Outlier: One mistake can destroy everything.

by Jacob Mesmer

  “Don’t worry; I won’t tell a soul! Wait, he was engaged, and then she died, and now he’s seeing you? Did he…” she trailed off.

  “Well, the story is, he found her. Blood everywhere. Some kind of accident. And he is the only detective. You never know what’s going on in these small towns! But he’s totally cool with me, though. You know we went to high school together, right?” Beth said, extremely pleased with herself.

  “You are such a schemer! How long have you two been planning this…never mind! I don’t want to know!” Clara said, very excited.

  “Wait; nobody said anything about anybody planning anything! Don’t put words in my mouth!” Beth said, smiling broadly. “Remember, don’t tell anybody. We’re just getting started, and I think he might need some time to sort things out. Poor guy is totally confused. Just remember, don’t say anything! Promise?” she said, attempting to sound serious.

  “I promise!” Clara responded, now fully awake and making plans.

  Bethany ended the call. She was very proud of herself.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Jay swept slowly, checking the big clock up on the wall. One more hour until Saturday classes were finished. He’d never enjoyed himself more than he had in the past few hours. The police had come, looked in that locker, but found nothing. Why would they? He’d never touched it. He’d never touched anything. And now with that lawyer on his side, nobody could stop him.

  So long as he didn’t touch anything or anybody, he would own this school. The students were already looking at him a lot differently. Fearful. Respectful. He didn’t have to worry about bumping into them as he pushed his broom down the hall. They immediately got out of his way. Some turned the corner, saw him, and immediately went in the other direction. Jay had never felt so important in his life.

  Walking a few meters behind him were the principal, Pedro Martinez, and the vice principal, Sharlene Jackson. They had been told in no uncertain terms by Mr. Goldberg, Jay’s attorney, that if they fired him or even sent him home without cause, they would face a lawsuit so big—both personally and professionally—that they would never work anywhere again. He was even blatant enough to tell them he would file so many lawsuits that both of them would go bankrupt before they even went before a judge. They were watching Jay very closely, completely baffled at the recent turn of events.

  “We can’t fire him, we can’t send him home, but the kids are now terrified of him. What happens when the kids stop coming and tell their parents? What do we tell them?” Ms. Jackson asked, utterly frustrated.

  “He knows we’ve got security cameras everywhere. He so much as lays a finger on any of these children, and we’ll have this place swarming with police. We’ll just need to have somebody follow him closely at all times and call us immediately if and when something happens. That’s what we’ll tell the parents. We can’t fire him, but we are watching every move. Hopefully, this will blow over soon,” Martinez said, shaking his head.

  Jay knew they were behind him, and he knew why. But he wasn’t worried. He would practice every night at home. Until he could move things without looking at them in his peripheral vision. Then he could cause real terror. A book flung here, a door slammed there; within a week the children would be too terrified to even come to school. If they closed the school? So what. He would wander the streets of Rockport. Nobody could stop him.

  Of course, he could also take the bus to San Antonio. In fact, that was a good idea. Watch things out the window. Watch people out the window. Make them move. Make them crash.

  What fun he would have. Jay looked at the floor as he swept, playing with the small growing balls of dust. Moving them ahead of the broom, just enough to keep his mind occupied.

  Nobody would ever be mean to him again.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Sean walked into Dr. Nguyen’s office, seeing through the window that he was working on a victim. San Antonio had plenty. He knocked, motioned that he’d wait, and then sat down in the spare chair in the office. He stared at the collection of completed Sudoku puzzles. Dr. Nguyen entered a few minutes later.

  “Detective Lovac, I appreciate you coming directly. But I’m afraid I don’t have many answers, only questions.”

  Only a week ago Dr. Nguyen had promised he’d get to the bottom of this. Back then Sean had believed him. Believed that it was possible. Now he didn’t know what to think.

  “Go ahead,” Sean said.

  “Well, I’ve got a couple of contacts that know some information about BioGyn and their recent pre-clinical trials with LoZiet. They are trying out some kind of stress relief drug, but it’s engineered in a way to cross the blood-brain barrier. Most drugs, even prescription-strength drugs, stay in the bloodstream. But a few drugs can cross the membrane into the cerebral fluid. At first I thought maybe had Ms. Paimen been a participant, it may have been an adverse reaction.”

  “Meaning the experimental drug got into her brain and caused her death,” Sean asked, emotionless.

  “Correct. But I got a list of participants, and the only resident of Rockport who was involved was one Jay Hutchins. Does that name mean anything?” Dr. Nguyen asked.

  “Yes; unfortunately, it does. He is—or was—a suspect in some, uh, incidents. But apparently he is now hands-off.”

  “I don’t follow.” Dr. Nguyen said. Sean explained the sudden appearance of a high-powered attorney from Houston.

  “Sean,” Dr. Nguyen started, standing, “I need to warn you. If he’s come from BioGyn, I would steer clear. I mean, don’t even ruffle this guy’s feathers,” he finished, looking at Sean with concern.

  “Why the fuck not?” Sean asked directly.

  “Well, those large pharmaceutical companies have quite a bit of power. So much that if I revealed my contact, who gave me this information, both he and I could lose our medical licenses. They have an incredibly large lobbying group, and give obscene amounts of money to both Democrats and Republicans.” Dr. Nguyen sat back down.

  “So you’re saying they own Congress?” Sean asked in contempt. He was still standing.

  “That’s not the half of it. They write the laws that Congress passes regulating the drug companies.”

  Sean became perplexed and finally sat.

  “So you’re saying these guys are literally above the law?”

  “More or less. Most people are surprised that many of the medical decisions today are directed by the few pharmaceutical companies. Have you been to see a doctor recently? They almost prescribe medication as a reflex,” Nguyen said, looking dejected.

  Sean thought of Chief Hernandez and his endless bottle of pain pills.

  They were both quiet for a few minutes.

  “So, there’s not much I can do. Is there?” Sean said it as more of a statement than a question. Dr. Nguyen only shook his head.

  “Doctor, I’m going to show you something. Tell me what you see. The guy in this video, the only one that’s not a kid, is Hutchins. The guy you said they gave this trial drug to.” Sean pulled out his phone and showed him the video. Dr. Nguyen watched it a few times. He looked up at Sean, cocking his head to the side.

  “Nothing in the locker. Behind was a glass case. Nothing broken. We’ve taken prints, but I doubt they’ll be anything. Even if they are his prints in there, I don’t know if it’s enough to risk talking to him, considering how powerful you say that company is.”

  They both sat in silence for another minute. Sean was looking intently at Dr. Nguyen, and Dr. Nguyen was staring at the desk.

  “Doctor,” Sean started, not sure how to continue, “those drugs they gave him. Would it be at all possible, I mean, to allow him to do something like that? Make that book fly out on its own?” Sean felt embarrassed after having said it out loud.

  “Detective, I know for a fact that many governments, most prominently the United States and the old Soviet Union, have spent millions, if not billions, of dollars researching that very question.”

  “You mean that MK Ultra
stuff? I thought that was only in the movies or on nut-job conspiracy sites.” Sean wasn’t quite sure where this conversation was going.

  “I’ll admit, it does sound outlandish. But the fact remains that military agencies have been spending huge amounts of money on black-box, hands-off projects. I only know of a few through various contacts, but if it’s even plausible, they’ll do research.” Dr. Nguyen seemed like he might have believed it was possible.

  “Which is why they send a high-priced lawyer to protect—what—their investment?” Sean asked.

  “That would be a plausible explanation—given the events and the details,” Dr. Nguyen finished.

  They both continued sitting without speaking for several minutes.

  “Doctor,” Sean began, swallowing, “Is it possible that Jay, I mean, Hutchins, did that to Sheryl? Maybe inadvertently?”

  He remembered talking to Jay last week. Surely if he’d hurt her and known it, he wouldn’t have been so calm around Sean.

  Dr. Nguyen slowly shook his head. “Given the situation, this video you’ve shown me, and the other details, I don’t think we could rule that out, as horrible as it sounds.”

  Sean folded his hands together tightly, interlocking his fingers and squeezing. He looked up at Dr. Nguyen slowly.

  “What do I do? What can I do?” Sean asked, barely audible, as if to himself.

  “I don’t know, Detective. I do not know,” Dr. Nguyen said, shaking his head.

  Neither did Sean.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Agent Long walked down the empty hallway, the sounds of his leather soles echoing off the bare cement walls. He’d joined the Agency immediately after finishing at the University of Arizona with an MBA. He’d been recruited, as had many of his colleagues, starting early in their careers. He’d worked in financial crimes for three years, cutting his teeth. Chasing down wire fraud, money laundering, attempting to catch drug lords and terrorists not by their acts, but by the trails they left.

  Despite practicing with his weapon on a weekly basis— much more than required—he never once removed his gun from his holster. After putting in the required desk work, he’d finally been given a field position in Boston. Three more years, this time much more exciting and much more dangerous. Three times he’d used deadly force in the line of duty. Three times he had been investigated, and three times he was cleared. As the Bureau required, each event was followed by psych counseling.

  After his second counseling session, he’d been approached with an interesting proposition by a very senior agent. He’d been given a very brief, very vague overview of what this elite team was responsible for. After his third shooting, his psych session had been with the same senior agent. None of the discussion had involved his dreams, his feelings, or anything regarding that shooting.

  It had only been about his thoughts on this elite team, about which he had been still unsure. Unsure about its function, its responsibilities, and most importantly, unsure about the chain of command. He’d searched for this senior agent’s name in the official org chart, but had not found it. It was to this senior agent’s office, in this nondescript downtown Houston building, that he now walked.

  He opened the wooden door, which could have been to a school classroom or an administrative government building, and entered a small room. It was very ugly with well-worn brown carpeting. There were no chairs, no desks, and no windows; only a clean metal door with no handles and a retinal scanner and a fingerprint scanner. The machine scanned his left eye and his right forefinger at the same time, and the metal door quietly clicked open. He knew from experience that he’d only had three seconds to enter, after which time the door would shut, and he would be locked out for 24 hours.

  He entered into what looked like a medium-sized normal office. A few workers in cubicles were staring intently at computer screens. They were scrolling through data, mousing around street maps and various personal data. He walked past the desks and into the office in back, where his senior agent was waiting.

  “Long. You wanted to talk to me about something?” the senior agent said, still reading the documents in the open folder on his otherwise spotless mahogany desk.

  “You know what about. The situation in Rockport. I’d like to intervene.”

  The senior agent stopped reading. He took a slow, deep breath, and closed the folder. He then looked up at Agent Long.

  “You know the protocol. We cannot intervene directly unless the candidate has shown sufficient action. Has he?”

  Agent Long sat down, and took a breath. “No,” was all he could say.

  The senior agent continued looking at him. “What would you like me to do?”

  “I need guidance. I’d like to bring him in. I know he hasn’t made the step. I don’t want to lose him. I need to make sure he makes the right decision, that he takes the right action.”

  The senior agent nodded his head and looked down at the closed manila folder.

  “You can observe and make yourself available, but you absolutely cannot advise. He has to come to you. You know the rules. And when—or if—he does come to you, you must communicate in a way that makes it his decision. Only his. You are not to mention this,” the senior agent said, motioning to the few staff outside his office, “until after a successful decision and follow-through on his part. Are you absolutely clear on that.” Not a question. He looked at him intently.

  “Yes, sir. Understood. Thank you.” Agent Long stood to leave, and as he was about to open the door, the senior agent spoke once more, stopping him.

  “That being said, bring him in. Are we clear?”

  Agent Long smiled, nodded, and left.

  “Observe and make myself available,” he said to himself, although he knew every square inch of this nondescript building was recorded in several different ways.

  “I can do that.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Sean had received no less than two texts from the mayor, Winnie Rodriquez, since he left Dr. Nguyen’s office. He tried to recall the last time she’d texted him rather than left a voicemail. He couldn’t. They both said urgent. He wondered what in the world could be urgent to the mayor of a town of less than 50,000 on a Saturday evening. Something happen to the chief?

  He called her as soon as traffic allowed. She was at home, where she requested his presence. He pulled up to the curb 30 minutes later.

  “Sorry for the theatrics,” she smiled, giving him a hug and a kiss on the cheek. She motioned for him to follow her into her office. “Get you something to drink?” she asked. Sean declined.

  Sean sunk into the deep blue fabric recliner, opposite her equally deep leather recliner. Behind her were pictures of family, grandkids, local sports teams, and various businesses. One picture was of her standing with a Texas congressman congratulating her on her first election victory, decades earlier. She was more a mother to this town than a mayor. Between them was a rarely used fireplace. To his right was a bookcase loaded with law books. She’d been a lawyer for a few years before deciding to come back to Rockport, her hometown.

  “I’ll make it quick. I’ve got two things that may end up impacting each other. We aren’t really sure yet.” She leaned back into the recliner, putting her feet up on the extended footrest.

  “First, you know the chief doesn’t have much time left before he is going to be forced to retire. He can barely get out of bed some days. Have you considered his replacement?” she asked, smiling. He knew what she’d meant.

  “I’ve been kind of on the fence.” He didn’t want to mention his plans on law school. He still hoped he might get the city to pay for it.

  “Well, I know you aren’t but thirty, but I think your record speaks for itself. There is, however, something that has come up that may make things a bit, shall we say, sticky,” she said. Sean was curious what this issue was.

  “What can you tell me about Bethany Edwards?” she asked without judgment.

  Fuck.

  “Oh, Jesus, Winnie.
What have you heard?” He knew the chief, while not elected, was appointed by the mayor, who was elected. He didn’t think it would look so good to have a new chief banging the first female he’d talked to within 24 hours of finding his fiancée’s corpse.

  “Well, Sean, it’s not good. There’ve been stories that you and she have been, uh, planning things.” She didn’t dare say more, as she was sure Sean understood the implications.

  “What the hell? Planning things! I could barely remember her when I first saw her!” He stood, visibly angry.

  “I know, honey; I know,” Winnie said, standing, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Sit down; let’s talk about this. Just tell me what happened.”