Mind Switch

by Lorne L. Bentley

  Fred had just finished his baloney and peanut butter sandwich and was sipping his no calorie, no caffeine, and no sugar soft drink when Jim popped in his office. Jim said, “I still don’t understand why you don’t just drink water, since you’re getting absolutely nothing from that concoction.”

  Fred ignored the comment and asked, “How did you make out at Longboat Key?”

  “Well,” said Jim, “my preliminary investigation is not over since the fingerprint people were still at the house taking prints when I left. Mrs. Emperor said she hadn’t even been out of the house for a week; and the last time she was out she only went shopping, and took a short side trip to see her therapist. So she has no idea how her jewels could have been stolen from her home.”

  Thinking Maureen might have some connection to this therapist, Fred asked Jim, “Just out of curiosity, what was the name of Mrs. Emperor’s therapist?”

  Jim thought for a second and then said, “I don’t know. I believe she said a Mr.—gee, I can’t remember, didn’t seem to have any bearing on what happened.”

  Fred said quizzically, “You mean he goes by ‘Mr.’? Then maybe he’s not even a medical doctor?”

  Jim responded, “No, I guess not—oh, I remember now, her therapist is a Mr. Ford.”

  Fred found it strange that someone without a degree could pose as a therapist. Oh well, he thought, I’ll ask Maureen about that. Laws and rules are dynamic and maybe someone without the requisite education can practice mental therapy on a limited basis. At any rate that potential illegality pales by comparison to what we have in front of us with these two murder cases. Maybe a decade from now, when we have time on our hands we will check it out.

  Chapter 29

  It was early Friday morning. Most people would be looking forward to the upcoming weekend; but with Fred’s extended hours it was just another work day that ran seamlessly together with other work days.

  Fred checked the address of AU; it was less than four blocks from the station. He called the number provided in the yellow pages and received a very curt recorded voice response. “Hello, this is the Analysis Unlimited Company. Our office is open from 8 a.m. until 5 p.m.”

  Fred looked at his watch—15 minutes to 8. Needing some calorie burner to offset the scrambled eggs, three sausage patties and the two pieces of toast he had for breakfast, he decided to walk to the building. He strode down Main Street in the opposite direction from where he had been knocked to the ground a few days earlier. When he reached Orange Avenue, he took a left; and a few buildings from the corner stood a modern white stucco structure housing Analysis Unlimited.

  The front of the building was devoid of any type of design except for a three-headed dog. Fred assumed it represented the mythical three-headed dog that guards the gates of hell. A strange symbol, Fred thought. Fred intentionally had not contacted anyone from the business in advance of his visit. He reasoned that as a policeman investigating two murder cases, he would be granted immediate access to all personnel records that might shed a light on the investigation. He checked his watch again. It was now 8:02. The office should be open by now.

  Just beyond the front door an attractive blonde manned a richly decorated walnut desk situated in the center of the lobby. Her black and white nameplate revealed that she was Donna Lang. On the desk rested a computer, a monitor and a larger than normal phone, housing at least 10 buttons. The lobby was painted gleaming bright white, almost painful to the eyes; two large abstract garish paintings hung on the wall. Other than the desk, and the paintings, the lobby was totally Spartan. There were no chairs, tables or any decorations other than the things which were on the receptionist’s desk. Fred guessed that either guests were not welcome in this strange establishment, or they were immediately escorted to their business counterparts without the need to spend time relaxing in the outer area.

  To the left and behind the receptionist was a huge security guard. Most office guards that Fred had come across provided more symbolic than real security. They generally were neither interested in their work, nor were they physically capable of neutralizing most intruders. At any rate, their traditionally low pay made it unlikely they would risk bodily harm in defense of their employer. However, the one guarding the only door to the business operations was extremely muscular, highly alert and focused from the moment Fred entered the lobby.

  The blonde receptionist did not look up. On her desk immediately in front of her was some type of formula (e = hf).

  “Looks like you’re doing your algebra homework,” Fred said.

  Miss Lang was startled, because in her concentration she had not seen him enter. Without looking up she said, “No, I wish; I flunked algebra twice, this is a note from our Science Division. I just took a moment to think about it but it’s all Greek to me. It’s just gobbledygook. In the mode I’m in today, I just don’t have enough energy to begin to understand what these eggheads are all about. I guess I won’t strain my brain trying to think about it.”

  “That might be the best course of action,” Fred said in agreement. “By the way, where is your pet dog, Cerberus hiding?”

  “Pet dog? We don’t have a pet dog. Mr. Schultz doesn’t allow any dogs in here. Did you see one?”

  Obviously she was not familiar with the mythical dog Cerberus, so Fred decided not to press his flat joke. “No, sorry, I was mistaken.”

  “Actually, I do have a Scottie at home; his name is Kerber because that’s the type of dog food that he eats.”

  Miss Lang continued to focus on the algebraic symbols, looking even more confused. “Well, that sure makes no sense to me. Why use some letters to represent other letters?”

  What Fred said was, “I am sure I wouldn’t know, Miss.” What Fred thought was, what a nut case.

  Fred frequently found contradictions in his life; he loved the smell of coffee but absolutely hated its taste. The aroma of a flavored pumpkin variety on the secretary’s desk seemed highly appealing. “Smells great,” he said. But tastes lousy, he thought.

  The blonde said, “Yes, the local coffee shop always has a new flavor each morning, but it’s always too hot to drink. Oh, well, at least I don’t get sunburned from it.”

  Fred thought, what a strange, ignorant woman.

  Fred showed her his badge and told her that he wanted to see the person in charge. The blonde, seemingly unimpressed by his badge, asked if he had an appointment. Fred, taken aback by the receptionist’s indifferent attitude said, “Look miss, I don’t need one, this is a murder investigation. Now please get me someone in charge!”

  She gave Fred a cold stare that seemed to last for an eternity and finally pushed one of the numerous switchboard buttons on her desk. Speaking directly into a speaker she said, “Mr. Schultz, a Lieutenant Harris, from the police department, is here to see you.” Then, greatly increasing the volume of her voice while staring directly at Fred, added, “And he doesn’t have an appointment.”

  Putting down the phone, she said, “Mr. Schultz will be with you in about fifteen minutes. He asked that I show you around his company during the interim. Of course, I can’t show you any classified areas.”

  Fred said that would be fine. Donna took him on an accelerated grand tour without identifying the purpose of the individual divisions he visited. He was astonished at the size of the organization. They returned to the lobby within the designated fifteen minutes and Donna immediately went back to her work, now oblivious to Fred’s existence.

  Since there was no place to sit down in the forbidden lobby, Fred walked over to the wall on the right of the secretary’s desk and studied a massive painting. Fred never understood the mass appeal for this type of painting. In the abstract foreground there seemed to be a blue horse with a yellow garden rake protruding from its mouth. Or it could have been a blue dog with a fishing pole in its mouth. Clarity in the details was not what the painting would be noted for. In the background was what appeared to be city skyscrapers. The sky was pink with jet black lightning bolts running
thru it. A brass plate identified the title of the painting as “Conditions.” Fred had no idea what it meant, what it was trying to say or what the motivation of its creator was. He suspected that not even the artist knew what the hell he was painting or why.

  At that moment a large, burly man, wearing an Armani suit, but a tad small for his large 6’5” frame, entered the lobby. Fred suspected the minor misfit was both a recent occurrence and a result of his rapid ascent into the good life. Schultz’s suit was ebony gray, and in Fred’s estimation, in the thousand dollar plus range. His tie was virtually the same color and design, the composite image creating a heavy, gloomy, monochromatic mood. Fred felt this man might have been more suited as a local undertaker than the CEO of a large and most likely thriving business. He suspected Schultz’s attire was an attempt to reinforce his position of authority and dominance; although his size alone was certainly adequate to accomplish that task in and of itself. As the large man approached, Fred was drawn to his penetrating stare; his large blue eyes seemed as if they could melt hardened steel.

  From the limited data that Fred had been able to collect prior to his visit, Schultz had experienced a meteoric rise in the corporate world to C.E.O. of what appeared, based on its trappings, to be a multi-million dollar business.

  According to his bio, only five years ago Schultz had been a traveling salesman, doing extensive business overseas. Although the information on Schultz was sketchy at best, information on his business was virtually non-existent. The crisp, but hazy description of the company available for public scrutiny was ‘import-exporting.’ Even the product lines were not identified with any degree of clarity. Based on its nebulous description, Fred felt the company’s primary customers had to exist outside of the traditional commercial world. But where, he wondered?

  When Fred showed Schultz his badge, he received the same non-responsive reaction as he had with Schultz’s secretary. Schultz said, “Okay, what can I do for you?” As a quick afterthought he added, “Make it quick, I have a meeting with an important customer in a few minutes!” He simultaneously looked at his jeweled Rolex watch as if to reinforce his importance, superiority and wealth, not necessarily in that order. Fred resented Schultz’s response, especially the implication that neither he nor his investigation was relevant in this large man’s world.

  Not to be put off, and with the deepest baritone voice he could muster, Fred said, “I understand, but I am here with reference to a murder; and although I appreciate your busy schedule I have to obtain enough information to help me continue with my investigation.

  “First of all,” he asked, “what is the business of your company”?

  Schultz, moving closer to Fred while looking menacingly down at him with his ten inch advantage, replied, “Importing and exporting, but what has that got to do with anything?”

  Fred, irritated at Schultz’s vagueness, continued with his line of questioning and said, “And what do you import and export?”

  “Anything that makes money for the company. Now again, what would you like to know that would help in the murder case? You’ve consumed five minutes, now I can only allow you a couple more minutes.”

  Fred could not believe this man’s arrogance, especially in light of the backdrop of a murder investigation. Although not really sure of his capacity to execute the strategy that was now evolving in his mind, Fred quickly concocted a bluff. Looking directly at Schultz he said, “Look, I can get a search warrant and bring all your business to a halt while my officers search your records to find out what you do, if that’s what you want. Now what is your preference, voluntary or mandatory?”

  Schultz laughed and with a look of indifference said, “Well, you just do that. Now—are we finished?”

  Schultz started to walk away. Fred intuitively felt this large man, although most likely supremely egoistic in his own right, also had to also be protected by some higher level of authority, probably at a level well beyond Fred’s municipal status. Fred had one remaining ploy but it would work only if Schultz was as egoistic as his persona indicated.

  “Okay,” Fred said, “You are under arrest for obstructing the investigation of a murder case. Put your hands behind your back!”

  For the first time, Schultz revealed a fissure in his armor. He most likely knew that two minutes after arriving at the police station, with a call to his attorney, he would be released. But at the same time Fred felt Schultz’s ego could not tolerate the possibility of his being handcuffed and physically removed from the company in front of his staff.

  “Look,” Schultz said, with the first evidence of a non-belligerent tone, “you must understand that what our company does falls into the category of national security. And as much as I would like to, I can’t go into specific detail as to the nature of our business. Perhaps I can give you a broad summary of our activities. Would that suffice?”

  Fred, recognizing that he had now obtained an upper hand, said, “OK, let’s start there and I will determine if that’s adequate. Now let’s sit down in your office to make this more comfortable for the both of us.” As Fred spoke, he realized the baritone voice he had mustered to attempt to create an atmosphere of bravado had morphed back into his Mayberry RFD voice. He thought, almost out loud, I’ll have to control that.

  Schultz paused and then meekly walked Fred toward a large office, seeming not to notice the change in Fred’s voice modulation. Schultz passed a card through an entry lock and then introduced some numbers into a security panel to the left of the door. He pressed a final entry key and the office door opened automatically.

  As Fred entered the office he noted that the door was metal and at least four inches thick. That’s very strange reinforcement for an internal office door, Fred thought. Noticing residual screw holes next to the existing hinges, Fred reasoned that the door had recently been replaced. Hmm, probably to replace a less sturdy version, Fred surmised.

  The office was obviously the property of a rich and important man. It was well appointed; rosewood panels, aged with patina, graced its interior. A large ornate desk and a matching conference table were positioned at one end of the room. At the other end was a large safe. No pictures were displayed on any of the walls. Either this guy had no family or they were beyond the limits of his organizational life, Fred thought. Also, something conspicuous by its absence was the lack of a window of any nature. Three internal locks had been installed on the inside of the door. Schultz locked them all after he entered.

  Schultz sat down behind his desk and told Fred to take a seat at the conference table. Fred observed the large name plate in the front of the desk with the word “President” on it. What an ego trip this guy is on, Fred thought.

  Schultz began, carefully selecting his words, “First of all, our primary business is with the Federal Government. We conduct research for them,” and then he paused, “It’s in a,—a, very specific area.” Schultz grew silent.

  Fred, seeking to continue to capitalize on the small advantage he now held said, “Look, my cranium is hardly filled with overflowing information with what you just told me. I think you can provide me with some degree of substance beyond the fact that you work for the feds.”

  “Okay,” Schultz meekly responded, “you must have read that both our government and the Soviets have historically used weapons against each other much broader than just the standard military armament that is universally known.” He continued, “It goes into the area of what the average American would call paranormal.”

  Fred said, “You mean such as remote viewing?” That was the single paranormal area that Fred had read about in the media. He recalled that it had been reported that both the Russians and Americans had employed such efforts during the cold war. In fact, he remembered as far back as the late 70’s a downed Russian bomber had been located in Africa using that technique. Fred recognized the fact that the research was now public knowledge meant that the subject had likely been declassified.

  “Yes,” Schultz responded, somewhat s
urprised at Fred’s knowledge, “that is but one of our areas of expertise.”

  “But beyond that,” he continued, but then stopped in mid-sentence transfixed at the light fixture above the conference table. A large hanging ceiling light had begun to sway violently, casting surrealistic moving shadows over all areas of the room. Schultz was mesmerized by the unconventional movement of the fixture. But it seemed to be more than that; Fred saw the pure fear that eclipsed Schultz’s face.

  Fred pulled away from his seat just as the fixture fell at an accelerating speed that seemed to defy the law of gravity and crashed hard against the rosewood table, hurling sharp splinters of glass throughout the office. Schultz was temporarily frozen as he received the bulk of the flying glass in his face. Blood dripped onto the desk blotter creating a mosaic pattern of deep green and maroon. After he gained his breath, Schultz screamed and grabbed his face forcing glass splinters even deeper into his skin.

  The meeting was over.

  Schultz had an aide take him to the hospital but not before he ensured that Fred was escorted from his office and the building as well.

  Outside the building, Fred examined himself for any hidden injuries. It appeared that Schultz was the only casualty. For once Fred felt he was lucky—but he thought, was it really luck?