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

by John Oakes

  The two sturdy sets of bars separating them didn’t seem like enough to calm Winton’s base fear.

  “Julius,” Winton whispered. “Julius.” His voice quavered.

  Julius looked up.

  “It’s one of the zombies,” Winton said in a hush.

  Julius stepped closer. Winton breathed harder. “That big fucker is a dead match for the man Beatrice described robbing her house. And I saw him at the clinic, in the back wing.”

  “You mean he’s like the brute who came for us?”

  “But now we’re locked in,” Winton said.

  The big man with the droopy eye sat knees together, perfect posture, gaze fixed on the floor.

  “Keep an eye on him,” Winton said. “But don’t make eye contact.”

  Julius looked over his shoulder, and just as he did the big man looked up. Then he stood. Instead of coming toward them, he pivoted and stepped slowly toward the dealer’s cell, where the dealer paced back and forth. With each turn to and fro, Winton could see the sinews in the zombie’s body twitching, calibrating, calculating just the right timing.

  As the dealer turned away, the zombie shot a long arm through the bars up to his shoulder and clasped onto the tall collar of the dealer’s shirt. He heaved back with his whole body, yanking the dealer into the cell bars. The dealer’s head made a sickening wet sound, but there was no time to register it, as the zombie slammed the back of his head into the bars over and over again. As the life went out of the dealer, his neck went limp, making each whipping blow of his skull against the bars more ferocious.

  The zombie dropped the dealer, who fell lifeless to the ground.

  Silence.

  As far as noise went, the murder had been no more notable than someone drumming on the bars. The ensuing silence shouldn’t have been shocking, but it was, the silence of the zombie most of all. He hadn’t even broken a sweat, hadn’t quickened his breathing. He peered at the floor a moment, then looked up at them. His stare bored right through them to something in the distance. He clenched the bars between them and for a moment looked sad. Not guilt, per se. But a question. A concern. Some deeper fear that something was wrong. His head tipped back to the heavens, and Winton thought he might be about to cry out, but instead he pulled himself forward and smashed his head into the bars.

  Winton jumped in alarm.

  The big man wobbled but his iron grip kept him standing.

  Wham. He did it again.

  Wham, wham, wham. The same sickening sound as the dealer’s head had made on the bars.

  The zombie staggered and fell to his back, blood flowing from his forehead over his ears and onto the cement floor.

  “He’s gonna kill himself,” Julius said.

  “He just killed the dealer,” Winton said. “That dealer had vital info.”

  The zombie stirred. As he got to his hands and knees, Winton caught his profile. His forehead had fractured and caved in like a dented quarter panel. He was nearly blind with his misshapen bones and the blood flowing freely, but he got up anyway. He gripped the bars, reared back, then slammed his head into the unforgiving metal one more time. This time his neck went limp, and he fell like timber to the floor, where the back of his head cracked into the concrete. He lay motionless.

  Julius and Winton looked on, clutching the bars, unable to speak or breathe.

  TWENTY

  Chaos unfolded with cops running about calling for EMTs, calling for superiors, and the duty processing officers wringing their hands, wondering about their careers. Winton sat on a painted steel bench in his cell with his face hidden between his knees and elbows. Maybe he was hiding the way children do, covering their own eyes to make themselves invisible to others. Maybe he was hiding from the grisly deaths and from what they meant.

  The one man who could give up the supplier was dead.

  The supplier who most likely poisoned Beatrice.

  The supplier who might have motivated Ryan’s suicide.

  Then there was the zombie that caused the deaths. Not a true zombie of course. A man who, one day, couldn’t control his own bowel movements in the clinic — but, another day, could ransack a woman’s home looking for drugs, and, today, execute a man through the bars of a jail cell. Then, to top all, to kill himself in such brutal fashion and with the utmost resolve.

  To the police, the picture in the holding cells was a horrifying mystery. To Winton, it was the final confirmation that his suspicions had been correct from the beginning.

  The doctors.

  They were the suppliers.

  One or both was Bea’s murderer.

  One or both had made an attempt at Winton’s life, the dealer’s life, and ultimately were responsible for the lives of the men they were using as thralls. Men who’d probably ended up under their care the same way Cletus had, because they were vulnerable and no one would miss them.

  The picture was clearer than ever, and yet Winton felt only foreboding gathering in his intestines, as Plimpton stepped down into the holding area to survey the scene. With his hands on his head, he made a confused turn, then reacted in surprise seeing Julius and Winton in holding.

  “What are you doing in there?”

  “You didn’t hear?” Julius said. “That DEA shitbird threw us in here out of spite.”

  “So you saw all this?” Plimpton motioned back with both hands, like a matador sweeping his cape past his hips. “That means you saw what happened here?”

  Their grim expressions served as answers.

  “Get these two out of here.” Plimpton barked at the worried duty officer with a little extra mustard. “Put ‘em in my office as guests, if you please.”

  They were led out of holding up a half flight of stairs to the main floor, then away from the hustle and bustle of the small group of desks that served as a bullpen. A couple doors away from the main entrance, a door had Detective Plimpton’s name on it. The officer from holding sat them inside the messy space. Apart from the littered desk, stacks of file boxes reached high above Winton’s head. Some sat opened on the floor, some tipped on their side, files spilling out.

  “Christ,” Julius said, looking about. “This is like one of them reality shows where the people can’t give nothing away.”

  “Hoarders, you mean?”

  Winton said it just as Plimpton walked in. He stopped and gave Winton a look. “I have a system. This is what police work looks like. Real police work. Not what you’ve seen on TV.”

  Winton had a better familiarity with police work than ninety-nine percent of people and had never in his life seen such a “system” in place. He held his tongue, for everyone’s sakes. Plimpton looked flustered enough as it was.

  “What happened in there?” Plimpton asked.

  Julius looked at Winton and splayed his hands out toward Plimpton. “Well, boss, they brought that big fella in, and he sat down a minute, then he got up and snatched that dealer’s collar like nothing, same way you or I’d go to the fridge to grab a beer. Except then he bashed him to death on the bars.”

  “Then how is the big fella dead?”

  Julius bowed his head and rolled his shoulders, as if preparing for Plimpton’s disbelief. “He killed that man, then he grabbed the bars and blasted his face into them until he was rocked.”

  Plimpton’s eyes went wider, and his lower lip drew down.

  “Then he kept his wits and somehow kept cracking his head into the bar,” Winton said. “Hit his head real hard on the final way down too.”

  Plimpton looked them both in they eye, slack-jawed. “You’re kidding me.”

  “No sir,” Julius said.

  “No sir,” Winton added. He scoffed. “You got cameras, don’t you? It’s all there.”

  “Man alive.” Plimpton leaned back in his chair and brought out a cigar. “Killed himself…”

  “Here’s the thing,” Winton said. “The big man was a John Doe right?”

  Plimpton brought his gaze from the ceiling down to Winton. “How’d you—”


  “And so was the brute who came to our house.”

  Plimpton sat forward, moving his cigar from the side of his mouth to the front with only his teeth and tongue.

  “Remember I told you someone came to Beatrice Spencer’s house after Ryan committed suicide? It seemed like he was looking for Ryan’s stash, not knowing Ryan had dumped it in his suicide bath water. Well, Beatrice’s description matches the big man in the holding cell. Droopy eye and everything.

  “This dead hoss is the one who came to her house?” Plimpton said.

  “Yes, sir.” Winton sat forward. “My cousin Heather can back us up. She heard Bea’s description too.”

  “I wish she’d filed a damn report,” Plimpton said, taking his unlit cigar between his fingers.

  “People are afraid of cops,” Julius said. “Plus she knew what her brother had been doing. What good could come from it in her eyes?”

  “You two know anything else?” Plimpton asked. “Don’t hold back on me?”

  Winton looked at Julius, considering telling Plimpton about the clinic. But one of two things would happen if he did. Either his information about the droopy-eyed man’s origins would not prove effective in bringing the doctors to justice, or it would, making Winton and his testimony a central part of the case against the doctors. He would be heavily scrutinized and his life picked apart. Even then, after having his life exposed at great possible cost, legal and rational gymnastics could be employed by a well-funded defense team to prevent a conviction.

  Winton bit a lip and shook his head. “No, sir. I think that’s all we know as far as the facts. Like you told us, speculation isn’t evidence you can use.”

  Shouts rang through the corridor, drawing nearer and more intelligible. “—proper channels. You didn’t consult with us.”

  “Oh, and you consult with us every time you move into local jurisdiction?” It was Weischel’s voice now. “Get the fuck outta here. You feds do whatever you want, but only cry foul on procedure when you don’t get everything your way.” Weischel leaned into Plimpton’s office. “I see the whole gang’s here.”

  Agent Midge poked his head in and wriggled past her. “You’ve got a lot of explaining to do, Plimpton.”

  “How’s that?”

  “It’s your station,” Agent Midge said. “This is on you.”

  “You know damn well this isn’t my fault.”

  “If you hadn’t fucked up my investigation, that dealer would still be free and alive, bringing me closer to the top of the food chain.”

  “If you hadn’t taken down a small time supplier in two months,” Weischel said. “You never were gonna.”

  The arguing continued until a slender woman appeared with salt and pepper hair pulled back into a bun. “Enough!” She huffed through her stern expression. “Agent Midge, kindly leave the station and report to your task force supervisor. Plimpton and Weischel, come with me.” The woman stepped out of sight.

  Midge left as ordered, but not before taking the time to give the evil eye to everyone in the room. Weischel left on his heels. Plimpton got up slowly from his desk, moving and breathing like a thoroughly tired man.

  “That’s the chief?” Winton asked.

  “Worse. That’s our real mommy. Galveston County Prosecutor.” Plimpton put on his jacket and stopped at the door. “You can wait here, but I don’t know how long I’ll be.”

  “You don’t look optimistic,” Julius said.

  Plimpton stopped at the door. “Cause I’m not.”

  A minute after he left, Julius said, “Can you believe he just left us here in his office?”

  “Guess he must trust us a little.”

  “Not that I’d know what we could fiddle with.”

  “Yeah…” Winton looked around. “If there’s a system at work here, I’m not seeing it. My dad wouldn’t have put up with this from a detective.”

  “What kind of police files would even be helpful?”

  “I doubt Jansen and Kerala have police records. I’d sure love to poke around in the files of that mental health clinic of theirs, though.”

  “For what?”

  “I wanna know about Ryan’s condition,” Winton said. “Jansen said Ryan hadn’t been going to therapy.”

  “But he had been dealing them pills.”

  “Right. There was a more complicated relationship at work between Ryan and the docs.”

  “I’m hungry. I hate to sound so soft, but I can’t think as well when I’m hungry.”

  “Yeah, I could eat.” Winton patted his stomach.

  They sat there all shifty and thinking about food and the case until Plimpton stepped in without reseating himself. Weischel stepped in behind and slung her thumbs into her belt loops.

  “Gentlemen,” Plimpton said. “Thank you for your assistance. We won’t need any more of your time.”

  There was silence as Julius and Winton worked out their surprise internally. Weischel read their expressions and explained, “The prosecutor wanted these drugs off the street as much as a conviction. With this other dealer dead, she’s calling it one and a half out of two.”

  “Listen,” Winton said. “These suppliers are bad dudes. Jansen and Kerala—”

  Plimpton held up a hand, but Winton pressed on. “I haven’t even told you about Maryvale. I know what went on there. The shit these guys were—”

  “If those drugs show up again,” Plimpton interjected loudly. “We’ll pursue the case again. But if this is it, then the prosecutor’s calling it a win.”

  Before Winton could protest, Plimpton held up a hand again. “We know. Believe me. It ain’t ultimate justice. But believe it or not, Galveston has other issues that need attending to. They’ll need our full energy and attention.”

  “You get used to it,” Weischel said. “Real life is messy.”

  “We know you been through a lot,” Plimpton said. “You fellas are good citizens. So, I’d advise you to go about your lives.”

  “Beatrice Spencer was murdered!” Winton said. “What the fuck are you talking about? Just gonna tell me real life is messy? People get murdered, oh well?”

  Plimpton set his jaw. He reached into a file box on the floor and pulled out a slip of paper. He handed it to Winton. “There’s the tox report on your friend, Ms. Spencer.”

  Winton read over it, trying to parse its meaning, picking pertinent info from the mess of abbreviations and symbols. He found a list of chemicals he recognized and read them aloud. “Oxycodone Hydrochloride,” he said. “That’s OxyContin. She wasn’t addicted to that. She was on the pinks.”

  The detectives didn’t respond.

  “Fentanyl,” Winton said. “Fucking Fentanyl! That’s that synthetic opioid shit dropping people like flies all over the country.” He looked up at them, struggling at their stony reactions. “She took Oxy laced with a lethal dose of fentanyl. She was fucking poisoned, with intent. That’s a capital offense!”

  “You need to calm down,” Plimpton said, growing visibly hotter, sweat breaking out on his head. “Your friend Beatrice was a known problem child. Don’t think we asked around about her? Before she was of age, she racked up seven Minor in Possession citations. Then she gathered three DUIs within a year of being able to drink legally.” Plimpton nodded his head. “Your friend might have been a real sweetheart, but she was a fuck up. And you know what happens to fuck ups? One day they go one step too far and die. That’s it. I seen it a hundred, no a thousand times in thirty years.”

  “Roy,” Weischel said.

  “No,” Plimpton went on. “He needs to hear it. Going on about how he’s gathered a capital conviction all by his own self. Well, hear this little man. You ain’t nobody. You ain’t shit. And I still ain’t happy about you dropping your friend’s drugs off on my doorstep. You need to respect authority one tiny iota, and you need to accept that your friend liked to shove poison in her body, and one day she shoved a little too much. Now get the fuck out of my station before I really get mad.”

&nb
sp; Weischel put a hand on his shoulder, and he stalked off.

  “You said you came here to relax,” Weischel said, taking a deep breath. “So do that. The weather’s getting nice for fishing. Otherwise, stay clear.”

  Winton blinked repeatedly as he shuffled out of the station onto the street. They called the garage and were told the wait for Julius’ car was going to be until closing at best, maybe early the next morning.

  Julius pocketed his phone and looked around. “I guess that means we’re walking, but we’re officially on vacation in Galveston.”

  They stopped at a corner store, bought a case of light beer, some snacks and a pack of flavored cigarillos and trekked to the beach house. Winton didn’t utter a word on the fifteen minute hike. The wind picked up as they walked, making the waves come in a little louder and a little angrier. As Winton mounted the steps to the deck, he could hear the anger inside him crashing about in harmony with the tumultuous warm Gulf. He opened a beer and sat on the deck, trying to enjoy the view and the warmth that lingered on the wind, but the churning waves wouldn’t let the churning inside him settle.

  Julius stepped out holding his own beer and took a deck chair next to Winton. “It’s getting choppy out there.”

  Winton sipped.

  “How you feeling?”

  “Not well,” Winton said.

  “Same.”

  “Fuck that Plimpton guy,” Winton said. “I get the position they’re in, but man, how can the biggest fish just get away scot-free?”

  “It wouldn’t sting so bad if it didn’t go like that about every damn time,” Julius said.

  This was the full extent of their conversation for ten minutes. “But hey man,” Julius said, “the whole world has problems. We can’t always be the knights on horseback. We cut off the supply and stopped anyone else getting hooked on that grip shit, those pinks. And we did it on the up and up, letting the police handle it.”