Mirror Image

by Dennis Palumbo

  Which was why, as Nancy and I headed down the main corridor, most of the office doors on either side of us were closed. Including Brooks Riley’s, still striped with crime scene tape.

  One door stood open. Bert Garman sat behind his desk, face in his hands, eyes looking out between his fingers as if from behind bars. He was wearing the same clothes as the night before.

  “Jesus,” I said. “Didn’t you go home last night?”

  Garman closed his fingers, rubbed his forehead. “Only long enough to help Elaine pack after the cops released her. She wanted to move into a hotel.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Nancy said.

  He shrugged. “Our marriage has been over for a long time. With enough blame on both sides, believe me.”

  I looked at the piles of papers and files scattered atop his desk. His computer was on, displaying multi-colored graphs. “You need anything?” I asked.

  “Other than a miracle? With all the bad press, our acquisition by UniHealth is on life support. Luckily, those greedy bastards know a cash cow when they see one. As long as I can keep the patients’ families happy.”

  Garman fished around the loose papers, raised one up to show us. A form letter. “I’m sending this out to all the families. We’re having a big meeting next week to allay any fears about the clinic. I’m also pulling every string I can to pressure the media to back off. I mean, there’s got to be other stories to cover.”

  “Except Ten Oaks keeps giving them a new one every other day,” I said. “Murder, suicide…”

  Garman’s voice grew sharp. “That reminds me. I heard about Noah Frye, and I’m sorry. But I’d appreciate it if you both could keep it quiet that he used to be a patient here. Even though that was before my time, when I was still at Clearview Hospital, any connection, even tangential, with Ten Oaks just adds more fuel to the fire.”

  I folded my arms. “There will be an investigation. Noah’s medical history will be part of it.”

  “I know that, Dan. But you don’t have the board of directors up your ass every day.”

  “No,” I admitted. “I guess I don’t.”

  “That’s right. You get to be the stalwart idealist, and I’m Ebenezer Scrooge. Well, to hell with you.”

  He looked over at Nancy. “And you, too. This used to be a nice, cushy little profession till you liberals showed up.”

  His attempt at banter was undone by the flecks of pain in his pale eyes. Even he seemed to be aware of this.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll be all right.” He waved us away. “I’ll just wallow in paperwork till the bars open.”

  Nancy winced. “Great. That’s a load off my mind.”

  As she and I turned to leave, Garman stirred. “Hey, what are you guys doing here, anyway?”

  “We came by for Nancy’s briefcase,” I said. “She thinks she might have left it in her office.”

  Another lie. I was getting good at them.

  ***

  On my instructions, Nancy opened the door to the medical dispensary, then locked it behind us. The small room gleamed a greenish-white under the fluorescents.

  With a second key, she unlocked the sturdy metal cabinet where the clinic meds were stored, in innocuous little white boxes.

  Nancy took down one of these and opened it. I took the safety-sealed pill bottle from her hand and read the label. Then I poured some pills into my hand.

  Adnorfex. Fifty milligram tablets. I dropped a few into my jacket pocket and closed the bottle again.

  She gave me a look. “There’s nothing here, Danny. Adnorfex’s been on the market over a year. The clinical trials were stringent. I saw the data myself. Besides—”

  “Can I take a look at your book?”

  I picked up a thick ledger from its shelf, flipping through pages of her small, careful handwriting until I found October of this year.

  “Here it is,” I said. “The Adnorfex you prescribed for Richie Ellner. And that you procure for Noah.”

  She nodded. “I designate him as an uncooperative outpatient whose care is maintained by a private benefactor. I still have to keep track of where the pills go.”

  I was staring at the row of boxes on the shelf.

  “What is it?” Nancy craned her neck to follow my gaze.

  I took down two boxes and showed her the fine print under the drug company’s logo and the interminable list of directions and contra-indications.

  “These two boxes are different from the others,” I explained. “The drug company switched distributors.”

  “So? What does that mean?”

  “I’m not sure. But I’m starting to get an idea.”

  I handed her one of the boxes. She had to tilt it up to the light to read.

  “Speedway Distributors. A Division of Cochran International.” She looked at me. “Again, so…?”

  I smiled. “You’ve got to start reading the financial news, Doctor.”

  Chapter Fifty-three

  Peter Clarkson had a pretty nice swing. Even before the ball vanished into the darkness, you could tell it would cover a lot of distance before falling into the tree-shrouded valley below.

  The driving range was on the crest of a hill that overlooked the faded business district of Verona. Even from this height you could see the steel-gray surface of the Allegheny River, implacably flowing beside the rust-pitted railroad tracks that ran alongside it. Only the mournful hum of a late-night bus idling at a corner rose up from the lonely streets.

  Clarkson stepped back from the tee. Powerful arc lamps overhead created a bright pool of light a dozen feet in any direction, beyond which the night was black and cold. Except for Clarkson, the small driving range was deserted.

  “Nice shot,” I said, stepping into the circle of light. “But I think it was starting to slice.”

  My feet sank into the worn green felt, its permanent tees spaced like buttons along the thin strip.

  Clarkson pivoted, startled. “Jesus! What the hell are you doing up here?”

  “I wanted to talk to you.” I took another step closer. “I knew you and Wingfield were back in town. Your secretary said you planned to come by here after a business dinner.”

  “Yeah? First thing in the morning, I fire her ass.”

  He found his grip on the club and took a practice swing. “Piece of shit club. The kid behind the counter said it was the best they had.”

  “Well, you’ll have to take it up with him later. I just gave him a fifty to go get himself a pizza.”

  “Now why the hell would you do that?” he said. Eyes cold and green as brackish water.

  “I thought it’d be better if we spoke in private.”

  He pointed his club at me. “Maybe that wasn’t so smart. For you.”

  “Easy, Peter. Don’t make me take that thing away from you.”

  “Look, what the fuck do you want? I don’t have all night. Sheila’s waiting in the car for me. In the lot.”

  “I know. I saw her. She doesn’t mind just sitting there, alone, while you work on your game?”

  “I guess not. She’s in her own world half the time, anyway.”

  He swung the club around like a pointer, its arc taking in the sloping valley, and the glittering lights from the river.

  “Guy at the Burgoyne recommended this place,” he said easily. “Oakmont’s just down there. Beyond those trees.”

  “I know. They’ve played the U.S. Open there twice. Arnold Palmer used to hit practice drives from exactly where you’re standing. Only without the slice.”

  He stared at me for a moment, then started to walk away. “Look, this is bullshit. I’m not gonna—”

  Without thinking, I reached and caught hold of his shoulder, spun him around. He was too off-balance to connect with the club, and his swing just fanned the air as I ducked beneath it. I managed to grab his wrist, then hook my thumb around his and pull it back.

  He gasped, stunned. The golf club clattered to the ground. I picked it up.

  Clarkson back-stepped i
n a crouch, holding his thumb with his other hand. “You son-of-a-bitch.”

  “Not compared to you. Co-conspirator in a murder. Then there’s the sex with your sister. Your blind sister. Maybe we should start there.”

  Flexing his injured hand, Clarkson stood straighter. Gave me a thin smile. “Listen, you don’t know who you’re dealing with.”

  “Like hell. I know what kind of man Miles Wingfield is. I learned in Banford about the fire that conveniently destroyed the court records concerning his children. And I’m damn sure that a genetic scientist named Terry Mavis didn’t die of an accidental drug overdose.” I paused. “Of course, you’d know more about that than I would.”

  “You’re bluffing. You don’t have shit.” But Clarkson’s face had turned wary. Eyes like a cornered animal’s.

  I had to do this just right. He was a dozen years my junior. If he decided to make a run for it, I was screwed.

  “We know you started working for Wingfield after he moved to California,” I went on carefully. “Some kind of school intern program.”

  “So?”

  “I mean, I thought Wingfield was a sick bastard. But you’re right up there. That’s why you two made such a good match. Especially when you found out about his…special needs. Tell me, how much did he pay you to let him join the sex between you and Sheila?”

  Clarkson’s lips barely moved. “More than you’ll ever see in your life, asshole.”

  Something had shifted in him. His eyes were resolute points. He’d made a decision.

  I saw it too late. The moist night air pricked my throat as I took a sharp breath. He’d taken a small handgun out of his jacket pocket.

  I knew what I was supposed to say. The code word. But I said something else instead.

  “When did it start between you and Sheila? Was it when your parents were killed?”

  He raised the gun and pointed it at my chest. “Go on. Let’s talk. Doesn’t much matter now. And lose the club.”

  I dropped the club to the ground. Kept my voice level.

  “Poor Sheila. Blind since birth, then losing her parents…Desperate, she turned to the only family she had left, her big brother…” I raised my eyebrows. “How old was she? Nine, ten?”

  “Eleven.” He held the gun easily now. In control. “But she developed early. Hell, I used to get boners just watching her take a shower…” A brief, salacious smile.

  “Then Wingfield brings you into his world,” I said. “The money. The parties. All in exchange for letting him orchestrate the sex between you and Sheila.”

  Clarkson’s eyes shone. A strange, narcissistic pride emanated from him. The trickster, revealed. Boastful.

  “And Sheila,” I continued. “She went along with all of it, because of you. She loves you. You’re her whole world. The only real world she knows.”

  “Blah, blah, blah…Now you’re boring me, Doc.” His forefinger stroked the gun’s trigger.

  “Until you and she got too old for Wingfield,” I quickly went on. “And his interest started to wane. What were you by then, seventeen, eighteen…?”

  “Yeah. Something like that. I knew he was looking around for somebody else…other sibs. Younger. But he had bigger problems at the time…”

  “Terry Mavis?”

  I risked a glance at the gun. No chance for a grab at it. He stood just out of reach, not letting anything we were saying distract him. Not yet, anyway.

  “Young Dr. Mavis…Man, for a science geek, that guy could party. But everybody said he was brilliant. And Wingfield was his biggest fan. Spent millions on Mavis’ research for a drug with milder side effects than Thorazine or Haldol. The new ‘magic bullet’ for psychotic patients. It was called Adnorfex. Only one problem…”

  “It didn’t work.”

  “Nope. The doc tried to explain it to me once. The genetic material he’d worked with had developed a mutated nucleus or some shit. He said it trip-wired the brain’s receptor caps, making them even more receptive to…what the hell was it?—”

  “Neurotransmitters,” I said flatly. “From what you’re describing, it’d be like punching more holes in a sieve, so that the neurotransmitters flooded the patient’s brain. Similar to an LSD flashback, activating regions most sensitive to delusions. Sudden, terrifying delusions.”

  “Yeah, that’s it. Terry said it was like giving LSD to a psychotic.”

  Now I understood what had happened to Richie Ellner. And to Noah. And God knew how many others throughout the country.

  “No wonder Wingfield was freaking out,” I said. “After all that time and money, Terry Mavis had handed him a big load of nothing.”

  Clarkson laughed. “Oh, yeah. But the buzz had grown too huge around Adnorfex. Investors were beating down the doors to get in on it. Wingfield had sunk almost everything he had into its development. Things were coming to a head.”

  “And all your data was shit.”

  “Grade-A shit. And when it comes to FDA approval for a new drug, clinical trials make or break you. So Wingfield pulled every string he had to put Adnorfex on the fast-track for FDA approval. But to do that—”

  “He had to rig the clinical data,” I said.

  “He pressured Mavis big-time. And the boy genius was so strung out and in debt, he had no choice. So he went along with it. Until he was about to testify before the FDA Review Board. Suddenly he got an attack of conscience. He said he was going to reveal that the clinical trials had been rigged. That we’d seen severe negative reactions in test subjects using the new drug.”

  “So Terry Mavis had to go.”

  He grew sullen, uneasy. Tightened his grip on the gun.

  I took a guess. “Now I understand why you’re still working for Wingfield. He forced you to help him kill Terry Mavis. Made you an accomplice in staging the overdose.”

  “Don’t be so smug.” Clarkson roused himself with anger. “Look what bein’ such a smart-ass got you. Alone on a hill looking down the barrel of a gun…”

  He sniffed loudly. “Besides, I was already in too deep. I knew about the rigged data. If Mavis did testify before the Board, I’d be fucked too.”

  “But not as fucked as you were by helping kill Mavis. Because then Wingfield had a lock on you forever.”

  I paused. “As for Sheila…I guess she stayed because she loves you. Because she has nowhere else to go. Maybe because, after all that’s happened, she still thinks her safety lies with you.”

  “Shut up! I don’t wanna talk about Sheila, okay?” Clarkson stepped forward, thrust the gun barrel at my face. “Okay?”

  I felt the gun pressed against my brow, and willed myself to breathe. Too late for code words now.

  “No more talk. Instead, I think I’ll just blow you away. Right now. How about that? Right now.”

  He cocked the hammer.

  I closed my eyes and thought about Barbara. Her last moment on earth. Had it felt like this?

  Chapter Fifty-four

  Clarkson’s gun-hand began to tremble. He blinked, forehead beaded with sweat.

  “But that wouldn’t be smart.” He lowered the gun and stepped back. “And I’ve gotta be smart.”

  I felt a long breath leave my body. Struggled against a rising panic, my heart pounding like a hammer.

  “It’s gotta look like an accident,” he was saying. “I did it before, with Terry Mavis. I can do it with you.”

  “Maybe.” Keep him talking. Just a bit more. I just needed a little more.

  “But you haven’t finished the story.” I forced myself to stay focused. “Mavis is dead. Adnorfex gets okayed, distributed. Wingfield gets rich. Everything’s great. Until…”

  “Until what, Doc?” Clarkson scratched his cheek with the gun barrel. “You’re so fucking smart, you tell me.”

  “My guess is, a few months after Adnorfex’s release, abnormal side effects start getting reported by hospitals and clinics.”

  “Right again. But you gotta admire Wingfield’s balls. Through UniHealth, one of his compan
ies, he starts buying up the hospitals and clinics where these cases were being reported. He even pays off the patients’ families—Not that this is anything new. Hell, Warner-Lambert did the same thing when diabetics started croaking from using Rezulin.”

  “Is that why UniHealth bought up Ten Oaks? I saw the picture of you shaking hands with Bert Garman.”

  “Yeah, that was taken when we closed the deal. Funny thing is, we hadn’t heard any negative reports from Ten Oaks. Not yet, anyway. Still, it’s the most profitable clinic in the state, and Wingfield wanted it under the UniHealth roof.” He winked. “Business is business.”

  I had to ask. “Did Bert Garman know about the problems with Adnorfex?”

  “Hell, no. All he cared about was getting rich. Stock options for the clinic’s board of directors was part of the deal, and he had the biggest share.” He laughed. “But talk about pussy-whipped…I met the wife. A cast-iron bitch with a worse habit than Terry Mavis. Poor bastard.”

  I considered all this as Clarkson rocked on his heels, brandishing the gun.

  “But even Wingfield must have realized he couldn’t keep buying off trouble,” I said carefully. “Not with reports about the drug’s side effects growing. He loses everything if the news gets out.”

  “That’s right.” Clarkson made a beckoning motion with his free hand, as though to a slow student. “So…?”

  I took a breath. “So he comes up with a plan. By merging with Cochran International, Wingfield can use them to distribute Adnorfex world-wide. In markets far less rigidly monitored and regulated. If he moves fast enough, he can still make a fortune before having to halt production of the drug.”

  But Clarkson didn’t seem to be listening anymore. His look at me had become bored, disengaged.

  “Sorry. Wasn’t paying much attention there at the end.”

  I watched as the glimmer of an idea rose in his eyes.

  “You know,” he said, “I was just thinking. Helluva drop from up here, eh?”

  He feigned a horrified look at the edge of the green felt. And the dark sweep of nothingness beyond.

  “I mean, way up here. In the dark. A guy loses his balance. Falls. It could happen, right?” He shrugged. “What do you think, Doc? Feel like taking the plunge?”