Darla blinked innocently. No doubt, she had the same impression of Krimski. Even at that young age, she was adept at reading a room. She also knew exactly how far she could get away with pushing.
Richie, though? Clueless. “Her hand is on my side of the seat,” he whined.
I had no doubt she’d put it there on purpose, too. Satisfaction was hard to come by locked in your room all day. And baiting Richie was surprisingly satisfying. I could attest to that myself.
Krimski shot him a glare, then turned toward the windshield, muttering to the driver. “Gets on my very last nerve.”
The driver shrugged. With a barely perceptible accent, he said, “I can sedate him for the drive back.”
Not just a driver, then. Something more.
I remembered that particular field trip. And I remembered who was on it. Heliotrope Station’s four mediums. Director Krimski. And the guy who never spoke a word to any of us as he jabbed us with needles or pumped us full of pills…a wizened little wrinkled-up guy who looked uncannily like this particular rubber monkey I bought from a dollar store with my birthday money when I was ten. A chimpanzee, I think it was. Actually, maybe it was plastic, not rubber, since it melted really quickly in the microwave.
Anyhow, in those later days of Camp Hell, the policy was to keep all info on a need-to-know basis, and apparently Krimski decided we lab rats didn’t need to know much of anything, including the name of the guy who kept us flying high. In my mind, I’d called the guy in the driver seat Monkey Man.
Orderlies came and went, and they schlepped us from place to place, but no drugs were ever administered without Monkey Man’s direct supervision.
Right. Because he was a doctor.
Dr. Kamal.
The more I prodded at the memory, the more details came back to me. Kamal and Krimski hadn’t been taking us on a leisurely Sunday drive that afternoon. They’d hauled us off to some small suburban community out past Joliet where a kid had gone missing. I remembered the intensity in Darla’s voice when our wardens left the van and we could speak freely. “How much do you wanna bet he’s not specifying what sort of psychics we are? Letting the kid’s parents think we’re precogs or telepaths. Like there’s any way in hell their missing kid’s not lying in pieces somewhere at the bottom of a dumpster.”
“Death is nothing more than a different state of being,” Faun Windsong said loftily.
“Yeah? I’m sure that’ll be a huge fucking comfort.” I remember Darla said that, specifically, because Richie took to calling everything a “huge fucking comfort” until eventually Darla told him to shut the fuck up or she’d spit in his Jell-O when nobody was looking.
Good times.
Krimski yanked open the door of the van, fixed us each with an icy glare, and said, “Line up next to the shed. Eyes forward. No talking.” He gave Richie an extra glare. “Not a word. And when you get there, roll up your sleeves.”
Fear crept down my spine as I climbed out of the van and assembled in the family’s yard with the other unfortunate mediums. Part of me was eager to see what they were going to inject me with, because even a queasy high would break up the monotony of my days. But another part of me—one I tried not to think about, because it wasn’t very punk rock—wondered exactly how thoroughly this stuff had been tested and precisely how safe it might be.
Both Darla and Faun had something to prove, and they waited for their injections without comment. But Richie? He was like an amoeba trying to avoid pain, and once he realized a syringe was involved, he flipped out. “I don’t feel good. I wanna go home. Please! I wanna go ho-o-ome!”
Dr. Kamal slid Krimski a look that implied he’d been serious about the sedation. Krimski grabbed one of Richie’s arms and told me, “Mr. Bayne, hold down the other. And if he manages to hit me, expect consequences for you both.”
Funny how little I appreciated the status quo until someone threatened to take what little I had away. We’re not talking smoking privileges or junk food, either. In a stark room with nothing to my name but a few boring textbooks, all he could withhold were things like food or blankets. One time, Movie Mike mouthed off and had his door removed for a week. His door. So when Krimski told me to grab Richie, I did what he said. “It’s worse if you move around,” I told Richie. “Unless you stay really still, the needle can break off in your arm.”
Even back then, Darla and I were a lot alike. She took up the story and ran with it. “And then the tip will travel through your veins. When it gets to your heart, you die.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Faun said.
“Maybe, maybe not.” Darla fixed Richie with a smirky eyeliner look. “But do you really wanna take that chance?”
Other than some really fierce headaches, the intravenous psyactive didn’t yield any results that day. Later, I heard through the grapevine they found the kid alive. In retrospect, that poor kid was probably never the same. And also, in retrospect, they’re lucky none of us came back to Heliotrope station with a ghost under our skin. Though even if anything were to hitch a ride, no doubt it would vacate the host body just as soon as it got a load of our living conditions.
They didn’t make fast-acting psyactives like that anymore. But maybe with the addition of the second drug, the one that went into Kick would be something like that early taste of psychic enhancement?
There was one way to find out.
I banished that notion just as quickly as it reared its ugly head. Of course I wouldn’t subject myself to something as dangerous as Kick just to satisfy my idle curiosity.
Not when I only had the one dose…and I might need it later.
As Jacob rolled over and dragged half the covers off me, I eased out of bed, blew my nose, and crept over to where my suit coat was hanging off the back of the door. With the contact lens case so cleverly concealed, hopefully I could get some rest.
The next morning was a real doozy, even with the help of Perky Planet and three and a half cups of strong black coffee. I felt like I’d been running myself ragged…probably because I had. And Jacob was no better. His eyes were squinchy and he spoke only in monosyllabic grunts. We needed to wrap this case. Or at least sneak off for a decent nap.
We shed our cobwebs quickly enough when we pulled up to The Clinic and found a pair of men in black standing sentry at the front door. “Are those our guys?” I asked.
Jacob said, “I don’t recognize them. And if reinforcements were coming, someone would’ve told us.”
We both checked our phones, and neither of us had a message waiting. Jacob cut the engine and said, “I’ll go see what’s going on.”
Better him than me. Just when I think I’m over my distrust of stern alpha types, the world conspires to put that newfound tolerance to the test.
I got Laura on the phone while I watched Jacob through the windshield. Could I tell if his body language was projecting any alarm? Hard to say, since his standard M.O. is to present a cool and unruffled front. “Please say you’ve got good news for me,” she said. “Dr. Bertelli kept me on the phone last night for nearly half an hour, going on about the disruption my agents were causing in his clinic.”
“Did he? What did he say?”
“Something about wild accusations being flung and liability—basically you guys really ruffled his feathers—but I think I managed to calm him down.”
Outside, Jacob turned and began walking toward the car. Judging by the look on his face, I wasn’t so sure exactly how successful Laura had been.
I should’ve known Bertelli wouldn’t give up so easily. Searching his office had been an outright challenge to his authority, and we were on his turf. And he was about to pull out all the stops to make sure we knew it. When Jacob turned back to the car, his expression was grim. I knew in my gut that whatever was happening, it could hardly be construed as good news. “Hold on just a sec,” I told Laura, and carefully muted the call.
Jacob climbed into the car, worked his jaw a few times, then said “Those guys are FPMP all righ
t, but they’re not ours.”
“What do you mean?”
“They’re FPMP National.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
To say Laura was distressed that FPMP National had been called in would be putting it mildly. And the fact that they’d shown up without informing her? Nothing short of a grave insult. She said, “Stay out of there—both of you. Don’t even so much as look at those guys funny. Not until I find out who authorized their presence and why.”
I muttered, “You don’t have to tell me twice.”
“And, Vic? I won’t have the leverage to get rid of them unless we handle this whole Kick fiasco.”
I’m no good with authority in general. Back before I joined the Program, I was none too fond of my regional F-Pimp office. But the next level up the food chain was downright scary. Even Con Dreyfuss gave them a wide berth—and despite all his best efforts, they’d roughed him up and confiscated his GhosTVs. All of them…except the set he’d left with me.
The set that was currently inside the building surrounded by Big Brother.
Once I hung up with Laura, Jacob looked up from his phone and said, “Carolyn wants us to meet her at the Fifth. She’s got something to show us.”
I glanced up at the agents standing ramrod straight beside The Clinic door. It’s a cold day in Hell when it’s a relief to head over to my old precinct…but that day had most definitely arrived.
The Fifth Precinct was the same as it ever was. Black-and-whites in the parking lot, a ranting guy at the front desk, and an old woman at the switchboard who should have retired twenty years ago. Betty greeted me with a big smile and a thorough once-over. Aside from the bloody eyeball and the lack of sleep, I must’ve looked pretty good, what with a real haircut and a suit that actually fit. Plus, I was doing my best to walk with my head high and my shoulders squared. Chances were, I would run into someone eager to cut me down to size—some swaggering asshole like Jeff Raleigh—and I wanted to make sure I was ready for him. So, when I rounded the corner, the guy I nearly blundered into wasn’t one of the mean kids after all…but instead, Brett Warjovsky.
Warjovsky and I had seen some stuff together, stuff most normal people are blissfully unaware of. “Agent Bayne!” he said brightly. “Wouldja look at what the cat dragged in! What happened to your eye?”
“It’s really nothing….”
“Beating up the bad guys.” He threw a couple of mock punches my way. “Same as ever.”
One thing was for sure, he’d changed all right—no more Chicago PD uniform and bulletproof vest. He was wearing a suit. Not a tailored suit like me, but the type of off-the-rack number that fits a cop’s budget. “What’s up with you?” I asked. “Going in front of the judge?”
He seemed pleased that I’d asked. He unhooked something from his belt and held it up proudly. A new badge—a detective’s shield. He was beaming. “I wouldn’t have sat for the test if it wasn’t for you. When I saw you handle the Body Snatchers. Boy oh boy.”
Body Snatchers, huh? I guess it had a better ring to it than Zombie Basement—plus, the only ones who knew the corpses were moving, other than the folks responsible, were me, Zigler…and Zigler’s therapist.
“That was such a crazy chase—remember? We went right through that woman’s house! And then we found all those bodies!” He shuddered, but gleefully. The way Jacob used to, back before he’d seen just a little too much. “The way you were willing to do whatever it took to catch those sickos…something clicked in me that day, and I knew that was what I wanted. To be that guy. To get the job done.”
Better him than me. Slimy defense attorneys wouldn’t be able to turn a gullible jury against a sturdy, all-American kid like him quite so easily.
“Are you here to see Zigler?” he asked.
“As a matter of fact….”
“Wow. What I wouldn’t give to be a fly on the wall in that investigation. Anyway, good seeing you. And if you ever need anything, just gimme a holler.” He gave me a manly clap to the shoulder and headed off to right wrongs and fight crime.
How old was Warjovsky—late twenty-something? He seemed so damn young and earnest…in a way that I’d probably never been. At any age.
If running into Warjovsky in plainclothes was weird, finding my old desk occupied by Carolyn Brinkman was downright bizarre. There had always been a disused quality about that battered metal desk, back when it belonged to me. But Carolyn looked like she was using that thing within an inch of its life. New blotter. New computer. Pictures of her kids and a small potted cactus. But that was just background for the really impressive stuff.
For the work.
Her desk butted up against Zigler’s face to face, and they both had their computers shoved far to one side so an array of printouts could span both of them. Pictures, not words. The images were all grainy and low-resolution, but a couple of them were close enough that there was no mistaking who was on camera: Troy Malone. Apparently he did more with himself than just watch TV.
Did he realize he was about to land a starring role in our investigation?
Zigler walked us through the timeline. “This shot was taken from a traffic cam at the intersection of Irving and California just a few blocks from the party where Tammi Pauls acquired her last dose of Kick. Malone lives over two miles away.” He pointed to another printout. “Here’s Malone a block away from a party our second victim, Reginald, was at.”
I said, “But wouldn’t he have recognized Troy?”
“Reginald was a longtime patient at Mid North, but he hadn’t been there since Patrick Barley quit.” Zigler pointed out another photo. “Here’s Malone by the ATM across the street from the cafe where Bethany Roberts was approached. And we’ve got a preliminary match on the prints from one of the pill bottles. Alone, the prints wouldn’t mean much. After all, Troy is the guy who hands drugs to every Psych in the city.”
I nodded. “But placing him at multiple scenes….” Troy. The whitest white guy I knew. Indeterminate age and hair color, average height, average weight. And Bethany was right. His posture was nowhere near as good as Bertelli’s. “I can barely recognize him from this security footage. How did you figure out it was him?”
“Because he’s a liar,” Carolyn said. “Who lies about what they’ve seen on TV? Other than someone who just wants to seem like one of the gang so they’ll play along with the conversation, I mean. Troy was initiating the conversations, though. He wanted us to think he was home every night, glued to the set.”
Jacob considered the accusation and added, “Maybe it was even more than that. Troy Malone is fully aware just how many people have tested positive for psychic ability. He deals with them day in, day out. It takes a pretty big mental adjustment to get used to the idea that a telepath might pick up on what you’re thinking.” He must’ve been referring to all the years in which he didn’t yet know about the psychic off-switch in his brain. Somehow, he managed not to be too smug about it.
Carolyn’s frown deepened. “So you’re saying that not only is Troy trying to misdirect us into his movements verbally, but he’s sending up a psychic smokescreen to block out telepaths?”
I filed away the technique for future reference. It would be a lot less fishy for me to think about a TV show than to constantly sing the alphabet song whenever a strong telepath was in range.
Jacob said, “I’ve got a team trying to place Bertelli in the footage we just obtained last night. I’ll have them look for Troy instead. What else can we do? Have you got a warrant?”
Zigler shook his head. “Not so fast. We like Malone for distributing the Kick, but looking at his history—the guy was a business major who took the bare minimum science requirement for his bachelor’s—I doubt he’s compounding the drug himself. Before we go for him, we’ve gotta figure out who else he’s working with.”
Bertelli. Jacob and I locked gazes. We were both salivating to take that guy down.
Carolyn said, “Erin Welch would be the obvious suspect. If someone suppli
ed her with Palazamine, she’d have the skill and equipment to reformulate it. She knows about my talent. Maybe she figured a way around it when we questioned her.”
I shook my head. “She’s not the only one in that pharmacy. Bertelli ‘audits’ her every ten seconds. Do we know what kind of doctor he is?”
Zig had the info at his fingertips. “A psychic neurologist.”
Oh. I’d figured him to have a Doctorate in Pompous Obfuscation. “Then I’m betting he’s way more familiar with psychic pharmaceuticals than your average joe.”
Jacob balanced his laptop on the corner of Carolyn’s desk and called up the footage we’d both watched and re-watched umpteen times before searching Bertelli’s office…and coming up dry. He said, “Whatever Bertelli was up to during his audits, he did it outside camera range. Erin helped us plant additional surveillance.”
Carolyn and Zig crossed their arms and watched the clip of Bertelli opening a bottle and pocketing something. Or scratching an itch. Or brushing away a stray bit of lint. Neither of them was willing to say with absolute certainty that he was skimming meds. Zigler said, “We all know how far people will go to save their own skin. If the pharmacist is working with Malone, maybe the whole reason she planted that camera was to position it where she wanted and buy herself some time to skip town.”
It surprised me how attached I was to the idea that Erin really was on our side—especially since she was usually so prickly toward me. But if she wasn’t doing anything wrong, she’d stand up to whatever scrutiny we might throw her way. “The Program can have them tailed—all three of them, Erin, Troy and Bertelli—and monitor their banking in case anyone gears up to run by making an unusual cash withdrawal.”
I paused to let Carolyn voice what I would’ve been thinking if I were still a cop. Must be nice to have all those resources and no red tape. But she didn’t say anything, so she must not have had any objections. I stepped away to make the call, into an out-of-the-way spot over by evidence that was always good for a little privacy, and put in my requests with Surveillance. By the time I was done, Jacob found me, and took the opportunity to check in with me alone.
Bitter Pill Page 20
