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

by John Oakes

  The scene hit Winton as incredibly odd. It felt unnatural. He’d meant to snoop around the facility, but now he felt like he was intruding on something he really ought not to have seen. He backed out of the small room and smacked into something warm and solid that hadn’t been there a minute ago. Winton jumped and turned. A man stood before him in a gray sweatsuit, filling the doorway. He was nearly six and a half feet tall, with a shaved head and a menacing look in his eyes, one of which was deformed, the skin around it purplish and sagging.

  “Jesus.” The imposing figure was an exact match to the man Beatrice described ransacking her house, likely looking for Ryan’s stash.

  The man bent his neck as he examined Winton. At first, his interest in Winton’s presence was terrifying. The man could easily boot him across the room. But there was a hint of true curiosity in his boring gaze. He gave a long grunt in a rising tone. One of his fat purplish lips drew down to expose yellow teeth.

  Winton took a step back, but the man stepped with him. His curious gaze grew angrier with every backward step Winton took into the lighted room. Winton scratched his head and held a hand up. Again the ugly man made an expression equally menacing and birdlike.

  “I’ll go. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

  Winton’s words fell on deaf ears. He looked about at the other men in the room, wondering if they could be any help. But no, no one even budged.

  “Okay,” Winton said. “I won’t go.” Perhaps the large man before him was getting irritated at Winton’s leaving, not his presence. “I’m right here,” he said, experimenting.

  The man stood over him, his good eye going wide, the deformed one staying the same shape. He looked happy, then confused. He went slightly cross-eyed and bore down, going red in the face. The puttering sound of a bowel movement rang out from behind him, and if there was any doubt what was happening, the stench hit Winton’s nostrils a second later.

  Winton threw an arm over his face. “Jesus, dude.”

  “Arnold!” A dark-haired man in his thirties wearing scrubs appeared in the doorway. “You’re not supposed to be in here.”

  Winton stepped around the man shitting his pants, arm still over his face. “Sorry. I think I’m lost.

  The orderly quickly ushered Winton out of that wing of the facility. “Do you know how much trouble I could get in?” he whispered as they hustled down the corridor.

  “Sorry man,” Winton said. “I was thinking of checking into the rehab. Just wanted a tour while the boss was busy.”

  “Well, this wing is strictly off-limits. How’d you even get in?”

  Winton pointed and said, “The janitor propped the door open to get a breeze on the wet floor I think.”

  “Gotta be kidding me,” the orderly grumbled. “Guillermo!”

  The janitor near the propped-open door barely acknowledged the orderly.

  “I’ve told you before,” the orderly said, as they neared. “You can’t leave that door open. Esta puerta. No puede dejarla abierta.”

  Guillermo, and older, grey-haired man, seemed more interested in Winton’s curious stature, though Guillermo himself was no towering figure.

  “My bad,” Winton said to the orderly.

  “Don’t tell anyone you went back there,” the orderly said. “I’d get my ass chewed out.”

  “Promise.” Winton hurried back down the hall to Dr. Jansen’s office, where he met Shelly bringing his coffee in a styrofoam cup. He accepted it with thanks.

  “My pleasure, hun,” she said. “Hopefully the doctor will be with you soon.”

  “Where is the good doctor?”

  Shelly pointed to a conference room with a window whose bottom obscured all but the tops of heads.

  “Police?” Winton asked on a hunch.

  Shelly waved a hand. “A routine matter I’m sure. We work with a lot of at-risk folks in the community.”

  “Sure. Sure.” Winton sipped his coffee wishing he could be a fly on the wall of that conference room.

  He stuck around for a few more minutes, pacing about, then threw out the last of his coffee and stepped into the lobby. “Actually, Shelly, I’m gonna have to take a rain check. Can I call you later to set up a proper appointment.”

  “Well, it’s not usually like this, I promise.”

  “It’s okay.” Winton nodded. “Doctor Jansen seems nice. Thanks for the coffee.”

  TEN

  Winton arrived back at the beach house with a bag of breakfast sandwiches, providing him with an excuse for taking Julius’ car, but found no one had missed him. Heather was just making coffee and said Julius had gone for a run on the beach.

  “A run?” Winton asked. “I didn’t know Julius was a runner.”

  He pulled a sandwich out of the bag and offered it to Heather. She begged off.

  “Not to sound like our mothers,” Winton said. “But you really should eat. Not doing yourself any favors if you have no energy.”

  Heather gave him a sidelong look, then took it from him.

  “Anything else I can do for you?” he asked.

  Heather gave a weary shake of her head. “I’m in shock, Winton. I can’t tell what’s real anymore.”

  Winton had certainly been in that place. He felt for her. “You just need time,” he said. “Loss never quite loses its edge, but it gets duller. The shock will fade.”

  “The shock fading off is half of what I’m afraid of.”

  Winton swallowed and nodded.

  “I wish I could depend on family at times like this,” she said. “But it’s too… too messy for them.”

  “Your parents will just assume you’re hanging out with riffraff.”

  “Yeah, but don’t worry, mom,” Heather said, waving a hand. “My friend didn’t overdose. She was actually murdered. So nothing to worry about…”

  Winton bit on a knuckle before deciding to share some of his secrets for the sake of Heather’s emotional state.

  “Lucas got into some trouble a while back,” Winton said. “He took a wound, lost some flesh and bone. He can’t be police anymore. We still haven’t told DeeDee.”

  “Is he okay?”

  “By our standards, yes. By DeeDee’s? It’ll be the end of the goddamned world.”

  Heather’s brows lifted. “Oh, heck, Winton.”

  “I know. All I’m saying is, I feel your loneliness. But you’re not alone. Even if we aren’t bosom buddies, we’re both black sheep of the family. We gotta stick together.”

  She waved him in for a hug and gave a great sigh when he released her. “I think I need to get out of Texas earlier than usual,” Heather said. “The rafting season doesn’t start for four or five weeks, but I know more people there than I do here at home. Isn’t that funny? Or sad, maybe.”

  “It’s not sad at all. Friends are the family you get to choose. I’m just glad you have people you can lean on.”

  Julius returned from his run and filled a glass with water.

  “Didn’t know you were a runner,” Winton said.

  “Been working on my fitness a bit more the last couple months. I’m thankful for my health more than ever.”

  “How far did you run?” Heather asked, trying to clear the emotion from her face.

  “How far would impress you?”

  “Ten miles.”

  “I did eleven, baby.”

  Heather rolled her eyes. “You were gone twenty minutes.”

  Julius held his hands up in a gesture of innocence. “Never said I was a mathematician, just a superior human specimen is all.” And he backed into the hall toward the shower. Heather caught the smile on Winton’s face and chastised him with a look.

  “Hey, I am not trying to fix you two up.” He cut a hand through the air.

  “Well, explain to your friend that I have a real complicated thing up in Alaska waiting for me.” She rolled her eyes.

  “He won’t listen to me,” Winton said before taking a bite of his sandwich.

  Heather gathered her bag and left for the
gym. Even on the best of days she needed to get her blood pumping. But with her current emotional state, Winton figured she’d do a punishing workout.

  Julius came out fully dressed for a new day in a dark tracksuit with gold piping.

  “Come with me, Flavor Flav,” Winton said.

  “Where we going?”

  “The scene of the crime.”

  They walked a few houses down, and Winton unlocked the Spencer’s beach house with Beatrice’s key. The inside was in need of cleaning up. Chairs laying about, trash can contents strewn about the kitchen, pictures hanging askew on the walls or face down on the ground, couch cushions ripped open.

  “Damn, they were looking for something,” Julius said.

  “I wonder what will become of this place,” Winton said. “Bea and Ryan don’t have living parents, no kids.”

  “Depends on the law in Texas,” Julius said, “but it’s called intestate. Since there are no parents, siblings or kids, it could go to the siblings of their parents.”

  “We can’t just take it? Squatter’s rights?”

  “It could do with some updates,” Julius said. “But this is a nice house. Could sell for a pretty penny. Too bad it’ll sit in limbo for so long with the state.”

  Winton walked to the master suite and into the bathroom. The most surprising thing about the scene of Ryan’s suicide was how normal the bathroom looked, just like any other on the block. “Such a clean way to go,” Winton said, as Julius walked up beside him. “Empty out your vital fluids in a contained space, call the coroner, drain the bathtub. Simple.”

  “Yeah,” Julius said. “Another polite thing to do is not kill yourself in the first place.”

  “Don’t be like that.”

  “It’s a sin.”

  “People say that. But what does that really mean?”

  Julius bunched up his lips and shook his head. “It’s a damn shame though.”

  “That you’re right about. But I feel bad for the dead, first and foremost.”

  “Why’d you bring us over here, man?”

  Winton patted him on the arm and walked back to the living room, where he sat on a discarded cushion leaning back against a couch. “Julius, I saw something remarkable this morning.”

  “What’s that, Winton?” Julius sat in an armchair facing him.

  “I met the man who ransacked this place.”

  Julius’s head tilted one way and then the other.

  “At least I’m pretty certain,” Winton said.

  “Where?”

  “At the facility run by Dr. Jansen and Dr. Kerala.”

  “Say what?”

  Winton picked a careful tone and waggled a hand. “I woke up and decided to do a little snooping. I got in the room with Dr. Jansen, then when the police came, I got a chance to look around a bit.”

  “Police?”

  “I was hoping they’d come ask him about the little drop-off I made last night. Sure enough…”

  “And…”

  “And I snuck into this back area they keep locked off and got a look at some patients. They were, like, catatonic. And one of them fit the description of Bea’s robber.”

  “Big and tall? With the droopy eye and shit?”

  “How many of those are walking around Galveston?”

  “So, what does it mean?”

  Winton shifted side-to-side. Before he could muster a thin idea, footsteps sounded on the stairs and someone knocked on the front door.

  Winton and Julius exchanged a suspicious glance. Winton whispered, “You answer.”

  Julius got up, and Winton hid by the front window, pulling back a curtain to get a look. From the odd angle, Winton counted two men, young men based on the only one he could see clearly. He stood behind his friend at the door. He had a carefully trimmed line of a beard and wore a stylish, loose jacket and ball cap.

  Julius looked at Winton who gave a nod. He opened the door. “Hello?”

  “Hey, uh. I was looking for Ryan.”

  “Oh.” Julius relaxed his shoulders. “Hey man, I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news.”

  “Did something happen?”

  “Ryan,” Julius began, “he uhh, he took his own life. Few days ago. Just had the funeral and everything.”

  “What? You’re fucking with me.”

  “It’s in the paper. The obituary.”

  “Sheee-it.” The two men on the deck exchanged words, and now Winton could pick out the shaved-headed young man with dark glasses who’d been speaking. “Who are you, then? Did you know him?”

  “Of course,” Julius said. “You looking to score?”

  “That’s the idea, homes.”

  “Ryan took the whole stash with him to see Jesus,” Julius said. “Gimme your number and I’ll call you when it’s back online.”

  “All right, but if you ain’t quick with it, we’ll have to go elsewhere.”

  “What do you mean, elsewhere?”

  “I mean we know a guy that has what we need. We just never bought from him because Ryan’s product was always cheaper.”

  Julius took down his number and got a name, Hector. Julius promised they’d be the first to know about new product and they left.

  Julius closed the door and gave Winton a wide-eyed look.

  “Well played,” Winton said.

  “The words just came outta my mouth. Why didn’t I just say, ‘get lost’?”

  “Because,” Winton said, “like me, you’re a curious son of a gun.”

  Julius shook his head. “We need to go to the police. Let them handle it.”

  “I can feel it happening, Julius. The water circles the drain as it gets closer. We’re circling something.”

  “Come on.” Julius gazed about the house, lip curling up. “I don’t wanna stand around in this house anymore. It’s a dead place.”

  ELEVEN

  On the walk back home, Winton received a call from Shelly to reschedule his meeting with Dr. Jansen. So, early that afternoon, Winton went back to Dr. Jansen’s office. The psychologist was looking more settled into his day with his shirt sleeves rolled up, tie loosened and top button undone.

  This time, Dr. Jansen invited Winton to sit in one of two padded club chairs in the corner of his office, with Dr. Jansen taking the opposite seat. To begin, Dr. Jansen apologized for breaking up their session earlier. As he spoke, Winton noticed a purplish patch of flesh just below Jansen’s collar.

  “Sorry, were you burned?” Winton motioned to his own neck.

  “Oh, this?” Jansen showed it to Winton, then buttoned his collar and cinched up his tie. “I work with a lot of troubled people. Sometimes patients can get violent.”

  “A patient did that? Jeez.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Looks like he was trying to kill you.”

  “I’d wager he was.”

  “Did he plead insanity? Seems like a lock.”

  “Actually, they never caught him. He ran away from the facility.”

  “No way. Where was this?”

  “The institution was closed down not long after. Doesn’t exist anymore.”

  “But it was around here?”

  “Outside Houston.”

  “Whew. Creepy.”

  “It may sound heartless, but I bet he killed himself with drugs and alcohol long ago. Highly doubt he presents a danger to anyone, anymore.”

  “Man, you try and devote your life to helping people, and then that happens.”

  “This scar is a daily reminder that Karma is a lie. We must choose to be kind and do our duty with no expectation that we will always be treated well in return.”

  “That’s depressing.”

  “That’s life. But the important thing is that we are first kind to ourselves. Let’s talk about how good you’re being to yourself.”

  “That’s an interesting way to think about it. I guess I either tend to criticize myself a lot, or I lose all self-reflection and just act on impulse. Not a lot of middle ground.”

&nb
sp; “Hmm. Does one path or the other always turn out better?”

  “Honestly? Impulse sounds like a bad thing, but some of my best decisions were made that way. It stops me from overthinking a decision.”

  “Yes, indeed that’s possible.”

  “Then again, my impulsive side has led me to some pretty worthless lifestyle choices in the past.”

  “How’s it been playing out lately? I mean, you’re here because something isn’t working.”

  Winton bit his lip and nodded. What could it hurt to get an expert opinion on his problem?

  “A couple months ago, I was between the rock and the proverbial hard spot.” Winton took a slow breath, in and out. “I only got out of it by unleashing old parts of me, parts that I’d kept at bay for a decade. Anger. Temper you might say.” He looked into Dr. Jansen’s eyes. “Rage you might say.”

  “Anger.” Dr. Jansen made a note in his file.

  “Yeah. It mingled with my youthful idealism in a way, creating a deep anger at the world for not being the way it oughta be. This firebrand of justice used to get me into trouble.”

  “Oh yes. We do run the risk of becoming little zealots at a young age, whatever the -ism.”

  Winton nodded. “I let this old anger free, and I escaped a bad situation. But then that anger didn’t want to go away. It feels like it’s telling me it’s okay for it to stay, that it’s matured along with me, parallel to the rest of me, even though I wasn’t interacting with it.”

  Dr. Jansen’s head fell to an angle. “Does this part of you have a name?”

  “A name? No.”

  “You express it having a sort of personality and its own intentions, though.”

  “I guess so.”

  “Okay.” He made a note in a file. “Okay.”

  “Uh, oh,” Winton said. “You’re writing. That can’t be good.”

  “Have you ever lost long periods of time from your recollection?”