Justice for Hire (19 page)

As the door swung open, he sprang to his feet, unsure whether to wait and see what was going on or, better still, try to run. But, he didn’t know what was outside the door, and surely he would be caught before he got far.

When he saw a huge, muscled-bound man step in and take up position beside the door, he reconsidered his plan. He would have to wait, but escape he would, determined they weren’t going to keep him in this dreadful place.

He became aware of a faint squeaking, becoming increasingly louder, and then a stainless steel cart, pushed by a stooped man wearing a long lab coat, was wheeled in. The gray-haired man stopped halfway across the room, and the cart became silent.

“Please sit down,” the man said.

David looked at the tray on the cart, and then at the thug. He wasn’t sure what choice he had. He kept one eye on the door, hoping the goon would leave and he could make a dash for freedom. For now, all he could do was bide his time and hope for a chance. Just one chance. He sat uneasily on the edge of the bed and waited.

The man smiled. “That’s better.”

David dreaded the thought of what they may have planned for him? He stared up, wide-eyed, and then shrunk back as the man approached.

“I’m Dr. Wolff,” the elderly man said. “I would like you to lay down, please.”

David shuffled back further on the bed. “What are you going to do,” he asked, his voice trembling, his hands beginning to sweat.

“Lay down, please.”

“No. Go away. What are you doing to me?” He looked around wildly, praying for a means of escape. He glanced at the door, at the thug, and then back at Wolff.

“You must lay down and relax, please,” the madman said.

David thought a moment before finally succumbing. He dropped on his back and turned his head toward Wolff, and then watched in horror as the peculiar man retrieved a pair of leather straps from a shelf on the cart.

“Put your arms by your side,” Wolff said.

David crossed his arms in defiance and turned his head away. “No,” he shouted. “I want to go home. You have no right to keep me here.”

“Only for a short time, and then, you can go. Don’t you want to get this over with?”

David struggled to sit but Wolff held him back with one hand. Weak from lack of food, David fought in vain and was forced down.

“You’ll go home soon enough,” Wolff said, as he turned his head and beckoned for the goon to help. David protested and fought as his arms were forced apart, and one at a time, were bound securely to metal bars on each side of the cot. He clenched his fists and fought against the leather straps, but couldn’t budge his arms.

He kicked against his attackers in vain as his feet were fastened securely to the end of the bed. He couldn’t move his legs, only bend his knees slightly.

“Let me go,” David shouted. “You can’t do this.” His struggles and shouts of protest went unheeded. He watched in horror as Wolff turned to the cart and spun back around, a surgical needle in his hand.

“Please lie still. This won’t hurt, and it’ll help you relax.”

David didn’t want to relax. Panic gripped him as he felt a sharp prick and the needle was inserted into his arm, just below his elbow. He tossed his head violently from side to side as the contents of the needle was emptied into his bloodstream.

“Relax now,” Wolff said, as he removed the needle and dropped it onto the tray. He turned back and placed one hand on David’s forehead a moment, and then held his wrist, probably checking his pulse.

He vaguely saw a chair being set beside his bed and the mad doctor sat and leaned forward. David’s head was spinning, and as he gazed toward the ceiling, the bright lights were no longer white, but took on shades of red, green, blue and yellow. They swirled around, dipping down, and then up, and enveloped him in a rainbow of colors.

Colors he’d never seen before. He saw butterflies and birds forming, fractal flowers, neon stripes, trails and tracers of various forms. He watched the swirling colors open-mouthed, speechless.

He felt a hand on his cheek and his head was turned. He forced himself to focus his gaze on the eyes now watching him. He blinked a few times, and then stared, wide-eyed, as he looked into the universe. He could see the entire cosmos as it spiraled and spun, twisted and flowed. He beheld the sight before him in awe. He knew then, what he was looking at.

He was looking into the face of God.

“Are . . . are you God?” he asked, as he stared at the face in wonder. A wise face, perfect, ever-changing, but always the same somehow.

God smiled. It was a beautiful smile, unlike David had ever seen before. “No, I’m not God, but God has sent me.”

“Who . . . who are you?”

“I am the Wizard.”

“The Wizard?”

The Wizard nodded. “You have been chosen. I am the Wizard, and I’m asking for your service.”

David nodded violently. “Yes, yes.”

The Wizard smiled again and placed his hand over David’s eyes. “Sleep now,” he said. “I’ll return later.”

David felt a keen sadness as the Wizard turned and retreated from sight. He looked again at the tiles on the ceiling. There were thousands of them now, no, millions, and they continued on and on for eternity.

David closed his eyes and thought about the universe, hoping the Wizard would soon return.

Chapter 39

Thursday, August 25th, 1:15 PM

CALLAWAY DROPPED a package on Hank’s desk. The M.E.’s reports on the murder of Harold Garrison were in.

“Thanks, Callaway,” Hank said, as he leaned forward and picked up the stuffed envelope. He dumped its contents onto his desk.

The package contained the forensics reports as well as the complete lab findings. The summary report was what he was interested in. He flipped through the stack and pulled it free.

Report of Findings on the Death of Harold Garrison

Cause of death:
gunshot wound to the head.

Manner of death:
homicide.

Blood alcohol:
negative.

Blood drug screens:
negative.

Urine drug screens:
negative.

My examination of the body of Harold Garrison revealed two gunshot wounds to the head.

Bullet A entered below the left eye, with the exit wound on the rear of the head. The trajectory of the bullet was front to back, and slightly downwards.

Bullet B entered through the upper lip, with the exit wound on the rear of the head. The trajectory of the bullet was front to back, and slightly downwards.

There were no trace particles of gunshot residue on the clothing of Harold Garrison, however residue on the chair suggest both shots were fired from a distance of three to five feet, the bullets first piercing the back of the chair before entering the skull of Harold Garrison.

In my opinion, Harold Garrison died of a gunshot wound to the head. Manner of death is homicide.

The bullets, determined to be of 9 mm by the ballistics report, had been retrieved, buried in the floor of the office. Further testing showed it to be from the gun found at the scene.

A complete external examination of the body of Harold Garrison was also done, finding no visible defensive wounds, and nothing unusual.

The summary report on the killer was similar to the one from the murderer of Bobby Sullivan.

Report of Findings on the Death of John Doe

Cause of death:
gunshot wound to the head.

Manner of death:
suicide by a single, self-inflicted shot from a 9 mm handgun.

Blood alcohol:
negative.

Blood drug screens:
trace amounts of scopolamine detected.

Urine drug screens:
13 ng/ml Lysergic Acid Diethylamide detected.

My examination of the body of John Doe revealed a contact gunshot wound to the head, with the entrance wound on the right side of the head, and the exit wound on the left side of the head. The trajectory of the bullet was right to left and slightly upwards.

A muzzle stamp was imprinted on the skin surrounding the entrance wound. The muzzle stamp marks the position of the muzzle of the gun on or near John Doe’s head at the time the gun was fired.

Gunshot residue found on the clothing, the right hand, and soot marks at the entrance of the wound, suggest the fatal wound had been self-inflicted.

In my opinion, John Doe died of a gunshot wound to the right temple. Manner of death is suicide.

The weapon was determined to be the same 9 mm Glock found at the scene.

The bullet had been pulled from the wall of the office and the testing of the bodily fluid on the bullet revealed it to be the one that had killed John Doe.

An internal autopsy had not been considered necessary on either victim and had not been performed.

Both reports were signed by Nancy Pietek, Deputy Medical Examiner.

As Hank suspected, the lab found the presence of LSD, as well as scopolamine, in the system of the killer.

There was certainly no doubt now all three murders were connected.

Hank leafed through the stack of papers again. The autopsy report caught his eye. His mouth dropped open when he saw what it contained.

An external examination of the killer had found a microchip implant imbedded in the back of John Doe’s skull near the amygdala.

Hank spun his chair and grabbed his mouse. He googled “amygdala” and found several pages explaining what the amygdala did. Apparently, in humans, the amygdalae perform primary roles in the formation and storage of memories associated with emotional events. It was all too technical for Hank, but it had a lot to do with memory and emotion.

Hank sat back, the truth now hitting him full force.

Where was that chip? He wanted to see it.

He scooped up the phone and called the lab. He was notified they’d been doing some testing on it but were unable to ascertain its purpose.

“I want to see it,” Hank said.

“I’ll send it right up.”

In a couple of minutes he was handed a small plastic bag stapled to a sheet of paper. He strained to see the tiny chip it contained, smaller than the head of a pin.

He grabbed the phone again and dialed a number. “Give me Nancy.”

“Nancy Pietek?”

He got right to the subject. “Nancy, Hank here. Did you check John Doe number one to see if he had a chip in him as well?”

“I’m about to do that. I’ll let you know.”

He hung up, betting to himself she would find an identical chip.

Another phone call. This time to Jake.

When Jake answered on the second ring, Hank said, “Jake, we may have a breakthrough.”

“Oh?”

“A microchip found in the head of our latest John Doe.” Hank explained what he’d learned. He finished with, “I want to send it to Toronto for testing. Our lab doesn’t know what it’s all about.”

“I take it you got the M.E.’s reports?” Jake asked.

“Yes, they found LSD and scopolamine in John Doe. Nothing else surprising, except this chip.” Hank peered at the tiny electronic device as he talked.

“Hopefully, they can track its source,” Jake said.

“That’s what I’m counting on.” Hank paused and chuckled. “And there’s more news. I have a new partner.”

“A partner?”

“I asked Diego for some more help. He gave me two uniforms to help out on the streets, and assigned Simon King as my partner.”

Jake laughed. “I can’t see you with a partner.”

“Good thing it’s only temporary.”

“Speaking of the streets,” Jake said. “I was talking to Sammy Fisher. You remember him? He wants to help, and asked for some photos. I’m about to look him up now.”

“Sure, I remember him, and he’s welcome to lend a hand. The more people we have out there the better.”

“I’ll let you know if anything turns up,” Jake said.

They said goodbye and Hank hung up. He gathered up the reports and stuffed them into the envelope, and then strode across the precinct and dropped them in front of Simon King. King looked up. He was still going over the earlier file.

“Here’s the reports on the latest murder. You can add this to the stack,” Hank said.

King frowned, dragged the envelope closer and slipped it under the pile, and then sighed and buried himself back in his studying.

Hank smiled and turned away.

Chapter 40

Thursday, August 25th, 1:30 PM

OLIVER CRAIG settled into his high-back easy chair, the one he’d won at a Christie’s auction, and set his Scotch on a stand beside the chair. It was his third drink today, and it made him feel powerful, invincible.

His plans were going extremely well. Wolff was proving to be a valuable, irreplaceable asset, and he rubbed his hands together, anticipating his next project. It would be a big step, executed soon, and Craig had faith its implementation would bring about sweeping effects. Soon the city would belong to him, and then . . .

He reached to the stand and picked up the television remote, flicked on the TV and the voice of the Channel 7 news anchor filled his massive office. The all-news station was finishing a report on the increasing price of local real estate. Craig smiled smugly. News like that only made him richer, and super-rich is what he strove for, lived for.

That, and power.

The anchor shuffled his papers and looked at the camera.

“And now, in an exclusive report on the murders of the last few days, here’s Lisa Krunk.”

Craig sat forward and watched with great interest as Lisa’s unattractive face appeared on his screen.

“Thank you, Philip. I’m standing here in front of Richmond Hill Police Station where a press conference was held earlier today regarding the latest killings that have inflicted the city. The conference was held in response to my many demands, as I insisted the public be made aware of police proceedings in these affairs. My overwhelming pressure has amounted to what you see behind me now.