The Black Palmetto (10 page)

The chief took the lamp from him and held it over the top of the open locker. Several olive-drab colored objects lay in the bottom.

“What are these things?” the chief asked, picking one up.

“Like you said, explosives.”

“Where'd you get them?”

“That's none of your business.”

It really didn’t matter where he had gotten the bombs. “Okay, what kind of damage would they do?”

“One of those would destroy that house up there.”

The chief stared at him for a moment. “Having this stuff is probably a Federal offense, Ted, but I’m not interested in that. You have an alibi for Saturday night?”

“What are you talking about? I haven't done anything.”

“Saturday night, Ted.”

“I was here all night, okay? Ask my mother. She'll tell you.”

“Don't worry, we will.”

Chief Boozler put the bomb back and stepped away. “I think we've seen enough.”

“Wait,” Lonnie said as he moved closer and peered inside the locker. “There’s something in the corner.” After stretching on latex gloves from his pocket, he reached in and pulled out a rolled-up towel. It was damp with a red substance that resembled blood. He unrolled it, and a knife about eight inches long lay inside.

A rancid odor wafted up to Boozler’s nose. The knife had smears of the same red substance on the handle and blade. The chief felt his stomach clench. His temples throbbed to an erratic beat. Dread buzzed inside his head.

The veteran ran his hands through his greasy hair and took a deep breath, looking sick in the jaundiced light of the kerosene lamp.

“I don't know anything about that. Anybody could've gotten in here and left it. You saw that rusty lock up there, how it came loose in my hand.”

He reached into the locker and ran his hands over the explosives. “I had eight of these in here. I know that for sure because I moved them down here from the barn a while back and I counted them. Now there's only seven. Somebody stole one of them and left that knife in there. Somebody trying to frame me.”

Chapter Twelve

Finding the psychiatrist proved to be more difficult than Sam had thought. An Internet search on Simone’s phone came up empty. They spent the night in Key Largo, rose early, and called J.T. He had arrived at Miami International late the night before and checked into an airport hotel. Still half asleep when Sam called, he mumbled he'd get back to them when he found the address. An hour passed, and the phone chirped as they reached the outskirts of Miami. Though J.T. hadn't found the man, he had made some progress and was awaiting a call from a source with a mobile phone company.

At 10:00 a.m. they stopped at a restaurant in Coconut Grove for coffee and a sandwich. J.T. finally called back after their second cup and said he'd located Whitehall in North Miami, through a mailing address for his phone bill.

The residence turned out to be an old hotel named Kingly Court. It didn't seem like a place where a psychiatrist might live; cinder block construction, weeds in the lawn, peeling paint on the sign.

They parked and went inside a dingy lobby. A counter ran across one side with nobody behind it. Upon ascending a wooden staircase with a threadbare carpet runner, they located room 210 and Sam knocked on the door. No one responded, so he knocked again.

Casting a sidelong glance at Simone, Sam said, “J.T. seemed pretty certain this is where he lives.”

She rolled her eyes. No faith.

The floor squeaked somewhere on the other side of the door. Emerson Whitehall probably stood there peering at them through the peephole.

“Who is it?” A deep, muffled voice.

They had discussed on the drive up what they would say.

“FBI,” Sam said. “We need to speak with Dr. Emerson Whitehall.”

The door eased open a few inches. A bearded and bespectacled face peered around it. The man appeared to be in a bathrobe and smelled like stale beer.

“Let's see some ID.”

Sam pulled out a badge emblazoned with the FBI seal, his photo, and a fake name. He’d had it made by a counterfeiter in Miami for occasions such as this.

Emerson Whitehall studied it for what seemed like a long time then glanced at Simone.

“What about her?”

She sighed and pulled out a similar ID, though without the seal, flashed it and put it away.

He stared for a few heartbeats, a frown on his face, and Sam expected him to ask her to take it back out for a closer examination. Then the man took a deep breath and let it out with a sigh.

“Okay. Just checking. Can't be too careful after what happened.”

They went inside and sat on a sagging sofa in the tiny living room. Whitehall took a chair across from them that had been reupholstered in shiny vinyl. A table next to him held a lamp with cobwebs stringing from the shade like moss on oak trees. It also held three beer cans with their tabs popped open. A box sat on a table in the corner of the room, overflowing with framed documents. Sam guessed they might be professional certifications and diplomas. A tabletop TV sat next to the box, muted, a rerun of
an old detective show
playing.

“Get you something to drink?” the Dr. asked.

Both of them shook their heads, and Sam said, “Have something if you want to, though.”

“Oh, don't worry, I will.” He picked up one of the beer cans and held it up as if in a toast, then took a large swallow and set it down. “So, what does the FBI want from me?”

“We have a problem,” Sam said. “One of the guys from the Black Palmetto program stole some information from a research center in Homestead and disappeared in the Lower Keys.”

He smiled. “I don't work there anymore.”

“Yes, we know.”

“What kind of information?”

Sam leaned back on the sofa and looked fleetingly at Simone. She gave him the simplest of nods.

“We don't know for sure, but whatever it is, we believe he used it to blackmail another member of the program, and now has disappeared. We need to get the information back.”

The psychiatrist took another long slug of the beer, emptying the can, and set it down on the table. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“What does this have to do with me?”

“We know you left there under adverse circumstances.”

“’Adverse circumstances.’ I suppose that's one way of looking at it. They fired me because I wouldn't march to their idiotic agenda.”

Sam shook his head and gave him a sad smile, as if to say,
I know exactly what you mean
. “We know they trained mental patients to be assassins. I assume that's what you didn't agree with.”

“That's correct. And I heard recently that the entire operation imploded on them. I must say, that bit of news gave me a certain amount of satisfaction.”

“How did you hear about it?”

With a wave of dismissal, he said, “I still have my sources.”

Sam supposed it didn't matter who told him.

Whitehall got up and got another beer from a refrigerator in a tiny kitchen off the living room.

“You sure you won't have one?” he said as he popped the top. Not waiting for an answer, he ambled back to his chair and drank deeply from the fresh can.

“Now, where were we?”

Simone spoke up. “The guy we're after worked at the research center located in the same building where the Black Palmetto operated. We have it on good authority that the operation was completely erased after the program…imploded, to use your words, so we're at a loss as to how the man could’ve stolen anything pertaining to it.”

“Erased? What does that mean?”

“We were told that all papers and equipment were destroyed. So we're pretty sure he didn't get the information from there…” She let the words trail off.

The psychiatrist's eyes widened. “You think he got it from me?”

“That had occurred to us,” she said.

He shook his head. “No way.”

“You left under a cloud,” Sam said, “and, given the business those guys were in, a person like you probably would have taken something with you for your own protection.”

Whitehall narrowed his eyes and took another slug of beer. “If I had done that—and I'm not saying I did—I would have been smart enough to safeguard it. Nobody would have gotten their hands on it.”

Simone raised an eyebrow. “Given your disdain for the operation, maybe you told our guy where to find the information.”

“I wouldn't do that, either.”

“Okay, let's say we believe you. If he didn't get the information from you, where did he get it?”

The Dr. scratched the whiskers on his chin. “You said everything in the place got destroyed?”

“Yes, everything.”

“What about the safe?”

Simone widened her eyes at Sam then turned back to Whitehall. “What safe?”

“I had a wall safe built into the closet in my office. You wouldn't know it existed just to glimpse inside, but a button on the edge of the inside door trim opened a concealed panel in the back wall. The safe sat behind the panel.”

“What was inside?”

“An up-to-date account of everything we did. At least it was up-to-date when I left.”

That probably explained why the people at the center were mum on the stolen information. They probably didn't know anything about the safe until a new occupant came in one day and found it standing open. A security video likely caught Spanner, or whatever his real name was, leaving the office. Had he closed the safe behind him, maybe no one would have ever been the wiser.

“Nobody else knew about the safe?” Simone asked.

He shook his head. “No. Well, only one other person.”

“Who?”

“The man who installed it. His name was Arthur Benetti. Artie had been a carpenter before killing a man and getting sent to prison. I treated him there for several months before the Homestead program got him out.”

Simone pulled the photo of Sean Spanner from a pocket in her jeans, stepped over to Whitehall, and held it up for him to see.

“Is this Arthur Benetti?”

The Dr. took it, studied it for a couple of beats, and handed it back. “Yes, that's Artie.”

Returning to the sofa, Simone gave Sam a smile.
Now we're getting somewhere
. This was a good turn of events, but something bothered him.

“Why would you entrust a convicted killer with installing a secret safe for you?” Sam asked.

Whitehall seemed to consider that for a moment. “I don't know for sure. He did have a bad temper that could lead to violence, and he exhibited no remorse for killing a man who made a pass at his girlfriend. But something about him made me think he wouldn't betray my confidence. And to my knowledge, he never did, at least not while I remained there at the facility.”

The psychiatrist obviously knew more about human motivation than Sam did, so he let it go. Spanner/Benetti probably had no reason to rob the safe until the program ended and he saw a way to make some money from it, or maybe get even with some people.

“Did you keep cash in the safe?” Simone asked.

He seemed to consider that before answering. “Yes, due to the nature of the program, we dealt in a relatively large amount of cash. None of it belonged to me, so I left the money in the safe when I checked out of there.” Grinning, he added, “I thought they'd have to come to me to find it, but then I never heard from them.”

“But you heard from someone in Homestead recently, right?” Simone asked.

He grinned. “Yes, I told them about the money and a small computer card with classified information on it. But that all I told them.”

So, that’s how the lab people knew what had been taken.

“How much money did you leave behind?”

“If I remember correctly, a little over half a million. I kept a ledger with it to account for expenditures and the balance.”

They now had a name, Arthur Benetti, and a theory concerning how he might have stolen the information and the cash from the facility. But they still didn't know any more about the person in Iguana Key whom he’d visited.

“Okay,” Sam said, “back to the part about you keeping some information about the program for your own protection.”

“I didn't say I did that.”

“Well, let's pretend you did. Black Palmetto bit the dust months ago, and there's nobody left there to threaten you. So if you had some information, it would be safe to share it with us.”

The psychiatrist grinned. “Good try. If I did have any such information, the last thing I would do is share it with someone in law enforcement. The man who hired me is still around, and you might just be trying to build a case for prosecuting an innocent psychiatrist who unknowingly got tangled up with an illegal government operation.”

The FBI gambit had worked to get them inside, but now it had morphed into a roadblock. If they came clean about it, Whitehall might tell them more, but he might also toss them out and clam up for good.

“Is the offer for a beer still good?” Sam asked.

“Yes, indeed.” He smiled, drained his can, and got up to get more. “How about the young lady?”

Simone declined.

When he returned, and they'd both had a long drink, Sam said, “What did they do to you when you left?”

“What do you mean?” Then he scanned the room around him. “Oh, you're referring to my living conditions.”

Sam nodded, took another drink.

“The founder had connections in high places, and he convinced the AMA to pull my medical license because of some trumped-up charges. Now I teach night classes at the junior college. That gig barely pays for this place.”

“The founder? Who was that?”

Whitehall's eyes appeared out-of-focus, the alcohol having its way.

“Senator Blaine. I assumed you knew that.”

“Sure. Just getting the story from you.”

“Have you tried to get your license reinstated?” Simone asked.

“Of course, but nothing has worked. Whoever blackballed me made sure it would stick.”

“Maybe we could help.”

He stared for a moment before saying, “Why would you do that?”

“Simple. You help us and we'll help you.”

****

They left a few minutes later. Before closing the door, the psychiatrist said, “By the way, I didn't buy the FBI routine for a minute.”