Evil Like Me

by Steve Bradshaw

“Age is only one factor. Genetics is another. Lifestyle is another. Your physical condition can be greatly affected by non-physical factors like stress. Regardless, our tests eliminated the possibility of a cardiac or vascular incident. While restoring fluids we’ve been running many tests. Are you familiar with MRI, Mr. Wilcox?”

  “You’re checking to see if I got hit on the noggin.”

  “Actually I am looking for internal trauma. We also checked for drugs. Your preliminary toxicology is negative and chemistries normal.”

  “My only drugs are scotch and Marlboro.”

  “You should stop both,” Whiteside scolded. “I was looking for a sedative. A knockout drug. I found nothing. However, your MRI did show something else.”

  “What’s an MRI again?” Wilcox’s interest perked with the doctor’s negative comment. He would pay closer attention now.

  “Magnetic Resonance Imaging utilizes magnetic fields and radio waves to examine organs and other structures inside the body. In your case, we found something peculiar, lesions—internal wounds—isolate to one part of your brain.”

  “Are you saying I have brain damage?”

  “Technically yes, but no observed consequences as of yet. The lesions—injuries—could be serious. Modern medicine has limited experience in the area.”

  “Then they could be nothing. My head feels fine now. No headaches.”

  “I suppose your statement is true to an extent,” Whiteside said. “But I doubt it.”

  “And what is your specialty, doc?” Wilcox jeered.

  “Neurosurgery.”

  Shit. “Can I drop dead all of a sudden?” Wilcox asked. Cottam stared at the floor.

  “Yes. But there is a caveat,” Whiteside said.

  “A proviso?” Wilcox said. Cottam’s wet eyes returned to his detective.

  “I’ve not seen this type of brain injury before. Yours is isolated to one area with no related external trauma. It appears to be a targeted, internally perpetuated injury.”

  Wilcox knew the answer before he asked. “What part of my brain has these lesions?”

  “Your amygdala.”

  Twenty-One

  “The only difference between me and a madman is I am not mad.”

  Salvador Dali

  Washington DC

  *

  “Mr. Baldwin will be with you shortly, Dr. Petty.” The attractive, leggy administrator worked at being cordial—it did not come naturally. She wore sling back high heels, a black pencil skirt, and puffy white blouse. Like crossed sabers on a royal coat of arms, pearl-handled spears stabbed her precision woven, flaxen bun.

  “Would you like coffee, tea, or water while you wait?” Her robotic smile widened in curious increments beneath eyes unable to hide the monotony of her life.

  “Nothing. Thank you.” Petty accepted the polite nod and watched the aging beauty turn and her smile die in the mirror across the small reception room. The quiet felt tedious immediately.

  It took two hours to travel the last hundred yards. Inside the DOJ countless checkpoints, frisks, accusatory inspections, and repeat questions were more intimidating than necessary. Petty would not succumb. She lacked the reverence for the absurd security process and the awe for the liberal politician she hoped to meet, the U.S. Attorney General. He was a big piece in her puzzle.

  Her calls were dropped or bounced around for days. Not until she said the two words did the wheels in the U.S. Department of Justice turn in a favorable direction. After Broken Bow and the Elmwood autopsies, Dr. Petty synchronized with Tony Wilcox. The “two words” he gave her in the helicopter would shoot through the halls of 950 Pennsylvania Avenue like a sizzling rocket on the Fourth of July. In the beginning Hunter Keller meant eyewitness. At the DOJ, Hunter Keller meant the epicenter of a gathering storm.

  Asleep on her office sofa with a case file in hand, the phone rang and papers rained down. The Associate Attorney General—third in line—returned her calls to the U.S. Attorney General. He made an awkward attempt at an exploratory interview, but Petty made it clear she would be doing all the asking, or troubling information connected to the U.S. Department of Justice would go public.

  The phone call ended when she advised the AAG he meet with his boss’s boss if he wanted to know the contents of the sealed letter from the AG to the Shelby County Medical Examiner—the one delivered by Dr. John Swenson. To further expedite the process, Petty said she would only discuss Hunter Keller with Alfred Baldwin.

  She had almost nodded off a second time when the next call came. This time the Deputy Attorney General—second in line—opened with an apology. Although a more sophisticated approach, the DAG soon revealed his lack of knowledge and agreed to try to set up a meeting with Baldwin at DOJ headquarters in D.C. She decided to go without an invitation. Time was of the essence.

  After six o’clock the administrator led Petty into a wood-paneled conference room with bars on the windows. When the door closed, Petty explored the view of the courtyard three floors down. She then sat down at the cherry conference table and took in the eleven foot, sculpted ceiling and walls of bookcases packed with thousands of legal books. She could smell the ink on the million pages mixed with the dust of the gothic structure built in 1935. Running her hand over the smooth cherry table her thoughts went to Franklin D. Roosevelt who probably met with his Attorney General—Homer Cummings—in the same room. It was a better time then, one of great men with great character and vision. What ever happened to the world?

  Alfred Baldwin swooped into the room like a politician at a county fair. “Welcome to Washington D.C.,” he bubbled.

  In seconds she assessed the expensive three-piece suit, protruding belly, and dead toupee atop the salt-and-pepper curls flipping over his rodent ears. His bright red cheeks and petechia revealed high blood pressure and poor diet. The sparse but wild mustache under his bulbous nose revealed a self-perpetuated worldly flare.

  They sat. His smile melted into an anxious grin. “We are familiar with your work in Dallas—the Institute of Forensic Science—and appointment to Shelby County’s Chief Medical Examiner, all tremendous accomplishments in the face of numerous obstacles: the tragic loss of your parents, raising your siblings, and working your way through medical school. You are another great American story, Dr. Petty.”

  Her customary greeting smile stayed on her face as she buried her ire. How dare you invest time and resources looking into the private life of any American? You’re trying to intimidate me with your reach? You think I’m shallow?

  “I am pleased to be in Memphis,” she said. You far left despots always claim to carry the flag of freedom, to be the champions of human rights, but whenever you get the privilege to serve you abuse the power, trample the constitution, break laws, and create a mess for others to fix. Regardless, I must wade through and get some answers. I know you are in the middle of this.

  He didn’t waste time. “Do you know the whereabouts of Hunter Keller?”

  She didn’t either. “Maybe.” She would leave that door ajar. Baldwin just confirmed the importance, as Wilcox hypothesized.

  “Why is Mr. Keller important to the Department of Justice?” This will be interesting.

  Baldwin brushed off the non-existent lint from his coat sleeves. With a neck stretch, he pinched the knot on his fake tie and kept control of the meeting. “Why did you come here?”

  Oh really! This is how you want to play the game? I don’t think so.

  “This might go better if you were mindful of my expertise.” She smiled and leaned back. “I trained my whole life. I’m very good at solving puzzles with little or no help—your research should have told you that.” Her smile melted. “You have a choice, Mr. Baldwin. Tell me nothing, I leave you with a failing effort. Talk to me, maybe new doors open.”

  He slid his hand down his tie and fidgeted with the tip. “You are direct, Dr. Petty.”

  “We both know two of the three doctors sent to Memphis are dead. Dr. Swenson, the leader of your envoy, has disapp
eared. He gave me ‘the story’ and passed your letter.”

  “I am aware that Dr. Green and Dr. Blanchard are dead, Dr. Petty.”

  Interesting you did not say “we” are aware. How narrow is this covert operation? And you did not confirm Dr. Swenson’s disappearance. Maybe you’ve not misplaced him?

  A door opened and a silver tray entered—coffee service. Baldwin waited on the intrusive delivery in silence until the door closed behind the flaxen bun.

  “I’m sorry for the interruption.”

  “Your letter spoke of a national crisis. You sought my support, but offered little explanation. You leaned on my patriotism. In the beginning, I cooperated even though Dr. Swenson prohibited the involvement of local law enforcement—which I found very peculiar. He asked I personally collaborate with the DOJ on a regional matter of national security interest. At the time there were five dead Memphians of interest to you people. I will never forget Dr. Swenson’s words—they died at the hand of a real monster.”

  Baldwin poured a cup. “I’m aware of the words he used.” He held up the pot. “They have been carefully chosen and approved by me.”

  She declined with a wave. “There are eleven deaths linked so far. I returned from Broken Bow, Oklahoma where I conducted an autopsy on a man named Bone Jackson. He was with Hunter Keller when he was shot, a 30-06 round to the chest. One of our homicide detectives lays in ICU now. He took a bullet to the head while attempting to bring in Hunter Keller. We found an unidentified body holding a rifle in the woods by a cabin. I have two more dead at Elmwood Cemetery in Memphis—I believe they are connected. Your people have lost control, Mr. Baldwin. Or maybe you never had control.”

  “I’m sorry to hear this, Dr. Petty.” He sipped. She watched his eyelid twitch and face turn purple. “This discussion’s not moving in a good direction.”

  “Dr. Swenson said the cause of death was the telepathic manipulation of the amygdala.”

  Baldwin looked into his coffee cup. “Yes. A terrible new way to die, I’m afraid. One with enormous national security implications.”

  “What does that mean?” she asked. “How is Hunter Keller involved? Is he your monster?”

  They sat in a confusing silence. Petty watched Baldwin stare into his cup. The Attorney General seemed unable or unwilling to share information. Petty concluded he knew nothing or he knew everything. She would return to Memphis and untangle the mystery her way.

  “Well then.” She got to her feet. “I am sorry I took the time to come here. I see this is a matter you believe the government can and should handle alone. As an American citizen, and one who understands the methods and madness of serial killers, I can only wish you luck. You will need it. I will return home and do what I do.”

  “No. Wait.” He swallowed hard and pushed his cup away. “My silence is not what you think. I am thinking. I am consumed by an unfathomable national crisis. I allowed this meeting because I intend to tell you more. You are right. We must employ experienced professionals.”

  “You may have those intentions, but I still see it is not something you want to do.”

  “Too many have been killed. Many more are going to die, Dr. Petty. There is a very dangerous man out there. This demon has managed to evade the unlimited resources of the most powerful government on earth.” His hands trembled. Petty sat. “I want to tell you more, but you must understand this office has limits—national defense responsibilities. Everything I do is governed by strict policy and procedure, and the President of the United States.”

  “I understand limits, but if you want help you must share information.”

  “I am going to tell you things known only to a few. The stakes are high.”

  “I’m not the enemy. Anything you say will be used to bring this nightmare to a close.”

  Baldwin flashed a nervous smile. He locked both doors and stood looking out the window. “Senator Willingham was the first. The senator from Oklahoma was my personal friend.”

  “He died five years ago. I recall reading about it in the Washington Post.”

  Baldwin nodded. “What you read is not what happened. Wilber dropped dead in the basement of the U.S. Capital Building. We thought a heart attack. They rushed him to George Washington University Hospital, lights and sirens. He left dead. They thought he had a massive stroke. He had all the signs.”

  “Cerebral vascular accident,” Petty said.

  “We were told an artery in his brain ruptured. He hemorrhaged.”

  “And what did the autopsy reveal?”

  Baldwin wiped his eyes with a crumpled napkin. “We flew in our pathologist to do the autopsy. We’ve used him in the past. Do you know Dr. Leonard Dryden?”

  “Of course. He is a respected forensic pathologist, second only to Dr. Elliott Sumner.”

  “Dr. Sumner was our first choice. At the time he was hunting an international serial killer. I believe Europe and South America. He recommended Dr. Dryden, who subsequently has been working with us on a flurry of fallen CIA operatives. Dryden is a specialist, well versed in the exotic weaponry used against our people by the most clandestine forces in the world.

  “Dryden found no evidence of a stroke. Willingham’s cause of death was unknown.”

  “Imaginations went wild—our nation’s security breached,” Petty surmised.

  “Precisely our concern. Did we have a killer on Capitol Hill? Is it organized? Are others in danger? We spared no expense finding out how Senator Willingham died. We could not show our concern. Only the highest level of the government knew our true fears.”

  “Did you find the cause of death?” Petty asked.

  Still staring out the window, Baldwin spoke in a trance. “The bulging eyes and contorted facial muscles and snow white complexion, we kept it away from the media.” He turned to Petty. “We found lesions on the amygdala. Dr. Dryden concluded they were induced at a cellular level. Trauma to the amygdala explained all the exhibited external anomalies.”

  “What killed him?”

  “Senator Willingham was scared to death,” Baldwin sighed.

  “Lesions to the amygdala can create an overwhelming sense of terror,” she confirmed.

  “The frightening experience—although self-manufactured—threw Willingham into shock. The realization shut down his heart.”

  Petty went through her diagnostic models searching for a feasible cause, but continued to hit a wall. There was no precedence. “Did Dr. Dryden explore the etiology of these lesions?”

  “Yes. Extensive study. He concluded the lesions had to be telepathically produced.”

  “I find that hard to believe,” Petty said shaking her head. “Do you realize how significant that would be—mental manipulation of biology outside a host?”

  “Following the senator’s death, Dr. Dryden’s hypothesis was confirmed. We know a lethal telepathic weapon exists. We also know that if a United States Senator can be targeted and terminated in the heart of our nation’s capital, we are an exposed nation.”

  “May I meet with Dr. Dryden to learn more about his findings and confirmations?”

  “No. Dr. Dryden is dead.”

  Petty leaned back in her chair shocked. “I did not see anything about his death. I would have known.”

  Baldwin continued to stare out the window. “It was handled as a natural death. Kept low key. There was a quiet family funeral.”

  “But I never …”

  “He was killed while reporting his findings. I was there, Dr. Petty. It was horrible. Dr. Dryden collapsed in front of the elite committee. We watched the grotesque deformations, the convulsions, and the terror the poor man experienced. We saw him die and could do nothing.”

  “Oh God.” Petty froze. Could this all be true?

  In a distant daze, Baldwin whispered at the glass window pane. “Leonard described everything as it happened. His face changed first. His eyes bulged with the terror. He talked as long as he could. Then the cramping. His arms locked. Legs. His back arched. He flopped on t
he floor like a marlin pulled from the ocean. We couldn’t get near him. We could not save him”

  “I’m sorry,” Petty sighed with glassy eyes.

  “The autopsy revealed the most extensive lesions we’ve ever seen. His heart exploded.”

  Petty could do nothing but stare at the table as Baldwin returned to his chair. “Someone attacked that man with malice, Dr. Petty. They wanted to send a clear message to the United States Government.”

  “Your letter authorized my access to the Rejdak Project.”

  “And you are unable to enter,” Baldwin confirmed.

  “I’ve done my own research. You could have come up with a less transparent name for your secret program. I know all about Mr. Rejdak’s work in the eastern bloc—psychotronic research.”

  “There’s a lot of information out there on the topic, but it is incomplete and speculative. It lacks the research necessary to establish an acceptable validation model—no double blind randomized studies the scientific community would expect.”

  “Psychic-weaponry is a hot topic in paranormal circles. Like most fringe science, the scientific community is the last to get on board.”

  “That is true.”

  “Seems to me discrediting ‘breakthrough science’ for national defense purposes would be risky, Mr. Baldwin.”

  “Maybe, but we’re quite good at it, Dr. Petty. We do not like to share breakthroughs with the world, especially those with potential military applications.”

  “I must admit I cannot believe you would admit the obvious to me,” Petty said.

  “You are an educated woman. You know most communications in the world are propaganda with intended outcomes. Manipulation of the masses is the mantra of the global news media. Information is selected, packaged, and presented based on objectives of world powers.”

  “I would not lose too much sleep over it, Mr. Baldwin. The masses are not that easily fooled. On the contrary, we now search for truth in many more places. The established news media will evolve and one day serve the people again. Power is like a summer storm. It is fleeting. Truth finds a way. I know it’s hard to imagine, but one day you’ll not be in this office.”