Blood List

by Patrick Freivald

  "So I tell them I've been out of the service for a couple years, and the guy says word-for-word, 'civilian contractors are always compensated higher.' I point out that this arrangement is illegal. He counters that, without my uniform or my tags, what I was doing was illegal all along. To make a long story short, we negotiated a fee, and on a warm summer night on D Street in Tacoma, Washington, as a service to my country, I killed a man."

  "D Street was a government job?"

  "Once I picked up the old trade, the calls flooded in. The money was good, the work was challenging, and at some point I stopped caring if they were traitors or spies or terrorist masterminds. I was more interested in the job than the money.

  "So one day I get a call from someone who knew someone who knew that someone important's wife knew that he was cheating on her, and she was going to file for divorce and bilk him for all he's worth. They, of course, needed Paul Renner to resolve the problem. It didn't even occur to me that taking that job crossed some fictional line that turned an honorable soldier into a murderer.

  "They needed someone killed, so they called a killer." He felt no remorse and sadness as he said it. It was just a fact.

  Jerri stared out the window for a while. Finally she spoke. "That's pretty fucked up, Paul."

  "Yep," he said.

  "You know, this morning I was afraid of your hands." Jerri set her hand atop Paul's. "But no matter what else you've done with them, at least today they did some good." She smiled at him with sparkling green eyes.

  Paul returned the look with interest. "Today they did," he agreed.

  She gave his hand a squeeze and pulled hers back, then looked out the window.

  It was four in the morning when the plane landed at Dulles International Airport. The howling wind blasted freezing-cold grit in their faces as they assembled on the tarmac. It only took a moment for the government SUVs to pull up. Gene took shotgun in the first, and Renner hopped into the back seat. Jerri took the other side. Marty stepped toward that car, but Doug sidled past him and got in. That left an SUV just for Carl, Marty, and their driver. They got in, and moments later the team was on its way back into Washington D.C.

  Carl ran his hand over his mostly-bald head. "I'm going to have to shave tonight. You, too, Marty. We look pretty ridiculous."

  Marty didn't reply.

  "Listen up, folks," Gene said over the COM. "Sam has confirmed that Doctor Lefkowitz is still in private practice in Manassas, and he's still at the address on file. He doesn't appear to be going anywhere, and we've got the local PD staking him out, so everyone head home and catch an hour's sleep. It'll take forty-five minutes to get there if we leave early, and two hours if we catch the morning rush. That means we're leaving HQ at oh-five-thirty, and you can nap in the car. We'll catch some breakfast once we get there."

  Marty checked his watch. 3:47 a.m. Got to get up at 5:00. Just the thought of the early start brought a yawn. It spread to Carl, who punched him in the arm.

  "Jerk," Carl said when he was able to talk again.

  Marty killed his COM. "Why do you think he did it?"

  Carl looked confused. "Why do I think who did what?"

  "Renner. Why'd that motherfucker pull our asses out of the fire today?"

  "Well," Carl said, "he probably pulled mine out because of the tragedy it would be if my dashing good looks were no longer available to the world. I don't have a clue why he rescued your ugly ass."

  Marty scowled. "Be serious, Carl. He's a cold-blooded, ruthless son-of-a-bitch who murders people for a living, and he knows I'd geek him in half a second if I had the chance, and he saves my fucking life? I don't owe that fuck a goddamn thing, Carl. I won't be indebted to that piece of shit."

  "Relax, Marty. I don't owe him anything either. I still don't know if working with him is a good idea, but tomorrow we're going to nab the guy who ordered those killings. That's worth something, isn't it?"

  Marty looked ready to spit. "I know if it's a good idea, and it fucking isn't. I don't care who else we catch, this fish is big enough for all of us. Fuck him. Motherfucker."

  "We'll take him into custody as soon as we have Lefkowitz, you know."

  "That motherfucker knows it, too. He's not stupid, and he'll run. You watch, Carl. Someone's going to get hurt tomorrow, you fucking watch. We just got to make sure it's Renner."

  Carl let Marty stew in his own juices for the rest of the ride.

  Chapter 17

  January 10th, 5:27 AM EST; J. Edgar Hoover Building, Parking Garage; Washington, D.C.

  Gene yawned into his fist and watched Jerri's car pull in. It was a clear, crisp morning but not as cold as the previous day. With no wind it wasn't that bad outside, and low levels of oxycodone for pain helped his general mood. Paul Renner stepped out of the passenger side of Jerri's car and his FBI escorts out the back. Gene hobbled over to Doug. "Any idea what that's all about?"

  "Don't know," Doug said. "I imagine they made arrangements to get Paul from visitor parking to here. So Jerri must have met him there. I'll ask Valiera."

  Gene grunted by way of reply. He saw his brother seething at Renner as Paul walked toward the group. "Marty!" he yelled to grab his attention away from Paul. "You're driving car two."

  Marty snapped out of his funk and caught the keys that Gene had thrown at his face. "Yeah, whatever." He turned to his assigned vehicle, got in, and slammed the door. Gene turned his attention elsewhere.

  Once inside the SUV, Marty looked at the keys in his hand, then realized the car was already warmed up and idling. What'd he do, throw me his house keys? Marty dropped the keys into the cup holder as his brother's voice blurted orders through the COM.

  "Renner, you and I are riding with Doug. Brent, Bates, you're with Marty. Traffic's picking up; let's move out."

  The team piled into the big black SUVs as ordered. In Marty's auto, Carl got in the back, put on some earphones, and settled back to snooze on the way. Jerri hopped into the front seat and smiled. "Morning, guys! Did you get any sleep?"

  Carl cracked an eye open and smiled back. "Not much, but I'm going to add to it, starting now." He turned up the volume on his iPod and his eye closed again. Marty couldn't tell what Carl was listening to, but he could hear the bass from the front seat.

  "How about you?" she said to Marty as they pulled out.

  "Not really," Marty said without looking at her. "No."

  "I'm wide awake. Want me to drive?"

  As the car stopped at the garage exit, he looked at her with anger in his eyes. "Do you honestly think I don't know what's going on?"

  Jerri raised an eyebrow. "Marty, what are you talking about?"

  "You and that goddamned killer. I saw the way you were looking at him yesterday." He kept his voice low and kept checking the rear-view to make sure Carl wasn't listening. He appeared to be fast asleep.

  "Excuse me," Jerri said, frowning. She counted off points on her fingers. "First of all, it's none of your goddamn business what I do. Second, you're not as smart as you think you are. Empathy is a strong part of interrogation, Marty, and building a bond with Paul might help us nail him. Sam recorded that whole conversation. And third, did I mention it's none of your business?"

  "Oh come on, Jerri." Marty scoffed. "It's the whole team's business. If you need a personal life outside of work, by all means have one. But this is the D Street Killer." He emphasized each word with a fist to the dashboard. "You've seen what he leaves behind, the lives he's destroyed. I don't know how you can look at him without wanting to puke, much less want to fuck him."

  "You're an asshole, Marty," Jerri said. "Besides, what if I were stupid enough to fall for him? Why would that give you the right to act like a jealous ex-boyfriend?"

  "Because…." He struggled to find the words. "I don't have the right. And I am fucking jealous. Of everyone you give your attention to."

  "Marty, I don't—" she began, but he cut her off.

  "And I know that son-of-a-bitch is going to hurt us, Jerri. I don't know whe
n, and I don't know how, but when you make a deal with the devil, you never fucking win. That motherfucker is a fucking monster, and you hold his goddamn hand and give him a fucking ride."

  "Christ, Marty. He saved your life yesterday."

  "Don't start with that shit." Marty's lips pulled back in a sneer. "My life wouldn't have been in danger if we'd busted him when we had the chance. Mark my words, Jerri, the second the chance shows up again, that fucker is mine. I just hope it happens before one of us gets killed."

  "You're overreacting. Paul's—"

  Marty cut her off. "You know what? Just stop talking. We have nothing to say to each other." He punched on the radio and turned it to a morning news station.

  Jerri turned to the window. They rode in silence through a darkened landscape.

  * * *

  January 10th, 7:30 AM EST; Home of Abraham Lefkowitz, M.D.; Manassas, Virginia.

  Doctor Abraham Lefkowitz left his house followed by a car that contained a pair of goons in dark suits. Marty was an excellent tail, so Gene let that part of the operation leave his mind. Through Sam, the local police verified that the bodyguards in the house were still there; the guys in the car were new. Gene pulled up to the front of the house, parked the car, and got out.

  "Guards have seen you," Sam said.

  "Roger that," Gene said.

  Gene limped up to the door with Jerri, Paul, and Carl behind him and pushed the doorbell. The door opened. A man nearly as tall as Doug looked down at Gene. "Yes?" he said in a deep baritone.

  Gene held up the warrants and his FBI ID. "I'm Special Agent in Charge Giancarlo Palomini of the FBI. I have a warrant to search this household, as well as to detain and search any and all persons found therein. Please have the rest of your crew come to the foyer and disarm themselves."

  The man scrutinized the documents, then spoke to someone behind the door. "José, comply." He looked back to Gene, then pulled aside his jacket. He leaned forward so that Gene could remove the handgun holstered inside. He then pulled up a pant-leg and displayed his ankle holster for similar treatment. Gene passed the weapons one-by-one to Carl, who tagged them with bar codes from some kind of handheld widget and put them in a duffel bag.

  The man behind the door appeared, a large Latino with an enormous black bushy mustache. He held his weapons by the barrels. Gene took them and passed them back.

  The first bodyguard accepted a walkie-talkie from José. "Mike," he said into it, "it's the FBI with a warrant authorizing them to detain us. Come on down weapons-safe, over." His accent was all Virginia.

  The device crackled into life. "On my way. Out."

  Within minutes, all three men had been frisked and sat on the couch. They had ID, weapon permits, and company cards showing they worked for Old Dominion Security Service, all of which Sam verified. Nonetheless, Gene stood guard with Paul as Jerri and Carl searched the house.

  The first guard's name was John Brussard. "So," John said, "what are you guys looking for? Maybe we can just tell you where it is."

  "Why does Dr. Lefkowitz need five security guards?" Gene asked.

  "Eight. Why does anyone need guards?"

  "What do you know about him outside his practice?"

  "Agent Palomini, we can't speak to law enforcement without a company attorney present, other than at the request of our client. Now, I know that's a pain in your ass, and it's not how I mean to be. But the doctor told us that someday the authorities might show up. He didn't tell us why; he just told us to let him know if you did.

  "If you want to stop him from running, you should let me call my guys so we can make sure this doesn't get ugly. We're a legit security company. We don't assist fugitives or suspects."

  Gene weighed his options. "Okay, let's do it that way. It's a good day if no one gets hurt."

  "Agreed," John said. "I'll need my cell phone back."

  "Let me call my guy first." Gene activated the COM. "Marty, John Brussard is the head of the security detail. He'll be calling the tail car to tell his men to get the doctor to pull over and surrender. They'll disarm themselves and let you take them into custody. Sam, can you put the cell call over the COM?"

  "I need the number," she said.

  With John's cooperation they made the necessary arrangements. Gene gave his brother the order to apprehend the suspect.

  Marty crested a hill to find both cars pulled over. The guards stood outside their vehicle with their hands laced on their heads. Marty pulled up, and Doug hopped out to handle the guards.

  "Agent Goldman," the one on the right said, "our weapons are on the back seat. Let us know what you need us to do to put you at ease."

  Confident that Doug had that part handled, Marty blocked Lefkowitz in. The doctor had his hands on the steering wheel, but the car was off and the keys sat on the dashboard. Wispy white hair covered his head, disheveled as if he'd been running his hands through it. He stared at the floor.

  Marty took no chances. He unholstered his service pistol and pointed it through the windshield. "Doctor Abraham Lefkowitz. Keep your hands on the wheel and do not move them. I am going to approach the vehicle and open the door. When I do, you are to step out slowly with your hands in plain sight, walk to the front of the car, and lean against the hood with both hands. If you understand and will comply, nod your head."

  The doctor looked up at Marty and nodded. When Marty looked into his eyes, he expected to see fear, anger, and defiance. The last thing he expected was haunted, horrified relief.

  * * *

  January 10th, 8:04 AM EST; Home of Abraham Lefkowitz, M.D.; Manassas, Virginia.

  Forensics searched the house while Gene's team moved Dr. Lefkowitz to a nearby safe house. Carl had video and audio equipment set up to record the interrogation. Renner looked bored. Gene knew he wasn't. Doug stood behind Paul, prepared to act at a moment's notice. Another pair of agents flanked the doors, focused on Renner. Carl gave Gene the thumbs-up, and he began.

  "Doctor Abraham Lefkowitz, you are a person of interest in a multiple homicide case. You have a right to have a lawyer present during questioning. Please call your attorney now."

  The doctor looked up at Gene with a haunted expression. "I understand," he said. "I don't want an attorney." His accent was slightly European, a healthy shot of German mixed with a touch of British.

  "To be clear," Gene said, "you're waiving your right to have an attorney present during questioning?"

  "That is correct."

  "Do you have anything to say before we begin?"

  "Yes. I have a lot to say. I don't know if you'll believe me, but eventually you won't have a choice." His eyes glossed over as his memory took him back. "I started work at a methadone clinic in Manhattan in 1974, to treat heroin addicts. It was heartbreaking and unrewarding. Even the best patients commonly went back to using within months of finishing treatment. But for one in ten or so, it saved their lives. That made it worth it. Sometimes.

  "Then another doctor at the clinic, VanEpps, came in with a miracle treatment. He had cured six patients of heroin addiction in a matter of weeks. It was the most amazing thing I had ever seen. I demanded he show me at once.

  "He called it Genetic Modification Therapy. Now, you have to understand, what we would today call recombinant-DNA therapy, using a retrovirus or adenovirus to modify human genetics, was scientific speculation back then. Even today, they would tell you this therapy would not work. So, VanEpps showed me his notes, how he cured his patients in mere days.

  "Virginia Mullins was my biggest lost cause. She had been mainlining narcotics and opiates for years. It took almost a lethal dose of methadone just to take the edge off. Her husband had brought her in, afraid she would kill herself. So instead of her shooting up in the street, I had her strapped to a bed thrashing in agony, insane for her next fix.

  "VanEpps put her on an IV drip of this new medicine, then doped her up. Not with methadone, with heroin. 'Keeping her comfortable,' he called it. He replaced the IV twice a day for three days, r
educing the amount of heroin he gave her each day. Then he stopped the heroin altogether, and she recovered. Fully. Her withdrawal symptoms were mild, no more than what one would expect from their first or second high. After that there was no recidivism. No urge. She packed her bags and went home with her husband.

  "That was all the proof I needed. I was, of course, a little scared. The cure was from a fledgling company called Bailey Pharmaceutical. They hadn't even been around long enough to apply for human testing, much less prescribed treatment. So this was all highly illegal, you see?

  "But they came to us with destroyed bodies and destroyed lives, and we sent them home whole. Thousands of junkies cured.

  "For four years we did this, but it was only a matter of time before we were caught. VanEpps and I were threatened with prison by a member of the hospital board. We showed him the data, but he didn't care. He was interested only in protecting the hospital, not helping the patient."

  "Gene," Sam interrupted over the COM. "Get a name."

  "Doctor," Gene cut him off. "What was the board member's name?"

  Lefkowitz looked thoughtful for a moment. "Bart Jackson, if my memory is correct. It has been a long time."

  "Thank you," Gene said. "Continue, please."

  "So Jackson cuts off our budget and closes the clinic." A look of distaste crossed his face. "He tells us if we keep our mouths shut, we get a letter of recommendation in exchange for our resignation. Jackson says that any attempt to continue the project or contact Bailey Pharmaceutical will cancel the deal, and he will call the police.

  "VanEpps takes the deal, moves to work at a hospital out west. He passed away—what, four, five years ago?—after a successful career as a general practitioner."