Death Row

by William Bernhardt

  Mike nodded. “It’s always hard to be the new kid, Chief. Don’t be too tough on her.”

  Blackwell brought his head around slowly. “Her? I’m having a private conversation with you, Major. In my office. Now.”

  Ben could hardly restrain himself. “You know who killed the Faulkner family?”

  “Of course,” Dr. Bennett said. “I mean, I don’t know his name. But I know who he was. And it was a him, by the way. I can guarantee it.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “I’m a psychiatrist, remember? And I deal with a lot of sick miserable human beings. Frankly, Erin Faulkner was a pleasant change of pace from some of the cases I get, referred by prison or parole boards. Seriously deranged, dangerous individuals.”

  “So getting back to the Faulkner case,” Christina said, “who was the killer?”

  “The killer who almost wiped out the Faulkner family was what psychiatrists would classify as an organized nonsocial. I mean, when you think about it, the crime was really rather systematically executed. Even the eye removal was handled with consistency and efficiency. These people are usually relatively intelligent, decent looking, and well attuned to the feelings of others. Not just what they like, but what they don’t like. What scares them.”

  “Sounds dangerous.”

  “Very. Combine that with an active fantasy life that allows them to dream about their crimes well in advance—which results in them being well planned by the time they are actually conducted.”

  “I see.”

  “Some experts think all children are organized nonsocials–—their world revolves around themselves. But at some point in their development, most learn to care about others, about the world outside. But not organized nonsocials. They never outgrow the ‘me’ stage. All they care about is what they need. They are the center of their universe. They think they are never wrong, that they never make mistakes.” She paused. “But of course they do, thank goodness. It’s the only reason some of these monsters are ever caught.”

  “But—why?” Ben asked. “What would be this . . . organized nonsocial’s motivation?”

  “That could vary,” Bennett explained. “Some of them simply like to inflict pain. They get a charge out of it—literally. Some delude themselves into believing they are scientists—conducting research into the levels of pain tolerance or some such horrid thing. For others, it’s purely a power trip; they do it because they can. And for some, it’s an intellectual challenge. What can I get away with? How long can I go without being caught?” Her eyes drifted to her butterfly wall. “And for some, it’s purely sexual. They have a preoccupation that society doesn’t condone—little girls, little boys, whatever.”

  “Any common denominators?”

  “Just one. People who commit crimes like this can’t help themselves. It’s not that they lack self-control or they’ve consciously decided to indulge themselves. They just can’t stop.”

  “How horrible,” Christina said.

  Bennett agreed. “Modern medicine has made some important strides. There are drugs now that can suppress some of the more malevolent urges. But it’s always a tricky thing. Drugs can be unreliable. And if the patient forgets to take his pill one day—”

  “Another family is obliterated.”

  “That’s possible, yes.”

  “This may sound crazy,” Christina said, “but I have a theory that there was more than one person involved in the crime. That there was a second person present. A second person with . . . well, for want of a better word, a conscience. More than the principal killer, anyway. Does that fit with your theory?”

  Bennett considered for a moment. “Well, it would be extremely unusual for an organized nonsocial to take a partner. He would want to do all the planning and killing himself. But I suppose I can’t totally eliminate the possibility of some kind of . . . procurer. Someone who didn’t participate in the killings but was still essential in some way. Someone who suggested the crime or facilitated it.”

  “You expressed some doubts about Ray Goldman being the murderer,” Ben said.

  “Well, he doesn’t really seem the organized nonsocial type, does he? I mean, I haven’t met him personally, but from what I’ve read, he was a high-functioning, professional, highly educated man with no apparent psychological problems.”

  “Exactly,” Ben said. “That’s what I’ve been telling people for seven years. Would you be willing to take the stand and say that?”

  “To be honest, I don’t care much for the expert-witness scene. It’s all a little tawdry, isn’t it?”

  She’d get no argument from Ben, but he could still use a medical witness at that hearing next week. “I’m fighting for a man’s life here. I won’t ask you to say anything you’re not comfortable saying. Just tell it straight.”

  Bennett pondered. “Well . . . I’ll think about it. But you must also remember—it’s not unheard of for an organized nonsocial to be able to disguise his illness. To hide his aberration. Lots of people knew Ted Bundy—and liked him. No one thought he was a killer. Until he’d knocked off about forty people.”

  Ben nodded. A sobering thought.

  “If there’s nothing else, Ben . . .” She smiled. “I hear a rare lepidoptera calling me.” She picked up her pins and stiletto.

  “Of course.” He and Christina headed for the door. On first arrival, he had thought the butterfly business a rather unusual hobby. Maybe even a little sick. Killing the pretties. But after hearing about what she did, what she knew, what she dealt with on a regular basis—he could see why she enjoyed her butterflies. He could see why she needed them.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” Chief Blackwell bellowed.

  Mike drew himself back into the armchair. He felt about two feet tall. Like he’d been called into the vice principal’s office. “I can’t work with her, Chief. I just can’t.”

  “You can if I say you can.”

  “No, I’m sorry, but I can’t.”

  “You mean you won’t.”

  Mike gripped the arms of the chair. “It’s impossible, sir. She’s got a chip on her shoulder the size of Sand Springs. She’s bullying and domineering. A real harpy.”

  “Don’t start with the sexist remarks.”

  “I didn’t mean it that way.”

  “No? I suppose you meant to say something about her panties?”

  Mike closed his eyes. “I should’ve known she’d go running to you.”

  “For your information, Major, she did not report the incident, although pursuant to departmental regulations, she should have. Happily, I got reports from about twelve other eyewitnesses who heard the whole thing. You’re the talk of the department.”

  “Chief, it was just me and Frank and some of the boys shooting the breeze.”

  “I don’t care what it was. And I don’t want to hear any excuses!” Blackwell pounded his fist against his desk. “I don’t understand this, Mike. Hell, you’re supposed to be the sensitive one on the force. The college man with the graduate degree. The English major, for God’s sake. And you’re behaving worse than the worst of the old-guard male chauvinists. The difference being—they don’t know any better. You do.”

  Mike’s mouth felt dry. “Chief, you know I don’t have a problem with women working on the force—”

  “I don’t know that I do, Mike. I used to. Now I’m not so sure.” He leaned across his desk. “What do you think would happen if word got around about this? What if the press got a hold of your ‘panties’ remark? What if it got back to the mayor? Huh? I can assure you she would not find it amusing.”

  “Sir, I have absolutely no objection to women police officers. Or even personally working with women. It’s just . . . this woman. Baxter. I can’t work with her.”

  “Why? Are you hot for her?”

  “Huh? What are you talking about?”

  “It hasn’t escaped my notice that Sergeant Baxter is quite attractive. And I’m sure it hasn’t escaped your notice, either.
Is that the problem? Do you have feelings for her? Are you suppressing your sexual frustration with open hostility?”

  “Sir, I can assure you that isn’t the case.”

  “Yeah, I hear your mouth working. But I’m not sure your brain is along for the ride.” He rapped a pencil on his desk. “That would explain a lot. I’m aware that your personal life has been totally screwed up ever since your divorce. Rarely a date, from what I hear. Hanging out with defense attorneys. Perverse stuff like that.”

  “Sir, I give you my personal guarantee. There is no sexual attraction. If the rest of the female population were covered with pustulant weeping boils, there would still be no sexual attraction.”

  “Says you.” Blackwell stared across the desk at him. Mike didn’t remember ever seeing the man look so angry. “May I remind you how this assignment started, Major? It started because you screwed up. Badly.”

  “Sir—”

  “Just shut up and listen. A lot of the higher-ups thought I should’ve yanked your badge right then and there, after you butted into that hostage scene where you had no business and made a mess of it. But I said no. I said give him another chance.”

  “I appreciate that, sir.”

  “Our record as an equal opportunity employer has not always been the best. The mayor wants to change that.” He paused, looking squarely at Mike. “You can see where she might have an interest in that sort of thing. She wants Baxter to succeed. And therefore, so do I. That’s why I assigned her to you. And that’s why you are going to do everything possible to make the assignment a success. Do you understand me?”

  Mike’s face tightened. “I suppose.”

  “I will not accept excuses, Mike. You will make this work.”

  “I’ll do my best—”

  “Don’t give me that schoolboy crap about doing your best. You will make it work. Are we clear on that?”

  Mike stood at attention. “Yes, sir!”

  “I’m tearing up this bogus report you wrote. I wouldn’t allow that to sit in anyone’s file, much less Sergeant Baxter’s.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Blackwell pointed a finger. “And make no mistake about it, Mike. I don’t care how long we’ve worked together. If you screw this up, I’ll have your badge.”

  “Chief—!”

  “I mean it, Mike. You keep that in mind as you continue to work with your new partner. You want this to work.” He lowered his voice. “Because it’s not just her career that’s on the line here. It’s yours.”

  Chapter

  16

  Ben was almost out his front door when Joni stopped him. “Got some news.”

  He pulled the door closed behind him and locked it. “Mr. Perry finally going to pay his bill?”

  “Not that exciting.”

  “You got the Silvermans’ air conditioner fixed?”

  “Not that mundane, either.” She shifted her weight, and as she did, Ben couldn’t help but notice the tool belt slung low around her hips. Pretty darned appealing, as handymen go. “It’s about that bundle of fur you room with.”

  “Giselle?”

  “Yeah, that one. I took a look at her last night, before you got home.”

  “Did you take her to the vet?”

  “Didn’t need to. It’s obvious.”

  “What’s obvious? Feline schizophrenia?”

  “I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. All the signs were there. Moodiness. Strange behavior. Desperation to get outside. All those cats swarming outside the house. All of them male.”

  “Is this Final Jeopardy?” Ben asked. “Because if it is, I’m about to lose everything I wagered.”

  “That’s because you, for all your brains, are so pitifully unaware of some of life’s little fundamentals.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like sex, Ben.” She grinned. “Your cat is in heat.”

  Ben was nonplussed. “Then get her a fan.”

  Joni sighed. “Come along, Benjy. We’re going to have a little talk. The one your daddy should’ve had with you a long time ago . . .”

  The man who greeted Ben an hour later at the front door of the laboratory was wearing a white coat with a pocket protector that held an array of pens and pencils and even a small calculator. Ben supposed he looked the very image of an industrial chemist, but for some reason he kept thinking of Sherman and Mr. Peabody.

  “Thank you for agreeing to see me, Dr. Reynolds.”

  “Not at all.” Conrad Reynolds was a short, balding man in his late forties, and remarkably convivial for someone who spent his days with test tubes and formulae. “I still remember Ray Goldman fondly. And Frank Faulkner, for that matter. Please come inside.”

  Ben followed him through the door. The front lobby of the building was about as stark as it was possible to be without becoming a warehouse. No attempt whatsoever had been made to meliorate the trek from the door to the elevator bank. Only a single sign that read: prairie dog flavors, inc.

  “Mind if we go upstairs?” Reynolds asked. “I’ve got some chairs in my lab. And there are a few others you should talk to.”

  “People who knew Ray?”

  “And Frank, yes. All those years ago. Not many employees have lasted that long, but a few.” They rode up three floors.

  When they stepped out, they faced a heavy iron sealed door. “I’m afraid the security around here is in the same league as the Pentagon’s. Excuse me just a sec. Retinal scan.”

  Ben grimaced. “Can I wait outside?”

  “That was retinal, Mr. Kincaid. Re-tin-al.” Reynolds pushed a button, and a screened panel on the door flickered to life. Reynolds pressed his face against it. A red light flashed across his eyes. A moment later, Ben heard the door click open.

  “Wow. That really works? I thought that was just on Star Trek.”

  “This isn’t even new tech,” Reynolds replied. “We’ve had this for more than a decade. Nowadays they’re using voiceprints and DNA tests.”

  “Is all this necessary?”

  Reynolds nodded. “Our owners are very protective of our secrets.”

  “Mind if I ask why?”

  Reynolds gestured toward the interior. “Because the stuff we come up with in here is worth billions, that’s why.”

  Ben stepped into what seemed to him a prototypical chemistry lab, not that he would really know. There were long tables covered with tubes and Bunsen burners and vials of brightly colored fluids held upright in wooden racks, some of them labeled with long Latinate names. It reminded Ben of his organic chemistry lab class back at OU. He only hoped he handled this case better than he had the class.

  The one difference was the smell. Marvelous mouthwatering aromas assaulted his senses the moment he stepped inside. Part bakery, part steakhouse, part patisserie. No wonder Reynolds seemed so genial. If Ben worked in a place that smelled this nice, he’d probably be happy, too.

  “What kind of work do you do here?” Ben asked. “What industries do you serve?”

  “We specialize in the fast-food industry. Have since this lab was built.” He took a chair and offered Ben the one beside it. “We serve other businesses on occasion, but that’s our bread and butter.”

  “I see. What do you do for the fast-food people?”

  “Make their food taste good.” He winked. “And believe me, that’s no mean feat.”

  “But—surely you don’t cook their food.”

  Reynolds chuckled. “Cooking, Mr. Kincaid, has nothing to do with it. You have to realize that, in most fast-food restaurants, virtually everything has been processed and flash-frozen, then reheated for serving. If it weren’t for the chem lab, it wouldn’t taste like anything. Certainly nothing you’d ever want to put in your mouth.”

  “What do you do?”

  Reynolds’s eyes twinkled. “Magic.” He reached for a nearby vial containing a clear liquid. “See this? This is the secret of the double whammy burger in the Bob’s Burgers chain. And that one? Something we came up with last year
. Made the chicken sandwich a top seller at Burger Bliss.”

  “That stuff is in the food?”

  “Just a touch. That’s all it takes.”

  “Doesn’t sound very appetizing.”

  “Don’t be fooled. Those burgers sell by the millions. You’ve eaten fast food before, haven’t you?”

  Ben smiled wryly. “Once or twice.”

  “And be honest—for the most part, it tastes pretty good, doesn’t it? May not be good for you, but the flavor is generally yummy. That’s why they sell so well. Up to ninety percent of a food’s taste can derive from its aroma. And we provide the aroma.”

  “That’s amazing.”

  “Yes, I suppose it is. It’s the dirty secret that has made the fast-food industry the gigantic economic success it is. May have made the whole nation obese in the process. But it’s made a lot of businessmen very rich. Last year, Americans spent more than one hundred and ten billion dollars on fast food—more than they spent on cars, computers, or college. Combined.”

  “That much?”

  “It’s a huge business. Hugely successful. For years, the taste and aroma business was dominated by a handful of chemical plants located just off the New Jersey Turnpike. International Flavors & Fragrances is the largest. They handle many of the large fast-food chains. They’re responsible for six of the country’s top ten perfumes. We were actually one of the first to make a success of it in the Southwest.”

  “Based on your fast-food formulae?”

  “It isn’t just that. We’ve devised flavors for potato chips, cereals, bread, crackers, ice cream, toothpaste, mouthwash. Even pet food.”

  “I’m surprised all this chemistry doesn’t jack up those cut-rate fast-food prices.”

  Reynolds flat out laughed. “Are you kidding? Fast food is cheap for a reason. You’re not exactly eating Grade-A meat, you know. Typically, the packaging costs the company more than the food itself. They can afford a chemical or two to make it scrummy.”

  “Where do these flavors come from?”

  “Most are a combination of several chemical compounds, but often the primary aroma comes from a single component. Let me show you.” He grabbed one of the vials of colored fluids, uncorked it, and held it under Ben’s nose. “Close your eyes and tell me what you think.”