by Sid Kar
“Not in court, only in the investigation,” Frank replied, “now do you understand the need for secrecy?”
“I do. This I won’t tell even my supervisor or director,” Clara said, “I am not sure this is even real.”
“You soon will,” Friedrich walked over to Adam’s brain and pointed his finger at it, “Detective Frank, am I understanding the case correctly that this man was murdered over some past feuds?”
“That is my theory,” Frank nodded.
“Good. After you called me, I decided to connect electrodes to Amygdala and attempt memory extraction from there,” Friedrich said.
“What that?” Joe asked.
“Joe, his explanation isn’t going to enlighten us one bit. All I care for is the video from his memories,” Frank said.
“I won’t give you a lecture,” Friedrich said, “last time we probed Thalamus because we were looking for the immediate memory before his death. Amygdala is one of brain’s regions that stores more long-term memories; memories from past, even distant past. But more importantly for us, it stores memories involved with intense emotional events, events of joy like a wedding or receiving a valuable gift or getting new job and so on. But also events that caused emotional scars, frightful experiences, road accidents, fights, and that type.”
“We are probing into this man’s intimate experiences. I am very uncomfortable with this,” Frank said.
“You told me to go ahead, Frank,” Friedrich said, “don’t worry. I have seen all I could get for now. There is nothing that would embarrass him.”
“Is this even legal?” Clara asked.
“He is the police,” Friedrich said.
“I doubt it is legal or illegal,” Frank said, “out in the limbo. No lawmaker would imagine this could be possible.”
“Do I have the permission, Detective?” Friedrich asked.
“Go ahead,” Frank said.
Friedrich walked over to his computer and played the file. A jumble of visuals played out, some static, some more akin to a video. Some were silent; others had random voices attached to them.
They saw visuals of Adam driving his truck, near misses and small accidents, all jumbled up, roads and atmosphere in shades of random colors detached from reality, screeches, and shrieks from brakes and honking and cursing. They saw motion pictures of Adam’s daughter Laura and of Luke, sometimes screams and arguments. Strangely, sometimes they saw Adam too as if he was looking at himself in a mirror but on road or in his truck. They saw scenes from seedy trucker bars and from the jail where he had been.
Some of the memories went back to the childhood. They saw little kids fighting. They saw visuals of his school yard days and of times past. They saw cars from the seventies and eighties, snippets from towns and states across the regions he had driven to and his regular roadside haunts.
But they also saw downright fantastical scenes, trucks flying in air, trucks going underwater, creatures out of fantasy and horror and some scenes that were actually from movies and television shows, many collages of distinct objects and mashes of contorted shapes with colors from a splattered palette.
The presentation lasted for an hour and a half. At the end Frank, Joe and Clara stood stunned while Friedrich alone was grinning.
“What the hell did we just see?” Frank said.
“It doesn’t make sense, so much of what we saw could never have happened in his life,” Clara said, “we saw vampires and spaceships…”
“Boy must have been a fan of Star Trek,” Joe opined.
“…and upside down mountains and twenty truck crashes…” Clara continued.
“Correct, but I didn’t say I had a way to distinguish between actual memories and fantasies,” Friedrich added, “as I told these two last time, the memory regions of the brain store everything – actual events, imaginations, fantasies, your memories of TV shows, dreams, delusions; it is parts of the brain responsible for reason and thinking which tell you what you should believe as actual and what you shouldn’t. Certainly there are delusional individuals in whom these regions are damaged and they hear voices, see things that aren’t there.”
“How are we going to distinguish between reality and fantasy?” Clara asked.
“You are the police detectives; that’s your job,” Friedrich smiled.
“Some we can throw away outright,” Frank said, “I saw visuals from sports, movies and some were probably his dreams or even nightmares; others we don’t really need, like his memories of travels to the different regions. But I believe I saw the gunshot again. Can you replay that Friedrich?”
“Aha! Frank, I knew you would notice that and ask for playback,” Friedrich said, “I copied that portion and saved it as a separate file.”
Friedrich opened a new video file on the computer and hit play.
They saw a handgun raised up straight and fire a shot and they heard the crack of the bullet. But the background was different this time – instead of Adam’s home there were trees all around the scene. Then the picture went black.
“That was a revolver Frank!” Joe exclaimed, “the shot we heard last time came from a revolver.”
“This doesn’t make sense,” Frank said to Friedrich, “that was a different type of gun, fired in some forest and held by a hand not wearing a glove. And we saw it from a right angle not straight up front staring down the barrel as we should see and did see it last time.”
“It confused me too,” Friedrich said, “but that’s how the brain works. Memories get jumbled up as they pass from one region of the brain to another. Last time, we pulled signals from Thalamus which is more like a junction, a place that would pass his fresh memories onward to different regions like Amygdala. I did not think there was time enough for the signals to pass on deeper. Perhaps I was wrong, maybe the killer and this Adam exchanged words. Maybe there was a delay; some signals were sent onward to the other brain regions. But naturally, he was under intense emotional stress of fear, and this would scramble up the nerve signals.”
“Substitute a different setting?” Clara asked.
“Why not? The gun was the focal point of interest, the object of immense importance,” Friedrich replied, “what the survival instinct would force all his attention upon. Nerve signals representing the gun would be the most intense and zap all around the brain. Setting didn’t matter, his room or woods behind his house or wherever, background details having no bearing on his survival.”
“But the gun was different, Err…I mean, Herr Friedrich,” Joe said.
“The type of gun did not matter. Would you spend time identifying the type of the gun if someone was pointing it at you?” Friedrich asked.
“That makes much more sense,” Frank said, “all of us remember the most important events of our lives more vividly; whereas ordinary memories, background details, as he said, fade away.”
“Was this man a hunter?” Friedrich asked.
“He had a shotgun,” Frank replied.
“There you go, Frank,” Friedrich said. “Mystery solved. Even if he wasn’t a regular hunter, he must have tested it out somewhere in the woods. That’s where you get the setting and the gunshot sound from.”
“That ain’t a sound from a shotgun but from a revolver,” Joe said.
“Personally, I can’t tell the difference, but it can all get jumbled up in the mind under severe threat,” Friedrich grinned.
“This is of no use to us then, Frank,” Clara said. She had been mostly quiet, still trying to digest what she was witnessing. Nobody would ever believe her…hell she still wasn’t sure she believed what was going on.
“There is something else that I saw that bothers me,” Frank said, “Friedrich, can you roll the video to the start of where we see a gasoline tanker? I believe it appears only once.”
“Sure,” Friedrich said tapping some keys on the computer, “but why Frank? That is mundane, his routine work.”
“No,” Frank shook his head, “I will explain after I watch it one more time.�
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Friedrich rolled back the video and hit play.
This time they saw a gasoline tanker on the side of the road that was slowly getting closer as if the man behind the visuals was walking towards it. Then they saw the door pull open and the interior of the driver’s cabin. The truck rolled forward and they saw traffic out of the front window.
“That’s Route 287, Frank,” Joe said, “Boy was driving right past our place.”
“Nice catch Joe. Maybe we will see our younger selves running around from a side window,” Frank replied with a hint of sarcasm, annoyed at having his attention distracted. But Joe was right, factually. They could see the 287 traffic from the edge of Joe’s family property.
The video went on for a few minutes as the tanker drove on 287 North and nothing particular happened. They kept seeing traffic out the windshield and sometimes from mirrors and side windows, presumably when Adam looked around. Suddenly the visual switched over to some other memory of Adam at a roadside stop.
“Stop and rewind to the start, but don’t play yet,” Frank said and Friedrich complied. He folded his hands across his chest and waited.
“I don’t get it? Why does it surprise you? What is so important about this scene?” Clara asked.
“Hold Clara,” Frank said and took out his police radio and pressed a button, “Dispatch, this is Detective Frank, I want you to run a Commercial Driver’s License for me.”
“Detective Frank, this is dispatch, go ahead, give me the number,” a voice replied.
Frank had taken out his diary and flipped through the pages. He read one license number over his radio.
“Dispatch, get all the past licenses associated with Adam Buck the license holder and especially I want all the endorsements,” Frank said.
“On it, Detective, will get back soon,” dispatch replied and clicked off.
“I ran his commercial driver’s license and am pretty sure there was no Hazmat Endorsement on it, but let’s see,” Frank said. All of them waited silently watching him as he held the radio close to his face. A few minutes later a voiced crackled over the radio.
“Detective Frank, I have all his past commercial licenses and a list of endorsements,” dispatch said. “What do you want to know?”
“Did he ever have Hazmat?” Frank asked.
“Negative, Detective. Adam never had any Hazardous Material Endorsement on his commercial,” dispatch replied.
“Verify once more please,” Frank said.
“Verified.”
Frank turned off the radio and turned to the three of them.
“If he drove one, he did it unlawfully,” Frank said, “now there might be a connection to shady activities in his past.”
“What are these endorsements?” Friedrich asked.
“You need them to transport material like gasoline which is dangerously inflammable,” Frank replied.
“It could be his wishful thinking, his dream,” Clara said, “those drivers get paid a lot more than the regular truckers.”
“They do get paid more,” Frank said, “but this scene was too consistent, too real to be anything but an actual memory. We saw visuals of multiple truck accidents from his memory. That was clearly one of his fears he would have imagined. We also saw flying trucks, now that was a fantasy, a fantasy I would say many of us have of zooming away in a flying car when stuck in traffic.”
“Boy must have been stuck on the Garden State Parkway traffic when he dreamt that,” Joe quipped.
“Yes, Joe,” Frank laughed, “but you don’t daydream about driving a gasoline tanker around.”
“I see your point,” Clara said.
Suddenly they heard a couple of knocks on the door of Friedrich’s lab. They had all forgotten that the office hours were well under way.
“Friedrich, you are late for your meeting,” a voice said from outside.
“Who is that?” Frank asked.
“Herr Sham… Mr. Shamrock,” Friedrich said, “Director of Research.”
“I will get rid of him,” Frank said.
Frank walked over to the door and opened it partway.
“Police? Officer what is going on?” Mr. Shamrock asked. He was a lean man in his late fifties wearing a white lab coat and glasses.
“Mr. Friedrich won’t make it to his meeting today. He is tied up with me,” Frank said.
“Why, what’s the matter?”
“It’s confidential. I can’t disclose. Maybe he will tell you later,” Frank replied.
“Friedrich, are you in there? Do you need help?” Shamrock spoke loudly.
“I am fine, Mr. Shamrock,” Friedrich replied, “parked one of my cars in a wrong place, it got towed away.”
“I am sorry to hear,” Shamrock said, “we will talk after lunch.”
Shamrock walked away, and Frank closed the door shut.
“I do have my regular office work, Frank,” Friedrich said.
“I won’t take much longer,” Frank said, “play that gasoline tanker scene again, but in slow motion and zoom in on the tanker.”
Friedrich started the video again in slow motion and saw the tanker getting closer.
“Zoom on the tanker’s side,” Frank said and Friedrich clicked on zoom in his computer program and positioned it where Frank was pointing.
“There, Stop!” Frank said and Friedrich paused the video.
There were multiple lines of letter and number markings visible on the side of the tanker. The top one in bold was larger than the rest: GRAND NORTH PETROLEUM & REFINING.
Frank wrote down the name in his diary and slapped it close.
“We have a lead,” Frank said, “let Herr Friedrich get back to his work.”
“Are we going to give them a visit?” Clara asked.
“Tomorrow. I would like to do research and prepare,” Frank said, “let’s get back to the headquarters and see if the search for Panther turned up anything.
They took their leave and walked out of the pharma company’s office.
CHAPTER 12
Thursday, Day 8
The next day, Frank and Joe picked up Clara from her hotel again, and they drove up on Route 287 North to the headquarters and the main operational center of Grand North Petroleum & Refining Co., or GNPRC as it was colloquially known.
“This is right where we saw the boy drive the gasoline tanker in his dreams,” Joe said. He was sitting up front while Clara was in the back and Frank was driving.
“Not dreams, memories,” Frank said, “this makes me feel all the more certain he actually did drive one.”
“Do you think there is a connection between the oil company and Panther?” Clara asked leaning forward. Frank had removed the steel mesh separating the front and the back seat of his cruiser to make it more comfortable for Clara.
“Makes more sense than the mob connection from his old cigarette smuggling days,” Frank said, “The mob has its own hitmen. If he did illegally drive a gasoline tanker…” Frank let his words trail off. He didn’t want to start making accusations based simply on a visual of a memory extract from a dead man’s brain.
The search for Panther had turned up nothing yesterday and no additional information had come in this morning either. They had decided against putting out a public alert because that would have made Panther aware they knew his actual identity and not just his alias. Secondly, Panther was too dangerous an operative to risk creating an armed confrontation between him and local police. His profile photo had been circulated only to the state troopers and they were told to quietly pursue him but not to engage. They were to call Frank immediately if he was sighted. But no leads had come in as of half an hour earlier when Frank had last checked.
“That’s not something to kill a man over,” Clara said, “it would be a small fine to the company. Definitely not worth hiring one of the top assassins in the world.”
“These people are rich beyond belief,” Frank said, “if they did decide to hire a contract killer, they would go for the best. His
fees would be chump change to them, something they might spend on a week’s outing to an exotic location.”
“But there is still no motive,” Clara said.
“That’s what we have to find out,” Frank said, “if there is a motive and if there is a connection to Adam and his murder. Yesterday, I did find out this company’s oil refineries had a history of lots of oil spills around the Tri-State area. Maybe there is something there?”
“You could be right, Frank,” Joe said, “Boy was not licensed and trained to handle gas. Could have spilled it, could have been a cover up. Now he wanted money.”
“Still doesn’t fit,” Frank shook his head, “even if true, rich, white collar criminals don’t risk murder charges to avoid civil torts.”
They did not speculate much more about the case the rest of the way. Clara sat silently in the back and looked at the scenery. Joe ate his morning breakfast while Frank sipped on his daily dose of large ice coffee while cursing the rush hour traffic every now and then. Frank turned on Route 80 West near Parsippany. The traffic had started to thin out as office hours had begun.
“How far we going, Frank?” Joe asked.
“There is some State Forest out west, the township of Grandbridge, the refinery is somewhere there,” Frank replied.
“We could have taken 206,” Joe grinned.
“I wanted to follow Adam’s route. No way he took a long gas tanker on 206,” Frank said.
The town of Grandbridge was near the Pennsylvania border. It was mostly a rural town with houses spread out across many acres with trees and lawns taking up most of the real estate. The signs to the refinery were visible on Route 80 as well as on the county and town roads which Frank navigated.
The road leading to the refinery was devoid of traffic. They passed a couple of bars and convenience stores along the way and a motel with a neon red sign that was still lit in the daytime. The refinery complex was up ahead of them surrounded by a ten feet tall, steel fence. There was a five story steel and glass office tower in the far northeast corner of the complex and a warehouse outside the fence to its southwest corner that appeared to have been long abandoned.
