Bad Medicine: A Mystery Thriller (Winton Chevalier Book 2)

by John Oakes

  EIGHT

  Winton had been around his fair share of nurses in his life. Many were empathetic, drawn to the job out of true human kindness. Some were burned out on long hours and night shifts that were taking their toll in wrinkles, harried expressions and forced smiles. But the compassion still shined through. There was another breed of nurse, though, that was almost sociopathic, completely uncaring. They were able to do the job not because they cared for people, but because they didn’t care at all. Their complete lack of concern for the pain of those around them made them inured to aspects of the job that drove most people away.

  The nurse who told them Beatrice was dead had to be about the sorriest, most pitiless excuse for a nurse Winton ever encountered. She had puffy facial features like an overcooked sausage, giving her eyes and mouth a pinched appearance. She approached with a waddling gait, breathing harder than seemed comfortable. “The girl you brought in coded five minutes ago,” she said with a hint of a smile on her face. “That means she’s dead. We need ID on her.”

  “Dead?” Heather lost herself to sobbing.

  Winton looked about. “We don’t have her ID. We can tell you who she is, though.”

  “Can you?” the nurse sneered. “I need ID. She might be an organ donor. Might save lives with them organs, since she obviously didn’t care much for ‘em.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Winton murmured looking straight at her.

  It was as if every word out of her mouth simultaneously heaped scorn on Beatrice for overdosing, and on Winton, Julius and Heather for somehow being at fault by association.

  “We’ll go back and find her ID, then,” Julius said in a hoarse tone. He pulled Winton away, but had to add force to make Winton break eye contact with the nurse.

  Winton let Julius walk him out then spat on the concrete. There was indeed a certain kind of nurse.

  Winton got in the back with Heather. He pulled his feet onto the seat and put his head on his knees, trying to calm his shaking and think clearly.

  “I’m so sorry for your friend,” Julius said. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Oh, Bea…” Heather moaned. “What happened?”

  Winton picked his head up, his expression grim. He quietly pulled the foil pack out of his sock and examined it before putting back.

  They got back to the beach house and Heather found Beatrice’s ID.

  “Does it have a heart on it?” Winton asked.

  Heather looked it over. “No,” she said. “I’m surprised.”

  “Not everyone wants their body messed with, I guess,” Julius said.

  Winton slid up into a dining chair and set the foil pack on the table.

  “So do we need to take this back?” Heather held up the ID.

  “Let ‘em stew,” Winton said. “No point now.”

  Heather sat across from Winton and he pointed to the pills. “Coming back from the beach, we saw Bea’s SUV parked by this unused building. Like they were trying to be clandestine. But no one should have been there, so they stood out like neon. This wasn’t the work of a practiced drug dealer. But they gave this to her.” Winton tapped the pack. “Bea got herself hooked on pinks, grip, whatever you wanna call it. I guess she asked someone for some, and they told her this would have to do.”

  “And it killed her.” Heather’s eyes flashed anger. “You think it was on purpose?”

  “It was probably the same person that had her house searched. After Ryan’s suicide, they were trying to separate any connection between his death and the drugs. Best way to do that is take grip off the scene permanently.”

  “But why kill Bea?”

  Julius folded his arms. “Because she was the only one who knew where Ryan was getting it from?”

  “At the funeral…” Winton nodded. “She pulled a man aside. I could see it in the body language, even then.”

  “So, instead of feeding her addiction, they just decided to end any future problems,” Julius said.

  “Who was the man she pulled aside?” Winton asked. “Light-colored hair, white guy.”

  Heather thought then shook her head. “No, but… Dr. Jansen?” She shook her head again. “He was Bea’s therapist.”

  Winton narrowed his eyes and glanced up at Julius who gave a tiny shrug. Winton eyed Heather, feeling the next question ball up and hurl out of him. “And Heather, did Ryan see Dr. Jansen too?”

  Surprising Winton, Heather shook her head and said no.

  “Wait, what?”

  “Maybe he did at some point, but I have no idea.”

  “Any idea who?”

  Heather steepled her hands before her mouth. “I didn’t know those sorts of personal details.” There was a long silence, then she spoke. “I think we have to go to the police with what we know, right?”

  Winton and Julius shared another glance. Julius had one eye shut, chewing on his lip. He raised his eyebrows at Winton, then let his eyes close.

  “I don’t know,” Winton said to Heather. “We don’t know what sort of police force we’re dealing with, and we don’t have anything concrete. To them, it’ll just sound like we want someone to blame for a friend’s death.”

  “Could make us look guilty somehow, too,” Julius said.

  “But if we don’t offer up what we know, isn’t that a crime?” Heather asked.

  “Huh.” Winton crossed his arms and leaned back. “If only we could do that in a way that pointed the police to the Dr. Jansen. Then let them handle it if there’s anything fishy.”

  Winton went to a drawer and scrawled Dr. Jansen on the back of the foil pack. “Eh?” He held up his handiwork.

  “Very subtle,” Julius said.

  “I thought so. I can drop this off and even take Bea’s ID.” He laid a hand on Heather’s shoulder. “Try and rest if you can.”

  “I’ll follow you out.” Julius opened the door for Winton and followed him down the stairs. He popped the trunk and Winton fished out his pedal extenders.

  “You sure that’s all you need?”

  “Yeah. Trust me, it’s surprisingly simple.”

  Winton used to have to attach the clamp around the gas and brake pedals with a socket wrench, but now had upgraded to a better set with easy clamps and adjustability, both in the length of the shaft and the angle on the pedal at either end. In thirty seconds he had the first one attached.

  “Yo man,” Julius said. “A girl got killed right before our eyes.”

  “Yeah,” Winton grunted as he clamped the second extender on. “Totally ruined my day.”

  “Come on, man. Cut the shit.”

  Winton slid back out of the footwell and moved the driver’s seat up. “What do you want me to say, Julius? I’m trying to be responsible.”

  “Responsible?”

  “Yeah, you know, taking things one step at a time. Trying to do the right thing.”

  “That the right thing, planting evidence?” He gestured at the foil pack.

  “I’m taking it to the police station. That’s called giving, not planting.”

  “With a name you wrote on it.”

  Winton squinted up at him in annoyance. “You heard why. I don’t have a good reason?”

  Julius let out a breath. “It’s just…” He balled up his fists in front of his face. “It’s just that it feels like you’re getting over-involved.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Are you just doing this because you’re pissed off?”

  “Is that a worse reason than you wanting to lay pipe on my cousin?”

  Julius blinked. “Okay. You have a point.”

  Winton took a calming breath. “Am I really doing something wrong, man?”

  Julius stood straighter and rolled his shoulders. “No. You’re not. It’s not about right or wrong.” Julius looked down at his feet. “It’s just getting a little too real, is all.”

  “Yeah,” Winton said at the ground where Julius was looking. “More real than I want. Maybe that’s why I’m trying to move fast. Don’t want
it to sink in.”

  “I’m scared, Winton.” Julius looked up. “That shit that happened back in Louisiana, it changed me, but it’s not like in the movies where I’m suddenly braver because I’ve been through the shit. It makes me more wary of shady shit than I ever was before. Makes me more thankful for the good things I don’t wanna lose.”

  Winton knew that deep down he felt the same. And though he had some emotional or mental issues to work through, he’d probably be wiser in the long run to be a little more scared, staying safer. “Listen,” Winton said. “You’re probably right. But we can’t do nothing here.”

  “What if we just let the police do their job?” Julius asked. “We can point ‘em in the right direction, but we don’t get involved ourselves. It’s not our job. We never signed up to be the saviors.”

  Winton let his hands fall to his side, clapping himself on the thighs. “I guess civility and reason must prevail.” Winton started the car and drove off in the dark.

  NINE

  The next morning, Winton snuck out and took Julius’ car into town and parked outside the offices of Wellspring Counseling and Recovery. He strolled in, looking right and left, neurotically casing the place.

  “Can I help you?” the front desk lady asked.

  “I… I don’t have an appointment,” Winton said. “I just had a really bad night and need to talk to someone. I need to get into therapy.”

  “Um, well, what are you going through, hun?”

  “I don’t know how to describe it all, but I’ve been bummed out for a long time and making bad decisions. Just feels like I wanna die sometimes.”

  “Well, I certainly want you to live and feel better.” She smiled in a patronizing but sweet way.

  Winton gave an awkward thanks, hunching up behind one shoulder like a boxer taking a punch. She got a form and a clipboard and sat him down in a waiting area. He filled it out as hastily as possible. Meanwhile, a man in business dress but no jacket came around a corner and talked with the receptionist. With furtive glances, Winton caught the man looking at him as they spoke in low tones. He was one of the two men from the funeral. Dr. Jansen. Just the man Winton had come to check out.

  Dr. Jansen gave the receptionist some instruction with a nod and disappeared around the corner.

  Winton finished with his form and took it to the desk.

  “One of our docs had a cancellation, so you can be seen now. Do you have your insurance card?”

  “No,” Winton said.

  “Well, the inventory session is two hundred and twenty-five dollars, but there isn’t enough time in his schedule for a full inventory.” She typed on her computer. “Maybe we can bill it as a consultation.”

  “How much is that?”

  “A hundred seventy-five an hour.” Her eyes showed little faith that he could pay that amount.

  Winton thought about asking to be billed later, and thereby shirk the fee, but decided he could do without the paper trail.

  “I can swing that,” he said. “I really ought to invest in myself.”

  “Well, that’s a positive way of looking at it,” she said.

  Fucking highway robbery, Winton thought as he pulled out his wallet. No wonder this country is going crazy.

  Ten minutes later, Dr. Jansen waved him to the back.

  “Peter?”

  Winton nodded and slipped off his chair, shuffling forward with his hands in his pockets.

  “Right this way.” Dr. Jansen led him to where two hallways met at a right angle and into his office on the corner. Light streamed in behind Dr. Jansen’s desk from an interior courtyard. A few casually dressed people sat around smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee, easing into another day of sobriety by the looks of it.

  “How many patients can you house here?” Winton asked.

  “About forty, but we never get that full.” Dr. Jansen offered Winton one of the chairs opposite his desk. “I’m Doctor Jansen. Some people call me Doctor J.”

  “What’s your first name?” Winton asked. “Sorry, just curious.”

  “Timothy. It’s no trouble. If you need to feel casual about our talk.”

  “Eh, you went to school long enough to become a doctor. I say you earned it.”

  Dr. Jansen chuckled. “That I did. More years than I’d like to count.”

  “Are you an MD or—”

  “PhD in Psychology. I’m a psychologist.”

  “And psychiatrists. Those are the ones with the prescription pads, right?”

  “For the most part. I work here with a Doctor Kerala, our resident psychiatrist. He consults on prescription needs.” He tilted his head. “Is that what you’re looking for?”

  Winton waved a hand. “Nah. I’m looking for real solutions.”

  “Good. That’s what we try to focus on. Are you currently dealing with drug or alcohol consumption?”

  Winton nodded. “Yeah, been drinking more than I want to.”

  “How long?”

  “Off and on since I was a teenager.”

  “I see. What brought you here today?”

  “I’ve just been feeling more crazy than usual.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Doctor Jansen shifted in his chair.

  “I’ve always been a little screwy.” Winton twirled a finger around his ear. “But the past few months I’ve felt like I can’t handle my emotions. I go on these big mood swings. I can’t control my temper. I’m impulsive.”

  Winton was giving the doctor a set of symptoms that often ran together in mentally ill people he’d known over the years.

  “Are you from Galveston?”

  “No. From around New Orleans.” There was no point hiding that. Anyone from the area could hear the Big Easy in his voice. “Been a little listless the last few years. I’m not a drifter, but you could say I’ve been drifting.”

  “What do you do for work?”

  Winton had given this some thought before coming in. It had to be believable, but not very truthful, either.

  “I do odd jobs. I’ve made coffee. I’ve done the office thing. And I’ve sold drugs.” He shrugged. “I can be transparent here?”

  “I encourage it.” Dr. Jansen rotated in his seat and rested his chin on a hand. “What did you sell?”

  “Weed is always popular,” Winton said. “Nothing I thought could really hurt people. No heroin. Just the fun stuff. Ex, coke sometimes.”

  “Well, Peter, not to pass judgment, but Ex and coke can cause plenty of trouble.”

  “I suppose you’re the expert.” Winton offered out a hand. “I’m not making excuses. I know it wasn’t saintly work. It’s been a while since I resorted to that, though. I had a good thing with a gal from Guatemala the last couple years. I helped her cousins clear weeds and do odd jobs. That and her paycheck kept me steady for a while.”

  “And that relationship has ended?”

  “Yeah. I think that’s when I first thought I was losing my grip.” Winton liked his fictional tale. He readied a name for his sweet Guatemalan lost love. Maybe Sylvia, or Maria. Couldn’t go wrong with Maria.

  The receptionist knocked on the door.

  “With a patient,” Dr. Jansen said calmly.

  The door opened a crack, and a brown face with sleek features poked through. “I need you for a minute. Can’t wait.”

  Dr. Jansen looked perturbed. “Umm. Peter, this is not normally how I like to do things. I’ll need to step out a minute. My apologies.”

  “It’s fine,” Winton said. “Is there coffee anywhere?”

  “Yeah,” Dr. Jansen said. “Sure is. Shelly the receptionist keeps a cart over on the recovery wing. I’ll ask her to bring you something.”

  “Cream and sugar?”

  “Done. And again, my apologies.”

  Winton’s first instinct was to rifle through Dr. Jansen’s office looking for incriminating evidence. But something stopped him. Winton didn’t see any obvious cameras, but had a sinking feeling that something was watching him. If Dr. Jansen wa
s the man he feared, he could be taking precautions. Then again, if either doctor were responsible for generating the pink party pills, wouldn’t that fall to Dr. Kerala, the one who worked more with meds?

  Winton left the office untouched and slinked away from the recovery wing and down the other hallway. Winton peered down its considerable length, looked both ways, then hustled forward, walking faster than was inconspicuous. None of the doors he passed had windows, and each handle he tried was locked. He glanced over his shoulder, then kept on to the heavy-duty double doors at he end of the hall. He pressed the bar, but the doors held firm.

  To the right, he spotted a door that was propped open with a mop bucket and a caution wet floor sign. Winton danced past it and into another unremarkable hallway. A man in overalls backed out of a closet up ahead with a sweeper broom and pushed it down the hall. Winton saw an opening and ran for the closet door. He hid as the janitor came back down the hallway on the other side. After the janitor passed by, he slipped out of the closet and ran down the length of the hallway for the next corner and ducked around it.

  Winton was now well into the facility, but could see no sign of its use. He hadn’t made his way fully around to the recovery wing. So where was he?

  For the first time, he heard voices emanating through a closed door. He turned the door handle and felt the latch give. Through the crack, he let the sounds hit his ears until they made sense. They were cartoons. Kids cartoons. Winton cocked an eyebrow and stepped into a small unlit room leading onto a bathroom and to a larger room where the sounds were coming from.

  A man sat at a table in a robe. His eyes held the vacant stare of a very old man, though he was otherwise young and healthy-looking. His only movement was the rising and falling of his thick shoulders as he breathed. Over by the TV, three comfortable armchairs sat, backs facing Winton. In them appeared to be three other fully grown men, almost completely still, wearing loose pajamas or robes, simple slippers on their feet.