The Betrayed (30 page)

“I’ve been instructed to be polite to you, and to give you whatever information might be helpful to your investigation,” Casey said. Cassian waited for the other shoe to drop. “But it was also made clear to me that I’m in charge of this investigation, and if you get in my way, I’ll send you back to the big city with a pitchfork stickin’ out of your ass. You got that?” The smile never left his face as Casey addressed Cassian.

“Of course,” Jack said, trying to adopt a more conciliatory tone. It didn’t seem natural to him. “This is your backyard, and I’m just a guest.”

“I appreciate your recognizing that.”

“But I’d like to offer whatever assistance I can,” Cassian added.

“And I appreciate that, too. I understand that you have an interest in this matter—and your partner’s the one who got my superiors in a snit about it. Like I said, I’ll give you whatever information I think is appropriate. For now, though, I want everyone to clear outta here, and that includes you.”

Cassian was reluctant to leave. “You sure? I might be able to help on crime scene.”

Casey’s smile widened even as his eyes seemed to go black. “That’s mighty kind of you, but I’ve got a forensic crime scene unit from the barracks upstate on the way. I know we may not seem quite as sophisticated as y’all up in
Dee See
, but we’ll get the job done.” His eyes drilled into Cassian. “So, like I said, I want
everyone
to clear on outta here. Now.”

There was no mistaking the message. Cassian had no jurisdiction, and he was not going to be allowed to be an active participant in the investigation. He might get some advance warning regarding information that was going to be released to the public, but that would likely be where the courtesy ended. It would be better treatment than he’d have gotten from the local police—but only slightly. Sometimes the turf wars endemic to law enforcement seemed a hindrance to the rational execution of justice.

Cassian nodded to Sydney. “Let’s go,” he said.

They began heading out the door and down the long corridor when he heard Casey’s voice behind them. “By the way, Detective? Ms. Chapin?” Jack and Sydney turned around and looked at the chiseled trooper. “Please stay around here for a while. I’d like to ask both of you a few questions.”

C
ASSIAN PACED BACK AND FORTH
in the comfortably furnished wait
ing room off the main entryway to the Institute. It had the homey feel of a wealthy estate, with its high ceiling, comfortable leather chairs, and crown moldings. Ringing the space was a progression of portraits—all white men in business suits and lab coats—of past administrators, doctors, and important benefactors. But he didn’t much care about the decor of the room. He was focused on figuring out a way to take back control over the investigation into Willie Murphy’s death.

“I don’t like this,” Sydney said. She was sitting on one of the overstuffed chairs in the corner of the room, staring out of the window that overlooked the hills rolling away from the Institute at the rear of the building.

“Which part of it?” Cassian asked, continuing to pace.

“All of it.” Sydney looked up at Jack and he could see that the upheavals of the past week had taken their toll. Her face had taken on the drawn look of a survivor. There was a hollowness to her eyes, and her cheeks looked like they were sinking slightly beneath her patrician cheekbones. “I hate every part of this. Nothing feels right anymore.”

“I know,” Cassian agreed, pausing in his stride. He walked over toward her and squatted down in front of her chair, his knees bent and his hand resting on her arm. “It will again,” he said. “I promise.”

She looked him in the eye. “You really believe that, don’t you?”

“I do.”

“How?”

“Comes with a lot of experience on the job.”

The sound of footsteps approaching from down the marble corridor outside the room startled them both, and Cassian rose to his feet, feeling oddly as though he’d been caught in the midst of some indiscretion. The door opened and Dr. Sandra Golden walked into the room.

“I think we’ve determined where the drug came from, as well as what it was,” she said. He looked at her expectantly, and she continued. “It appears that one of the medicine cabinets on the second floor—the minimum-security section—was broken into last night. Two vials of morphine are missing.”

Jack frowned. “Does Casey know?”

Golden nodded. “He found the morphine in the bottom of Willie’s desk. He’s had his people dust them for fingerprints and he said he got a pretty clean pair. He suspects they’re Willie’s.”

“How about prints on the medicine cabinet?” Jack asked.

“I don’t know,” she replied. “I’m a doctor, not a detective. I’m afraid we’re a little outside my area of expertise. Besides, I only talked to Casey for a moment.” Golden looked down at the carpet, as if studying the elaborate Persian design. “They’re going to say that Willie stole the morphine, aren’t they? They’re going to say that he killed himself—either accidentally through an overdose, or on purpose.”

Cassian nodded.

She frowned. “I thought so.”

“You don’t think it’s likely?” Jack asked.

She shook her head, biting her bottom lip to choke back a wave of emotion. “It’s possible, I suppose. Sometimes, as clinicians, we can get too close to those we treat, and maybe I just don’t want to accept that I missed something this serious. But it just doesn’t make sense.”

“Why not?”

“Willie’d been off drugs for nearly two decades. Why would he feel the need to use now? If anything, I’d have said that he was more secure in who he was than he’d ever been in his life. Don’t get me wrong, he still had a lot of issues, and we had a lot of work to do to get through those issues, but I thought he was finally making peace with his past. He’d had a rush of memories over the past month, and he seemed to be coming to grips with what had happened to him when he was a child here. Why would he throw all that away?”

“Maybe remembering and dealing with it all was too painful?” Sydney suggested, though her own tone sounded doubtful.

“Was that your impression when you met with him yesterday?” Golden asked.

Sydney shook her head. “He didn’t seem to want to share too much of it, but he didn’t seem tortured by it.”

“That was my impression, too,” Golden said.

“Maybe someone wanted to make sure that he never shared any of it,” Cassian suggested. He was pacing again, circling the room like an agitated panther. “Of course, it probably doesn’t matter. Dudley Do-Right and his band of mounted troopers will conclude that it was suicide, or an accidental overdose, and any clues we might have had will be swept away in whatever cursory investigation they conduct.” He was angry and frustrated, and he was letting it show. He stalked his way around the room again and again, making himself light-headed as his mind flipped through what little he knew.

As he paced, the portraits that hung on the walls cycled by in an endless unbroken parade of old white men, each looking more smug than he had on the previous pass. Cassian was furious with them for playing God—deciding alone who would live and who would die, and who would be used in unthinkable ways to prove “scientific” fancy, draining away lives in the name of some false superiority without concern or compassion.

He walked around and around until his head hurt and he had to stop, and he found himself focusing on one of the portraits. It was one of the largest, and it held a position of prominence. It looked like it had probably been painted in the middle of the last century, and the subject stared down at Cassian over spectacles that were perched on a distinctively long, aquiline nose.

“Who is that?” he asked Golden after a moment.

She walked over and stood next to Jack, looking up at the painting with him. “That’s Abraham B. Venable,” she said. “He was in charge of the Institute from the 1930s through the end of the 1950s. He was the man most responsible for bringing this place to prominence.”

Cassian was still staring at the portrait, almost hypnotized. “He looks familiar.”

She nodded. “His son got the same distinctive looks.”

“His son?”

“Yes, Abe Venable Jr.”

Cassian was puzzled. He felt like something was still missing. “Should I know who Abe Venable Jr. is?”

“I would think so,” Golden said, the surprise evident in her tone. “After all, he’s running for president.”

“That Abe Venable?” Cassian asked. “I had no idea he had a connection to . . .” As he spoke, the realization hit him squarely. He looked at Sydney, his eyes wide. “Abe Venable’s father was in charge of this place!”

z

“Don’t you see? It all makes sense,” Cassian argued to Train.

He and Sydney had spent the rest of the morning on the drive back into Washington digesting what they’d learned. After a cursory talk with Detective Casey—an obligatory few questions that had hardly been worth the wait, and had clearly been intended by Casey to make the point that he was in control—they had headed out to the regional highway im
pound facility where Sydney’s car had been towed early that morning. The engine had started on the first try and Cassian changed the tire. He arranged to have his motorcycle shipped back to the state central holding area in Alexandria on the next police transport of stolen vehicles so he could ride back with Sydney. Now they were bringing Train up to speed.

“Abe Venable’s father was in charge of that place in the fifties,” Cassian explained. “That means he was personally responsible for the inhumane treatment of the patients out there, and if that ever became public knowledge, it could prove fatal to Venable’s presidential ambitions. Venable’s a dyed-in-thewool southern conservative, and his father’s history would probably be enough to sink him with any moderate voters.”

“So what are you saying?” Train demanded. “You think the country’s leading conservative had Elizabeth Creay killed? You think she was going to do a story on all this, and he somehow found out about it?”

“That’s exactly what I think,” said Cassian. “The presidency’s the greatest political prize on the planet, and the notion that someone like Venable might kill to win it hardly seems like a stretch. Think about it: he could have been tipped off by someone still up there. After all, his father ran the place for decades; you’d have to think he’s still got some supporters working at the Institute.”

“How is it that no one has found out about his father before?” Train challenged. “After all, it sounds like the Institute’s pretty well-known, and lots of people must know about its history, as well as Venable’s connection to it.”

“Maybe no one has focused on it before,” Cassian offered. “Who knows why, but what does it matter? If Liz Creay was about to splash it all over the papers, you can certainly see a motive to kill her.”

Train gave an exasperated sigh. “Even if we assume that Sydney’s sister was going to do a story—or even that Venable thought she was going to do a story—I’m not convinced that would provide a motive for murder. It all assumes that a big story on Venable’s father would have doomed his chances at being elected. I’m not convinced that’s the case. It’s his father, right? It’s not like he’s the one who was experimenting on people himself. Besides, Venable is already known as such a conservative that some of his base might actually like the notion that his father was unapologetic in his approach to mental health. Any way you look at it, it’s all still just speculation.”

The three of them seemed to be at an impasse, and Cassian was feeling frustrated all over again. If he couldn’t convince his own partner that Venable was a real suspect, how could he ever convince anyone else? And without Train’s support, the idea of pursuing a major political figure like Venable in connection with a murder investigation was unthinkable. It was looking to Cassian like he’d have to let the Venable angle go, and he thought it was a mistake.

Jack was deep in his own thoughts, trying to figure out any way to convince Train to pursue the issue, when Sydney spoke up. “Sergeant Train, I don’t know whether Venable had anything to do with my sister’s murder or not, but I’d certainly like to find out. If someone who knows the political landscape well told you that these revelations about Venable’s father would have ruined him politically, and that it could be a legitimate motive for murder, would you consider looking into it a little more?”

Train looked at her carefully. Finally, he sighed heavily. “Who did you have in mind?”

I
T WAS A QUICK WALK
from the police station on E Street to the Department of Health and Human Services. Up Washington Street and through the shadow of the Rayburn Office Building, which housed the offices of many of the nation’s members of Congress, Train glanced to his right and shivered unexpectedly as he regarded the Capitol dome looming over them as if watching their every move.

They entered the building off Independence Avenue within a stone’s throw of the Capitol, bordering the U.S. Botanic Gar
den in the heart of the District’s pomp. As they walked down the corridor, Train listened to their footsteps echoing off the polished marble floors and through the narrow catacombed hallways. They reached the end of the passageway and turned to the left, headed down two doors, and through an archway that led into a large, well-appointed office suite. “Wait here,” Sydney said as she walked over to a prim-looking woman in an out-of-season wool suit sitting behind a desk at the far end of the reception room. The woman took her name and directed the three of them to take a seat in the waiting area.

“Nice digs,” Cassian commented. “For a bureaucrat.”

Sydney laughed nervously. “He’s hardly a bureaucrat; he’s a cabinet member. The Secretary of Health and Human Services oversees most of the social programs run by the federal government. It’s actually a very important position.”

“Like I said,” Cassian countered, “a bureaucrat.”