would you like one?”
“I quit about four years ago. But after all this, yeah, I think I would.”
After he tapped out a cigarette, Morgan offered his own so the captain could use the end to light up. Morgan’s gaze lifted. He took in the austere brick building, with the bars on all the windows.
“The people of Brookhill once tried to get rid of this place,” Morgan said. “It was a long time ago, but there are still some in town who were part of those protests. Even though there have been no major situations, they still hold the same attitudes toward the place. In the petitions, they called it ‘a time bomb waiting to explode’.”
“What ended up happening with the petition?”
“The town officials stifled it. We get a lot of money from this and the other states for each kid housed here. The irony of all this really isn’t lost on me, Captain.”
“How are you handling everything?”
“I’m just dealing with the situation as a whole. We have multiple murders in there, not to mention Katherine Miller, the director. Two slugs in her head, she took one in the front and one in the back.”
“You know her well?”
“She lives in my town, so yeah, I know her.”
“What’s her condition?” Bustos’s question seemed to have as much curiosity as compassion.
“I spoke with the hospital an hour ago. Her condition is critical. Even if she survives, that lady will be a vegetable forever.”
The two stood silently for a few moments smoking their cigarettes. Morgan just shook his head. “There has to be something we’re missing. There are too many holes in all of this. What are we not figuring out here?”
“We’ve been combing this building and the grounds for an entire day and night now, Sheriff,” Bustos said. “We’ve interviewed every staff member here, some more than once. We’ve even interviewed a couple of the patients. We’re doing everything we can, that’s all anyone can ask.”
The statement brought about an incensed reaction from Morgan. “People were killed in my town. That’s just not good enough.”
Morgan took a deep breath and calmed himself. He opened his mouth to apologize, but Bustos raised his hand to stop him. An apology wasn’t necessary, the police captain understood.
“Let’s once again go over what we do know,” Bustos said. “Let’s look at the facts.”
Morgan let out a breath and shook the cigarette between two fingers, letting the ashes fall to the ground. He then removed a small notepad from his back pocket and flipped open the cover. He riffled the pages to the one he wanted.
“We still don’t have much. Very few witnesses. One, the head of security, but she’s a basket case. We almost had to hospitalize the poor woman.”
“She was in a dangerous situation. I’m sure an entire day of questioning from us didn’t help.”
Bustos finished his cigarette before going on. Morgan appreciated the break. He used it to reflect on the business at hand, to keep his emotions in check. He reminded himself that his professionalism would be more useful than his emotions.
“Okay,” Morgan said, after a yawn behind his hand. “According to the gate guards, a white van driven by Doctor Harold Obenchain drove up to the residence this, er…yesterday morning at approximately 9:01 a.m.” After correcting himself, Morgan continued examining his notes. He had already lost track of how many times he had read those same notes.
“The group entered the facility minutes later, allegedly holding Obenchain by gunpoint.”
“How well did you know Doctor Obenchain, Sheriff?”
“As I’ve already told you, everyone in this town knows everyone else—so I knew him. We weren’t friends, but I knew him well enough to say for certain he wouldn’t be mixed up with gunmen who shoot up a children’s psychiatric facility.”
“I see. Once again, my apologies,” Bustos said, giving his local counterpart a great deal of slack. “Let’s go on.”
“Doctor Obenchain was led into the residence by three assailants—one male Caucasian, one female Caucasian and one male Hispanic. It’s believed there were others waiting in their van outside the building as well, although we cannot confirm this. Evidently, this group was connected to one of the two therapists, who, incidentally, left the facility with them…”
Morgan shook his head and rubbed his eyes with his fingertips. The weariness was catching up with him. “What was his name again?”
“Rasner, Rick Rasner,” Bustos prompted.
“Right, Rasner, and you said the police records on him are all screwy?”
Bustos nodded. “We were able to retrieve employment records from here and a public school in New York where he did not remain long. Beyond that, no work records, no driver’s license. Hell, I even checked for a marriage license and next of kin listed for the name. There was nothing to show this guy even existed past a year ago.”
“How is that possible?”
“His description doesn’t match any of our profiles,” Bustos admitted. “At the very least, we can say he was not from the state of Pennsylvania.”
“The facility’s head of security, Sharon Hefner, informed my people the social worker, Janet Murphy, may be able to give us a personality profile. She spent time with Rasner on the job. He was not close to anyone else here.”
“Yes. Except, Miss Murphy suffered a heart attack shortly after the whole thing went down. She is still recovering at your local hospital.”
“I have one of my deputies over there, ready to speak to Murphy as soon as she’s well enough. I ask again, no records, no past history, how is this possible?”
“You want my theory?” Bustos offered.
“Please.” Morgan wanted any explanation to help make some sense of this unexplained massacre. What prompted someone to go on such a rampage? He realized with dismay—he had his own Columbine on his hands—all over a facility no one wanted in Brookhill to begin with.
“I believe we’re dealing with a phony identity,” Bustos suggested. “I think this was a pre-planned hit. For reasons I haven’t yet ascertained, they needed someone on the inside. This Rasner guy was sent ahead to assimilate himself into the community, or perhaps just this facility.”
Morgan had trouble wrapping his mind around the police captain’s theory. “If we’re guessing right, this would explain why he moved into our town recently.” Morgan yawned and then lit up another cigarette. “As long as we’re theorizing, who do we figure was the intended target in all of this?”
“Obenchain would be the most likely choice, except why was Rasner renting an apartment co-signed by the good doctor? You see, that’s the confusing part. Plus, why bring the doctor here to kill him? Why not just off him in the streets or at his home?”
Morgan felt a pain in his head not caused by the fatigue. “So, you’re saying Obenchain wasn’t the target?”
“I’m saying I really don’t know. Perhaps Miller was the target. Perhaps Obenchain brought the group there to assassinate her and they turned on him. Without all the facts…”
“Without all the facts, we basically have nothing.”
“Just a lot of questions. No answers. Like what about the patient they kidnapped from the facility? What’s her name…” Bustos put a finger to his pursed lips, thinking. “It’s in the file.”
Morgan consulted his notepad. “Her name’s Clara Blue. She’s originally from…?”
“My question would be—did they come here for her? Is she possibly the reason for the massacre? Maybe they came to get her and the others got in the way. Is she connected to Rasner somehow?”
“Did you review the child’s file?” Morgan asked in the middle of a yawn.
“Yes, I have her information right here.” Bustos reached into his front shirt pocket and removed a notepad, which was slightly larger than Morgan’s. “Clara Blue is fifteen years old, African-American. She’s from Brooklyn, by the way. She has a criminal record, mostly misdemeanors, street crimes, and one felony. She was charged with the
attempted murder of a staff member from the group home where she resided. She was in foster care under the guardianship of her now deceased grandmother prior to her placement in the home. I could find no address or work record on her mother while her father is currently incarcerated on manslaughter charges.”
“Manslaughter. Gang or drug related?” Morgan bitterly stated.
“Both. I’m telling you, Sheriff, this girl has a laundry list of emotional disabilities, psychological disorders…”
“That just means she’s a punk,” Morgan stated. The bitter words left a sour taste in his mouth. He’d known a million like her back in Philly.
“Well,” Bustos said, “that’s why she was put here instead of juvie.”
“I was always against them bringing those kids from New York here. I don’t even like it when their people move into my town. We sure don’t need regular adult problems here, much less their crazy kids. But it’s always about the money, isn’t it?”
“Still, I think it is safe to say the people who did this were not simple street thugs. Honestly, this girl hardly fits the profile of someone involved with such a professional gr—”
A sudden noise from the exhausts of two vehicles driving onto the property made both men spin around. The lead vehicle’s headlights caused him to shield his eyes with his arm. Who the hell was that? As the vehicles came closer, Morgan could make out two pure black cars. They stopped by the front gate where the driver’s window of the lead automobile opened. The driver flashed a badge that glinted in the early morning light. After a moment of conversation, the guard waved them through.
“More of your people?” Morgan asked.
“Not at all, in fact, those license plates look government.” Bustos eyed them also. He didn’t look pleased.
Both cars slid to a stop beside the officers. The front doors of the lead car opened and two men in well-pressed black suits stepped out. The jackets each had bulges at the right side. Most people wouldn’t notice, but Morgan knew they each had holstered guns at their sides. The second followed close on the first man’s immaculately shined shoes. The outfits screamed FBI. The height and weight differences reminded Morgan of those before and after pictures he used to see for diet pill or nautilus training commercials.
The Rasner Effect Page 21
